Peak Season for Murder Page 3

  He was right; the words had taken over. I shifted in my seat, trying not to lean back and show how his words did affect me.

  “So how’s it been working with Nina after all your past history?” I’d asked the taboo question, but Ryan had opened the door.

  He picked up his water glass and drank deeply, then made a face. “I can’t drink this.” He jumped up from the sofa and went to the kitchen. I heard the refrigerator door open, and then a startled “Shit!”

  “Everything okay?” I called from the living room.

  “That sick perv,” Ryan answered, laughing nervously.

  Curious, I got up and walked around the sofa to the kitchen area. Nate was staring into the refrigerator, shaking his head, one hand on his hip.

  Peering over his shoulder, I saw what looked like a dead chicken resting on a silver platter splattered with thick red blood.

  Before I could say anything, he picked it up by its head and held it in front of my face. It was a fake. I could smell the ketchup dripping from its rubbery chicken body.

  “I gotta start locking my door.” He tossed the chicken into the trash. A spray of ketchup hit the wall before it thudded into the can.

  “Who’s the sick perv?”

  “Finch, who else?” he blurted out.

  “Why would he do that?”

  “Another of his sick practical jokes,” Nate explained.

  I didn’t see the humor in it, especially the faux blood. “Why a bloody chicken? Seems like a weird choice for a practical joke.”

  “He probably found it in the prop box. Thought it would be funny. When we did Streetcar Named Desire we used to pull stupid pranks on each other all the time.” He laughed. “Listen, I gotta grab something to eat before rehearsal.”

  “I still have some questions,” I protested. I was planning on confronting him about the marijuana and the empty wine glasses. I didn’t expect him to admit to falling off the wagon, but I wanted to hear what story he’d concoct. “How about we talk after rehearsal tomorrow? I’ll be sitting in.”

  He didn’t seem to hear me as he walked toward the door, his mind clearly somewhere else.

  “Mind if I take some photos for the article?”

  “Sure, but make it quick.”

  I snapped several digital photos, thinking about how Ryan didn’t have a bad angle and how he knew it.

  “Then we can finish the interview after rehearsal tomorrow?” I pushed, repeating my request.

  “Okay,” he said, his face shifting from relaxed to distracted. He escorted me to the door and shook my hand. “Do you know someplace I can get a massage?” he asked. “My back’s been giving me problems again. But it has to be someone discreet who isn’t going to get all stupid about this.” He stretched from side to side to emphasize his request.

  “Lydia Crane just opened The Crystal Door Spa. She’s a friend of mine.” Over the winter Lydia had expanded her New Age shop in Fish Creek to include yoga classes and massages. I wasn’t even aware she’d become a masseuse until I saw her ad in the Door County Gazette. When I questioned why she hadn’t told me she was training to be a masseuse, she’d said, “I thought I had.” That was so Lydia. She probably didn’t want to say anything in case she didn’t finish her training.

  She’d be starstruck but too self-possessed to show it. I wrote down Lydia’s name, the spa’s address and phone number and tore the page out of my notebook. “Tell her I sent you.”

  “Thanks, I’ll give this to Nicki to handle.”

  “See you at rehearsal tomorrow then,” I said as a reminder. He was so agitated and distracted, he didn’t even pose when I took a last photo of him standing outside next to the pitchfork, a vacant look on his near perfect face. Why was I feeling the interview wasn’t going to happen?

  “Nate, one more thing.” I decided it was now or never. “Have you relapsed?”

  He feigned shock, so I pushed it. “That was marijuana I smelled in your apartment, right? And the empty glasses; looked like red wine.”

  Now his eyes were back on me with the full force of that famous blue focus. “Like I said, I gotta start locking my door.”

  As I walked away from the building, I glanced back at Ryan’s apartment. The devil’s pitchfork tilted precariously beside the door like an omen.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Gwen Shaw, ballerina turned actress, leaned forward into that dancer posture that seemed to define her—precise, beautiful, flexible yet strong. “One surprising thing about me?” she mused. “I don’t think I’ve ever been asked that question.”

