“No.” Teddy shook his head vigorously.

  “You’re a wonderful actor.”

  “I don’t want to be an actor. I want to be a fisherman.”

  “Well,” said Victoria, “You did the right thing to come here. When your mother couldn’t reach you last night, she flew back from Los Angeles. She has to be told you’re safe. All the police forces on the Island are looking for you. They need to be told, too.”

  “I could write a note saying ‘Don’t worry. I got away from the burglar.’”

  “That would be a good idea,” said Victoria. “But your mother and the police need more than just a note saying you’re safe. You could add that you’re staying with a friend and that you’ll call your mother. Today is Saturday. Tell her you’ll call on Monday. That should give us enough time.”

  Teddy squirmed.

  “You mustn’t allow your mother to worry …”

  “She’s only worried about the TV show and the money and her boyfriend.”

  Victoria shook her head. “No, Teddy. She needs to know you’re all right. The police do, too. It’s not right to let them think you’ve been kidnapped. Or worse.”

  “I’ll write the note,” said Teddy, looking down at the dog.

  “I’ll make sure your mother gets it.” Victoria rose to her feet and looked out of the window. “First, we’ll take care of Sandy, but we have to wait until everyone leaves. Your mother is going to your house this morning to help the police.”

  “The police!” Teddy scrambled to his feet. “Because of me?”

  Victoria said nothing.

  “Is Peg all right? Did the burglar hurt her?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “She screamed for me to run, and I ran.”

  “She wanted you to run,” said Victoria.

  “How bad did he hurt her?”

  “She’s dead, Teddy.”

  Teddy closed his eyes. “Poor Sandy.”

  Victoria gave him a few moments of silence before she said, “After everyone leaves, carry Sandy downstairs.”

  Teddy nodded. “What will Sandy do without Peg?”

  “We’ll think of something. I’ll call Joanie, the animal control officer, and tell her I found a sick dog …”

  “That’s true, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. I’ll ask her to take Sandy and me to the doctor. You’ll find notepaper and envelopes in that desk.” Victoria pointed to the rickety old desk under the eaves.

  Teddy wrote the note and Victoria read it. “Good. Address the envelope to your mother, and I’ll leave it on the kitchen table where she’ll see it.”

  Teddy sighed. “I’m not really scared of my mother.”

  “Of course not.”

  “You won’t give me away, will you?”

  “Not until we talk.”

  “I’m not scared of my mother,” he said again. “But I don’t want her to tell him where I am.”

  “Him?” said Victoria. “The boyfriend?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “Why don’t you like him?”

  “He makes me eat awful stuff.”

  “What kind of awful stuff?” Victoria asked, concerned.

  “Snails and octopus.” Teddy shuddered. “Slimy black stuff. He pretends to be so lovey-dovey to my mother, but he’s only after her money. He says she’s going to be rich because of my television show.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “She calls him ‘honey’ or ‘darling’ mostly.” Teddy put his hands to his throat and stuck his tongue out. “Yuck!”

  “Don’t you know his real name?”

  “I think it’s Reilly.”

  Victoria got up slowly. “I have to go now. When everyone leaves, carry Sandy downstairs to the kitchen.”

  “The cat doesn’t like Sandy.”

  “I’ll take care of McCavity,” said Victoria.

  Victoria was still talking with Teddy in the attic when Elizabeth came downstairs to make breakfast. Alison and Amanda joined her, and they talked together quietly so they wouldn’t awaken Victoria. Alison measured coffee grounds and water into the coffeemaker and turned it on.

  “What do you like for breakfast, Amanda?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Just coffee, thanks,” said Amanda. “I’m going to my house, see if I can help the police.”

  The last drip of coffee sputtered into the glass pot, and Alison poured some into a mug. “Pretty hot. Why don’t you take this with you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring the mug back.”

  After Amanda had gone, Elizabeth said, “She doesn’t seem as broken up about her son as you’d expect.”

  “She may be in shock,” said Alison. “Or denial. People handle awful situations differently.”

