Murder & Sullivan Read online

  The ghosts climbed into their picture frames from behind. The base of each frame was a stile, Joan realized—a sturdy contraption with steps both fore and aft that gave the men access from both directions.

  Liz MacDonald leaned against the frame on the far right. She began making what Joan thought was an obvious play for the ghost in it, a dark, good-looking man she suddenly recognized as David Putnam. She tuned in.

  “No, I don’t think I could look deep into your eyes during your ballad,” he was saying. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Oh, Davy,” Liz said softly, looking up into his. “That’s what it’s all about, don’t you see? We’ve just found each other after all these years, and we’re falling in love all over again.” She reached her hand up to touch his. For a moment Joan thought she might weep.

  “Nope, it’s too risky.” David’s voice was matter-of-fact. “If I don’t watch the conductor, I’ll come in wrong on the Hey, lackadays. Wouldn’t I, Ellen?” he asked his wife, who was standing quietly behind Liz.

  “Probably.” She laughed. “It’s a good thing they can’t hear you singing it in the shower.” As I can, she implied, oh, so naturally. Good girl, Joan thought. Remind her who you are, but don’t kick her while she’s down.

  A few moments later, the next ghost, a broad-shouldered towhead, seemed to be courting Liz, but getting no further with her than she had with David. They spoke too softly for Joan to hear, but their exchanges were as clear as anything in the play. Finally Duane Biggy clapped his hands and both women left the stage.

  David was still arranging himself on his invisible supports when Alex tapped for attention and Joan had to lift her bow to play the introduction to Act Two. Robin and his faithful servant Adam began the scene in the gallery by thinking of daily crimes for Robin, now the accursed Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd, to commit. The chorus of bridesmaids escorted Rose Maybud and Richard into Ruddigore Castle. After some ten minutes of Gilbertian nonsense, they left Robin alone with the pictures, begging his forefathers to accept his crimes.

  “And the stage darkens,” Duane Biggy called. “Only not tonight.” He came out from the wings. “Then the lights come up again, and you ghosts come down. So let’s do it.” He waved an arm, and Alex tapped her baton for the chorus of family portraits.

  Here, at last, was the spooky music. Joan couldn’t look away from the music to watch the ghosts marching slowly around the stage, but she could hear them when they ordered poor Robin to his knees and sang,

  Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil!

  Set upon thy course of evil,

  Lest the King of Spectre-Land

  Set on thee his grisly hand!

  She had just made it past some octaves and was thinking she’d have to figure out a more convenient fingering for them when a strange thing happened. Baton raised for the next downbeat, Alex looked puzzled. Finally she put her arms down and waited.

  Joan peered up at the stage. The ghosts had come to a halt and were staring up at David’s picture frame. He was still in it, motionless.

  “Psst, David,” one of them said softly. No response.

  What’s the matter with David? Joan thought. She saw Duane Biggy advancing on him.

  “Sir Roderic!” the ghosts called. Still nothing. Biggy whacked the frame with old Adam’s cane.

  “Wake up, Putnam!” he shouted. “It’s your cue!”

  Slowly, David descended the steps of the frame to the stage. At last, Alex began conducting again.

  On key, as if nothing at all had happened, David sang, “Beware! beware! beware!”

  That was as far as he got. Biggy broke in.

  “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “You missed your cue.”

  “I did?” David sounded suprised. “The last I remember is ‘For she is such a smart little craft—’ for the umpteenth time. I must have fallen asleep.”

  “I knew it!” Biggy said. “It’s those damn supports. Virgil? Virgil!”

  Virgil Shoals materialized in Sir Roderick’s frame.

  “Dammit, Virgil,” Biggy yelled at him. “These things are supposed to help them stand still, not put them to sleep!”

  “I know,” Virgil said, looking down at the assembled ghosts. “Zach, why did you change these angles? I should have known better than to trust an Amish carpenter to follow directions.”

  For the first time, Joan spotted Zach Yoder’s blond head among the ghosts. During the past two weeks she had appreciated his good work on her porch and enjoyed his good humor, but he’d never mentioned Ruddigore.

