This was my moment to decide whether to confront Lance or grab my check and dart out of here as fast as my legs would carry me. I’m not sure what compelled me, but I chose the latter.
“Am I?”
Lance pulled his glasses from his face again. “Please.”
I sank onto the couch. “Better?”
“You look comfortable there. Had experience with the casting couch, have you?” Lance grinned as he spoke, but his words came out in a snarl.
The casting couch is a dreaded risk for female leads. It doesn’t happen as often in the theater as it does in Hollywood, but I knew two girls growing up who both had their own horror stories of sleazy directors and the “casting couch.”
Maybe this was a bad idea.
“Listen, I’m going to take off. I know you’re good for payment. Just bring it by the bakeshop tomorrow.” I started to stand.
“We both know you’re not going anywhere.” Lance sprinted to the door and latched it.
“What are you doing?” I flew to the door.
He blocked me with his body and grabbed my wrist.
“Come sit.” He yanked me to the couch and sat so that our knees were touching.
I scooted as far away as possible.
“Darling, I’m not going to bite. I don’t run that kind of couch, if you know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant, but that didn’t make me feel any more relaxed. So he wasn’t going to make a move on me, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to hurt me.
“Listen, darling, I know talent and you are not making the cut. I’m not letting you leave until you dish—what’s got you all wound up?”
“You!” I nearly shouted, surprising him and myself.
“My, my, do tell.”
“I know you murdered Nancy and tried to kill Caroline too.”
Lance keeled over with laughter. “Stop, stop. You’re too much.”
I waited for him to recover.
“Oh, you’re serious. Well, this is good.” He kicked his legs out and crossed them. “Let me get comfortable. I have to hear this.”
“Go ahead and laugh, but I want you to know that if you try anything, Deputy Adams knows. You won’t get away with it.”
Lance laughed again. “I couldn’t make this up if I tried. Please, please go on. I must know how I’ve become the villain in your little plot.”
“How about your hand? I know it wasn’t like that the morning of Nancy’s murder. You came into Torte the next morning with a cut hand. It can’t be a coincidence that you cut your hand the same night she was murdered.”
“This?” Lance held his arm out for me to see. He unwrapped the bandage. “A simple accident. Ask anyone. Half the company witnessed it. I was restaging a fight sequence. Somehow the props department accidentally gave Petruchio the wrong sword. Sliced my hand open. Thought I might need stiches, but fortunately it wasn’t that deep.”
I looked at the gash on his hand. It did appear to be sliced, like from a sword.
Lance continued. “Lucky too. Early choreography called for a jab to the throat. Fortunately I changed the pacing and Petruchio went for my hand. I’m not clear how a real sword got mixed in. You know, they use real weapons to create the replicas we use on the stage. However, I had words with our props manager. She’s usually meticulous about making sure things like this don’t happen.”
He rewrapped the cut and rolled his sleeve back in place. “Satisfied?”
“Not yet. What about Nancy? You threatened to kill her and hours later she ended up dead.”
“Kidding, darling, remember.”
“You didn’t sound like you were kidding.”
“Nancy and I had our differences, but I didn’t want her dead. In fact, I’m the last person who wanted her dead.”
“What does that mean?”
“As you’ve probably heard over the years, seventy percent of our funding comes from direct sales. It’s one of the many reasons that I never want to work anywhere else. Most theaters are thrilled if they can generate forty percent of their revenue from sales. That leaves the other sixty percent for development and fund-raising. For us, only a small portion of our annual budget comes from donors.”
I shifted on the couch.
“Am I boring you?”
“No, go on.”
“The last couple years’ ticket sales have taken a hit with the economy. It’s meant we’ve had to rely on more donors to step up and cover the difference.”
I nodded. “That makes sense.”
“Nancy Hudson was very good to the theater. Because of her donation we didn’t have to do a major fund-raising campaign.” Lance brushed his jacket off and uncrossed his legs. “None of this is my forte. Of course, part of my job is to be the face of the company, but direct donations aren’t my responsibility. I haven’t had the best working relationship with our managing director. She and I haven’t—let’s just say, seen eye to eye.”
