Keep no one in unnecessary suspense.
—ROSE, READING ETIQUETTE BOOK, Ruddigore
Andrew hadn’t come home yet, and so Joan ate a quick supper of cheese, crackers, and fruit and left him a note. He could fend for himself. After her years of single motherhood, his adult abilities were a continuing joy to her. Then she brushed her teeth, pulled on her orchestra black, brushed her hair into a twist up off her neck, and was ready to go. John would bring the viola music. All she had to do was arrive with her instrument.
The car coughed and sputtered when she first started it, but then quickly settled down. She’d made friends with a mechanic whose mother attended the adult day care at the Senior Citizens’ Center. Between them, they’d been nursing the old car along, but she knew it wouldn’t last forever.
She patted it on the dashboard. Just hang it there till we get Andrew through school. Scholarship or no scholarship, this is no time to have to buy a car.
She put the thought out of her mind, or as far back as she could push it. She managed. Except in emergencies, her frugal nature stuck to a budget without much trouble. Her health was good, and as Ken’s widow she’d been able to continue his health insurance plan. Insurance would cover the tornado damage to her house, too. New strings for the viola had set her back sixty-five dollars this spring, though, even with Mr. Isaac’s friendly discount. And her bow badly needed rehairing. Maybe after Ruddigore and before the fall season, she thought. If I could buy Margaret a handkerchief from Esther’s, I can treat myself to a little horsehair.
Not that anyone but me will ever hear the difference, she thought as she rosined what was left of the hairs on her bow in the women’s dressing room. It looks bad, but it can wait.
“You’re looking awfully serious tonight.” It was her old school friend Nancy Van Allen, who was putting her trombone together. “Something the matter?”
“Oh, no. I was just thinking about money.”
“That’ll do it to you. Though I can’t complain. We’re doing all right these days. I remember when I used to have to watch what I bought at the grocery store, and new clothes were out of the question. Good thing we were young and healthy.”
“I’m okay.” One out of two’s not bad.
“Well, of course you are. It’s the young people who have a rough time.” Nancy turned her back and blew warm air into her horn.
You have no idea, Joan thought. True, she did worry how her own two would make it, especially because she could give them so little help. But many of the older people she knew were struggling, too, and her sample—those who came to the center—didn’t include the ones who couldn’t afford even the basic necessities. Sooner or later, though, if they had enough illness, a lot of people went through their savings long before they died. It scared her to think about it.
Joan carried her viola and bow to the pit, squeezed past the winds and cellos, and joined John Hocking, who set the music on their stand.
“You all right?” he asked.
“I’m fine.” Two of them asking me that. I must look awful.
“That’s good.” His cheerful face beamed at her, and she felt her spirits lift again.
“Thanks, John.”
“For what?”
“Being there.”
“Any time, kid.” He opened the music to the ghosts’ chorus, “He yields!” and ran through the arpeggios in fast sixteenths. The notes were really only doubled eighths, which made them possible, but they did demand a person’s full attention, and it was easy to get tangled in them unless they were familiar. Joining in, Joan was relieved to find her fingers remembering from the previous Saturday.
From the beginning, the performance went well. Joan thought it might be the best so far, although she missed Ellen’s elegant singing. Esther’s Rose Maybud was amazingly convincing and her tones were pure. Catherine’s rhythm was steadier in the mad scene and she wowed the audience with her comic turns. Pete Wylie sang as if he’d been Sir Roderic all along. Even the diction of the chorus seemed to have improved. Had they been rehearsing? It didn’t seem likely.
The audience responded wonderfully. Their hearty laughter at all the right places seemed to give new energy to all the performers. Down in the pit, Joan was free to laugh as the people in character onstage could not. Good thing, she thought, and chuckled at Steve Dolan’s line, “So this is what it’s like to embark upon a career of unlicensed pleasure!” when Liz MacDonald challenged him to a duel instead of meekly letting him carry her off. Tonight it would be hard not to laugh, even as many times as I’ve heard it.
When Pete came down from his picture frame and asked, “What is the matter? Have you carried her off?” and Steve answered, “I have—she is there—look at her—she terrifies me!” the audience roared again. It suddenly occurred to Joan that Gilbert and Sullivan’s domineering women—Dame Hannah and Mad Margaret in Ruddigore, Katisha in Mikado, and the sisters, cousins, and aunts in H.M.S. Pinafore—had more than a little in common with Alex Campbell, who at the moment was watching benignly enough from her conductor’s stool. The faint smile that crossed her lips from time to time seldom reached her eyes.
And then it was over. Somehow Joan wasn’t as tired as she had been before, even though she hadn’t practiced since last Saturday. The rest must have restored her.
“That went well,” John said.
“I thought so, too. It was a great audience!”
The pit rumbled down, and she headed for the dressing room, but the chorus had beaten her to it. Joan didn’t feel like pushing her way in. She could wait to get to her viola case. Leaning against the wall in the downstairs hall, she exchanged greetings with a few chorus members on their way out.
She congratulated Liz MacDonald. “That was really good tonight.”
“Do you think so? I was having fun. On Saturday I could hardly stand it, but tonight I could hear the jokes again.”
Liz is going to be all right, Joan thought. She saw Zach leaving the men’s dressing room, close to the exit, and felt relieved not to have to speak to him.
I can’t believe Zach would do it, she thought. But she couldn’t ignore what she had seen. She no longer trusted him, it was that simple. She felt betrayed by him, not safe, as she always had before. That’s not fair, she thought. I’m not giving him a chance. But her feelings wouldn’t listen.
