A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (11 page)

18

EVERYONE WAS SUBDUED BUT RUPERT WINSTON. JUDGING from Rupert, one wouldn’t have known there’d
been
a tragedy. He alluded to it once in a perfunctory manner, mainly to get it out of the way. Not that he didn’t emote. His voice lowered, quavered. His eyes were downcast. His body language imparted pain and loss that might have rivaled the suffering of Job.

Seconds later he could barely contain his excitement. He stood on the apron of the stage, in front of the closed curtain, and addressed his huge cast, who were seated on the basketball court in folding chairs. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to have a run-through to end all runthroughs. It won’t, of course, we will have several more after that, but it should feel that way. So let’s get started.” With a flourish he cried, “Pull it, Jesse!”

With a great clanking and squeaking of metal on metal, the red velvet curtain parted in the middle. The Russian country manor from
The Seagull
was gone. In its place stood an English village square, all decked out for Christmas in wreaths and bows and jingle bells.

The tech director strode onto the stage with a theatrical
ta-da!
gesture and announced, “We have a set!”

Rupert Winston, who had clearly intended to make that announcement himself, froze with his arms in midgesture. His face clouded for an instant. Then he recovered his composure and converted his gesture to the set into one to the artist who had created it. “Thanks to our tech director, Jesse Virdon,” Rupert said smoothly. “Let’s give Jesse a hand, shall we?”

Jesse Virdon had an insolent arrogance born of talent. He swaggered somewhat in acknowledging the applause, and preened a bit too long before retreating back into the wings.

Rupert Winston could not be daunted. He pointed to several card tables on the side of the stage and declaimed, “We have props! We have calling birds! We have French hens! We have swans and geese! We have turtledoves! We have pipes and drums! We have golden rings!

“And,” he added, gesturing to the middle table, “we have a partridge in a pear tree!”

There were ohs and ahs. Jimmy Potter grinned broadly.

“Where was it?” Cora Felton asked.

“In the props room, where it belonged.” Rupert rolled his eyes in Jimmy Potter’s direction. “In all probability, it never left.”

Jimmy Potter frowned, processing that information. Then he realized it reflected on him. “Hey!” he protested.

“The important thing is it’s back,” Rupert declared, ignoring him. “We have our set. We have all our props. And we have all our actors. Do we not? Group leaders, are we all here?”

“I’m missing a drummer,” Aaron Grant said.

“That’s right. Dick Larson called in sick. Which, just so you know, on performance night you do not do. There is a tradition in the Theater. The show must go on. If you have measles, wear makeup. If you have fever, bundle up and try not to breathe on your neighbor. If you are coughing, gargle a full bottle of cough suppressant, and clamp your mouth closed. But be here.” Rupert raised his head, yelled, “Jesse!”

Jesse Virdon emerged once again from the stage-right wings. “Yeah?”

“For this rehearsal, you are a drummer drumming.”

“All right!” Jesse raised his arms in self-congratulation. The young tech director was in his midtwenties and still rather boyish.

“Jesse is our man for all seasons,” Rupert explained.

“In addition to being our tech director, set designer, scene painter, and stage manager, Jesse is also our understudy. In the event there is someone who cannot walk, crawl, or be carried to the theater on the night of performance, Jesse will fill in.”

“For the men,” Jesse corrected.

“For anyone but Becky Baldwin,” Rupert declared.

“Did you know in Shakespeare’s day there were no women in the theater? Men played all the roles. If I need you as a maid a-milking, Jesse, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Jesse was clearly appalled by the prospect. He dropped his macho bravado, crinkled up his nose. “I don’t think I can be an understudy.”

“Why not?”

“I’m the stage manager. I got too much to do.”

“Yes. And filling in for the actors is one of your duties.”

Jesse shook his head stubbornly. “I got too much to do.”

Rupert frowned. Jesse Virdon was a teacher, not a student. And the pageant was not a high school production, so, actually, Jesse was a volunteer. If Rupert pushed him too hard, he’d quit. And the trim on the set still needed painting.

“Alfred!” Rupert bellowed, improvising.

“Sir?”

“Out! Here!”

Alfred Adams scurried from the stage-left wings. “Yes, Mr. Winston?”

