Chapter 37: The One Lane, Two Way Street

She was nearly ready—all that remained was donning a necklace and her shoes—when Tom shouted up the stairs, "Joyce, you ready?"

"I'll be along in a minute," she called back, toying the clasp on the chain. Every time she had her thumbnail beneath the farthest end of the spring—when she thought she did—it snapped closed once more. "And don't roll your eyes!"

Though he was downstairs, probably twirling his key ring around his hand, mulling over the tragedy of the last few days, Joyce didn't have to be there to know the rest of his reaction. But after a couple of minutes grappling with the necklace's tiny latch and a final moment debating which pair of shoes were best with her short-sleeved pale blue dress, she switched off the light in their bedroom before closing the door and descending the stairs.

Tom stood at the base of the staircase—yes, turning over his keys around a finger on his right hand—dressed in the same suit he had worn to work that day, though he had taken the time to redo the knot in his tie. "You do look lovely tonight," he said, kissing her once she had taken the last of the steps.

"Well, it's a special night," she said, accepting her shawl and purse from him. Though the summer weather was too warm for a jacket, the evening promised to bring a fair breeze and a chill.

"Seemed like it would never come." There was a small smile on his face—but not the one she recognized from the other times when they had gone to see Cully perform. Was it relief?

Joyce let out a deep breath; she had listened to this frustration of his too many times over the past month or so. "Tom, not tonight."

He twisted the keys around the central ring, like he was searching for the one to their front door...almost clenching it. Finding it at last, he stepped forward to open it for her. "Those rehearsals...and read-throughs"—he stopped as he swung the door into the foyer, his knuckles tinged red from the pressure of holding the knob—"have lasted for ages, you know."

"It's just been a few weeks," Joyce said, stepping outside into the cooler evening air.

"A few long weeks."

As her husband followed her, Joyce turned around. "Reading lines with her has never been your favorite thing," she said, draping her shawl around her shoulders, tying a loose knot in front. The short, white fringe on its lower edge tickled her forearms just enough that she shifted it higher on her shoulders. "And she hasn't asked me since the drama group disbanded."

Tom shook his head as he drew the door closed, thrusting the key into the lock and turning it over with a snap. Metal ripped against metal, and Joyce cringed. "I'm happy to do it if she needs—"

"You've had enough to worry about," she added, taking his arm as they began to walk toward the car, as always parked in the drive. "You've been more than a little busy."

Though Tom rubbed his hand over her fingers as he smiled at her, Joyce knew that his mind was miles away; it always was when his gaze was out into the distance, far beyond the horizon. "Clearly I've been worrying about more at CID than someone else."

Joyce tightened her fingers around her husband's arm. "What did you say?"

Tom coughed gently, even scuffing his shoes on the pavement. "Nothing."

"Well, I heard something," she said as he reached down to open the front passenger door of their car.

"Didn't you just say 'not tonight'?"

She sighed as the door swung open. "Yes."

"So I won't say it—"

"Again," Joyce said as she settled herself into the seat, reaching for the seatbelt.

"Again," Tom said, nodding as he closed the door for her.

Joyce peered at him as he made his way around the front of the car, still twirling his keys around his finger. When Tom reached the driver's side, he stopped, staring down their street for a few long seconds. He was rarely this mysterious, her husband. Sometimes brusque, lost in thought, consumed by his work, but never so...completely distant, something in his mind twisting and dancing that he couldn't quite share. She leaned forward, trying to catch a proper look at his face in the evening sunlight—but before she could see anything, he turned back, opening the driver's door.

As he sat, pulling his seatbelt around his chest before shoving his key into the ignition, Joyce relaxed. "Well, at least it is opening night," she said over the initial roar of the engine.

The sedan slid backward, and Tom took a few moments to examine his mirrors before glancing over each shoulder. As he tapped the accelerator to bring the car out onto the street, turning the wheel gently, he said, "We've been waiting a long time for it, Joyce."

