Castle Deadly, Castle Deep, page 10
My smile was wry, but I was saved from the necessity of responding by the arrival of Renata, who had slipped away moments earlier; now she bore a variety of donuts on a platter and said, “My treat.”
I selected a Boston cream and took a huge bite, hoping the conversation would flow on around me, which it did. The custard in the pastry was so delicious that it brought me brief comfort. “Food is love,” my brothers always joked when they took second and third helpings. And Zana insisted that food was comfort. Perhaps they were all right. If so, this was Renata’s way of showing affection, and I smiled at her and patted my tummy. She laughed.
In that instant I was struck by how pretty Renata really was. I had always found her rather stern-looking, but when she laughed, I could see her excellent bone structure, her even white teeth, the attractive wrinkles around her eyes. Her hair was still brown and glossy, though she was in her early fifties, and I realized why the mysterious man in town wanted to date her, and why his ex, Barbara, resented her.
I lost track of what the others were saying as I let my thoughts drift and ate my treat in silence. Once I was finished, I contemplated just how much pastry and sugar I’d consumed; I was incredibly full.
“I have to get up and walk,” I said finally. “I’m stuffed.”
Miranda looked at her watch. “Yeah, I’ve got to get going. Thanks for introducing me to the bakery, though.”
We stood up and began to make our way toward the door. The bill for everything, Renata assured us, had already been paid. We offered her our thanks, and Jade appeared. She pointed at a bucket near the door, where a variety of flowers sat in six inches of water. “You can grab one on your way out if you want to leave one at Ben’s memorial.”
I wasn’t sure what she meant but I selected a pink rose and moved out to the large tree and its green ribbon. Only from that vantage point did I see the little plaque—Ben’s picture decoupaged onto a wooden board along with a touching tribute in an elegant font:
In memory of Benjamin John Boyle, aged twenty-five. Devoted son and brother and friend to all. Ben, we will remember you.
The picture of Ben had clearly been taken at the Blue Curtain. It was a slightly blurry and heartbreaking shot of Ben goofing around, his head thrown back, his hair rumpled. He wore a huge smile and he looked about six years old.
Wiping away tears, I set my flowers in a vase in front of the tree, then signed a visitors’ book that the Balfours had put on a little table nearby. This gesture of love and respect was more moving to me than perhaps a full funeral mass would have been. Just people who loved him acknowledging him with silent affection. There were already at least twenty blooms in the large vase, and by the time we four left, it was bulging with flowers.
10
The Mysterious Mr. Corby
WE RECEIVED A text from Derek during our drive home:
Elspeth and Allie have completed the tentative costumes for the production. Please see them today between ten and twelve for your fitting. Lunch at noon, then BC rehearsal.
“I guess I’d better get my butt up to the fitting room,” Elspeth joked. “I assume Allie is already there.”
Allie Fisher was the other costume designer for the production; she taught home economics at Wood Glen High School, and she loved collaborating with Elspeth. They had worked together, Elspeth told us proudly, on five productions.
When we reached the castle, Renata let us out at the door and drove on to the small parking lot against the building. I climbed up the stairs, hoping to work off some of the thousands of calories I had just consumed. I went into my room, saw that the Brontës were sleeping in a gray heap on the windowsill, and tiptoed to the bathroom to comb my hair and wash my face.
Then I moved down the hall to the costume room. Elspeth and Allie were deep in conversation, staring at a piece of silk and admiring it in the way only a seamstress could. Allie looked up at me and smiled. She was fortyish, with red curls and a face full of freckles.
“Hey, Nora! I hear you’re rocking the role of Kristine. Els and I are going to make you look very modest and Norwegian, but with just a touch of rebellion.”
“Good. Kristine has hidden depths,” I said with a grin.
Allie nodded. “Okay, here’s the thing. There’s nothing in Ibsen’s stage directions about Kristine’s clothing, other than that she’s wearing traveling clothes. But many productions put her in widow’s weeds.”
“Funny,” I said, “since Kristine tells Nora she didn’t love her husband and he died three years earlier.”
Elspeth snorted. “I have some issues with that costuming. Why would people assume that a widow would wear black for three years? Was that really the social expectation?”
“I don’t know. If it was, it reinforces Ibsen’s idea that these women lived in an oppressive society.”
My gaze traveled over the costume room, with its brightly colored dresses and suits, its masks and boas and hats and shoes. How glad I was that I could shed all the personas except my own.
“So we decided to go with a black skirt, with a nod toward that oppressive expectation,” Allie said. She held up a long black skirt, attractive but simple in what seemed a cotton blend. “But we decided on this nice blouse and—wait for it”—she turned around to a little table full of prop jewelry and swung back with a pretty pearl and black cameo—“this!”
“Oh, I love it. Kristine probably wore it as a memento of her late mother,” I extemporized. I loved to build backstory with the costumers.
Elspeth stepped forward with a nubby coat in an unusual shade of green. “And we thought we’d add a spot of color with this traveling coat. Muted but pretty.”
“I love it. You two have such vision. I know Derek will appreciate these choices.”
