The Hamlet Trap (18 page)

“They want me to take their word that next month they'll change. Five pounds thinner, ten pounds heavier! Two inches off the waist… Hah!” She stamped out.

“Let's take Juanita to lunch,” Charlie said, and led the way to her office.

She was eating a sandwich at her desk. A coffeepot on a warming tray was on a table. A cigarette sent smoke curling upward from an overflowing ashtray.

“Sorry,” she said when Charlie invited her out with them. “I have to be here for a call from New York. You know, with the three-hour difference, it's a problem. If I leave, by the time I get back, they're off for the day.”

What an attractive woman she was, Charlie thought. She had knowing dark eyes, lustrous dark hair, a trim figure, complexion that suggested Chicano, but most of all she was intelligent-looking.

“May we ask you a couple of questions here?”

A look of amusement flashed over her face and she nodded. “I'll even answer between bites.”

“Fine. Are you married?”

“Divorced.”

“How long have you worked for Ro?”

“About twenty years. And I've been divorced about twenty years.” The amusement played with her features, softening her mouth, crinkling the skin at her eyes, making her appear years younger than she looked when she was not smiling.

“That was one of the questions,” Charlie admitted. “Another one is, can you prove that you were in Medford the night Ellis was killed? I mean really prove it with witnesses?”

She nodded. “The police are satisfied.”

“That's a problem,” Charlie said with a sigh. “As soon as they think they know who their culprit is, they stop seeing things that don't fit in. Human nature makes them do it, it's not a conspiracy. We all see what we expect to, and we're all blind to what doesn't fit our scheme of reality.”

“I was with a group all evening,” she said, still good-naturedly. “One of them held my hand during most of the movie.”

“That's nice,” Charlie said, pleased with her.

“No, not really. You see, he wants me to move to Medford and I won't do that.”

“It's only twelve miles.”

“I know.” Her tone said that subject was closed now.

“The morning Gray Wilmot announced he had picked Sunshine's play, I understand there was a fight. Will you tell us about it?”

She shrugged slightly. “It wasn't a fight. A disagreement about the play. Gray was furious at first, but it blew over quite fast. He defended the play and Ro accepted it. That was that.”

“And were you furious?”

Her eyes lost their sparkle of amusement; she picked up her sandwich and took a large bite and disposed of it before she answered. “I was furious.”

“Do Ro and Ginnie fight often?”

For the first time she looked surprised. “Never, as far as I know.”

“She had a fight with Gray over Sunshine, didn't she? Wasn't Ro in on that?”

“No. And Ginnie didn't yell at Sunshine until she caught her eavesdropping. She went straight to Gray because everyone thought, still thinks, that Sunshine is his problem. I can't even imagine her going to Ro with something like that.”

Before Charlie could go on to something else, Constance asked, “Why not? Isn't the hierarchy such that he's the final authority?”

“Absolutely. He makes all decisions ultimately, and once he's laid down the law, that's it. But Ginnie's been trying so hard to make people accept her as an adult. That's the last thing she'd be likely to do, go running to him like a child when things weren't going right.”

Charlie stood up. “Did you drive over to Medford that night?”

“Yes. Do you want the names of the people I was with? I'll happily supply them.” A snap had come to her voice, although she did not raise it. She would do, Charlie thought; she would not go running to anyone with her problems, either. He shook his head. “I would like to see the original play of Sunshine's. I understand you had to retype it before you could even copy it. Do you still have the original?”

She looked at Constance, who was equally surprised and bewildered. “Sure. We keep everything here.” She went to one of the files and opened it, pulled out a folder, and took the manuscript from it. “I hope your eyes are good. It nearly blinded me.” She handed it to Charlie.

“Tell me something about the procedure of making a play,” Charlie said. “This is the original, Sunshine's draft. Then what?”

A look of infinite, if somewhat pained, patience crossed Juanita's face. “I retyped it and made copies and handed them out. We had our meeting the first of the following week. Gray defended it and Ro accepted that. The next step was for the rewriting to start. That was between Gray and Sunshine. They worked here, at the theater, for a time, then moved to Gray's house to finish. Gray must have typed the final version. Sunshine's such a poor typist, I don't think she could have done it. Then Gray did the promptbook.” At Charlie's blank look, she added, “That's for the director, with his notes, his cues, whatever he feels important. It varies from director to director. At that point the play was finished, except for changes that rehearsals might suggest. You know, things like finding out that a certain actor can't say certain lines as written. That always happens with a new play. You can't know until the actors get their parts. And that's that.”

