Starved for Attention Page 4

  “But you come from a tight-knit community,” Lucy said. “You all will help each other through it.”

  Was she seriously being supportive? Like she actually cared about our well-being?

  I nodded. “We will,” I said. “We’ll do our best to help each other through it.”

  Lucy smiled. “Of course.” She stood and smoothed out her violet pencil skirt. “You have a nice day.”

  As she walked away, I called after her. “You still didn’t tell me what I needed to know about my boss.”

  She turned back around. “Oh, nevermind. It was nothing.” Then she gazed off, tapping her pointer finger on her chin as though suddenly in deep thought. “Hmm. But you know, I did spot Dr. Stevens doing something yesterday you might not expect.” Her eyes found mine again. “Be prepared to see a lot more of him around here, okay?”

  And with that, she whirled around and left.

  I stared after her. I was going to be seeing more of Dr. Stevens? How did she know that? And did that have anything to do with Stevens trying to fire Fleming?

  No clear answers popped into my head, so I shook the questions away. Amy was busy behind the counter helping customers, and while I could wait around until the line dwindled so I could talk to her, there was no telling how long that would take. I’d just call her later. I waved to her and walked out into the bright March sunlight.

  “The Cask of Amontillado.” The story rolled around in my head. Maybe Amy was onto something. I didn’t know what exactly had led her to make that connection, but I could see what she meant.

  Maybe this was something the detective needed to know.

  Walking down Via del Corso toward the D’Angelo Winery, I pulled out my phone and tapped Fitts’ name in my recent calls list.

  “D’Angelo,” he barked upon answering the phone. “Talk to me.”

  “Have you ever heard of the story ‘The Cask of Amontillado’ by Edgar Allan Poe?”

  He huffed. “Are you wasting my time? What are you talking about?”

  “Hear me out. Give me thirty seconds to explain.” I kept my eyes on the sidewalk, hoping to avoid any shopkeepers who might stop me and ask questions about last night. “There’s this revenge story from a long time ago—like, more than a hundred and fifty years ago. The main character, Montressor, is mad at this other dude named Fortunato for insulting him. So Montressor tricks Fortunato into an underground vault, promising to show him a rare cask of wine—that’s the amontillado. Fortunato is drunk already when he goes to see the amontillado, and once Montressor gets Fortunato where he wants him, he traps Fortunato by building a brick wall in the cellar. Essentially, he imprisons Fortunato and then leaves him for dead.”

  Fitts didn’t answer right away. “Huh,” he grunted. I imagined him leaning back in his desk chair, chewing on the end of his pen and deciding whether he wanted to indulge me or insult me. “So this Fortunato guy. Is his name supposed to be ironic or something?”

  Ooh. I was impressed that Fitts brought up irony. And I was a little surprised that he hadn’t hung up on me for wasting his time. “You could say that. Being left for dead isn’t fortunate at all.” I pushed my surprise aside. Time to get back to business. “But do you see why I’m telling you this? Do you see the connection between the story and what happened to Marcus Fleming?”

  Fitts took another moment to respond. “You think this was a book nerd copycat killing? That someone lured Marcus Fleming down into the Old Everly Place for revenge and left him for dead behind a brick wall because of an old story?”

  “Well, maybe,” I said. “I mean, have you determined for sure how he died or how long he was there?”

  Fitts ignored my question. “I’m not sure I’m buying your theory. It seems like coincidence. Who reads those old stories anyway?”

  “Well, ninth graders do. High schoolers do.”

  “Are you saying that a kid at Marcus Fleming’s school could have read the story and been inspired to kill him?”

  “Actually, no.” That thought hadn’t occurred to me. Not at all. “I was just answering your question about who reads those old stories.”

  “Building a wall to trap someone in a cellar is a lot of work.”

  “Yes,” I agreed. “But someone did it. How else would Fleming have gotten back there? And whoever did it had to get the idea from somewhere.”