  “It’s as if she’s only pretending she’s worried sick.”

  “She doesn’t want to admit to herself that something might have happened …” Alison turned away and didn’t finish her sentence.

  “My grandmother’s sleeping awfully late,” Elizabeth said. “She must have been exhausted. She didn’t get to bed until well after midnight. How about you, did you sleep okay?”

  “Eventually.” Alison wrapped her hands around her coffee mug. “Before Victoria comes down, let me ask you something.”

  “Sure.”

  “Howland was teasing her about ghosts. I know she doesn’t believe in them. But I heard some strange noises last night.”

  “Where were the noises coming from?”

  “The attic.”

  “You’re not the only one to hear ghosts up there. But the explanation is simple.” Elizabeth poured bacon fat from the pan into a can marked “Grease for Kyle.”

  “Who’s Kyle?” said Alison.

  “A green friend of Victoria’s. An environmental type who runs his car on grease. Ask Victoria about him.” She put a lid on the can and stowed it in the freezer. “About noises in the attic, there are generations of mice up there who have eluded McCavity. Occasionally a squirrel gets in. We had a raccoon in the chimney last year.”

  “It sounded a bit like scratching, but it also sounded like something moaning.”

  Elizabeth glanced at Alison. “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  Alison set her coffee down. “I’m a scientist. People have been seeing, hearing, and feeling spirits for centuries. I’m not about to disregard all those sightings. What about you?”

  Elizabeth shrugged. “My grandmother has programmed me into being sensible, which means, according to her, there’s no such thing as a haunted house. Everything has a logical explanation. Want to go up to the attic and look around?”

  “Not now.” Alison checked her watch. “Sergeant Smalley is picking me up any minute. By the way, thanks for lending me your jeans. They fit perfectly.”

  “You’re welcome to borrow whatever you need.”

  “I hope we find Amanda’s boy soon.” Alison paused and looked at the distant spire of the church. “Do you know Teddy?”

  “Not well. He seems like a bright kid. My grandmother and he became close pals during rehearsals. The oldest and the youngest players. She’s terribly fond of him. And worried.”

  “We all are.” Alison turned away. “In a past life, I had a son. He was Teddy’s age …” she stopped.

  Smalley drove up at that point, and Alison hurried out of the door before Elizabeth had time to react.

  Elizabeth tried to absorb Alison’s remark about a son. She had assumed the forensic scientist was divorced, but hadn’t thought beyond that. What had happened to her son?

  She looked at her watch. Time enough to drive to Alley’s and pick up the off-Island dailies.

  When she returned with the newspapers, ten minutes later, Victoria was in the kitchen, pouring herself a mug of coffee.

  “Morning, Gram.”

  Victoria turned guiltily.

  Elizabeth studied her. “Are you okay?”

  “Of course. Why do you ask?”

  “You seem sort of flushed.”

  “A sign of good health.”

  Elizabeth looked at her grandmother again and shrugged. “I bought the newspapers. Let’s see what they say about your play.”

  Victoria carried her coffee into the cookroom, and they both sat. Elizabeth laid the papers on the table in front of her grandmother. “After the way Dearborn has tried to undermine Ruth …” She corrected herself. “The way he and Ruth’s own sister have worked against her, I wouldn’t blame you for hoping everything will go wrong with the play.” Elizabeth looked around. “I haven’t met the two hitchhikers yet. They must be asleep still.”

  “They left early.” Victoria had seen them from the attic window, standing at the end of the drive, waiting for the bus.

  Elizabeth noted the flush return to her grandmother’s cheeks. “What time did you get up?”

  “I’ve been awake for a while.” Victoria turned her attention to her cereal.

  Elizabeth smiled. “Alison heard noises in the attic. I’m afraid we may have mice again.”

  “Why, did she hear them scrabbling around?”

  “She asked me if we had a ghost …”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” said Victoria. “Howland thinks it’s so comical to go on and on about ghosts in our house, and now everyone who stays here thinks the house is haunted.” She shoved her cereal bowl away from her.