Charlie regarded her for several seconds in thought, then asked, “Miss Margolis, what if the play had still been bad? Would Ro have refused to produce it?”

“Of course.”

Her phone rang and she hurried back to the desk. “Hello, Steve? It's about time you called back!” She waved to Charlie and Constance, who went to the door and let themselves out.

“What about the promptbook?” Constance asked in the hall.

“Good question,” he said. “The play was done at that time. Why did Laura tell Ro Sunshine was rewriting it again?”

“Or why did Ro say she told him that?” Constance asked.

“Another good question.” He took her arm and they started to walk toward the rear of the theater.

TWENTY-ONE

A gravel truck had pulled
up outside the stage door; two men were leveling a pile of gravel where the lake had re-formed under the hard rain. Charlie watched them for a moment, then closed that door and started for the back double doors. Ro and Ginnie were entering, Ro closing a large black umbrella. He gave it a shake or two. “They,” he said darkly, nodding toward the stage door, “were supposed to be here last Friday. Charlie, Constance, can I have a word with you?” He patted Ginnie's shoulder, and she nodded at them all and vanished among the many people who were now returning, milling about.

“Won't take more than a minute,” Ro said, motioning toward his office. Constance and Charlie followed him.

He let them in and closed the door, then went to his small closet and took off his coat, put the umbrella in the stand, and came back. He glanced curiously at the folder Charlie carried, but asked nothing about it.

“I won't even ask you to sit down,” he said. “This is the busiest-possible time for everyone here. Readings, cast readings, rehearsals, conferences… It all comes together now or it never comes together. Everything from costume fabrics to upholstery materials, everything needs attention today, this morning, yesterday morning… “He rubbed his eyes, then said more briskly, “I need information. How long does the police routine take? That Draker keeps hinting that he's ready for an arrest, the paper's full of it this morning. When is he likely to do anything?”

“I don't know,” Charlie said honestly. “I'd guess not until he gets his lab reports back, and that could be another week, two weeks. It depends on how busy the lab is.”

Ro turned to Constance. “I'm really frightened for Ginnie,” he said. He sounded near desperation, and looked haggard. “I made her go to lunch with me, but she isn't eating anything. She's a ghost of herself, lost ten pounds at least, nothing to say… I'm afraid for her.” He took a breath and exhaled the way someone does who is trying consciously to relax. “I want to get her away from here, abroad somewhere.”

“What does she say to that?” Constance asked.

“I haven't mentioned it yet. I… Will you talk to her? She respects you. She borrowed a book from Jack and read it, your book. That's what she was willing to talk about at lunch,” he said bitterly. “Not our problems here, not work, the plays, only your book.”

“Ro,” Charlie said firmly, “they won't let her leave now. And it would make it look even worse for her if she ducked out.”

“For a weekend then! For God's sake, they can't object to just a weekend away. At the coast, down to San Francisco, someplace where people aren't looking at her, wondering, where she won't see it every time she picks up the paper!” His voice was harsh and ragged now. “You didn't know her before. You don't know how she's changed. It terrifies me, that much change in her that fast.”

“If she could go away and have it all over when she got back, that might help,” Constance said in her no-nonsense voice. “But it won't do her a bit of good to go away and brood about all this, knowing that they might be waiting with a warrant for her on her return.”

“You won't help her?” Ro asked in resignation.

“We didn't put her in harm's way,” Constance said briskly. “The killer did. And until the killer is found and the police are satisfied, no one is likely to help her. I think she is hanging in there pretty well.”

He shook his head. “You don't know how she was before, how she's changed.” He moved toward the door. “I won't keep you.”

At the door Charlie paused. “I forgot to ask before, but when you found Gray's promptbook for Sunshine's play, where was it?”

Ro looked at the redwood coffee table, then the round table in the middle of the room, and finally at his desk. “God, I don't know. I don't remember. Everything was… I can't remember.”

“How about the portfolio with Ginnie's sketches?”

“Draker told me he found that on my desk. I had to identify it for him.”

