A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (28 page)

47

BECKY BALDWIN LEANED BACK IN HER DESK CHAIR AND frowned at Cora Felton, who was perched on the windowsill smoking a cigarette. “You want me to stop a
eulogy
?”

“Sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“Okay,
you
say it so it sounds
good.
”

“I want a simple injunction.” Cora glanced at Sherry for help. None was forthcoming. “Or restraining order. Or gag order. Or whatever you call it when you don’t want someone to do something.”

“I don’t believe this.”

Cora blew smoke out the open window. It came back in her face. “Doddsworth won’t hurt us unless he has to. In which case we have to stop him.”

“Since blackmailing him didn’t work,” Becky pointed out sarcastically.

“Heaven forbid,” Cora said. “I thought I told you expressly I was
not
blackmailing Doddsworth. I merely asked the question.”

“Yes, and what a lovely hypothetical
that
was. ‘I’m not blackmailing Doddsworth, but if I
were
blackmailing Doddsworth, what would I do if the situation happened to be this?’ ”

“I thought you lawyers
liked
hypothetical questions. Ow!” Cora reached down and rubbed her leg. “Burned myself on your radiator. I’d sue you, if I knew a good lawyer.”

“Very funny,” Becky said. “Well, I hate to disillusion you, Cora, but I am not stopping a eulogy.”

“Then Doddsworth is going to stand up and accuse me of murder,” Sherry said.

“That’s not all bad.” Becky nodded slyly. “Tainting the jury pool will probably get us a change of venue.”

“Do we
want
a change of venue?”

“It couldn’t hurt. The Taggarts own half the town. It’s not exactly the ideal place to be tried for murdering their daughter with a poisoned dart.”

“Hey, no one’s getting tried yet.” Cora flipped her cigarette into the snow, heaved herself off the windowsill. “And no one’s gonna be. I’m just exploring options.”

“Well, stopping a eulogy is a pretty poor option. I would strongly suggest you come up with something else.”

“We should have told her,” Sherry said as she and Cora drove home ten minutes later.

“Told her what? The Doddsworths and Taggarts may have had their own little Peyton Place, but it doesn’t mean they killed anyone.”

“Peyton Place?”

“Before your time, sweetie. The point is, why fling mud if it isn’t gonna help?”

“You’re such a softy. You don’t want Maxine to have to know the best friend she lost was also her half sister. Plus, you don’t suspect her anymore.”

“She’s not guilty.”

“Well, if it’s not her and it’s not me, that leaves Lance and the techie.”

“It’s not Lance.”

“Even if he knocked ’em both up?”

“I don’t think he did.”

Cora roared up their snowy driveway, skidded into a parking space in front of the garage.

“Well,” Sherry said. “Who does that leave?”

48

ALFRED ADAMS’S EYES WIDENED. “YOU STAY AWAY FROM me!”

“Just a couple of questions,” Cora said.

Alfred was sitting on the high school stage taking apart a spotlight. He held a screwdriver out in front of him like a weapon. “That’s what you said the last time. When Mr. Virdon got killed.”

“You think that was my fault?”

“Did you talk to Mr. Virdon?”

“No, I didn’t. Obviously I should have.”

“Oh, is that right? Someone kills Mr. Virdon so you can’t talk to him, so now you think you should have? You’re living poison, lady. You’re the kiss of death.”

“I’m nothing of the kind.” But Cora didn’t sound too indignant.

“You stay away from me.”

“Relax, Alfred. I talked to you before and nothing happened to you. Obviously you don’t know anything.”

“ ’Course I don’t know anything. I told you I don’t know anything. So why do you want to talk to me?”

“You were in the crèche. You could have killed Dorrie Taggart.”

“Why would I do that?”

“And you were in the theater. You could have killed Jesse Virdon.”

“Mr. Virdon? I liked Mr. Virdon.” Alfred wiped his brow, managed to smear grease on his forehead. “Say, what is this? First you put me in danger, then you accuse me of murder? You’re bad news.”

“What was your relationship with Dorrie Taggart?”

“I didn’t
have
a relationship with Dorrie. I barely knew Dorrie.”

“But you knew who she was. You recognized her in the stable. When she came to play Mary.”

“No, I didn’t. I only saw her from the back. The whole thing’s very whatchamacallit—stylized. You’re not acting, you’re
posing.
I wish I’d never done it.”

“I bet you do. Are you claiming you didn’t know who Dorrie Taggart was?”

