Antiques Fruitcake (5 page)

Or was it from down below?

“Yes, yes!” Virginia blurted. “Our thoughts precisely. Is the understudy up to the job?”

“I'm quite sure Kimberly will be marvelous.”

She would be even better than someone else whose name I won't mention because it's unkind to speak ill of the dead. Particularly the recently dead.

Now, dear reader, you may wonder why I—after coveting the leading role myself—wasn't jumping at the chance to take over. The answer (as another great detective once said) is, it was easy. There was one role in this production I would rather perform than Mrs. Hattie Anne Babcock, and that's Vivian Borne, Sleuth.

“Very good,” Virginia said. “Do keep us posted!”

And she ended the call.

I turned to the sheriff, who'd been listening to my half of the conversation. “It is
possible,
isn't it? To release the theater from crime scene quarantine?”

Rudder was rubbing his chin. “Might be to our advantage at that. Yes, Vivian, the show can go on.”

“Goody goody!”

“Restrain your glee, Mother,” Brandy said sourly. Even at Christmastime, she could find a way to be negative! “Do you want me to go find Kimberly?”

“Yes,” I ordered. “But let
me
give her the news that though she was going out there an understudy, she's coming back a star . . . suspect.”

Brandy back at the helm, and it
was
a tuba.

When Mother informed me that the murder of our leading lady was not going to prevent the show from going on, I was skeptical that we'd have anyone in the opening-night audience, apart from relatives of the cast and crew. Oh, there might be a few ghoulish folks curious to see what the play would be like, now that its star had fallen. I considered such people akin to ambulance chasers, and gawkers lingering near the scene of a crime.

But as curtain time neared, the auditorium began filling up, until hardly an empty seat could be found.

Maybe I'd underestimated the number of ghouls in Serenity. More likely this solid attendance reflected the show's substantial presale of tickets—if there's anything a Midwesterner hates, it's not getting his or her money's worth.

And, even under these circumstances, no matter who might be filling those seats and why, I'm sure all of us involved in the production were pleased to have a capacity house.

Yesterday, upon first hearing of the decision to go on with
The Fruitcake That Saved Christmas,
Kimberly had been reluctant, though admitting she was well prepared to step into Madeline's role.

Mother, along with Miguel, worked to convince her otherwise.

“Dear,” Mother said, “you must put aside your personal feelings. Think of everyone, including yourself, who have put their all into this production. Think of the food pantry and those it serves. Think of the tradition of our annual Playhouse Christmas production.”

“I . . . I just don't think I
can,
” the understudy replied.

“Kim, please,” Miguel said, facing her, taking her by the arms. “No matter what the circumstances, it's a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You'll be
wonderful
in the part.”

Kimberly blanched. “It's not about me being ‘wonderful,' Miguel—and it's ‘once in a lifetime' only because of a death. Shouldn't we try to do the respectful thing?”

His cheeks flushed. “Do you think that diva would have hesitated stepping in, if the circumstances had been reversed?”

Her eyes flared, and she broke away from Miguel. “Stop it! All of you. I won't be manipulated! It doesn't matter that we didn't like Madeline. She was murdered—on the very stage you want me to perform on! Maybe I should hit my mark and stand in the chalk body outline!”

“There won't be one, dear,” Mother said. “That's not a procedure that Sheriff Rudder employs.”

“I was just trying to make a point!”

Mother surreptitiously waved a hand to Miguel to stay back, then said soothingly, “I'm afraid as a director I do have a manipulative streak, and I do apologize if I drifted into the area of bad taste. The decision is yours.” She sighed. “Of course, if we don't go on, the less fortunate here in Serenity will have to do without a Christmas dinner. There's always next year!”

Good thing Mother was restraining her urge to be manipulative.

Blatant though that had been, Kimberly fell silent.

Mother and I exchanged glances. Miguel was studying the actress, his look tortured.

“All right, all right,” Kimberly said, shaking her head, the corn silk locks bouncing. “I'll do it. But only because it's for charity.” Then she added, her voice breaking, “And because . . . because
something
good has to come out of this.”

Mother patted the understudy's arm. “Thank you, dear. I felt sure you'd do the right thing.”

Definition of “the right thing”: what Mother wants.

Still, my first reaction was to think how brave Kimberly was. My second was to think that, if she turned out to be the killer, that had been a Tony-worthy performance....

