A Puzzle in a Pear Tree (24 page)

41

THERE WAS A LIGHT ON IN THE THEATER, EERILY REMINISCENT of the night before. That intrigued Cora. The stage was now a crime scene. By rights no one should be there.

Cora pulled in, found Rupert Winston’s VW Super-beetle parked by the door. That utterly confused her. Rehearsal had been canceled, and even if Rupert had gotten permission to work with a few select people he deemed needed it most, surely she would be high on the list. Not that she
wanted
to rehearse. Still, the fact that she hadn’t been asked intrigued her. Was it possible Rupert
wasn’t
rehearsing? And if he wasn’t, what was he doing?

Cora tried the gym door. It was unlocked. She eased the double doors open and stepped into the theater.

The basketball court was drenched in shadow. The stage lights were on. Downstage left, a slender young girl stood in a single spotlight. A teenager, with wispy black hair, thin lips, and haunted eyes. Attractive, in an artsy sort of way.

As Cora watched, the girl declared, “ ‘I’m a seagull.’ ” She paused, touched her forehead. “ ‘No, that’s not it! I’m an
actress
.’ ”

Rupert, in slim black pants and turtleneck, catapulted onto the stage from the shadows, as if he were a dancer in an avant-garde ballet performed on a trampoline. “No, no, no!” he cried. “Laura, darling, you are not auditioning for a toothpaste commercial. You are back to see your childhood sweetheart, Konstantine, after your tempestuous affair with the writer, Trigorin. It’s been years, and much has happened. You’ve had and lost a child. You’ve tried, but failed, as an actress. A seagull is what Konstantine killed and laid at your feet in act one, declaring someday he’d kill himself in the same way. It also happens to be the title of the play. So you cannot say you’re a seagull as if you were at a McDonald’s window asking, ‘You want fries with that?’ ”

The girl’s face twisted in anguish. “I know. . . .”

“See?” Rupert said triumphantly. “Now you’re giving me true emotion. Feel that bad about the seagull. Feel that bad about your wasted life, your shattered dreams. Your abandoning Konstantine. Okay, try it again, and— Hello! Who’s there?”

“Me,” Cora said, coming forward. “I was driving by and saw the light. I didn’t expect anyone to be here, it being a crime scene and all.”

“The police released it this afternoon. Too late to call people for the pageant, but at least I could work with Laura.” When Cora raised her eyebrows, Rupert said, “You find that heartless?
The Seagull
opens two weeks after vacation. Terrible scheduling, but it’s not my doing. I just lost my ingenue, which is devastating. If Nina’s no good, the play doesn’t work. Konstantine’s tragedy is tied in to her tragedy. I’ve only got two weeks. That’s Laura’s handicap. Everyone else has had six weeks already, and she only gets two. Dorrie’s death is tragic, of course, but for me it’s a disaster of epic proportions.
The Seagull
’s my first play in Bakerhaven. I want it to be perfect.”

“Laura is Dorrie’s understudy?”

Rupert snorted. “I
wish.
In this high school they don’t
have
understudies. Laura was playing one of the bit parts. At least she’s
seen
some of the blocking. Even if she hasn’t learned the lines.” He glared at the young woman, who visibly wilted under his disapproval.

“So what will happen with Laura’s part?”

“I’ll have to get someone. One of the other actresses will move up.”

“Maxine Taggart?” Cora suggested.

“Good heavens, no. That girl can’t act to save her life.”

“Then why’d you cast her?”

“I didn’t. What’s-his-name did. The drama teacher.”

“Mr. Erskine,” Laura prompted helpfully.

“Yeah, him.” Rupert spread his arms theatrically. “Flew off to Colorado to take care of dear old Mommy, who had a stroke. Left me with this play. It was in bad enough shape before. If it goes on now it will be a true miracle. Even if I
do
get to rehearse.”

Cora said, “I only stopped by because the last time there was a light in the theater it wasn’t good.”

Laura shuddered.

Rupert rolled his eyes at Cora, mouthed, “Thanks a lot!”

