Read Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour (Jo Anderson Series) Online
Authors: Dane McCaslin
Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour (Jo Anderson Series) (2 page)
Dinner was a quiet affair, but that was largely due to the fact that we were fully occupied with consuming the meal Miss Bea had set before us. And what a meal it was! Thickly sliced, broiled pork chops smothered in mushrooms and topped with pan gravy, tender baby carrots and peas swimming in a garlic sauce, a salad that would delight the staunchest vegetarian, and steaming rolls that oozed honey butter. I decided right then and there that if I did nothing else but eat this way for the next six months, the entire adventure would be worth it. When Miss Bea disappeared into the kitchen and returned carrying a huge apple pie, I couldn’t help myself. I groaned aloud in pure bliss.
We four newcomers managed a desultory conversation over dessert. Mugs of coffee materialized in front of us, and between this restorative and the general feeling of camaraderie that had settled over the group, I think we managed to create the beginnings of the bond that would eventually hold as firmly as the tightest-knit family.
This turned out to be a lifesaver for me, both literally and figuratively, and I sensed that from that dinner forward, the four of us, led by the bundle of energy that was Miss Beatrice Becklaw, would be able to do whatever it was she required of us.
I finally made my drowsy way up to bed, Leslie not far behind. From the racket I could hear coming from the top floor, I assumed ‘the boys’, as Miss Bea referred to them, were doing something similar.
I must have fallen into a deep sleep the moment my head hit the pillow. I had dreaded this first night somewhat, unsure of my ability to dispel homesickness in spite of my insistence on leaving my aforementioned home.
Apparently I would be fine.
When I awoke the next morning, it was to the clamor of birds perched in the branches of the ash tree just outside my window. I suppose I had always heard the birds that populated the trees in my town, but these particular creatures seemed set on waking up the entire state of Colorado. At any rate, I was wide awake and ready to get the day started.
Tossing the duvet back – it was down-filled and absolutely delicious to snuggle under – I slipped out of bed in my usual fashion, feet feeling around the floor for the slippers I had put there the night before. I must have reacted instinctively to the wriggling that my toes encountered, because I suddenly found myself standing at the bedside, the offending slippers slung clear across the room.
Leslie came barging in, her eyes as wide as mine felt.
‘What in the world, Jo?’
‘I – the mouse – it was in …’ I couldn’t string a coherent sentence together, but I’m pretty sure that she got the gist because she leapt straight onto the middle of my bed, feet tucked under the voluminous nightgown she wore.
I cautiously crept across the room toward the offending slippers and crouched down, picking up the nearest one with my fingertips. Instantly I dropped it, leaping straight into the air as if trying to launch myself skyward and away from the scared little creature that was scampering in circles around my bare feet. Apparently this had become funny in the time it took for Leslie to see that she wasn’t in the path of the vicious rodent (at least it looked vicious to me), because she burst out laughing.
‘Oh, my word! You look so comical, Jo!’
I glared over my shoulder at her, failing to find the hilarity in my mousey situation.
By this time, the boys (I had begun thinking of them this way as well) had come galloping down the stairs, and I sent up a silent prayer that they had remembered to cover themselves before arriving to save the damsels in distress. My plea was heard, thankfully, and Derek and Little John, in bathrobes and slippers, burst into my room, stopping short when they saw Leslie rolling around on my bed in uncontrolled mirth and me glowering in the corner holding a slipper in my hand.
Derek was going to be the tactful member of the bunch, I could see. He looked from Leslie to me, walked over and took the slipper from my hand, then led me over to the rocking chair. Without comment, he bent down, scooped the trembling mouse into tender hands, and walked out the room, Little John trailing behind him. All done in silence. No recriminations, no sarcastic observations, no amused smiles.
He could give my brothers a lesson or two on how to treat a lady.
Somehow I managed to retrieve the dignity that had gone to tatters during my ‘mouse dance’, as Leslie referred to it when we spoke about it much, much later. I walked to the bathroom, took a shower, and dressed for the day, all without incident. At the breakfast table, Little John was careful to drop his eyes whenever I looked in his direction, and Derek’s carefully composed face caused Miss Bea to lift quizzical eyebrows in my direction. I wasn’t saying anything, though.
