Cornucopia (A Chloe Boston Mystery Book 16) Page 2

  Blue and I lunched in Courthouse Park, enjoying the final fall of the leaves from the nearly bare trees. This is a wonderful time of year. The weather is crisp but not brutally cold, the colors are rich, and I love the smell of the wood fires which begin to appear both in fireplaces and in people’s yards as they burn up their piles of leaves and trimmings leftover from tidying their backyards.

  The houses are also decorated, some lavishly, some not, but nearly all have at least one restrained token of the season, a pumpkin on the porch or some Indian corn hung on the door in place of the summer wreaths.

  Around three I traded in my official vehicle for my bike and Blue and I headed for the auditorium.

  I rode past the church and waved at Father McIlhenny but didn’t stop. He would want me to step inside to see the latest renovations, and since it is rude to drop into God’s house and not say a few words to your host, and the father was a grand-champion prayer once he got going, I knew I could end up being there for quite some time. I would stop in after Halloween. For the time being, Birnam wood waited.

  Rehearsal was underway when I arrived. Lady Macbeth was pacing the stage while the doctor and lady-in-waiting looked on in horror.

  Wash your hands, put on your nightgown;

  look not so pale.—I tell you yet again, Banquo’s

  buried; he cannot come out on's grave.

  I shuddered. This really was a creepy play and Wallander’s casting, while a bit odd, was turning out to be effective.

  Mom and Aunt Dot were there doing final fittings of costumes. I suspect that it was less because anything needed alteration than that they were also very taken with the play.

  I got down to business on the Birnam wood set and made myself pay more attention to my painting, but ended up distracted by bits of dust and debris falling down into my paints while I was working. Annoyed, I looked overhead to see what was causing the drifting detritus. Nothing obvious was there except part of the catwalk which swayed slightly as the next scene’s canvas was lowered from its lofty storage place.

  A minute later when an exceptionally large bit of dark leaf fell in my sienna red I got up and went to find a broom. I couldn’t imagine how so much dirt had gotten up on the catwalk, unless someone completely thoughtless had gone up there with dirty shoes, but I was going to clean up.

  I’m not great with heights, but I was managing fine by not allowing myself to peer past the boards of the narrow walkway, which were covered in muddy shoe prints which were slightly blurred but not so unclear that I couldn’t see that the toe was pointed and that the shoe or boot had a thick heel. There were also some piles of ash, like someone had been standing up there smoking. Only not cigarettes. It was pipe ash.

  The two things taken together made me think of Coach Biggers, but it seemed unlikely that he would have been monitoring the play. It would have been an act of masochism which wasn’t in character; Biggers enjoyed torturing others, but not himself. And someone would have mentioned seeing him since we all had to come and go through the front hall. The side doors were locked because of the wet canvases being kept in the wings. Two sets had been ruined by careless students, so for the time being, everyone came and went by the main arch guarded by the cement lions.

  Putting the matter out of mind, I finished sweeping up the mess and then started for the ladder. I hadn’t set foot on the rungs when I saw Mr. Wallander go dashing by. Stage lighting can do funny things to the complexion but he looked absolutely green and the noises I heard from the small bathroom a moment later confirmed that he was very sick indeed.

  “Oh dear,” Mom said. “I hope it isn’t flu.”

  The kids were also looking worried.

  The coach reappeared a couple minutes later, looking shaken but less pale, and Mom thoughtfully offered him a bottle of water.

  “It’s better than coffee,” she murmured.

  “Thank you.” His voice was weak.

  I could hear Banquo whisper to Lady Macbeth: “This play is supposed to be cursed, you know.”

  “Not cursed,” I corrected, turning my head. “Just bad luck to anyone who says the name aloud. It’s why everyone calls it the Scottish play.”

  “Yeah? Well, I guess someone said something, ’cause this is two bad things that have happened.”

  So it was, and I didn’t want for there to be a third.

