Shooting Star (16 page)

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Authors: Cynthia Riggs

BOOK: Shooting Star
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“It is. I’m a failure. A total failure. I didn’t mean to strangle Bob Scott, but I did. I killed him. I didn’t mean to smother Peg Storm, but I did. I killed her, too.” He touched his forehead to the wheel. “I killed her!”
Victoria turned again and looked out at the traffic. “You can go now, Roderick. The Hummer is flashing its lights to let you through.” She lowered her window and waved thanks. The driver, waiting patiently for Roderick to go ahead, did a sort of double take as Roderick, his antennae quivering, drove into the intersection and turned to go up the hill. Victoria looked into the side rearview mirror and saw that the driver was out of his vehicle, standing in the middle of Five Corners. Traffic had backed up as far as she could see in all five directions. The Hummer driver was pointing at the monster and his white-haired passenger and shouting into a doll-sized cellular phone pressed to his ear.
“Everything I do,” said Roderick, pounding the steering wheel, apparently unaware of the pedestrians turning to stare at him. “Everything I do, I fuck up.”
Victoria looked straight ahead. “After I’ve pacified the audience at the theater, I want you to drive both of us to the state police barracks so you can explain to Sergeant Smalley what you’ve just told me.”
“That’s only part of the problem,” Roderick said, glancing at her.
Victoria waited.
“This afternoon, I tried to kill myself. And failed.”
“On stage? You attempted suicide? How?”
“I tried to shoot myself.”
“With the stage gun? Why, for heaven’s sake?”
He closed his eyes.
“Watch it!” Victoria braced a hand on the door frame as the car swerved. For a moment, she thought Roderick was about to succeed in his attempt and take her with him.
Roderick opened his eyes again and blinked, then turned right onto Main Street. “The world would be better off without me, Mrs. Trumbull.” He sighed. “No one cares.” Victoria saw a tear glistening at the corner of his eye. “By doing away with myself, I could get even with Aunt Becca.”
“That’s hardly getting even with anyone, Roderick. Suicide is the most selfish act anyone can perform. You’d be safely out of whatever mess you’ve made, leaving others to clean up after
you. Jobs you’ve left undone, financial problems, unanswered questions, sloppy relationships …”
Roderick glanced at her with astonishment.
“Let alone the nuisance of disposing of your body and cleaning up
that
mess.”
“I … I … I …” said Roderick.
“I’m not one bit sympathetic,” she continued. “If you think you killed Peg Storm and Bob Scott, stand up on your hind legs and take your medicine.”
Roderick hunched his monstrous shoulders and stared straight ahead, both hands high on the steering wheel. He passed the Bunch of Grapes Bookstore where Ann Bassett, the events coordinator, was putting flyers for coming book signings in the rack out front.
Ann turned, caught a glimpse of the nightmarish apparition driving a worried-looking Victoria Trumbull, and hustled back into the store. At the front desk, she called nine-one-one and explained, in a voice that was calmer than she felt, what she’d just witnessed. Tim Eldredge happened to be monitoring nine-one-one calls at the state police barracks while the usual operator was on coffee break. He gave a long, drawn-out sigh. “Yes, ma’am. We’re aware of the situation. Mrs. Trumbull actually has everything under control. Thank you for calling, Ms. Bassett.”
In Roderick’s car, Victoria, exasperated by his talk of suicide, had not noticed the drama involving Ann Bassett and continued to berate him. “Fortunately, that was another failure. How were you intending to kill yourself?”
“I took the blanks out of the stage gun and loaded it with real bullets.”
“And instead of killing yourself when you squeezed the trigger, a red flag shot out. Someone switched guns, apparently. The flagstaff, itself, could have done serious damage if you’d had the gun pressed to your head.”
“Somebody shouted from the wings and startled me.”
He turned left onto Center Street and drove slowly up the hill toward the theater.
“What did you do with the blanks that were in the gun?”
“I have them right here.” He leaned forward and reached one hand into his pocket. Victoria took the three bulletlike things from him and stared at them. “Roderick,” she said with a touch of awe. “These are not stage blanks. They’re real bullets.”
“Say what?” said Roderick.