“You’re a drummer drumming.”

Alfred’s mouth fell open. “But I’m the light man. . . .”

“I know that. Just fill in for now.”

“But . . .”

Cora nudged Sherry, whispered, “He’s the first Joseph. The one in the stable when Dorrie took her place.”

Becky Baldwin, seated between Aaron Grant and Dan Finley, leaned in. “That’s Dorrie’s boyfriend? You’ve gotta be kidding.”

“No, no,” Cora hissed. “Dorrie’s boyfriend was the
second
Joseph. The one holding her when she took the dive.
This
guy is the one Dorrie’s boyfriend, Lance, relieved.”

“Doesn’t look like a killer, does he?”

“So you know him?” Cora asked.

“Miss Felton,” Rupert reproved from the stage. “I’m sure you believe what I’m saying applies to everyone
but
you, but in point of fact, it does not. If there is anyone here who could benefit from rehearsal, it is most certainly you. So, please, try to pay attention. . . . Now then, I am going to call your groups one at a time, to find your props and take your places backstage. We’ll count down, starting with the twelve drummers drumming. Will the drummers come up here, please?”

Aaron got up from his seat next to Sherry and made his way onstage, where he, ten drummers, and Alfred Adams hung toy drums around their necks.

“All right? Do all the drummers have drums?” Rupert demanded.

Alfred Adams raised his hand. “I’m missing a drumstick.”

“Make a note of it.”

“Yes, Mr. Winston.” Alfred started offstage.

“Where are you going?”

“To write a note.”

“Not now! You’re a drummer drumming. Write a note when you’re done drumming.”

“Yes, Mr. Winston.”

“All right. Pipers piping, come get your pipes.”

“There better not be a puzzle attached to any of those props,” Cora whispered.

There wasn’t. No red envelope appeared. The actors all took their places without incident. At the piano, Mr. Hodges played the opening strains.

Becky Baldwin wandered out onstage. As it was the first day of Christmas, her face was cherubic, anticipating her lover’s gift. She sang sweetly,
“ ‘On the first day of
Christmas, my true love gave to me . . .’ ”

A sandbag whizzed from the rafters, missing her by inches.

19

CHIEF HARPER WAS FIT TO BE TIED. “YOU WERE SUPPOSED TO be watching out for her!”

“I
was
watching out for her,” Dan Finley protested wretchedly.

“Then how did this happen?”

“I was watching for an attack from the ground, not from above.”

“If someone killed her from
above
that didn’t count? And what about you?” the chief raged at Cora Felton. “I would have thought you might have kept your eyes open.”

“Right, Chief. I should have been climbing around in the rafters looking for faulty ropes.”

Rupert Winston stuck his nose in. “It’s too bad the sandbag fell, but it didn’t hit anyone. Can’t we leave it at that?”

“You’re not concerned? It nearly squashed your star.”

“Yes, but it didn’t. And I’ve got a play to rehearse.”

“Maybe, maybe not. I would find it understandable if Ms. Baldwin was too upset to go on.”

“Ms. Baldwin is fine.” Becky strode up and struck a pose. Having gotten over the initial shock, she seemed to relish playing plucky and courageous. “There is no reason to call off rehearsal just because a sandbag fell.”

“Sandbags don’t fall,” Chief Harper pointed out grimly. “Sandbags get
dropped.
”

“They can fall if they’re tied off wrong,” Rupert Winston suggested.

The sandbag in question was attached to rope and was part of a counterweight system used for flying flats. It was a round, ten-pound affair, which would have crushed Becky Baldwin to a pancake had she had been standing two steps farther stage left. Now it lay in the middle of the stage along with the length of rope, which had fallen after it.

“Where was the rope tied off?” Chief Harper asked.

Rupert pointed. “The rope went up into the flies over a pulley, then stage right over another pulley, then down the side wall where it’s tied off to the pinrail. Just like all the other ropes.”

“Looks like someone did a sloppy job. And who would that be?”

Alfred Adams, still carrying his drum and one drumstick, opened his mouth to protest, but Rupert interposed smoothly, “It could have been anyone on the tech crew.”

“Were they here today?”

“Oh, now, look—” Alfred protested.

“I take it
you
were here?”

