Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 134, No. 5. Whole No. 819, November 2009

A Fellow of Infinite Jest by Nina Mansfield

One of Nina Mansfield’s short stories was published last year online, in The Chick Lit Review, but this is her print fiction debut, and her first paid fiction publication. As a playwright, she has already been both produced and published. Her plays No Epilogue and Crash Bound were brought out by One Act Play Depot, and she is one of several winners of the Longwood University Ten-Minute Play Competition, for the recently produced Missed Exit.

The smell of sawdust brought it all back. Paint-splattered jeans. Brushes soaking in turpentine. The ever-present power drill. “Walk purposefully holding one. People will just assume you’re busy.” That had been Harrison’s advice during strike. Five shows up. Five shows down. Summer stock in Vermont. I’d been twenty years old then. Summer apprentice. More like summer slave. Understudying Equity actors by night, hammering away at sets by day. I had wished that I could sew, and could join those spindly fingered girls in the costume shop to avoid inhaling paint fumes on a daily basis. My lungs had practically built their own set. Pneumonia the Musical. I drifted through those days in a sleep-deprived haze.

When that mousy, tired-looking girl — what was her name (Jenny? Ginny?) — went home with mono, they’d reassigned me to props. With Harrison. Harrison could make just about anything with a glue gun and a sheet of Styrofoam.

But that had been another decade. Fifteen years ago, to be exact. I half expected him to emerge from the prop closet, glue gun in hand. Overalls hiding his sweaty physique. Striped cap covering his receding hairline. Permanent five-o’clock shadow dotting his sturdy chin. But Harrison belonged to another lifetime. Harrison was dead.

“Can I help you?” I recognized the man-boy without knowing him. A gangly teen with safety goggles flipped up onto his forehead. Brown eyes with too-long lashes. Chin like a shoe horn. Tiniest bump in the bridge of his nose.

“Jaime sent me here for a master key. She can’t find...” I stopped. Was I being rude? “I’m sorry. I’m Sheila Brighton.”

“Oh yeah, the writer. You wrote... that book.” Clearly my fifteen minutes had come and gone.

“I’ll be staying at the Cottage this summer. Well, for a few weeks, anyway. In... I think Jaime called it the blue room. But she can’t find the key.”

“Jed Mann,” the teen responded. No wonder he looked like a ghost.

“Harrison’s...?” It had been ages since I’d spoken that name aloud. Harrison Mann. Was this his brother? No, too young.

“Son,” Jed filled in the gap. I hadn’t known. So Harrison had a son. I tried to keep the surprise from creeping into my face. “I lived with my mother back then. In Manchester.” How did Jed know when back then was?

He must have noticed my twisted eyebrows, my inability to speak. I looked around the shop. Plywood. Nails. Building accoutrements. To my relief, he spoke. “Jaime filled me in. You apprenticed up here that summer, right? Worked with my dad or something?”

“We worked on props. Your dad was really...” I hesitated. What did Jed know about his father? He couldn’t have been more than two years old back then. Again, my eyes moved around the shop. Sledgehammer. Axe. Building sets, then tearing them down. “He was a talented artist. Loved his work. Did they ever...”

“Find the body?” Jed asked. It wasn’t what I’d planned to say. I sucked in my breath. Waited. “My mom is still under the delusion that he’ll come back some day. Thinks he’s probably living the life in Rio with some underage hussy. Guess he had a thing for younger girls or something. Anyway, let’s get you into that blue room. Jaime must like you a lot. That’s definitely the sweetest room in the Cottage.” Jed snapped a large ring of keys off of his tool belt and led the way.

Jaime met us outside the Cottage, and led me up to the blue room, as Jed slinked back to the shop. The Cottage. I’d barely set foot in it back in the day. That’s where the real actors stayed — the professionals. Perhaps a visiting playwright. The apprentices were squeezed into a dilapidated ski shack on the outskirts of town.

“I see you made it. Drive up okay?” Jaime made her way up the winding wooden stairs to the blue room. Polished oak. They creaked with age.

“I left early. No traffic, if you can believe that. And once I got out of the city...”