On her way out, Cora paused in the doorway to watch the actress standing young, and pale, and exquisitely fragile in the pool of light, telling the world she was a seagull.

Judging by Rupert Winston’s assessment of her performance, Laura wasn’t that good in her new role. Still, she seemed happy enough to be playing it.

Cora couldn’t help wondering how much Laura had wanted the part.

42

SHERRY CARTER WAS SHOCKED. “YOU BROKE INTO HIS MOTEL room?”

“Well, if the guy’s going to leave his door unlocked . . .”

“Inspector Doddsworth left his door unlocked?”

“No. But if he had, I could have walked right in.” Cora surveyed the contents of the refrigerator with displeasure. “Didn’t you make dessert?”

“I did. We ate it. So if the door was locked, how did you get in?”

“Bathroom window.”

“Aunt Cora!”

“What difference does that make? The point is, I got in and I found the evidence.”

“What evidence? You found out Doddsworth had an affair with Taggart’s wife umpteen years ago.”

“It’s why he left town.”

“So what?”

“And Mindy’s still hot to trot.”

“Good lord, Cora. That ice queen, hot to trot?”

Cora pawed through the refrigerator. “That’s the problem with you younger generation. You can’t imagine the older generation having a sex life.”

“I can imagine them having a sex life. I just can’t adjust to your vernacular characterization of it.”

“Oh, dear. Was I speaking in the vernacular? And I do so try to avoid that.” Cora found a cup of custard pudding, held it up critically. “How many weeks old is this?”

“Cora!”

Cora stuck the custard back in the refrigerator.

“If it’s too old to eat, throw it out,” Sherry said.

“It’s too old to eat
now.
Later I may not be so fussy.” Cora grabbed a package of cookies from the cupboard, poured a glass of milk, took them to the kitchen table.

Sherry sat opposite her, sighed, then said, “Okay. What is it you think you found?”

“Oreo cookies.”

“Aunt Cora.”

“I found enough motivation for Jonathon Doddsworth to frame you for murder.”

“I thought you already had that.”

“Yes. His daughter being a suspect. But now I have the motivation for him
believing
her a suspect.”

“You had it before. Dorrie stole Maxine’s boyfriend.”

Cora waved that suggestion away with a cookie. “Boyfriends are a dime a dozen. I never really liked that motivation. Now, you put together a whole history of family intrigue and betrayal, this thing begins to look a lot better.”

“You’re saying you think Maxine murdered Dorrie?”

Cora said something, but her mouth was crammed with cookie, and Sherry couldn’t understand her. “Was that a yes or a no?”

Cora took a gulp of milk, washed the cookie down. “I’m just saying there’s enough reason for her father to be afraid little Maxie might have croaked Dorrie. To the point of framing
you
to take the heat off
her.
”

Sherry frowned. “You want me to try to sell that to Becky Baldwin?”

Cora waved a fresh cookie. “Absolutely not. I don’t want you to even
tell
Becky Baldwin. Or Aaron, either. This is some information you and I happen to have. I’d rather not explain how we came by it. I’m also not too keen on spreading gossip.”

“Heaven forbid,” Sherry said. “Let me be sure I’ve got this straight. It was Doddsworth and Mrs.
Taggart
who had the affair. But Taggart deliberately led everyone to believe it was he and Pamela Doddsworth?”

“That’s it in a nutshell.” Cora dipped a cookie in her milk. “You know, they’re better when you dunk ’em.”

“Aunt Cora. Stick with me here. If you don’t think Maxine committed murder, what’s the good of all the gossip you just found out?”

“Didn’t I tell you it wasn’t gossip? Damn!”

“What’s the matter?”

“My cookie broke off in my milk.” Cora heaved herself to her feet, fetched a teaspoon from the silverware drawer, plopped back down, and began fishing noisily for her cookie.

Sherry got up and poured a glass of milk.

“There you go.” Cora nodded approvingly. “You might also want a spoon.”

“I’ll be careful.” Sherry sat down, dipped an Oreo delicately in milk.

“So where’d Becky and Aaron go?” Cora asked.

