I spent the next hour garnishing, plating, and styling our theatrical spread. Our beautifully orchestrated menu was completed and staged beneath the glow of the lanterns and the electric flames of the flickering tea lights. I stood back to observe, pleased with how well my team had executed Lance’s vision.
Patrons began arriving, and soon the vineyard was filled with the sounds of happy laughter and clinking wineglasses. I mingled with familiar faces as I poured our earthy merlot and watched the sun get swallowed up by an invasion of twinkling stars. Carlos and Sterling illuminated the lanterns and twinkle lights inside the barn, which cast a lustrous glow over the neat rows of chairs.
Lance took the stage when the sun had fully set with a glass of wine in one hand. He had changed into a well-fitting navy suit with a canary yellow tie and matching shoes. “Welcome, welcome to the inaugural production of your Fair Verona Players.”
The audience applauded enthusiastically as the last few stragglers topped off their wine and took their seats.
“You are in for a wild ride with a Kate and Petruchio like you’ve never seen.” Lance addressed his adoring audience and raised his glass. “Hold on to your wineglasses and buckle up for an evening of hilarity as our Fair Verona Players take you to Padua in the Italian countryside near Verona, where we open with a nobleman playing a trick on a beggar and setting the stage for the play that we know and love as none other than Taming of the Shrew.”
Lance’s introduction sent the audience to their feet with cheers and whoops.
The energy was electric as the stage lights went out and were immediately replaced by pulsing purple and orange flashes. Madonna’s “Lucky Star” blasted through the speakers, and the ensemble, in a mashup of Tudor and ’80s garb paraded down the aisle.
It was impossible not to get swept up into the celebratory atmosphere. Even Jimmy was on his best behavior. The show exceeded my expectations and that of the entire audience. During intermission, everyone was talking about what a visionary Lance was—that he had managed to blend a tribute to Madonna songs with a gender-bending cast and yet still keep Shakespeare’s material recognizable was a monumental feat.
The audience, myself included, gave the cast a five-minute standing ovation when the actors took their final bow. Lance hadn’t oversold his remake on the problematic Shakespearean comedy. The show was an ’80s dance party—intertwining pop beats from Wham! and Billy Joel with Elizabethan sonnets and soliloquies. This might go down in history as the best show Lance had ever directed, which was saying a lot, because he had won nearly every regional and nation theater award and accolade.
No one wanted to leave. We kept pouring wine and bringing out the last of the desserts as everyone gushed about the show.
Arlo, Lance’s boyfriend and the current fiscal director at OSF, beamed with pride, and Mom and the Professor couldn’t stop talking about Lance’s revolutionary approach to Shakespeare.
“He is single-handedly going to bring along a new generation of theater lovers, and I could not be prouder to say I was here to witness it,” the Professor said with admiration. “That production belongs on the big screen. I wouldn’t be surprised if Madonna herself makes an appearance.”
“I love that you know Madonna.” I’d never heard him talk about an affinity for ’80s pop before.
The Professor wrinkled his forehead and ran a finger along his beard. “Now, Juliet, how can you say that, with lyrics like, ‘Poor is the man whose pleasures depend on the permission of another.’ The bard couldn’t have said it better.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
“Now I’m really impressed.”
Mom grinned as she leaned into his shoulder, wrapping her cashmere shawl over her left arm. “I’ll have you know that I have discovered Doug dancing to the beat of ‘Holiday’ in the kitchen on more than one occasion.”
“How did I never know about your Madonna obsession?” I asked with real shock.
“It’s a bop, as the kids say.” He winked and adjusted his tie. As usual he had dressed for the occasion in a gray suit and loafers. His tie featured a treasury of Shakespearean insults. I had to squint to read some of them, like “Thou odoriferous stench” and “Pestilent complete knave.”
“Did I just hear the Professor say ‘a bop’?” Andy passed by with an empty tray. He stopped long enough to offer the Professor a fist bump of approval and to check in with me. “Hey, sorry to bug you, boss, but have you seen the key to the wine cellar?”
“Not recently.”
“That guy Tom is asking for another bottle of private reserve, but the key isn’t on the hook,” Andy said, glancing around like he expected to see him.