But they had arrived at the theater, and Victoria had no time to discuss what type of bullets had been in the stage gun. “Let me out, and you go and park. Don’t forget, we’re going to the police station afterward.” Victoria wrapped the bullets in a paper napkin from her pocket and tucked them into her cloth bag. “I’ll keep these and show them to the police. I’ll meet you at the theater in about fifteen minutes. Don’t do anything foolish in the meantime.”
She eased herself out of the car and went toward the theater. Bruce Duncan opened the door.
“Bruce, what on earth are you doing here?”
He escorted her past the ticket booth before he spoke. “Lucky you got here, Mrs. Trumbull,” he said, without answering her question. “The audience was going crazy.”
“I thought you were boycotting the theater out of respect for Peg. What
are
you doing here?” Victoria repeated.
“Can’t stay away.” He shrugged. “I’ll follow you up the stairs.”
Victoria started the long climb up the steep stairway, one hand on the railing, the other holding her stick. Partway up, she stopped to rest. Her sore toe had begun to throb despite the hole her granddaughter had cut in her shoe.
“I’ve been rushing so, I’m a bit out of breath,” she explained to Duncan, who waited on the step below her. She listened for the crowd noise she expected, but heard only one voice, one person talking, apparently on stage. Otherwise, the theater
was quiet. “From what Roderick told me, I expected pandemonium.”
“It
was
a near riot, Mrs. Trumbull,” Bruce said. “They kept shouting ‘Author!’ The whole place was shaking. That’s Dearborn on stage now. He told them you’re on the way and he’s taking questions until you arrive.”
“Roderick picked me up at the coffeehouse.”
“Where’s Roderick now?”
“Parking.” Victoria resumed her climb and said over her shoulder, “The play as it’s being acted is hardly the play I wrote.” As she got closer to the top, she could hear Dearborn, who sounded quite sober. Not what she had expected.
“Yes,” she heard him call out. “The lady in the pink blouse, fifth row.”
Victoria couldn’t hear the question, but she heard Dearborn’s response. “Mrs. Trumbull’s adaptation follows the original very closely. She uses Mary Shelley’s exact wording where possible. Yes? You in the third row.”
Victoria reached the top of the stairs. Duncan escorted her backstage, down a few steps into the dressing room and up more steps into the wings.
“Good luck, Mrs. Trumbull. I’d tell you the audience is a bunch of animals, only that would insult animals,” and Duncan turned and left.
Dearborn glanced over at Victoria, and then called out to the audience, “You wanted the author? Well, here she is, ladies and gentlemen. Give her a hand! Our one and only inimitable, indomitable, invincible Victoria Trumbull!”
The applause, as Victoria stepped onto the stage, swelled to a resounding accolade. She’d been so consumed by Roderick’s strange confession, she hadn’t thought about this moment. What could she possibly say? She wanted nothing to do with the farce her play had turned into. How could she disassociate herself from it, let the audience understand how Dearborn Hill had transmogrified a serious adaptation of a serious book, let
them understand how he was destroying the theater with his talk of Equity and professionalism.
She couldn’t.
She looked out over the packed auditorium below her and felt the energy and enthusiasm and sheer joy rising up from it. The audience stilled, waiting for her to speak.
Victoria leaned on her stick. “Thank you,” she said in her deep, firm voice. “A play is what the director makes of it. All of the credit for this production must go to our director, Dearborn Hill.” She gestured at Dearborn, who stepped forward. A haze of whiskey fumes preceded him, and Victoria held her breath. But he was steady on his feet as he advanced toward her, arms out to her. Victoria turned her head and took a quick gulp of fresh air. She shuddered as he enfolded her, and the audience rose to its feet in a standing ovation.
 
Backstage, when the audience had finished cheering and left the theater with the sounds of a satisfied mob, Dearborn collapsed into his chair, and was soon snoring, his feet stretched out in front of him, his arms folded across his stomach, his head lolling on his chest. A thin, silvery stream of drool trickled out of his mouth and onto his Frankenstein jacket.
