A door slam cut her off. “Jaime. Jaime!” Jed yelled from below. “Call nine-one-one. Someone — help!”
Ginny and I scurried down the stairs, in time to catch Jed running off toward the pasture, back toward the Shakespeare stage. Ginny phoned 911 from her cell as we followed him. She lost reception twice before reaching them. She tried to explain our intended destination, which we assumed was the stage. Accidents were preventable in the theater, but not uncommon, especially when actors were hung over or still drunk from the night before. Twigs swung back and hit us in the face. Although the pasture was off a main road, the quickest route from the Cottage was a quarter-mile trek through the woods. The path had been beaten down by Jaime’s old pickup truck and countless pilgrimages by apprentices, hauling every manner of theatrical necessity.
But we never made it to the stage. We spotted Bristol and Jed standing frozen in the middle of the trail.
“It’s too late.” Bristol shook his head.
Ginny and I lowered our eyes to their feet.
I hadn’t seen Dara Mills in fifteen years. If the back of her head were intact, I might have said that she’d aged well. Her hand was clenched unnaturally around a revolver. It looked just like the one from The Mousetrap. Once again, Dara Mills would fail to take the stage in Hamlet.
“If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...” Bristol was busy peeling the label off a bottle of Amstel Light. He was referring to Dara’s apparent suicide.
I had managed to forgo what appeared to be the obligatory dinner at the Inn, having found some time amongst the madness to buy a few staples at the general store. But as I was finishing the last of my eating-merely-to-sustain-life buttered pasta, Bristol had waltzed in, half tipsy, begging for some company. Apparently, the sight of death kicked the wagon out from under him.
“But why?” I asked.
“Guilt, of course, for having murdered Harrison years ago.”
“Ludicrous!” Gavin had crept up beside us. “An actress would have done the deed center stage, not off in the woods.” He ordered himself a Killian’s Red and pulled up a stool. “I think that little apprentice did her in. What’s her name? Suzy? Stacey?”
“It’s Stacey. And please, that poor girl was hysterical. She worshiped the ground Dara walked on.” Bristol finally managed to pull the label off. He stuck it to his forehead for a moment, and then thought better of it. It was not the time for humor.
“And yet, rumor has it, she has each and every one of Gertrude’s lines down pat. Now, if they could squeeze that dumpling of a body into Dara’s costume...”
“You don’t really think...?” I asked. It was all too disturbing for me.
“Who else had a motive?” Gavin asked.
“Perhaps the theater ghost has inspired our Jeddy boy to avenge the death of his father?” Bristol winked at me. If the thought weren’t so morbid, I might have laughed. “He did find the body. There’s a sight I wish I had been spared.”
Everywhere I turned that night, Dara’s death dripped from lips. Was it suicide, or just some terrible accident with a prop? The Cottage, which had seemed tomblike the previous evening, was suddenly the place to be. The cast of Hamlet, a straggler from The Mousetrap, and half a dozen apprentices grew out of the walls, whispering, sipping wine, flipping through old magazines. Ginny sat cozied up to the chubby squirt I’d seen the night before.
“Come join us.” Ginny started to make room on the couch, but I sat myself on the stone hearth instead. “Stacey’s a nervous wreck about performing in two days.”
“You’ll be fine.” I offered one of those soothing half-smiles. “Just trust yourself.”
“I just can’t believe it...” I thought the little hobgoblin’s face was going to explode. But at that moment, Jaime entered with a tray of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. The apprentices under twenty-one dove for mugs. The older ones stuck with wine.
Jaime’s presence served to change the conversation. She simply wouldn’t allow the morbid talk of death. I learned what I could when she left the room: The police were investigating; suicide had not yet been confirmed. Everyone was being interviewed; I should expect to be questioned soon. Apparently, fat little Gertrude had nearly broken down completely when they asked her why Dara might have done the deed. “I just can’t believe it,” she repeated, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Dara’s death or her chance to take the stage.
But then Jaime floated back into the room. Didn’t the apprentices have an early morning the next day — finishing touches on costumes. Props to move. Things would be more complicated now that the shortcut to the pasture was a crime scene; they’d have to drive around on the main road to the Shakespeare stage. The room began to clear, until it was just Ginny and me, and a bottle of wine that had just been opened. I helped myself to a glass. Ginny polished off the rest.
She too felt the need to speculate. If she hadn’t cast Dara in the part — if she hadn’t taken this directing job, but how could she say no to Jaime — if, if, if. The world was full of ifs, and by the time Ginny had gotten through all of them, she was slurring her words and could barely stand. I held her arm as she walked up the stairs. We reached her door, on the floor below mine, only to discover she’d misplaced her keys. “Probably at the theater. We could go get them.” But she was in no shape. So I led her up to the blue room and tucked her safely into my bed. Me — I spent the night in the main room, staring at the empty hearth until I drifted into unconsciousness.
Another dark night in Vermont, another groggy morning. I was up with the light, my back kinked up from the couch, my drool dotting the afghan that covered just the top part of my body. I crept up into my room. Ginny was just a lump under blue covers. I silently poked around in my bag until I’d pulled out fresh underwear and a sweatsuit. A good walk always did wonders for my writer’s block.
Morbid curiosity led me first to the path. The police had had the good sense to block the entrance with police tape. I didn’t defy the yellow mandate. Instead, I retraced my steps and headed down to the main road. There were hardly any cars. The ones that did drive by whizzed past as if they were the only cars for miles, ignoring posted speed limits, yellow lines, morning strollers. I eventually made my way to the pasture where the Shakespeare stage loomed in all its glory. They kept a trailer in back of it, locked with costumes, props. The stage was bare, and glistened with a hint of dew. It was the same stage that I had acted on fifteen years ago, with a few minor improvements. The wood might have been new, the colors more vibrant, but the shape the same.
Shakespeare’s words came flooding back to me, along with the lost emotions of the stage. Ophelia’s fear, her love, her madness, in waves, in bursts, as if they had been real. But hadn’t they? I had pulled her out of myself, and she was just as real as me. I stared out at the pasture. The audiences had been somewhat smaller fifteen years ago, if I were to believe Jaime, but still ample. Spread out on their blankets, bottles of wine, toddlers roaming. I spotted the crime-scene tape in the distance, marking the other end of the path. Gavin was right. An actress would have taken center stage.
I turned back, and nearly knocked into the props table, covered in brown paper, the outlines of the props all marked with masking tape. Various daggers and goblets, and of course, poor Yorick’s skull. Ah, how could one forget poor Yorick? The props would be back at the theater, or more likely locked up in the trailer in back of the stage at this point. In my day, a trunk on the stage was sufficient to keep them out of harm’s way. But times had changed.