The Playhouse Murder by Hal Charles

It was all make-believe — until Death wrote the script!

Elaine was nervous and bound to make a mistake, but I forced myself to stay seated and watch the scene develop.

“Oh, Father, Christina is dead before my very eyes.”

“Hush, Beatrice,” said the bearded man. “It is the way of nature. The weak are preyed upon by the strong.”

“But Christina was my favorite dove.”

At that moment a tall man wearing a cape appeared behind them. Perched on his shoulder was a huge hooded hawk.

She turned toward him suddenly. “Who are...”

“No, no, no,” screamed a voice from the darkness. “How many times do I have to tell you that your turn comes after the Duke speaks, not before.” A small figure in cut-off jeans and a t-shirt bounded onto the stage.

“I’m sorry,” Elaine said.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” mimicked the director. “All I’ve heard from you this last week of rehearsal is how sorry you are. This isn’t the senior play, missy! This show goes on in two nights, and I’m not going to let your missed cues and dropped lines embarrass me.”

Elaine began to cry. When I could see her tears were real, I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Wait a minute,” I shouted, “you can’t talk to her like that.”

The director glared up at me as I marched down an aisle. “And who may I ask is this, the local drama critic?”

“I’m Elaine’s father and...”

“Oh, Daddy,” she said with unmistakeable disgust, “you don’t understand. Mr. Fields is right. I do keep messing up.”

“Ah, our backwoods constable,” said the director on seeing my badge. “If you’re out to arrest somebody, I assure you the only crime here is your daughter’s acting.” He turned to the rest of the cast. “My leading lady is felled by an emergency appendectomy, and I’m stuck with a no-talent local.”

I was about to demonstrate the long arm of the law was more than a cliche when the caped figure with the hawk interrupted.

“Gentlemen, enough of this bickering. Larry, if you’d spend more time directing our last-minute fill-in and less on your daily constitutionals around the countryside, we’d be better off. I’ve learned to adjust to the obvious shortcomings of this production.” He looked condescendingly at the cast and crew. “I should think you could do as much. Now, if you’re through wasting my time...”

Roger Manchester seemed so different from the actor I had seen so many times in the movies. He had been up there for years with Gable, Flynn, and Cooper. When a new generation of leading men had come along, though, he showed up in more mature roles, on TV guest spots, and in the papers — always with a young starlet at some Hollywood party. He had always played the humble good guy, but in person he seemed the opposite. How had Seth Fuller, the owner of the playhouse, gotten an actor of Manchester’s stature to come to Clement County, Kentucky?

I apologized to Fields and the rest of the cast, then got in my car and headed for the office. I had made a mistake, but with Elaine I was used to that. Since her mother had died a few years ago, raising Elaine had become solely my responsibility, and I was usually a little overprotective. I had always been able to keep my temper in check, except when it came to my daughter.

Things at the office were slower than a checkers game on the courthouse steps. Sarah Fricker registered what had become a daily complaint — someone was peeping through her bedroom window. Given Sarah’s spinster looks, I could never figure out whether she was complaining or bragging. Then Mrs. Hanks over at the library stormed in during her lunch hour to tell me that another book on the Citizens United against Trash’s so-called “hit list” had disappeared. Over the last few months the Reverend Harlan Spiker and CUT had stirred up more trouble with their campaign than a hungry bear in a hornet’s nest. Later that afternoon Clem Riddle had me come out to his farm. Seems those no-count Bowser boys had been fooling around his cornfield. I’d watched Tod and Rod climb up the ladder from tying tin cans on alley-cat tails to hot-wiring cars. Who knows what they were up to this time? I’m not complaining, mind you. This town’s been like a family to me, helping me raise Elaine. I’ve never once regretted coming back to Woodhole after college and making my life here.

I found nothing at Clem’s. When I got back a little after dark Elaine still hadn’t returned from the playhouse, so I pulled some chicken and potato salad from the fridge and popped a beer open-. Bench had just ended the Reds’ seventh with a liner to short when I heard a car.

A minute later Elaine came into the kitchen followed by a tall man of about thirty wearing khaki pants and a blue shirt. Real Ivy League. She introduced him as Philip Reede, the man who had written the play she’d been so excited about since getting the part.

