Something Wicked (20 page)

The bright yellow placard was taped to the closed doors of the center aisle. Annie and Max were the second to arrive Thursday morning. Sam greeted them like millionaire cousins, darting forward to grip Max’s hand.

“Jesus, I’m glad you’ve come. This place is like a morgue.” His fluffy fringe of blond hair was tousled. His right eye flickered with a nervous tic. “The cops called at dawn”—that was probably Sam’s definition of eight
A.M.
—“said everybody had to get down here. I keep calling Burt, but his line’s busy. No reason for this to louse up our rehearsals. Right? Eugene can play Teddy, and I’ll take over O’Hara.”

Obviously, he hadn’t learned yet of Burt’s decision to cancel rehearsals for the present, but continued to plan on opening Tuesday. “Sam, it’s—”

“The play’s ready. I’m ready. Everybody’s a trouper. Right?”

“Relax,” Annie urged. “It’s okay, Sam. For now, everything’s still go.”

Sam clapped his hands in excitement, then hunched his shoulders and looked nervously around. “God, that’s great,” he breathed. “Course, I figured Burt would keep his head.”

And had he also figured that Eugene was a good enough Teddy to vault the play to certain success?

The front door squeaked open. Annie turned in relief. Sam’s good humor, under the circumstances, seemed more than a little callous.

Eugene lumbered inside. His face was appropriately presidential at a time of crisis, serious, steadfast, and somber.

Sam skipped eagerly toward him. “Eugene, listen, old man, you can go on as Teddy, can’t you? I’ll work with you all week. It’s no biggie, right?”

Eugene forgot presidential gravity and beamed as he held up the blue-backed script. “Actually, I’ve been working on it. Got in a couple of hours this morning.” He smoothed his brush mustache complacently. “Didn’t want to let the players down.”

Sam clapped him robustly on the shoulder. “That’s a boy.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, when Burt comes, don’t let him give us any gloom and doom. I mean, we can handle this.”

She and Max exchanged pained glances, then her eyes widened in astonishment as she looked past Max at the opening door.

A figure, swathed in a brilliantly striped silk dress in which vermilion predominated, glided inside. The yellowish cast to the features, achieved by an artful application of makeup that included a subtle flattening of the eyes, made Henny Brawley look like a first cousin to the alligator Annie had spotted in a lagoon when they drove to the school.

There was no question of the role intended when Henny burst into a macaw-loud screech. “Wrongheaded, that’s what the police are! And I intend to make sure there is no miscarriage of justice! It’s the psychology that counts.” This time, Henny was firmly cast as Gladys Mitchell’s Dame Beatrice Bradley.

Vince Ellis strode into the foyer at her heels, his dark eyes alert and curious. Today, he carried a notebook, playing
island reporter at the ready. He had nothing to worry about, Annie thought sourly. Saulter had given the all-clear to Vince, Ben Tippett, and Father Donaldson, who were alibied during the period when Shane was killed.

Arthur Killeen, his narrow face pale, slipped in and hovered unobtrusively at the edge of the circle around Vince.

Sam led the pack. “What’s the deal? Have you heard anything? When can we rehearse again?”

Vince pointed at the police signs. “It may depend on when they release the auditorium.”

Sam began to pace. “They can’t stop us forever. This isn’t Russia.”

Annie moved a few feet away. She couldn’t decide whether to be utterly disgusted with Sam or to appreciate his honesty. Obviously, to him, the only importance of Shane, dead or alive, was in relation to Sam’s production of
Arsenic and Old Lace.
But did he have to be so appallingly single-minded?

Hugo arrived next. His icy gaze touched each person briefly. Annie felt chilled. Just so might the judge have surveyed the assembled houseguests in Christie’s
And Then There were None.

The Hortons and Burt came in together, with Carla a few steps behind.

Sam stood on tiptoe to attract Burt’s attention, but before he could open his mouth, Hugo announced brusquely, “Okay, here we are. Where’s the law?”

Burt rubbed irritably at his high-bridged nose. “I presume the authorities are en route. I haven’t had a chance to contact all of you, but, for right now, I’m suspending rehearsals at least until Sunday. We’ll plan on opening Tuesday night, although I’ve alerted the
Mousetrap
cast—in case we have complications.”

Hugo’s rugged visage cracked in a humorless smile. “Life as a euphemism. You mean, if they arrest a cast member who can’t be replaced.” He glanced at Janet, then Max.

“Not very goddam funny,” T.K. said levelly.

