Antiques Fate (12 page)

(
Brandy to Mother:
Then I expect you left a note for the choir director, telling him as much. Because if you didn't, then you “borrowed” it.)

(
Mother to Brandy:
As it happens, I didn't leave a note. Simply not necessary. There were extra robes and it wouldn't be missed.)

(
Editor to Vivian and Brandy:
Ladies?)

(
Vivian to Editor:
Apologies.)

(
Brandy to Editor:
Sorry.)

With Sushi left behind in my room, Mother and I departed the inn, where we found Seabert out front picking up that irksome sign.

Seeing us, he grumbled, “I don't know who's been leaving these sick messages, but since it won't stop, Celia's having me remove the sign.”

“A wise decision, in the absence of security cameras,” Mother said. “Horses on the moon are one thing . . . threats a different matter.”

Especially when it seems someone might be carrying them out. The threats I mean, not the horses.

I said, “Why not set a trap?”

Seabert snapped, “I have no intention of hiding in the bushes.”

I might have been willing to, if he'd provided a good supply of Twizzlers (strawberry). But that didn't seem likely from such a grouch, so I kept that idea to myself. Anyway, there was a show to put on.

The innkeeper was hoisting the board on its metal stand to haul it inside as Mother and I turned in the direction of Stratford-on-Avon and the theater.

On the village green, the fete had finally come to a close, volunteers dismantling the tents and picking up debris. In the aftermath of a great social event, there's often an air of deathlike melancholy, and that was especially so in this instance.

On the short walk to the New Vic, Mother—purple robe flapping in the cool breeze—admitted she hadn't gone back to the inn for a nap (“No! Really?”) but had instead gone to the Red Lion Pub. She reported encountering one of Barclay's discarded lovers and told me how easy it was to recap a beer bottle.

As we approached the theater, Mother said, “Things are getting very intriguing, dear. I need to question Fred about why the numbers on my tickets were higher than Barclay's when the man was
behind
me in line.”

I took her arm, halting her. “Fine, but do that
after
the play, Mother, okay? We don't need the distraction right now. Rehearsal didn't go just . . . tickety boo, remember? More like floppity boom.”

“Point well taken, dear. I will table my investigation until after this evening's performance. An actor must leave his or her personal life at the stage doors! As a great thespian once said, ‘All is make-believe within those precious walls.' ”

“Right. What great thespian?”

“Vivian Borne, dear, Vivian Borne.”

I had to ask.

We entered the lobby where black-haired, black-garbed, multipierced Glenda was within her box-office booth getting ready for customers. She nodded to us, then gave us a muffled, “Good luck!”

This threw Mother, and she didn't have to tell me why. “Break a leg” was the only proper well-wishing allowed inside these “precious walls.” But Morticia Von Munster apparently didn't know that.

Chad came out of the office to greet us as we passed on our way backstage. Like Glenda, he was in black, though there was nothing Goth about it—a retro tight suit with narrow lapels, white shirt, narrow black tie. The normally blasé young man seemed unusually nervous. But then, he was in charge tonight, not his grandmother.

“I don't know if we'll have much of an audience,” he said, in an odd mix of apology and accusation. “Not after these damn deaths.”

Mother frowned. “Your grandmother informed me that over one hundred tickets had been presold.”

Chad shrugged. “That doesn't mean they'll come. Pre-solds are often merely a donation, you know, a show of support. Just thought I should warn you it might be a light house.”

Mother thrust out her chin as if begging for a punch. “No matter, my dear. Vivian Borne never stints on a performance, whether she plays to twenty or two thousand!”

(Or three, for her one-woman show of Libby Wolfson's
I'm Taking My Own Head, Screwing It on Right, and No Guy's Gonna Tell Me It Ain't
. Two, after intermission.)

I said, “I assume all of the trustees will be here.”

“The living ones, anyway,” Chad said with a humorless smirk. “And Brenda mentioned she's coming with Father Cumberbatch.”

Mother asked, “Will the good father be giving a benediction before the performance?”

“Yes,” Chad said. “But for
two
people, now.”

“I do hope he'll keep it brief. Could cast a pall on the evening.”

Not to mention cut into her performance time.

Mother asked, “I hope Fred has made it back from Serenity.”

“He has,” Chad said. “You'll find him backstage.”

We indeed found the handyman in the wings, positioning the card table I used for the hats.

Somehow Mother managed to keep her word about not questioning Fred about the tickets. But she did ask, “How's Brenda coping?”

Fred, in a navy broadcloth shirt and chino slacks, replied, “She's doin' all right, Mrs. Borne. She's even comin' tonight.”

“Chad said as much,” Mother replied. “Quite commendable, even brave, considering what she's been through. Perhaps a little harmless diversion will keep her mind off all this unpleasantness.”

Since the Scottish play was such a light, fun confection.

Fred was nodding. “And she especially wants to be here tonight, 'cause her uncle's favorite Shakespeare play was
Macbeth
.”

Mother cringed at the word and looked up as if the ceiling, or perhaps the sky above it, might fall.
We are in for it now,
her expression said. As for me, I didn't need anybody to mention
Macbeth
out loud to feel that doom was almost upon us.

The handyman was saying, “Anyway, Barclay was lookin' forward to seeing just how you were going to condense the play.”

Mother's eyes now went to the card table nearby. “Fred dear, with apologies for this sudden change of staging, I want to try something different tonight.”

“Wait, what?” I blurted, alarmed. “I don't think making
any
new changes is a good idea this late in the game.”

Deaf to my words, Mother instructed Fred, “I'd like that table
onstage
instead of in the wings.”

“What?”
I protested. “You mean
my
table? My table of hats?”

Her expression was kindly, but her eyes were Jack the Ripper's. “Dear, it's a burden for me to have to cross the boards to a wing, in order for you to hand me each hat. It puts my timing completely off.
That
is what was wrong at dress.”