“Did you know, Daddy, that Philip, Mr. Reede, won a Tony last year for his very first play and The New York Times said he was ‘the prime candidate to become the next Eugene O’Neil.’ ”

“Some overnight success,” said Reede, accepting a can of beer. “The only reason they thought it was my first play was that nobody would read the ten I had written earlier.”

He filled the air with a hearty laugh.

“What brings a successful writer like you out to Clement County?” I asked.

“Seth Fuller did me a favor a few years back, and I owed him one. Besides, I wanted to try out Death of the Duchess on ordinary folks before opening it to the self-proclaimed sophisticated New York audience.”

“Elaine hasn’t told me much,” I said. “What’s the play about?”

“Have you ever read Robert Browning’s ‘My Last Duchess’?” he asked.

“Back in college, I think, but I don’t remember much about it.”

“Basically it’s about a Renaissance duke named Ferrara who has just lost his wife and is negotiating to secure his next duchess. The poem’s a psychological study of Ferrara. You see, for over a century since the poem was published, one question has troubled readers: what happened to the Duke’s last duchess?”

“And you play is going to tell us.” I popped open another beer. “Listen, I appreciate your bringing Elaine home. Even though Wood-hole’s no New York City, I still don’t like my daughter out there alone.”

“They’re not too far apart,” said Reede. “I saw two creeps in a blue pickup out at the playhouse tonight who look like they just crawled out from under a 42nd St. rock.”

Changing the subject, I took Elaine’s hand. “I’m sorry about this afternoon, sweetheart. It’s just that...”

“It’s OK, Daddy. There’s been a lot of tension on the set anyway. Usually theatre people are like a family, but they’ve been fighting worse than cats or dogs.”

“Even Roger Manchester?” I asked.

“Yes,” answered Elaine. “He’s always chewing out someone for stepping on his lines or trying to upstage him. And most of the cast hates Mr. Fields because he treats them like a bunch of incompetent amateurs.”

Reede put down his empty can. “That’s what you get when you put a lot of egotistical people together on a closed set.”

We sat there talking for quite awhile, but when Reede left a little before midnight I had the feeling I didn’t know much about him. It was like watching an actor play a part and wondering about the actor’s real-life identity.

I spent a restless night. Lately, it seemed that Elaine and I were drawing apart, and I wasn’t sure why. About 1:00 a summer storm rolled in from the northwest. As the rain pelted the roof, I thought I heard noises in our two-story frame house. By the time I woke up, though, the storm was gone.

I was fixing coffee when Elaine came in and asked me to give her a ride out to the playhouse. Fields was supposed to pick her up early that morning, but hadn’t shown. She figured he had gotten involved with preparing for their last runthrough and had forgotten.

Seth Fuller had built his playhouse and the guest cottages on the site of his family farm. The war over, Seth had lit out for Hollywood to follow his dream. But, after a few years of waiting on tables and to be discovered, he had packed it in when his parents died leaving him the farm. He sold off most of the acreage and built the little resort. Since then, he’d struggled to make it go summer after summer.

When we drove into the compound, the large converted barn stood like a mother hen amidst the brood of small cottages that in a few days would start to fill up with tourists. Just beneath the playhouse sign, which was in need of paint, was the barrel-chested figure of Seth Fuller standing toe to toe with Mrs. Hanks’ nemesis. Dressed in his usual wardrobe of a black frock coat that looked two centuries old and a broad-brimmed hat, the Reverend Spiker was waving his hands in the dramatic fashion that had brought him from an unknown country preacher to the darling of the Lexington-Louisville media.

I let Elaine out and ambled up within listening distance just to make sure nothing happened. But their quarrel broke up. The Reverend Spiker passed me, pausing only to say, “The hand of righteousness will smite this den of iniquity. Mark my words.”

I continued over to the red-faced owner, half expecting to smell fire and brimstone.

“You’ve got to do something, Sheriff,” bellowed Seth like a wounded bull. “That man’s a fanatic. The more power he gets, the more he wants. He says that if I don’t shut down this ‘place of the Devil,’ he’s going to picket it with that group of his, CAT or CUT or whatever the hell he calls it.”

“Easy, Seth.” I put my hand on his shoulder. Everybody in Clement County knew what a quick temper Seth had.

“Damn it! If that power-crazed preacher surrounds this playhouse with those idiots of his shouting and carrying signs and pointing fingers, nobody’s going to come to the play, Roger Manchester or not. I want this play to be a blockbuster.”

