Toni L.P. Kelner - Laura Fleming 07 - Mad as the Dickens Read online

  Mad as the Dickens

  Copyright © 2001 by Toni L.P. Kelner

  All rights reserved.

  Published as an ebook in 2013 by Jabberwocky Literary Agency, Inc. Published as a hardcover by Kensington Books in 2001.

  Cover art by Tiger Bright Studios

  ISBN: 978-1-625670-46-5

  To my mother-in-law, Judith Ward Kelner, who has always honored Christmas in her heart and tries to keep it all year!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I want to thank:

  My husband, Stephen P. Keiner, Jr., for providing his usual unfailing support, and for coming up with the title.

  Fellow EMWA members Leo Du Lac, David Housewright, D. P. Lyle, MD., Steve Perry, and Mary V. Welk for answering my questions about blood spatters, natural gas poisoning, and moonshining.

  Erik Abbott for assistance with theater lore.

  Elizabeth Shaw for proofreading the manuscript in record time.

  My daughters, Magdalene and Valerie, for not tearing the house down while I was busy writing.

  Barbara Ikeda, Joan Rafferty, Joanmichelle Rafferty, Ivie Skids, and Victoria Walker, for keeping Maggie and Valerie happily occupied.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  About the Author

  Also by Toni L. P. Kelner

  Chapter 1

  “Stop, stop, STOP!” Richard paced back and forth in front of the stage, running his fingers through his hair hard enough to pull it out. “What are you people doing? Have any of you even read the play?”

  The actors on stage looked at one another as if trying to decide who he was talking to.

  “Don’t look at each other. I’m the director!” Richard said, jabbing himself in the chest. “Look at me when I’m talking.”

  Their heads obediently turned toward him.

  “I’ve been involved in theater for over twenty years, and this is the worst rehearsal I have ever seen. I’ve been to first readings that were more convincing than this so-called performance. It’s less than a week until opening night; now is the time to polish blocking, to add nuances to your interpretations of characters. You people don’t even know your lines yet.”

  I saw Seth Murdstone, the man playing Scrooge, trying to hide his copy of the script.

  Richard went on. “A Christmas Carol is one of the most popular plays of all time. It’s been performed in every variation possible, from traditional to musical to the Muppets. Yet somehow, you people have missed the entire point of the play!”

  Richard stopped pacing to glare at them. “It can’t be done—it just cannot be done.” Then he stormed out the door. The cast just watched him go, as if a tornado had blown by.

  Even my cousin Vasti, who could throw a mean tantrum herself, was speechless for nearly thirty seconds. Then she wailed, “Laurie Anne, you’ve got to do something!”

  “He’ll calm down in a minute,” I said, trying to sound as if I believed it, but I’d never known Richard to act that way before. At least, I hadn’t before this trip to Byerly. Since then, I’d seen several other explosions from him, each worse than the last.

  I was the pregnant one; I was supposed to be the one with raging hormones. But ever since Vasti had called to talk Richard into taking over the production, he’d become as temperamental as John Huston and an Arabian stallion put together.

  Vasti was still looking at me entreatingly, so I said, “I’ll go talk to him.” Then I levered myself out of the chair, once again surprised at how hard it was to maneuver while five months pregnant.

  Seth came over and offered me a hand. “I’m sorry, Laurie Anne, I know I’m the reason Richard is so bent out of shape. I’m trying, I really am, but Scrooge has so many lines to learn. I’ll keep at it; don’t you worry.”

  “It’s nothing to do with you, Seth,” I said, which was at the very least a white lie. “Richard’s just tired.”

  “Be sure and tell him how sorry I am,” he said as I headed for the door.

  I felt bad for him. No matter how hard Seth tried to act as nasty as Scrooge was written, he just didn’t have it in him. When he said, “Bah, humbug,” it sounded as if he were joking.

  I couldn’t imagine why Vasti had given him the part. Scrooge is usually portrayed as a skinny fellow, old and pinched-looking. Seth, on the other hand, was a well-built man with a full head of snow-white hair, and was always smiling and laughing. He was as old as Scrooge was supposed to be, but he sure didn’t look it.

  Had I been back in Boston, where Richard and I lived, I wouldn’t have dreamed of going outside in December without a coat on, and I would probably have grabbed gloves, a hat, and a scarf, too. But after so many Massachusetts winters, North Carolina winters seem almost springlike. Besides which, being pregnant kept me warm, even in Boston. So it was a relief to leave the stuffy recreation center building for the brisk, sunny day waiting outside.

  My usually mild-mannered husband was standing not far from the door, his hands jammed in his pockets as he kicked at the red clay dirt and muttered to himself.

  “Hey,” I said.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  There was still no answer.

  “Richard, I think I’m in labor.”

  That got his attention. He turned white as a sheet and started toward me.

  “Just kidding,” I said.

  He stopped short and thumped his chest, presumably to make sure his heart was still beating. “Laura, please don’t joke about that.”

