Coming Up Murder Page 9

  “Let’s go say hi,” Lenny said. He must have been thinking the same thing I was.

  Reed hardly noticed us approach. He was staring at a picture of Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-upon-Avon, according to the caption.

  “Hey, Reed,” said Lenny. “How’s it going?”

  He acknowledged us with a nod. “Do you know this isn’t even Shakespeare’s house?”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. It looked like the same white-and-brown, thatched-roof house I’d seen in books. Very English and iconic.

  “The gables, the roof, the windows—all constructed between 1858-1864. The nineteenth century! The only thing original are the cellars. This little piece here, this was what was originally dubbed Shakespeare’s house. When more tourists and money needed to be accommodated, the pub to the right was bought along with the house to the left. Thus, the monstrosity we have today.”

  Lenny and I exchanged glances. Reed seemed to be talking nonsense.

  “Have you, uh, been there?” Lenny asked.

  Reed shook his head. “I learned about it from Tanner. I’ve studied Shakespeare all my life and had no idea.”

  “Tanner had a theory,” I said. “An unproven theory.”

  He sighed. “A darn convincing theory, Emmeline. I can’t shake it.”

  I didn’t know what hurt him more: the loss of his student or the loss of his Shakespeare. To dedicate a life to the study of someone who might not be the person you thought he was? Devastating. There was no other word for it.

  “The important thing is the plays,” said Lenny. “They’re perfect. Does it really matter who wrote them?”

  I admired Lenny’s restraint. He wasn’t a Shakespeare fan, far from it. He could have said anything but chose to say the right thing.

  “Don’t you see?” said Reed. “It would change everything. Who we thought he was, who we thought we were. The Shakespeare I know is the quintessential underdog. A man I could root for. A man I could understand. A man I recognized in myself.” Reed threw up his hands at the display. “This here, I don’t know.”

  “No one can change who you are,” I said. “You’re a distinguished scholar I’m proud to know. I mean that,” I added, when he returned the compliment with a sad smile.

  Hamlet and Claudius started arguing, and our attention turned to them. They were arguing over Claudius’s marriage to Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, as the ghost looked on encouragingly. Hamlet unsheathed his sword, a metaphorical flex of his muscles, and when he did, something fell from his pocket. Laughter trickled through the crowd.

  I craned my neck to see what it was.

  Claudius, a large ruddy student, laughed. “Does Hamlet purpose to kill me with kindness, for it is a beautiful flower he wields instead of a sword.”

  I took a step closer. A small bunch of yellow flowers lay on the floor.

  Hamlet, however, was not laughing. He kneeled down to pick up the bouquet, tied with a string. A note seemed to indicate they were meant for him. Pointing the flowers at Claudius, he said, “Who did this? You?”

  “Surely I do not come bearing flowers,” said Claudius. The smile on his face diminished as Hamlet glared at him.

  “I mean it!” said Hamlet. “Who did this?”

  The room grew silent. Though I wanted a better look at the flowers, I dared not move, lest I call attention to myself in the stillness of the room. They were yellow; that was all I could see.

  Hamlet picked up the flowers and threw them at Claudius. “I’ll get you for this!”

  He stormed out of the room, and a ruckus followed. The audience wasn’t sure if the scene was part of the performance. Claudius himself looked uncertain, especially when Horatio followed Hamlet.

  “What’s the deal with flowers?” Lenny asked Reed. “Why’s he so upset?”

  “It’s bad luck to give an actor flowers before a performance,” said Reed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if that little prank throws off Hamlet’s entire night.” He wiped his nose with a handkerchief. “Students. They can be ruthless when they want to be.”

  I took a step in the direction of the flowers on the floor. Everyone’s attention was now elsewhere. Just then Claudius picked up the flowers and walked over to the trash can.

  “Wait!” I said. Several heads turned, including Claudius’s. My mind went blank, and I said the first thing that came into my head. “It seems a waste to throw away fresh flowers. Could I have them?”