“Daddy, Daddy, come quick!” It was Elaine screaming.

I started running in the direction of her voice. As I rounded the playhouse, I saw my daughter standing in the doorway of Cottage C.

“What’s the matter?” I said.

Elaine just pointed past the open door. Walking through a sweet, incense-like odor, I found sprawled on the hardwood floor Larry Fields. His head was grotesquely twisted to the side and his hair was matted with blood. He looked worse then Herky Sutton the time his block-and-tackle slipped while he was loading hay bales.

I knelt down over the body. Somebody had obviously caved in the back of Fields’ skull. But with what? I glanced around the room. All the windows were locked. It was sparsely furnished with a bed, dresser, couch, chair, table, and a few lamps, all of which looked like they’d been found at a yard sale. A fireplace and woodbox covered one wall. Nothing looked out of place or broken. There hadn’t been a struggle. On top of the dresser I spotted a wallet and some jewelled rings. I pried open the wallet with my pen to find a couple of hundred dollars and Fields’ I.D.

I went back to the body. It was lying in front of the couch that had been set in the middle of the room. The light beside it was still burning. On the drab couch were a pen, a stopwatch, and a green-covered script Death of the Duchess.

I called the state police barracks and the county coroner. While I waited for the Mobile Crime Laboratory and Doc Sloane to arrive, I had another look around. I wanted to search a brown suitcase I found under the bed, but as I had discovered to my embarrassment in the Rhodes robbery case a few years ago, it was “hands-off” until the lab boys were through. I moved on. The fireplace hadn’t been used in a year. I glanced into the woodbox. Beneath the kindling gleamed something golden. I hadn’t played pick-up sticks in years, but I managed to lift off some wood to reveal a small metallic statue. Smeared across the base were smudges of red.

I kept everyone out of the cottage till the lab boys arrived. I pointed out such things as the hidden statue to them, then stayed out of their way while they went through their routine. Doc Sloane Finally showed to take control of the body and promised me the autopsy report as soon as possible, which would be the next day unless he found an unemptied scotch bottle.

I couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere was one of relief, not grief, when I assembled the cast and crew. I questioned everyone there, though no one had much to offer me. Seth said that when he went to bed shortly after midnight the light was still on in Fields’ cottage, but then, he noted, the director stayed up late every night. Reede, who was staying in Cottage B, said he had last seen Fields around 8:00. When Reede had gotten back from my house, he had noticed Fields’ light, but had gone straight to bed. I had to wake Roger Manchester in Cottage A. Having taken a sleeping pill because of a nerve-wracking day, he had gone to bed around sundown, and no, he hadn’t heard a thing during the night. Seth introduced me to the rest of the play’s cast and crew when they arrived during the commotion. They were staying at Emma Sowders’ Boarding House in town, and, having gotten into an all-night poker game, they could vouch for one another.

Then I had time for Elaine. She still seemed shaken up about the whole thing. I was glad when Reede brought some coffee and started to talk to her. It settled her down, and I didn’t feel so bad about going to the office.

Technically this was my case, but in reality the State Police would handle most of the investigation. When they’d digested all the evidence they could get their hands on, they’d throw me a bone and let me make any arrests. They were content to let elected amateurs like me take care of such serious matters as school crossings and picking up the local winos on Saturday night, but real crimes, they loved to remind me, were the province of professionals.

Sometimes I think they’re right. My life seemed an endless parade of traffic citations and pie-judging. Potter was a decent deputy, though he’d been injured in the recent softball game with Barlow County and would be laid up for a couple of weeks. So I had to listen to another of Sarah Pricker’s fantasies. Some teenage boy with a red hunting hat facing backwards had stared through her bedroom window. Her call was interrupted by Mrs. Hanks, who told me I just had to do something about CUT. One of its memebers, acting on orders from Reverend Spiker of course, had walked away from the stacks with Catcher in the Rye. Since I planned to talk to our famous preacher anyway, I told her I’d go see him right away.

I was cruising down State Road 877 toward the church, which was on the same road as the playhouse, when I passed a familiar blue pickup with a tarp over the bed going in the opposite direction. No telling what Clement County’s self-styled version of the Dukes of Hazzard had hidden back there, but even if I had turned around, the Bowser boys’d been long gone.

