There was no review of Dear Ruth in the Kenabeek Gazette the next day! The cast sat around the patio after blocking the first act of Angel Street, glum and disheartened. The wonderful elation of last night’s opening had left them. “Isn’t Ford Birmingham going to review us at all?” Peggy wondered unhappily. “Isn’t it his job? Doesn’t he have to?” “Oh, he’ll probably write a token piece—it would be too obvious if he didn’t,” Chuck answered grimly. “But I imagine he won’t do it until the middle of the week when we’re almost finished with Dear Ruth. By that time we’ll have lost an audience—people will lose interest in our theater.” “But didn’t he like the play?” Alison demanded. “Everyone else simply loved it!” “He wasn’t there,” Chuck said shortly. “He didn’t come last night, and I doubt if he’ll come at all. Max Slade must have that man wrapped around his little finger! We had an audience last night only because of our own advertising and publicity. But people expect reviews! And if Birmingham doesn’t give us one next week on opening night—I’ll write one myself!” “Oh, you can’t!” Peggy said anxiously. “If you do, he’ll be sure to bring it out in the paper, and then we’ll seem like amateurs!” Chuck sighed. “I know, Peggy. I wouldn’t, of course, but I just don’t see any other way!” “Well, for heaven’s sake!” Alison protested. “He can’t write a review unless he comes to see a play!” “Sure he can,” Chris Hill returned. “Easy. He’ll write about two lines to the effect that Dear Ruth opened at the high school last Thursday, and in the cast were..., et cetera and et cetera. By saying nothing he’ll create the impression we were terrible!” Peggy looked uneasily at Chris. He was terribly angry. She had a momentary vision of him storming into the offices of the Kenabeek Gazette and demanding to have it out with Mr. Birmingham. She wasn’t far wrong. “Why don’t I go to see him?” Chris fumed. “I’d love to see that guy and—” “—tell him just exactly what you think of him!” Chuck finished. “Yes, I know. So would I, but that’s probably what they expect us to do, so we’d better not. Better sit tight.” “Just what is the connection between Max Slade and Birmingham?” Peggy persisted. “It seems very mysterious to me. I can’t imagine why a newspaperman would be working hand in glove with a theater manager—it doesn’t make sense. Newsmen usually just want news! Period!” “Who knows?” Chuck shrugged. “All I know is that we’ll be able to judge from the house tonight how it’s going to go from now on without a review. It’s too early to tell—maybe people will come anyway. But if they don’t, I can tell you this theater isn’t going to last long!” Watching Chuck, Peggy felt worried. She noticed that Chris was looking at their director too, and catching his eye, she knew that he felt as she did. This meant so much to Chuck, and he had worked so hard. If there were only something she could do.... “Peggy,” Chuck said, as if in answer to her thought, “would you mind going with Danny and Mike Miller this afternoon to hunt for furniture?” He was going to work on the second act of Angel Street, in which Peggy didn’t appear. “You don’t have to—I know you need a rest—but if you feel like it, it would be a great help.” “I’d love to!” Peggy beamed cheerfully. “Really, I would. It’ll give me a chance to see the town.” Chuck smiled gratefully. “Well, if you’re sure—” “Anything that’s Victorian?” Peggy asked as she collected her sides and pencil, dropping them into the large knitting bag she carried to rehearsals. “Mike has the furniture and prop list up at the theater,” Chuck said. “I’d like you to keep an eye out for decoration. Knickknacks and pictures and maybe a statue—you know.” “They shouldn’t be hard to find here,” Peggy called gaily as she left the annex. “These houses look as if they’re stuffed with Victorian antiques!” “Thanks, Peggy.” The cast went back to rehearsal, and Peggy started up to the theater. “We need a chaise longue, a desk, two tables, four straight chairs, two easy chairs, and a hall table plus extras.” Danny Dunn checked the list as Michael Miller turned the little blue jeep out of the school driveway and down the main road. “Are you sorry not to be in Angel Street?” Peggy asked him. Danny would not be playing next week and had taken the job of stage-managing instead, giving Gus an opportunity to concentrate on the set alone. “Not a bit!” Danny grinned. “You know I’ve played Sergeant Rough before, and although I enjoyed doing it, I felt I was a little young. It will be a real treat to see Howard Miller in the part. I think he’ll be fabulous!” Peggy chuckled. Danny’s remarks were always liberally peppered with words like fabulous, terrific, fantastic, out of this world. Danny asked why she laughed and Peggy told him. “Well,” he pronounced expansively, “the theater is a little bit out of this world—and I’m in the theater. So where am I?” “Passing the office of that ‘fantastic’ paper, the Kenabeek Gazette,” Michael informed him, laughing. “There it is, children, look your fill.” Peggy and Danny whipped around in their seats to look. “The building looks just like my father’s newspaper in Rockport,” Peggy said, “only a little smaller. I wonder if Ford Birmingham is in.” “Well, you won’t have a chance to find