A Puzzle in a Pear Tree Page 10
“Sandbags don’t fall,” Chief Harper pointed out grimly. “Sandbags get dropped.”
“They can fall if they’re tied off wrong,” Rupert Winston suggested.
The sandbag in question was attached to rope and was part of a counterweight system used for flying flats. It was a round, ten-pound affair, which would have crushed Becky Baldwin to a pancake had she had been standing two steps farther stage left. Now it lay in the middle of the stage along with the length of rope, which had fallen after it.
“Where was the rope tied off?” Chief Harper asked.
Rupert pointed. “The rope went up into the flies over a pulley, then stage right over another pulley, then down the side wall where it’s tied off to the pinrail. Just like all the other ropes.”
“Looks like someone did a sloppy job. And who would that be?”
Alfred Adams, still carrying his drum and one drumstick, opened his mouth to protest, but Rupert interposed smoothly, “It could have been anyone on the tech crew.”
“Were they here today?”
“Oh, now, look—” Alfred protested.
“I take it you were here?”
“Alfred was in here this morning. Before he had to be in the stable.”
“Right,” Harper said grimly. “You were Joseph,” he told Alfred. “As I recall, you realized you were late for your turn, and had to run out. What were you working on before you left here?”
“I was hanging lights.”
“On a ladder?”
“No. Onstage.”
Chief Harper looked puzzled.
“The lights in the flies are hung on bars,” Rupert Winston explained. “The bars are lowered to stage level and lights are hung. Then they’re hoisted back up into the flies and aimed.”
“Hoisted how?”
“They’re hoisted by ropes, and tied off to the pinrail.”
“The same pinrail where that sandbag was tied off?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”
Chief Harper eyed Alfred Adams critically. “Any chance you could have untied one rope when you thought you were tying another?”
“No way!”
“Hmm. Let’s see the pinrail.”
Drummers, pipers, lords, and ladies gave way as Rupert Winston led Chief Harper into the stage-right wings, with Cora Felton tagging close behind.
On the side wall, about waist high, was a long, black pipe, about six inches in diameter, with sturdy black pegs sticking straight up and straight down about a foot apart. Ropes were twined around each pair a few times and tied off with a half hitch.
Flats, door frames, and furniture, piled up against the wall, obscured over half the pipe.
“What’s all this?” Harper asked.
“Oh, that’s the Seagull set.” Rupert was getting impatient. “It’s the high school play I’m directing. We had to move the set out of the way for the Christmas pageant.”
“Well, the set is blocking your pinrail. When was it moved?”
Rupert’s eyes widened as the significance of the question dawned on him. “Just this afternoon, but I assure you—”
“Who moved it?”
“I did,” Jesse Virdon answered defiantly. The young tech director was wearing his headset, even though it wasn’t connected to anything. He stuck his chin out, as if daring anyone to find fault. “I took down the old set and put up the new one. All by myself. I worked all afternoon. And no one helped.”
Harper sized him up. The quarrelsome young man was thin but muscular. The chief could imagine him schlepping the whole set by himself. Harper pointed to the pipe. “You untie any of these ropes?”
“I untied four ropes connected to the set I took down. And I tied off the same four ropes when I connected them to the set I put up.”
“Where was the sandbag tied off?”
“How the hell should I know?”
Harper turned to the director. “How about it, Mr. Winston?”
“I have no idea. You see the free spaces on the pinrail? It could have been any one of them.”
Chief Harper inspected the rail. “What is this rope here?”
The rope had been wound around the bottom and top pegs a couple of times, but had not been tied off.
“I don’t know. Let me see.”
Rupert took hold of the rope, pulled on it.
Everyone looked up.
In the flies, a long pole with several stage lights attached to it rose slightly.
“My God,” Rupert said. “It’s the light pole. I thought you tied that off.”
“I did tie it off!” Alfred protested.
“It’s not tied now. And neither was that sandbag. You mind telling me how that happened?”