“I’m so glad you could come up here.” Jaime fumbled with the key, hand shaking. Arthritis, and years of nightly wine. She was a silver-haired woman, probably close to seventy by now. Strong chins seemed to be bred in those Vermont hills, but her eyes were soft, her cheeks finely wrinkled. She looked prim, conservative, in her long denim skirt and pastel top. It was hard to believe she’d had a sordid past. An affair with Sir Laurence Olivier (or someone like that). An illegitimate child born backstage on the road, left on the doorstep of an orphanage. Those had been the rumors. But we knew her as artistic director extraordinaire. She’d taken an empty barn and turned it into an award-winning summer playhouse. Back then she’d been like a mother to me, to all of the apprentices. I almost felt guilty for not staying in touch. “I think you’ll get a lot of writing done.”

“I hope so. I’m still wondering...” I trailed off.

“Yes?” Jaime looked up at me, inquisitively. She seemed so much older, more tired. It had been fifteen years.

“How did you ever get in touch with me?” Her call had been more than unexpected. It shattered a certain silence that had crept over my life. I’d left more than Vermont behind that summer. I’d stopped acting. Decided to turn my attention to writing.

“Ginny Carson read a review of your book in the Times. A few phone calls was all it took to track you down.”

“Not Ginny—” So it was Ginny. “Ginny who went home with mono that summer?”

“Yes, that Ginny. She’s directing our outdoor Shakespeare this season. She had quite a smash off-Broadway last year, you know.”

“Did she?” I stayed away from the theater these days.

“It tickles me pink to see my apprentices hitting the big time. First Ginny, then you.”

“I would hardly say that I’ve hit the big time.”

“But of course you have.”

“Your invitation came at a good time for me. I’ve been working on my next novel. They say the second one is always more difficult to...”

Jaime cut me off with a wave of her hand. “Say nothing of it. I always said that our apprentices become part of the family, forever, for life.” And then she changed the subject. “The Mousetrap closes tonight. I’ve reserved a seat for you. It’s been sold out. They just love mysteries up here. And then we’re on to Shakespeare. They’ve built the stage, and the set is almost ready. You must have seen it on your drive in.”

“Oh, yes,” I lied. I hadn’t noticed. Too many other things on my mind.

“We’re doing Hamlet again. Haven’t done it in ages. I think the last time was, well, the summer you were up here. How long ago was that? They come from all over now. Free Shakespeare. Outdoors. You were our Ophelia, weren’t you?”

I set my bags down in the far corner of the blue room — which was indeed blue. Dusty blue walls. Blue floral bedspread. Blue curtains. Everything trimmed with lace. It was the only room on the top floor of the Cottage — thank God for central air conditioning.

“The understudy.”

“But you performed. And you were precious. Why did you stop acting?”

I shrugged. “The room is lovely.” I sat on the bed, attempting to end the conversation.

“I always said we are family here, that you’d keep coming back. Of course, it has been too long since you’ve been up here to see us. You’ll see some familiar faces at dinner tonight. You will join us at the Inn, won’t you?”

I nodded reluctantly. I’d have to eat eventually. And Jaime didn’t know. No one really knew what had happened that summer. I’d managed to convince myself that I’d forgotten.

A nap, a shower, a change of clothes. On my way to the Inn, I passed a group of grungy twenty-somethings. Apprentices. They looked so young. Had I really been like them? They were piling set pieces into the back of the pickup truck.

I heard one of them whine about a splinter. Another one complained about unfinished props.

“You just gonna use that skull from the prop room?”

“Yeah. It looks real enough.”

“Dude, I think it is real.”

“Alas, poor Yorick.” One of them began to spout Shakespeare — overacted, a farce. “I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.”

They had dark circles under their eyes and dirt beneath their fingernails to prove that they’d been slaving away for half the summer. One show up, one show down. And if they were lucky, an actor they were understudying would fall sick (which practically never happened).

The Inn hadn’t changed in fifteen years. The smell of pork loin and roast potatoes was permanently embedded in the wallpaper.

“Over here.” Jaime waved me over to her table. She wasn’t alone. “We saved you a spot.” And the introductions began. “You remember Gavin, of course.” My Laertes. “He’s playing Polonius this summer.”

“My darling Ophelia. I’ve been meaning to read your book. Really.”

“And do you remember Bristol Dell, our lighting designer? Weren’t you here that summer?”

