Something Wicked (11 page)

Annie’s mind whirled with fragments of thought about bullet and cartridge case comparisons, rifled bores, and powder pattern distribution. But a ballistics department needed the gun to make a match. Was Max trying to frighten one of his listeners?

The search was fairly simple, since an iron grille, locked with a padlock, separated the auditorium and its front foyer from the main corridor leading to the schoolrooms. That left the auditorium itself, the front foyer, the attic area, and, of course, the bewildering labyrinth of nooks, crannies, and hallways branching dark and twisted beneath the stage like the gnarled offshoots from a cypress.

Annie waited, listening to the faint eddies of the voices of the searchers. She looked occasionally toward the box just offstage. Freddy was missing after rehearsal on Sunday. Most of the cast arrived for tonight’s rehearsal around seven
P.M.
A space of little more than twenty-four hours. The three Hortons had been absent from their house for the two hours of rehearsal Sunday—and again for the period of the Petrees’ party Sunday night. Freddy was last seen shortly before two
P.M.
Sunday.

Had anyone been late to rehearsal Sunday?

Shane.

The name popped up like a red cherry on a slot machine.

But, for God’s sake, why would Shane kill the Hortons’ cat?

But then, why would any of them kill Freddy?

What could possibly be the point of this macabre and distinctly nasty exercise?

But what was the point of erasing the chalk marks from the stage, setting off a stink bomb, removing rehearsal notices from the callboard, sawing through the rope to the house curtain, artistically draping a dummy from the gridwork, and inserting the lines from
Macbeth
in Shane’s prompt card?

What had been accomplished?

A harassed director. A furious president of the players. A skittish cast. And, today, a thoroughly demoralized—and perhaps even terrified—group.

Annie stared at the box. The pranks had gone from sophomoric
to vicious—which certainly removed three possible suspects: the Hortons—T.K., Janet, and Cindy.

She turned and paced downstage and stared sightlessly out at the empty auditorium.

Eugene cleared his throat once, but said nothing.

But
were
the Hortons above suspicion?

Was it her own advancing age that said, “Oh, yeah? Wait a minute!” Or did it spring from years of consorting, in a literary way, with writers who could invest with horror such commonplaces as an eight-year-old’s playhouse or a cheery mound of bright yarn and shiny knitting needles: Ruth Rendell, P.D. James, Margaret Millar, Helen McCloy, Charlotte Armstrong.

What the human mind can conceive, Richard Lockridge once remarked ….

T.K. adored his wife. But he must know that Janet was emotionally tied in some way to Shane—and it didn’t take a Basil Willing to figure out just how. Just how angry might T.K. be?

As for Cindy—To what lengths would the sixteen-year-old go to strike out at her rival for Shane’s attentions, even though the other woman was her own mother? Could anyone so cold-bloodedly kill a pet that had grown up with him? Briefly, with a shudder, Annie thought of
The Bad Seed.

Could Janet be distraught enough over Shane to kill her own pet to inflict unhappiness on Cindy?

Footsteps sounded behind her. She swung around to face Eugene as he joined her in looking out over the auditorium.

“TR was an outstanding success as police commissioner in New York. He would go out late at night to see if the beat patrolmen were on duty. The tabloids nicknamed him Haroun-el-Roosevelt.”

Annie stared at him blankly.

Eugene smiled genially. “That was after the famous caliph who enjoyed slipping around Baghdad unrecognized after dark.”

A nut. Sam was looking for a nut.

She felt a quiver of relief when the steps leading up from the dressing rooms creaked. Hugo emerged brushing a dribble of cobweb from his immaculate pinpoint oxford shirt. It matched perfectly the sky blue of his faded denim slacks. But
Hugo didn’t look pretty in his outfit. His face was too rugged, his dark eyes too daunting, and his manner too assured. “Anybody who wanted to get in this godforsaken hole could have gotten in.”

Carla moved out from the shadows behind him. “There’s a loose window in the wardrobe area. And just some cardboard in place of window panes in the east corner of the prop department.”

Shane and Henny followed close behind them. “The door leading outside from the boiler room is secure,” the latter announced.

Father Donaldson and Vince, murmuring earnestly to each other, stood in the balcony. Then Vince shouted, “Nothing open or broken up here.” The Hortons came down the center aisle from the front foyer, and Sam and Burt returned through the left wing.