  Why should that be such a surprise? she thought. Neither did I.

  Zach didn’t answer Virgil. He stared at the floor.

  “I don’t care who did what,” Biggy said. “You fix it before the next rehearsal.”

  “It’s not Zach’s fault,” David said. “I’ve been working too hard. The supports are fine.”

  “Get some sleep, then!” Biggy snapped. “But don’t get it here! You have a responsibility to the performance!” He marched off, leaving David silent.

  Poor David, Joan thought. And poor Zach.

  They made it to the end without further mishaps. The viola part to David’s “When the Night Wind Howls” was easy—the clarinets and flutes did the fancy work—and she enjoyed hearing David do it justice. Dr. Cutts as Despard, no longer the bad baronet of Ruddigore, danced a staid little dance with Ellen Putnam as no-longer-mad Margaret, and with Robin they finally sang Joan’s favorite patter song, ending with “This particularly rapid, unintelligible patter isn’t generally heard, and if it is, it doesn’t matter!”

  Liz MacDonald’s Dame Hannah, the elderly maiden Robin had attempted to abduct for his crime of the day, challenged him to a duel with the daggers Joan had seen Duane Biggy testing. Sir Roderic, who turned out to have been engaged to Hannah when he was still alive, intervened, and sang a sad little love song with her. Robin, in a flight of Gilbertian legality, persuaded Sir Roderic that since for a baronet of Ruddigore to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide—itself a crime—Roderic ought never to have died at all and was “practically alive.” Quickly, all the lovers were reunited and sang the rousing finale.

  Joan lowered her instrument with relief.

  “Made it,” she said to John.

  “All right, everybody onstage,” Duane Biggy called. “Let’s get your steps right for the curtain calls.”

  Alex tapped her baton.

  “We’re going to play for them—take it from the Allegro con spirito in the Finale to Act One. I cut you off at the first place marked ‘End of Act One’ when the act ends, but for the curtain calls, you’ll need to play all the way to the second ‘End of Act One.’ Got it?”

  Wearily, Joan flipped the pages back. Better mark that with a paper clip for the performance, she thought, or I’ll never find it. She rummaged in her purse for one and clipped it on the page.

  “Good,” John said. Scarcely needing to glance at the easy notes, Joan watched the curtain calls—first the choruses, then the ghosts, and then the principals. Ellen Putnam and Dr. Cutts kept their faces straight, as befitted the newly staid demeanor of Margaret and Sir Despard, but Liz MacDonald glowed up at David, who seemed to be concentrating on his footwork. How can she stand to play Dame Hannah to his Sir Roderic? Joan wondered. It’s obvious how he feels about his wife.

  Before releasing them, Biggy called for attention.

  “Up to now, I’ve been lenient, and you’ve all been able to watch each other. You’ve had your fun. From now on, I want nobody in the wings who isn’t waiting for a cue. The rest of you will wait all the way downstairs. Chorus, this means you!” Giggles. “And orchestra, leave your cases in the dressing rooms. Please take the time to find them now, so we can start promptly at seven tomorrow. We’ll lower the pit then, so you can enter that way, but just for tonight you’ll have to climb up here and go down from backstage.”

  One more thing to remember. Joan picked up her case, leaving the music with John, an
d climbed the steps to the stage. At stage right, she found David and Ellen Putnam talking with Zach Yoder.

  “I’d never call a man a liar,” Zach said. “But so help me, he didn’t say a word about any special angles. He just said to make armrests. I’m awful sorry.”

  “Think nothing of it, Zach,” David said. “I should have known better than to take this on. I’ve been pushing too hard since the storm, and all I’ve done is our roof. Maybe I should quit while there’s still time. Pete could sing Sir Roderic. He knows it.”

  “Oh, no, David!” Ellen said. “You love it—you know you do. You’ll just have to figure out a way to get some rest.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “But I think I’ll bring my tools over and do a little work on the supports.”

  7

  There is beauty in extreme old age—

  Do you fancy you are elderly enough?