  “We should probably set mouse traps up there.” Elizabeth grinned. She, too, thought about the missing boy. Now there were noises in the attic and her grandmother was being secretive. “I’ll set some mouse traps in the attic right after breakfast.”

  “Don’t bother,” said Victoria, quickly. “Let me see what the newspapers have to say.” She opened up the Cape Cod paper and stared at the front page.

  “What is it?” Elizabeth pushed her chair back.

  Victoria handed her the paper.

  “Ohmygod!” cried Elizabeth.

  CHAPTER 16

  The headline read, “Comedy Ends in Tragedy.”

  “Comedy!” exclaimed Victoria.

  “Tragedy?” Elizabeth leaned over her shoulder. “Want me to read it?”

  “I wish you would.”

  Elizabeth sat down and spread out the paper. “The subhead says, ‘Actor dies of apparent heart attack.’”

  “Good heavens!”

  “‘During the opening performance last night of Frankenstein Unbound at the Island Players, Robert F. Scott, 48, who was performing two roles …’”

  “Robert Scott!” exclaimed Victoria. “He was reading Bruce Duncan’s part as Frankenstein’s friend.”

  Elizabeth looked over the top of the paper. “Yeah?”

  “Bruce had been cast in the part of Henry Clerval.”

  “Oh?” said Elizabeth, lowering the paper.

  “Henry Clerval is murdered by Frankenstein’s monster.”

  “Bruce Duncan is the guy who … ?”

  “Yes,” said Victoria. “Bruce was almost hysterical when he learned about Peg’s death. He was convinced he was next.”

  “In order of appearance?” said Elizabeth.

  “Go on reading,” said Victoria. “Heart attack?”

  “‘ … performing two roles, collapsed after reading the part of Frankenstein’s friend, Henry Clerval. Mr. Scott was found backstage by the cleaning woman, Maria Gallante, and was taken to the Martha’s Vineyard Hospital, where he was pronounced dead on arrival of an apparent heart attack.’” Elizabeth glanced up. “The article goes on from there. Do you want to hear it?”

  “The headline said comedy?”

  “Let me find that part.” Elizabeth ran her finger down the page. “Here we go. ’The play, adapted by the poet Victoria Trumbull from Mary Shelley’s book Frankenstein and directed by Dearborn Hill, was produced despite objections from some of the cast. Peg Storm, who played the part of the Frankensteins’ housekeeper, had been found dead the night before, and Teddy Vanderhoop, eight, who played the part of the five-year-old William Frankenstein, was still missing as of press time.”

  “Comedy?” said Victoria.

  “I’m coming to it. ‘Last night’s production of the play, which deals with weighty social issues, was staged as a farce, much to the delight of the standing-room-only crowd.”

  “Standing room only? Farce? The idea,” said Victoria. “The very idea!”

  “Want to hear more?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Victoria, picking up the phone.

  George Byron was reading the same article to his mother at their breakfast table when the phone rang.

  “I was about to call you, Victoria,” Ruth said. “Have you read past the farce bit?”

  “That’s when I decided to call.”

  “You’ll never guess who acted Frankenstein’s bride, the part the paper refers to,” said Ruth.

  “Dearborn?”

  “Guess again.”

  “His nephew?”

  “Rebecca,” Ruth cried. “My beloved sister!”

  “Rebecca?” Victoria repeated.

  “My sister played the part of Elizabeth Lavenza, the bride of Frankenstein!”

  “There’s nothing farcical about the bride’s role.”

  “Rebecca adores acting. She loves to emote. Did you read the passage in the paper about ‘high camp’?”

  “I don’t think I want to,” said Victoria. “The first I knew about Robert Scott’s death was when we read about it in the paper just now. Forty-eight is young to have a heart attack.”

  “George went to the performance last night, Victoria.”

  “Did George tell you what scene Robert was playing when he collapsed?”

  “The monster had strangled him.”