Set down a piece on a gravel road, Green Pastures Church was a small, concrete-block building. For the last eleven years the Reverend Spiker had been shearing his flock without anyone noticing till he had decided to go big-time last fall. On Halloween he had held a public bookburning. I think there were more of your media types there than participants, and when the smoke cleared, the Reverend’s little fire had received statewide attention. So he formed CUT and began using a lot of well-meaning people for his own benefit.

Luckily I caught Harlan in a rare moment when he was off-camera.

“Lo, Sheriff. Been scribbling a few notes for my memoirs.” As his five-foot-even frame rose up from his high-backed chair, I could tell he was serious. Up close he looked younger than he had seemed on TV. “What can I do for you? You interested in joining our little group?”

I waved him off. “It’s about Larry Fields. He...”

“Is a disciple of the Devil. Everyone knows how he directed that blasphemous display of nudity The Bare Facts. That kind of trash might be acceptable in one of those big-city Sodom and Gommorahs, but we won’t let him bring it into our community.”

“He’s dead. Someone bashed his head in.”

The Reverend hit his roll-top desk sharply. “Did I not say the hand of righteousness would strike down the abomination? We are saved.” He bowed his head. “Our people will be spared the spectacle of violence and adultery.”

Spiker certainly didn’t seem too broken up about things. “How do you know what this play is about?”

“What else would such a pervert bring to the-stage?”

I let his logic pass. “You were at Seth’s this-morning. Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?”

“None were about when I arrived. The rain had just stopped. I banged on the blasphemer’s door, but he didn’t answer. Then I went over to Seth Fuller’s office and demanded to be heard. As you saw, he wouldn’t listen to me. Now is there anything else?”

“Yes, a warning. If your flock wants to burn their own books, there’s nothing I can do, but stay away from the public library!”

“Sheriff, I assure you none of my people has even entered that repository of evil.”

Knowing some of the illiterate members of CUT, I found that easy to believe.

By mid-afternoon things had slowed down to nary a jaywalker in sight, so I decided to head back to Seth’s. When I got there, Seth wasn’t around and no one knew where he was. I called his name a few times, and he finally emerged from the dilapidated barn behind the playhouse.

“Been thinking about tearing this old shed down, Sheriff. You know how barnwood fetches a high price with those fancy interior decorators.” He wiped his hands on his overalls. “Anything new on the murder?”

“Not really.”

“Guess you won’t know much till you hear from the State Police,” he commented, lighting up a cigar.

“Seth, just between us, I’ve always felt you get to the truth fastest not with microscopes and test tubes, but by knowing the people involved. So what can you tell me about Fields and the rest of those theatre people?”

“Truthfully, I don’t know much about any of them. Reede and Fields got in touch with me last spring about this hot property they had, Death of the Duchess. They suggested that Roger Manchester would be perfect for the lead and that he was available since his last play had bombed in New Haven. Reede knew that Roger and I had been contract players at Warner Brothers in the 50’s and figured I could persuade an old friend to take the part.”

“So you put it together.”

“Why not? Reede’s hot; Roger’s still a draw with the tourist crowd, Fields was OK, and I want the playhouse to have a reputation for putting on the best in new theatre. All in all it was a helluva opportunity. I’m lucky Reede’s agreed to take over as director so we can open tomorrow night.”

“Elaine sure got a break — working with blue-ribbon talent in her first professional show.”

“Phillip Reede seems to think she’s pretty blue-ribbon, if you know what I mean,” he winked.

My blood rushed a little faster. “I’m not sure that I do.”

“No offense. It’s just that everybody knew Reede had a heavy romance with Samantha Giles, who was to be the leading lady. Well, it seems Elaine took her place in more ways than one.”

I calmed myself down, then, after thanking Seth, drove home, all the while fighting what I knew was true — my little girl was becoming a woman.

The house seemed larger, more empty. Nine years ago I’d lost Jenny, and now it wouldn’t be long before Elaine would be leaving. I found myself wandering up the stairs to her room. In the corner was the Victorian dollhouse I’d built to ease her through the summer of her broken leg. And over her desk was a picture of us hiking together in the Smokies. As I was hanging her faded jeans on the opened closet door, I noticed a pair of mud-caked loafers. Last night had been the only time in the last two weeks it had rained. I fought back the policeman in me.

A car pulled into the driveway, then out again. The front door slammed. “Daddy, I’m home.”