“Okay. Thanks. And, Ro, forget about sending her off somewhere. Believe us when we tell you it would do more harm than good.”

Ro looked at his watch. “Christ, I've got to get to the cast reading. See you two later.”

He opened the door and ushered them out and hurried off down the hallway. From on stage they could hear a concertina playing.

“Listen,” Constance said. “It's ‘Mack the Knife.' Let's have a look.”

They watched from the wing as the musical director, Larry Stein, walked to a young man with the concertina and spoke in a low voice. The man nodded, and when Larry Stein had walked to the front of the stage, he started to play again, this time singing along, “When the shark has had his dinner/ There is blood upon his fins./ But Macheath he has his gloves on:/ They say nothing of his sins.”

Larry Stein approached him again and they walked backstage together. Ginnie appeared and all three stopped as she talked, gesturing with sweeping motions.

“This place is a three-ring circus,” Charlie said in wonderment.

“Five,” Constance corrected. “They're getting five plays ready all at the same time.” She continued to watch Ginnie for another minute. “I don't know how any of them stay sane. Are we leaving now?”

“Let's go home.”

“Charlie, aren't you hungry? We haven't had any lunch yet, remember?”

He had forgotten, she knew. She had learned over the years that there were times when she had to put food in front of him, that he then ate with a good appetite, but, without help, might not have anything for days. On their way to the car, when he asked if she had brought any cards in the suitcase, she nodded, and this, too, was part of his system of thinking. He would play solitaire for hours.

That afternoon she watched in fascination as he began to assemble the items he had bought earlier. First he cleared their table and spread newspapers on it. The baking pan went down on them. It was a sheet cake pan, nine by twelve inches. In the center of it he placed a paper plate and surveyed it all. Satisfied, he opened the package of candles, took out one, and laid it down on the paper. He cut off the end of it, a piece about an inch long, and then carved some wax away from the wick. He stood this up in the middle of the paper plate. And, last, he opened the brandy and took a drink from the bottle.

“Good stuff,” he said. “Shame to waste it. But here goes.” He poured some carefully around the candle on the paper plate. Constance caught her breath sharply, drew back when he struck a match and lighted the candle. “And now we wait,” he said. He sounded very tired. She took his hand and held it; his eyes were distant, a stranger's eyes.

They watched the flame in silence. After a moment or two Charlie raised her hand and kissed it, withdrew his hand and pulled out a chair, sat down, his gaze riveted on the steady flame.

Constance sat down opposite him. The flame was hypnotic, burning so steadily, without a waver. In her mind's eye she saw a small child awakening in her room, getting up, thirsty? wanting to go to the bathroom? wanting company? She had been ill, feverish, probably she was thirsty. She called out and no one answered. She looked in the living room, other rooms, finally the kitchen, and saw her father on the floor, sleeping on the floor. And on the table a candle flame that was dancing in the draft the open door suddenly created.

The back door was open, she remembered from the sketch. Opening the other door must have made a draft, made the flame twist and turn, and the child remembered the fire in Shannon's yard, the terror. She backed out, closed the door behind her, frightened. Constance knew this because Ginnie had done the same thing when she found Peter Ellis on the floor. The child had taken over, repeated her other actions, crying out in the only way she could for someone to see, to do something, to understand. She must have got her own drink in the bathroom, used the toilet, gone back to bed, even to sleep again. Ro found her in bed, wrapped her in a blanket, and carried her out with his own hair burning, the blanket smoldering.

Suddenly the candle flame changed, began to twist to one side, sputter a little. She looked quickly at Charlie; his expression did not alter. Nothing was happening that he did not expect, she knew, and watched the flame. It leaned over, straightened, leaned over farther and fell, and in that instant the brandy ignited in a pale blue flame that covered the whole paper plate. In another moment the plate was burning with a yellowish flame. Silently Charlie smothered it with another plate. He looked remote and rigid.

She got up and went to the bar, came back with two glasses. She poured brandy into them and handed one to him.

“Cheers,” he said, and drank it down.

“Vic was murdered,” she said soberly, “and no one suspected, no one knew.”

“Murder,” he agreed. “Why else the candle in the middle of the afternoon? But someone knew.” He looked at Ginnie's sketchbook, open to the kitchen scene.