“What does that have to do with Nancy?”
“Ah, patience. Patience,
darling.
I’m getting to that. Nancy came to me the week before she was killed. She had a masterfully evil plan.”
“What?” Without realizing, I had scooted to the edge of the couch.
Lance reached over and patted my knees. “There’s nothing like the thrill of live theater, is there?”
I threw his hand away.
“Easy, easy.” He winked. “As I was saying, Nancy came up with a devilish plan that would benefit both of us. You see, in most theaters the artistic and managing directors split duties. The board has oversight, of course, but their function really is to raise funds. She wanted to fire the managing director, rewrite the bylaws to give the board more power in terms of the management of the theater, and I would become the sole director.” He let out a laugh like an evil dictator.
My mouth hung open.
“Close your mouth, darling. It isn’t a flattering look for you.” Lance reached over and tapped my chin shut with the bottom of his hand.
“So Nancy wanted to give you more control?”
“Genius, wasn’t it?” He leaned his elbow on the arm of the couch and looked smug.
“I don’t know if I’d say genius.”
Lance sighed. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not happening now. With Nancy dead, the plan is too.”
“Did anyone else know about this?”
“No! Never. It was hush-hush between Nancy and me. In fact, it was my idea to add the touch of outward loathing toward her. Not bad for an old actor, huh?”
“Wait, so you never hated Nancy?”
“Oh, I didn’t say that. Did I want her dead? Absolutely not.”
I sat in silence, trying to process this new twist. Lance and Nancy plotting to take over OSF—that I hadn’t seen coming. I had to give him credit, he played the part of hating Nancy authentically.
“What about Caroline? Why were you backstage during that performance?”
“That is a conundrum, isn’t it? I’ve tried to figure that one out myself. You see, I keep in constant communication with my actors and the company at large. I have an open policy that if anyone has a complaint that they don’t want to vocalize they can drop me an anonymous note right there.” He pointed to a box mounted near the door.
“Someone complained that the assistant stage manager wasn’t living up to our standards. They asked me to come watch that night. I don’t know who wrote the complaint or what their issue is. The show ran like a dream.”
“Until Caroline’s accident.”
Lance nodded in agreement. “Exactly. I don’t know how that happened. Someone whistled. A major no-no.
“I think that answers all your questions. Feel better, darling?” Lance stood and returned to his desk. “Let me get that check for you.”
While I waited for Lance to write the check, my mind hummed. Someone must have known what Lance and Nancy were planning. Who would have wanted to stop Nancy and Lance’s plot? The managing director? Someone else in the company? Could Richard Lord have a connection? Why did every new piece of information lead to a million more questions? I was starting to wonder if I was ever going to figure out who’d killed Nancy.
I don’t remember passing anyone on my way out of the theater. I must have. The frenzy of preshow activity was under way, but I managed to leave without noticing any of it. Lance and Nancy had been plotting a covert takeover. If that was true, there’s no way he would have killed her. None of this made sense.
Taking the stairs two at a time, I wanted to give myself as much distance from the theater as possible. I turned onto Main Street, passing packed shops and restaurants. The smoke continued to drive everyone inside.
Everyone including Mom. I gasped as I glanced into the steamy window of Puck’s Pub. Its wooden doors were intricately carved with a forest scene from the famous play. Beer steins served as handles. The menu is themed like the design. Oberon’s kiss—basically a glorified chicken pie—is a fan favorite.
I stopped in front of the window to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me. They weren’t. Mom and the Professor sat huddled at a high table in the back corner. Their heads were practically touching.
My suspicion had been confirmed. Mom certainly had her fair share of secrets she was keeping from me. I guess I couldn’t blame her. I chose to leave. It made sense that she’d carved out a new life for herself here. But why didn’t she want me to know?
The Professor turned his head. I scurried away before he could see me.
How many days had I been home? Four—five? It felt like a year in some ways and minutes in others. So much had changed, and then at the same time everything was exactly as I left it. It felt like I was operating in a strange vortex—dangling one foot in the familiar and one in the unknown. If only I could jump onto some solid ground with both feet together.