Alfred, picked on, looked betrayed. “I have no idea how it happened. I tied everything off.”
Jesse Virdon folded his arms and jutted out his chin. “ I didn’t untie it.”
“Well, tie it off now,” Harper said, “and let’s make sure everything else is tied.”
Everything was.
“Satisfied?” Rupert Winston asked, somewhat querulously. “Now, could I go on with my rehearsal?”
Harvey Beerbaum stuck his oar in. “How about a red envelope? Shouldn’t we be looking for another puzzle?”
Cora Felton ground her teeth, but, uncharacteristically, held her tongue.
“Yes, yes, we’ll certainly be on the lookout for that,” Rupert Winston told Beerbaum impatiently. “Now, if we could please get on with it—”
But before they could, Jonathon Doddsworth burst in. “I just heard! Is everyone all right?”
Rupert Winston clapped his hands to his head. “God save me!”
“Everyone’s fine,” Harper informed the inspector. “A sandbag just fell.”
“Great Scott! Where?”
“On the stage.”
“It didn’t cosh anyone?”
“No, it didn’t.”
“Did it come close?”
“It just missed Miss Baldwin.”
“By a mile,” Becky corrected. “I’m fine. Everyone’s fine. Let’s rehearse.”
“Steady on,” Doddsworth insisted. “Did you conduct a search?”
“No. We didn’t.”
“Really?” Doddsworth’s eyebrows formed perfect arches. “And yet the first puzzle was discovered right here onstage. And the second in the girls’ dressing room. Which would be downstairs, would it not?”
“Yes, it would be.”
“I should think a search was warranted.”
“Well, go ahead and conduct one,” Rupert Winston said, “but would you mind doing it to music?”
Doddsworth stared him down. “A girl has met her death. Perhaps you appreciate the importance of an investigation?”
Rupert never blinked. “I certainly do.” He gestured to the actors. “And these people do too. If they don’t get out of here until after midnight, I’m sure they’ll understand who is responsible.”
Doddsworth’s nose twitched. “So be it. You go about your business and I shall go about mine. This is not a dress rehearsal?”
“No.”
“Then you shan’t be using the changing rooms?”
“No, we won’t.”
“Splendid. I’ll begin with them. How might I get there?”
“The stairs in the backstage corner.”
“Which corner?”
“Either. There’s two stairs.”
“Really? Fascinating.” Doddsworth pushed his way into the wings.
Rupert rolled his eyes and clapped his hands together. “Now then, people, if you wouldn’t mind, let’s take it from the top.”
It was deadly quiet as Becky Baldwin stepped out onstage. No one moved, but everyone watched. Chief Harper and Dan Finley watched from the wings.
Becky Baldwin, despite her bravado, seemed almost hesitant. But there was a proud defiance to her carriage. She kept her chin high, glided to the exact spot where she had been when the sandbag came crashing down.
Dan Finley watched the flies.
The music trilled.
Becky smiled and began, “ ‘On the first day of Christmas,my true love gave to me.’ ”
Jimmy Potter marched proudly on from stage left, singing in a clear tenor, “ ‘A partridge in a pear tree.’ ”
Jimmy thrust the partridge and pear tree at Becky, who oohed and ahed and fussed over them while the music vamped. Then, quick as a wink, Jimmy and his present were gone from the stage, as Becky began again, “ ‘On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me.’ ”
Mary Cushman, the plump owner of Cushman’s Bake Shop, accompanied by an even plumper woman Cora did not know, entered the stage holding large papier-mâché birds. Mrs. Cushman sang the solo line, “ ‘Two turtledoves.’ ” Then, as Jimmy Potter came marching back onstage, he and the two women sang, “ ‘And a partridge in a pear tree.’ ”
Cora, backstage with her pail and milking stool, mentally calculated the odds of Rupert Winston stopping the run-through before he got to the maids a-milking. She figured them to be pretty high. Of course, her calculation might have been influenced somewhat by the glimpse of Jonathon Doddsworth disappearing down the stage-right stairwell with the stated intent of searching the dressing rooms.
