Midsummer Murder (10 page)

someplace really far away.”

Biddy opened the door and waited for her. “I think he’s just jealous that you get all the excitement.”

“Glen? He doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body.” Lindy scrunched up her face. “How many plays on the word ‘bone’ do you think there are?” She tap-danced through the door.

Biddy joined in behind and they shuffled and ball changed their way to the bottom of the stairs.

“God, what if Sandiman saw us?” Lindy widened her eyes and looked around.

“He’d say,” said Biddy, “‘Thank you, madam, for making me laugh.’” She gave Lindy a quick hug and ran up the stairs.

* * *

Midsummer Murder

the Eastons lived an artistic, almost literary existence: from the studios named for famous dancers to the volumes of Shakespeare on the library shelves; from the Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson wings of the annex to the statuary displayed among the trees.

Lindy looked heavenward and opened the door. Ellis stood by the fireplace, drink in hand. Sandiman hovered nearby, tray of glasses at the ready.

“Ah, there you are,” said Ellis, coming forward to greet them.

“I’m afraid it’s only us this evening. The Clevelands have arrived, and Jeremy and Marguerite are with them. Chi-Chi and Robert have begged off, and Stuart is up to his eyeballs in business calls. I don’t know why he can’t just let Stu Junior sink or swim on his own.

Given half a chance, the boy might learn something about running a business.”

Stuart joined them as they entered the dining room, apologizing for being late. There were only four places set. Fortunately, they were all at the foot of the table instead of being spread evenly across the great distance of mahogany.

It was curious to Lindy that Ellis had not graduated to the head of the table tonight in Marguerite’s absence. It was even more curious that Marguerite sat at the head when a male Easton was present.

Yours is not to judge,
she thought, then wondered if she would be speaking in iambic pentameter by the end of their two-week stay.

Stuart and Ellis were more relaxed and spontaneous than she had seen them before. They talked easily about any subject that happened to come up. Ellis was knowledgeable in all areas of art and travel, and Stu added a refreshing slant on business and finance.

It was obvious that the two men enjoyed each other’s company and appreciated the chance to show off to an appreciative female audience. By the time the main course was served, they had moved on from the museums of Europe to wild tales of African safaris and cruises up the Nile.

Ellis recalled Stu’s scheme for tours into Machu Picchu. “Sort of a Club Med Among the Natives. A lunatic idea.”

Stu laughed. “Not at all. It was a challenge.”

“What happened?” asked Biddy.

Stu’s laughter subsided to a chuckle. “While I was busy wheeling and dealing with the authorities, Ellis goes and gets lost in the Andes.”

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Shelley Freydont

He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level.

“When we finally found him—days later, I might add . . . ” He cast an amused look at Ellis. “He had been adopted by a tribe of local Indians; waited on hand and foot by a score of topless, nutbrown maidens.”

Ellis blushed.

Stu laughed louder. “The man who would be king. I wish you could have seen it.”

They lingered over coffee and brandy without leaving the table.

Lindy was having such an enjoyable time, that she forgot about the sad duty that was being performed elsewhere in the house.

When their coffee was finished and they were standing in the hall, Ellis excused himself. “Thank you for putting up with the memories of a couple of old men. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just check on how things are faring in the library.” With a nod, he left them.

“Speak for yourself, old boy,” said Stu flipping his cane toward his friend. “I’m ready for twenty more years of the same. But in the meantime, I’m off for a postprandial stroll among the trees. Would you ladies care to join me?”

Biddy and Lindy thanked him, but declined, saying they had to get up early the next day. That was true, but Lindy had no intention of strolling darkened paths where a boy had just fallen to his death. She had to bite her tongue in an effort not to warn Stuart to be careful and thus bring up the subject they had managed to avoid all evening.

62

Six

Rolls of thunder reverberated through the night air. Flashes of lightning lit the window, followed by cracks that sounded like a bull whip. A piercing ring jolted Lindy from sleep. Bleary-eyed, she reached out from the covers and turned off the alarm clock. Beyond the window, the sky was a clear blue, washed of imperfections from the continuous falling of rain during the night.