As far as I was concerned, the incident was closed.
I assisted Miss Bea in clearing the table, and Leslie and Little John did KP duty. Derek retrieved the paper that had appeared on the front porch, although how a paper boy (paper person?) managed to get one out this far was a mystery. With the morning chores completed, we all settled back into the front parlor that would be our main gathering spot for the duration of the week.
Miss Bea plumped herself down, the newspaper on her almost non-existent lap, a mug of coffee nearby. She looked, for all money, like a woman without a care in the world, and I knew that couldn’t possibly be true, not with the four of us to coach into some semblance of acting. But I wasn’t going to interrupt what was probably her regular morning routine, and no one else spoke up either.
Finally, she folded the paper carefully, set it down on the floor beside her chair, and folded her dimpled hands in her lap.
‘So,’ she began, her eyes traveling around the room, looking at each of us in turn, ‘today will be your first day as an actor. I chose you four specifically because you had no previous acting experience, and I have every confidence that you can pull this off.’
Here, Miss Bea stopped speaking and smiled at some point above our heads. I was tempted to turn around and see what – or who – she was looking at.
‘First things first,’ she began briskly, her mind and eyes returning to the task at hand. Quickly she began laying out the plan she had concocted for the Becklaw’s Murder Mystery Tour.
‘I want to present a mystery to the audience that is easy enough to follow and hard enough that it takes some time to solve. Jo, you will be the saloon owner in our Western-themed show. Derek, you will play the bartender and the bouncer,’ – here Little John looked over at Derek with something like amazement on his broad face – ‘and, Leslie, you will be the drinks girl and dancer. Any questions, comments so far? Good. Little John, you will be the piano player and help Derek keep order. Wherever we play, I’ll hire a few bit-part actors to fill in the story line.’
Miss Bea stood and walked across the room to a large armoire. Tugging the doors open, she reached inside and began disgorging the contents, tossing feather boas, bowler hats, leather chaps, and all manner of Western wear – or what I assumed to be Western wear – on the living room floor.
Catching up a short lilac-colored dress with lace flounces running down the sides, she tossed it over to Leslie, who caught it neatly in manicured hands. It had a train that fell from the waist and ended just above the floor, and I could envision Leslie in a get-up like that. Derek got the bowler and a striped vest, a bow tie and a collarless white shirt; I was handed a rather staid frock, at least in comparison to Leslie’s lacy number, complete with high-buttoned shoes. I was amazed at the manner in which Miss Bea had gauged our sizes and shapes, simply from the application in the magazine. Little John, it appeared, presented a bit more of a challenge.
With Little John finally squared away, we all trooped upstairs to our respective rooms to change into our costumes and, hopefully, into our new characters. I had suggested that we each use our true names as that would eliminate the need to remember who we were on any given day, and Miss Bea readily agreed. So within the space of a few minutes, I transformed from Jo Anderson, newly arrived from Piney Woods and a clannish existence, to Jo Anderson, owner and proprietress of a Western saloon. It was heady stuff indeed.
We reassembled in the living room. Leslie looked spectacular in the dancer’s outfit, and I could see that Derek and Little John thoroughly agreed with me. Derek’s barman costume added an air of decorum to his slight size, and I noticed Leslie’s sidelong glances aimed in his direction. Little John, clad in a pair of corduroy trousers and a tunic-like shirt, sat shyly on his chair, sending bashful looks at Leslie. I, in my nononsense black school marm’s dress and high-heeled boots, surveyed the others and grinned. We looked nothing if not authentic. Miss Bea had done her homework.
The rest of the day was spent in learning how to speak ‘Western’. Miss Bea taught us the slang, the accent, and the tone that she had envisioned for us. I, being from Louisiana and therefore already blessed with what Miss Bea called a ‘real Southern drawl’, fared the best at the tutelage. The others struggled with this a bit more, but by the end of that first full day, we were more than character actors: We
were
the characters.
I could see that Miss Bea was very proud of us all.