  Fitts sighed. “All right. Let’s wrap this up. Anything else you want to tell me about this story?”

  “Off the top of my head, no. I’ll think about it. My friend Amy came up with the connection, but we didn’t get to talk about it because Lucy that awful reporter showed up and—”

  “Argyle?” Fitts interrupted. “You didn’t talk to her, did you?”

  Shoot, I shouldn’t have brought up Lucy. Fitts disliked her even more than I did, and he did not want anyone speaking to her. Ever.

  “Not really,” I said. “I mean, we chatted a little bit—”

  “Chatted? What do you mean chatted? No one chats with Lucy Argyle. They get chewed up and spit out.”

  “She was being nice. Sort of sympathetic. It was very out of character for her.”

  “D’Angelo, have you learned nothing from me? She wasn’t being sympathetic. She was trying to trap you into saying something that would make for a scandalous article.”

  “Well, I didn’t say anything that could be construed in a scandalous way.”

  “Don’t be so sure of yourself. And don’t talk to that woman anymore.” His tone changed. “Okay, go see that friend of yours about the story. If there’s another similarity, let me know.”

  I hung up, not feeling particularly good about the last three minutes. I didn’t expect Fitts to think I was a genius for bringing up “The Cask of Amontillado.” I wasn’t even sure if I thought there was a connection there. But it was the last bit of our conversation that was really pulling me down. Lucy couldn’t have trapped me into saying anything bad. I didn’t say anything. I was almost sure of it.

  Almost.

  SIX

  I was scheduled to help out in the winery from eleven to three, and after that, I was supposed to head over to the high school to help at play practice. I was a little surprised that the girls who found Marcus Fleming went to school that day, but apparently their moms thought it would be best for them to carry on. Plus, that way, they could see the school counselors on hand to talk about the tragedy. It made sense. If they stayed home, they’d just sit around watching television, messing around on social media, and moping. At school they might be able to do something productive.

  Mothers really do know best. Mine probably would have had me go to school, too.

  While pouring wine in the tasting room, I got four texts from Livy, each about twenty minutes apart.

  First:

  The play is being canceled. The school doesn’t think it’s appropriate after what happened to Fleming.

  Then:

  No, actually, the play might still be on. The kids really want to do it. They might have convinced the principal that the best way to honor Fleming is to do the play.

  Twenty minutes after that:

  The play is off.

  And finally:

  You know what? What do I care about the school and its politics? We’ll do the play but not through the school. The kids need this. We’ll do Shakespeare in the Park. In OV. Rehearsal at 3:30 in East Park. See you then.

  I halfway expected another text from Livy a couple minutes later declaring that she was running for the school board. She certainly seemed riled up enough to take on the world.

  But no such text came through.

  I got to the park at the eastern end of OV at three-fifteen and was greeted by a sight I hadn’t expected. It wasn’t a gaggle of teenagers gossiping in a tight cluster before practice. It wasn’t Livy lugging a bag of props or Shakespeare scripts. It was my grandfather Aldo and his buddies power walking the perimeter of the park, each still wearing their ill-fitting sweats. As the four men rounded the far
corner and headed in my direction, I waved and smiled.

  As they approached, Aldo said to his buddies, “Go on ahead without me. I’ll catch up.”

  The three men nodded at Aldo, waved at me, and went huffing and puffing on their way. I don’t think any of them had a spare breath to say hi.

  “What’s this all about, Nonno?” I asked. “The Council of Elders is now exercising a couple times a day?”

  Aldo bent over and rested his hands on his thighs. He shook his head at his knees, took a couple deep breaths, and straightened up again. “Oh Jill, you know, it’s a good thing. All of us, we need to be in better shape.”

  “I heard that Eduardo’s doctor put him on a weight loss program,” I said.

  “Yes, yes, that is true,” Aldo said. He patted his belly. “And I could lose a few pounds as well, so here I am, exercising with him.”

