I only read murder, p.16
I Only Read Murder, page 16
Doc Meadows was the first to realize what Graham was really saying, and he ran off to check on Annette. Miranda followed, not sure of her cues, saying quickly as she left, “Alas, I have been poisoned, too.”
Backstage, Annette was laid out on the floor, with Doc working her chest.
“Call the ambulance,” he shouted to Miranda. This was Happy Rock. Not an ambulance, the ambulance.
She fumbled with her phone, thankful that Andrew had indeed topped up her plan. Doc stayed with Annette, never giving up, doing chest compressions, again and again, then breathing through her mouth, her head back, nostrils held shut, then again to the chest. He was still working it when the town’s EMS arrived and took over. They wheeled her out the back on a gurney, still compressing her chest, as Doc slumped to the ground, exhausted and out of breath.
Ned appeared. “Doc?”
But Doc just shook his head. “Bad heart,” he said, and Ned nodded.
Miranda returned with Ned onto the stage, where Rodney and the rest of the cast, Judy included, were standing frozen in place like a tableau vivant, though perhaps tableau mort would have been more accurate.
Was Annette Baillie really dead? Surely they would be able to revive her? Surely she would sweep back in again tomorrow with her usual disdain for her co-stars? Surely not this.
Ned frowned. He circled around the table and the butler’s serving tray, looking at the jug of apple juice and the various glasses the actors had placed there. It was a frown . . . not of accusation or even suspicion, but unease.
In the shadowy auditorium, the audience was buzzing in equal parts confusion and speculation. Ned walked out, center stage, and held up his hands for silence.
“Ladies and gentleman! Chief Buckley here.”
From various members of the audience: “Hey, Ned! Look guys, it’s Ned! They finally gave you a part, eh? Ha ha.” No one joined in on the laughter.
Ned squinted out at them, then, cupping his hands around his mouth, called to the sound booth. “Denise? Can you bring up the houselights?”
The lights slowly came on.
Half the town was here, it seemed.
“I’m afraid there has been a mishap,” said Ned with admirable understatement. “Tonight’s performance has been canceled.”
A murmur of protest. No one had realized just how serious it truly was. What was going on backstage? They craned their necks to see. The sense of dread was palpable. Death had appeared onstage.
“I’m shutting this down. Show’s over, folks!”
Ned could see Bea standing at the back of the auditorium with a What the heck is going on? expression.
“You can talk to Bea Maracle on the way out about a refund,” said Ned. “She handles the box office.”
No one did, though. It would go down as the most exciting night of theater in Happy Rock history. Those who missed it would rue the day.
As the audience slowly emptied, Ned turned to address the cast. There was a steely resolve in his voice, one Miranda had never heard before.
“Nobody move. Everyone stay exactly where you are.”
He looked from one person to the next, memorizing who was there and where they were standing.
“Where’s Teena? Get her out here, too. And Susan from the wings. And where did Rodney disappear to? Everyone! Front and center. Now!”
Denise had already come down from her booth, and Doc was back onstage, sitting slouched on the sofa, resting his forehand on his fist, wondering if there was more he could have done. The cast chose to ignore the faint scent of vomit that now pervaded the stage like fear.
“Listen up. Annette’s been taken to the ER,” said Ned. “Doc tried his best, but it doesn’t look good. So fingers crossed, okay?”
“We should send flowers,” said Judy, and the others agreed.
“There’ll be time enough for flowers,” said Doc quietly, though he didn’t elaborate on whether he thought they would be of the “Get Well Soon!” type or bouquets of a different ilk.
Carl, the butler, was staring at Miranda, the maid. Had he seen her switch the glasses? And so what if he had? Annette’s heart had given out. Having to drink from Miranda’s chipped glass would hardly have triggered a full-on cardiac arrest. But even then, at the back of her mind, Miranda was aware that, as well as being the butler, Carl was also an officer of the law.
“And where the hell is Rodney?” said Ned, getting impatient. “He was here a moment ago. Where’d he go?” And added under his breath, “It’s like herding cats.”