"You can't expect anything else—"

"A lot of rehearsals." Upon reaching a stop sign, Tom checked the traffic in either direction before continuing. "I know—"

"Cully does enjoy spending time with him, you know," Joyce said, fiddling with her watch; it was always slipping around her wrist. A quarter after seven.

"That's what I don't like," Tom muttered, suddenly clawing at the knot at the top of his tie.

"The rehearsals weren't nearly as long as anything she did in London. And certainly not like when she studied drama."

"Thank goodness for small favors."

As the cars raced by on the opposite side of the road, she sighed, for she couldn't even say what she thought. They had ceased policing their daughter's personal life long ago, and Joyce saw no reason to start again. Sometimes, the memories of her last, unrestrained years in secondary school were hard to recall. To watch your daughter...Joyce shook her head. Perhaps like the vicar's child, the policeman's child was naturally given to wildness.

The first few miles heading into the center of Causton passed in silence as structures and home clustered closer together, the outer suburban edges giving way to the inner urban core. Houses grew closer together as if they had sprouted on their own, the street lights hanging above them like ornaments bathing them in a gentle sheen. "Have you read the play?" Joyce asked as the neighborhood surrounding the Playhouse entered their view: rows of buildings and street lights, cars already lining both sides of the street.

"A long time ago, in school I think."

"Or seen it? Or...My Fair Lady?"

"Can't say that I have," Tom said with a shake of his head. "It sounds familiar."

She touched his arm. "Audrey Hepburn, Tom. Your daughter's playing the same role."

"So why the different title?" he asked as he made a left turn.

"It was an adaptation—"

He lifted one finger from the steering wheel, as if trying to point something out. "So not quite the same role."

"Almost the same role."

Tom's eyes narrowed. "Those are some big shoes to fill."

Joyce recognized his expression as he began to look from one side of the street to the other, searching for a place to park in the cramped city streets: less of the policeman, more of the man. "I think she'll be wonderful," she said.

"As do I," he murmured. He said nothing else, instead continuing to peer for an empty spot, slowing as a gap appeared in the parked cars.

"Will Gavin be there?" Joyce asked as Tom tapped the indicator before turning the steering wheel hard over and beginning to maneuver the vehicle into the small space. It was a question she already knew the answer to, and she wasn't entirely sure why she asked it. She knew he didn't want to answer.

Tom checked the traffic over his shoulder before straightening the car in a couple of passes. "I expect."

"He said so?" She checked her watch again: half past seven.

Finally satisfied with his parking job, Tom turned the ignition off before yanking his keys out rather more quickly than he typically did. "Yes, he'll be meeting us in the lobby. Or so he said last I saw him."

Undoing her seatbelt, Joyce looped her purse over her shoulder, tucking the strap beneath her shawl. "He must be excited, too."

Tom shook his head as he slipped out of his seat, closing his door rather more loudly than usual. "I don't think I've seen that," he said quietly, fiddling with the knot in his tie again, restoring it after his momentary destruction of it. "His mind's been somewhere else the last few days."

"After all he's done to help Cully, he must looking forward to it, Tom," she said, walking to the front of the car, taking his arm once more as he met her.

"I'm sure." Tom coughed, saying nothing else; this was, after all, a conversation they had had more than once before...and never happily. "Been too much going on lately," he added as he led them to the crosswalk, checking the traffic once more before they set out into the street, then shaking his head again. "Well, too much to get a sense of it, anyway."

"It?"

"I like to know that my daughter is happy—"

Joyce clenched her hand on his wrist. "Cully will be happy for him to be there."

Her husband shook his head as he spoke. "Certainly."

Joyce sighed, releasing her grip. "Well, I suppose it will be a nice change for you, after the past few days."

"Don't say that, Joyce."

"I don't think it's a crime to instruct a young lady in the ways of the upper class, whatever the motive."

"You never know. Something could happen." As they reached the sidewalk that led to the Causton Playhouse, Tom shuddered. "This is Midsomer."