out,” Michael said. “I’m taking you across town to see Mary Hopkins’ mother. Mary said they might have some things we could use.” Peggy looked eagerly around the little town of Lake Kenabeek as they drove through. It was only a few buildings on either side of the main highway. A post office, drugstore, general store, and sporting goods shop, the newspaper building, and a couple of restaurants. The residents’ houses and cottages were almost all off the main highway, on twisting roads, hidden behind the profusion of pine trees and thick forest growth. Peggy wished she could have just a few minutes to stroll around. “Goodness,” she said, “I’ve been here ten days, and this is the first time I’ve been into town since I got off that bus!” “You mean ten years!” Michael retorted. “I’ve felt at least ten years go by since I first saw you that afternoon!” Danny and Peggy laughed. Looking at Michael, though, Peggy realized that he wasn’t far wrong about himself. He had grown up in the past week! And he seemed to be having more fun. He wasn’t as serious and shy as he had been at the start. For his sake, Peggy was glad of the change. “The jeep has aged, too,” Danny commented. “Don’t I detect a cough in the engine?” “Oh, no, that’s only her way of saying hello.” Michael patted the wheel as if the jeep were alive. “Look—there it is—the ogre!” Michael pointed to the movie house and shook a fist playfully as they drove by. “Well, you certainly don’t seem too worried about the state of affairs!” Danny commented. “I’m not!” Michael responded. “I have absolute faith in the ultimate triumph of the Kenabeek Summer Theater! Hey!” Michael suddenly braked the jeep and pulled to the side of the road. “Bladen’s Antiques! I’d forgotten about them. This is the one antique store in the area, Peggy.” They looked at the little house at the side of the road. Outside, by the gate, was a huge iron elk carrying the shop’s sign on his antlers. The yard was strewn with marble pedestals, bird cages hanging from trees, and a huge red sleigh with massive iron runners. There was even a small weather-beaten totem pole leaning rather precariously to one side. “Is that the real thing?” Peggy asked Michael. “Well, if it wasn’t when they put it up, it’s certainly an antique by now! No, it’s not a real Indian one, Peggy. It’s a fake, like a lot of souvenir items up here. But we don’t pretend they’re real.” “Think we might borrow one of those pedestals?” Peggy asked. “We could use one on the set.” “Couldn’t carry it back—they’re too heavy,” Michael answered. “Why don’t I drop you here, Peggy, and you can browse around inside? We’ll pick you up on our way back from Mrs. Hopkins’.” “Well, all right,” Peggy agreed doubtfully, climbing out. “But suppose they don’t want to lend us anything?” “Make a big pitch about the program credit. Say it’s great advertising! See you later.” They drove off, leaving Peggy feeling even more dubious. She had never been very good at this type of thing—program credit or not. She remembered a time when she had been asked to sell advertising for the high school yearbook at home, and how shy she had felt about it. Acting was one thing, but this was another. Some people didn’t realize that actors and actresses didn’t always make good salesmen, she thought, as she entered the gate and walked up the little flagstone path to the shop. She wished that Richard Wallace were with her. He could talk anybody into anything! But then, Peggy recalled, he seemed to think the same of her. She smiled, remembering how he had kidded about sending her to see Max Slade. Well, even if that had been a joke, at least she could try to do something useful here. Chimes rang above her head as she opened the door, and Peggy blinked, coming into a room so stuffed with bric-a-brac and furniture that she could hardly see her way. There was a narrow path of clear space, only about a foot wide, that led to the counter. She had to avoid things hanging from the ceiling: bunches of toy bark canoes on strings, birds carved out of wood that danced merrily in the air at the breeze from the door. Leaning down from the wall behind the counter and staring at her roundly was a huge, stuffed owl, his eyes gleaming strangely in the dim light. Peggy stared back at the owl, fascinated. “Yes, may I help you?” For a moment Peggy almost thought the owl had spoken, but then she saw a little splinter of a man, so fragile and old that it seemed as if he might break into a thousand pieces at any moment. “Oh dear!” Peggy thought. “He’s so old, and probably can’t hear very well, and won’t know what I’m talking about!” But she had to begin somewhere. “Why, yes,” she said, speaking clearly in hopes he could hear. “I’m Peggy Lane from the Kenabeek Summer Theater, and we hoped you might be able to help us. We’re doing a Victorian play next week—Angel Street—and we thought you might have some furniture or decoration we could use on our set....” Peggy stopped lamely while the old man just smiled and said nothing. Obviously, he hadn’t understood a word. “We couldn’t pay you for them, of course,” she rushed on, determined to finish at any rate. “But if you’d be interested, we’d give you a good credit in our programs, and that’s free advertising for you, you know.” Peggy felt