“No, no, I wasn’t here that summer. That was the summer I worked at Williamstown. Missed all the excitement.” Bristol shook my hand.

“Sheila, I barely recognized you!” I didn’t recognize her at all, but I knew it was Ginny. Her faced had filled out, as had the rest of her. But her voice was still gratingly high. I had barely known her. She worked props with Harrison, and then got sick, and that was that. She would have been the last of our apprentice class I’d have pegged for success. Fifteen years, and she hugged me like I was her long-lost lover.

Menus were passed around. “Sheila’s seeing the show at eight.”

“Shouldn’t we wait for Dara? I thought she was joining us,” asked Ginny, in between bites of butter-soaked bread.

Gavin coughed, looked down at his empty plate. “You sure about that?” he muttered. I could feel his eyes peer in my direction.

“Oh, you don’t think... no, that was so long ago.”

“All about Eve.” Jaime gave me a devilish grin.

“What?” I asked. “You don’t mean Dara Mills? She’s here?”

“You, the convenient understudy, while she’s off being questioned for the mysterious disappearance of Harrison Mann.”

“Please, Gavin. I hardly think she holds a grudge. Besides, she’s just busy memorizing her lines. All that TV work, she’s out of practice.” Ginny turned to me. “You remember Dara, of course.”

How could I forget? I’d shadowed her at countless rehearsals for two weeks straight.

Bristol set down his soda and spoke up. “Please, Ginny dearest. Fill me in. You forget, I wasn’t here that summer.”

As Ginny drew in a deep breath, Jaime lunged in. “Dara was our Ophelia that summer. But when Harrison disappeared, she practically had a breakdown. It was common knowledge that the two were screwing around.” She glanced over at me. I didn’t blink. “And then, of course, the police inquiry. The accusations. She never performed. Lucky for you, I guess?” Jaime winked at me. “The only understudy to perform in practically forty years.”

“I always thought it was Harrison’s wife who did it,” said Bristol. “I mean, I wasn’t here that summer — but every other summer — he did like the ladies. How did she put up with it? And why wasn’t she ever suspected?”

“Airtight alibi,” informed Gavin. “Besides, I’d prefer to think that Harrison is still alive. South of the border, living the kind of life we can only imagine. As for Dara, I never thought she’d step foot in Vermont again after that summer.”

“Jaime insisted that I cast her as Gertrude.” Ginny poured herself another glass of wine.

“I caught her in an episode of Law and Order. She just seemed so right. And from what I hear, her career seems to be taking flight.”

“Jaime wanted to get her up here again before she became too famous, isn’t that right,” Gavin chuckled.

A waiter approached us. We placed our orders. The conversation drifted from the personal to the utterly inane. Who was doing what regionally and in New York. Whose success was completely undeserved. Which artistic endeavors were so full of genius or so bizarre. I’d been out of the loop for so long that I simply smiled, nodded, slurped up my French onion soup. Another bottle of wine arrived. Bristol had his ginger ale refilled and Gavin made a toast. “To old friends and great success,” he said. We clinked our glasses.

“You know, Jaime had forgotten that I’d gone home sick that summer,” Ginny squeaked. “I remember at the time thinking I was burning a bridge — would never work in the theater again.”

“And what’s next for you?” Jaime stroked Ginny’s hair as if she were her own daughter. “Broadway, maybe?”

“Not yet.” Ginny peered bashfully down at her plate. “I’ll be directing another show in New York in the fall.”

“I hope you won’t forget about us up here?”

“Of course not.”

“Why did you leave us so suddenly that summer?” Gavin was beginning to slur his words. “Was it really mono, or something else?”

Ginny’s face turned blood red. Had she been one of Harrison’s amusements too?

Before she could answer, we were interrupted. “Friends, Romans, countrymen.” It was Jed. The dust on his overalls flickered in the candlelight. “I’m here to escort Miss Brighton to the theater.”

“Is it time already?” I asked, reaching for my wallet. “How much do I owe?”

“Dinner is on me tonight, Sheila.” Jaime smiled. “Go, go, you don’t want to be late.”

I said my goodbyes while they were contemplating dessert. It turned out that Jed hadn’t seen the show yet either — too busy building the props for Hamlet. “And these Agatha Christie plays, not my favorite,” he confessed. “The murders always seem so contrived.” He winked at me conspiratorially.

