Another One Bites the Crust Read online

  He did a little spin. “What do you think?” With catlike reflexes he reached inside his cape and pulled out a dagger. “You like?”

  “I do. It works on you.”

  Bethany nodded from her perch on top of the chair. “Yeah, totally. This whole place is amazing. Instagram is going to blow up tonight.”

  “Most excellent.” Lance offered her a sly grin. Then he pointed to the bar. “Come, come, we must get you some mead and then get you in costume.”

  He pulled me to the opposite side of the tent where a cheery mead maker greeted us with two steins of his honey mead. “Drink up, it’s good for your health,” Lance commanded, clinking his pewter stein to mine.

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “Of course it’s true. Don’t be daft. In Shakespeare’s time water was considered unhealthy so everyone would have imbibed this—men, women, children—everyone. Remember, my dear Juliet, that tonight is about authenticity. We are not simply reenacting a period in history. We are history.”

  “Right.” I agreed but had no idea what Lance meant by that. “Is mead more like beer or wine?”

  The mead maker, who wore a page-boy costume, offered us his expertise. “Mead predates both beer and wine. It’s known as the oldest alcoholic beverage and its exquisite taste derives from nothing more than fermented honey.” He held up a fluted bottle. “Give it a taste. You should pick up the essence of honey along with hints of melon and tree fruits.”

  I took a sip and allowed the mead to linger on my tongue. It was semi-dry with floral notes and just a hint of sweetness. It reminded me of a cross between cider and wine. “This is lovely,” I said to the mead maker.

  He beamed with pride. I wondered how much of his own product he had sampled over the years. The merry craftsman’s cheeks were puffy and red. Lance guzzled his drink and thrust his stein to the mead maker for a refill. The maker obliged and filled Lance’s stein to the brim. In one fluid motion Lance opened his throat and polished off the second glass before demanding a third refill.

  “Lance, don’t you think you should pace yourself?” I asked, pulling him away from the bar.

  “Nonsense. It’s my party and I intend to have a fabulous time.” He stared at me for a minute. “Don’t wrinkle your forehead like that. Mead is a working man’s drink. Farmers drank it all day in the field. Not to worry. I’m not the slightest bit tispy.”

  “Tispy?”

  Lance waved me off. “You know what I mean. I’m not even tip-see. See, I said it. Say it three times fast. Tip-see, Tip-see, tispy.”

  I wanted to caution Lance to go easy on the mead. Given his erratic behavior of late, getting “tispy” at his party sounded like a disastrous idea.

  “Let’s go, let’s go. You’re late. You should already be in costume,” Lance said, dragging me toward Bethany. “You and your adorable young helper need to get to hair and makeup—stat! Guests will be arriving on the hour. They cannot see you in jeans and a ponytail. Make haste.”

  He nudged me and Bethany toward the massive entry staircase, but got distracted by a waiter whose ruffled shirtsleeve cuffs were not up to Lance’s standards. We made our getaway as Lance lectured the poor guy about how his sleeves were to be precisely three inches from his wrist.

  “Um, he’s kind of intense,” Bethany said, stopping momentarily to snap a selfie with one of the peacocks.

  I frowned and glanced back at Lance. “I know.” I had a bad feeling about how the party was going to play out. If Lance didn’t lay off the mead we could be in for a long night.

  Fortunately, Bethany’s excitement distracted me as we ascended the spiral staircase and made our way to the costume department. “This is going to be great, isn’t it? My dress is like a real ball gown. I can’t wait to share pics.”

  I smiled and we headed for the Bowmer Theater. I knew my way around the OSF complex. As a kid, I had acted in a few productions, and more recently I had participated in a national baking competition that filmed at the theater. Even though the costume department was located inside the theater, OSF’s collection of costumes was so vast that most of it was stored in a warehouse in Talent, a small town just a few miles away. Touring the warehouse was like wandering through Costco. But instead of rows and rows of bulk food there were racks and racks of costumes, organized by era, style, and size. The company rented costumes to other theaters and film studios throughout the country.