  “Sorry,” I said, struggling to keep a smile off my face. “I had to get your attention somehow.”

  “You got it, all right.”

  “So do you want to go home now, or should we stay through Christmas?”

  “What do you mean?” he said.

  “We can either spend the rest of the holidays here relaxing, or fly back to Boston and spend Christmas alone the way we planned in the first place. You just said that there was no way you could whip the cast into shape in time. So why beat your head against a brick wall? Give it up now and let Vasti worry about it.”

  “That wouldn’t be exactly kind to Vasti, would it?” he said hesitantly.

  “Who cares?” I said. “She didn’t tell you the whole story, or you’d never have agreed to come. You were supposed to have two weeks to rehearse, not just one. Besides, you can’t stage a decent production with this cast—they’re hopeless. I mean, Seth Murdstone is as nice a man as you’d ever want to meet, but he’s a terrible actor.”

  “I know,” Richard said. “I hate losing my temper at him, but I
think he got that accent from listening to Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins.”

  “What about the others? None of them can act.”

  “That’s not true. Bob Cratchit keeps getting better, and Mrs. Cratchit is already wonderful. The Spirits of Christmas aren’t too bad, and even though Scrooge’s nephew needs work, I could coax it out of him.”

  “I suppose you could,” I said, “but there’s no way you can get it done by Friday night.”

  “Maybe I could,” he said speculatively. “If we lose the phony British accents so we get a little authenticity … We’d have to rehearse morning, noon, and night, but maybe …”

  “In less than a week?”

  “Look, Laura,” he said heatedly, “I’ve waited my whole life to direct. Do you really think I’d give up my only chance because the cast needs a little work?”

  “A little work?”

  “Okay, a lot of work. I can do it. They can do it. We can do it.” He strode purposefully toward the door, then turned back. “I thought you were a programmer, not a psychologist.”

  I grinned. “I’m practicing for when the baby throws his or her first tantrum.”

  “Was I that bad?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  He looked at the door. “Do you think they’ll take me back?”

  “Of course. They’d be scared not to.”

  He looked sheepish. “I suppose I should get a grip on my temper.”

  “Does that mean that we’re staying?”

  “That’s what it means,” he said. “I’m going to give the people in Byerly a show they’ll never forget!” He started back inside, his shoulders squared like a drill sergeant determined to whip a platoon of raw recruits into shape.

  Chapter 2

  I sat down on the low brick wall at the entrance to the recreation center to enjoy the fresh air a little longer, rubbing my tummy automatically. I’d always wondered why pregnant women do that all the time, and I still didn’t know, but I’d given up trying to stop myself. I did know why pregnant women speak to their unborn babies, or at least I’d read theories about how it would turn them into geniuses. But I did it as instinctively as I rubbed my tummy.

  “Don’t worry, baby,” I said. “Your daddy isn’t usually so volatile.” I was hoping the baby would inherit Richard’s usual temperament, and maybe those deep-brown eyes. I didn’t care if he was short like me or tall like Richard, but I did want a child who loved books as much as we did. Richard had voted for light-brown hair like mine, admittedly easier to control than his own, and it would be a lot easier to keep the little one in shoes if his toes weren’t as long as Richard’s. Maybe I’d be able to see something of my parents in the baby’s face, and I really wanted him or her to share my grandfather’s musical talent and Aunt Nora’s gift for cooking.

  Then I started thinking about all the other traits the baby could get from my family: Aunt Maggie’s orneriness or Aunt Ruby Lee’s sweetness, Vasti’s piercing voice or Willis’s usual silence, Linwood’s mean streak or Earl’s gentleness. And that was just my side of the family! “Baby,” I said, “with this gene pool, there’s no telling how you’ll turn out. But your mama and daddy are going to love you no matter what.”

  Eventually I went back inside, just in case Richard had exploded again. Though things seemed to be running smoothly, Vasti still looked nervous, so I said, “I think he’s going to be all right now.”

  “I sure hope so,” said Vasti. “Who’d have known Richard could be so much trouble?”

  “It’s your fault that he’s so aggravated. You told us we had two weeks until opening night, and then you moved it up a week.”

  “I had to. The recreation center is already booked for that other night. We’re just lucky I talked that group into rehearsing somewhere else.”

  “What about the theater at the high school?” I knew they had a decent one there. I’d bought candy bars and magazine subscriptions from younger cousins to help pay for it.

  “It’s already booked, too,” Vasti said.

  “The middle school? Or even the elementary school?”

  “Holiday pageants.” She indignantly added, “How was I supposed to know that everybody in Byerly was putting on a show this year?”

  “Why didn’t you set something up sooner?” Lack of planning wasn’t one of Vasti’s problems. Usually she had each minute of her day planned, and if I gave her a chance, she’d plan most of mine, too.