Sherry grimaced. “Well, aren’t you the soul of tact?”

“Sorry. Let’s take them one at a time. Where did Jimmy Olsen go?”

“Back to the paper to work on his story.”

“Where did Perry Mason go?”

“Home.”

“Did they leave at the same time?”

“Damn!”

“What’s the matter?”

“My cookie broke.”

“I told you to get a spoon.”

Sherry fetched a spoon. The two women sat in companionable silence eating cookies and drinking milk.

“Any phone calls?” Cora asked after a while.

“Just your favorite director.”

“Rupert? What did he want?”

“We have rehearsal tomorrow afternoon at one o’clock.”

“You have got to be kidding.”

“Not at all. We lost tonight’s rehearsal. We have to make it up.”

“You mean we have rehearsal tomorrow afternoon
and
tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow night’s dress rehearsal, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“I’m trying to. Well, how do you like that. The son of a bitch didn’t have the nerve to tell me to my face.”

Sherry frowned. “What do you mean?”

Cora told her about dropping in on Rupert’s
Seagull
rehearsal. “So there’s another motivation down the drain. The idea Maxine killed Dorrie to get that part.”

“She might have
thought
she’d get the part,” Sherry suggested.

“Not unless she’s a hell of a better actress than Rupert Winston gives her credit for. I’d swear she wasn’t interested.”

“Too bad.”

“I’m gonna check out the girl who got it, though. Laura something. She claims it’s a big surprise, but that may or may not be true. I’d also like to know if she was one of the virgins.”

“Why? Even if she was the Virgin Mary, she wasn’t there when Dorrie got killed.”

“I know. I’m grasping at straws. I have no idea what’s up in this case. I can use all the help I can get.”

Sherry dunked a cookie, considered. “So what’s your present theory? Was the killer trying to kill Dorrie? Or was he or she trying to kill Becky Baldwin?”

“There’s evidence to support both.”

“Is there any evidence to support the theory that Becky Baldwin was the intended victim that doesn’t make me the killer?”

“Not so you could notice,” Cora said glumly. “Becky let me look at her client list. She hasn’t been practicing long. There’s no one likely to hold a grudge.”

“Anyone
not
on her client list?”

Cora shrugged, picked up a stack of Oreos. “I suppose Rick Reed could have done it to boost his TV ratings. Or because she’s a lousy date.”

“Becky as the victim simply makes no sense.” Sherry broke off at the sight of her aunt dropping cookies into her glass. “What are you doing?”

“Well, why not?” Cora demanded. “I’ve got my spoon. These things are great in milk. Why pretend to dunk?”

Cora dropped two more cookies in her glass, mashed them around. “What were you saying?”

Sherry, mesmerized by the cookie milkshake, said, “I forget. Oh, yeah. How there’s no reason for anybody to kill Becky.”

“Present company excepted, of course. There
is
no reason. The only one pushing that theory is Doddsworth.”

“True,” Sherry said. “But there is the little matter of the sandbag.”

“Yes, indeed.” Cora continued to mutilate her cookies.

“The killer’s puzzle poems promised the death of the leading lady,” Sherry pointed out. “You’ve got two leading ladies. One is killed. The other is almost killed. Is it open season on leading ladies, or is the killer after one leading lady in particular? If so, which one? If it’s the first one, why try for the second? If it’s the second one, why the poem about eating for two? And if it’s both, why the clue
Wrong girl
?”

Cora nodded judiciously. “You said that very well.”

“Do you have any answers?”

“No, but it helps to state the question.” Cora gave the glass one last stir, brought up a huge spoonful of cookie glop. “Mmm, would you look at that.”

Cora stuck the spoon in her mouth. Her eyes closed, her grin stretched from ear to ear. If she were a cat, she would have been purring.

“Earth to Cora. Remind me. What do I do when you go into sugar shock?”

Cora smiled. Her teeth, plastered with Oreos, made her appear a dental disaster. “In that happy event, you call our Bob Fosse wannabe and tell him I won’t be at rehearsal.”