It was only then that Chief Buckley noticed the glasses. Or lack thereof. And the jug. They had disappeared.
“Who cleared this table?” he demanded.
“That would be Rodney,” said the strongman. “He’s supposed to clear the set for Act Two.”
“Well, go get him and tell him not to touch anything else.”
Owen McCune piped up. “You figure this is a crime scene, Ned?”
“I don’t know what it is. But I don’t want anyone moving anything around, onstage or in the wings. Got that?”
When they returned, Rodney was looking sheepish.
“He was washing out the jug and glasses,” said the strongman.
“What! Why?”
Rodney mumbled, “Play was over. At the end of the show, I wash up. It’s my job to wash up.”
Teena appeared, and she concurred. “That’s one of his assignments,” she said. “If you give Rodney something to do, he does it. Right, Rodney?”
He stared at his feet, smiling shyly, but Ned was having none of it.
“It wasn’t the end of the play, though, was it? It was only the end of Act One. So why the big rush, Rodney? Why were you in such a hurry to wash out the glasses and jug?”
He looked hurt. “But it was the end of the play, Mr. Buckley. You said so yourself. You said, ‘Show’s over, folks.’”
“You did say that,” said Owen.
“He’s got you there,” said the strongman.
At that point, Doc’s phone trilled and everyone stopped speaking.
“Hmm . . . hmm . . . I see.” Doc hung up, took a deep breath, and looked at the rest of the cast and crew. “She didn’t make it.”
Judy’s knees went weak. She sat down next to Doc, gutted.
Graham said quietly, “I could have been kinder.”
“I’m locking this theater down,” said Ned. “We will be padlocking the doors as soon as we get everyone out. Don’t worry about the mess Graham made. That’ll dry with time. Everyone, just go back to your dressing rooms. Gather your personal belongings. Officer Carl will accompany you. I don’t want anyone moving anything that doesn’t belong to them. Got it?”
They filed out, numb.
Miranda hung back, considered mentioning the chipped glass, but decided against it. She could see Ned staring up to the back of the empty auditorium, where Edgar was still sitting, watching. He hadn’t moved this entire time.
She remembered what Ned had said to her that first day when he dropped her off at the bookstore. You know the owner? Tread carefully, okay? Surrounded by murder all day? Gets my police instincts up. Who knows what someone like that is capable of.
Ned called up to Edgar. “Mr. Abbott! Can you come down here? I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”
What happened after that, Miranda never knew, because she had to hurry to catch up with the rest of the group as they went backstage, collecting paperwork, scripts, jackets, receipt books (in Susan’s case), and zit cream (in Melvin’s). They hesitated when they reached Annette’s dressing room, wanting to show their respects but not sure how.
“Don’t go in there,” growled Carl. “That’s off-limits. Go and change outta your costumes. You can leave ’em on the hangers provided in the dressing rooms. And then meet me back here. As a group.”
Softly, Judy was sobbing.
“A bad heart.” This was what they whispered as they hung up their costumes. “A bad heart, no one’s fault.” This was what was spoken in hushed tones as they were led outside by Officer Carl, into the parking lot behind the Opera House. “A bad heart.”
“Her face,” said Graham. “It was all twisted around. It was horrible.”
She had managed to upstage the other actors one last time; had, in effect, stolen Miranda’s line.
They stood under streetlamps that cast overlapping spotlights on the cast and crew.
A bad heart, no one is to blame.
And yet, visions of that chipped glass stayed with Miranda . . .
Judy addressed them, eyes shining, trying to be strong. “The show must go on,” she said, pain in her voice. “It’s what Annette would have wanted. The show must go on. We must go on. The tenth anniversary of Death Is the Dickens will be dedicated to her memory.”
Go on? How? thought Miranda.
Bea said, “C’mon, Miranda. I’ll give you a ride.”
Teena was huddled in conversation with Rodney. Graham looked sickly.
“Never saw someone die before,” he said. “It was worse than I expected.”