Sam bounced up and down on his sneakered feet. “Not to worry, everybody. Keep calm. Keep happy. Let the cops worry about Shane. Remember, girls and boys, Solomon Purdy’s coming. He’s looking for a director.” Then, he
added hastily, “And actors, actors, too, all the time. We have a shot at Broadway, boys and girls—”

“Who gives a damn about Solomon Purdy. Or you,” T.K. exploded. “Goddamn, Shane gets bumped off, and all you can think about is yourself. And everybody knows you’re through. You’re washed up, a has-been.”

Sam whirled on him. “I guess you’re all upset about the murder? Sure you are—when he was screwing your wife and your daughter, I guess you just feel real—”

T.K. lowered his head like an enraged buffalo and charged. Sam ducked behind Carla. Annie and Max lunged forward, grabbing at T.K. Vince Ellis wrote furiously in his notepad.

Burt held up his hands and yelled, “Stop it! All of you, stop it!”

On this note, the doors opened and Saulter and Posey walked in.

You could have cut the atmosphere in the Broward’s Rock High School auditorium with a carving knife and served it at an Addams family tea. To say the attendees of this reunion looked glum would be a masterpiece of understatement. The only cheerful face belonged to Brice Posey, who stood downstage center to orchestrate the reenactment, pitching his voice so it carried clearly to Vince Ellis in the first row. Posey had shed his pinstripe coat, retained his vest. Patches of sweat stained the underarms of his blue oxford cloth shirt.

“Take your places.” And Posey planted himself at downstage right, arms folded.

They started with Teddy’s appearance (and Eugene was superb) from the Brewster cellar in Act II and stopped at the point when Teddy was supposed to enter, bugle in hand, early in Act III. It was a ragged performance. Having Posey’s portly body stolidly onstage throughout didn’t help anyone’s concentration.

Posey looked inquiringly at Saulter, who held a stopwatch in his hand.

“Thirty-two minutes, eight seconds.”

Sam yawned, frankly bored. Burt spoke in his precise
voice. “That doesn’t allow for the delay before the start of Act Three. We had a mix-up on some props that slowed us down. I’d add at least six minutes.”

“Forty minutes,” Posey boomed. “Now, what time was it when Petree made his last exit?”

After a good deal of discussion, the best estimate was approximately ten o’clock.

“So the murder occurred,” Posey intoned portentously, “between ten and ten-forty.” He gestured for everyone to come onstage, then stared searchingly at each person in turn. The cast members returned his gaze warily. Only Henny, a bizarre Abby in her bright dress, seemed undaunted.

Posey took a deep breath. Saulter, apparently forewarned, opened a notebook and waited.

“Where were you between ten and ten-forty last night?” Posey shouted at Arthur.

Arthur jumped, swallowed, and nervously smoothed the lock of dark hair from his eyes.

His answer, of course, paralleled that of all the cast members. Onstage and off. Backstage. Downstairs. In the greenroom. In the john. Out to the parking lot for a breath of air.

And nobody quite remembered when they’d last seen Shane. Or perhaps no one cared to be linked to him during the period when the murder occurred.

Only T.K. tried to establish total absence from below stage.

“I don’t come on until the last part of Act Three, so I hung around out in the parking lot. A nice night.”

Posey’s thick lips curved in a tiny, satisfied smile. “You weren’t interested in watching your wife act? She has a pretty big role, doesn’t she?”

T.K. paused overlong before answering. “Sure, I was interested. I just happened to go outside.”

Janet broke in eagerly. “He can see me act anytime. He just likes to be alone sometimes. And, see, that proves T.K. couldn’t have done it.”

“Ah, Mrs. Horton.” Posey looked like a barracuda sighting a very slow-moving sea turtle. “Your defense is certainly evidence of
wifely
concern. But I’m intrigued. Why should I think Mr. Horton would want to kill Mr. Petree?” His voice rose disingenuously.

Janet’s sheeplike face stiffened. “But that’s
why
you’re finding out where everyone was, isn’t it? Because you think one of us shot him?”

“That’s correct.
One
of you.” The full voice caressed the damning word. “But why should you be fearful for your husband? Is there any reason why he, more so than anyone else here in this auditorium, should have wanted to put an end to Mr. Petree’s life?”

Dumbly, Janet shook her head. “Oh, no, no, not at all.” Her voice was so low it could scarcely be heard.

“It couldn’t be that you feel a little guilty, could it, Mrs. Horton?”