  “I do have a new baby, you know,” she said. “I’m breast-feeding, and Bitsy isn’t even sleeping through the night yet. Just wait until your baby is born and see how much you manage to get done!”

  “All right,” I said, relenting. “Richard will do his best. But why didn’t you tell us about all the practical jokes?”

  “I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” she said unconvincingly. “There are always mix-ups when you’ve got this many people around.”

  “Not like this! I’ve already lost track of the mix-ups that have happened just in the two days we’ve been here.” I used my fingers to count off. “The thermostat has gone haywire so we’re either freezing or sweating, and the fire alarm has gone off twice. Then somebody tied most of the ropes backstage in knots that took us an hour to untie, and all the lightbulbs for the stage went out. Not to mention the fact that every single roll of toilet paper in the building disappeared overnight.” Since my doctor had ordered me to drink lots of water, that last one was the worst as far as I was concerned. Even I was tired of the tricks, despite the fact that I’d attended MIT, where the pursuit of practical jokes was almost a religion.

  “I’ve tried to find out who it is, but nobody will own up to it,” she said. “I thought the Norton kids were doing it, but Junior questioned them herself and she swears it wasn’t them.”

  Vasti had cast some of my friend Junior Norton’s nieces and nephews as the Cratchit children. Though Junior was a devoted aunt, I knew she’d be the first to admit it if they’d been causing trouble.

  She continued, “I was hoping that once Richard got here and things calmed down, the pranks would stop.”

  “I hope you don’t think Richard is going to track down the joker,” I warned. “He’s got his hands full already. That’s another thing—why didn’t you warn him about how badly things were going? It’s no wonder your other director quit.” I saw a guilty expression flash across her face. “Vasti, who was the original director?”

  She turned away. “Why do you ask?”

  “It was you!” I guessed. “You were the director, weren’t you?”

  She hung her head, then nodded.

  “You told us he quit because of a family emergency.”

  “It was a family emergency. Do you know what it’s like trying to nurse a baby in the middle of rehearsal? I thought I had a director, but Sally Hendon got him for her show, so I figured I’d do it myself. I didn’t think directing would be so hard, but nobody was learning their lines and the show was just awful. I had to do something.”

  “Maybe so, but you didn’t have to lie to me and Richard.”

  “I didn’t lie. I just didn’t tell you every little detail.”

  “Vasti—”

  “You’re not going to tell Richard, are you? I don’t want him to make another scene.”

  “If he asks me, I’ll tell him the truth, but I won’t volunteer anything.”

  “Thank you, Laurie Anne. It’s all for a good cause.” Then she looked at her watch and said, “Look at the time! I’ve got to go pick up Bitsy at my in-laws’ house. I only left one bottle of my milk, and it’s nearly feeding time.” She grabbed her purse and coat and stopped only long enough to say, “You’ll keep an eye on things, won’t you?”

  “Sure,” I said, but she was already out the door.

  I looked around the room and sighed, mostly on my husband’s behalf. Even though it was Richard’s first crack at directing a play, I thought he deserved better than a stage in a worn-out recreation hall. The building was decades old, and over t
he years had hosted craft fairs, scout meetings, senior citizen’s parties, and goodness knows what else. Half the chairs were broken, and I didn’t completely trust the ones that weren’t. The linoleum was worn near the doors and peeling up elsewhere. Somebody had decorated a dilapidated artificial Christmas tree with a dozen red satin balls, and hung a few straggly strands of garland around the walls, but that bit of holiday cheer only made the place look worse.

  Of course, none of that would show once the house lights were out. What bothered Richard was the fact that the stage was only a few feet off the ground, which meant that sight lines for the audience were going to be horrible. My makeup mirror at home was more advanced than the lighting system, and there must have been whole generations of moths raised on the curtain. On the plus side, the acoustics were surprisingly good and the backstage space was decent, despite the layers of dust.

  Junior Norton saw me and waved me over to an empty chair next to her. Junior’s a little bit shorter than my five feet, two inches, but there’s something about the way she carries her sturdy build that gets people’s attention. Andy Norton had had his heart set on a little boy to pass on his name, but when the fifth girl arrived, he gave up and named her Junior. Of course, later on he got his boy, but since “Junior” was taken, the new baby was Trey, for Andy III. Junior had taken over from Andy as police chief, with Trey as her part-time deputy while he finished college.

  “I take it that Richard is sticking around,” Junior said.

  “For now, anyway.”

  We watched the players at work for a few minutes in companionable silence.

  Then Junior said, “You know, this is about as interesting as seeing grass grow.”

  “Or watching paint dry.”

  It was only my second day of rehearsal, but it seemed as if I’d been sitting in those hard plastic chairs for a month. I’d thought it would be fun to see Richard direct—nobody had told me how boring rehearsals are. Watching my husband run the cast through the same scenes over and over again was enough to drive me to drink.

  I was just happy that I had a companion in boredom. Junior was spending some of her rare time off riding herd on the nieces and nephews who had parts in the show.