“I’ll come in with you and take a look.” I thought back to earlier when I had let Tom into the cellar. I knew I returned the key to the hook because of what a big deal he had made about safety measures. Part of me wondered if he had taken it himself to prove a point. He was the type. He probably thought it was a good way to teach me an “important business lesson.” I needed to introduce him to Richard Lord. They would get along swimmingly. Richard and I hadn’t gotten off to good start when I first returned home to Ashland. He owned the aging Merry Windsor Hotel, which sat across the plaza from Torte. Since my first day back in Ashland, he had attempted to try and insert himself into my professional and personal life. I knew the reason—Mom. Richard had been close to taking possession of Torte. Mom’s generosity had left her in a precarious financial position, and Richard had swooped in with a pitiful offer to buy the bakeshop out from under her. Unbeknownst to her, the deal would have left her with nothing.
Thankfully, Mom caught on, and I had saved money during my years on the Amour of the Seas that I invested. We were able to save Torte, which made me enemy number one in Richard’s eyes. There was no need for animosity or competition. Richard’s offerings of microwaved oatmeal and slice-and-bake cookies at the Merry Windsor were vastly different from Torte, but that didn’t stop him from constantly accusing me of trying to copy him.
In addition to attempting a hostile takeover of the family bakeshop, he made it his mission to make me and everyone else in his sphere miserable.
I wound my way along the dimly lit path, guided by the stars, moonlight, and the solar lights. Chatter of frogs and crickets echoed in the valley, bouncing off the mountains to the west. I was thrilled and relieved that the show had gone off without a hitch, mainly for Lance’s sake. He had put so much of his own time and money into the Fair Verona Players.
I still couldn’t quite wrap my mind around how different Jimmy had been onstage. Lance was right. Once the curtain went up, Jimmy was an entirely different person. I had to credit his acting ability—or maybe his shift in personality had more to do with Lance’s careful direction.
Movement flashed out of the corner of my eye. I turned to see someone, or something, disappear amongst the grapevines. I hoped it wasn’t a black bear. This was the time of year when they woke from their winter slumbers and began meandering down into town and the surrounding farmland in search of spring berries.
It wouldn’t have been one of my staff, and no one else was supposed to be up this way.
I shrugged it off, but stayed on high alert as I continued toward the deck. I let myself in the side door. The tasting room was empty, as was the kitchen, although I could tell that the tear-down-and-clean-up processes were already in full swing by the stacks of empty dishes on the counter and in the sink. Sterling’s clipboard with the closing checklist noted that everyone would be responsible for bringing loads from the vineyard.
I smiled at his efficiency. Multiple items had already been completed and checked off the list.
I could hear footsteps above. Someone was moving about in the dressing rooms. I was surprised that any of the actors had opted to linger inside, given that everyone outside was eager to congratulate them on a stellar opening show.
There was no sign of Tom.
The last thing I wanted to do was spend twenty minutes hearing him pontificate on his wine knowledge. I’d rather give him the key and let him go find his own bottle.
I scribbled a quick “You are awesome” on the clipboard and went to grab the key.
Andy was right—it wasn’t on the hook where I’d left it a few hours ago.
Classic.
It had to be Tom.
But then again, why not just help himself versus making a big show about our lack of safety procedures?
I sighed and hurried through the tasting room.
The lights were off in the stairwell. I turned them on and made sure not to take the stairs too fast, even though the only thing I wanted to do was get Tom a bottle of what he had deemed to be superior wine and get back to the party.
A tingling feeling spread up my spine as I descended the rickety stairs, letting out a sigh when my feet landed on solid ground. The basement was plunged in darkness. The only light was from the staircase. I could see that the cellar door was partially open.
Tom must have let himself in.
I inhaled through my nose and squared my shoulders, preparing myself to kindly yet firmly kick him out.
I knew that he was financially tied to the Fair Verona Players, and I didn’t want to ruin a business relationship for Lance, but Tom had overstepped.
I pushed the door open, expecting to see Tom seated at the table with his nose buried in a glass of vintage wine.
Instead, Jimmy was sprawled on the floor with a corkscrew stabbed in the side of his neck and a pool of blood surrounding his head.