  “You’re a good friend to do this. But what about Morrie and Artie? They’re both beanpoles. Neither has an ounce to lose.”

  “That’s what their wives said, you know. But Eduardo needs our help. And we all could have healthier hearts, yes? So Morrie and Artie just need to eat more veggies to make up for the calories they lose while exercising, and it will all be fine.” He smiled and then patted my shoulder. “So what are you doing here, Jill? Where’s Uni?”

  “Uni is with Stella and the boys at your house. And I’m here because Livy’s holding play practice for the high schoolers in the park, and I’m helping.”

  “Play practice? Oh, wonderful. Which one are they doing? I heard someone in town talking about it, but I don’t remember. Much Ado? Or Midsummer?” He backed up toward a bench at the edge of the park not far from us, and I followed him.

  “A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” I said. “Do you want to help the kids learn their lines? Are you done with the walk?”

  Aldo shook his head and chuckled. “I don’t know about helping kids with the lines, but I am done with the walk and would like to watch practice. I always wanted to be an actor. I love the theater.”

  He and I sat on the bench just as I noticed the other Council of Elders veering away from the park toward Via del Corso. It looked like their afternoon power walk was coming to an end.

  “You always wanted to be an actor?” I said. “I didn’t know that.”

  “Ah yes, in a different life. But now, watching other actors makes me happy.”

  I smiled at my grandfather. There was no one in the world who I wanted to be more like. He saw the positive and the good in everyone and everything. I was just about to tell him that there was plenty of time for him to take up acting when I spotted Livy walking with a group of teenage girls across the park toward us.

  “Time for me to go help,” I said. I gave his knee a quick pat and stood. “Have fun watching. And hey—don’t overdo it with all this exercise. Changing your diet and your activity level all at once can be a big shock to your system. Pace yourself, okay?”

  Aldo winked at me, which meant that he heard me but might not heed my warning. A wink was better than nothing, though. I trotted over to Livy and the group of girls where they had dropped their backpacks in a pile. Sophia, Gracie, and Ashlyn flanked Livy, all four of them looking at a clipboard Livy held. A woman with thick glasses and a brown ponytail stood nearby talking to two other teenagers I hadn’t met yet. I figured the woman must have been the drama assistant. She was clearly older than the high schoolers, but not by much—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four years old.

  “Hey,” I said as I neared them. “Shakespeare in the Park, huh?”

  Livy glanced at me before scrawling something across the clipboard. “Yep,” she said, her tone all-business. “We need a stage, and our budget is zero. I’m thinking that renting one would be more expensive than building one, assuming we could get parents and OV businesspeople to pitch in. Plus, then we could use it again if we wanted to.” She pointed across the park. “The sunset will be the backdrop, and I think the grass slopes down just a tad in that direction, which we’ll use to our advantage for audience seating.” She scribbled something across the clipboard and then dropped it to her side. “Where’s everyone else? Where are Victor and Eli?” She looked at the girls on either side of her.

  They shrugged.

  “On their way, I guess,” Sophia said. She eyed her friends and flipped her long brown hair over her shoulder.

  Victor. That name rang a bell. He was the one who left the girls after finding Fleming last night, right? I was almost positive that I knew who he was, but last night was becoming a blur. I’d have to ask Livy for confirmation later.

  “We’re going to get started without them,” Livy said. She reached down for the water bottle at her feet, which I knew was filled with her afternoon green drink rather than water, and took a couple gulps. I bet that special concoction gave her the energy needed to get through afternoon practice. Then she beckoned everyone over and introduced them to me. I had been right—the one who looked like she was just out of college was the drama assistant, Esther.

  Livy sent me off to practice a scene with Ashlyn, Sophia, and two boys who were playing super-funny minor characters. Traditionally all four of those characters were played by males, but right away I understood why Livy had given two of those roles to Ashlyn and Sophia. They may not have remembered their lines perfectly just yet, but their delivery was hilarious. I loved it.