“Up here. Elaine.”

The wide smile on her face disappeared the moment she saw the shoes in my hand.

“What are you doing in my room?” she said sharply. “Don’t I have any privacy?”

“Honey, I didn’t mean... I wasn’t spying... you see...” My stomach did a back flip, then I blurted out, “Where did you go late last night?”

Elaine’s face flushed. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I couldn’t sleep, so I went for a walk.”

“In the rain?”

“Yes. And now will you leave me alone?” She jerked the shoes from my hand.

Reluctantly I left. I didn’t feel much like eating, so I climbed in the cruiser and drove around for awhile. I wasn’t sure what was bothering me most — the case or my relationship with Elaine.

The phone jangled me out of a restless sleep early the next morning. Clem Riddle was fuming. The Bowser boys had cut through his property again. I had planned to speak to Elaine at breakfast, but that would have to wait.

Summer fog still hung over the blacktop as I sped down the familiar stretch of 877. Just past the playhouse, I turned into Clem’s. His hands covered with grease, the farmer climbed down from his John Deere. “Them two been racin’ up and down the road out to my cornfield all spring. It’s disturbin’ the missus and we got lotsa livestock. Can’t afford to have those goomers go and kill off a cow. They’re back there now, and sure as shootin’ they’re up to no good.”

The cornfield road was still damp, so their tire tracks were easy to follow. After a mile or so, I reached the fence Clem had built years ago when he bought the land from Seth. Two rails were removed, and sitting on the edge of the adjacent cornfield was an empty blue pickup. Tod and Rod were probably out in the field somewhere poaching deer, squirrel, or the like.

I hid the cruiser behind some bushes and slipped under the tarp in the truck. It was a whole lot easier for those good ole boys to come to me than vice-versa. I squinted at me watch. Right about now, if I didn’t miss my guess, Reede would be picking up Elaine to go to the playhouse. I was wondering what kind of danger she might be in when an even scarier thought crossed my mind. Usually I played by the State Police rules and kept my nose out of their investigations, but this was different. One way or another Elaine was involved, and I was determined to find out how — even if it hurt.

I tried piecing together Fields, Reede, Manchester and the playhouse. Two things I was sure of in Fields’ death: robbery hadn’t been the motive and he had been killed by somebody he knew. Then I heard a cornstalk crackle and a gutteral laugh.

“Sure as hell the easiest money we ever made,” came the unmistakeable whine of Tod Bowser.

“Yeah, just like he promised,” grunted Tod’s older brother. “You know what we gonna be?”

The tarp flew back.

“You gonna be guests of the county,” I responded, pointing my .38 at them. Staring at the long green-stemmed plants they had slung over their shoulders, I knew why they had been making repeated trips through Clem’s property. The Treasury Department bulletins warned that this kind of thing had been going on all over the state. They had estimated that tobacco was the only case crop in Kentucky that brought in more money than marijuana, and it was simple. After all, people had grown it for hemp during World War II, and since then the stuff had sprung up wild everyplace.

But not this thick. Standing on top of the cab, I gazed across the field. My enterprising friends were growing pot between the rows of corn. If the federal boys were right, I was staring at upwards of a million dollars. The whole ride back to town my prisoners were quiet. But I was sure of one thing — somebody, the he Rod mentioned, had to be behind the operation since Tod and Rod had trouble chewing gum and walking at the same time.

After booking the tongue-tied brothers, I called Doc Sloane. Though he was busy setting a cat’s leg, he took time to confirm that the cause of Fields’ death was a blow to the head by a blunt instrument (like Rod or Tod’s brain?). The time of death was somewhere between midnight and three. My guess was that since the storm hadn’t started till a little after 1:00 and since there was no trace of mud in the cottage, the murder had taken place between 12:00 and 1:00.

I dialed the State Police to let them in on my deductions. I was politely thanked by the young lieutenant assigned to the case, who in turn informed me they hadn’t scratched up clue one. There had been some sinsemilla, a seedless variety of marijuana, on the body, he said, but then what would you expect from some actor who’d just come down from the drug capital of the world. I didn’t bother to make the distinction between actor and director for him; he didn’t seem like your basic culture-lover.

An ugly picture was starting to form, and it wasn’t just my doodling. The cornfield that was more than a cornfield... Reede’s seeing their truck at the playhouse... the dope on Fields’ body. The Bowser boys weren’t breaking windows this time.