I cooked dinner that evening, with assistance from Leslie and Derek. It was a simple dish, one of my favorites and usually a big hit with my picky brothers. Chicken breasts were pounded a bit, to thin them out, and then layered in a baking dish with prosciutto, mushrooms, and mozzarella. As it baked, I set about creating my favorite pasta side dish: penne with pesto sauce and roasted red bell peppers. A simple green salad completed the meal, and within a short while we were at the dining room table eating and chatting as if we had known each other all of our lives. I suppose in a way that was true: we had created new lives for ourselves and we were all in on it from the beginning.
Not willing to have a repeat performance of the mouse incident, I had set a few ‘green traps’ around my room and had secured my slippers under my pillow. I shuddered. If a mouse managed to get to them while I slept, I would come unglued. Hopefully, the relatives of the mouse that had started all of the commotion had been notified of my intentions and would remain far, far away.
Or sleep in Derek’s room. He didn’t seem to mind the little critters in the least.
The next few days flew by as we ate, slept, and spoke inside our characters’ skins. I was called ‘Miss Jo’ by the cast, and even Miss Bea began to refer to me by that handle. Little John became ‘LJ’, a much easier sobriquet, I thought, though Derek and Leslie retained their own names. I suppose it was due to my character’s position as saloon owner that moved me to the front of the pack, and it soon became clear to me that everyone had started relying on my opinions and guidance in our quest for authenticity. That was quite amusing, especially since I was no more a Western saloon owner than they were barman, dancer, and piano player. Well, LJ really
did
play the piano, and beautifully, too. He alone could perform his role with some air of assurance that he knew what he was doing.
The worst part about my character was her choice of footwear. The high-heeled boots, resplendent with shiny black buttons marching down the front of each, were nice to look at but pure torture to wear on a daily basis. That, combined with the myriad layers of petticoats and waist-cinching girdle under my dress, made me fervently grateful for modern clothing styles. Still, if Miss Jo, saloon owner and proprietress, wore this garb, I would as well. I would suffer for my craft.
Friday night materialized more quickly than I had anticipated. After three solid days of being in character, Derek, LJ, Leslie, and I were ready to begin acting. It still amazed me, though, how soon our first gig had arrived.
We were the featured event at the Copper Moose Lodge Annual Barbecue and Chili Dinner. I guess the menu inspired them to ask us, or maybe it was the fact that John Hamilton, lodge leader and Western buff, was also a good friend of Miss Bea’s. Either way it was fine by me. I was rarin’ to get goin’ (see how casually I slipped into Western lingo?).
The Lodge was some five miles away, reachable by a two-lane road that led into town. I was thankful Miss Bea hadn’t taken the highway; the day had been a drizzly one and I was sure the surface would be slick from oil. Although I knew Miss Bea would be careful, I didn’t trust the other drivers I had observed in the few short days I had been here. Either they didn’t notice the sheer drops into rock-strewn canyons any more, or they had a death wish. Whatever the reason, I was glad not to be on the road with them tonight.
The lights of the Moose Lodge blazed out across the gravel parking lot, emphasizing the many pot holes and wheel-rutted parking slots. Miss Bea slipped the wagon into one marked ‘Reserved for Guest’ and cut the motor. We were all silent for once, and I think that stage fright had made its first ugly appearance. The crickets were in fine voice following the showers, but I swear I could hear my heart thudding above their chirping. It was probably just the thumping rhythm of the music emanating from the open door, though.
The Lodge was packed and dinner already in full swing. Five rather nervous-looking young people stood huddled by the entrance, and Miss Bea gave them a cheerful wave.
‘There’re your bit-parters,’ she announced, indicating the quintet with a nod of her frizzled head.
I know that I have mentioned the condition of Miss Bea’s hair before, and tonight it was in full frizz, thanks to the dampness in the night air. She had carefully smoothed it back from her forehead, placing pins and combs in random spots to hold it down. Still, it managed to have a life of its own, and the end result was a coiffure that defied gravity. And hairspray.
I think I admired her more for what I saw as her only deficiency.