This, Cora knew, was a fool’s errand. Surely there was nothing of import in the dressing rooms.
Even so.
Cora bristled at the thought of Jonathon Doddsworth searching them.
What if he found something?
Onstage, Becky Baldwin began musing about the third day of Christmas.
Rupert Winston cried, “Wait! Wait! You’ve jumped the gun! You must leave time for everyone to get off. Take it from the exit.”
The interruption tipped the scale.
Cora Felton set her pail and milk stool along the back wall, and slipped quietly down the stairs.
The hallway was empty. Cora, who’d never entered it from backstage, had to take a moment to orient herself. The costume and props rooms would be on her left. The girls’ and boys’ dressing rooms would be down the corridor to the right.
A light was on in the costume room. Cora peeked in, but there was no one there. Just dress dummies, sewing machines, full-length mirrors, and racks and racks of costumes. It occurred to Cora, if Doddsworth chose to search it, it would take him some time.
Cora left the costume room, crept down the hall.
Light spilled out under the girls’ dressing room door. If Doddsworth was in there, he had closed the door behind him so as not to be disturbed. Well, wasn’t that just like him. Tough luck, Sherlock.
Cora turned the knob, pushed open the door.
Inspector Doddsworth stood at the far end of the room, inspecting the costumes hanging from the rack. He spun around at the sound of the door.
Cora’s heart skipped a beat.
In Doddsworth’s hand was a red envelope.
20
“WHERE’D YOU GET THAT?” CORA BLUSTERED. SHE WASN’T exactly sure what she was going to do about another puzzle, but she managed to put up a brave front.
Doddsworth seemed reluctant to tell her. After a pause he said, “I found it in a costume.”
“Pinned to it?”
“No. Propped up.”
“Becky Baldwin’s costume?”
“I wouldn’t know. Which one would be Miss Baldwin’s costume?”
“I’m not sure it’s even here. These are just the finished costumes. The ones the wardrobe lady is still working on are in the costume shop. That’s where mine is. I saw it when I peeked in just now,” Cora blathered. Would Doddsworth notice she was prattling on nervously, desperately trying to figure out what she was going to do when he opened the envelope? “Let’s see, this is a ladies dancing. That’s a ladies dancing. That’s a maid a-milking, but it’s not mine. Ah, here we are.” She stabbed a finger at a pale pink dress with an attractive embroidered lace trim. “That’s Becky’s dress.”
Doddsworth nodded. “That’s the one. The envelope was wedged in the neck hole.”
“Interesting,” Cora said. “The first one was pinned.”
“Well, this one was not.” Doddsworth held the envelope up. “Not a puncture in it, now, is there?”
“I can see that.”
Doddsworth was holding the envelope by the corner with his handkerchief. He whipped a crumpled plastic bag from his coat pocket, shook it out, stuck the letter in. “Not that I expect any prints. The first three envelopes were clean. But as to the contents . . .”
Cora’s eyes flicked. “Yes. The contents.”
“If this should be another puzzle, your presence is fortuitous.”
Cora was trying to think of a comeback when from above there came a bellow as thunderous as a foghorn. “WHERE THE HELL IS MY MAID A-MILKING?”
The unmistakable bellow of Rupert Winston rattled the rafters. Luckily, no more sandbags fell.
“Oh, my God, I missed my cue!” Cora grabbed Doddsworth by his coat sleeve. “Come on! Come on! You gotta show them what we found—all right, you found— but I need a diversion or I’m gonna be hung out to dry!”
“I’m not sure everyone should see this—”
“Fine. Take it away with you,” Cora suggested, desperately dragging him toward the stairs. “Grab Chief Harper and get out of here. Just make enough noise doing it so Rupert has someone else to yell at. I’ll owe you one.”
“If it’s a puzzle we’ll need your help,” Doddsworth pointed out.
“Take Harvey. Rupert won’t care. If you take me, he’ll freak.”