  “Knock yourself out,” he said, shoving them in my hand.

  I studied the simple bouquet. Marigolds. Their pungent stink gave them away. A long black hair provided a clue as to the sender. Jacob had black hair. So did Andy. I picked up the strand. But neither had hair this long.

  “That’s one way to get flowers, I suppose,” said Jane Lemort, who appeared at my elbow. She wore a navy dress with black lace that disguised its pretty color. Part of me wondered if she bought the relics at an online specialty shop for medieval aficionados. I didn’t dare ask. There was an online beret shop I was quite fond of. I could be Jane in a couple of years if I didn’t watch out.

  “Jane, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  She blinked, perplexed as I was by the words that had flown out of my mouth.

  “These are marigolds, right?” I said. “Do you know what they symbolize, if anything?”

  She leaned in and sniffed them, then jerked back. “Yes, these are definitely marigolds.”

  I glanced at the card. It was addressed to Jacob Heraldson, the student playing Hamlet, but no giver was named. Turning it over, I noticed a Day of the Dead skull insignia. “Are marigolds associated with the Day of the Dead?” The Day of the Dead was November 2 or All Souls’ Day in my church. Nowhere near April.

  Her pointed chin tipped upward. “Yes, they are. It’s said their bright colors lead the dead back to the living.”

  That was interesting. Was someone trying to lead Tanner’s ghost to Jacob?

  “But they can also symbolize jealousy, cruelty, and grief in general.”

  Another interesting connotation. Could Jacob, driven by jealousy of Tanner, have gone after his part in the cruelest way possible? “How do you know so much about flowers?” I doubted that Jane could lift a man Tanner’s size—she was way too skinny—but if her muscles were as strong as her zeal for committee work, I couldn’t rule it out.

  “You must encounter flowers in your classes,” she said with a tinny laugh. “I’m not the only literature teacher here.”

  “A rose, a chrysanthemum, myrtle—nothing like your knowledge. Where does it come from?”

  “You got me,” she said. “My mom’s a florist. I’ve known the meanings of flowers since I was ten years old and have kept up with the language.”

  The information moved me, though I couldn’t say why. Maybe it was the knowledge that Jane liked flowers. It made her seem more human.

  “It is a language, you know,” she continued. “Just like French or any other. I’ve talked to the dean about a certificate. There’s no reason we can’t offer one here.”

  Now I felt moved—toward the door. I glanced briefly at Lenny. It was all the hint he needed to follow me.

  Chapter Twelve

  I told Lenny about my conversation with Jane as we walked toward the auditorium. Though he thought we had collected enough information on Jacob, I insisted we attend at least part of the play to see if he was shaken by receiving the flowers. This killer was smart: Jacob could have sent them to himself to throw suspicion elsewhere. The only way to know for certain was to see the play. Reluctantly, Lenny agreed. At least Giles could duly note our appearance.

  The flowers were in Jacob’s pocket. But if he didn’t put them there, it meant somebody suspected him of killing Tanner. Unless it was a prank, like Reed said. Either way, one of the actors or someone close to the theater had to have been involved. I’d need to talk to the actors when they weren’t in character. Perhaps after the play? I sneaked a glance at Lenny as we scooted into our seats. He caught
my look, and I gave him a sweet smile.

  “I know that smile.” He helped me with the sleeve of my jacket before he sat down.

  “What smile?” I said, getting comfortable in my seat.

  “The one you give me right before you ask me to do something,” he said.

  I grabbed his hand as the lights begin to dim. We could talk about that later. The red velvet curtain was lifting and the set coming into view. The most striking feature was the platform of Elsinore Castle, where a guard stood. It towered above the interior of the castle, which had arched windows and a checkered floor. Though dark, the space felt real, authentic. Alexander Schwartz and his set designer, Dan Fox, were pros, and while we lived in a small college town in the Midwest, I defied anyone—namely Felix or Andy—to find a better theater program. I surveyed the audience to see if they were in attendance but couldn’t distinguish faces in the dim light.