We managed to get inside without too much hoopla and back to the dressing rooms behind the red velvet curtain that hung near the front of the room. The five temps followed us warily. I think they thought that Miss Bea was going to personally strip them down and dress them in saloon-appropriate regalia.
Three of them were to play cardsharps; carrying on, drinking (root beer) and a playing a high-stakes poker game. They joined LJ and Derek in the room marked ‘Men’s’ and soon appeared duded out in cowboy boots, jeans, and leather vests. The other two actors were young women, set to play another dancer and a ‘lady of the night’, respectively. Their clothes were a bit harder to judge, but Miss Bea had once again pulled a miracle out of her traveling garment bag. Lydia, a shy girl and daughter of John Hamilton was dressed in a lacy number much like Leslie’s, and I saw with amusement that she kept trying to tug it down in the back. This in turn caused the neckline to plunge even further, and the poor girl was scarlet with effort and embarrassment. Miss Bea didn’t seem to notice her discomfort, so I didn’t either.
Lyssa, Lydia’s younger sister and apparently born with a much worldlier attitude, reveled in her costume as a ‘loose woman’. She was also tugging at her dress, but she intended for the neckline to drop just as far as it could possibly go. When she stuck her head out of the curtain to look at the crowd, her mother must have seen more than she wanted to. Mrs Hamilton joined us, mouth prim and a safety pin in her hands. She went to work on Lyssa’s dress and fixed that girl’s exhibitionist streak but good. I shook my head. I am always amazed at how different siblings can be.
Miss Bea gathered us around her for one last pep talk. I noticed that LJ’s forehead was beaded in sweat, tiny pearls of moisture that stayed miraculously in place.
Leslie looked almost bored she was so calm, and Derek looked stern. I couldn’t see my own face, of course, but I felt the tell-tale flush that creeps into place whenever I am nervous. I sincerely hoped that it looked becoming and not blotchy.
‘Derek, you’ll stay behind the bar for most of the hour, only coming out to wipe down tables,’ began Miss Bea. ‘LJ, the piano is set up at stage left, and you need to go right over to it as soon as the curtain opens. Start playing something like “Oh, Susannah”. Leslie, you and Lydia will circulate among the tables on stage as well as those in the audience. Chat, laugh, refresh their drinks, whatever. Lyssa, you won’t come out until you hear LJ begin playing “The Girl He Left Behind”. Your job is just to strut around and give all the men some steamy looks.’ Here Lyssa looked ecstatic and Lydia looked alarmed.
‘Miss Jo, you’ll be walking around all over the place, making sure that everyone is comfy. You three boys,’ – here she indicated the cowboys, who elbowed each other and grinned – ‘will be at the center table playing a game of poker. Make a big deal of talking and drinking and all that. Shuffle the cards as fancy as you can. When Miss Jo walks over to your table, start showing off, and one of you will get mad and stomp off.
‘That’s your cue, Lyssa, to run after him. Once you’re off-stage, you’ll scream then run back on, yelling that he’s crazy. You’ll then exit at the opposite side of the stage, saying that you’re going upstairs to rest up for the night. After a few minutes, he’ll come back onstage and go up to the bar then leave again and the other two will follow you out, jeering and picking a fight.
‘Leslie will make an excuse to run upstairs to talk to Lyssa, then come down screaming that she’s been murdered. Got it?’
She consulted her copious notes, making sure that nothing had been left out.
‘And don’t stress, folks. This is about as casual as it gets.’
‘Miss Bea?’ One of the cowboy trio raised his hand as if he was in school. ‘Who is the killer?’
Miss Bea stared at him as if he had sprouted horns and a tail, then burst out laughing. ‘I clean forgot that part! Quick, someone – who should it be?’
‘I could do it,’ offered LJ quietly. I looked at him with my mouth wide open. I had no idea he had it in him.
‘OK. This is what we’ll do: when the three
amigos
leave, you stand up from the piano and say something about needing a break. You then tell Miss Jo that you have to run upstairs for a moment. You stay gone for about two minutes. After that, Leslie will go upstairs and ‘discover’ the body. I think that after Lyssa screams about you being crazy,’ – she jabbed her forefinger into the leather-clad chest of the first cowboy – ‘most people will have you pegged as the murderer. If not, and it’s too easy, we’ll change it up for our next gig. OK, if that’s all, let’s get a move on.’