“What about
my
timing?”

As we discussed this, Fred was already moving the table out onto the stage. “Where ya want it, Mrs. Borne?”

“Left of center, yes . . . a little more—
stop!
Perfection.
Thank
you, Frederick.”

My head couldn't have been spinning more if I'd been leaning over the top of the Empire State Building looking down. “So, what then? I'm . . . I'm supposed to stand next to the table?”

“Dear, I wouldn't think you'd want to be
seen
.”

“Well,
of course
I don't want to be seen!”

“Quite right, dear. So. We'll have you sit
under
the table—you and the hats.”

Darn that Fred for saying
Macbeth
out loud! Already the Scottish play was bringing down its curse....

“Now, Fred,” Mother said, “can you find a black cloth to cover the table so Brandy can't be seen? And of course she'll need a flashlight.”

“No problem,” he replied, and went off to get the two items.

Now I felt like I was
falling
from over the side of the Empire State Building. Somehow I managed to face Mother. “You want to change the staging
an hour out
? That's not just a bad idea, it's a
really
bad idea. And I won't do it! Not under any circumstances! I won't, I won't, I
won't
!”

So I'm under the table with the hats and a flashlight, to help me see what I'm doing. I sit cross-legged, and one foot is already asleep. The curtain is already up because Mother wants the audience to get used to the sparse stage.

Through a little hole in the drop cloth, I can see people filing in to the auditorium. I watch as the trustees enter in a group—Celia, Digby, Flora, and Father Cumberbatch with Brenda—but they part company and find various aisle seats (helpful for bathroom breaks and bailing on terrible performances).

It's a respectable turnout after all, and five minutes out, Chad closes the auditorium doors, then sits in the otherwise empty back row.

Father Cumberbatch rises from his aisle seat, walks purposely to the stage steps, and ascends.

The auditorium hushes as he moves to the center of the apron, pauses, then speaks in a reverent voice. “Let's begin the evening with a silent prayer for Millicent Marlowe and Barclay Starkadder, two of Old York's most valued citizens, taken from us prematurely. Please bow your heads.”

Most folks do. But some don't, including Digby Lancaster.

After a seemingly endless minute of silence, the priest begins the Lord's Prayer, and the audience joins in. Even Digby. Even a theatrical assistant in black under a cloth-draped card table.

Afterward, Cumberbatch gives a five-minute eulogy— during which time Mother fidgets in the wing, clearly irritated by this upstaging—then the priest returns to his seat.

The lighting technician drops the auditorium into darkness. A spotlight shines center stage, into which a purple-robed Mother strides, wearing a witch's hat.

“‘When shall we three meet again?'” the first witch cackles loudly.

Mother hops to a different spot. “ ‘When the hurly-burly's done
,
' ” says the second witch.

Again, Mother jumps to a new position. “ ‘That will be ere the set of sun
,
' ” cackles the third witch. And my flashlight goes out.

Thank you, Fred, you spouting-
Macbeth
-out-loud-jerk!

I feel around in the dark for the hats needed in the next scene, which is between Macbeth and Banquo, captains on the battlefield. Mother's feet appear in back of the table, her hands come down, reaching under the tablecloth, and I fill them with two hats.

She steps back into the spotlight.

“ ‘So foul and fair a day I have not seen,' ” cries Macbeth (only Mother is wearing Lady Macbeth's lacy bonnet).

The audience titters.

Mother changes positions and hats.

“ ‘How far is't call'd to Forres?' ” asks Banquo in King Duncan's crown.

The audience laughs.

Mother's feet return.

I lift the cloth. “Take a bow and quit, Mother.”

She leans down, indignant.

“What?” she whispers. “Did Sarah Bernhardt ever quit? Or Lillie Langtry? Never! Give me a hat.”

I do.

“ ‘O, never shall sun that morrow see!' ” cries Lady Macbeth, wearing her husband's helmet.

The audience howls.

Mother accelerates, speaking her lines faster, hopping around quicker, like she's in a Keystone Kops silent.

I'm not proud of what happens next. I shove all the hats out onto the stage, like going “all in” in poker, then—lifting the table up on my back, carrying it with me—duck-walk quickly toward the wings, a table with six legs attempting an exit.

But the helmet-wearing Lady Macbeth notices my would-be escape. “Oh, no you don't!”

Not a line from Shakespeare, much less the Scottish play, but the audience reacts with peels of laughter.

Mother grabs the tablecloth, thrusts it off magicianlike, exposing me beneath. Gasps of laughter rock the house as she pulls the table off me, while I keep on duck-walking to the wing, lacking only Chuck Berry's guitar, as the crowd screams with laughter.

As Mother valiantly carries on, I hide in a dressing room. But, later, when I hear thunderous applause, I come out and stand in the wing, watching Mother take bow after bow.

She sees me and motions for me to join her, and I do, and we bow together, as if the play had come off exactly as intended. Better, even.

Afterward, Celia was the first to come up onstage to congratulate us.

“You both were
marvelous
,” the innkeeper beamed. “Millie had kept it
completely
secret!”

Mother asked, “Kept what secret, dear?”

“That you planned to present the play as such a broad comedy!”

Not missing a beat, Mother said, “Perhaps Millicent wanted to keep that as a surprise.”

The other trustees surrounded us.

“I don't think this delightful farce could have come at a better time for Old York,” Father Cumberbatch said, chuckling all the way. “If ever a performance lifted a community's spirts,
this
is it.”

Flora, wiping beneath her eyes with a tissue, laughed. “You quite destroyed my mascara!”

When Digby didn't voice his opinion, Mother asked, “And how did you like our unique Shakespearean interpretation, Mr. Lancaster?”