The Scarlet Wench by Marni Graff Read Free Book Online

brochures on the lodge and the general area into a packet to send to a choral group from Dorset wanting to book this June. If this play came off well, Simon may have hit on a grand marketing idea, having Ramsey Lodge host different performing groups.
      Nora watched the two men she cared for in different ways, a study in contrasts: Simon with his sandy hair and lanky build, Declan with his darker looks and broader frame. Then she took in the third man, who was older and reminded Nora of Mr. Rogers. Something about him looked familiar.
      “Just stack those cartons in a corner, Declan,” Simon instructed. “We need to leave this space clear for the risers that will form the stage.” He indicated a large area that took up more than half the room, from the windows to past the fireplace.
      Declan winked at Nora as he hoisted a carton marked “Linens/Lamp.” Simon and the other man carried a sofa between them to near the stacked folding chairs.
      “How you managing, Burt?”
      “We’re fine,” Burt answered.
      Nora was surprised by his words; she remembered Agnes had told her that Simon had hired local Burt Marsh to be stage manager but she thought Agnes had said he was a widower.
      “Burt’s done stage managing, and his late wife, Estelle, enjoyed acting for the community theatre after they retired,” Agnes had said. “Both teachers. Poor thing died a few months ago.”
      They’d been interrupted before Agnes could impart more details, but Nora decided the third man must be Burt. Declan followed Simon outside to continue emptying the truck, and Nora saw Burt attempt to measure the length of the large bow window that overlooked the patio and lake. She walked into the room and grabbed one end of the measuring tape.
      “Let me hold that for you,” she said. “I’m Nora, by the way.”
      Burt Marsh nodded. “Thanks.”
      Nora held the tape, and Burt walked with it to the far end, pulling it taut and noting the distance. It was only when he turned away from Nora to jot the number down on a slip of paper from his pocket that she saw the back of his head and realized why he’d looked familiar.
      Burt Marsh was the man grieving in St Martin’s graveyard.

Chapter Seven

    “This is going to be a flop. I can tell you that here and now.”
    Elvira: Act III , Scene 1

    6:45 PM

    Simon surveyed the dining room as Maeve straightened a tablecloth. The silver gleamed, and the candles would lend a lovely ambiance when lit, highlighting the clusters of daffodils and tulips Maeve had arranged on each round table.
      “Certain I can’t convince you to stay and eat with us?” Simon brushed his hair off his forehead. He didn’t want to beg.
      Maeve gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. “I can’t miss my class, Si, but I promise to bring an overnight bag Wednesday, all right?”
      “I didn’t know learning French was so important to you.”
      “It’s like most things; practice makes perfect.” She raised an eyebrow.
      Simon started to pull her into an embrace.
      “This will never do at all!” Grayson Lange had crept into the room, and his booming voice startled them both.
      “Whatever’s wrong?” Maeve asked.
      “My dear, it’s these little tables.” The director shook his head. “My cast and crew must be seated together at the same table to take notes and promote the family feel that is the hallmark of my troupe.”
      “No problem at all, Mr. Lange.” Maeve fluttered her long lashes at him and drew Simon toward his rooms. “Just give us a sec.”
      “What are you thinking?” Simon followed her into his kitchen and watched her speedily move his fruit bowl onto the counter.
      “Move those, please,” Maeve said, pointing to a stack of sketches and pencils at one end of the table. “I’m thinking Grayson Lange is already a bloody pain in the arse and he hasn’t been here more than a tic.” She dumped an empty tea mug in the sink. “This table fit through that