  We were seated on the patio deck behind the Blue Stone Bistro in Fish Creek where she’d insisted we meet. “I need a break from communal living,” she’d explained when she’d phoned me at the Gazette to change the meeting place for our interview.

  Though it was hot as Hades on the patio deck, it was worth the sweltering inconvenience. The view of Fish Creek’s harbor, awash in sailboats and endless blue, was a stunner.

  Gwen laughed nervously. “I’m deathly afraid of bats. Have been since I was a kid. Totally irrational, I know, but there it is.”

  “And you took the acting job with the Bayside Theater anyway?” I joked.

  “When Nate invited me to audition for the BT, he conveniently left out the part about bats buzzing around on stage during performances.” She circled her hand around her head several times. “I’m terrified one of those beady-eyed monsters is going to land on me. I swear every night there’s more of them. Probably just my actor’s vivid imagination.” She forked the last remnants of her lemon cheesecake and slid it into her mouth. “This cheesecake is to die for.”

  “The bats go with the territory,” I said. Because the theater was a large tented pavilion open to the night, bats were a part of performing there.

  “I know that now. My first performance one dive-bombed me. I thought I was going to have a frickin’ heart attack. It’s not easy staying in character when you have bats dive-bombing you.”

  I wasn’t sure if she was exaggerating the bat problem. But talking about them had raised her blood pressure. Her neck and face were flushed; or maybe it was the unrelenting heat.

  “Are you coming to tonight’s performance?” Gwen asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I am.” Tonight would be my first time attending a BT performance.

  “You’ll see that I wear a hat the entire time I’m on stage. Guess whose idea that was? I’m not taking any chances one of those gross things gets tangled in my hair.” She tousled her auburn hair vigorously, as if a bat were lodged in it.

  “As far as I know, and I’ve done a lot of research on the Bay-side Theater, a bat has never attacked an actor.” I, too, was deathly afraid of bats, and Gwen’s fear was pumping up my own. Maybe I’d wear a hat tonight as well.

  “There’s always a first time.” She patted my hand as if we were best friends. “Any other questions for me before I take off?”

  Gwen had been the perfect interviewee: open, friendly and honest. I had a slew of good quotes for the article, so I should have said no. But Nate’s reaction to the fake chicken prank was still on my mind. “Just one more. It’s about Nate Ryan.”

  “Isn’t it always about Nate?” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Go ahead. I should be used to it by now. But in case it’s about our relationship, it’s strictly professional. We share the same publicist and that’s all. I’m a happily married woman with a five-year-old little girl who I’m missing terribly.” She held up her left hand, wiggling her fingers to show me her gold wedding band and stunningly large diamond engagement ring.

  Why was she being defensive? Did the lady protest too much? “Actually I should have said it’s about Nate and Julian. Have they been pulling pranks on each other?”

  She visibly relaxed. “Pranks? Are you serious?”

  Now I felt foolish for asking. “Well, during my interview with Nate he found this fake chicken covered in ketchup in his fridge. He claimed Julian put it there as a pran
k. I just thought it was odd.”

  Gwen pushed her drink away as if it offended her, and then gave me an appraising stare before answering. “I haven’t seen any pranks. But there’s been a weird vibe since Nate arrived. I can’t put my finger on it.” She took in a deep breath, then let it out. “Or maybe I’m just freaked out by the bats. So are we done?” She’d said it nicely, but her tone had changed from friendly to wary.

  “If I have any follow-up questions, how can I contact you? Barbara Henry wouldn’t give me any of the actors’ cell numbers.” Barbara Henry, the BT’s overly protective public relations director, had arranged all the cast member interviews except Nate Ryan’s, claiming she was being helpful.

  Gwen turned my notebook toward her, took my pen and wrote something down. “My cell number. Feel free to call me.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “By the way, am I your last interview?” she asked.

  The question was freighted with some hidden meaning. I wasn’t sure what she really was asking. Was this interview going to end strangely, like Nate’s? Did she think being last reflected a pecking order? Was I dealing with an especially insecure actor? With her acting pedigree, which included touring nationally with the revival of West Side Story, I’d be surprised.