  My instincts were aroused and I went quickly to his desk, which had been pulled to far stage left where it was sitting half-hidden by the curtains. I saw a half-drunk cup of coffee and some of the same dirt and leaf mold on the desk. It would have been a remarkable trick to have managed to drop something into the cup from the catwalk, but there was a sheen of something oily on the surface. Not stopping to question my reasons for acting, or what the Chief might say when I requested some tests run on the beverage, I picked up the cup and then went to fetch my things.

  “Come on, Blue,” I said. “We have work to do.”

  Birnam wood would have to wait. I wanted to find out what kind of emetic had been slipped into Thomas Wallander’s coffee.

  I discussed the matter with Blue on our way to the station. “Discuss” sounds better than saying I was audibly groping for other explanations while Blue stared thoughtfully and occasionally wagged her tail. However I describe it, a chat with Blue is usually a good nerve tonic because I can be completely open with her, knowing she will always keep my confidences, and I was pretty clear about my suspicions by the time we reached the station.

  As I expected the Chief appeared only minutes after I filled out the request form for lab work on the coffee. We don’t have a lot of call for that kind of testing, especially when there isn’t an official crime scene, and the Chief runs a tight fiscal ship.

  The station was nearly empty and the Chief relaxed enough to sit on the edge of my desk while we talked.

  “What’s up, Boston?” The voice was neutral. This was work, not pleasure. He was not, however, reading me the riot act.

  “Chief, I think we may have someone trying to.…” But here I stopped, choosing my words carefully.

  “What? Sabotage the play?” he guessed. The Chief had only been on the job a few weeks when we’d had our first Halloween killing. There had been a second murder the year after at the pumpkin carving contest and he is very sensitive to the community’s moods and gossip. He also knows me and how I think.

  “Not the play. At least, not yet. And maybe we can keep that from happening.”

  “What then?”

  “I think someone is trying to hurt the new drama coach.”

  “Wallander?” The Chief frowned. “But everyone seems to like him. I’ve heard nothing but praise from the parents and the other staff at the high school.”

  “Not everyone likes him. Not the old drama coach, Delbert Biggers.” Then I explained about the boot prints and the ash up on the catwalk where I suspected that the day before someone had dropped a piece of heavy scenery on Wallander’s head. “It isn’t conclusive, of course, but I am betting that it’s ipecac and not random bad luck that just made Wallander sick.”

  The Chief grunted and then nodded briskly.

  “Get it tested. We need to know. And Wallander needs to be warned. You want me to do it?”

  “It might be best. No one takes me seriously. And, Chief?”

  “Yes?”

  “I have a bad feeling about tomorrow night.”

  His posture got rigid.

  “Why?”

  “It’s the dress rehearsal. If someone wanted to take out the coach so that he could be asked to ride to the rescue in his place….”

  “Then his last chance would be tomorrow night,” the Chief finished. “You don’t think Biggers can be warned away? Wouldn’t he cool his jets if he knew we suspected him?”

  “Maybe. Temporarily. But I don’t know that he’s completely rational. What if he just waits for us to turn our backs and then tries again? He hasn’t had time to think up a good plan yet, but give him time.”

&
nbsp; “I suppose it would be better to catch him in the act. Okay, Boston, what do you suggest to stop this? You have some idea, don’t you?”

  So, I told him what I was thinking.

  Act 1, Scene 4

  It meant Mom and Aunt Dot had to do some last-minute sewing, but Bryce and Gordon were kitted out as Scottish soldiers and milling around with the extras. Mr. Wallander had felt that some graphic sword fights before the dig duel with Macbeth would appeal to the audience and had enlisted several of the football players to fill in as casualties of war, so there were lots of large bodies in long wigs and kilts wandering around in the wings.

  The Chief had opted to stay up in the catwalk and ostensibly supervise the students handling the lights, which had to be manually changed between acts since there were not enough to dedicate individual lights for each scene, and in some cases, filters had to be added.

  If there was a lot of plaid there was even more anxiety filling up the auditorium and Blue and I did our best to keep everyone calm as things began to “get real.”

