Page 16 of A Midsummer Night’s Ghost (Murder By Design #8)

SIXTEEN

I tried to hold onto the feeling as I tried to corral a dozen elderly adults.

“Opening Night” had arrived.

The actors were all backstage, getting dressed in makeshift costumes with Alyssa’s help. Even though the costumes were basically aprons and tunics and things that pulled over their heads, or wrapped around them, we were still getting a ton of complaints.

“This isn’t my color,” Sharon said, picking at the blue tunic she had on. “I’m an autumn.”

“Well, mine is scratchy,” Anne said, “so quit your whining.”

Alyssa gave me a long look.

“How’s yours Clifford?” she asked. He was resting in a chair, still recovering from his stab wound but quite the trooper.

“Huh?” he asked, before dragging his eyes away from Alyssa’s cleavage to meet her stare. “Oh, yes, I’m fine. Absolutely wonderful, truth be told.”

I rubbed my forehead. “Let’s just stay focused.”

The auditorium was filling up with family members and I just wanted to get this over with and end my directorial debut as soon as possible.

“Alyssa, do you have a water bottle?” My throat was dry and I was having a hard time swallowing. I felt a cough coming on.

“No, you know I don’t take hydration seriously.” Alyssa attempted to fuss with Anne’s hair and got a hand slap for her efforts.

“I’m going to get something from the vending machine.”

“That thing will steal your money,” Sharon told me. “It never works.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

I went into the hallway and almost ran into Sara Murphy.

“Hey, girl!” she said, reaching out and giving me a big hug. “Ready to break a leg?”

Sara was dressed like she was going to brunch on a yacht. She had a sundress on, wedge sandals, and a giant floppy hat and sunglasses. Both her hat and the fact that she was here, but not directing this show, irritated me. If she could be here to watch the show, remind me again why wasn’t she directing it?

“Hi, how are you? I’m just running to get myself a drink real quick. My throat is so dry I think I’m about to have a coughing fit.”

“Want a sip?” Sara shook her giant pink tumbler in my direction.

“Yes, actually, thanks.” Normally I’m not a fan of sharing food or drink with people, but I wanted to avoid coughing. Once I cough, it never seems to stop, and I couldn’t be hacking in the wings, nor did I want to delay the start of this debacle masquerading as Shakespeare.

I took the tumbler from her expecting it would be water or boba. When a blast of cold sugary sweetness hit my palate my eyes nearly crossed.

“Whoa. That’s sweet.” I was still puckering a little.

“I like it sweet.” She sailed on down the hallway.

I watched her go, frowning. What was that flavor…

Then I realized exactly what it was. Blue slushie.

Just like the cup in the janitor’s room.

Did that mean Sara was just in the janitor’s closet for some random reason and left her drink behind? Or did she poison James? I didn’t even have confirmation there was poison in that cup I found because no one had it tested.

It also just occurred to me then that if I had thought there was poison in there, I shouldn’t have just left it on the shelf.

My investigation skills were rusty. Or more likely, I’d never had them.

Clifford came out of the makeshift dressing area.

“Clifford, where are you going? We’re almost ready to start.”

“Just got to hit the head real quick. My prostate isn’t what it used to be.”

File that under too much information.

“Try not to take too long.” I peeked my head into the dressing area and debated if I had time to go to the janitor’s closet and toss that drink if it was still there. It was clear there wasn’t going to be any investigation and if there was, they would probably still conclude it was a suicide. So I didn’t want to risk anyone else being parched and taking a sip of that drink. Was that likely? Probably not. But I didn’t want to take that chance.

I checked my phone to see what time it was. Five minutes to curtain.

Then I went backstage and looked out at the audience. It was more people than I was expecting, which added to my anxiety. This was probably going to go down as one of my top ten most embarrassing life events.

It wasn’t the cast’s fault. It was mine, for not knowing what I was doing and being ill prepared to direct them. But ultimately it was Sara’s for choosing such a difficult piece and for disappearing in the face of a tragedy like Mary’s death. We could have canceled the show, but the cast had worked hard on it.

Biting my lip, I decided to make a run for the janitor’s closet and alleviate at least one source of anxiety—the potentially deadly slushie.

What I saw when I opened the janitor’s closet, was so shocking I almost pulled a Sara Murphy and passed out before throwing up.

Because what I was seeing was Sara Murphy, in the janitor’s closet, kissing Clifford.

Not a granddaughterly cheek peck.

Not a good-to-see-you kiss.

But a dark closet passionate precursor to naked kiss.

Clifford’s hand was gripping her backside and I didn’t think it was for stability.

Sara didn’t jump away from Clifford. She just blinked at the sudden light from the hallway, her sunglasses no longer on. She smiled at me brightly.

“Whoops. You caught us.”

Then to compound my complete and total shock she lifted her left hand and announced, “Cliffie and I got married!”

My jaw dropped like a cartoon character. I had no idea what to say so I said, “I don’t know what to say.”

