A Midsummer Night's Scream (2 page)

ized that she needed to apply this skill to writing?

One thing she'd sensed, if not heard precisely,

at the mystery conference was that writing was a

job. A profession. At least for those who had been successfully published. Even Felicity Roane, her favorite author, had a new book out every nine or ten months. You couldn't do that by winging it every day, Jane suspected.

When she'd started the first book, she'd considered it something that might turn into a book. Or maybe only a fairly long short story. She had had no plan at all.

This time she wanted a map — of sorts. The main things she wanted to see and do if she were to take a long road trip. Conversely, she wanted to be able to wander the side roads when she spotted a billboard that promised there was something interesting to do or eat or learn about if you turned off at the next exit. That would be the best way to approach it if she wanted to succeed in the long run.

She'd already started making notes about who was the perp, who were the other likely suspects — and what their supposed motives were. There was also a list of clues, four or five good ones, she hoped she could insert without drawing attention to them. She was still working on a list of twenty or twenty-five things that might or might not happen.

Unlike her usual lists, which had to be in chronological order and all completed in one day, this could be random and fluid. Some of her ideas were really off the wall and she didn't know if

she'd pursue them. And anything that popped into her mind as she worked could be added.

She'd also decided she should sit in on some of the rehearsals, or at least ask for a copy of the script that would be used for the community theater play. It was, if Shelley was right, a lightweight mystery story set in the 1930s. It might provide some additional insights. If not, it wouldn't matter. She already had a vague sense of what she should be doing.

On the morning of the day Jane and Shelley were due to attend the beginning of the rehearsals that evening, they also took their first lesson in Beginner's Needlepoint. Both of them had admitted to having tried it when they were younger and made a botch of it. The materials cost fifty dollars, but that included a book of patterns, the canvas, needles, and thread. The lessons themselves were ten dollars each and would take place on Tuesday and Thursday mornings for four weeks.

The teacher was a woman in her late fifties, Jane guessed, and the class was held at her needlepoint shop in a room in the back. She had all sorts of her own work displayed and some borrowed from former students, in the shop and in the small classroom.

"We'll start with introductions. I'm Martha Haworth. Call me Martha."

Jane and Shelley introduced themselves aslongtime friends and next-door neighbors. A young woman with brutally short blond hair and a bit too much makeup said her name was Tazz. The next student was in her late twenties and very well groomed.
Junior League,
Jane thought. Her name was Elizabeth. Elizabeth didn't say so out loud, but made it clear that calling her Liz wasn't acceptable.

The fifth student was a middle-aged man, with a fierce-looking mustache and old-fashioned sideburns. "I'm Sam. My wife does needlepoint and I'd like to learn, but someone years ago told me not to ever ask someone who calls you 'honey' to instruct you."

Everybody laughed.

"The basics are simple," Martha said as she passed out books. "There are two kinds of needlepoint canvas. Mono, which is one thread, stiffly starched. And penelope, which is double strands very close together. We're starting with mono, which is thirteen holes to the inch. It's the best for using cotton floss. Good coverage, but not too fat. If you prefer to work in wool, we'll cover that later. And I've put together a bag of goodies from the shop for each of you.

"What you're going to do first is a sampler," she went on. "As many different stitches as you'd like to try. They're all in this book." She handed out a seventy-five-page book with detailed instructions on how to stitch sixty different pat-

terns. The rest of it was a few colored pictures of ten of the examples, followed by an index. Martha let them browse through it for a few minutes.

She then distributed equal-sized canvases, all with a lightweight binding around the edge. "I'm going to turn you loose in the shop now. I'd suggest you choose three colors that you like together. I have a color wheel you can consult. I suggest you choose one packet of floss for each color, one in a fairly light tone, and another of a medium tone, and a third a little darker. If you run out, you can always come to the shop for more. You want Number 3 weight cotton floss for this project. There are books on the front counter you can consult for what colors come in what sizes."