Might as well bake,
I thought as I reached Torte. It was too early to go home. Plus, the thought of spinning my wheels on the couch sounded worse.
I unlocked the bakeshop and locked the door behind me, my new ritual.
My worries fell away as I churned butter and scooped flour into measuring cups. Really, it’s the tiny moments in each day that count. If I had any hope of finding my way back to normal it would be in performing little acts of mundane, common, everyday routines. Forget talk therapy, healing massages, and prescription medication. Hand-rolling dough is my sweet spot. As soon as I found my rhythm in the kitchen, everything else faded away.
Maybe I should just take up residence at Torte. If I spent my downtime alone with the sound of a humming mixer, maybe—just maybe—things would turn out all right.
I poured sugar and fresh-squeezed lime juice into the dough. Lime crescents were on the menu. The buttery base of the cookie with the bite of lime would make a light, airy treat for customers trying to beat the heat. Once the cookies had cooled I would dust them with powdered sugar and finish them off with grated lime rind.
A squirt of the acidic lime hit my already irritated eyes. It burned. I wiped the juice away with my finger. My eyes dripped with moisture, making my nose run too.
I grabbed a tissue and dabbed my eyes. Maybe it was time to let Nancy’s murder go. I had enough to focus on—Mom, Torte, Carlos. Could it be that I’d jumped into trying to solve Nancy’s murder in order to avoid my own problems?
Probably.
Baking always leads to me to answers that have been stuffed somewhere within. It’s like watching yeasted dough. If I can fully engage in something as simple as rolling crescent-shaped cookies in my hands, my problems will rise to the surface.
That’s it, Jules,
I said aloud.
No more murder. No more running. It’s time to face whatever’s next head-on.
Thomas and the Professor were both more than competent. As soon as they got results back from the lab in Medford, they’d be able to make an arrest and put Nancy’s killer behind bars.
I needed to do what I do best—bake. From there everything else would fall in line.
A knock on the front door startled my moment of clarity. I brushed powdered sugar on my apron and dabbed my eyes with another tissue. It was Caroline.
“Caroline, what are you doing here?” I said as I unlocked the door and waved her in. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital?”
Her normally well-coiffed hair was matted. Her face was smudged with stage makeup. She looked disheveled, like she hadn’t showered for days.
She glanced both ways behind her before stepping inside. “No, they discharged me.”
“That’s great news.” I squeezed her hand and shut the door. “How are you feeling?”
“Better.” She revealed bruises from the IV lines. “Glad to be disconnected from all those nasty machines.”
“Come in, sit down. Can I get you anything? I could make an espresso, tea, water?”
“Water would be nice. I can’t really stomach much yet. I’ll come with you. It feels nice to be on my feet.”
She followed me to the kitchen. I poured her a glass of tap water and handed it to her. Her hands shook. She must be weak.
“You sure you don’t want to sit?” I pulled out a bar stool.
“No.” She gulped the water, pounded the empty glass on the island, and narrowed her eyes. “I think we both know why I’m here.”
I’ve heard that patients with brain injuries can exhibit strange behavior, a change in personality. That must be what was happening to Caroline. Her hands trembled violently. She clasped them together to make them stop. They didn’t. She pursed her lips. It looked like steam was coming out of her nose.
“Caroline, are you okay? I think maybe I should get you back to the hospital.” I took a step toward her.
She flung her hands apart and flashed stop signs with both of them. “Don’t come any closer. Stop right there.”
“Okay, okay.” I kept my voice calm. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.”
Caroline let out a loud cackle. She put one hand over her belly and rolled her eyes back as she laughed. “
You’re
not going to hurt
me
.
You’re
not going to hurt
me
.” She cackled. “Priceless.”
I stood paralyzed, unsure what to do. How had the hospital released her? Caroline must be having some kind of psychotic episode.
“Caroline.” I extended my hand. “It’s me, Jules. I’m your friend, remember. Let me help you.”