“How about congratulations?” Clifford said, reaching out and clapping me on the shoulder far harder than an eighty-year-old who had just been stabbed by his now wife should be able to.

“Congratulations,” I parroted weakly.

It might have been the most insincere thing I’d ever said in my entire life.

“We’re ready for the curtain,” I said, too stunned to ask any questions.

But I did reach behind Sara and grab the cup that was still sitting there off the shelf. The replacement janitor obviously wasn’t top notch to have left it there this long. I ripped the lid off, dumped the contents in the rolling garbage can in the closet and tossed the cup in after. It was useless as evidence at this point and I didn’t want anyone drinking it.

“What the heck was that all about?” Clifford asked Sara, sounding more amused than anything else as I turned and exited the closet. “Always thought that girl was an odd bird.”

That made me bristle a little.

What was odd was a twenty-nine year old woman marrying an eighty-year old man and him not recognizing it for what it was, but hey, I wasn’t judging Clifford.

“Don’t be mean, pookie.”

Pookie?

Was this a cosmic joke?

Two pookies?

Shudders ran up my spine.

I didn’t have a whole lot of time to reflect on it though because it was time to get this show rolling.

Twenty minutes later, I was in the wings, staring at the stage.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I mumbled. “I am failing at all of this so much.”

There had already been a couple of forgotten lines, a missed cue, and a wardrobe malfunction when Sharon’s walker got caught in the hem on her tunic and tore it.

Now Mary’s ghost was onstage reciting all of her lines as Thisbe right over top of Grandma, who was alive and delivering the lines. Mary was all in, even if she was a ghost, using hand gestures and a stronger voice than had ever been present at rehearsals when she was alive.

I had been one hundred percent convinced I had sent Mary to the other side and now here she was giving the performance of her life.

Her life.

Lord help me.

Fortunately, no one but me could see her so presumably the audience was enjoying the play, such as it was.

We’d all seen Mary have a heart attack and by all accounts her life to that point had been uneventful. Why was she still hanging around?

There was a sudden slurping in my ear.

I turned to see Sara standing next to me, sucking down her slushie from her giant tumbler.

The hair on the back of my neck went up.

Was Sara actually a murderer?

No. There was no way. What reason would she have to kill James?

Besides, she had been eager to solve his murder when the cops didn’t even think it was a murder. She’d gone to talk to James’s brother.

She had also stabbed Clifford though.

Who was now her husband. And who was rich. And had been with Mary before her death.

“How long have you and Clifford been together?” I murmured.

“Since I came on board as director.”

“Why?” I asked, because why not? She was eccentric so I could be impolite, right?

“Because life is disappointing, Bailey. I had my shot. I was supposed to be a star. I failed. It all slipped through my fingers. I’ve got my own Wikipedia page and here I am, back in Cleveland, living with my parents and broke as a joke.”

Everyone had a Wikipedia page. Even my mother had a Wikipedia page.

“So it’s about his money?”

“Of course. He has, what, maybe five years left in him? I’m an amazing actress. I can pretend to love him. I can pretend anything, really.”

I decided to shoot my shot. “Even pretend that you were trying to solve James’s murder when you’re the one who killed him?”

“You’re much more clever than I gave you credit for. You didn’t really seem all that smart in high school.”

That was unnecessary. “We had a competitive class,” I protested.

“Though you did fall for my acting skills.” She sipped again, looking calmly out onto the stage.

“Why would you kill James?”

“Because he got the antifreeze for me. I couldn’t risk buying that with cameras and receipts and whatnot. Then I couldn’t risk him telling anyone.”

I thought maybe I was caught up on her plan. “So you were going to poison Mary originally.”

“Yes, but then I couldn’t get Clifford to agree to marry me while he was still with Mary. Because I thought if she dies, people think he did it, he goes to prison, and I am his wife so I get all his money. But he didn’t want to be disloyal to her.”

“Well, that’s odd, considering he was already cheating on her with you.”

Sara smacked my arm. “Right? That’s what I thought! Men.”

This confession was a little too casual and detailed for my comfort. But I couldn’t resist the urge to ask about the stabbing. “You could have killed Clifford, you know.”

“Oh, well, that truly was an accident. He was supposed to stab himself. He’d just given me a hundred grand as a gift, free and clear, and I decided that was all I was going to get out of this, so I’d better just have him gone. I switched the knives. I was demonstrating, he moved, I don’t know what happened. But that was gross.”

Slurp, slurp.

I was getting a really bad feeling about all of this. “You know I’m not recording you,” I said. “My phone is in the dressing room.”

“That’s good.”

“And everything will just think I’m crazy if I tell them any of this. You know that, right?”

Pyramus was onstage right then finding Thisbe’s torn cloak and going wild with grief. Clifford was nailing it tonight.

“I don’t believe in taking chances,” she said.

Then she hit me on the back of the head with her steel tumbler.