  To my surprise, when we entered the large room with mannequins, bright-colored spools of thread, swatches of fabric, and racks of costumes, there were actors and members of the company milling around everywhere inside. Apparently, Lance had made OSF’s extensive line of period costumes available to anyone who didn’t want to purchase or create their own costume. It looked as if everyone had taken him up on the offer. The steady hum of sewing machines whirred.

  Bethany and I squeezed past a group of fairies. “We’re here on Lance’s orders,” I said to Vera MacBohn, the costume designer I had met at Torte earlier. She was kneeling on a stool and making a last-minute alteration to a Cleopatra costume. “Suck it in, Tracy,” she said to a woman in the elegant white dress.

  “I am, Vera,” the woman wailed. “I am!” She had to be an actor in the company with her perfectly erect posture and sharp features. I couldn’t tell if her jet-black hair was real or a wig. Not a single hair was out of place. Her bangs had been cut in a blunt style to show off her gold headpiece adorned with blue gemstones. The sleeveless dress fell to her ankles. It had a gold braided belt and collar that were trimmed with aqua sequins. A matching aqua cape was attached to gold bracelets on each wrist.

  Vera stood up and stuffed a roll of Velcro into her apron. She reached for a pencil tucked behind her ear and made a tiny marking on the back of the Cleopatra dress. “I’m going to have to let this out. Hold on.” Then she turned to us. “Sorry to keep you waiting. As you can see it’s mayhem back here. When I see Lance, I’m going to murder him. Forget everything I said about being worried about him. He’s a dead man walking.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Cleopatra said something under her breath that I couldn’t hear. Vera shot her a warning look, but went silent when a man wearing a white belted tunic, knee-high strappy sandals, gold wrist cuffs, a red cape, and a headpiece interrupted us. He looked like a Greek god. This had to be Cleopatra’s Antony, also known as Lance’s nemesis.

  “Tracy, we need to talk.” He didn’t bother to make eye contact with the rest of us.

  “I can’t, Antony. I’m doing a fitting.”

  “You’ve been doing a fitting every other week. The dress is good. We need to talk—now.” He flipped his cape and seemed to notice us for the first time. Extending a muscular arm, he shook my hand. “Antony, star of Antony and Cleopatra. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Jules.” His handshake was crushing. I wiggled my fingers after he released his grasp. “Pastry chef.”

  Cleopatra let out a little scream. “You’re the pastry chef! I love your stuff. I’ve been devouring your macarons. Oh my God! They are the best! Total deliciousness. Who would have thought to do peanut butter and jelly macarons? They are the best.”

  “Meet my macaron master, Bethany.” I pointed to Bethany who blushed with pride.

  “They are so good,” Cleopatra said to Bethany. “Oh, and the bacon and maple syrup ones, oh yum. Lance brought a box to our last dress rehearsal and I think I ate the entire thing by myself.”

  “That’s why you’re having another fitting, Tracy,” Antony said with a snarl. “Maybe if you laid off the sugar you could fit in your costume.”

  Tracy’s cheeks puffed out as she glared at him. “Whatever. I could say quite a few things about you, but I’m not going to sink to your level.”

  He kept at it. “Who wants a fat Cleopatra? I’m surprised Lance hasn’t fired you yet.”

  Vera tapped Tracy with her pencil and nodded toward us. “Why don’t you two take this outside, so I can get our pastry gi
rls in to their dresses.” Her eyes seemed to speak in code. Tracy held her gaze and nodded.

  “Right. Come on, Antony, let me show you my secret stash of sweets. Maybe I can smother you with them. Death by dessert.” She winked at Bethany. “I’ll be by for more of your macarons. Keep those crazy flavors coming.”

  She and Antony didn’t look exactly chummy as they left the costume department. Although I did notice that she wrapped her arm through his and gave the other actors and company a queen’s wave as they made their exit. It was a strange shift. He had just insulted her, but then again, they were actors. Maybe Lance had ordered them to put on a good face.

  Vera sighed as they strolled off. “Those two.” She caught herself and reached for a pincushion. “Okay, where were we? Costumes. Your dresses are both hanging in the fitting area. They should be ready to go, but if you need a last-minute tuck or trim don’t hesitate to ask. Once you’re in your dress head on over to makeup.”