Despite his apparent revulsion now and the memories of more than a few gruesome crimes in the county, Joyce didn't believe his disgust was complete; she never had. "So why haven't you ever put in for a transfer, Tom?" He was still silent as they approached the grey, worn stones into the theater, ignoring her question. "But do just enjoy it."

"I will, Joyce, I will," Tom said as they passed through the door into the lobby—already brimming with excited patrons. "It's not often you get to see your daughter as the leading lady." His face rose, a small smile finally appearing.

The foyer of the playhouse was, as always, a riot: novice theater-goers chattering about how exciting it was to see something beyond the newly reorganized local drama group; enthusiasts ecstatic at seeing some of the names in the program (though Joyce heard no one mention Cully); and literature lovers ready to see a classic come to life before their eyes. As they made their way toward the will call booth, Joyce overheard more than a few excited whispers about seeing a Paul Pearson production, right here in Causton! "Do you think it's sold out?" she asked.

"I certainly hope so," Tom said, peering up at the old, worn beams. Despite the crowd, the will call line moved briskly, the single member of staff eager to hand out the tickets and clear the foyer. "At the very least, the lead actress is worth seeing. Smashing good understanding of...Eliza."

"You've hardly heard her read a single—"

"Last name?" snapped the ancient woman behind the counter, not waiting for him to be ready.

Tom smiled, though Joyce knew he was gritting his teeth. "Barnaby."

"Barnaby, Barnaby..." Muttering the name a couple more times, she bent over her file box, flicking through the envelopes with experienced fingers. "Bar— Ah!" Sliding the tickets across the counter, she added, "Three tickets for you."

"Thank you," Joyce said as Tom slipped the envelope into his breast pocket, his smile now rather fixed as he took a pair of programs from the counter as well. A ticket for each of them and an additional one for Gavin. As they stepped away from the counter and the woman said "Last name?" to the couple behind them, she added, "Well, that did make it simpler."

"Easier, at least."

Joyce tightened her hand on her husband's wrist for another brief moment, beginning to glance around. "Well, I hope we can find Gavin soon. It's not too long before curtain up."

"Troy is almost always punctual." Removing the envelope of tickets from his pocket, Tom opened it, frowning as he flicked through three tickets. "At least, when he wants to be."

"Then I'm sure he will be this evening."

Over the next five minutes, the crowd dwindled as they finished their drinks, littering the tables with their cups and glasses, little by little filing into the auditorium. The dim corners were suddenly empty and despite her assertion, Joyce found herself worrying whether Gavin would in fact be on time. No, he couldn't—

"Ah, Troy," Tom murmured, nodding toward the theater entrance. The younger man seemed almost out of breath, straightening his jacket as he crossed the threshold, looking up and down. His first steps in their direction were choppy, and when he finally reached them, he stood a little farther back than Joyce had expected.

"Evening, Mrs. B...Sir."

"Hello, Gavin," Joyce said, reaching out to shake his hand. "It's good to see you again."

He nodded, returning the gesture. "Same."

"It feels like it's been ages."

Now, he shook his head. "Oh, no—"

"Thank you for being on time, Troy," Tom said, louder than usual, and Gavin winced, starting to draw his hand back.

Joyce kept hold of his hand, squeezing it rather harder than she might have another evening. "Tom..." Her husband coughed gently, but said nothing else. "And thank you for everything," she said, smiling at Gavin.

The young man's brows dipped. "For what?"

Tom shook his head. He opened his mouth for a moment, then closed it—then seemed to know exactly what he wanted to say. "For—"

She clenched her husband's arm another time, silencing him. "For helping Cully so much."

Though he jerked slightly at her grasp, Tom only nodded. "Yes."

Troy took to examining the increasingly threadbare carpet in the theater foyer for a few seconds, the apples of his cheeks flushing with blood as he struggled to meet her gaze. "Oh, it was nothing—that much...A joy, really—"

"Well, shall we?" Tom asked, rather quickly. Though she knew her husband was usually the one to lead the way, he stepped aside, raising his hand to Gavin. "After you."