“Well, I should have known you’d be lollygagging round your office instead of keeping the perverts away from innocent citizens,” interrupted a voice.

Perched in the doorframe was a spindly, red-haired woman in her forties. Her face the same color as her hair, she gestured frantically, her arms flailing away like an ostrich trying to fly.

“What can I do for you, Sarah?”

“That’s Miss Flicker to you, Sheriff.” She clunked down her purse. “He was there again last night.”

“Who?”

“The pervert, of course. Who else would dress up in tights and carry a sword?”

I picked up her purse heavy with books and handed it to her. “I assure you, Miss Fricker, if there’s a man running around in underwear toting a sword, I’ll catch him.”

I was going back to their cell to pick the Bowsers’ brains before they picked the cell lock when the phone rang. It was Seth.

“You gotta get out here quick. The tourists are starting to arrive, and you know who’s here to greet them? That damned preacher and his bunch of fanatics. If you don’t do something, I got me a twelve gauge that will.”

Things at the playhouse reminded me of a human demolition derby. Led by Reverend Spiker, clad in black as ever, a dozen of the county’s citizens bearing signs like KEEP OUR COUNTRY CLEAN and ENTERTAINMENT YES — TRASH NO paraded in front of the theatre entrance. Several cars with out-of-state license plates had been stopped. Some early-arriving tourists snapped pictures of the local color while others pushed through the sign-bearers shouting about their rights.

All of a sudden a rotund woman dressed in a white blouse and skirt rushed into the circle of protesters. Raising an umbrella she attacked the Reverend, who parried her blows with a sign labelled DOWN WITH VIOLENCE. “How dare you, you self-righteous censors,” berated a fuming Mrs. Hanks. “Stealing Catcher in the Rye and From Here to Eternity was bad enough, but when you take the Bard’s masterpiece, that’s too much.”

Dodging Mrs. Hanks’ blows, I had a sudden inspiration. I pulled her back. “Take it easy now. I know who’s been stealing from your library, and it’s not these people. If you’ll just go back to your desk, I’ll have your books returned, even Hamlet.”

Shocked that I had figured out the latest book to be stolen before she had complained, Mrs. Hanks began to back away. Then, without warning the afternoon air was split by a shotgun blast. At the edge of the circle stood Seth Fuller holding a mean-looking double-barrel.

“When I told you people to get out of here, I meant it,” he snarled.

“The people,” returned Reverend Spiker, “have the right to assemble.”

I stepped forward, pushing Seth’s weapon toward the ground. “But not on private property.” I turned to Seth. “They’re leaving. Now let me have the gun.”

Spiker hesitated for a moment, then looked over Seth’s shoulder. A TV truck from Lexington was just setting up. Like a drill sergeant, he marched his group toward the truck, and while the video tape rolled, he began to preach — to the camera.

I walked Seth past the line at the registration desk and into his office. He pulled out a bottle of Kentucky’s finest bourbon, took a swig, and set it down amidst a pile of bills.

“ ‘Predate that, Sheriff. No telling what could have happened. Might even have ruined my sell-out.”

“It seems like I’m out here quite a lot lately, but since I am here, let me ask you something. Did Fields’ smoke pot?”

“How’d I know? I never saw him with any.”

“How about the Bowser boys? Did you ever see Fields around Tod and Rod?”

Seth sat down. “Why do you ask?”

“I arrested those two for growing the stuff this morning.”

“You suspect them of supplying Fields?”

“Could be more than that.”

Seth stared for a long time into the amber bottle. “Sheriff, something I should have told you before, but frankly I didn’t want to hurt the play’s chances. On the night of the murder, I got tired of writing checks and strolled onto the front porch. It was just before the storm hit. What do I see but Roger Manchester, my star, coming out of Fields’ cottage, steamed.”

That threw me for a loop. I knew Manchester and Fields didn’t get along, but Roger Manchester a murderer? That was like John Wayne fighting World War II for the Nazis. Then again, maybe I’d been so happed up on the Bowsers I hadn’t examined all the angles.

I thanked Seth and walked over to cottage A. Manchester was sitting on the porch like a king on his throne. Between anecdotes he was grinning for the tourists’ camera and signing autographs. The attention seemed to nourish the actor the way a wilted plant comes to life after a summer shower.