  With that she went to work fixing one of the fairy’s wings. “See you in a few,” I said to Bethany as we parted ways to change. The costume department had always felt otherworldly when I was a kid. Audiences only see what’s happening onstage but the real magic occurs backstage where for every actor there are at least three to four costume designers, stitchers, dressers, and assistants. The constant frenzy of choreography offstage was equally—if not more—impressive than a fine-tuned sword fight or dance number. Tonight was no exception. The costume crafts team was hard at work putting finishing touches on wings, crowns, and light-up hoop skirts. Wig designers checked every strand of hair in magnificent frosted headpieces.

  I squeezed past a first hand who was fitting an actor with muslin. My dress was hanging on the back of one of the fitting stalls and labeled “Juliet.” It looked like something my namesake would have worn, and despite the craziness with Lance, I fell in love with it the second I pulled it over my head. The pinkish hue balanced my pale skin, giving it a soft, warm glow. Its empire bodice accentuated my narrow waist and the thin silk fabric and silver beading gave it a starry feel.

  When I exited the fitting space, Bethany twirled out of hers. Her dress was the opposite of mine with a huge hoop skirt and layers and layers of emerald-green tulle. “Isn’t it amazing?” she gushed.

  “No wonder you feel like a princess. You are a princess.”

  “And you are gorgeous, Jules. Wow. You look like a model.”

  “Thanks.” I pointed her to the door. “Now it’s on to makeup.”

  She clapped. I wished I shared her enthusiasm, but it turned out the process was less painful than I anticipated. The makeup artists at OSF were true masters. They managed to highlight each of our features flawlessly. For Bethany’s young acne-prone skin the makeup team smoothed it with liquid foundation and narrowed her round cheeks by contouring layers of rosy blush. They kept my look simple with sparkling silver eyeshadow, a dusting of pink on my brow and cheeks, and a matching pink shimmering lip gloss. Then they curled my straight, fine locks in loose waves and wove in a rhinestone headband. I studied my reflection in the mirror and couldn’t believe it was me. Between the dress and the flowing curls, it was a romantic look. I felt like my namesake—Juliet.

  Bethany’s hair had been piled high on her head and tied with cascading green and gold ribbons. She touched one of the ribbons and gaped into the mirror. “Is it even us, Jules? Don’t you feel like another person?”

  “I do.” I had to admit that I was swept up in the experience, and part of me wished that Carlos were here to see me now. I quickly pushed the thought from my mind. We were here for a purpose—serving dessert and making sure that each guest had a magnificent evening. I wasn’t worried about our buffet. I had a feeling that Lance’s guests were going to be as impressed as I was with the work my team had done. Neither was I worried about how Bethany and I might blend in for the party. Our costumes, hair, and makeup had transformed both of us into princesses ready for a grand ball. The only thing I was worried about was Lance. I said a silent prayer, as Bethany and I made our way back to the tents, that Lance would keep his imbibing to a minimum and that he wouldn’t cause a scene. However, as we descended the staircase into the party my worst fears were immediately realized. Lance was holding a pewter stein, spitting out insults, and looked like he was about to punch Antony smack in the jaw.

  Chapter Seven

  A commotion erupted just as my pink ballet slipper touched the wooden floor that covered the grass. Lance flung his cape and tried to flick Antony’s headpiece with his free hand. Antony jerked backward. Lance missed the headpiece and swiped the air. “Who invited you, anyway?” His words slurred together. I wondered how many more mugs of mead he’d consumed while Bethany and I were getting into our costumes.

  Antony adjusted his headpiece and hardened his dark eyes on Lance. “The last time I checked I’m the star of the show. The only reason this place is going to be packed soon is because of me. Everyone is coming to see me.”

  “Ha!” Lance let out a low chuckle. “Please, honey. You’ve been part of the company for what—a few months? Trust me, everyone is here for me. And your name isn’t Antony. Drop the gig. You’re hardly Tom Cruise, kid. You can take your method acting and shove it where the sun don’t shine.”