“Tighter than a drum,” T.K. reported.

Burt was frowning. “We didn’t find anything open.” Sam nodded morosely.

Max poked his head out of the right wing. “Carla, did you come in through the stage door today?”

“No. The front entrance.”

“Arthur and I found the stage door open.”

The sudden relaxation of tension was as palpable as the emergence of the sun from a cloud bank. It was abruptly much cheerier in the dusty auditorium; the world was now suspect, not just this select group.

Burt turned to Carla. “Did you check the stage door before you left Sunday?”

“No, no, I didn’t.” Was Carla’s answer a shade too eager?

“So anybody could have done it,” T.K. said ponderously.

“Anybody? Any citizen presently residing on our golden isle?” Hugo asked, his gravelly voice rising ever so faintly in inquiry.

Everyone looked at him.

“I do hate to cast a pall on the resurgence of cheer. But there is a minor matter.”

“My God, Hugo, spit it out. How much foreplay do you want?” Sam was impatient.

“Think of the circumstances. The cat in the window seat.”

The director drew his breath in sharply, but Hugo held up an imperious hand to forestall an outburst. “Think, my friends. I know, of course, that
Arsenic and Old Lace
is one of the most popular—and familiar—plays in the world. However, how many people know or would remember that the window seat is opened in Act One?”

They waited uneasily.

“A goodly number, I admit. However, I don’t believe this can be considered common knowledge on the island. I believe, in fact, that we must limit our suspicions to those who have been involved in theater productions now or in the past.” Hugo’s probing dark eyes touched each face briefly. “No, my friends, I think the fox is in the chicken coop—and the fox is
one of us.”

The sun slid behind the cloud bank again.

“Hugo’s point is well taken,” Burt said grimly. “In any event, I want to make an announcement. I’m taking Freddy to Chief Saulter.” (Annie suspected Max’s prepping here.) “If there’s any way to trace the bullet that killed him, I’m going to do it.”

“Good for you,” Henny said warmly.

“Further,” he continued, “I want to make one thing perfectly clear.”

It was so quiet they could hear a mouse skittering backstage.

“If one more piece of sabotage occurs, this play is canceled.”

Sam began to pace, his hands flapping wildly. “Now wait a minute, wait a minute. I got a contract. I got a producer coming. I got to stage this play. Dead or alive, I got to stage it! No way am I going to let some loony ruin my chance.” He halted in front of Burt, his fringe of yellowish hair quivering, and poked Burt’s chest with a pudgy finger. “You can’t do this to me! No way can you do this to me!”

Burt ignored him. “The sabotage has to stop. It’s going to stop. If it doesn’t, this play’s canceled.”

Sam moaned. “Done in by a crank. Oh, God, what am I going to do?”

“Now, if anyone has any idea who’s behind all of this,
come and talk to me.” Burt paused, and the silence crackled with uneasiness and quick, sideways glances. Burt finally cleared his throat. “All right. Everybody knows the score now. I’ll see you here tomorrow night for a run-through of all three acts.” His upper teeth gnawed on his lower lip for an instant, then he concluded gruffly, “That’s all.”

There was a moment of uncertain quiet, then a general movement toward the exit.

Hugo’s clear, carrying voice rolled across the stage. “An addendum, my friends.”

Everyone stopped. His voice commanded obedience.

Hugo waited just long enough to give the pause an edge. “As long as we are making pronouncements, I wish to make one of my own.” His craggy face was grim. “I have no intention of participating in this play unless it is presented in a professional manner—and that means that not only must there be no more unpleasant interruptions. It also means that every actor must know his lines.”

His black eyes challenged Shane.

Max stared over Annie’s head into the refrigerator. “My God, don’t you have anything
edible?”

“Sure. There’s leftover pepperoni, leftover barbecued ribs, and—” She poked a lump of foil. “Oh, yeah, leftover shrimp toast.”

He moaned. “I don’t want to ask anything too personal,” he said mildly, “but have you ever made any meals from scratch?”

“You mean, like bought the ingredients at the grocery store?”

“Exactly.”

“Of course. How about bacon and scrambled eggs?”

Max sighed. “I can see that come September, I may have to prepare little grocery lists.”

“For whom?” she inquired politely, her face attentive.