But what exactly he’d been expecting wasn’t clear. Was it just his repulsion around dead bodies, or something more?
Officer Carl was manning the rear exit, making sure no one tried to sneak back in. But why would they? What exactly did Chief Buckley suspect? And where was Ned, anyway? Where was Edgar?
Under a pall, the cast and crew drifted away. Bea led Miranda across the parking lot to her boxy Volvo, past Edgar’s mud-spattered Jeep and the pink Cadillac with Annette Baillie, Realtor at Large! splashed across the side.
“Excuse me! Ms. Abbott?”
She turned, and who was scurrying toward her but Finkel Erdely, camera on her shoulder, notebook in hand.
“Can I talk to you for a second?”
Miranda pirouetted away from her. “I have nothing to say to you!”
Damn paparazzi.
But the goblin wedged herself in between Miranda and the passenger door of Bea’s Volvo.
Bea called across the roof of her car, sweetly. “It’s late, dear. And there has been a terrible tragedy. We just want to get to bed.”
But Finkel Erdely was nothing if not dogged, and she would not be dissuaded. “It’ll only take a moment. It’s for the Saturday paper.”
Of course it is! Every paper is the Saturday paper. You’re a weekly, for god’s sake!
Finkel clicked her pen with great authority.
“Now then, Ms. Abbott, is it true that you and Annette Baillie weren’t getting along?”
Miranda, instantly outraged. “What! Who told you that? Where are your sources?”
“Sources? My own two eyes. I saw the looks she gave you. Now that she’s deceased, will you be taking over the lead?”
Miranda hesitated. “Perhaps. But that’s not—”
“Awfully convenient, her death, yeah?”
Temper, flaring. “Considering the upheaval this has caused the entire production, I would say it is most inconvenient.”
“But you did audition for her role, yeah?”
The warnings that Graham had given her came back to Miranda. Loves to stir up scandals . . . I wasn’t surprised she became a muckraking journalist.
With that, the proverbial penny dropped.
“You were on the student paper, weren’t you?” said Miranda. “You’ve been causing trouble since you were in high school, isn’t that right?”
With a slight sneer, and hitting the “Mr.” harder than necessary, Finkel said, “I see. Did Mr. Penty tell you about all that?”
Miranda leaned in closer. “Let me guess. You were in the drama club, too?”
From the flare in Finkel’s eyes, Miranda knew she had hit the mark.
“But you were never cast in the school play, were you?” said Miranda. “No. That always went to Teena. Am I right? So you wrote for the school paper instead, found your true calling, exacted your revenge somehow. And you’re still exacting your revenge against the world even now, aren’t you, Ms. Erdely? I’ve met reporters like you. I’ve met them many, many times. Bitter and petty and resentful of other people’s success.”
And now it was Finkel’s turn to lean in. She said, voice calm, “Didn’t you used to be somebody?”
Miranda pushed past her into Bea’s car.
“Better a has-been than a never-was!” she cried—though she didn’t really believe that. As much as she wanted to think otherwise, Miranda knew that Ms. Erdely had won this round.
Chapter Nineteen
A Mysterious Note
“Today’s soup de jour is split pea,” said Mabel—or was it Myrtle? Same soup as was served every day during rehearsals. The soup that came in barrels labeled, rather suspiciously, Miranda thought, Property HRHS. Forget the Case of the Missing Pocketbook. Maybe Ned should be investigating this.
The cast had gathered for lunch the next day at the Cozy Café to decide what, if anything, to do about Annette’s demise.
They were crowded around a table, one draped in plastic with equally plastic flowers alongside the ketchup bottles, saltshakers, and sugar packets. The entire town was teeming with real flowers. Why on earth would you need plastic ones? So thought Miranda—forgetting that she was in Happy Rock, the Town That Logic Forgot. The menu at the Cozy Café had clearly been culled from school lunchrooms across the Greater Tri-Rock Area.
“I think I recognize this lasagna from our school cafeteria,” said Graham with a frown. “That was two weeks ago.”