  “Next to the last. But I had nothing to do with the scheduling. That was all Barbara Henry.” I jiggled my pen between my two fingers.

  “Who’s the last one?” Though she was smiling, her green eyes were sharp.

  “Harper Kennedy, Tuesday morning.” Harper Kennedy was the new kid on the block. Bayside Theater was her first professional acting gig, except for a few minor roles in Chicago theater productions.

  “Interesting,” she said, considering that for a moment. Then she grabbed her oversized tooled leather handbag and started to get up before changing her mind, and plopped back down. “I know Alex said we have to play nice. But I should warn you, don’t be taken in by Harper Kennedy’s innocent act. Underneath all that fluffy blond hair, she’s a barracuda. And I should know. I used to be her before I became rich and famous.” The last part was meant to be funny but came out bitter.

  “According to Barbara Henry, you’re all one big, happy family,” I countered. When I asked Barbara how actors living and working together all summer got along, she’d replied in a monotone, “We’re one big, happy family. Everyone gets along.” I’d put two exes by her quote, my shorthand for bullshit. So I wasn’t surprised by Gwen’s remarks about Harper.

  “What do you expect her to say? She’s the PR director. C’mon, a bunch of actors living together, there’s bound to be tension.”

  Where was this sudden vitriol coming from? The other cast members I interviewed had nothing but good things to say about their experience with the BT. Gwen was the first one to break ranks and admit that the BT’s residential living wasn’t perfect.

  “Is there something else going on I should know about?”

  She hugged her handbag to her chest as if it were a shield. “No, nothing. Forget I said that about Harper. It was unkind. Rehearsals aren’t going well. And it doesn’t help that Harper’s breathing down my neck. She’s my understudy for The Merchant of Venice. You know, I’m playing Portia. Just forget I said anything at all, okay?” This time she stood and slung her large bag over her shoulder.

  I got up and extended my hand. “Thanks for the interview. And break a leg tonight.”

  We shook hands and she said, “You know, I never did like that saying.”

  As I sat back down, I stared out at the harbor, watching a motorboat skim the water under the faded blue sky, I wondered what Gwen Shaw was afraid to tell me and why she’d blurted out that warning about Harper Kennedy. In my limited experience, most actors chose their words carefully, always conscious of appearances. After all, words were part of their craft. From the interviews I’d done, I realized that most of the time I didn’t know if they were acting or being genuine. Gwen seemed honest. What was really behind her outburst? Bad rehearsals? Harper Kennedy, the ingénue upstart, breathing down her neck? Bats? Or all of the above?

  The interview had turned sour when I asked about Nate Ryan and the bizarre prank. “There’s been a weird vibe since Nate arrived,” Gwen had said, and then blamed the weird vibe on her fear of bats. I flashed on that chicken slathered in ketchup. Was it a prank or a message? A chicken stood for many things—a coward being foremost. Was someone accusing Nate of being a coward?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  More bats on stage than actors, I jotted on the BT’s playbill. Then added a question, Bats acting weirdly?

  I counted five bats banging around the overhead stage lights; two others flapping against the stage right curtains, making a beating sound much like my accelerated heart rate; and bat number eight, the one I’d named Fang, hovering above the sheeted corpse as if he were a part of the play. Sitting front row center, I saw in vivid detail Fang’s glossy brown fur, pointed ears and hairy toes. Gross.

  Just then one of the overhead bats dropped down onto the stage as if shot. I held my breath and sank lower in my canvas theater chair as the bat fluttered around for a few moments, and then careened back up toward the lights. It took all my willpower not to don the floppy straw hat I’d brought as protection.

  Gwen Shaw was right. There were a lot of bats on stage, but since I’d never attended a BT performance, maybe this was show business as usual.

  “They’re not going to hurt you,” Tom whispered in my ear, his warm breath intoxicating.