And so, here it was, opening night, nearly curtain time. I was backstage, standing in the stage-right wing, not letting either fruitcake out of my sight. I was not about to allow a repeat performance of yesterday's fatal dress rehearsal.

Clara, next to me, dressed in a drab factory costume, was saying, “I just can't wrap my head around this.”

I glanced at her. Mother had given Kimberly's role of the cook to the intern. Clara seemed both happy and terrified.

I said, “Around what, honey?”

“That I'm actually
in
a play. Even
our
high-school productions? Always backstage.”

I smiled. “That's where
I
like it.”

The girl turned her plump face to me, some prettiness rising out of the plain features thanks to stage makeup. “I'm just so nervous, Brandy. I studied and studied my lines all afternoon. But what if I forget them?”

“You'll be fine,” I told her. “And if you do ‘go up,' as we say in the thea-tah, I'll be right here to feed 'em to you.”

“You're the best, Brandy.”

As the orchestra began the overture, Clara took my hand, holding it tightly, and I gave it a reassuring squeeze.

As it happened, Clara was letter perfect, and quite believable as a cook fond of fruitcakes.

Not that it took anything away from Kimberly, who really stole the show. She gave Hattie Ann Babcock a more sensitive, realistic reading than Madeline's tough-businesswoman's interpretation. If she lacked the late actress's showbiz savvy, Kimberly had charm to spare. The audience loved her, and when she came out for her curtain call bow, she got a standing ovation, and enthusiastic applause from the rest of the company.

Peeking out, I could see the fruitcake in the audience—that is, Mother—in her aisle seat in the first row, Sushi on her lap, looking ecstatic. Her play was a hit, and she couldn't have been happier—unless she'd played the lead herself.

After the curtain had come down for the last time, an ebullient cast and crew congratulated each other, buoyed by the audience's reaction.

For a few moments, the death on this very stage was forgotten.

But when Sheriff Rudder strode into this happy tableau, it came immediately back to everyone's mind.

“Well, Sheriff,” Mother chirped, “what did you think of our little production? Did it get you into a festive mood?”

“Just got here, Vivian. Didn't see it.”

Mother's expression could not have been more startled and offended had he thrown cold water in her face.

Snippily, she asked, “Then why did you bother coming here at all?”

“Because, Vivian, I have a job to do. You're in charge here, right? The director? Well, I want to see the following people—Paul, Martha, Miguel, Clara, Kimberly, and Leroy. Right now.”

Mother asked, “You mean in the dressing room?”

He shook his head. “No. Center stage is as good a place as any to act this out. Rest of you can leave!”

When the bit players and stagehands had departed, Rudder addressed the remaining little group gathered together in a semicircle right around the spot where Madeline had taken her last, unintentional bow.

With his back to the closed curtain, the sheriff said, “I'm sorry to have to detain you folks again, but we have some new information in this investigation.”

Kimberly blurted, “Sheriff, let everyone else go!”

“Excuse me, young lady?”

“I'm . . . I'm the one who poisoned the fruitcake.”

There were gasps from the rest of the suspects. Mother, ever the director, raised a cautionary hand, stopping any of her people from saying anything more.

Kimberly, her face firmly set, continued, “It was selfish of me to go on tonight. So horribly selfish. When they were all applauding, I felt awful. Terrible. So
guilty.
”

Miguel began to speak but Mother shook her head at him and he paused.

Kimberly explained: “I lied to myself and said I was only going on because this event was for charity. But in my heart I knew I took Madeline's place for selfish reasons. I don't care what it leads to—I have to take responsibility for my actions.”

Miguel stepped forward, shaking his head, no restraining gesture from Mother this time.

“Kim,” he said. “You don't have to lie.” He turned to Rudder. “She's just trying to protect me.
I
poisoned the fruitcake.”

“No, Sheriff!” Kimberly said, eyes wild. “He's trying to protect
me
!” She gazed at Miguel, her expression tragic. “Do you think I could live with letting you take the blame for my actions?”

Rudder patted the air with both hands. “All right, you two, enough. Who's telling the truth?”

“I believe they
both
are, Sheriff,” Mother said, stepping forward. “If without the other's knowledge . . .”

I had to agree—Kimberly was a good actress, but Miguel was no actor at all, and their heartfelt performance seemed sincere.

“Oh no,” Kimberly gasped, staring at Miguel. “Did you . . . ? Did you do it,
too
? Oh, my God, what have we done?” She covered her face with her hands.