“Alfred was in here this morning. Before he had to be in the stable.”

“Right,” Harper said grimly. “You were Joseph,” he told Alfred. “As I recall, you realized you were late for your turn, and had to run out. What were you working on before you left here?”

“I was hanging lights.”

“On a ladder?”

“No. Onstage.”

Chief Harper looked puzzled.

“The lights in the flies are hung on bars,” Rupert Winston explained. “The bars are lowered to stage level and lights are hung. Then they’re hoisted back up into the flies and aimed.”

“Hoisted how?”

“They’re hoisted by ropes, and tied off to the pinrail.”

“The same pinrail where that sandbag was tied off?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

Chief Harper eyed Alfred Adams critically. “Any chance you could have untied one rope when you thought you were tying another?”

“No way!”

“Hmm. Let’s see the pinrail.”

Drummers, pipers, lords, and ladies gave way as Rupert Winston led Chief Harper into the stage-right wings, with Cora Felton tagging close behind.

On the side wall, about waist high, was a long, black pipe, about six inches in diameter, with sturdy black pegs sticking straight up and straight down about a foot apart. Ropes were twined around each pair a few times and tied off with a half hitch.

Flats, door frames, and furniture, piled up against the wall, obscured over half the pipe.

“What’s all this?” Harper asked.

“Oh, that’s the
Seagull
set.” Rupert was getting impatient. “It’s the high school play I’m directing. We had to move the set out of the way for the Christmas pageant.”

“Well, the set is blocking your pinrail. When was it moved?”

Rupert’s eyes widened as the significance of the question dawned on him. “Just this afternoon, but I assure you—”

“Who moved it?”

“I did,” Jesse Virdon answered defiantly. The young tech director was wearing his headset, even though it wasn’t connected to anything. He stuck his chin out, as if daring anyone to find fault. “I took down the old set and put up the new one. All by myself. I worked all afternoon. And no one helped.”

Harper sized him up. The quarrelsome young man was thin but muscular. The chief could imagine him schlepping the whole set by himself. Harper pointed to the pipe. “You untie any of these ropes?”

“I untied four ropes connected to the set I took down. And I tied off the same four ropes when I connected them to the set I put up.”

“Where was the sandbag tied off?”

“How the hell should I know?”

Harper turned to the director. “How about it, Mr. Winston?”

“I have no idea. You see the free spaces on the pinrail? It could have been any one of them.”

Chief Harper inspected the rail. “What is this rope here?”

The rope had been wound around the bottom and top pegs a couple of times, but had not been tied off.

“I don’t know. Let me see.”

Rupert took hold of the rope, pulled on it.

Everyone looked up.

In the flies, a long pole with several stage lights attached to it rose slightly.

“My God,” Rupert said. “It’s the light pole. I thought you tied that off.”

“I
did
tie it off!” Alfred protested.

“It’s not tied now. And neither was that sandbag. You mind telling me how that happened?”

Alfred, picked on, looked betrayed. “I have
no idea
how it happened.
I
tied everything off.”

Jesse Virdon folded his arms and jutted out his chin. “
I
didn’t untie it.”

“Well, tie it off now,” Harper said, “and let’s make sure everything else is tied.”

Everything was.

“Satisfied?” Rupert Winston asked, somewhat querulously. “Now, could I go on with my rehearsal?”

Harvey Beerbaum stuck his oar in. “How about a red envelope? Shouldn’t we be looking for another puzzle?”

Cora Felton ground her teeth, but, uncharacteristically, held her tongue.

“Yes, yes, we’ll
certainly
be on the lookout for that,” Rupert Winston told Beerbaum impatiently. “Now, if we could
please
get on with it—”

But before they could, Jonathon Doddsworth burst in. “I just heard! Is everyone all right?”

Rupert Winston clapped his hands to his head. “God save me!”

“Everyone’s fine,” Harper informed the inspector. “A sandbag just fell.”

“Great Scott! Where?”

“On the stage.”

“It didn’t cosh anyone?”

“No, it didn’t.”

“Did it come close?”

“It just missed Miss Baldwin.”

“By a mile,” Becky corrected. “I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. Let’s rehearse.”

“Steady on,” Doddsworth insisted. “Did you conduct a search?”