  Just as we finished running through the scene with me reading the lines of our absent actors, two very tall, very bored looking boys approached us. One had dark hair, and the other was blond. Immediately I thought both needed a haircut, which was probably more telling about my age and personality than it was about their hair. Both walked like they had nowhere to be, which might also have been an inference I made based on their hair length. Or vice versa.

  I was turning into my father. More and more every day.

  “Hey guys,” I said as they neared us. “Are you here to join us for play practice? I’m Jill. I’m helping out today.”

  The dark-haired boy gave me a cool-guy up nod. “Victor.”

  Ah, so that was Victor.

  The blond boy raised his eyebrows at me, which I guess looked just as cool as Victor’s up nod. “Eli.”

  And that was Eli.

  So they must have been our two missing actors.

  “Which of you is playing Flute, and which is playing Snout?” I asked.

  Victor raised his hand halfheartedly. “Flute.”

  “Snout,” Eli said.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw someone approaching Aldo on his bench. Who was that? I turned to get a better look. It was Sandie Oakes, the woman who ran the bed and breakfast in OV called Hathaway House. She was a retired English professor, and I bet she had heard that play practice was happening in the park and wanted to take a look. Otto Viti business owners were nothing if not curious. Some might even say they were nosy.

  “All right, let’s get going,” I said. “I was reading for you two, but now you can take over.” I looked at their empty hands. “Where are your scripts?”

  Victor and Eli looked at each other, their expressions saying, whaaaa…scripts…?

  “Oh, we left them in the car,” Victor said.

  I didn’t know where they parked, but with their slow walking, I wasn’t interested in waiting for them to go back to retrieve the scripts. “I’ll go ask Livy if she has extras,” I said. I looked at the girls. “Let’s jump to the big scene at the end. Can you find that while I talk to Livy?”

  The girls began thumbing through their scripts, and I trotted over to Livy. She was watching a scene playing out between two other high schoolers who seemed to be pretty good. I wasn’t sure if they had their lines down rock solid, but their emotional delivery was impressive.

  “Do you have any extra scripts?” I asked softly as I reached her side.

  She nodded, eyes still on the kids acting out their scene. “Esther has them. Did Victor forget his again?”

  “Yes. And Eli, too.�
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  “Okay, just a second.”

  We waited for the kids to finish their scene. After Livy praised them and requested that they start practicing a different scene, we walked to the pile of backpacks not too far away.

  “So Victor’s with me right now?” I said. “The guy who left the girls after finding Fleming last night?”

  “Yep, that’s him,” Livy said. “I’ll be curious to hear what you think about him after practice today.”

  I was about to ask Livy what she meant—whether she was talking about personality or acting ability—but we were interrupted.

  “Livy,” Sophia said, stomping up to us, closely followed by Ashlyn. “We were just looking for our next scene to practice and saw that someone wrote in our scripts. Look.” She and Ashlyn both thrust their scripts toward Livy. I saw what they were talking about by peering over Livy’s shoulder. On both scripts, a single sentence was written at the top of the page in block lettering.

  A pox on both your houses.

  “Someone wrote this?” Livy asked.

  “Yes,” Sophia said. “Jill asked us to find a scene, and so we were flipping through and found it.”

  Livy locked eyes with me for a moment. I wondered if she was thinking what I was thinking.

  “Go get Gracie,” she said. “Tell her to bring her script.”

  The two girls ran off, and Livy turned to me.

  “That’s a line from Romeo and Juliet,” I said. Another story on the required ninth grade reading list. Another story I had taught countless times.

  Livy nodded. “Yeah. The girls did that play a couple months ago. As Mercutio dies, he curses both Romeo and Juliet’s families. A pox on both your houses.” Her eyes bored into me and her voice dropped an octave. “Why would someone write that in the girls’ scripts?”

  “It’s in Gracie’s, too!” Sophia yelled to us from across the park. She held an opened script in the air, having decided to check it herself rather than waiting for us to check it.