Dear reader, I had an absolute blast that first performance, miscues and all. I was transformed totally into Miss Jo, saloon owner and peacekeeper. The audience was appreciative of our efforts, although I suspect that they ‘solved’ the murder very quickly. The local talent took many curtain calls, bowing to uproarious applause.
Miss Bea got the biggest recognition of all, as well she should. Her beaming face and waving hair included everyone in her smile. I was so happy for her, this woman whose dream was to direct a great masterpiece of the stage.
If this was what it was like to be an actress, I was hooked.
The ride back to our house was punctuated with laughter and joking comments directed at the way that Derek twirled his towel and Leslie teetered around the stage on high heels. LJ’s face blushed when I mentioned his choice of entrance song, “Happy Birthday to You”. I laughed outright when Derek reminded me of my Louisiana accent that had crept unawares back into my speech.
‘You sounded like “Daisy Mae Meets the Wild West”,’ he hooted, and I had to agree. I would have to work harder on my Western dialogue.
Miss Bea drove silently, a quiet smile tucked into the corners of her mouth. She was tired, but we all were. I mentally predicted a quick bedtime and a long snooze for one and all.
I was wrong.
It was sometime after one in the morning that I was awakened by a dull thump and the sound of something rolling across the floor below. I lay completely still, listening as hard as I could. Had the field mice joined forces and invaded? I sincerely hoped not. One mouse was one too many as far as I was concerned.
No one else seemed to have heard it. I could detect no sounds of footsteps or doors opening, so I cautiously leaned across to the lamp that sat on my bedside and pulled the little chain that hung down from its bulb. The click of the light coming on seemed extra loud, so I waited, frozen, straining to hear noises from downstairs.
A discomforting thought flashed into my mind: why hadn’t Miss Bea heard it? Or was it she that I was hearing? Or – I crossed my fingers – only someone up and getting a drink of water from the kitchen?
Or, heaven forbid, it was an intruder.
I made up my mind. Swinging my legs off the bed and fishing under my pillow for my slippers, I opened my bedroom door as softly as possible. Pausing on the landing, I began to tiptoe down the stairs, sending up a silent prayer that I would miss the squeaky step that was second from the bottom. Or was it the third?
It was the third.
The wooden shriek that it emitted when I put my full weight on it was loud enough to wake the dead. I could hear doors popping open all over the house, and the sound of the screen door on the front porch slamming closed as someone in their haste to leave banged hard into it.
Miss Bea stumbled out of her room, her head full of those pink cushiony rollers that my mother used to put into my hair to coax it into curls. Her eyes were bleary, and I could see right away that she had no idea what had happened.
Derek came thumping down the stairs, a little unsteady in his slippered feet. His face was full of concern, and he looked ready to do battle with whatever forces of evil might be lurking about.
‘What’s going on?’ he demanded, hands on his slight hips and a frown creasing his brow.
Miss Bea turned to me, as did the rest of the troupe who now stood huddled together.
‘I have no earthly idea,’ I admitted. ‘Something woke me up, I came to see what it was, and then someone ran out of the front door.’ I looked from one face to the other.
Derek spun on his heels, no mean feat in slippers, and marched to the front door. Without touching it, he used one foot to pull the slightly ajar door more fully open, then leaned out and scanned the verandah.
‘No one’s out there that I can see,’ he reported, then pulled his head back in the door. ‘Miss Jo, did you actually see anyone down here?’
That flush I mentioned before, the one that gets blotchy sometimes? It appeared almost instantly, and I could tell by the alarmed look in Derek’s eyes that I looked a bit, well, unbalanced.
‘Hold on there, girl,’ he admonished, hands raised before him in a placating gesture. ‘I don’t mean that you imagined it, but …’ His words trailed off, not really apologizing but not admitting he was wrong, either.
Nice. Between mouse issues and phantom noises in the night, I was rapidly becoming the troupe weirdo.