"Oh, no, you don't!" he scolded when he finished the phone call. They were sinking their fangs into the spongy body. He hid Tiny Tim in the kitchen drawer where he always tossed his car keys. Then he checked the answering machine; there was still no call from Polly, all the more reason why he wanted to consult Melinda. If she agreed that Irma's attack could have been drug-induced, he would be in the clear. The entire cast was scheduled to rehearse that night; he could get an answer from her during a break, without personal complications. The K Theatre, built within the field stone shell of the former Klingenschoen mansion, was small, only 300 seats--but it was large enough for the Pickax Theatre Club. The auditorium was a steeply raked amphitheatre with a thrust stage, and there was a gracious lobby. When Qwilleran arrived there Wednesday night, he found Larry Lanspeak in the lobby, bent over the drinking fountain.
"Your beard looks promising," he told the actor. Larry rubbed his chin.
"In two more weeks it should be good enough for an eleventh-century Scottish king." "How's the play shaping up?" "Not bad. Not bad at all! When we were away, Fran worked with the supporting cast in the eleven scenes where Melinda and I don't appear, and she did a good job. This is our first full cast rehearsal." Larry returned to the stage, and Qwilleran slipped into the back row. Some of the actors were draped over the front seats, awaiting their scenes.
Dwight was in front of the stage directing performers who were running lines without the book. One of them, playing a messenger, was making his exit, and Lady Macbeth was saying, "Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top full of direst cruelty!" "Hold it!" the director said.
"Bring the messenger back, and take it again, Melinda, from Thou'rt mad to say it! Give it some fire!" They repeated the scene. Then Larry made his entrance.
"My dearest love, Duncan comes here tonight!" Melinda replied, "And when goes hence?" "Tomorrow--was Larry interrupted his own line, saying, "Dwight, how do I play this? Is Macbeth honored that the king is going to stay under his roof? Or is he already planning to kill him? What is he thinking at this moment?" The director said, "Lady Macbeth plants the idea of murder in his head with her line, And when goes hence? That means, Melinda, that you've got to give her question some powerful innuendo.
And--which enough-goes--hence? The audience should feel a chill up the spine... Got it, everybody?" "Got it," said Larry.
"She plants the idea, and I pause before Tomorrow. In that split second the audience realizes the king will never leave the castle alive." Qwilleran was impressed with Dwight's direction and told him so during the break, intercepting him on the way to the drinking fountain.
"Thanks," he said.
"Larry's a joy to direct, let me say that. Now I know why he has such a great reputation in community theatre. I'd heard about him in Iowa before I knew there was any such place as Pickax." "Will the show be ready by the last Thursday in the month?" "It's got to be! The tickets are printed." Carol walked up the aisle to get a drink of water, and Qwilleran said to her, "Why don't you ask the K Foundation to give you a drinking fountain backstage?" "Not a bad idea. It would save wear and tear on the aisle carpet.
Did I hear someone mention tickets?" she asked.
"We could use some help in the box office, Qwill. Are you available?" "If it doesn't require any rare skills or mental acuity." To Dwight she said, "Qwill lives right behind the theatre--in an apple barn!" Then she went on her way to the lobby.
"I've heard about your barn," the director said.
"I'm partial to barns." "Stop in for a drink some night after rehearsal." "I'll do that. I'll bring my tin whistle, and you can tell me how you react to my witch music." There was a whiff of perfume, and Melinda sauntered up the aisle en route to the drinking fountain.
"Hi, lover," she said with surprise and pleasure.
"What are you doing here?" Dwight gave a quick look at both of them and drifted away to the lobby.
"Just snooping," Qwilleran said, "but since you're here, I'll ask you a couple of questions. If I write about the liquidation of your father's estate in the "Qwill Pen" column, will that be okay with you?" He knew it would be, but it was an opener.
"God, yes! Every little bit helps," she said.
"I need to sell everything. The preview will be a week from Friday.
Would you like a preview of the preview?" she asked teasingly.
"Hang around, and I'll take you over to the house when we finish here." "Thanks, but not tonight," he said.
"Wouldn't you like to see everything-without people around?" He employed the journalist's standard white lie.
"Sorry, I have to do some writing on deadline. But before I go, here's one more question. It's about Irma's death. As you probably know by now, the bus driver disappeared after you left, along with Grace Utley's jewels, and Irma was the only one who knew his name or anything about him. It occurred to me that Bruce could have given her some kind of fatal drug to conceal his identity." "No, lover, it was cardiac arrest, pure and simple," she said with a patronizing smile, "and considering her medical history and the pace of her life, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner." Qwilleran persisted.
"The police now know the driver has a criminal record, so murder is not beyond the realm of possibility, considering the size of the haul." Melinda shook her head slowly and wisely.
"Sorry to disappoint you, Qwill," she said with a tired, pitying look.
"It would have made a good story, and I know you like to uncover foul play, but this was no crime. Trust me." She brightened.
"If you would like to go somewhere afterward and talk about it, I could explain. We could have a drink at my apartment--or your barn." "Another time, when I'm not on deadline," he said.
"By the way, your Lady Macbeth is looking good." He turned and was halfway across the lobby before she could react to the weak compliment.
He walked home through the woods, swinging a flashlight and thinking ruefully, So it wasn't murder!
Now I suppose I should square things with Polly. The telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door, and Koko was racing around to inform him of the fact.
"Okay, okay! I'm not deaf!" he yelled at the cat as he snatched the receiver.
"Hello? ... Hi, Nick. I just got in the house. What's up?" "You know the Massachusetts car you told me about? I saw it!" said Nick triumphantly.
"The tan car? Forget it!
It belongs to the new chef at the hotel. He's from Fall River." "No, not the tan job, Qwill. The original maroon car! It's back in town." "Where did you see it?" "I was driving north on the highway to Mooseville, and I saw this car turn west on the unpaved stretch of Ittibittiwassee Road. You know where I mean? The Dimsdale Diner is on the corner." "I know the road," Qwilleran said.
"It leads to Shantytown." "Yeah, and the car was beat-up like the kind you always see turning into t hell hole." "Did you follow it?" "I wanted to, but I was driving a state vehicle and didn't think I should. He'd get the idea he was under surveillance. But I thought you should know, Qwill. Tell Polly to be careful." "Yes, I will. Thanks, Nick." Qwilleran hung up slowly, his hand lingering on the receiver. So the Boulevard Prowler was back in town! He punched a familiar number on the phone. It was ten-thirty P.M." and Polly would be winding down, padding around in her blue robe, washing her nylons, doing something with her face and hair. He had been a husband long enough to know all about that routine. She answered with a businesslike "Yes?" "Good evening, Polly," he said in his most seductive voice.
"How are you this evening?" "All right," she said stiffly without returning the polite question.
"Was I an unforgivable bore last night?" After a moment's hesitation, she replied, "You're never a bore, Qwill." "I'm grateful for small compliments, and I admit it was bad form to bring up a painful subject at the dinner table." "After what happened to your new coat, I believe you could be excused." She was softening up.