They nodded; clearly they were confident, as well.
“Now, we still need Kristine’s outfits for Acts Two and Three. We’ll have those ready tomorrow. We’re thinking we’ll do up that long dark hair in a kind of pretzel braid, and we’ll weave in those silver highlights. In Act One, Derek says they should lend her a look of exhaustion. But by Act Three, they will make her look enchanting.”
“Exactly,” I said. “The ironic reversal. It will be the beautiful Nora Helmer who looks tired and haggard by then.”
They led me to the jewelry table to show me their choices for Connie’s costumes, and a voice behind us said, “Am I interrupting?” It was Miranda.
Elspeth looked surprised. “No, but—I was under the impression—”
“Oh, I’m not here for a fitting,” she said, “But my room’s right across, and I wanted to see some of the costumes. Is that okay?”
“Of course, doll,” Allie said. She had swept another costume off the rack and was removing some pins from the hem.
We crowded around it. “Is this for Connie’s first scene?” I asked.
“Yes! And look at the coat she comes in with,” Elspeth said. “I got it at the antiques shop.”
She held up a black woolen coat with gray fur cuffs and collar and a matching gray fur muff.
“Ohhh,” I breathed. “Connie will loooove this.”
We four admired the perfection of the coat and muff for a moment, stroking the faux fur and picturing the outfit on the stage.
“Are you girls drooling over clothes?” Dorian asked, sounding bored.
Allie turned. “Yes, we are. And yours is nothing to drool over, I’m afraid. You’re poor, and you’ve been struggling for a decade. So Els and I went for a simple pair of dark pants, a slightly raggedy-looking shirt, and a gray vest. Derek wants it to underscore your unhealthy look. We’re going to give your skin a kind of gray tone, too.”
To my surprise, Dorian perked up. “Good. Make me look old and haggard. But I would tone down the gray in Act Three when I find happiness again.”
“Yeah. Like Nora said, that’s the ironic reversal. The makeup will underscore that.”
We chatted some more about the imminent performance.
I peeked at my phone, checking for texts, but found nothing.
“Nora, one more thing,” Elspeth said. “I asked Derek for permission to give Kristine just a little sparkle on Christmas Day—nothing to suggest she is wasteful or vain. He let me indulge in these tiny earrings. He says she may well have worn them on Christmas.”
I saw a twinkling and set down my phone, reaching for the bits of starshine. “These can’t be real diamonds?” I asked.
Elspeth laughed. “Cubic zirconia. But they were pretty expensive. We bought them back when—well, when I had a slightly larger budget.”
“Ah.” I studied the earrings in my palm, wondering how Kristine would have felt wearing them, back home again after ten years, hoping for a new start. . . .
“I’m here!” Connie yelled, bustling in with her puppylike energy. “Let’s see these costumes.”
Allie laughed. “Nora, you can try yours on in that fitting room. Tell me if anything needs adjusting. Connie, let me show you what we’ve got for Mrs. Helmer. . . .”
When I left twenty minutes later, I felt buoyed by the energy of the rest of the cast. The room was filled with people who were ready to collaborate on a production, to share a vision that was born in 1879 with Ibsen himself. We were starting to feel the thrill of the drama, despite our terrible loss.
I went straight down to lunch; despite my large breakfast, I was feeling the need for some protein and hoped to find one of Zana’s sub sandwiches. As soon as I peeked in the kitchen, I saw Zana there washing some dishes and talking on her phone. I moved into the dining room and saw a cold buffet, the sort that people could come and get at any time. I filled a little plate and peered in once more at Zana. She was still talking on the phone, so I wandered out with my plate and decided to bother Paul. Connie and I routinely harassed him in his office, and he was always gracious and sometimes even glad for the distraction. He would say, “Oh, no, it’s the chocoholics,” or “Here come the dessert desperadoes,” or something else he made up on the spot.
I reached his office and peeked in. He was frowning at a printout in his hand.
“Hey,” I said.
He put it down and smiled. “Hey.”
“There’s lunch in case you’re interested.”
“Have a seat. Want some chocolate?”
“No. We had breakfast at Balfour Bakery.” I held up my plate. “So of course, I’m eating again.”
“It won’t do you any harm.”
He kept his eyes on my face; I happened to know that Dorian, after the same words, would have let his gaze travel over my body. And that was a crucial distinction.
“Are you busy? I can bug you later,” I said,
“No, it’s fine. I’m finished with these reports, so I probably will stretch my legs in a few minutes.”
“I know things are . . . challenging right now.”
He sighed. “Yeah. But life is all challenge.”
I thought about this. “That’s true. And daunting.”
He shrugged.
“I hate to repeat an idea that Dorian had”—Paul laughed, and I continued—“but did you and Derek ever consider pursuing the idea that the poem from your great-great-uncle Philip might be literal?” I pointed at the little framed verse on the wall.
“The door they cannot see?” Paul said, smiling. “We thought about it, as I said. When we first got the castle and had some renovations done, we found some of those hidden passages. I suppose there could be more. But even the hunting would be expensive, and we don’t have extra funds right now.”