  “The monster, as played by Roderick?” Victoria asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Was Roderick too enthusiastic in his acting?”

  “Hard to know, Victoria. Bob was alive when the stage crew dragged him off. So much was going on, no one paid much attention to him.” Ruth paused. “He apparently lay down on the sofa backstage, which is where the cleaning woman found him.”

  “No one missed him in Act Three?”

  “Dearborn was drunk. The play was not going as expected. The audience was having a ball. The cast went along with the audience and treated the play as a farce. When Bob didn’t appear on cue, Dearborn substituted Nora, who read the part, woodenly, of course. The audience loved it.”

  “Now that the play has been reviewed as a farce, I suppose we must continue to treat it as such?”

  “We have no choice, Victoria. At the end of the run I’ll fire Dearborn, of course.”

  “You may have some dissent from your backers, if you fire him after a commercial success.” Victoria paused again. “This is exactly what I was hoping to avoid. Mary Shelley wrote a serious book. Despite all the best intentions of the past two centuries, the public is not interested in the message. They crave sensationalism and grotesquerie. And now we have two deaths associated with the play.”

  “The two faces of Janus,” said Ruth. “The Roman god of beginnings and endings.”

  “Front page,” said Dearborn to Becca, laying out the Cape Cod, New Bedford, and Falmouth papers. “Even The Globe has a front page item. Look here.” He pointed.

  “Ummm.” Becca nuzzled his neck, then picked up The Globe and studied the four-inch item below the fold. “Guess that will show dear, sweet sister Ruth. Sell-out crowd, the rafters fairly pealed with laughter. We held them in our hands.” She tossed down the paper and strode across the room. “How dare she dictate behavior to you.” She tapped her chest with her fingers. “To me. How insulting, when you produce an audience pleaser the way you did last night.” She turned. “The way you always do, darling.”

  Dearborn cleared his throat. “Helped to have Bob Scott die after he was strangled. Not sure we can duplicate that.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound insensitive, darling. Forgive me!” She went back to Dearborn and threw her arms around his neck. “Of course, that was sad. Tragic. As you know.” She cast a lingering look at her husband. “Bob meant a great deal to me at one time.” She took long, sweeping steps across the room, hands clasped under her chin.

  “Sometimes I wonder about your taste,” Dearborn muttered.

  “But what a noble way to go,” said Becca. “Not exactly on stage, but performing to a full house.” She repeated the two words. “Full house, darling. Full house.”

  “He didn’t die on stage.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m sure he felt no pain,” said Dearborn.

  “Did you like the way I handled my role? Sweet, innocent bride, hmmm?” Becca asked.

  “The audience loved you,” Dearborn said.

  “Do you really think so?”

  “You heard the laughter.”

  “At all the right places.”

  “All the right places,” Dearborn repeated.

  “I’m glad he didn’t die until after my death scene,” said Becca. “I’d have resented him, really, for upstaging me.” She went back to her pacing. “The idea of my sister implying that you can’t hold your liquor. Of course you can. You’ve never in your life had to take a drink.”

  “Just three drinks all evening,” said Dearborn, looking pleased. “Plus one or two before the performance, of course. Fortification for opening night.”

  “How humiliating to make you go to public meetings and confess something that’s not really a problem.” She picked up the New Bedford paper. “My sister has always known how to make a person grovel.”

  “She meant well, I suppose,” said Dearborn, sounding unconvinced.

  “Darling, it’s sweet to be back together. We’ll show that bitch, won’t we?”

  Dearborn slapped the back of his hand on the Cape Cod paper. “We couldn’t have gotten better press than that.”

  Joanie Adams, the animal control officer, showed up ten minutes after Victoria called. She parked her truck in the driveway and slipped into Victoria’s kitchen. Sandy lay where Teddy had left him, huddled and shivering, in a cardboard box lined with an old quilt.

  Joanie examined the small, scruffy, filthy dog.

  “Peg Storm’s mutt, Sandy. How’d he get here?”