Authors: Cynthia Riggs

Shooting Star (9 page)

BOOK: Shooting Star

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The cast repaired to the Sand Bar in Oak Bluffs. The Sand Bar waiters had pushed tables together for the cast party and decorated them with skeletons and bats left over from Halloween, a theme the management felt was appropriate to the play.

Dearborn and Becca sat at the head of the table.

“A Jack Daniel’s for mine host, garçon!” Becca called out to a passing good-looking primitive.

“Fuck off,” he said.

“He’s not the waiter,” said Dearborn.

Becca shrugged.

A plastic tumbler of Jack Daniel’s was placed in front of Dearborn. A plastic tumbler of scotch was placed in front of Becca. Pitchers foaming over with beer arrived. Pretzels and popcorn and hilarity abounded.

Dearborn stood and held up his portion of Jack Daniel’s. “To a successful run!”

“Hooray!” cried the cast, holding up cups of beer.

“Who in hell do they think they are?” the man Becca had hailed as a primitive said to the man he’d been obliged to sit next to at a small table. The place was packed.

“Act-ors,” said the lean, slightly oily-looking man he’d joined. “Frankenstein.”

“They went ahead with the play?” the first man said, raising his shaggy eyebrows. “Tonight?”

“Why not?” said the second. “Opening night.”

“Peg Storm, that actress died yesterday, and …”

“My ex,” said the second, and held out a hand. “Aren’t you Vanderhoop? We were next-door neighbors for a few months. Lennie Vincent. How’re you doing?”

“Me? It’s my boy who’s missing. Teddy.”

Lennie waved the hand he was still holding out. “Put ’er there, Jeff.”

“They call me Jefferson,” said Vanderhoop, ignoring Lennie’s hand.

“Have it your way,
Jefferson.
Buy you a beer?”

“I buy my own,” growled Vanderhoop.

“Sheesh!” said Lennie.

“Look, asshole, my kid’s missing, and I don’t like your attitude.”

“That right?” said Lennie, looking interested. “My ex is dead, and I’m celebrating.”

Vanderhoop reached over and grabbed the front of Lennie’s black T-shirt, and yanked him to his feet. “Yeah? Never did like you much.”

“Hey! Take it easy, will you?” Lennie smoothed his hair. “Sorry about your kid.”

Vanderhoop let go of the T-shirt and sat down again. “Sorry about the wife.”

“Ex. Don’t be. Change your mind about the beer?”

A loud cheer rose from the Frankenstein table, and Dearborn stood. He held up his hands. “People … !” he started.

“There’s your problem, right there,” said Lennie.

“Thinks my kid should be an actor.” Vanderhoop jerked his thumb at Dearborn. “Like him.”

“Who’s the old lady with him?”

Vanderhoop squinted. “Don’t know. Never seen her.”

“ … to the bride of Frankenstein!” Dearborn announced, holding up his Jack Daniel’s to Becca.

“Hooray!” shouted the cast at the table.

“There’s your answer,” said Vanderhoop. “My kid would be going fishing with me tomorrow, if it wasn’t for that asshole.”

“Took my ex out to dinner couple of times,” said Lennie. “Suppose he was screwing her?”

Vanderhoop looked Dearborn up and down. “Him? Doubt it.”

A waitress plopped a beer pitcher on their table. Lennie poured and handed a cup to Vanderhoop. “Here’s to good times!”

Vanderhoop held up his beer, but didn’t drink.

Lennie took a swig and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Think your old lady ran off with your kid?”

“Goddamned bitch,” said Vanderhoop.

“Where’s Bob Scott?” someone at the Frankenstein table called out.

“Where’s the monster?” someone else yelled. “Roderick! Where’s Roderick?”

Victoria was puttering around in the kitchen when Elizabeth arrived home after midnight. She greeted her grandmother. “Are you waiting up to read the reviews in the early editions, like they do in New York?”

“The
Enquirer
comes out next Friday, a week from now,” Victoria said, ladling out a bowl of soup for Elizabeth. “The usual Island grapevine will have the reviews long before then.” She handed the bowl to Elizabeth. “I expect the girls to come home any minute. I’ll be interested in their reaction.”

“Girls? What girls?”

“Karen and Tracy, the hitchhikers Howland stopped for.”

Elizabeth laughed. “Don’t tell me the girls are staying here, too? In addition to Alison?”

“Yes. Tracy and Karen. Howland gave the girls his tickets. They should be home by now.”

“Since this is opening night, they may have been invited to the cast party.”

“Perhaps,” said Victoria. “But the bus stops running at midnight, and it’s after that now.”

“Someone will give them a ride home. The monster again?”

Victoria smiled. “Roderick Hill is playing the monster tonight. He’s the understudy.”

“Maybe one of the off-Island dailies will review the play,” said Elizabeth, once they’d settled in the cookroom. “It’s certainly newsworthy. I’ll pick up copies at Alley’s tomorrow morning.” She glanced at her watch. “This morning.”

Victoria nodded.

“You know, Gram, Dearborn Hill staging the play tonight under the circumstances. That’s likely to make major headlines …”

Victoria tapped her fingers on the table and changed the subject. “I was glad you made such a large pot of soup. We had quite a crowd.”

“Really? Who was here?”

“Karen and Tracy, the two girls. And Sergeant Smalley …”

Elizabeth frowned. “What was he doing here?”

“Alison had to examine Peg’s body at Rose Haven. Sergeant Smalley picked her up here, then brought her home. He wanted to make sure Amanda was settled in.”

Elizabeth set her spoon down. “Who on earth is Amanda?”

“Teddy’s mother. She’ll be staying with us temporarily.”

“Wait,” said Elizabeth shaking her head. “Didn’t Howland and Alison go to the beach together?”