The younger man shook his head slightly. "Ah..."

"Please, Troy." Pulling the will call envelope from his jacket pocket, Tom handed their tickets to Gavin, along with one of the programs. The sergeant almost squinted at the papers he held, as though wondering what to do with it. "Lead the way."

As they followed Gavin into the auditorium itself, pausing at the top as he looked for the row and number on the small papers, Tom's gaze was buried in the program, rather more than necessary. "Cully!" he whispered, closing the small pamphlet as the usher held out a hand to Gavin, awaiting their tickets.

"Um..." The younger man unfolded the envelope, glancing at the numbers. It was another upside of such a small theater: only two aisle ways to choose from. Better that than one of the theaters Cully worked at in London, Joyce thought.

"Sorry," Gavin said to the usher. "I think we're on the wrong side."

"Just cross over once you're in," the usher said, wrenching the stubs off and handing them back.

"Thanks," Gavin said quietly, stepping around him with a wide berth as Joyce and Tom followed him, making their way behind the back row of seats to the other aisle. (Though the auditorium was mostly filled, she saw more than a few empty seats. Not sold out.) She gave the usher a bit of a smile even as she squeezed her husband's hand once more.

"Do be a little nicer to him, Tom."

He hardly seemed to hear her, flicking to the next page of the program with his free hand. "Hmm?"

"You heard me. He doesn't know anything about the theater, except—" Her breath caught in her chest as they fell into the lower light of the auditorium.

At least a year—perhaps two?—had passed since Joyce had spent any time in the Causton Playhouse. After the...nightmare that Amadeus had transformed into, the previous drama group had disbanded. And, really, who wanted to put on a performance where a man—a man you knew enough to dislike him!—had slit his own throat on stage?

Where—where are the lights? she wondered, squinting into the darkness.

"Now, I will go to become a ghost myself." David stepped onto the dreary stage, his chin dropped down against his chest, staggering forward with heavy steps, clutching his tray: the basin, the razor. In the dusk behind Esslyn, Joyce almost trembled at David's makeup, gaunt and skeletal, a valet ready to follow his master into the grave. "I will stay in the shadows"—Esslyn wrapped his hand around the razor—"when you come here to this earth, in your turn." And the blade, in those brilliant lights trained on him alone, how it glistened, gleamed as he released it from its guard…

"And when you feel the dreadful bite of your failures and hear the taunting of an unachievable, uncaring god"—Joyce took her first steps back out onto the stage to Esslyn's left, stumbling along to her memory of Harold's demands with her tray of cakes, choking on a deep breath, struggling to stay calm—"I will whisper my name to you: Salieri, patron saint of mediocrities." Just off stage, someone laughed, but Joyce tried to ignore it. As if this was any moment to laugh!

"And in the depths of your downcastness, you can pray for me. And I...will forgive you." Esslyn—the accountant, the amateur actor, the vain—raised his hand, the blade he held aloft shining like a diamond in the spotlights—rubies— No—

"Joyce?" Tom's fingers tightened around hers, breaking through the memory. She released a breath—had she been holding it?—and the searing lights that had been blinding her faded, reverting to the overhead lamps illuminating the stairway as they began to make their way behind Gavin. Now, the spotlights were only glaring upon the stage, the dark velvet curtain gleaming, almost shimmering as the final preparations behind jostled it. "Joyce?" he asked again, slowing his pace and hers.

She drew a deep gulp of air, the knot in her abdomen lessening as the memory faded into silence. "What...Tom?"

"It just—looked like something was bothering you." Tom dropped her hand, but nestled his arm around her shoulder as he kissed her temple.

"Not anymore," Joyce said with a smile. He knew: she could tell from the narrowing of his eyes and the tightening of his face that he knew. Perhaps, though, he couldn't entirely understand, for he saw many a horrid death—accident—murder—suicide—all of them!—merely in a day's work.