“Is he gone?” croaked Biddy.

“Who?”

“The guy with the black cape and fangs.” Biddy sat up, blinking.

“I swear that was the most Bela Lugosi night I ever didn’t sleep through.”

There were dark circles under Biddy’s eyes. Her hair was even wilder than usual, her cinnamon curls splayed out from her face like an electric shock.

“I think you should get a couple more hours of sleep,” said Lindy throwing back the heavy comforter and dropping her feet to the floor.

“Hmmm,” said Biddy and the blanket went back over her head.

Lindy hurried to the bathroom, shivering. Her feet flinched away from the cold tiles as she walked quickly across to the bathtub and turned on the tap.

A few minutes later, she forced herself from the hot shower, donned walking shorts and a sweatshirt, hurriedly gulped down a cup of coffee, and made her way to the theater. It was 9:05.

The theater was fifty years old and had been converted from an existing building. Like the main house, it was built at the edge of the clearing with a downward slope at the back, which created an extra floor for wardrobe, scene shop, and dressing rooms below the stage 63

Shelley Freydont

level. She followed the loading drive around the back to the stage door. The driveway was enclosed on one side by the concrete of the theater foundation and on the other by a steel handrail painted green.

A mesh elevator for loading equipment and scenery was housed in a wooden silo that jutted out from the far end of the building.

She entered the stage door, passed several dressing rooms that were now empty, and followed the sound of Rose’s voice down the hall to the wardrobe room.

The room was a narrow rectangle. Racks of costumes surrounded the walls. Below them, black theater trunks had been pushed up against the wall to clear as much space as possible. An ironing board and steamer claimed one end of the room along with a table covered with sewing boxes, scissors and portable sewing machine.

In the center of the tightly packed space, Rose was stalking around a girl dressed in one of the Ash company costumes. Beneath it, she was wearing tights and a leotard. A pair of Birkenstock sandals completed the ensemble. Rose talked nonstop as she circled the figure, gesturing with her hands. She pulled at the bodice, added a straight pin to a seam, and began adjusting the waist.

Four girls followed behind her like a brood of baby chicks. They were already dressed for ballet class, which by Lindy’s calculations had started five minutes ago. But Rose held her audience captive.

They hung onto every word while they stood on tiptoe to see over her shoulder or bent to the side to see around her. They moved in a circle with her as she explained how to baste the seams before sewing them on the machine, how to fold back the elastic straps without cutting them, so they could be let out again for the next person who would need to wear the costume.

“Okay, that does it,” said Rose as she unzipped the dress. “If you all hurry, you can get to ballet before the end of
tendus
. Tell Andrea that I’m sorry we ran over.”

The girls grabbed their dance bags and made for the door.

“Be back at twelve, and we’ll start with the alterations,” she yelled as the girls hurried away. “Bring your lunch.”

“Holy Moly.” She sank onto a closed trunk and unclipped a barrette from the top of her head. Two long plaits fell down on either side of her ears, ending just at her bustline. “That took forever.

They had a million questions. I don’t think one of them had ever 64

Midsummer Murder

seen a needle and thread before, except maybe in a museum.” She sighed a martyr’s sigh.

“Better you than me,” said Lindy.

“Ask not for whom the bells . . .” She finished the quote by tilting her head side to side. The ends of the braids swung back and forth in an arc across her shirt front. “They toll . . .” the braids swung again, “

for me. What do you need?”

“Nothing. Just wondering . . . how things are going.”

“Well, you saw for yourself. Slow but energetic. I don’t know how much they learned about costuming, but I got an earful of camp gossip.”

Rose stretched her mouth into an Emmett Kelly frown. “Whose calves are too big, who should never wear a unitard, who’s a binge eater, who sneaks off into the woods to ‘do it.’ Their words not mine. God, were we ever that young?”

Never, they agreed.