  Wallander had, of course, been warned of the threat, but the Chief and I had agreed that we wouldn’t share our suspicions with the rest of the cast who were already half-hysterical with opening-night jitters. I was praying for a good, calm rehearsal. Maybe that would soothe some of the troubled souls.

  There were a surprising number of people in the audience and of course all the prop, makeup, and lighting people. I would have been happier if Mom and Aunt Dot had stayed home, but Mom was the wardrobe mistress and Aunt Dot a dresser, so there was nothing to do but try to keep an eye on them. I was also rather surprised to see Tara Lee, lavishly minked in what I hoped was faux fur and diamonded in what I knew were not rhinestones. A few of the other Lit Wits were there as well and I remembered that they were throwing some kind of rehearsal party after. I waved to Lawrence and Agatha, but kept moving.

  I did my best to keep an eye on the crowd. Alex was at the door, making sure that Delbert Biggers didn’t slip in unseen, but I was still feeling nervous and on edge. The side doors were locked, but Biggers might still have a key, and while I had confidence in Officer Bryce keeping an eye on his assigned entrance, I did not place any such confidence in Dale Gordon.

  One possible threat had been taken care of. There was a large trapdoor in the center of the stage, but since it was not needed, Bryce had nailed it shut. I was still doubtful that Biggers planned to injure any of the students, but if he was unhinged enough to attack the new drama coach, he might be desperate enough to hurt the kids.

  Finally the lights dimmed. The curtain lifted and the play began. I took up a place stage left, a few feet away from Thomas Wallander, and tried to keep from twitching.

  Lightning, quite bright and followed with realistic thunder, shattered the quiet. The three witches appeared, floating out like ghosts made of billowing shadows.

  When shall we three meet again?

  In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

  And they were off. In spite of myself, once again the play sucked me in. Surrounded by costumed actors and effects, I was ready to believe that I was standing on a blasted heath in Scotland. And I knew Coach Wallander was feeling it too. His lips moved to the dialogue but his expression was rapt as he watched the players.

  Fair is foul, and foul is fair:

  Hover through the fog and filthy air.

  The witches faded away. The lights faded too and one canvas was pulled up while another was lowered down in near silence. King Duncan entered stage right.

  What bloody man is that? He can report,

  A flash of yellow near my feet. I looked down at the aged planks and saw what I belatedly recognized was a second small trapdoor. It was much less obvious than the large one in the center of the stage and visible only because there was someone below with a powerful flashlight. Wallander was standing where he habitually did, which was half on and half off the door.

  My brain ran through the play with a haste that would have horrified the Bard. Finding no reason for there to be anyone below stage, I reached out an urgent hand and jerked Wallander away. We both fell as the trap banged open like something on a gallows.

  Blue, thinking that I meant to keep the drama coach on the floor, promptly sat on him and began licking his face.

  “Dale!” I gasped at Althea’s gaping husband who was seated in a folding chair beside the side door. In case he didn’t get my meaning, I pointed at the square hole and the retreating flashlight.

  For once, Gordon did not stop to argue but got a lumbering start and jumped straight through the trapdoor. It was a tight fit and I said a prayer that he didn’t break anything.

  I couldn’t hear much above the renewed thunder and stamping soldiers, but I thought maybe there were two echoes of footsteps running away.

  “Up, Blue,” I said, recalled to the coach’s plight by his hands and feet flailing on the floor. Free of the weight, Wallander drew in a wheezing breath and rolled onto his hands and knees.

  A moment later the Chief appeared, having made record time down the old iron ladder and he also dropped down into the trap. I got to my own hands and knees and crawled to the edge of the hole, trying to see what was happening. There wasn’t enough light to tell anything definite, just a few lines of green spotlight shining through the ill-fitting boards of the old stage, nor could I hear anything above the actors’ voices.

  What seemed an eternity later, the Chief and Gordon reappeared with a handcuffed Delbert Biggers being dragged between them. By then Bryce had joined us and Delbert was hauled out of the hole and then out of the building with no one else being the wiser.