“Sergeant Smalley came by before Howland arrived.” Victoria said. “Your soup is getting cold.”

“She and Howland seemed to be hitting it off.”

“Howland thought so, too,” said Victoria. “But she’s calling Sergeant Smalley ‘John’ I noticed. Howland stayed for supper and was quite entertaining.”

“Seven is a lot for dinner.” Elizabeth started to eat again. “So how many people are staying here in the house?”

“Only four. Alison, Teddy’s mother, and the two girls. I’m curious to know how opening night went. I was hoping someone would call.” She stood up. “Your soup was delicious. Everyone complimented you on it.”

“Your recipe, Gram. Lentils, leftover carrots, celery tops,
spaghetti sauce, and lots of garlic to pull it all together. And, of course, sliced hot dogs last minute. Thanks for taking care of that.”

“I had to open a new package. I thought we had half of one in the freezer.”

“We did,” said Elizabeth.

“I didn’t see it.”

“Maybe the old one slipped behind the ice cream?”

“I looked,” said Victoria.

Elizabeth shrugged. “We’ve got four guests in the house, now. Maybe one of them raided the fridge.”

“It’s not important,” said Victoria, thinking about a missing boy and a missing dog.

Roderick had put his bathing cap wig back on and had applied enough of his makeup to look convincing. The day before, he had bruised his shin and it was still sore. He limped to the coffeehouse from the theater.

“Roddie’s here!” screamed Karen from the table where she and Tracy and George were seated. “Come sit with us!”

George stood up and held out his hand. “Cousin Roderick, I presume? I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“How exciting! A real actor!” said Tracy. “We thought you were just a poet.”

“You’re totally famous,” said Karen.

George grunted. “Are you performing here as well?”

“Good publicity for the play,” said Roderick, fingering his fangs, which were wrapped in a damp paper towel in his pocket.

“Wow!” said Karen.

“And you’re at our table!” said Tracy.

“What’ll you have?” George asked the girls.

“Apple juice,” said Tracy.

“In a coffeehouse?” asked Roderick.

“Well, latte?” said Tracy.

“Me, too,” said Karen.

“Espresso for me,” said Roderick.

While George was getting the coffee, a spot lit up the stage, someone did a drumroll on a tabletop, and the emcee adjusted the mike. “Tonight, we have our own, our inimitable—da, da, da—Roddie the Body as Frankenstein’s monster! Give him a big hand, folks.”

Roderick slipped his fangs into his mouth, straightened the stitches on the side of his skull, tugged down his black sweatshirt, and lumbered onto the stage, furry, clawed hands almost dragging on the ground.

It was well after midnight when George, Tracy, and Karen left the coffeehouse, and went up the hill leading out of town.

George stuck out his thumb.

“I wouldn’t mind if the monster picks us up tonight,” said Tracy, grinning happily.

But a red Volvo station wagon driven by an elderly woman pulled unsteadily over to the side. George, Tracy, and Karen got in, and the driver, who knew Victoria Trumbull well, and George’s mother slightly, dropped George off at his mother’s, then turned the car around and drove the girls slowly to Victoria’s. All the lights were off in Victoria’s house, and the girls, who were relieved to be home safely, slipped upstairs quietly to their nicely fixed-up room.

Roderick limped to his car, which he’d left near the theater, and drove back to the room he shared with Uncle Dearborn. The door to the cellar room was locked, and George looked for the key in its usual spot under the brick. Not there. He pounded on the door. No answer. He pounded again and yelled, “Hey, Uncle Dearborn! It’s me!”

A window in the house next door was flung open. A man poked his head out and shouted, “Some people are trying to sleep!” and slammed the window down again.

Roderick waited around for a while. He saw Uncle Dearborn’s car parked in front of their cellar room. And then it came to him—Aunt Becca was in town. He could feel his temper rising. Aunt Becca. The self-centered broad. After his triumph at the theater, the second triumph at Island Java …

What an injustice. His own uncle and goddamned aunt-in-law locking him out. Where did they expect him to sleep tonight?

He thought about that. Where could he sleep? He wasn’t about to sleep in his car, parked in front of the house where Aunt Becca would see him. He was still in costume, and the makeup was beginning to itch. He couldn’t get the stuff off without cold cream, and that was in the bathroom cabinet in his and Uncle Dearborn’s apartment. Damn Aunt Becca. He got back in his car and drove slowly through the darkened town of Vineyard Haven to the just-as-dark town of Oak Bluffs. He came to the wide sweep of State Beach, and there he stopped.

He might as well pull over to the side of the road and sleep in his car, he thought. Not a bad place. Quiet, with the beach and Nantucket Sound to his left, the soft murmur of water lapping on the gravelly strand, the pleasant iodine smell of beached seaweed. He’d been high on adrenaline during the performance, high again at the coffeehouse, he felt exhausted, drained, let down.

Goddamned Aunt Becca!

He pulled an old blanket out of the back of his car and made a pillow of it, leaned his monstrous head on the blanket pillow, which he propped against the window, and slept.

He had no idea how long he’d been sleeping. He was awakened by a bright light shining through the windshield, and he sat up, wondering where he was and what was going on.

“Sir?” said a voice behind a flashlight beam. “Oh shit, not again!”

Roderick shook his head to clear it.

“Not Mr. Atherton?”

“What?” said Roderick.

“You have some identification, sir? A license or something?”

Roderick looked around and saw a police car stopped in front of him, its blue lights flashing. He fished in the glove compartment and handed his license to the state trooper. Then he recognized the trooper.

“Tim! It’s me. Roderick. Roderick Hill.”

“Yeah?” said Eldredge. “You’ll have to come with me.”

“What’s up, Tim?”

“Step out of the car.”

BOOK: Shooting Star

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