  —KO-KO, The Mikado

  Too tired even to chat after the rehearsal, Joan couldn’t imagine how she’d feel by the performance on Friday. She limped into the house at half past eleven, muttered something to Andrew, and flopped into bed.

  Zach Yoder’s hammering and power saw generally woke her at eight. He was making good progress on the porch. With luck, he said, they’d be able to use the front door again in a few more days. On Thursday, though, she woke at the crack of dawn to the sound of a backhoe over at Henry’s. Andrew grumbled his way into her room at seven.

  “Sheesh, Mom, isn’t there a law against blasting people out of bed this early?”

  “It’s the coolest part of the day.” She looked out the window. “Besides, that’s a judge out there. He knows the law.”

  “Probably thinks he is the law.” Andrew yawned again and headed downstairs to brew coffee. He had a point.

  By the time Joan finished her shower and heard Zach arrive, the backhoe had stopped. I’ll bet he has to be in court today, she thought. Lucky David—the courthouse is bound to be air-conditioned.

  What passed for air conditioning at the Oliver Senior Citizens’ Center was woefully inadequate, but she knew it was better than many of the regulars had at home. With movies, once the low-cost answer to a hot day, now out of range of many old folks’ budgets, Joan worried about people who lacked so much as an electric fan. Finding them and cooling them was an ongoing project of the center.

  She ran a comb through her hair and pulled it back into a thick French braid. On a day this muggy, it wouldn’t dry for hours. Good. The damp weight felt cool on the back of her head and neck.

  Still in her bathrobe, she poured two mugs of coffee and carried them outside, where she offered one to Zach. He drew a sharp pencil line on a floorboard before accepting it. He’d measure it again before cutting it, she knew by now. Zach had turned out to be a careful, methodical carpenter. Where did Virgil Shoals come off, anyway, insulting him?

  “How’re you coming?”

  “Pretty good. I have to take off awhile today, though, to take back that backhoe for David.”

  “That was quick.”

  “He didn’t do anything—just looked. Said it was worse than he thought.”

  “I see.” She didn’t, really, but she didn’t expect to understand whatever explanation might be forthcoming if she asked. It was probably a good thing Henry wouldn’t need his house in the near future. She’d have to ask David whether he thought his uncle was ready for visitors yet. In the pressure of rehearsals, she hadn’t even tried to see him.

  When she went back into the house, Andrew looked startled.

  “You’re here!”

  “It’s early, remember?”

  “I just told Fred Lundquist you’d left. He said to tell you he’d pick you up at the center at five-thirty.”

  “Omigosh, that’s right. I told Fred I’d go to dinner with him tonight. You’ll have to scrounge for yourself.”

  Upstairs, she sighed over her sparse clothes closet. Oliver’s restaurant scene was anything but upscale. Still, as often as Fred had seen her looking grubby, it might be nice to dress up a little for a change. Right, she thought. And die of the heat at work? He probably won’t even notice.

  In the end, she chose her favorite—a soft, blue cotton, mini-pleated dress with short sleeves, cool enough for work and loose enough to be comfortable at tonight’s dress rehearsal, which was bound to go even longer than last night, if everything went wrong that could. From every dress rehearsal she’d ever played, that was a good bet. She tucked a bottle of aspirin in her purse for her back and shoulders. Her sore ankle would benefit, too. She left off the Ace bandage, though—it wouldn’t do a thing for the blue dress. Dr. Cutts had said her ankle would be okay to walk on without it. She hoped she wouldn’t be sorry.

  The morning programs—an exercise class led by a vivacious Oliver College student and a lecture by the new librarian on “Great Summer Reads Available at the Oliver Public Library”—let Joan retreat to her tiny office to make plans and cope with the endless stream of mail. Much of it was from businesses with little sense of what the center was all about, or how lean its budget had to be. In the afternoon, a group of old ladies at the craft table making octopus doorstops out of plastic peanut butter jars, sand, and yarn fussed over her dress. They’d give Fred the once-over, too, she knew, if they were still around when he arrived. Even though she’d ducked their questions about her plans for the evening, she could tell they saw through her. It was beginning to look as if they’d hang around to watch. At last Annie Jordan, usually the worst tease of all, winked at Joan and diverted everyone else’s attention with a game of “Ain’t it awful?”