And now she saw Virgil coming down the hall toward the men’s dressing room. He wasn’t in costume—just jeans and a T-shirt—nothing to change out of, but the toilets were there, too. She knew suddenly that she had to talk to him. She waited outside the men’s room door, trying to look natural, and waylaid him when he came out.
“Well, hello there,” he said. “You going home?”
“When I can get to my instrument case. It’s still pretty crowded in the women’s dressing room.”
“I’d offer to help, but not in there.” He grinned at her.
“No.” She smiled back. Now that she had him, she didn’t know what to ask. “Virgil, you’ve known Zach for a while, haven’t you?”
He pounced on it. “What’s he done?”
“Done?”
“I meant to come over and check your porch for you. Just because he’s slow doesn’t mean he’s always careful.” His voice was so mournful and his eyes so sad that she had to believe him.
“It looks fine. Walter Rice is coming over tomorrow morning to start painting.”
“Well, then, I’d better look at it first thing. Once it’s covered up, you’ll never be able to tell what’s under there.”
“Is that what happened over at Henry’s?” His eyebrows rose. “Did Zach do something to that beam that made it fall on him? Is that what you were telling David about?”
“What I was…?”
“I overheard you two down here that night. I was mad at David for talking like that about Zach behind his back. I had no idea.” He didn’t deny it, and she rushed on. “But now … yesterday when he was packing up his things I saw something that’s worrying me.”
“What’s that?”
She hesitated. She probably shouldn’t talk about it except to Fred. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t even have mentioned it until I talk to the police tomorrow. I don’t suppose they came back tonight.”
“No. They finally left us alone.”
“No wonder everyone sounded so good tonight. That has to have been a relief.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Thanks, Virgil. And I’ll take you up on tomorrow, if you really mean it. The porch seems fine, but it won’t hurt. I appreciate your taking the trouble.”
“Sure thing.”
Joan found her case, made it out to the car, and drove home on automatic pilot.
Andrew looked up when she opened the back door and parked the viola on the floor beside it. He waved a slice of pizza in her direction.
“Try some, Mom, it’s terrific.”
“Whose is it?” She didn’t see a box. He’d apparently warmed it on a cookie sheet. The oven was still putting out heat, the last thing they needed tonight.
“Mine.”
“Thanks.” She reached for a piece. “That’s not what I mean.”
“Yes, it is. I made it.”
“From scratch?” She lowered the slice without tasting it.
“How about that? It’s easy. I figured if pizza started life as poor man’s food, I shouldn’t have to fork over ten bucks. So I found a recipe and tried it. You had yeast and flour and mozzarella and tomato sauce. I put a few spices in the sauce and some vegetables on top, and I was in business. Turned out okay.”
Amazing. Biting into the pizza in her hand, Joan was pleasantly surprised. Chewy crust, flavorful sauce, and plenty of cheese, mushrooms, green peppers, and broccoli florets. He was right, it was terrific pizza. Though why she should be surprised, she didn’t know. Andrew hadn’t had a cooking failure yet. Omelets, popovers, and now pizza. She wondered why he didn’t do it more often, but it was good to know he could manage on his own.
Andrew had stopped chewing. She realized that he was waiting for her verdict.
“It’s more than okay, Andrew. It’s delicious.”
He smiled and helped himself to another piece.
“Thanks. How was Ruddigore?”
“Better than last week. But I’m more tired than I thought.” She had just about enough energy to chew. They sat in companionable silence for a little while. Then Andrew snapped his fingers.
“I forgot. Rebecca called. I told her where you were, so she said she’d call back later tonight.”
“What’s on her mind?”
“I don’t know. She sounded all right.”
“Good. I’d better get ready for bed. I have to go to work tomorrow morning. That’s the trouble with a Thursday night performance. Of course, the rehearsals lasted even later, and they were on weeknights, too.”
She dragged upstairs and changed into her coolest gown.
Why am I so tired? I felt fine at the end of the performance. But she knew. At the end of the performance she hadn’t been thinking about anything else. Seeing Zach and then talking with Virgil had brought her worries down on her shoulders again.
The phone rang. After the usual preliminaries, she found herself telling Rebecca all about the murder. Almost all. Andrew, who had picked up the extension in the kitchen, added bits he knew. But she hesitated to tell Andrew about the awls before she told Fred.
“So what’s wrong, Mom?” Rebecca didn’t miss much. “Are you holding something back?”
“You always know, don’t you? Yes, I am. And I’m going to keep it that way until tomorrow.”
Now they both pounced on her.
“Look, you two. I saw something today that suggests who killed David. But there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. I’ll tell the police in the morning. Then I can tell you.” And she wouldn’t budge.
“Don’t get in trouble, Mom,” Rebecca said. “You don’t owe the police anything. You take care of yourself first.”
“I am taking care of myself. Telling Fred is the best thing to do about this.”
“Well, if it’s Fred.” Rebecca had developed an amazing soft spot for him during her visit to Oliver. “He’ll know what to do. I wouldn’t trust those other bozos.”
“I won’t.”
“Make her call him, Andrew.”
“I’ll call him, Rebecca,” Joan said. “Don’t fuss.” Is this how they felt when I mother-henned them? Now the shoe’s on the other foot, and it pinches.
“I’ll call you back tomorrow night,” Rebecca said.
“You do that. I’ll be back late. We still have two more performances.”
“That’s okay. I’m a night owl.”
“Good night, Rebecca. I love you.”
“I love you, too. Be careful.”