Victoria seated herself on the couch where just last night, Bob Scott had breathed his last. She was searching through her cloth bag for a pen and paper when Becca pranced up to her. “We just
love
your play, Mrs. Trumbull. It’s so much
fun
! Thank you, darling, for what you said about Dearborn, recognizing what a genius he is. You’re such a dear, sweet lady.”
Victoria scowled. Dear, sweet biddy, she thought. Cast members swirled around her, flinging off costumes, laughing, high on their successful performance. She felt as though she were sitting in the dead, unmoving center of the Oak Bluffs carousel with horses flying around her. Becca had been the only cast member to notice her presence.
She looked at her watch. More than fifteen minutes had passed.
“Has anyone seen Roderick?” Victoria asked as actors bustled past.
No one had.
Gradually, the backstage area emptied. Becca urged Dearborn to his feet, and he stumbled down the steep stairs. Shouts and laughter died away.
At first, Victoria was annoyed that Roderick was late. Then angry. Then worried. Finally, very worried. She made her way carefully down the stairs to the ticket office and the room where theatergoers could buy lemonade and gingersnaps during intermission. She stood outside in the afternoon sun, surprised that it was still daylight. After a few minutes, she returned to the ticket office. Nora Epstein was behind the cage, counting receipts.
“Hello? Oh, Mrs. Trumbull. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
“I’m looking for Roderick Hill,” Victoria said to the stage manager. “Have you seen him?”
“Not since he dropped you off about three-quarters of an hour ago.”
“Is Bruce Duncan still around?”
Nora sniffed. “Bruce Duncan hasn’t shown up since dress rehearsal two nights ago. Excuse me. I’ve got to count this.”
Victoria walked around the small cafélike area. Chairs and small tables were set up with candles in bottles. The walls served as a sort of art gallery, with a dozen indifferent watercolors of Island scenes and several excellent oils of male torsos shown from the waist down, which she studied. She returned to the ticket booth. Nora had finished counting and was putting money into green, zippered bank bags.
“As stage manager, you’re in charge of props, aren’t you, Nora?” Victoria asked.
Nora flushed. “I didn’t put that gag gun on the prop table, Mrs. Trumbull. I don’t know who did. Dearborn has me playing so many parts, there’s no way I can watch over the props.”
“I understand,” said Victoria. “You
did
load the gun with blanks, didn’t you?”
“The
stage
gun. Of course I did. Someone substituted that gag gun. Certainly you’re not implying, Mrs. Trumbull, that I don’t recognize a toy gun when I see it?”
“Not at all,” said Victoria. “But before someone switched the guns, he took these out of the stage gun.” She opened the napkin and held it out with the three real bullets.
Nora paled. “Real bullets!” She clasped her hands on either side of her face. “I didn’t load the prop gun with those, Mrs. Trumbull. I certainly did not. Never.” She stopped. “The prop gun wouldn’t accept real bullets, anyway.”
“Do you have any idea who could have done this?” asked Victoria.
“Those
are
real bullets, aren’t they,” Nora said again.
“Yes,” said Victoria.
“Someone might have been killed.”
“Yes.”
“I told Dearborn,” and Nora emphasized each word, “someone has to watch the prop table.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes. “He won’t listen. Actors can miss their cues if the props aren’t where they’re supposed to be.”
“Indeed.”
“And, as I said, someone could have been killed.”
“Yes.”
“He’s got me playing three parts. Three. First Justine, then when she’s hanged, I’ve got to read the part of Monsieur De Lacey’s daughter as well as the part of Monsieur De Lacey’s adopted daughter. Until George Byron agreed to be in the play, Dearborn even had me reading the part for the Arctic explorer. Sheesh! At least he doesn’t expect me to memorize my lines.”
“The prop table …”
“You’re asking who could possibly have substituted the
guns? Anyone, as I told you. I keep telling Dearborn, over and over, no one should be allowed to go near that prop table.”
Victoria half-closed her eyes and leaned on her stick. Nora had loaded the stage gun with blanks, according to her. Some unknown person had substituted a real gun loaded with real bullets for the stage gun. Roderick, apparently thinking the gun was loaded with blanks, had taken out the real bullets and loaded the gun with a second set of real bullets. At some point, another person had substituted the gag gun loaded with the gag flag for the real gun. One of the guns was missing. Which one?

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