They had reached the top of the stairs, where dozens of actors hissed, “Come on, come on, where are you! Get out there!”
Cora walked out onstage, where Rupert stood motionless. The director looked like a time bomb primed to explode.
“Miss Felton. How thoughtful of you to join us.”
Astonishingly, Doddsworth came to Cora’s rescue. That was how it looked to everyone in the theater. The inspector strode out onstage, his overcoat flapping behind him, and stepped between Cora Felton and the director, actually shielding her behind his arm. “Mr. Winston. I regret that a situation has arisen which requires Miss Felton’s attention. I fully appreciate your need to rehearse, and I promise I shall return Miss Felton with all due speed. But at the moment, the game’s afoot. So do carry on in our absence, there’s a good chap.”
“Now, see here,” Rupert Winston sputtered. “You can’t do that.”
“I can and I will,” Doddsworth told him. “I happen to need Miss Felton’s assistance with this.” He reached into his coat and pulled out the plastic bag with the red envelope. The gesture would have been more dramatic had he not dropped the evidence bag on the floor. Even so, its production was greeted with oohs and ahs.
Rupert Winston’s mouth fell open. For once the director could think of nothing to say.
“So,” Doddsworth went on airily. “Perhaps we can clear up this little matter of someone bombarding your actress. Chief Harper, if you would accompany us. Miss Felton, where’s your wrap?”
Cora cast a pleading glance stage left, where Sherry Carter stood amid the ladies dancing. Sherry shrugged helplessly. Under the circumstances, what could she do?
“Sure you don’t want Harvey?” Cora whispered desperately as Doddsworth spirited her away.
“From the expression on your director’s face, it would be prudent to remove you from the line of fire.”
On any other occasion Cora might have been grateful.
As they drove to the police station, Doddsworth filled Chief Harper in on the discovery of the fourth envelope. Cora barely heard. She was too busy trying to think of a way out.
Cora was trapped, and she knew it. Any minute now she was going to be confronted with a puzzle that she could not solve. This time there was no escape. Sherry wasn’t there to slip her the answers. Harvey wasn’t there to do the puzzle for her. She could hardly smash her glasses again.
Maybe she could drop them, lose them in the snow. It was coming down harder now, covering the road. Maybe Chief Harper would skid and have an accident.
It occurred to Cora how desperate she was.
And how short the trip was from the high school into town.
Chief Harper cruised down Main Street and pulled up before the police station, a white building with green shutters that could have passed for any of the other shops on the picturesque street, and had once actually been one. He ushered Cora and Doddsworth up the steps and fitted the key in the door. A native New Yorker, Cora could never get used to the concept of a police station that was locked because no one was there.
Chief Harper flipped on the lights, stamped the snow off his boots, and led the way into his inner office.
“Let’s not stand on ceremony,” he said. “Where’s the new clue?”
Doddsworth fished the plastic bag out of his pocket, then put on thin rubber gloves. “Useless precaution. Our poet doesn’t leave prints, but even so. Have you a letter opener, Chief?”
The chief did. Doddsworth inserted it into the flap, slit the envelope. He pulled out a folded piece of paper and opened it.
Cora Felton sucked in her breath.
“Well?” Chief Harper demanded. “Is it another puzzle?”
Doddsworth looked up from the paper at Chief Harper, then looked at Cora, then down at the paper again.
He turned the paper around for them to see.
On it was written:
WRONG GIRL.
21
THE BAKERHAVEN MALL WAS LIT UP LIKE A CHRISTMAS TREE, with enormous plastic Santas blazing bright on every lamp pole. There were also angels, stars, bells, and wreaths, but they were discreet wire sculptures outlined in tiny white lights, actually rather artistic and tasteful, if one could see them through the commercial Christmas haze.
Not that any such reminder to shop was necessary. The parking lot was jammed, and cars were hungrily circling.
“Good lord,” Cora griped as she piloted the Toyota through the rows. “What kind of shopping mall is this? No parking spaces?”
“It’s almost Christmas.”