“For the chef. And I guess we both know who that will be.”

“That will be lovely,” Annie said serenely. “You know how much I enjoy your cooking.”

He bent down, slid out the pizza box, and turned toward the microwave.

Annie set the table. She had real plates, but she reached past them to the stack of nice pink paper ones. It wouldn’t do for Max to get set in his ways. She did whip together a tasty salad, just to throw him off balance: Bibb lettuce, cherry tomatoes, diced avocado, green onions, mushrooms, celery, and green pepper. Luscious thick Roquefort dressing for her, oil and vinegar for Max. (Did he want to live forever?)

The timer on the microwave beeped and the telephone
rang at the same instant. She gestured for him to answer, while she lifted out the pizza.

“Oh, hi, Laurel.” An indulgent smile crossed his face, and he leaned comfortably against the wall, obviously propped up for a lengthy conversation.

Annie sighed. After a moment’s thought, she transferred the pizza to a pie tin and stuck it in the conventional oven to keep warm, then poured beer into frosty mugs and wandered into the living room. Handing a mug to Max, she plopped on the couch. But her ears weren’t stoppered. An occasional phrase reached her.

“No kidding, Laurel!” “Oh, say, that sounds great.” “Thrones? I’d like that.” “Would the roots go into the wedding cake?”

Annie studied him dispassionately. Long. Lean. Good-looking. A perfect ass.

He glanced her way and grinned.

She resisted an almost overpowering impulse to retrieve the pizza and drape it over his head.

“A
coupe de mariage?”
He whooped with laughter. “Sounds more like the winner’s cup at a horse race.” He stifled his laughter. “Sorry, sweetheart. Of course I’m serious about it. It
is
a glorious opportunity to—” He paused. “How did you put it? Oh, yeah, a glorious opportunity to create unity. Yeah. You bet. And I’ve been thinking, Ma, how about a casino night? We can—” He listened. “Well, no, it’s not a custom anywhere so far as I know, but we can create some
new
customs. Like a treasure hunt. First prize—a round trip to Peking. Now, that’s international, isn’t it?”

Annie turned her head away and stared determinedly at her bookcase. Her eyes focused on
Marriage Is Murder
by Nancy Pickard. Wasn’t it just?

Then she stiffened.

“Annie? Oh, sure, she’s right here, but maybe you’d better talk to her another time, Ma. She’s up to her elbows in the kitchen.” He slapped his leg in appreciation of his own wit.

Annie scarcely dared to breathe.

“Sure. I love you, too. And it’s going to be a blast, Ma.” A pause. “Of course I’m taking it seriously. You can count on me. Night, now.”

His eyes brimmed with laughter as he hung up.

Annie didn’t say a word.

Max tipped his head to study her. “Did anybody ever tell you how cute you are when you’re mad?”

“Max!”

He bounded across the room and pulled her up and into his arms. “Oh, come on, Annie. Grin a little. Laurel means well—and who knows, it may turn out to be the wedding of the century.”

“I don’t want the wedding of the century. I just want a—”

“—simple, dignified, unpretentious ceremony. Annie, relax. Go with the flow.”

She only hoped she wouldn’t be swept away. Laurel was capable of generating a
torrent.
Annie kept trying to make this point, but Max’s lips kept getting in the way. Finally, she recalled herself enough to remember the pizza.

“Dry,” she murmured. “Leathery.” And she pulled away and steered him back to the kitchen.

The pizza was hard, but the beer helped. However, Annie found it difficult to concentrate on food. And she was determined not to inquire about thrones or roots. Roots in the wedding cake?

It might not be pleasant to dwell on the recent rehearsal, but it did distract her—at least a little—from Laurel. “I wonder what will happen at the run-through tomorrow night?”

“Don’t borrow trouble, as my grandmother used to say.”

If it was a saying by his maternal grandmother, she must have used it to survive life as Laurel’s parent. That, however, started the same old cycle of concern. (Where was Laurel
now?
What was Laurel
doing?
What was Laurel
planning?)

Max refused a second serving. Even Annie had only managed one. It was pizza that could walk unaided. It only took seconds to clear the table, and the dishes (paper plates) were no problem, so Annie made cappuccino and they settled on the couch.

Max sighed happily and slipped his arm behind her shoulders, but she jumped up and darted across the room to paw through her wicker carryall.