  If the bats weren’t terrifying enough, Tom was seated next to me, wearing an expression of amusement. The lower I sank in my canvas theater seat, the broader his grin.

  I caught another whiff of his musky cologne, probably something called Victor or Assert. Something new and expensive, like his beige linen shirt with the hidden buttons, his stylishly faded blue jeans, and his casual haircut. Even his nails were buffed, the half-moons of his cuticles pearly and white. He smelled good and looked even better. My hackles were up.

  Tom nudged my arm and pointed to the overhead stage lights, where clots of moths and other insects circled. “They’re feeding on the moths.”

  “Maybe the bats are looking for the playwright,” I whispered back.

  Though the actors were quite good, the play, The Red Fish, wasn’t equal to their talents. Billed as a film-noir spoof, it involved the FBI, a Soviet spy and Joe McCarthy’s daughter.

  Harper Kennedy, who was playing McCarthy’s daughter, was intriguing with her lithe body and voluminous wavy hair, which seemed to have the consistency of cotton candy. If she was a barracuda, as Gwen claimed, on stage she was all lightness and fun.

  A communal gasp from the audience made me turn around in my seat just as another bat swooped low as it flew toward the stage. For a few moments it circled over the four actors’ heads, and then disappeared backstage. The actors didn’t miss a beat, but I could see from their body language that they were shaken. Gwen, who was playing Maggie, one of the FBI agents, instinctively pulled down on her hat and hunched her shoulders. Though she stayed in character, I knew she was terrified.

  Suddenly, Fang dropped down onto the sheet, causing Gwen, who was holding up one corner, to gasp.

  I had to give her credit; she didn’t drop the sheet, but let go of it gradually, her hand visibly shaking as she stepped back. Then she exited stage right, practically running, as if the bat were pursing her.

  The bat flapped its wings slowly up and down as it crawled toward the corpse’s head. I could see Fang’s sharp white teeth, evoking in me images of bared necks and blood-sucking vampires. Then the bat rose from the corpse and flew backstage.

  Julian Finch, the actor who was pretending to be mute, started gesturing, flapping his arms and stomping his feet—a long drawn-out series of movements interpreted by Nina Cass, who was playing the female spy, to mean, “I don’t know that name.”

  Just as the audience laughter died down, a loud crash echoed through the theater tent, followed b
y someone shouting, “Oh, no! Oh, no!”

  The theater went silent. Only the water lapping Green Bay’s stony shore could be heard.

  The actors exchanged glances, then the mute actor started gesturing again.

  From the right side of the tent, I watched Barbara Henry, a plump woman festooned in a white ruffled blouse and a flowery midi-skirt, disappear through the tent flap.

  As the actors exited at the conclusion of the scene, the stage went black. A few minutes later, a voice came over the loudspeaker.

  “The part of Maggie will be played by Rebecca Hanson, who will be reading her lines from the playbook,” the voice explained. “We appreciate your understanding.”

  Twenty minutes later, ambulance lights swirled the night red and blue.

  “You know, it wasn’t the bat’s fault,” Tom said, sipping his expensive Scotch whiskey with a twist. He was already down to the ice, which he was chewing on nervously. With every crunch, my tension level ratcheted up.

  “Tell that to poor Gwen Shaw.” I’d cornered the understudy, Rebecca Hanson, backstage. She’d told me that Gwen had broken her arm when she tripped over rigging ropes running from a bat. Rebecca had said, “What the ropes were doing there, I don’t know. Usually they’re stowed away.”

  I curled the edges of the napkin under my wine glass.

  “So why are you here, Tom?” From the moment he called, insisting on meeting, I suspected the reason, but I wanted him to say it. Either he wanted us to get back together or he wanted a divorce. My money was on divorce.

  We were seated in the Isle View bar, a converted cottage in Gills Rock at the tip of the peninsula. Whatever Tom had to talk to me about, I wanted as much distance as possible between the Door County grapevine and me. At least up here, it would take a little longer for the news to travel down the peninsula. And I definitely didn’t want him at my house, a Silver Stream mobile home I was renting near Baileys Harbor.