“Where would you like your autograph, Sheriff?” he said.

“Could we speak in private, Mr. Manchester?”

“Why not?” He released the hand of a young blond sitting beside him. “If you good people will please excuse me, I have to give a command performance for the law.”

As soon as we were inside, I said, “This is pretty serious. Yesterday you told me that on the night of Fields’ murder you went to bed early. Today, though, I uncovered a witness who saw you come out of Fields’ cabin at approximately the time of his death.”

The glow faded and his head drooped. Manchester turned his back to me and faced the barren fireplace. Finally he spoke. “Sheriff, do you know what it’s like to be Hollywood’s leading man, to be mobbed wherever you go by adoring fans, to have anything or anybody you want? Then, you wake up one day and it’s gone. The big parts aren’t there and neither are the fans. Your life becomes an endless stream of supporting roles to a lot of no-talent pretty-faces in B-movies and guest appearances on late-night television — just because your face shows a few wrinkles and your hair betrays a little grey.”

I wasn’t sure what he was getting at.

“I need this play. If it goes to Broadway, it’s my chance to get back in the limelight.”

“But what about Fields?”

“What can I say about a man who never did anything but a few dirty plays off-Broadway. You know, he even had a replica of a Tony made up and carried it with him everywhere. Well, that nobody was going to ruin it all. I went by his cottage that night merely to discuss some last minute blocking. Out of the blue he told me he was leaving the play — said he’d found a better deal.”

“So you...”

“Left. Furious. What else could I do? You can’t reason with a scoundrel like that.”

“Wait a minute! You just left? Can you prove that?”

Manchester paused a minute. “Perhaps. As I was leaving the cottage, I saw Philip Reede pull up. Of course I went to him and told him about Fields’ decision. He was even more outraged than I.”

With everybody’s sudden admissions, I was beginning to feel like the cheated-on husband — the last to know. “Why didn’t you mention this to me earlier?”

“Sheriff, a man in my position can hardly afford to become involved in such a sordid affair.”

“I’m afraid you’re already very much involved. Now, can you tell me what Reede did, where he went after you left him?”

“No.”

“Where can I find Reede?”

“Where he’s been all morning, with your daughter in the playhouse.”

As I left Manchester slumped before the fireplace, I had a sad feeling that he wouldn’t be signing any more autographs that afternoon.

It took a moment for my eyes to get accustomed to the darkness of the theatre. I could hear muffled voices as I moved toward the dimly-lit stage.

“Phil, you still haven’t told my why you changed my last speech?”

“Trust me. Now try the lines again. You cross to Roger, look him straight in the face, and say...”

Elaine hesitated, then began. “Duke Ferrara, I know my father the Count has promised you my hand, but I will not wed a murderer. You seem surprised that I have learned what happened to your last duchess. You offered her a famous name, riches, a castle. Soon after, you tired of her and cast her aside. In her sorrow she took her own life. Now callously you seek a new bride. Do you truly believe that another young woman by your side can restore your vitality, your youth?”

“Perfect,” Reede said. “You delivered the lines just as we practiced them.”

“But Mr. Fields would never have allowed such a change,” Elaine protested.

“Yes, but he’s no longer the director.”

I cleared my throat. “What I’d like to know, Mr. Reede, is — did you have anything to do with Fields’ sudden decision to pull out of the play — or his death?”

Startled, Elaine and Reede turned toward me. “Daddy!”

“I have a witness,” I continued, “who places you outside Fields’ cottage, in a state of anger, just before his death. And your little scene up there gives me a glimmer of a motive. If I remember that college lit class of mine, Hamlet changed the lines of a play that was to be presented at court in order to get his uncle to confess to murder.” At that moment I was thankful for stolen library books that had jogged my memory. “I’m not sure why you wanted the lines of this play changed, but Fields had to be put out of the way for you to do so.”

Reede walked slowly to the front of the stage and stared into the darkness. It was as if for the first time the mask he’d been wearing melted, and I saw the pained face of the real Philip Reede. “Actually, Sheriff, your comparison to Hamlet’s strategy is quite close to the truth. Both of us were using a play for revenge. I think I’ll feel better if I tell the truth. I wrote Death of the Duchess for one purpose — to get Roger Manchester. I wanted to shock the great leading man into realizing somebody knew what he had done, and originally Larry had agreed to help.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Larry Fields got lucky on a couple of skin shows, but what he always wanted to do was ligitimate theatre. Knowing that, I offered him a chance to direct Death, if he’d do it my way. He leapt at the opportunity. The other night Manchester told me Larry was pulling out before the premier, something about a big deal.”

