The Marsh Madness

“It’s already been said, Miss Bingham.”


It had been said? I blinked. “Oh, you mean, ‘Do what I must’?”

“Try to keep up.” She went back to her puzzle.

“I’ll pass on the bills,” I said, with an attempt to maintain my dignity.

She ignored me. Fine. It was bedtime, and my response was to yawn widely.

“Good night, Miss Bingham,” Vera said, absently, glancing up briefly.

“Time for me to hit the hay,” I said, channeling my Uncle Billy, who had apparently spent a lot of time sleeping in barns.

I left her with her fire and her puzzle and the understanding that I’d find out what the connection was, although so far, I hadn’t been winning any prizes for that.


*

I’D HIT A wall with my theorizing, and there was a police officer in the driveway keeping me in my place. I decided to focus my mind and escape into the world of Ngaio Marsh’s Death at the Dolphin, yet another theatrical mystery. I’d see if I found some useful connection while I was reading or sleeping or worrying.

I burrowed down under the comforter, luxuriating in the historic theater—the Dolphin of the title—and all the over-the-top characters from the play about Shakespeare and a glove that belonged to his young son, Hamnet. This was the play that would revive the theater and make the name of the young playwright and the players. The stakes were high. I felt a little shiver as I compared the situation with the one we found ourselves in.

As I read on, I chuckled over the relationships, betrayals, alliances, ego and deceits in the fictional production. I had loved being involved with productions. Marsh captured it so perfectly. It all took me back to college. I’d spent a bit of time on the stage and considerably more behind the scenes. My talents ran to costumes and props and less to emoting onstage. I don’t mind saying I’d made a wonderful Mrs. Drudge in The Real Inspector Hound, but that had not been the route to more glamorous parts. Uncle Mick’s antique shop with its bits of everything and my entire family’s familiarity with disguise came in handy. I had been in demand, if not as an actress. It had even led to romance, but that was not such a happy ending. Lance had helped me deal with all that. Good old Lance. You could always count on him.

I sat bolt upright and actually banged my head on the iron bedstead. Lance! I had hidden my burner phone after insisting that he use that to stay in touch. I made my way to my hiding place and retrieved the phone.

I had a pretty firm idea that Lance might be hopping mad around now. I did hope—smart boy that he was—that he would figure out I had good reasons for not responding.

My reasons were that I’d been distracted by police and searches and planted evidence and lawyers and the threat of arrest. Still, I felt like a giant pink goofball. How could I have forgotten Lance?

Uh-oh.

Fifteen texts.

I climbed back into my comfy bed and pulled up the flower-sprigged comforter and bit my lip.

The good news: Text number 1. Lance had found something that I would find interesting.

Text numbers 2 through 12: Lance wondered why I hadn’t responded to his first text, considering all the trouble he went to find out this very interesting bit of information. I had gotten his point, although I would have been happier if he’d said what the interesting “bit of information” was rather than sniping at me for my slowness.

Text number 13: It seemed to have occurred to him that all wasn’t well. Was I all right?

Text number 14: What was happening?

Text number 15: Apparently, Lance was getting dressed and coming over to find out what the bleep was going on. Now!

I dialed his number in the hope I could save him a trip.