“I also got the lowdown on Larry Cleveland and the kid that threw up in rehearsal yesterday. It’s the morsel of the week.”

Lindy swallowed. This was not a good topic on a stomach whose only contents were coffee.

“I guess this Larry kid was a piece of work. Gorgeous on the outside but a conniving little bastard on the inside. It seems he used them in more ways than one. He passed around a lot of favors, but they had to pay.”

“How so?”

“Money, gifts, stuff like that. He even made one girl do his laundry. His death has the camp split down the middle. Those who loved him, and those who would be glad he’s dead if they were old enough to realize it.”

“A pretty elaborate setup for someone only seventeen.”

“Yeah, well everything else happens sooner these days, why not that? I got the distinct impression that he liked girls as well as boys, to tell by the blushes that the mention of the autopsy report brought on.

My guess is there will be a lot of ballerinas running for AIDS tests as soon as they leave camp.”

“How did you get them to tell you all of this?” asked Lindy. “My kids clam up whenever I try to bring up the subject of sex. They think anyone over forty doesn’t have a clue.”

Rose shrugged. “Give ’em twenty years.” She heaved herself off the trunk. “Costume fittings are like a crowded bar with me as the bartender. I don’t think they even realized what they were saying.”

65

Shelley Freydont

* * *

Lindy left the theater and checked in on Andrea’s ballet class.

Things were fine there, too.

Well,
she thought,
there’s nothing for me to do but . . . enjoy my
surroundings.
A hike would be perfect exercise before an afternoon in a dark theater with the students. Though, between Robert and Jeremy and the rest of the teachers, she probably wouldn’t be needed there, either.

Behind the theater, she climbed down a set of stairs that had been carved out of the rock. The day was cool. The leaves of the trees were still wet and dripping from the night’s deluge. The smell of wet earth and moldy leaves invigorated her. Her sneakers made crunching noises in the gravel as she broke into a jog.

The path ran downward in an easy slope, then veered off to the right. She picked up her pace as the path left the trees and followed the edge of the mountain. A guardrail prevented inattentive hikers from pitching down to the path that snaked its way below her.

She pulled her sweatshirt over her head and tied it around her waist without breaking her stride. Several yards later she slowed to a walk. A man was standing at the curve of the path where the shape of the land made a natural lookout point. His hands rested lightly on the guardrail and he gazed out at a vista that rivaled the view from Marguerite’s sitting room. He turned as he heard her approach.

“Good morning, Lindy. Lovely day for a hike.”

“Morning, Ellis.” She sat down on a wooden bench that was supported by two boulders. She grabbed her foot with both hands and stretched her calf, then repeated the action with the other foot. “I expect it’s easier going down than it will be coming back up.”

“Indeed. Though this is as far as I usually go. One of the best views you can find.” He took an invigorating breath. “I told Marguerite the weather would be good for the weekend.” He smiled as if he had been instrumental in bringing it about.

They sat and stood in silence for a few minutes admiring the view.

“Easton country,” he said with a sigh.

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Midsummer Murder

“You own all of this?” The landscape stretched for miles—

and miles.

“Most of it, except for the town, and where we leave off the park service takes over.”

“It’s so big.”

Ellis smiled. “You can see all the way to the Hudson River from the point right beyond this rail.”

Lindy stood up and leaned over the rail, trying to catch a glimpse.

“But don’t be tempted. We’ve had to close off the lookout. One too many mud slides.” He shifted uncomfortably. “They say that’s where the Cleveland boy lost his footing.”

Lindy backed away. “What are those towers?” She pointed emphat-ically at one of the brown obelisks that rose above the trees, while she tried not to think about where they were standing. “There and there and over there?” Her hand moved to indicate each one.

“Ranger stations. During the dry season—we do have one, you know—later in the summer—there is a real danger of forest fires.

And when the weather is like this, they keep an eye out for rock and mud slides. There’s a sublayer of granite over much of the land. The camp is built on one. But the top layers of dirt and rock can be highly unstable.”