There was one more point of interest covered by the tape. Phil told Cleo about a claim put in by Roger Roundheels on his own homeowner policy which had to do with the death of Sy Lenzio. When Phil asked Roger why he filed a claim. at all, the explanation was that Cass Novak had asked him to do it so that any insurance award might go to Lenzio’s estate. Cleo asked Phil what Cass Novak’s interest in the matter could be and Phil guessed that the affair between Cass and Zelda, Sy’s widow, might still be going hot and heavy. Phil also opined that Cass probably figured to romance some of the money out of Zelda once she got it.
So now two of my leads had been killed and one of the others looked even stronger. Cass Novak was shaping up as a prime suspect even if many of the pieces didn’t make any sense. I turned off the tape recorder and went back- stage to catch the end of the last act.
If the rest of the play was anything like the final snatch I saw, the PTA Easter pageant didn’t have to worry about the competition. It wasn’t easy to smile encouragingly as my cast came off the stage. Fortunately I didn’t have to smile for too long because their friends and relatives swarmed backstage as soon as the curtain fell.
“Vance.” Rusty tugged at my arm. “I’d like you to meet my Aunt Clara. Vance is our director, Aunt Clara.”
“How do you do?” I said.
“Pleased I’m sure.” Aunt Clara leaned very close and whispered in my ear. “With a talent like Rusty, you’re lucky,” she said, “but why did you ever pick such a dud for her leading man?”
I was saved from having to answer by Lolly tugging at my other elbow. “This is my best friend Marilyn,” she introduced me. “Tell Vance what you told me, Marilyn,” she urged.
“That fella plays the junkie I couldn’t understand,” Marilyn told me. “Does he always grunt like that or was it your idea?”
“He’s supposed to be inarticulate,” I told her.
“So you’re the director!” I found myself facing a man with a face like thunder and beetling eyebrows. “Well my daughter tells me you told her the inflection for that line about alienation and all I can tell you is I think you don’t understand the author!”
“Who does?” It was all I could think of to say.
“I enjoyed the performance very much,” a sweet looking little old lady told me. “I’m Peter’s mother. I want you to know I enjoyed it. But, please, if you’re directing, couldn’t you direct that teen-age hussy to not keep grabbing at him that way. It embarrasses him and he forgets his lines. That’s why he grunts.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I backed away from her.
“Oh, there’s the director,” someone called.
I didn’t wait to see who it was. I bolted from the backstage area. I figured I’d be safer out front-away from all the expert friends and relatives. I was wrong.
The Boy Scouts had gotten out of hand. They’d traded in their spitballs for paper clips and rubber bands. The missiles went zinging around my head so dangerously that I finally fell to my knees and crawled up the aisle. On the way I stumbled over the custodian. He was out like a light, Cass Novak’s flask clutched in his hand the way a sleeping baby clutches its bottle.
At the back of the hall I encountered Mrs. Barker. She was livid. I found out why as soon as she spotted me.
“Culture!” she sputtered. “Art! Creativity!” She wagged her finger in my face. “The Pine Glen Women’s Society for Decent Literature will never let this play be performed. The very idea! Such language and such obscene lovemaking with little children here!” She waved her arm to encompass the savagely howling Boy Scouts. “I’m going to get an injunction tomorrow to stop your performance!” She stuck her nose in the air and followed the rest of her group out of the hall.
“But Mrs. Barker—” I tried.
“Don’t worry, son!” Judge Kirby had me by the arm. “She won’t get any injunction. I’m sitting tomorrow and I won’t issue it. And you know why?”
“No. Why?” I was dazed. Things were happening too fast for me.
“Because the Kiwanis loved the show. That’s what we need more of in Pine Glen. A little spice is the—umm-— spice of life. Know what I mean?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That little girl did the daughter part. Now that’s a hot number. You bring her into Pine Glen?”
“Well, no—”
“Don’t worry, son. You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m a worldly man. Only remember, we’re having a little stag in two weeks -- not an official Kiwanis’ function, you understand—and we’d like you to be there. Bring the little lady and any of her friends would like to come. And don’t worry about that injunction. By the time Mrs. Barker gets it your show will be long over.”
“Thanks.” I was still dazed. I excused myself and went downstairs. I needed fresh air. I was standing outside in the shadows when Will Leigh came out and spotted me. “Say, Vance,” he said, “you know it just occurred to me I haven’t issued a check for the rights to perform the play yet. I’m treasurer of the drama group, you know. We do have the rights, don’t we?”
“Joy was supposed to arrange that,” I told him.
“Well, you’d best check her and make sure.”
I took his advice. I went back upstairs and found Joy backstage and asked her about the rights.
“There should be a letter here confirming them,” she told me. “It’s nothing to worry about. It’s just red tape. Phil can send a check tomorrow.”
“Well, where is the letter?”
“I don’t know. Take a look down in the custodian’s office. That’s where it usually comes. I sent a letter asking for the rights and they usually send a confirmation and then we send the check. It’s really very simple.”
Very simple! I found the letter Joy was referring to in the custodian’s office easily enough. It was addressed to the drama group and unopened. I opened it. Very simple! There was only one trouble. The letter denied us the rights of performance because of a scheduled production by a professional group in the New York area. What they meant by the New York area was Trenton, New Jersey. Very simple! We didn’t have the rights! Very simple! The play was due to go on tomorrow night and we didn’t have the rights! Very simple!
I was pretty disgusted by the time I left the Center. Coming down the front steps I spotted a snazzy red sports car roadster parked in front. Lolly Popstick was behind the wheel.
“Hey, Vance,” she called. “I was waiting for you. Can I give you a lift?” *
“I have my car,” I told her. “But where’d you get this buggy?”
“It’s Marilyn’s. My friend. You met her back-stage before. Remember? Her boy friend drove her home, so I’m keeping the car for her until tomorrow. Come on. Take a ride with me. I’m dying to try it out. I’ll drive you back to your car later.”
“All right.” I had to corrugate my lanky body to fold into the bucketseat alongside her.
We roared away from the curb in a cloud of Pine Glen dust. Lolly handled the car like she was a suicidal astronaut. So help me, it felt like she took at least one curve on only one wheel. She went to high and low gears and back like the stickshift was a male yoyo she was out to castrate. Instead of the road, she watched my face, nodding happily as it turned from pale to deep green.
“Do you have a license?” I asked after one harrowing right-angle turn.
“Of course not, silly. I’m too young.”
I was not reassured.
She headed out the open road towards the wooded area which lines the beaches south of Pine Glen. Narrowly missing a tree, she turned off on a dirt road and cut her lights as we approached the end of it. There was a deserted clearing there and she parked.