Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
Barton bolted past Jo and out onto the stage.
Sarah scooted back her rattan chair and tried to gather up the pieces of broken glass. Before Jo could call out a warning, she had cut her hand.
Jo sighed and put down the script she was using to prompt the actors. She went to fetch the first-aid kit she had stashed backstage six weeks ago when the construction crew started work.
Lucky she and Mildred had decided to use water in the cocktail glasses for the dress rehearsal. If Sarah’s glass had been filled with their cranberry juice and lemonade substitute for Singapore Slings, they would have been scrambling to launder or replace a white tablecloth before tomorrow night’s performance.
But nothing else was going right. The hottest day of summer had exploded into a nasty storm, and the cast and Barton were on edge and sniping at each other.
Jo understood Barton’s jitters. He had a lot riding on the play. He hoped tomorrow evening’s performance using amateur actors would convince the mayor and the village council to support his crusade to start a community theater. But even if they enjoyed the play, they might bypass Barton, the high-school drama teacher, and approach the Wakefield College drama department about getting a community theater up and running.
Barton had been given permission to use the Grange Hall on the condition that he premiere his play in August rather than closer to the annual Founder’s Day celebration in September when the Hall would have an agricultural exhibit.
Out on the stage, he was pacing and lecturing his five actors about coordinating their lines and the “business” with their props — to use the props as an extension of their bodies, as another way to express the emotions they were feeling.
Jo had the unkind thought that even for a comedy of manners the characters’ emotions were a bit silly. But Brooks Atkinson was not going to show up from the New York Times to write a review. All Barton’s play had to do was wow the folks in Eudora, who would love that he had written a play set in Raffles Hotel, where Thomas Gregory, globe-trotting great-grandson of the village founder, had stayed when he visited Singapore. The audience would be delighted by the stage set — potted palms and the colorful paper frangipani Barton’s drama-club students had made, rattan chairs and tables, and the bar that the construction crew had managed to build without serious injury.
A splendid evening would be had by all — if Barton would shut up before his actors quit on him.
He turned his attention to Will.
Jo, helpful stage manager, slid behind the director and reached Sarah, who had pressed her cocktail napkin to her bleeding finger.
“Here,” she said. “Let me fix your hand. We’ll sweep up the glass later.”
Sarah held out her hand. The blush on her cheeks suited her flawless complexion and clear blue eyes. Even in the midst of Barton’s lecture, Will’s longing gaze was on his leading lady. Problem was, Sarah had arrived in the village as an English war bride. Her husband, Jim Fisher, a former Army officer, had returned to the practice of law. He was in Buffalo taking part in a trial, but he’d told Sarah he would be home tomorrow for the play.
The jury was still out on whether Sarah’s husband would believe Will was acting when he saw him casting adoring glances at his wife. But if they could get through tomorrow evening, that would be the last time Sarah and Will would be thrown together. After that, if Sarah was content with her marriage, it might be all right.
Jo finished bandaging Sarah’s thumb. “Should be fine,” she said.
“Fine?” Barton said. “That’s the hand that she is supposed to hold up to show the other characters her brand new wedding ring.”
“She should be able to take off the bandage by tomorrow evening, Barton. As long as she’s careful, the cut should stay closed.”
“Jo’s the nurse, Barton. She should know.” Howard raised his glass. “To you, my sweet.”
Jo gave Howard a smile and wondered if he had added gin from his flask to his water. He was in better spirits than anyone else in the place.
Howard, a reporter for the Eudora Herald, was playing Somerset Maugham, one of the famous authors who had enjoyed spending time at the luxurious Raffles. The year in the play was 1921, and Maugham, on his first visit to the hotel, had claimed a table in the bar. The table gave him a ringside seat when the cooing American honeymooners (ignore the bride’s British accent) began to quarrel. The husband stormed out. The glamorous divorcée at the next table offered the bride a hanky and cynical advice about the care and handling of the male animal. But the bride from Iowa was too sensible to accept marital advice from a woman who had been divorced twice. She declared her intention to go after her groom. She was halfway across the floor when he returned. They departed to make up in private. The divorcée’s downtrodden social secretary declared her intention to find a life for herself and made her exit. The divorcée glanced over at Somerset Maugham, scribbling at his table. But he was oblivious to her coy look. Curtain falls.
Jo noted that both Vivian, playing the divorcée, and Charlotte, her social secretary, had been silent at their table during the commotion.
During auditions, Vivian had caused a stir of her own when she walked in. Realizing Jo didn’t know who she was, Mildred had whispered that Vivian’s husband, Ambrose, had been the president of the Savings and Loan. Died suddenly last winter. Keeled over with a heart attack one evening after supper. No children and a big, empty house. Vivian must be looking for something to do with herself.
Vivian had brought more flair than anyone had expected to the role of the flamboyant divorcée.
Charlotte, on the other hand, must be choking every time she had to look meek and say, “Yes, ma’am.” She was probably pulling off her role by imagining a Eudora Herald review highlighting her brilliant performance.
Odd about Charlotte, Jo thought again. In spite of her waspish disposition, she had been the most popular girl in their high-school class. When Jo came back to Eudora, she had expected to find her married and the mother of little Charlottes.
But the war had screwed up everyone’s plans.
So here they both were, old maids at thirty-one. Not that Jo minded. She had decisions to make that were easier made without a man to consider.
But Charlotte was probably not happy to find herself still living with her doting parents.
Barton said, “All right. Let’s run through that last scene again. And this time—”
Whatever he was about to add was drowned out by the sizzling crackle of thunder and lightning.
“I think that struck somewhere close by,” Vivian said.
Sarah said, “I hate storms. The noise.”
“You’re safe,” Will said, taking her hands in his. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Charlotte was watching the two. She looked like a cat about to lick cream from her whiskers.
Had Charlotte, Jo wondered, once had her sights on Jim Fisher? Was she seeing an opportunity to make trouble?
Charlotte smiled at Barton. “Were you about to say you’d like us to run through that scene again and that we should all try to get it right this time?”
Howard said, “Since we can’t leave until the storm’s over anyway.”
Barton said, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Howard.”
“You may be the director, Barton, but we aren’t being paid. Just be grateful that we came out on a night like this and more or less know our lines.”
Barton looked as if he wanted to say something else, but thought better of it. “Sarah, please let’s pick up from—”
The lights went out. Sarah made a sound between a gasp and a moan.
Jo froze in place. They had enough scenery piled up in the wings to make navigating in the dark treacherous.