“Of course I knew who she was. She was in the play.”

“What play?
The Seagull
?”

“That’s right.”

“You’re working on that?”

“If it’s in this theater, I work on it.”

“Were you here when Dorrie had her late rehearsals?”

“No. Why should I be?”

“So when did you see Dorrie act?”

“During the regular rehearsals.” Alfred snorted. “She was
bad
.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Mr. Winston was always stopping her, telling her she was doing it wrong.”

“He does that to everybody.”

“Yeah. I suppose.”

“You know the girl taking over the part?”

“Laura? Sure, why?”

“Had she wanted that role?”

“Are you kidding? All these girls wanna be the star. Pretty dumb, you ask me. I mean, what’s so important about some dumb high school play?”

“I don’t know,” Cora said. “But someone killed Dorrie Taggart. And someone killed Jesse Virdon. Did it ever occur to you maybe someone was trying awfully hard to stop
The Seagull
?”

Alfred sneered. “That’s stupid.”

“Why is that stupid?”

“Mr. Virdon wasn’t important. He was just the tech director. I’m filling in for him, no problem. And Dorrie stunk. You don’t hurt the play by killing her. If you wanted to stop
Seagull,
you’d kill Mr. Winston.”

Cora Felton’s eyes widened. “Oh, for the love of—”

“What’s the matter? Are you sick?”

“You’re a lot smarter than you look.” Cora thought a moment. “You know where Mr. Winston is now?”

“Downstairs.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. I get a breather while he chews out the costume lady.”

Leaving Alfred, Cora went down to the costume shop, where Rupert Winston was complaining about the milkmaids’ cleavage.

“Ah, here’s one now,” Rupert said. “Miss Felton, please get into costume and I’ll show you what I mean.”

“You want me to alter
eight
costumes?” the costume lady groused.

“It isn’t a case of altering. Just wearing the costume
lower.
They can push the elastic down.”

“Then let ’em do it. You don’t need me.”

“They’re your costumes. You have to show them how they’re worn.”

“I think they look just fine.”

“I want them lower.”

“Then tell them so.”

“I can’t go around adjusting cleavage. That’s why I have a wardrobe mistress.”

“Oh? I thought my job was to make costumes.”

“It’s to make them to be
worn.
They’re not being worn right. Miss Felton, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’d rather be shot dead.”

“What?”

“I have rather urgent business. Could I talk to you alone?”

“What could you possibly want to talk about?”

“It’s a private matter.”

“Perhaps you’d rather talk here,” the costume mistress said hopefully.

Rupert glared at her, then back at Cora. “All right. But make it snappy.”

Rupert followed Cora out of the costume shop and down the hall into one of the music practice rooms. He closed the door, turned to Cora. “All right. What’s so allfired important that you had to pull me out of the costume shop?”

Cora looked the director right in the eye.

“I think your life’s in danger.”

49

CORA FELTON PEEKED OUT FROM BEHIND THE CURTAIN. THE gym was packed. Every folding chair on the court was filled, as were the bleachers on the sides. People were even standing in the back. Cora was amazed. She wouldn’t have thought there were that many people in all of Bakerhaven.

Dan Finley sat front row center. Becky had put her foot down about having him backstage.

Aaron’s parents sat together on folding chairs.

Jonathon and Pamela Doddsworth sat on opposite sides of the court, as far apart as they could get.

The Taggarts were not there.

A hand tapped Cora on the shoulder. She started, spun around.

It was Harvey Beerbaum. “You shouldn’t be looking at the audience,” Harvey scolded.

“Oh?” Cora said. “And just what are you doing here, Harvey?”

“Checking my props.”

“You haven’t
got
any props.”

“Oh. Well, I guess I haven’t.” Harvey dropped all pretense. “So, who’s out there?”

“Everybody and his darn brother.”

“Let me see.”

“I thought we weren’t supposed to do that.”

“Yes, but you did. Wow! Standing room only!”

“I told you.”

“I see Dan Finley’s right up front.”

“I’m not surprised.”

Harvey frowned. “Chief Harper’s still afraid something’s going to happen?”

“Yes, he is.”

“What about you? Are you nervous?”

“Yes, I am.” Cora sighed, smiled. “But it’s just stage fright.”

Cora needn’t have worried.

The Twelve Days of Christmas
was an absolute smash. Whether it was just that after the recent tragedies people needed some comic relief, or whether it was just that good, the song stopped the show.