Jane hadn't paid a lot of attention to the shop on the way in and was stunned by the variety of colors available. She chose a combination of pinks, purples, and an off-white called ecru. Shelley picked greens, blues, and yellows.

When they were corralled back in the workroom, they compared their choices. Sam had chosen tans, blues, and ecru. Tazz had picked violent reds, blues, and stark white. Elizabeth had chosen colors that looked awful together to Jane — oranges, greens, and reds. All 'in sort of muddy hues.

The teacher's last remarks were warnings. "Don't get nervous and stitch too tight. It willbuckle the canvas. Don't stint on imagination. Make strips, odd sizes of rectangles or triangles. I'm giving each of you a packet of gridded paper to experiment with. There are also markers if you want to outline your pattern on the canvas. Don't worry, it will disappear when the work is washed. Remember to mark the canvas on the threads, not on the valleys between them.

"Wash your hands well before each session of work," she went on. "All this is in the packet, along with the right size blunt needles, and leather thimbles if you need them. We'll meet again on Thursday at the same time and see how much progress everyone has made. Have fun. And it's not a contest. It's just for fun. Keep that in mind.

"And my final advice is the most important, even though I mentioned it fleetingly already. Just like in knitting, crocheting, and sewing, use a light hand. It will save your fingers and keep the work looking good. If you work too tight, it will hurt you and your project both."

When Jane and Shelley arrived at the theater early that evening, Jane was astonished at the size and faded grandeur of the building. She tried the door, which was locked. "Never mind. I have a key," Shelley said.

The large lobby, which had held up a little better than the outside, was truly grand. Elaborate

gold-foiled trim around the two-story-high ceiling. Red marble floors. The same marble for pillars.

Shelley guided them through the large seating area. Jane admired the balconies, but was surprised that there was nobody on the stage. They heard voices and followed them to a room well behind the stage where there was a long table and chairs crammed close together. The backstage part of the theater wasn't nearly as grand as the public spaces. There had apparently been renovations several times. Some of the walls weren't even painted.

Three people were already there, pouring over scripts that looked fairly well worn. The young man at the head of the table stood up and said, "You must be Mrs. Nowack and Mrs. Jeffry. I'm Steven Imry. I'm the playwright and the Director." Jane could hear the capital
D
in his voice.

He continued, "I'm a graduate of the theater school at the college. I'm more than halfway through my master 's degree, and this is the second full-length play I've directed. Like the students among us who are on the Fast Track program, so are we. That's why we're rehearsing at night from six to ten. You're the ladies who are feeding us, right?",

Jane instinctively didn't like the look of him. He had deep frown lines on his forehead. His sandy hair was thinning. He wore old clothes thatwere all a little bit too big for him. And worst of all, he was one of those men with a tiny lump of beard just under his lower lip. She always thought this sort of mini-goatee looked like the man had chewed up a dead mouse and left a piece of the fur under his lip. She couldn't imagine why somebody would make himself look disgusting on purpose.

"So to speak," Shelley said with a hint of hauteur in her voice. "I've arranged for the catering and want to keep an eye on the people I've chosen to do it."

"And you?" he asked, turning to Jane.

"I'm just a taster and observer," she admitted.

She was still considering him. It was more than his appearance that bothered her, though. His voice was too loud. His clothing was shabby and he didn't smell quite clean. It seemed to her that it was a deliberate fashion statement.

Jane and Shelley sat down at the far end of the room. There were two rows of chairs apart from those around the table. Shelley looked at Jane and asked, "What's in that big bag you have? It's not your laptop bag."

Jane reached into the brown canvas bag and pulled out a rolled-up lightweight fabric that was flat and had about forty clear, soft plastic pockets. Many of them were filled with the different colored flosses she'd bought at the needlepoint shop that morning. Each color had a label and a piece

of the floss itself tied around it so she could be sure to buy the right color if she needed more. One clear plastic pocket held tiny scissors and one contained four extra needles. Jane was pretty certain she'd lose at least two of them before she was done with this project.