“No. We didn’t.”

“Really?” Doddsworth’s eyebrows formed perfect arches. “And yet the first puzzle was discovered right here onstage. And the second in the girls’ dressing room. Which would be downstairs, would it not?”

“Yes, it would be.”

“I should think a search was warranted.”

“Well, go ahead and conduct one,” Rupert Winston said, “but would you mind doing it to music?”

Doddsworth stared him down. “A girl has met her death. Perhaps you appreciate the importance of an investigation?”

Rupert never blinked. “I certainly do.” He gestured to the actors. “And these people do too. If they don’t get out of here until after midnight, I’m sure they’ll understand who is responsible.”

Doddsworth’s nose twitched. “So be it. You go about your business and I shall go about mine. This is not a dress rehearsal?”

“No.”

“Then you shan’t be using the changing rooms?”

“No, we won’t.”

“Splendid. I’ll begin with them. How might I get there?”

“The stairs in the backstage corner.”

“Which corner?”

“Either. There’s two stairs.”

“Really? Fascinating.” Doddsworth pushed his way into the wings.

Rupert rolled his eyes and clapped his hands together. “Now then, people, if you wouldn’t mind, let’s take it from the top.”

It was deadly quiet as Becky Baldwin stepped out onstage. No one moved, but everyone watched. Chief Harper and Dan Finley watched from the wings.

Becky Baldwin, despite her bravado, seemed almost hesitant. But there was a proud defiance to her carriage. She kept her chin high, glided to the exact spot where she had been when the sandbag came crashing down.

Chief Harper kept an eye on the pinrail.

Dan Finley watched the flies.

The music trilled.

Becky smiled and began,
“ ‘On the first day of Christmas,my true love gave to me.’ ”

Jimmy Potter marched proudly on from stage left, singing in a clear tenor,
“ ‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ ”

Jimmy thrust the partridge and pear tree at Becky, who oohed and ahed and fussed over them while the music vamped. Then, quick as a wink, Jimmy and his present were gone from the stage, as Becky began again,
“ ‘On
the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.’ ”

Mary Cushman, the plump owner of Cushman’s Bake Shop, accompanied by an even plumper woman Cora did not know, entered the stage holding large papier-mâché birds. Mrs. Cushman sang the solo line,
“ ‘Two turtledoves.’ ”
Then, as Jimmy Potter came marching back onstage, he and the two women sang,
“ ‘And a partridge in a pear tree.’ ”

Cora, backstage with her pail and milking stool, mentally calculated the odds of Rupert Winston stopping the run-through before he got to the maids a-milking. She figured them to be pretty high. Of course, her calculation might have been influenced somewhat by the glimpse of Jonathon Doddsworth disappearing down the stage-right stairwell with the stated intent of searching the dressing rooms.

This, Cora knew, was a fool’s errand. Surely there was nothing of import in the dressing rooms.

Even so.

Cora bristled at the thought of Jonathon Doddsworth searching them.

What if he found something?

Onstage, Becky Baldwin began musing about the third day of Christmas.

Rupert Winston cried, “Wait! Wait! You’ve jumped the gun! You must leave time for everyone to get off. Take it from the exit.”

The interruption tipped the scale.

Cora Felton set her pail and milk stool along the back wall, and slipped quietly down the stairs.

The hallway was empty. Cora, who’d never entered it from backstage, had to take a moment to orient herself. The costume and props rooms would be on her left. The girls’ and boys’ dressing rooms would be down the corridor to the right.

A light was on in the costume room. Cora peeked in, but there was no one there. Just dress dummies, sewing machines, full-length mirrors, and racks and racks of costumes. It occurred to Cora, if Doddsworth chose to search it, it would take him some time.

Cora left the costume room, crept down the hall.

Light spilled out under the girls’ dressing room door. If Doddsworth was in there, he had closed the door behind him so as not to be disturbed. Well, wasn’t that just like him. Tough luck, Sherlock.

Cora turned the knob, pushed open the door.

Inspector Doddsworth stood at the far end of the room, inspecting the costumes hanging from the rack. He spun around at the sound of the door.

Cora’s heart skipped a beat.

In Doddsworth’s hand was a red envelope.