  “Did you hear the government isn’t going to help at all with the tornado damage?” she asked in an innocent voice. “Seems it doesn’t qualify as a disaster.”

  “That’s awful!” A woman with knobby fingers tugged at a braided tentacle. “My grandson’s mobile home was demolished, and he lost every stick of furniture. Some of it not even paid for. He’s living with his folks, but they don’t have the space—he’s got a wife and four kids.”

  The others picked up the tune without missing a beat.

  “There’s still families camped out in the National Guard Armory. They’ve been counting on government loans to get back on their feet.”

  “The ones I really feel sorry for are the ones in the hospital. Did you hear about Henry?”

  “Henry who?”

  “Henry Putnam—you know, the one who gets all the good parts in the Senior Players.” Oops, Joan thought. I’d better have a word with the director if Henry has a corner on the best roles. “His spanking new house caved in on him when he went to look for his dog. Turns out the dog wasn’t even in there, but it looks like Henry might be paralyzed for life. He’s still in the hospital.”

  “Not for long,” Annie said. “They’re gonna bump him out. Insurance says he has to go.”

  Joan was shocked. “Annie, Henry can’t go home! There’s no one to take care of him, and anyway, his house isn’t fixed.”

  “They’ll send him to a nursing home, I expect. I don’t know who’ll bother with the dog. Ain’t it awful, the way they do old folks?” Annie’s eyes sparkled, and she sat back, waiting for the flood that would follow. It obliged.

  “Nobody cares, that’s why,” said one.

  “I hear Social Security is about broke,” said another. “We paid into it all our lives, and they’re using it up on everything else.”

  “They make you practically spend down to your last cent for Medicaid—and now they’re cutting that. What’s a person supposed to do when nursing homes charge so much?”

  “And have you seen the gobbledygook the hospital calls a bill?”

  “There was things on my John’s last bill I know nobody ever done to him, but I never could get anyone to listen. If you ask me, some of them doctors was lining their own pockets.” Heads nodded grimly.

  Joan still remembered the awful cost of Ken’s death, even though her young husband had lived only a few hours after his sudden
collapse. Thank goodness his ministerial insurance had covered most of it. But these old women, mostly widowed, needed to know more than they did.

  “Would you like me to ask someone to come talk to us about Medicare and Medicaid?” she asked. A lawyer, maybe, or a social worker, she thought.

  “Ask why they charge four dollars an aspirin in that hospital.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” Maybe the hospital administrator would come. Or she could ask Dr. Cutts—if he didn’t know, he ought to.

  By the time Fred arrived, they had all left but Annie. The last to go, she pointed a knitting needle at Joan and Fred on her way out the door.

  “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” she called.

  “You take all the fun out of it,” Joan said, and waved.

  “They give you a rough time?” Fred said, smiling down at her. They both remembered the gauntlet he had run the first time he’d called on her at the center. His eyes crinkled and reflected the blue of his shirt. Those eyes got her every time, but his body was no slouch, either. Fred was almost fifty, but only his thinning blond hair and the depth of the lines in his face suggested it.

  “Not bad. Annie got them going on the medical system, and that took the heat off. Besides, I don’t really mind.”

  “Where would you like to go?”

  “Any place that doesn’t take too long. I forgot to tell you, Fred, I have a rehearsal at seven.” She looked at her watch. Pushing six already.

  “On Thursday?”

  “I’m playing Ruddigore. Tonight’s the dress, and tomorrow is our first performance. I’ll have a couple of comp tickets for you.” That means he could bring a date. He wouldn’t, would he?

  “Sure, I could use one. Since you’re buying.”

  She smiled up at him. “You’re a cheap date, Lundquist.”

  “So, how about a pizza?”

  “Great.” Not that there was a lot of choice in this small college town—and there wasn’t time to drive to Nashville or Bloomington and back before the rehearsal. They left her viola in the relative cool of her office, rather than worrying about the effects of heat and humidity on its wood and strings.