“Guilty? I haven’t done anything. I was onstage most of the time.”

Posey stamped heavily across the stage until he stood a scant foot from the cowering Janet. “Guilty about your sexual transgressions, Mrs. Horton!” he thundered.

Bastard,
Annie thought. He didn’t have to bare all this publicly. He could have talked to Janet and T.K. privately. Certainly he didn’t have to bellow it out in front of everyone—including Vince Ellis. But the reporter wasn’t taking notes now. Instead, he stared at Posey, not bothering to disguise his disgust.

It was utterly still. Janet nervously clutched at her throat and didn’t look toward T.K. Her husband’s face was a sick putty color. He stared down at the floor, his mouth quivering.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Horton, guilt about your sexual transgressions.” Posey raised a finger, pointed it. Annie recognized the stance. It must be his favorite courtroom histrionic. “Do you deny you had sex with Mr. Petree? Not once, but repeatedly?”

Annie wanted to cry out that this was indecent, brutal, vicious, but she stood as a part of that frozen circle.

Janet’s pale face flushed crimson, then the color ebbed, leaving her gray and shaken. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, then, with the desperate courage of a cornered animal, she screamed, “T.K. was outside! He didn’t do it. He’d never do it! And it wasn’t the way you make it sound. I didn’t … I wasn’t … He just came after me, and I was such a fool, but I didn’t care about him.” She looked past her tormentor, her china-blue eyes full of pain. “T.K.,
T.K.” Tears flooded her eyes, slipped unchecked down her face, smearing her makeup. “I love T.K.,” she cried brokenly.

“Next best thing to Joan Collins,” Cindy remarked acidly. The teenager stood with a hand on her hip, breasts thrust forward. Annie was sorely tempted to swat her rear and stick her in a corner. “She never could tell the truth. God, she doesn’t know the difference between fantasy and reality. She chased Shane ’til he was sick of it.”

“That’s enough, Cindy,” T.K. ordered hoarsely.

Janet swung on her daughter. “Shut up, shut up, you little whore!” Not jealousy, but fear burned in Janet’s eyes. She knew full well—as did they all—that every word Cindy uttered increased T.K.’s peril.

Posey relished every minute of it. Annie thought the salacious gleam in his eyes rivaled an X-rated film for sheer nastiness. “So Mr. Petree liked you better, did he?”

Cindy’s smile was proud. “Sure. He laughed about her. Said she was a dry old stick. He—he was just wonderful.”

Annie had had enough. “But you were sure ticked off with Shane that last night, weren’t you?”

Cindy’s eyes narrowed, and her face hardened in remembered anger. “I don’t know what got into him. We always went to his boat on Tuesday nights, but he said he was busy. And I
know
he was going out that night. I saw him loading stuff on his boat in the afternoon.” She added waspishly, her face sharp and foxlike, “I figured he had a date with someone else.”

Posey’s heavy head swung slowly toward T.K. “So how did it feel, knowing he was screwing both your wife and your daughter?” The ugly words stained the air like a poison.

Janet darted across the stage to stand by her husband. “Leave T.K. alone. He didn’t kill Shane. He wouldn’t do it, I tell you. I know who did it. It’s all because of money. That’s what happened. I knew when they took out those policies that Shane would die. I tell you, I knew it then.”

“Shut up, Janet,” T.K. said in a strangled voice.

But his wife was too overwrought to hear him. “You just find out where Sheridan was last night,” she screamed at Posey. “That’s what you need to do. You don’t think she’d kill for a million dollars? And it’s two million because it’s death by misadventure. You can’t tell me he was worth a
million dollars to that string of computer stores they owned. Everybody knew they were going broke. You can buy computers for a nickel nowadays! They made them and made them and half of them are just a joke. And oil’s down, way down. You just check and see how badly Mrs. Rich-and-Mighty Sheridan Prentiss Petree needed money.”

Two million dollars. Two
million
dollars. Annie looked at Henny, whose lips were silently repeating the sum.

Posey rocked back on his heels, a look of immense satisfaction on his round face. If ever anyone looked like a dissolute pig, it was Posey. “Oh, I know my business, Mrs. Horton. I know it inside out. The first thing I did was inquire about the widow, especially since I understand she isn’t a
grieving
widow.”

Annie exchanged a thoughtful glance with Henny. And Annie was reminded of Charlie Chan’s famous saying, “Bad alibi like dead fish. Cannot stand test of time.”