An equally stricken Miguel looked at Rudder. “We were just joking around the other night, saying, wouldn't it serve Madeline right if she missed opening night and you went on instead? We joked about how just a little sprinkling of that rat poison would make her sick. Only, I started thinking it could
really
work, and Kim could go out there for Madeline, you know, and really shine. Then, after Brandy put the fruitcakes on the prop table, when I walked by? I . . . sprinkled a little of that rat poison on the fruitcake for Madeline.”

Kimberly wore an expression of horror. “I did the same thing! Just before I carried the fruitcake onstage. Just sprinkled a little on. I didn't, I swear to God, I
never
meant for her to die!”

Miguel turned to Kimberly, taking both her hands in his. “Neither one of us meant for Madeline to get anything but sick. But the combination of what we both did.... It was a kind of accident! We're not murderers.”

Mother said, rather clinically, “More like manslaughter, wouldn't you say, Sheriff?”

Throughout this emotional confession, I had been studying Rudder, who seemed detached during such important revelations, which puzzled me.

At least I was puzzled till he said, “Madeline
didn't
die from rat poison. She died from arsenic.”

Paul frowned. “Arsenic?”

Martha asked, “Where would any of us get arsenic?”

Janitor Leroy jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Outta the maintenance room.”

Clara said, “You mean . . . there wasn't just rat poison on top? There was poison
in
the fruitcake, too?”

“Nope,” Rudder said, shaking his head. “No poison baked in, and what was on top wouldn't have been enough to do the trick. Just make her sick, like you two kids thought. That fruitcake may have saved Christmas, but it didn't kill your leading lady.”

Everyone was taking this in with shocked expressions, except Mother, who said, “And you know this how, Sheriff?”

“Vivian, during the preliminary autopsy this afternoon, the doc did something called the Marsh test, which shows a fatal dose of arsenic was absorbed through the skin.”

Kimberly, smiling although in a hysterical fashion, said, “Then . . . then Miguel and I
didn't
kill her.”

“No,” Rudder said. “You may have acted like rats, but you didn't poison her . . . not to death, anyway.”

She and Miguel hugged each other, though neither looked exactly happy.

Mother asked, “Sheriff, what
part
of Madeline's skin absorbed the arsenic?”

“That would be her face.”

I asked, “How long would it take before . . .”

“It killed her?” Rudder finished. “Probably an hour or so.”

Mother had been fiddling with her cell phone, and now she moved next to Rudder.

“Shortly after the murder,” Mother said, “I took photos of Madeline's dressing room.” She held up the cell and let him see its screen. “This is a picture of the dressing table.”

“Yeah?” Rudder asked. “And?”

“Her liquid makeup bottle is missing.”

Rudder frowned, but he was nodding. “Which could be how the arsenic got on her face—in the makeup!”

“Almost certainly,” Mother replied. “And since that makeup always remained in her dressing room, it would have been easy for someone to have tampered with it.”

I said, “Mother, since Madeline left her dressing room at five minutes to eight, and died about eight-fifteen, who here had the opportunity to retrieve the damning bottle?”

Mother smiled in her best cat-that-ate-the-canary fashion. “I think I can determine that right now, dear.”

While the others exchanged glances, Mother walked downstage to the closed curtain where Rudder faced the suspects, positioned herself beside the sheriff, and pointed a finger at Paul.

“
You
were in the lighting booth between the time Madeline left her dressing room and collapsed onstage.”

Startled, Paul said, “So what?”

“So . . . you're in the clear.”

The finger moved on to Martha. “
You
were seated in the audience. You're in the clear.”

The finger next found Leroy. “
You
were operating the conveyor belt backstage. You're in the clear.”

The finger sought out Kimberly. “
You
were in the wing, standing behind Madeline. In the clear.”

The finger trained on Miguel. “And you? From my seat in the front row, I could see you standing in the stage-left wing. Also in the clear.”

Finally the finger settled on Clara. “But,
you,
dear, were in the wardrobe room, just a few steps away from Madeline's dressing room. It would have been child's play for you to retrieve the makeup bottle, which you'd laced with arsenic sometime before Madeline had arrived for rehearsal. What did you do with it, dear? Throw it in the Dumpster out back? Or toss it out your car window into a cornfield? No matter. The sheriff will find the bottle . . . and your fingerprints on it.”