"I am glad to hear it." He released her from the embrace, continuing down the stairs at her side, glancing down at his program in the dull light before stealing one last look at her.

"I'm fine, Tom."

He allowed himself a grin, waving his program. "Well, that makes two good things to come of this, then."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Folding the page back, Tom pointed to the cast listing, from Higgins to Eliza. "Not only is she the leading lady—Audrey Hepburn!—someone finally has it right: Cully Barnaby, not Carly."

Joyce laughed for a moment, taking hold of the other side of the pamphlet. "I'm sure she'll be glad of it."

"That Hamlet—thing, down in London...Didn't they credit her as Cally?"

"Think so," Joyce said, shifting to the right as another couple made their way to their seats a few rows ahead. "But you finally seem to remember Cully is about to play the leading lady."

Tom cocked his head toward her. "I never forgot— Oof." His eyes on her, he had not seen Gavin stop, checking their ticket stubs against the row next to them.

"Sorry, sir," the young man said quietly, nodding at the row of theater seats. "But this is it, I think, somewhere in the middle." Fortunately, most of the other patrons were at the opposite end of the row, leaving them only a few middle-aged women to scramble around.

"Oh, thank you, Troy," Tom muttered. Standing back, he lifted a hand toward the sergeant again. "After you."

Without too much difficulty, just a few muttered apologies as they squeezed themselves between knees and the back of chairs, they reached their seats, Tom seated between Joyce and Gavin. As she talked quietly with her husband—asking if he thought the next day would be long with writing up the last of the paperwork—Joyce noticed Gavin was trained intently on the program, looking fiercely at the paper rather as Tom had earlier.

"Remains to be seen," Tom said, tugging his mobile phone from his pocket, quickly tapping the end button to turn it off before returning it to his jacket. "Typing up the statements alone will be a nightmare, even with a confession." He shook his head. "What a mess."

"And how sad," Joyce whispered.

"Quite." He was silent for a moment, just staring ahead, his mind clearly in Midsomer Malham. "Medlars..."

A slight crackling rattled through the speakers set at the opposite ends of the stage, the fabric stretched across their fronts frayed and torn in the corners. "Ladies and gentlemen, at this time, please silence all cell phones, pagers, and digital watches. Our play will begin momentarily."

"Oh," Gavin said, reaching into his breast pocket for his cell phone. Before he realized, his elbow smacked into Tom's side, the older man losing his breath from the unexpected impact.

"Careful!"

"Tom?" Joyce asked, turning to him. His mind seemed to be in the theater again, no longer careening around the backroads of Midsomer, but he still wore a scowl.

Gavin was a bit flushed, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Sorry, sir, bloody dark in here tonight—" He stopped in the middle of his sentence.

Tom shook his head, though the frown remained. "Nothing to apologize for, Troy." After another moment, he added, "Wouldn't want to interrupt anything, would you?" It made no sense to Joyce, but Gavin almost appeared...worried for a moment, in response to Tom's comment. But why?

"No—of course not." He swallowed, returning to the program he held, wrinkling the paper between his fingers for a few moments. "I wouldn't do that to Cully."

"Good."

Rolling her eyes, Joyce wanted to remind her husband to keep his tongue under control, but the remaining lights in the theater began to vanish, leaving only the stage illuminated by the faintest lights and the curtain opening to shadows.

A/N: I'm sure I took liberties with the Causton Playhouse. My shiny new Linux install hasn't solved the problem that I can't use iTunes under it and it will take me about an hour to log into Windows due to a million updates. Can't remember if I've referenced this fact before, but the title is an homage to the very common Seattle residential street. Two way streets with cars parked on both sides, enough space for one car to drive between. Good luck! (Break a leg?) I don't know how common that is, but I haven't seen it in any other real city I've lived in, and I've lived in a few. Yet another reason why our traffic is legendarily atrocious.