After the show, I retired to the blue room. Of course, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling, eyes wide open. Vermont could be dark in a way that New York City never could. What had I been thinking, coming up here? I’d put that summer far behind me, and then Jaime had to call. All those memories came flooding back. And yet, it was a relief in some ways, being back. There we all were, sitting, enjoying dinner. And none of them knew — they didn’t even suspect that Harrison had another lover that summer.

I thought about reading, or writing. But I was too tired for that kind of focus. Although it was just past midnight, I knew there would be people awake. The Mousetrap had just closed, which meant that strike was in full swing.

I tossed on the clothing I’d left lying on the floor and crept out of the room. It was one of those gigantic old houses in which you could feel solitude surrounded by people. At this point in the summer, I was quite sure that there was someone staying in every room. Gavin lived in town, but Ginny and Bristol were surely residing in the Cottage, along with the casts of The Mousetrap and Hamlet. Any overflow would have been lodged at the Inn. I didn’t want to wake any of them with my midnight prowling.

I strolled briskly over to the theater, which was lit up like a torch. The big barn doors were flung open, and apprentices scurried about like cockroaches, heaving slabs of wood into a large dumpster. The buzzing of drills and a power saw seeped from somewhere inside. We never played music. We’d been told it could be a safety hazard. We needed our eyes and our ears in case a wrench went tumbling from up above, or a set piece lost its balance.

I hovered like a ghost outside the barn doors. “You here to help?” asked Jed. He heaved a large board into the dumpster and jumped in after it, cracking down a pile of plywood. “Or are you here to catch a glimpse of our resident ghost?”

I blinked twice. “Ghost?”

“Comes out during strike. Starts moving drills to odd locations. Wasn’t Ole Spooky around in your day?”

“Sure.”

“Last year, he locked one of the apprentices in the prop closet. No one found her until the next morning. Seriously, if you want to help, for old time’s sake...”

“Just watching. Swore I’d never do another strike after that summer.”

“Why?” He looked up. Those eyes were too familiar to me.

I shrugged, nonresponsive, and watched him. He caught my stare. “What?”

“You just look a lot like your dad, that’s all.”

“That’s what they all tell me.”

A chubby girl with oily black hair and broomstick eyelashes poked her head out of the barn doors. She was clutching a revolver.

“Hey, Jed, where does this live?”

“Be careful with that, Stacey.” He tossed her his key ring. “Lock it in the prop closet.”

“Do me a favor and grab that axe.” I realized that he was talking to me. He pointed to a bench where one was resting. “Careful, it’s heavier than it looks.” I knew that. I remembered. I handed it to him, and he began to swing away inside the dumpster. It was too much for me. I turned and went back.

I tried to sleep in the next morning, but was woken up by stairs creaking, doors slamming, voices raised, and finally a knock at the door. It was Ginny. She eyed my pajamas and the sleep in my eyes with apprehension.

“I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What time is it?” There was no clock in the room.

“It’s just past ten. We’re trying to do a run on the outdoor stage before the final coat of paint goes on, and we can’t find Dara anywhere.”

“I haven’t seen Dara in fifteen years.”

“She’s always at rehearsal early, ready to go. Thought she might’ve gotten confused. Last few days it rained, and we rehearsed in the church basement over on Main Street. But I just checked over there and...”

A door slam cut her off. “Jaime. Jaime!” Jed yelled from below. “Call nine-one-one. Someone — help!”

Ginny and I scurried down the stairs, in time to catch Jed running off toward the pasture, back toward the Shakespeare stage. Ginny phoned 911 from her cell as we followed him. She lost reception twice before reaching them. She tried to explain our intended destination, which we assumed was the stage. Accidents were preventable in the theater, but not uncommon, especially when actors were hung over or still drunk from the night before. Twigs swung back and hit us in the face. Although the pasture was off a main road, the quickest route from the Cottage was a quarter-mile trek through the woods. The path had been beaten down by Jaime’s old pickup truck and countless pilgrimages by apprentices, hauling every manner of theatrical necessity.

But we never made it to the stage. We spotted Bristol and Jed standing frozen in the middle of the trail.

“It’s too late.” Bristol shook his head.

Ginny and I lowered our eyes to their feet.