bumbling and awkward, at a loss for words. Well, there was only one thing left to say. She would finish and leave quickly. “We would take very good care of whatever you lent us,” she mumbled faintly—it didn’t matter, he couldn’t hear anyway. “Well, I’ve certainly made a mess of this,” Peggy thought. “They should have sent somebody who knows the old man and how to talk to him!” “Ah, yes. Angel Street is an excellent play!” Peggy could hardly believe her ears as the old man spoke. “Quite a thriller, yes, indeed. I made a special trip to New York to see that play once—type of thing I like. I was waiting for you to say something about taking care of anything I might lend you,” he went on. “You see, some of my things here are quite valuable and I would have to be sure they were in responsible hands.” “Oh, of course,” Peggy said eagerly. “If you hadn’t mentioned that, I might not have said anything at all! Might have let you leave thinking I was deaf as a stone!” He cocked his head humorously on one side, giving Peggy a wink that reminded her of the wise old owl. “I’m Mr. Bladen,” the old man said as he came out from behind the counter and threaded his way among the piles of stuff on the floor, crooking a finger for Peggy to follow. There was hardly room to squeeze through, but she valiantly held her breath and went sideways, picking her way carefully around the vases, picture frames, statues, tables, and chairs. “Been here forty years,” he added, leading her over to one wall under a window. He drew back the curtains and a dust cloud rose as he pinned them back to get some light. Peggy sneezed. “Gesundheit!” Mr. Bladen said. Peggy sneezed again. “Gesundheit!” he repeated, and Peggy giggled. “Think I’m a funny old codger, don’t you?” he said, his eyes twinkling. “And you’re right—I am—I am! Can’t get to be as old as I am and not be funny somehow! Now look—” He started removing a pile of odds and ends that were burying a piece of furniture covered with a dusty red shawl. “Take this and put it somewhere.” He handed Peggy a plaster cast of a nymph blowing a conch shell. Peggy looked around and placed it on a table already filled with other figurines. “And this—and this—” He gave her pictures, frames, little boxes, lamps. Peggy was hard pressed to find a place for them, but somehow she managed. Finally they reached bottom and Mr. Bladen pulled off the shawl. After the cloud of dust had subsided, among more sneezes and Gesundheits, Peggy looked at the “buried treasure” and gasped. It was a perfect Victorian chaise longue with a curving, dark mahogany frame, beautifully upholstered in red and gold striped satin. “It’s perfect!” Peggy cried excitedly. “Oh, Mr. Bladen, it’s simply perfect! We couldn’t find anything better if we looked for a million years! Oh, may we use it, really?” She clasped her hands eagerly. “Of course!” Mr. Bladen laughed, his thin, sensitive fingers patting the edge of the sofa. “I know it’s perfect. Just like the one they used in New York—noticed it myself when I saw the play. Been waiting, really, to find a use for it. Nobody would ever discover it under all this stuff!” Peggy looked around, wondering how many other lovely pieces were hidden under the incredible litter. “Yep,” Mr. Bladen said, “I have a lot of nice things here, but can’t ever find the time to straighten things up so they can be seen. Too old, I guess—and then there’s my work.” Peggy’s surprise was evident. His work? Wasn’t this his work? Mr. Bladen answered her unspoken question with another conspiratorial wink. “Write poetry, you see—only thing worth doing at my age. Wouldn’t you agree?” Peggy was charmed. She hadn’t met anyone so delightful as Mr. Bladen for a long time. Wouldn’t her parents love to hear about this wonderful old man with his fantastic little shop and his poetry! “Then of course you’d know about the theater and plays and everything,” she cried with sudden understanding. “No wonder!” “Yes,” Mr. Bladen answered cheerfully. “And it’s nice to know that someone’s bringing the theater to us here. Town needs it—wish you a lot of luck. Anxious to help all I can. Now, let’s see if we can’t find some little extras for that set—” He poked around, and like a magician drawing rabbits out of a hat, triumphantly produced pictures, ornaments, a student lamp, and two beautiful porcelain vases. “Think you’ll need these,” he told Peggy, holding up the vases. “Seems to me I remember something special about a vase—” “That’s right.” Peggy smiled. “The rubies are hidden in a vase. But those are much too good, Mr. Bladen!” “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “You want to be realistic, don’t you? Now you just take these vases and scoot along. I’ll put them in your care. Here, take this along with you now, too.” He balanced the student lamp precariously between the vases that Peggy held in each hand. The china shade was just under her chin. “But I really don’t think—” Peggy started. “Send somebody back for the rest of the things.” Mr. Bladen ignored her protest. “I’m here all the time,” he said as he opened the door. “Well, now about the advertising for the program—” “Worry about that later—have to get back to work now. Run along and good luck.” Mr. Bladen closed the door firmly, the chimes ringing good-by