  Hamlet wouldn’t appear until scene two, so I relaxed, enjoying the entrance of the ghost. I couldn’t think of a more intriguing way for a writer to draw in an audience. Ghosts were mysterious, especially this one, because he wouldn’t talk to the guards, yet carried a message. Horatio was skeptical, despite seeing the specter with his own eyes. Watching the interaction, I decided I liked Shakespeare more than I remembered. It’d been a while since I’d seen one of his plays.

  “Isn’t this good?” I whispered to Lenny.

  He leaned in closer. “If you believe in ghosts.”

  I was puzzled. “Of course I believe in ghosts. Don’t you?”

  “No.”

  “What do you think all those souls do while they’re stuck in purgatory? Sit still?” I shook my head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I don’t have to worry about that scenario,” said Lenny. “I’m Jewish.”

  Hamlet arrived in his “suits of solemn black,” and I stopped talking. I analyzed his response to his mother, Queen Gertrude, and the new King Claudius. Jacob knew his lines and recited them well. He was a good actor, charismatic and talented. He made me forget I was watching a play—whose star was possibly a murderer. It wasn’t until he was midway through his conversation with Horatio that I remembered the unwelcome gift of flowers. Stumbling on a word, he physically stumbled on the stage, catching himself before falling outright. Horatio, like any good friend would, came to his rescue, improvising a few lines about not meaning to startle him with the news of seeing his father’s ghost. But the damage was done. Jacob was still off balance when intermission came.

  The lights grew brighter, and I stood to stretch. “I need to use the restroom.”

  “I see Giles,” said Lenny, pointing several rows ahead of us. Giles was sitting with his wife, Katherine, as well as Felix and Andy. “I’m going to say hello.”

  We parted in different directions, and I made a beeline for the bathroom, but it was too late. The line reached into the hallway. After waiting a few minutes, I decided to take a detour through the gallery. There was a restroom downstairs I could use, and I wanted to check out the gallery again anyway.

  The displays were still lighted, and a few people stood around reading placards or peering at costumes. I walked through the gallery, glancing into corners and looking for evidence of who might have placed the flowers in Jacob’s pocket. Finding nothing, I scolded myself for thinking there would be clues just waiting for me to find them. My Crimes and Passions course hadn’t enhanced my investigative skills; it had only increased my enthusiasm for my hobby.

  As I was about to leave, I noticed movement outside the gallery door. Someone darted past, and I exited the gallery in time to see Tanner’s girlfriend, Mia, rushing out the front door. Her roommate Mackenzie followed after her. They must’ve come to watch the play, but why? They’d seen it on opening night. Wouldn’t it be difficult seeing Jacob playing Tanner’s role? And why leave now? Unless they were the ones who’d planted the flowers to punish Jacob for taking Tanner’s part. Then they’d enjoy sticking around long enough to see if their “gift” had done its job of making him flub his lines.

  I had to hurry if I was going to make it back before the show began. I walked down the side stairs that led to the downstairs restroom, my footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. One of the newer buildings on campus, the theater had maze-like turns, twists, and passages that could leave anyone unfamiliar with them disoriented. Fortunately, I’d been in the bowels of the theater a couple times, or I might have hesitated to make the detour. The lower level had no windows, only artificial lighting. The lavatory was close, but if I kept walking, I would find the prop rooms, the dressing rooms, the green room, and the rest of the backstage area out of view of the audience.

  Hustling into the bathroom, I was still thinking about Mia and Mackenzie. They were both majors in the Fine Arts Department. It made sense that they were here. They might have been completing a project or … something more sinister. Flowers, flubbed lines? I couldn’t help where my mind was going. But neither had black hair. Where had that strand come from?

  The theater music started, and the bathroom lights shut off. Still in the stall, I froze. Did the lights shut off automatically when the play resumed? No. Someone was in the bathroom with me. I heard a footstep, then a noise at my door. An object rolled into the stall from underneath. I caught it with my foot. For a moment, I thought it was a bomb because it was round. But it didn’t explode.