“You do realize,” said Miranda to the lovely Myrtle—or was it Mabel?—“that ‘du jour’ already means ‘of the day.’”
“Correct. And today’s soup du jour is pea. Same as yesterday’s soup du jour and same as tomorrow’s soup du jour.”
Judy had called this meeting, and she was adamant through her tears that the show would go on.
It was cast only. No crew. Just the actors. Teena was in attendance, though, in her role as Miranda’s “understudy.” Of the actors, only Doc Meadows was absent.
“Heard he was at the hospital, talking to the staff about last night,” said Melvin, looking decidedly less of a strongman now that he was out of costume. Though still pungent.
“Heck, I saw Doc comin’ out of the police station,” said Owen, whose whiskers remained Wussex-worthy.
“I imagine Doc’s wife will be thrilled,” said Pete sourly.
Several people nodded at this.
“Why is that?” Miranda asked.
“If there’s no show this year, frees him up, don’t it? Will make her happy, anyway.”
“But there will be a show,” Judy insisted.
“They ordered an autopsy, is what I heard,” said Pete.
“An autopsy? But why?” said Graham. “What’s the point? Everyone knew she had a bad heart. Let it go.”
He was being squeamish, Miranda thought. Or was there a reason he dreaded an autopsy, what it might uncover?
“Bad heart? No heart, more likely,” Owen muttered.
Only Judy seemed genuinely upset at Annette’s passing.
“As your director, as a fellow actor, as a friend”—and here her voice broke—“we owe it to Annette to soldier through this. I know it’s what she would have wanted. She was always a team player, always put the needs of the ensemble above those of her own.”
“This is Annette we’re talking about, right?” said Graham.
But Judy wouldn’t budge. She repeated her mantra: “The show must go on.”
“But our lead is dead,” Miranda said.
With a meaningful look, Judy turned her eyes to Miranda. “Which is what I wished to speak with you about. I know they are terribly big shoes to fill, and you won’t do nearly as good a job, but could you possibly take over the lead?”
Gosh, when you put it like that . . .
Miranda had spent every rehearsal listening to Annette butcher her lines with a hammy over-the-top delivery, aided and abetted by Judy. Miranda could memorize lines easily enough, something that had come in handy when shooting hours of network television every week. So, sure, she could take over the role. Whether she should . . . ? That was a different question entirely.
“Would I be able to play Mamie Dickens?” she asked. “I suppose. But are we really going to go through with this?” She looked to the rest of the table but received no help.
Judy laid a hand on Miranda’s arm. “This is the biggest event of the year. We can’t let the community down.”
Nods of agreement around the table. And in accordance with the rules and regulations of the Happy Rock Amalgamated & Consolidated Little Theater Society, a motion quickly moved, followed by a show of hands. Unanimous. It was settled. Death Is the Dickens would go on. But the last to raise her hand had been Miranda Abbott. Did the show really have to go on?
Before they could leave, Chief Buckley showed up.
“Hey, Ned!” said Owen McWhiskers. “Cast only, buddy.”
But Ned didn’t banter back. “I’ve already spoken with the crew. I will need statements from the actors next about what happened last night.”
“We know what happened,” said Graham. “Her heart finally gave out.”
Ned looked at him. Didn’t smile. “I’ll start with you, Graham.” A nod to Teena. “You don’t have to stay for this. Officer Carl, I’ll need your help.”
“Sure thing, Chief.”
Carl had already submitted his report, being both an officer and an eyewitness. And Teena had been interviewed by Ned earlier as part of the crew, even if she was also an understudy. She stayed anyway, in no hurry to go home, waiting for the others to finish.
He spoke with them each in turn, one-on-one, in a corner booth. He had a diagram of the theater, including backstage, and asked them to mark with an X where they had been standing. He asked about the events of that night, the chronology of it, how it unfolded, step-by-step, and their relationship with the deceased; although, this being a small enough town, he knew most of their relationships with Ms. Baillie already, however fraught.
“Do you really think there’s more to it than just a heart attack?” Miranda asked when it was her turn.