"What a neat thing! I didn't see that in the shop," Shelley said.

"No. It's meant for jewelry. I have one for you, too. A couple of well-meaning people who mistakenly thought I might own lots of jewelry have given them to me over the years. I knew I'd eventually find some other use for them."

You're not
the only one here,
Steve," another
man
said. Jane and Shelley were both startled and whirled around to where the voice had come from. He'd been sitting behind them. This man was about the same age as the director. He radiated goodwill. He rose from the chair and came around to introduce himself to Jane and Shelley as Jake Stanton.

"But in the play, I'm Edward Weston, the hero's younger brother." He was a bit on the beefy side, but much more attractive than the director. He had a mop of unruly curly brown hair, a charming crooked smile, and good teeth. Jane always noticed people's teeth. Shelley always remembered the color of their eyes. Jane could hardly remember the color of her own eyes.

Steve Imry spoke up. "Jake, I'm glad you introduced yourself by your script name. That's what we're going to do from now on. I've instituted this policy before, and it works well. It makes for a more cohesive cast."

Jake smiled before he turned to go to the table, and he winked at Jane and Shelley. It was clearly a joke aimed at the pompous director.

The third person had said nothing. She hadn't even taken her eyes from her script.

Jake sat down across the table from her and said to Jane and Shelley, "The sphinx sitting at the far end of the table is, according to our esteemed director, Angeline Smith. The showgirl tramp my big brother is bringing home to meet the parents."

The young woman finally looked up and spoke. "He means my character is a showgirl tramp. My real name is Joani. With an i at the end."

She was voluptuous and wore a red, clingy top that looked like the top half of a bathing suit specifically designed to show off her impressive cleavage. Her hair was so long and so glossy that Jane supposed it was a wig. Her makeup was a tad on the garish side.

Joani-with-an-i went back to reading her script and Shelley and Jane exchanged a glance. Each knew what the other was thinking.

Everyone was immediately distracted by the entrance of an elderly couple. They stood posed as if they owned the theater' and all those who were present. They were obviously waiting for the proper accolades.

"I'm so looking forward to working with you,Gloria and John," the director gushed. "Please make yourselves comfortable. Sit anywhere you'd like. Would either of you like a glass of white wine? I have a bottle chilled."

"Good man," John Bunting croaked. He sat down next to Joani and looked down her cleavage with a leer.

Jane had seen this couple, Gloria and John Bunting, that morning on a local television news show. They both seemed to think they were true stars. The interviewer had obviously never heard of them, and had asked them chirpily what movies they'd been in.

"Movies?" Gloria had drawled in a surprisingly deep voice for such a small woman, "Oh dear, too many to remember. But we started in live theater and have always felt more comfortable with a real audience."

The interviewer asked, to his later regret, what famous plays they'd been in. John rattled off a long, slightly slurred list of productions the interviewer (and Jane) had never heard of.

John Bunting leaned close to Joani and said, "You sure are a looker."

Joani got a whiff of his breath and moved her chair away from him, then turned her back to continue reading her script.

"John," Gloria said, "mind your manners." She tossed one of her many wayward scarves around her throat to make her point. She went around the

table and made John sit in another chair, while she sat next to Joani. She slapped her husband's copy of the script in front of him.

Professor Imry said, "I know it's unusual to send scripts out before the first reading session, but we're short on rehearsal time and I wanted the Buntings, in particular, to be prepared. I hope you've all read them and have them pretty well memorized already."

Jane studied Gloria Bunting. She looked better in real life than on television. She was about five foot four, slim but not skinny. She, like most aging actresses, had probably undergone a good deal of plastic surgery. If so, it didn't show. She had a small, thin nose, high cheekbones, and only a hint of wrinkles. Really good shoulders, which didn't seem to be padding. She must have been a very pretty woman when she was younger and was still attractive.