  “What is this? Who are you?”

  No reply but the thumping of my heart. Motionless, I listened for a full minute before I dared touch the door. I slid open the latch. The concrete room was engulfed in darkness. I reached for the object by my foot. It was round and hard, plastic. I turned it over in my hands, straining to identify it, but it was pitch black, and I could make out nothing. Plus, I was afraid it was dangerous. I found the entrance of the bathroom and slid my hand up and down the wall, feeling for the light switch. After a futile ten-second search, I pulled open the door. I wanted to get out of there. The dark didn’t scare me, but whatever was in my hands did.

  Engulfed in darkness, I ran my hand along the cool cement-block wall until I reached the stairwell, which was also pitch black. I grabbed the railing, keeping the object gripped in my free hand. The sound of my heels made an eerie echo as I climbed the metal stairs one at a time.

  At the top of the steps, I flung open the door to the main floor, happy to be in the light again. I stood blinking for a second, allowing my eyes to adjust. Then I looked down at the object in my hand and screamed. A skull rolled onto the floor.

  “Em! What happened?” Lenny was racing down the hallway.

  “It’s okay,” I reassured him, even though I wasn’t sure that was true. “I was in the bathroom downstairs. There was a line up here. When I was in there, someone shut off the lights and rolled that under my stall door.”

  He jabbed at the skull with his foot, as if it might bite. Then he bent down to examine it. Picking it up, he said, “It’s not real. It’s fake.”

  I studied the skull. The realization hit me. “Of course it’s fake. It’s a prop from the play. This is the skull Hamlet talks to.”

  “Maybe there are such things as ghosts …” Lenny muttered.

  “We need to put it back.”

  “We don’t need to do anything,” he said, putting his arm around me. “You’re shaking.”

  “But the actors must have it,” I said. “And soon.”

  He led me to the gallery, where he grabbed one of the volunteers and told them to return the skull to the prop table, now. When the volunteer asked how he got it, he restated now in a very deep voice. That got the student moving.

  He turned to me. “Who do you think did it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I know it was intended for me. Whoever did this saw me go into the bathroom. They took the opportunity to scare me.”

  “Scare you away from solving the case?”

  “Maybe. It could be a warning, like the begonias.”

  “And the sonnet,” he added.
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  “I can’t help but feel guilty.” I let out a breath. “The sonnet was the first warning. I should have done more.”

  “You told Giles,” he said. “What more could you do?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I could have called Sophie or even Officer Beamer. Maybe they could have identified the killer before they got to Tanner.”

  “Whoever killed Tanner is playing a game. The sonnet was just the first move.”

  Lenny was right. I had a feeling the killer was enjoying himself or herself immensely. The sonnet, the flowers, the skull—all embellishments in a real-life game of cat and mouse. I was the mouse.

  “So who’s good at playing pretend?” he said. “One of the actors?”

  “It could be,” I said. “They could’ve seen me go downstairs. I also saw Mia and her friend Mackenzie leave the building. Maybe they came back.”

  He snapped his fingers. “Andy and Felix are with Giles.”

  “I know. I saw them, too.”

  “Anybody else?” he asked, taking my hand.

  “Practically the entire English Department, Theater Department, and student body are here.”

  He pulled me toward the entrance.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  “I’m getting our coats,” he said. “I think I’ve had enough drama for one night.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Over a late-night dinner at Vinny’s, Lenny and I had agreed the skull prank had been pulled last minute, which meant the prankster could have made a mistake. I hadn’t figured out what that mistake was yet, but I would. After stashing the flowers in Jacob’s pocket, he might’ve seized the chance to frighten me by placing the skull in the bathroom. Unless he wanted the skull to disappear in the first place, throwing Jacob and the entire cast into confusion when they discovered it missing. In that case, rolling it into my stall had been an afterthought, albeit a bonus.