Elaine trod downstage. “Phil, why did you use me like this? What do you have against Roger?”

“Roger Manchester is a murderer. To his fans those young girls he surrounds himself with are just pictures. For me, one of those girls was something more. Like Duke Ferrara, Manchester promised her the world. Then, when he was through with her, he tossed her out like yesterday’s newspaper. He didn’t care that she was in love with him. Three weeks after their breakup, Sylvia put a bullet in her head, and I lost a sister. My so-called friends tried to tell me that Sylvia was under a lot of pressure from other directions, that she was depressed over her career, but I knew it was all Manchester’s fault.”

“The Roger Manchester I left a few minutes ago seemed incapable of hurting someone intentionally,” I said.

“He used her, I tell you, he used her.”

“Are you really any better, Phil,” Elaine asked, “using me to get at someone who used your sister? You were willing to tell me anything, even that you loved me, to get me to do what you wanted. I should have realized you only showed interest in me after I took over the part from Samantha. Did you love her, or were you just using her too?”

Reede stood silently, the drops of perspiration on his forehead barely visible in the stagelight.

“There’s still the matter of Fields’ death,” I said. “For one reason or another you had a motive.”

“But,” Reede responded, “I have a alibi.” He looked at Elaine through sorrowful eyes.

“Phil couldn’t have killed Mr. Fields,” she said. “The other night when he left our house, he waited down the road for me. I went back with him to the playhouse. I was hiding in the front seat when Roger confronted him, and I went back to his cottage with him. I didn’t get home until early the next morning. That’s why there was mud on my shoes.” Elaine ran down toward me. “Oh, Daddy, I’m so ashamed of the mess I’ve gotten into.”

I held her in my arms like I hadn’t since she was a little girl, all the while feeling a bit of shame myself for what I had thought when I first saw the shoes. I walked with Elaine while she cried out her disillusionment. I didn’t try to stop her when she said that perhaps she had been too hard on Reede and headed back to the playhouse to talk things out.

As I drove away from the complex, I noticed the mob of tourists had knocked down a section of rail fence. Staring at the scene, I had a sudden thought. If I stepped on it, I could get to the courthouse before Mrs. Nims closed up.

Everybody was standing and applauding. Leaning against the theatre’s back wall beside me, Seth Fuller beamed. I don’t know, how Reede and Elaine had worked out their problems, but the lines at the end of Death of the Duchess had not been changed and Roger Manchester had given a magnificent performance.

I turned to Seth. “I guess you’d better come with me now.”

“I should have known better, but one big score and my dreams of a powerful regional theatre would have been possible. How did you figure it out?”

“Someone had to be directing Tod and Rod. Your old tobacco barn in back was a great place to store the marijuana, and the records down at the courthouse show that while you sold off a lot of property, you still own that plot of land behind Clem’s. The way I see it, you had a deal with the Bowsers, but on one of his walks Fields stumbled on the cache and wanted in. That was the big deal that caused him to drop out of the play. That night you saw Manchester return to his cottage. You waited for Elaine and Reede to go into his place. Then you confronted Fields. When you couldn’t work out something with him, you lost your hair-trigger timper and hit him with the trophy.”

“Don’t you see,” Seth said without looking at me, “I thought the play couldn’t go on without Fields, but he backed me into a corner. He wanted such a huge split I wouldn’t have been able to put the playhouse back in shape. There was nothing else I could do.”

Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I let Seth stay around long enough to accept the congratulations from the audience and cast. Today I had learned how bad shattered dreams could hurt.

Clement County settled down soon afterwards. Philip Reede went back to New York to launch Death of the Duchess. Elaine promised to come up for the premier. I didn’t much like the idea of her traipsing off to New York, but it was her decision. Reluctantly Sarah Fricker returned the books she had “borrowed” from the library and put up a TV antenna to feed her fantasies.

The only excitement we’ve had around here lately came the day the State Police destroyed the confiscated marijuana. TV cameras were everywhere. And wouldn’t you know, Reverend Spiker and CUT showed up to support the burning of “the demon weed” — downwind.