We sat in silence for a moment, and Paul said, unsmiling, “I should probably tell you—”
Oh, God, he’s going to fire me, I thought with a pounding heart.
“—that Derek is thinking of selling the piano.”
“Oh, no!” I cried. He might as well have told me that Derek was going to euthanize one of my family members.
“It’s getting to that point. We’ve got a couple of irons in the fire, some feelers from a couple of production companies who might film something here. If those work out, the old Steinway is safe.”
“I know I’m being selfish,” I said. “It’s not mine. It’s his to do with what he wants, and of course he must do what he needs to do.” I felt, absurdly, on the verge of tears.
Paul nodded. “I told him I’d rather he sell any of the other antiques before that one. He knows we both love it.”
“I’m being silly. Ignore me. And don’t tell Derek I acted like a child.”
“You didn’t. You acted like a woman who loves music and who has been befriending a piano.”
“You’re sweet,” I said. “Tell me more about Uncle Philip while I eat my grapes.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Derek and I have talked about him a lot. He was eccentric, yes, and some people probably thought he had one screw loose. But I think he was actually creative, maybe even a Renaissance man. He had so many interests and so much money to pursue them. He had two advanced degrees—in engineering and I think philosophy. There’s a journal of his in a museum in Chicago. We viewed it online, and it says that he loved chess, all puzzles, and a woman named Kelsey, whom he never married but who I think lived here with him until he died. He was very generous with his money—gave to many local charities. He was a shrewd investor always, and no matter how much he gave away, he seemed to make more.”
“I’ll bet you guys wish you had that problem.”
Paul laughed. “Yeah. But Derek and I think we share a lot with Uncle Phil. You know we’re both creative souls. We love the castle, we love drama and music and literature, and we’re also both very mathematical.”
“You must have aced your SATs,” I mused.
Paul grinned. “We got identical SAT results. People thought we cheated.”
“But you just have similar brains.”
“We do.” He stood up and stretched, then said, “Walk me to the kitchen. Your grapes look good, and I’m going to get a plate of my own. It will be a long rehearsal today, I think.”
“I hope I get to run lines with you. Dorian doesn’t have the empathy to play Krogstad the way you do, and I’ve barely gotten to work with you.”
“True. I’ve been bugging Derek about it. Priscilla is chafing for more stage time, as well. Understudies need practice, too.”
“You’re no understudy,” I said to Paul, and he sent me an appreciative glance.
“It was better for this production. And Dorian is good in his way.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t like him,” he observed, looking at my face.
We stepped into the hall and he locked his door.
“He’s okay. We’re not going to be best friends or anything.”
We walked companionably back to the kitchen and found Connie, Dorian, and Miranda in the adjoining dining room.
“Nora, I was just looking for you. Did you come from upstairs?” Connie said. “I wanted to tell you that your phone was in the costume room.” She held it up. “You sure are fast, because I just heard you up there!”
“What?”
“I heard you in your room, and I called and asked if you wanted to go downstairs with me, but you didn’t answer. Your door was open, so I figured you’d be out in a minute.”
I stared at her blankly. “My door? Not the Small Library?”
Connie spoke patiently. “Your door,” she said. “The one across from mine.”
I looked at Paul and said, “I haven’t been up there in half an hour.”
I set my plate down on the table, and Paul and I ran up to my room. We got there out of breath (I more so than Paul), and I said, “God, I hope the kittens didn’t get—”
We swept through my slightly open door, and in a rush of relief, I saw the Brontës stretched out on my bed like a pride of lions, looking at us with affectionate disdain.
I ran forward to kiss their little heads and to murmur appreciation into tiny fuzzy faces. “You were good girls, very good, to stay in the room!”
Paul was moving around, peering into my bathroom, my kitchenette, my closets. He checked the locks on my windows. “No one else has your room key? Dash, maybe?”
“No. He has one to the castle, but not to my room.”
“And no one else—”
“No.” I felt anger rising in me and a hefty dose of fear.
“We’ll lock up tightly when we go. We’ll talk to Derek and Dash, maybe think about getting the lock changed again.”
“But someone’s been next door, too. Someone or something.” I told him about the racoon, or the ghost, or whatever it was.
“Do you want us to relocate you?”
“I— No, not really. But maybe I could ask someone to—”
Whom would I ask? I didn’t have a spare bed. Dash was too busy now to be my bodyguard, and it would feel strange asking any of my colleagues to sleep in my room because I was frightened. And then the answer came to me.
“I wonder, Paul. Could I have my brothers come? They would be good company for me, and I haven’t seen them in a couple of months.”
“Perfect,” he said. “From what I remember of the Blake twins, no one’s going to want to come near this room.”
I laughed, and I instantly felt better. Whatever happened, I could figure it out with the boys. They had rescued me before, with their violent teenage-boy advice, and I might need to use their bravado as a shield.
On the other hand, would I be endangering them? Ben had been only seven years older than they were. Would it be tempting fate to invite them to the castle, which was the scene of a crime?
As fate would have it, I didn’t have to make that decision. My brothers would make it for me.
11