I hadn’t seen Dara Mills in fifteen years. If the back of her head were intact, I might have said that she’d aged well. Her hand was clenched unnaturally around a revolver. It looked just like the one from The Mousetrap. Once again, Dara Mills would fail to take the stage in Hamlet.

“If it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck...” Bristol was busy peeling the label off a bottle of Amstel Light. He was referring to Dara’s apparent suicide.

I had managed to forgo what appeared to be the obligatory dinner at the Inn, having found some time amongst the madness to buy a few staples at the general store. But as I was finishing the last of my eating-merely-to-sustain-life buttered pasta, Bristol had waltzed in, half tipsy, begging for some company. Apparently, the sight of death kicked the wagon out from under him.

“But why?” I asked.

“Guilt, of course, for having murdered Harrison years ago.”

“Ludicrous!” Gavin had crept up beside us. “An actress would have done the deed center stage, not off in the woods.” He ordered himself a Killian’s Red and pulled up a stool. “I think that little apprentice did her in. What’s her name? Suzy? Stacey?”

“It’s Stacey. And please, that poor girl was hysterical. She worshiped the ground Dara walked on.” Bristol finally managed to pull the label off. He stuck it to his forehead for a moment, and then thought better of it. It was not the time for humor.

“And yet, rumor has it, she has each and every one of Gertrude’s lines down pat. Now, if they could squeeze that dumpling of a body into Dara’s costume...”

“You don’t really think...?” I asked. It was all too disturbing for me.

“Who else had a motive?” Gavin asked.

“Perhaps the theater ghost has inspired our Jeddy boy to avenge the death of his father?” Bristol winked at me. If the thought weren’t so morbid, I might have laughed. “He did find the body. There’s a sight I wish I had been spared.”

Everywhere I turned that night, Dara’s death dripped from lips. Was it suicide, or just some terrible accident with a prop? The Cottage, which had seemed tomblike the previous evening, was suddenly the place to be. The cast of Hamlet, a straggler from The Mousetrap, and half a dozen apprentices grew out of the walls, whispering, sipping wine, flipping through old magazines. Ginny sat cozied up to the chubby squirt I’d seen the night before.

“Come join us.” Ginny started to make room on the couch, but I sat myself on the stone hearth instead. “Stacey’s a nervous wreck about performing in two days.”

“You’ll be fine.” I offered one of those soothing half-smiles. “Just trust yourself.”

“I just can’t believe it...” I thought the little hobgoblin’s face was going to explode. But at that moment, Jaime entered with a tray of hot chocolate, extra marshmallows. The apprentices under twenty-one dove for mugs. The older ones stuck with wine.

Jaime’s presence served to change the conversation. She simply wouldn’t allow the morbid talk of death. I learned what I could when she left the room: The police were investigating; suicide had not yet been confirmed. Everyone was being interviewed; I should expect to be questioned soon. Apparently, fat little Gertrude had nearly broken down completely when they asked her why Dara might have done the deed. “I just can’t believe it,” she repeated, and for a moment I wasn’t sure if she was referring to Dara’s death or her chance to take the stage.

But then Jaime floated back into the room. Didn’t the apprentices have an early morning the next day — finishing touches on costumes. Props to move. Things would be more complicated now that the shortcut to the pasture was a crime scene; they’d have to drive around on the main road to the Shakespeare stage. The room began to clear, until it was just Ginny and me, and a bottle of wine that had just been opened. I helped myself to a glass. Ginny polished off the rest.

She too felt the need to speculate. If she hadn’t cast Dara in the part — if she hadn’t taken this directing job, but how could she say no to Jaime — if, if, if. The world was full of ifs, and by the time Ginny had gotten through all of them, she was slurring her words and could barely stand. I held her arm as she walked up the stairs. We reached her door, on the floor below mine, only to discover she’d misplaced her keys. “Probably at the theater. We could go get them.” But she was in no shape. So I led her up to the blue room and tucked her safely into my bed. Me — I spent the night in the main room, staring at the empty hearth until I drifted into unconsciousness.

Another dark night in Vermont, another groggy morning. I was up with the light, my back kinked up from the couch, my drool dotting the afghan that covered just the top part of my body. I crept up into my room. Ginny was just a lump under blue covers. I silently poked around in my bag until I’d pulled out fresh underwear and a sweatsuit. A good walk always did wonders for my writer’s block.