The standing-room-only audience had been politely enthusiastic during the choral numbers, applauding the efforts of the schoolchildren. But when
The Twelve Days
of Christmas
began, the audience went nuts.

Becky wandered out onstage, young, innocent, dewy, bright-eyed, the very picture of eager anticipation, and sang,
“ ‘On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to
me.’ ”

Jimmy Potter marched out, singing,
“ ‘A partridge in a
pear tree.’ ”

He was so proud, gawky, and happy, that it was funny. There were nervous titters in the audience. As if they wanted to laugh, but didn’t want to be rude. As Jimmy exited the stage, it was quite clear the audience was holding back.

They stifled guffaws at the turtledoves, borne by plump Mary Cushman and her equally plump cohort. When Jimmy Potter came marching back, they suppressed giggles.

But on the exit, as the turtledoves and partridge scattered into the wings, and it dawned on the audience that this was the format, and all of these items would be constantly vanishing and reappearing, the dam broke.

A rumble of laughter grew and would not stop. It swelled through a delicious confusion of French hens, calling birds, and golden rings, rattled the rafters as geese a-laying gave way to swans a-swimming.

By the time the eight maids a-milking got onstage and Cora sang her solo line, everyone in the place was laughing so loud that no one could hear her. It didn’t really matter—everyone knew what she was singing—but her line was lost in the din.

Cora grabbed up her milking stool and dashed offstage, ruefully counting the hours she had spent rehearsing the damn line.

She was certain she had performed it perfectly.

Cora barely had time to think that before the ladies dancing appeared and she had to rush back onstage again. She ran off, ran back on for the pipers piping, collided with an errant goose a-laying and was knocked flat. She scrambled to her feet just in time to avoid being trampled by the lords a-leaping.

Harvey Beerbaum shot her a dirty look as he went by, listening in vain for his cue. He missed it by three notes, which almost synchronized with his jump, which he missed by four.

It didn’t matter. The audience was on the floor, chortling and guffawing too hard to notice that the eight maids a-milking, whose cue had been pushed back three measures by Harvey’s unintentional retard, were hopelessly offbeat.

Mr. Hodges at the piano ad-libbed valiantly, inventing musical segues the likes of which had never been attempted in the history of musical theater. Fortunately, no one heard them either, because the turtledoves had just tripped the French hens, and the calling birds were having trouble picking their way over them to get offstage.

Becky Baldwin, in the midst of such chaos, began to look like a woman besieged. When the twelve drummers drumming descended on her, her eyes darted desperately in all directions, as if looking for somewhere to hide.

Her acting was so good that Dan Finley stood up, thinking she’d been attacked. He sheepishly sat back down as the lords a-leaping shot back onstage, and he realized it was part of the play.

Within seconds, every calling bird, French hen, and golden ring was in place, and Jimmy Potter, for the twelfth and last time, came stomping up to Becky Baldwin, as the entire chorus warbled,
“ ‘And a partridge
in a pear tree.’ ”

The actors froze in tableau, all gesturing toward Jimmy Potter, now down on one knee, offering the partridge and pear tree to Becky Baldwin.

Thunderous applause. The audience was on their feet, clapping, whistling, hollering, and yelling. A standing ovation.

The actors bowed just as they’d rehearsed, then gave way to the students, who quickly filled the stage. As the last class filed in, Becky Baldwin slipped into the wings. She was back moments later, carrying an enormous bouquet of flowers. She gestured to the front row, where Rupert Winston sat, for once quiet and inconspicuous amid the din. She motioned to the director, inviting him up onstage. As the audience realized what she was doing, the applause, which had abated somewhat, swelled again, louder, if possible, than before. Now all the actors beckoned with their hands,
Come on, come on,
until the unexpectedly modest director had no choice but to join them. Rupert scampered up the front steps as he had so many times in rehearsal, accepted the flowers and the accolades of his actors, who were all now applauding. He bowed deeply to the audience, then invited the actors to bow with him. He turned, gestured to Mr. Hodges, still valiantly banging out the tune on the piano. Then joined hands with the actors and bowed again, acknowledging the audience’s deafening approval.

For once Rupert Winston didn’t seem arrogant. He appeared, instead, deeply moved. Touched. Even humble.

As he came up from the bow, he glanced over at the maids a-milking. Just for a second Cora could see the fear in his eyes. Then he was bowing and smiling again, basking in the applause.