“What’s this about a play?” she asked, toying with the invitation.
“Every summer they do a play. It’s one of their annual activities. They have sporting events, concerts, lectures, and all sorts of classes and special celebrations.”
“And the play, Murder at the Vicarage? What’s that about? Am I going to be bored to tears?”
“It’s based on Agatha Christie’s book by the same name. I read it years ago when I was working my way through Christie. It’s an engaging story. I suspect it’s great fun to act and to watch.”
“I’ve never read Christie,” said Sue. “Is she as good as Sara Paretsky or Dennis Lehane?”
“Not as edgy. It was a different time. She challenges you to figure out who did it before the end. And there’s usually this wonderful concluding scene where all the suspects are gathered in the drawing room, and Miss Marple or Hercule Piorot goes through them one at a time, finally naming the killer. The suspense goes to the last page, or in this case, the final curtain.”
“Real life isn’t quite like that, is it. But I guess the play could be fun.” She looked at the invitation again. “Are you going?”
“Is this a double dare?” asked Ray.
“Yes, I’ll go if you go.”
“You’re on.”
“I’ll get this in the mail,” she said. “Harry will be here that weekend. Actually he will be around for the rest of the week. I’ll be able to show him a little local color.”
A few weeks later, standing at the far end of Verity Wudbine-Merone’s deck, Ray looked at the crowd.
“We’re bringing down the average age by twenty or thirty years,” observed Hanna Jeffers, the woman he had been seeing for a number of months, someone who shared his passion for kayaking and big, empty spaces. She pointed toward the beach and Lake Michigan stretching out at the base of the bluff. “I think I’d rather be out there.”
Ray smiled and nodded in agreement.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen so many women in dresses and men in sport coats and ties. I didn’t know seersucker and madras were still in. Hawaiian shirts, too. Looks to me like most of these folks have been wearing the same party clothes for quite a number of decades.”
“Maybe generations,” retorted Ray.
Richard Grubbs came to Ray’s side carrying two glasses of sparkling wine. “There wasn’t any chardonnay, but I thought this Mawby….”
“Perfect,” said Ray.
“We don’t get much call for wine,” explained Grubbs. “This is a martini and Manhattan crowd.” He moved closer to Hanna, tipping his head in her direction. “I’m sorry I didn’t quite get your name, Miss, when you came in. I have trouble hearing when there’s a lot of background noise.”
“Hanna Jeffers,” she responded.
“And what do you do?”
“I’m a cardiologist.”
“Well, welcome. It’s good to have a doctor in the house, or on the deck in this case. Especially given the age of this crowd. Maybe you can tell me what’s current medical theory,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes. “Most of us here believe that having a few drinks before dinner is enormously heart healthy.”
Hanna considered his statement and caught herself just before she launched into a discussion of diet and exercise, her usual mantra with heart patients.
“I think we’re pretty health-conscious as a group,” said Grubbs. He turned his attention to Ray, “That young assistant of yours, what’s her name again?”
“Sue Lawrence. She’s going to be here before the curtain goes up.”
“I’ll entrust the tickets to you, then,” said Grubbs, fishing them out of an inside pocket. “They’re center seats ten rows back from the front.” Grubbs’ final words were almost drowned out by a helicopter coming straight in from the lake, slowing and banking in the direction of the cottage, and then disappearing over a neighboring dune.
Grubbs, his eyes turned toward the craft, mouthed what appeared to be a short string of obscenities, his words drowned out by the scream of the jet engine and low, percussive pounding of the whirling blades.
“Malcolm always makes a dramatic entrance, doesn’t he,” said a short, portly man coming to Grubbs’ side, “even if he’s not invited. What do you think, Grubby, was he really coming this direction or did he have his pilot do a flyover to remind us of his importance.”
“Well, at least you know your leading man has returned to the area in time for the performance.” He gestured toward Ray and Hanna. “I’d like to introduce our local Sheriff, Ray Elkins and his guest, Dr. Hanna Jeffers. And this is Sterling Shevlin, who has directed our annual summer colony play for what…?”
“This is my thirty-third year,” answered Shevlin. “My grandparents had a place in the colony, and my first stage experience was here in the children’s drama program. I made a trip back here in my thirties as a one-summer replacement for the long-time director, and the rest is…”
“And a very good history it has been,” interrupted Grubbs. “You see, Sheriff, and Dr. Hanna, the summer play pulls together so many talents from our group. Costumes get made, sets get built—and then we have actors, light people, properties—the whole community gets involved, more so than anything else. And then we have this cocktail party and dinner, followed by the grand performance.”
“How do you decide what play to produce?” Ray asked Shevlin.
“I look for something that’s fairly light. I want a play with lots of parts, both genders, and a big age span. In this one we’ve got a range from teenagers to people in their eighties. Fifteen years ago we did a Christie play, and it was hugely popular. People have been pestering me to do another. So I looked at her other plays and selected Murder at the Vicarage.”
“He’s just wicked,” said Grubbs. “He’s got Malcolm Wudbine cast as Colonel Protheroe, a man loathed by everyone in St. Mary Mead.”
“Wicked, no,” said Shevlin. “He told me he had to have a part, but he didn’t want to learn any lines this year. So I accommodated him, like we always accommodate Malcolm. He gets to wear a period costume, and all he has to do is slump over a desk and try not to move too much for a few minutes. It’s just a perfect part for him. And a great plot. Everyone in the village wanted old Protheroe dead, and the audience gets to try to solve that mystery before dear Miss Marple sorts it all out just before the final curtain.” Shevlin made a modest bow to Ray and Hanna. “Nice meeting you both. I must run. The director can’t get smashed before the show. Hopefully, I’ll see you at the afterglow. We’ll have a big bonfire on the beach.”
“Since you’re our special guests, I want to get you two in the front of the buffet line,” said Grubbs, as he led Ray and Hanna through the crowd.
10
After the buffet dinner, Ray and Hanna, accompanied by Richard Grubbs made their way to the Assembly Hall where the play was being staged. They waited for Sue Lawrence and her date, Harry Hawkins, and then found their seats, assisted by one of the teenage ushers. They had just settled in when a flash of lightening shot through the building from the windows that lined the walls, followed immediately by a roar of thunder. The ground shook, the lights flickered, dimmed, went out momentarily, and then came back on.
“Perfect,” said Grubbs, sitting next to Hanna and directing his comments to Ray. “Don’t you think that sets the tone for something sinister.”
“What would happen if the lights stayed out?” asked Ray.
“I think we would sit quietly for five or ten minutes, then Sterling Shevlin would slowly make his way to the center of the stage, carrying one candle that would illuminate just his face. He’d wait until he had absolute silence, and then in his rich baritone voice he’d announce that the play would resume tomorrow evening, and that the ushers—equipped for the event with, he’d probably say torches rather than flashlights, will help with a row by row exit, just like our Sunday services. We are a very disciplined group, Sheriff. The building would be emptied expeditiously and the afterglow would start, this time by candlelight in cottages all across the colony. And tomorrow we’d all be back. That’s why this place is so magical. A little bad weather or most calamities in the outside world don’t affect us. We have this wonderful respite here for a few months each year that’s quite disconnected from our usual lives.”