Morbid curiosity led me first to the path. The police had had the good sense to block the entrance with police tape. I didn’t defy the yellow mandate. Instead, I retraced my steps and headed down to the main road. There were hardly any cars. The ones that did drive by whizzed past as if they were the only cars for miles, ignoring posted speed limits, yellow lines, morning strollers. I eventually made my way to the pasture where the Shakespeare stage loomed in all its glory. They kept a trailer in back of it, locked with costumes, props. The stage was bare, and glistened with a hint of dew. It was the same stage that I had acted on fifteen years ago, with a few minor improvements. The wood might have been new, the colors more vibrant, but the shape the same.

Shakespeare’s words came flooding back to me, along with the lost emotions of the stage. Ophelia’s fear, her love, her madness, in waves, in bursts, as if they had been real. But hadn’t they? I had pulled her out of myself, and she was just as real as me. I stared out at the pasture. The audiences had been somewhat smaller fifteen years ago, if I were to believe Jaime, but still ample. Spread out on their blankets, bottles of wine, toddlers roaming. I spotted the crime-scene tape in the distance, marking the other end of the path. Gavin was right. An actress would have taken center stage.

I turned back, and nearly knocked into the props table, covered in brown paper, the outlines of the props all marked with masking tape. Various daggers and goblets, and of course, poor Yorick’s skull. Ah, how could one forget poor Yorick? The props would be back at the theater, or more likely locked up in the trailer in back of the stage at this point. In my day, a trunk on the stage was sufficient to keep them out of harm’s way. But times had changed.

Back at the Cottage, I found a few groggy actors up, brewing coffee, nursing hangovers with cold cereal and orange juice. We’d been introduced at some point, but I could not remember their names. “You open tomorrow?” I asked, just to be polite.

“Final dress this evening. Hopefully Bristol will fix those lighting cues that were still a mess yesterday. You’ll watch the run?” they asked hopefully.

I nodded. What else was I going to do? Actually write something? That seemed unlikely.

Ginny was still a rock, so I fumbled around for some more clothes, and snuck off to the shower — made it quick, in case others were waiting. I too helped myself to coffee, cereal — though I couldn’t wait to crawl into my own bed. My body had quickly staked claim to the blue room, and I felt displaced without it.

Hair wrapped up in a towel, wearing torn jeans and a T-shirt, I plopped myself back onto the couch. The afghan was still there, and for some reason I felt cold. Coffee, an old New Yorker. I lost myself in the pages until Jaime pulled me out.

“Sheila?”

“Don’t look so shocked. Writers can get up early too.”

“I’m just a bit of a mess, with Hamlet so close to opening. There’s some sort of problem with the programs, and they’re predicting rain for tomorrow night.” I thought it odd she didn’t mention Dara.

She’d always seemed so calm before the shows in my day — let others do the stressing for her. “I’m sure it will all work itself out,” I said. And then Bristol came bursting into the Cottage.

“Ginny promised to meet me down at the theater at eight-thirty.”

“She was pretty smashed last night.” I shook my head. “I’ll get her.”

“And tell her that Alice in costumes needs to see her, too,” he called after me as I made my way up the stairs. Something about wigs and humidity floated up as I stepped back into the blue room.

“Ginny, you up?” I whispered, seeing full well that she was where I’d left her. “Ginny... oh director dearest...”

I placed my hand on a lump that was too stiff to feel human. I pulled back the covers. A pearl-handled pistol clunked to the floor. Bristol would have to wait indefinitely. Ginny’s hangover was worse than predicted.

Another suicide — unlikely. Ginny had been shot in the back. As for the gun that was found at the scene: “Just a prop, like the last one,” I heard a young officer remark. It seemed that no one in the Cottage had heard the shot, all the way up on the top floor. And it would have been easy enough to muffle the sound with a pillow. I found myself back on the couch being questioned by a detective.

“But what was she doing in your bed?” she asked for the third time.

“We weren’t lovers, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I finally answered, hoping this would satisfy her, and told her again about Ginny’s lost keys, which someone had found on the kitchen floor, and returned to Jaime.