as Peggy found herself outside. She hadn’t even thanked him, she realized, looking back at the house. Why was he in such a sudden hurry, she wondered? And then she remembered—poetry! Peggy laughed softly. Mr. Bladen must have had a new idea and wanted to write it down quickly. She wondered if the poem would be about the theater, or Angel Street, or if the sofa could have given him an idea, or the vases. It could be anything! Peggy smiled broadly as she stepped down the little path to the gate, carefully holding the vases and lamp. What a surprise to find someone like Mr. Bladen in Lake Kenabeek! It proved that it paid to get into town once in a while—there might be other fascinating people to meet in this resort. Peggy leaned forward to open the gate and the lamp started to tumble. Grabbing it, she almost let go of one of the precious vases which started to slide out of her hand. It kept slipping and she couldn’t get a secure grasp on it. In a flash she saw an awful picture of shattered porcelain, and Mr. Bladen’s disappointment at having entrusted something so valuable to her. Just as it was about to fall entirely and crash on the pavement, two hands reached over the gate, grabbed the vase, and removed the lamp from her arms. “Now maybe you’ll be able to see where you’re going!” A handsome young man in a conservative summer suit stood there smiling, and Peggy sighed with relief. “Thank you so much!” she said gratefully. “I don’t know what I’d have done if they’d been broken. You’ve really saved the day—I can’t thank you enough!” “Well, I don’t know about that,” the young man said, grinning, “It may be enough to know that I’ve saved the day! How have I saved the day, by the way?” He looked amused and interested, and Peggy laughed. “By the way, you’ve saved the day and helped the play!” she rhymed. “Really you have. And you’ve also saved one of Mr. Bladen’s precious antiques!” He raised an eyebrow, turning the vase over in his hand. “Is it really good?” he asked. “And what does it have to do with a play?” “We’re going to use them in Angel Street,” Peggy explained. She liked this friendly young man who somehow made her feel as if she’d known him for years. Was he another interesting resident, she wondered. “I’m Peggy Lane from the Summer Theater,” she said, “and next week’s play is Angel Street.” “Oh,” he said slowly, and Peggy was surprised to see him frown slightly. But then he smiled again, handing back the vase. “How are you going to manage all this?” he asked, still holding on to the lamp. “I don’t think you can carry them all without breaking something. Can I drop you somewhere?” Peggy noticed a car parked a few feet away and shook her head, declining, “No, thank you—” “I realize we haven’t met formally,” he said, bowing a little, “but in Lake Kenabeek we’re not very formal. I’d be glad to drive you to the theater.” He hadn’t introduced himself, Peggy realized suddenly, but he seemed so well-mannered that she imagined it was just a slip. “No, thanks again, but the jeep is coming back for me. I’d better wait.” He gave her a regretful glance and put the lamp carefully on the ground. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “It would be a pleasure to help you. A real pleasure,” he added softly, almost under his breath. “But perhaps we’ll meet again sometime.” He looked at her as if about to add something, but then, apparently changing his mind, gave her a peculiar smile and walked to his car. “Good luck,” he called as he got in, leaving Peggy thoroughly puzzled. The little blue jeep was coming back just as the young man drove away, and they passed each other on the road. Michael turned and pulled up in front of Peggy, exclaiming when he saw the lamp and vases. “Success! They look wonderful, Peggy, and look what we have!” The back of the jeep was crammed with chairs and tables. “Mrs. Hopkins has taken care of the table and chair department, and all we have left now of any real importance is that couch. Can’t seem to find one,” Danny said. “I’ve found it!” Peggy declared. “And wait until you see it! But we have to come back for it later. Oh, I have such a lot to tell you!” She handed Danny the lamp and climbed into the front seat, carefully holding the vases. “By the way,” Michael said as they drove back to the theater, “did you see one of the ogres? He drove right past you—back there in front of Bladen’s.” “Who? What ogre?” Peggy asked. “Where?” “Remember the car that passed us just as we came back for you?” Peggy certainly did remember, and her heart sank as she guessed what Michael’s next words would be. “That, my girl,” he confirmed, “was none other than our Mr. Slade!” “Max Slade!” Peggy breathed softly. “Why, it doesn’t seem possible....” “No, not Max,” Michael corrected. “That was his shadow—his younger brother, Bill.” Peggy had such a peculiar expression that Danny worriedly asked, “What’s the matter, Peggy? You all right?” “Why, I don’t know,” she said slowly, hardly hearing as she recalled Bill Slade’s parting words— “... it would be a pleasure to help you ... a real pleasure.” “Oh, Michael,” Peggy cried, “I’ve got to see your father and Richard Wallace right away! There may be a lot more to all this than we realize! There may even be a way to help the theater!” |