  I wanted to jump in and rescue my friend. He was obviously tipsy. Lance never spoke like that. The doors were set to open in five minutes. Who knew how long this posturing could go on? From my vantage point it looked ridiculous, almost like an overacted production, but I knew that Lance’s ego had been badly bruised and it was highly unlikely that he would step down. Why was Antony egging him on? Maybe Lance’s paranoia had some validity. I couldn’t imagine any other actor speaking to the artistic director like that. While I considered how I might distract Lance, Thad the set designer appeared from out of nowhere. He wasn’t in costume, but rather wore a pair of faded work jeans, heavy boots, and his tool belt that looked as if it had every tool he could possibly need at the ready.

  “Lance, I need you to take a look at the stage. There’s a problem with the fog effect.” He ignored Antony and pulled Lance away without another word.

  Antony bent over and pretended to fix one of the laces on his strappy sandals. I had a feeling he was trying to save face.

  “Um, that was weird, right?” Bethany said, holding up the edges of her ruffled hoop skirt as we walked to the dessert tables.

  “Yeah. I think he’s about to crack.” I sighed and tried to see if I could catch his eye. He was huddled with Thad at the end of the stage watching small puffs of fog erupt from the machine. It didn’t look like anything was broken, which made me wonder if Thad had had my idea—to distract Lance from his ongoing feud with Antony. Regardless, it had worked, so I returned my attention to our dazzling display of desserts.

  For the next two hours Bethany and I served slices of tea cake with clotted cream and fresh strawberries along with warm pots of chocolate pudding and bubbling tarts. By far the hit of the dessert table was Stephanie’s royal marchpanes. I wished that she could have been there to see the reaction when guests oohed and aahed over her delicate creations. Of course, in the same breath I knew that she would have hated having to squeeze into a costume. Although she would have made a great evil queen or dark fairy.

  “Instagram is on fire,” Bethany said between groups of partygoers. “Sweetened magazine just reposted the marzipan pic.”

  “Excellent.” I had met the editor of Sweetened at the Chocolate Festival and she ended up doing a cover feature on Torte’s wedding cakes. The exposure in the national magazine had been great for business. We’d received calls from as far away as Boston and Florida asking if we could fly our cakes out for a wedding. Alas, we weren’t set up for delivery outside of a small radius, but it was flattering to be asked.

  The party was flush with color and merriment. From fire dancers to the minstrel band and the entire company mingling and laughing while gorging on an authentic Shakespearean feast, it looked like Lance�
��s bash was a smashing success. I’d been busy managing the flow of desserts and restocking the table but didn’t notice any other interactions between Lance and Antony. Thank goodness for small miracles, I thought.

  Lance stumbled over to the dessert table as the party began to wind down. “Darlings, darlings, you were perfection.” He waved his index finger in the air as if trying to find the right words. “My God, you are perfection. I missed the final reveal. No wonder everyone has been raving about the pastries. You are two pastry goddesses. Those dresses. The hair!”

  Bethany blushed. I was familiar with Lance’s tendency to flatter, but for once I actually felt like a princess, so I took his compliment in stride.

  “How was everything? Did you eat? Did you get more mead?” Lance asked.

  “We’re good,” I assured Lance. “We’re going to start packing up the few leftovers and I’ll leave them for you before I go. How are you? I’m worried about you.”

  “Fine. Fine. I’m fine, darling.” Lance made a dismissive motion in the air with his hand. Then he came around the table and wrapped me in a tight embrace. I could smell the lingering mead on his breath as he said, “Thank you, Juliet. My deepest thanks.” His voice was filled with sincerity and for a minute I thought he might cry.

  “You’re welcome.” I returned the hug. “Lance, are you sure you’re okay?”

  His shoulders heaved. I thought he was finally going to admit that he was an emotional wreck, but instead he clutched me tighter. When he finally released me, he straightened his cape and shifted into his stage persona. “Darling, you must come join us for a nightcap. We’re all heading to Puck’s Pub in a few minutes. Leave this for tomorrow and come celebrate.”

  Bethany had finished packing our supplies and had boxed up a handful of extra marzipans and tarts. “I can’t,” I said to Lance, nodding at the stacks of plastic tubs. “I need to get these back to the bakeshop and then I’m hitting my bed. Remember, we have baker’s hours, which means it’s way past my bedtime.”