Yes, I was the only one who knew she was there. No, I did not know why anyone would want to harm Ginny.

“And you?”

“Me?”

“It was your room, your bed. Any reason why someone would want you dead?”

The thought should have occurred to me. There were reasons, none that I cared to share.

But the show must go on, as the old saying goes, rain or shine or death. Bristol would be left to his own devices to tweak those final lighting cues, and the question of wigs would never fully be resolved. The apprentices were atwitter with speculation and self-importance, as they too were being questioned. An actress, a director — who was next? Why on earth leave prop guns at the scene? And who would want to kill them? These were the questions I’d hear them whispering. Me — after having my belongings fully searched, I was allowed to relocate to the Inn. My room was sealed until further notice.

I slept for hours, and tried to write, but my words kept transforming into morbid rhymes, in iambic pentameter, of course. I hadn’t even glanced at my novel yet. I decided to waste more time by strolling back down to the pasture early for the dress rehearsal — buying a Diet Coke and a Snickers bar for dinner along the way. That had been a staple meal of mine that summer. There was something comforting in its unhealthy simplicity.

I stretched out straight on the grass — I hadn’t thought to bring a blanket — and stared up at the sky, eyes wide open, watching the clouds as the sky dimmed slightly. A small crowd began to gather: a few townies who, for whatever reason, preferred to watch a dress rehearsal. Most would come back during the next few nights for the real deal.

The play grew out of the pasture organically. No dimming of the houselights, just the setting sun. Cars still drove by on the main road — “backstage” — some bored tweens wandered away from Grandma, giggling, toward the porta-potties, which had already been set up along the side of the pasture. There were problems with the microphones, a missed exit, a dropped goblet. I kept my eyes open for the one prop that interested me, the one I had spent hours creating. “Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him.” Yes, it was the same skull, locked away in the prop cabinet all those years.

I stayed away from the pasture for the next few nights, but I heard the crowds, felt the swell of people wandering about town at night, eating dinner at the Inn. Not that the crowds for the other shows hadn’t made an impact, but the theater only seated 250 people. More than twice that flocked to the pasture each night.

From what I could gather, Hamlet was a success. Plump little Gertrude had stepped up to the plate, and Ginny’s job had, in truth, been done by that point. “Really, after opening, the director just gets in the way,” Gavin almost chuckled, and then stopped himself.

With the bustle of the show, it was easy to ignore the police presence. The questions — daily. I had been interviewed two more times. They had the sense that I was holding something back, but it wasn’t what they thought.

And then closing night rolled around. I decided I should see the show at least once. “You’ve been avoiding us,” Jaime had joked.

“No, just busy writing,” I lied.

The show was exquisite. It had truly come together since the dress rehearsal. Little Gertrude dazzled. Ophelia stunned. Gavin was quite convincing as Polonius. Hamlet’s need to avenge the death of his father crept over me. I glanced back at Jed, milling by the tech tent, which was set back toward the middle of the pasture. I’d heard from Gavin that the police were quite interested in him. He had access to the prop closet. He’d found Dara’s body. He’d had the key to the blue room. Had he been visited by Harrison’s ghost?

Before the final crowds had left the pasture, the apprentices pounced on the stage with their power drills. A dumpster was hauled up in back of the trailer. Within hours, the last trace of the stage would be gone, the props and costumes would all be safely stored away in the theater, and the apprentices would be tapping a keg and celebrating the end of their summer. The younger actors would join them. The older ones would have already phoned their agents and be looking ahead to their next gig: regional theater if they were lucky, word processing in a law firm if they were not.

I decided to wait at the theater. Eventually some apprentices would come carrying a trunk full of props. I would offer to help them with it, then slip Yorick’s skull into my canvas bag, and leave Vermont forever. I’d cover it with plaster, toss it into the East River. Out damn spot — my hands would finally be clean.

So I did just that. I waited. But as usual, strike took longer than expected. The trips back to the theater were fewer because the path was off limits. I retired to my room at the Inn and dozed off.

I woke just as the first hint of sunshine peeked through my window. I hopped out of bed, tossed on my clothes from the night before, and was at the theater before my mind was awake. The back door was locked, but someone had left the side door ajar; they usually did during the summer, since it was rare that the theater was empty. It was a place for lovers to sneak away in the middle of the night. That’s what Harrison and I had done. Rather, we didn’t sneak, we just stayed. Had he seduced me, or I him? His hands brushing against mine ever so slightly as we glued fake jewels onto a sword, or painted used books to look leather-bound. I was old enough to know better. So was he.