  Wallander might have wanted to discuss the matter with me, but there was a show to put on.

  “Thank you,” he whispered, rubbing his chest, and then took up a position about two feet from where he normally stood. Duncan exited. The scenery changed again and the witches returned.

  Where hast thou been, Sister?

  Act 1, Scene 5

  Halloween arrived. Blue, who knew exactly what day it was, thanks to the vendors setting up booths around Courthouse Park who offered her samples of their goodies while I was on patrol, gave me to understand that a small snack of harvest cake and soft pretzels would be good before we went to the theater. Sometimes she and Alex are two minds with but a single thought.

  The news hadn’t gotten out yet, but Delbert Biggers was leaving town. It was that or a charge of attempted murder. I wish I could have been there when the Chief gave him the ultimatum, but I probably would have just cramped his style. No one is the least bit intimidated by me and Biggers might not have taken the Chief’s threat seriously had I been there.

  Instead of going to the station to see Biggers get his comeuppance, Alex, Blue, Wallander, and I had stayed for the Lit Wits’ rehearsal party, which was rather grander than expected what with Tara Lee catering it. The drama coach did not mention to anyone what had happened, probably to protect the kids from the knowledge of how loony their old coach had been. After all, he didn’t want to start any rumors about trouble with the Scottish play the night before it opened.

  “Want some cider?” Alex asked me. I was standing at the crossroads of footpaths through the park. They were lined with grinning jack-o’-lanterns and smelled like the world’s biggest pumpkin pie. I was a little sad that I wasn’t competing.

  “Is there time?” I asked.

  “If we sip while we walk,” he said, taking my hand in his and giving it a squeeze.

  “Okay then. It wouldn’t feel like Halloween without some cider.”

  “By the way, did I mention that Aunt Mary Elizabeth has offered us her cabin for Thanksgiving?”

  Over the River

  We had taken up Aunt Mary Elizabeth’s offer of her cabin for Thanksgiving. Last year’s beast of a feast had left me gun-shy since I was pretty sure that Tara Lee would try to rope me into participating again if I were within calling distance. I’d tried to get enthused about a large Thanksgiving ever since the l
ast one, but the moths got at that idea right away and chewed big holes in it. Mom and Aunt Bea love that sort of thing, but Alex and I wanted a small banquet with just the Jackmans for company.

  Also, though I love my nephew, Reggie, I see quite enough of his father at work and I really didn’t mind not spending the day with Althea in my face. My cousin is one of those people who feel they can accomplish most things through criticism dressed up as “honesty.” I didn’t need that while cooking. She also writes ear-abradingly awful poetry and inflicts it on her hostages at family events where they can’t escape. I’ve tried—everyone has tried—talking her out of reading these commemorative verses, but it is a lost cause, especially now that she thinks she is doing it for her son. Dodging her is the only way to save on the nerves’ wear and tear.

  Fortunately, Aunt Mary Elizabeth’s cabin had rotten cellphone reception. The only way to get a signal was to climb out of the garret in the attic and up onto the roof. There was also a neighbor who plowed the road for fifty bucks a week during the snow season, so we didn’t need to worry if it snowed. I was certain that things would be perfect.

  Mary Elizabeth’s cabin is small but nice. There is a large kitchen/dining/living room area downstairs with a half bath tucked under the stairs. There are two bedrooms upstairs, both generously sized. We had to share a bath, but I didn’t think it would be a problem since none of us are mirror hogs.

  I was feeling pretty confident about preparing the turkey and I knew that Mr. Jackman wasn’t the type to sit around with folded hands when there was action in the kitchen, so he would be there to lift me up if I fumbled badly.

  On Wednesday, Alex and I stopped by the turkey ranch and picked up our bird—an heirloom turkey descended from the birds I had rescued two years ago—and, with our other groceries loaded, we headed into the mountains. Blue was with us, but after some discussion we had agreed that Apollo and Aphrodite would be happier at home.