He began to clean up the mess he had made and Constance tried to bring something to consciousness, something someone had said… She sipped her brandy, her eyes narrowed in thought. And suddenly she set her glass down hard and sat straight. “Charlie, she thinks Ro did it!”

He waited.

“Remember the argument Gray told us about between Ginnie and Ro, about the name of the trapdoor on stage? She insisted it was the Macbeth trap and he was insistent that it was the Hamlet trap. She became upset, denied it vehemently, according to Gray. Don't you see?” she cried when Charlie showed no sign of understanding. “In
Hamlet
, the uncle kills the father. That's what she was avoiding that night.”

He sat down heavily and stared at her. “I was coming at it from a different direction,” he said, “but yours works just fine.”

She went on. “He told us he thought Lucy had taken Ginnie to the doctor. He went over there prepared to kill Vic because Vic and Lucy were going to leave. He forced them together, forced her to marry Vic, but never planned on her falling in love with him. He did it for Vic's money. He must have needed much more than he had been able to save, more than he could borrow, and Vic had plenty. He must have been horrified when he realized that Ginnie was in the house. …”

“Is Ginnie likely to remember this? Really remember it?”

“I don't know. They keep saying how different she is. Maybe all this is struggling to get through to her. Maybe she should remember.”

“Maybe, but not right now. That's ancient history. It's a damn shame she's reacting to what happened when she was a baby. That's what bugs Draker; she's not reacting the way she should.” He went to the window and stood looking out for several minutes, then cursed fluently and turned back to her. “I knew it! It just had to happen! It's snowing!”

The snow did not last long, and it did not stick; in fact, the sun came out for a few minutes before nightfall, but there had been enough snow to act as a goad, Constance knew. She could almost see his yearning for wide scorching beaches and hot sun, palm trees, and tall sweating drinks.

That night they ate an excellent dinner prepared by Mrs. Shiveley at the inn. Afterward Constance read Sunshine's play while Charlie laid out game after game of solitaire. He never won.

“How was it?” he asked when she put the play down with a sigh.

“Dreadful. I don't blame them all for being upset that he chose it. I wonder what the losers were like.”

Charlie gathered up his cards and reached for the play.

“Why did you want it?” she asked.

“Curious. What is there about it that made Gray risk his job right off the bat? The play he read was pretty good, I thought.”

“It's as if she planted an acorn and he brought up a wonderful oak tree from it. Magic. Only the kernel is there, nothing else. And the kernel is pretty trite, at that. How an ambitious person can use everyone in sight without a qualm of conscience. But read it. Have fun.”

When he finished, he put it down without comment and started to shuffle the cards. Constance got out her notebook and pen. He played solitaire; she asked questions on paper, or doodled, or made lists…

Did Lucy suspect him? she wrote, and studied the question as if someone else had put it there. And, she asked herself and did not write this down, what difference did it make now? Why did Ro start the rumor that Ginnie had caused the fire? To protect himself, obviously, but… From what? she added. Who would have suspected him, except Lucy, and Lucy knew that Ginnie had not played with matches. Did Ginnie see or hear him that day? she wrote, and now she put her pen down and left her chair, paced slowly. Charlie looked at her with sympathy and asked nothing. He saw that he had played a red eight on a red nine, and gathered the cards together.

After a few more minutes Constance sat down again. “Charlie? Let me tell you what I think happened.”

He put down the cards.

“Ginnie heard Ro and Vic that day. They must have argued violently and one of them stuck the knife in the bread hard, probably Vic, since Ro had other plans. When Ro realized that Ginnie was home, saved her life even, he knew that she was a threat to him. What if she babbled about Uncle Ro fighting with Daddy? He covered himself by suggesting she played with matches. The police accepted that, they always do, don't they.”

He started to protest, but he realized she was not looking at him, was not asking him a question.

“Ginnie was so traumatized that she couldn't talk, but it was too late, the rumor was there. And by doing that to her twenty-six years ago, he's responsible for the danger she's in now.”

“You think he's as crazy about her as everyone keeps telling us?”

“Oh, yes. He did save her, and he did leave everything here and take her abroad when Lucy died. The way he looks at her, his eyes really do light up, his whole face lights up. That's not a cliché it actually happens with him. I don't think he's putting on an act. That's why he's so desperate for her safety, I think. He knows he's responsible.”