I’d heard rumors of a wife in Manchester, figured they were separated. I knew nothing of a child. And I presumed that Dara Mills was old news, until the night I’d found them shacked up on the Equity cot, making the beast with two backs. That was the weekend before Hamlet opened. The Agatha Christie play, it had been And Then There Were None that year, was closing the next night. And then, of course, there was strike. I was stuck in the theater with him, sorting through all those murder mystery play props — tumblers and prop guns and suitcases — and we still didn’t have Yorick’s skull for the Shakespeare, and I should have known it was just a summer fling.

The theater was dark. No lights. No life. The Mousetrap had been swept away without a trace, and the community troupe that used the barn during the year for their productions hadn’t moved back in yet. I made my way to the set shop. Someone had left a light on.

“I thought you’d come. I expected you sooner.”

Jaime sat on a stool, perched above the sawdust that was splayed across the work table. The skull sat delicately on her lap.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” She held it up.

I nodded.

“How did you know?” I managed to ask — my mouth dry, a choking feeling creeping across my neck.

“I didn’t. You’d think a mother would recognize her own son...” She held up the skull. “Funny, fifteen years ago it wouldn’t have occurred to me. And then Jed was sorting props in the spring, before our season started, and he said something about the jaw line. But even then, I refused to believe it.”

I didn’t say a word. Anything I said at that point would have been an admission of guilt.

“You didn’t know, of course, that Harrison was my son. No one did.” She was right about that. So the rumors were true — he’d been that backstage baby. “I always imagined that he’d turn out to be a great success. His talent was clear. He was bound to be a grand sensation — designing Broadway shows. He never had the chance.” She didn’t seem to be looking at me at all, but she was. “It wasn’t fair that his killer’s career should take off.”

Her phone call. Her timing. It made sense to me now.

“At first I suspected Ginny. She thought it was her directing skills that got her the job. She should have known better. I’d forgotten that she’d gone home sick. Mono my ass. I knew that Harrison had that effect on young girls. I thought, it must have been either her or Dara. It was easy enough to convince Ginny that Dara was the perfect Gertrude. Of course, then Ginny reminded me that you had taken her place that summer. I didn’t mean to kill her.”

“Of course not. But if you knew—”

“I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything for sure. The police had suspected Dara, so I thought I’d start with her.”

I could picture her driving down the path in her pickup truck, holding a gun to Dara’s head. The gun found at the scene was just a prop...

Before I could finish my thought, Jaime continued: “She sputtered something about Harrison working on props that night. The terror in her eyes. If she hadn’t killed Harrison, then it must have been you. I knew for sure then that this didn’t just look like Harrison, it was Harrison.” She held up the skull in one hand, a pistol in the other. This gun was no prop.

“You don’t have to kill me, Jaime. You could call the police.” I tried to reason.

“And tell them what? That I’ve killed two innocent women attempting to avenge my son’s death? Besides, I plan to turn myself in when I’m done with you. I thought leaving props by the bodies would be a nice touch — a tribute to my son. Unfortunately, it’s cast suspicion on my grandson.”

Her eyes wandered for a moment. It was all the time I needed. My hands had found the axe. The same axe that I had used fifteen years ago — in a jealous rage. It had been so easy to dispose of the body. The dumpster from strike had been right outside. No one had noticed the splatters of blood I had missed. They mixed right in with the paint. And Harrison’s head had solved the one prop problem that he hadn’t been able to fix before his demise. Hours of boiling and scraping — bleach and steel wool — had transformed him into Yorick. It’s amazing what the sleep-deprived mind will concoct.

Jaime would prove to be trickier. The dumpster was out at the pasture, but her truck was nearby. Work gloves to keep the prints off. All the actors and designers would be sleeping off their hangovers. I had a few hours to clean up the mess I had made.

And then what? I could get myself to a nunnery. Drown myself in a river. Or return to the city and hope that ghosts were figments of Shakespeare’s imagination.

Copyright © 2009 by Nina Mansfield