Chapter 42: Rush Hour

Sometimes, Cully wished it was simpler to decide how to portray a character in a piece as short as an audition monologue. Whether complete or extracted from a longer work, a couple minutes of lines hardly gave her time to get to know a character, let alone introduce her style to a new director! But that's the point, she thought, turning the page over to hide the lines, shoving her sleeves away from the rounded table edge, teasing the character out of nothing. Along with keeping directors from going mad from listening to so many people. Pity it couldn't go the other way as well.

Rolling her neck, she let out a short yawn as she heard a couple cracks. With such a short piece, memorization was even easier than usual, and time was better spent learning the character, finding a path into her mind and memory. A young girl making wishes with lost and lucky pennies...by the name of Penny*. "Well, that's something to go on," she whispered, opening her small notebook. The black cover was stained and scratched after several months' use, the white beneath the black dye peeking through where the cardboard creased. LOST→LUCKY→SELF, she wrote, then added what can you want that badly? She could think of answers for herself: a stable career and paycheck, a certain future…"Just things staying still might be nice."

But that was her own wish, not her character's. All Penny desired was a change in her life. "So much that you won't say a word," she said, dragging her fingers through her hair. "Too afraid of ruining it." She added a new line: fear of the same. As her eyes ran over brief notes she had, she tapped the top end of her pen against the notebook, then spinning it between her fingers. After a minute, she added underneath WISHES WISHES WISHES. "If you only wish for what you can have, you—"

"How's it going?"

Sitting straight up as her heart raced for a second, Cully drew in a quick breath, the world swimming around her, blurred and dulled. After a moment, her vision settled and her father appeared in the kitchen doorway, clad in a long-sleeve button-up shirt and dark slacks as he often was at the weekend. "Oh, hi, Dad," she said, pushing her chair a few inches from the table with one foot, her old and tread-worn trainer sliding forward after a second. As the early afternoon passed, she had leaned farther over the table, and now her lower back smarted. That was to say nothing of one foot, crossed over her opposite knee, tingling as she set it on the floor and stretched out her other leg.

"Sorry," he said, walking toward her quietly, his shoes clicking on the white tile. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't." Cully pushed her hair back from her face again, seeing a few spots of ink on one of her fingertips as she did. "I just—wasn't expecting you, that's all."

"Isn't that the same thing?"

She smiled as her father sat down in the chair opposite her, his arms across his chest, rather like she imagined he did in his office. Probably, though, his office desk was lacking a vase of flowers; her mother had clipped a few blossoms not long for this world the day before, bringing some of the last reds, oranges, and purples of summer into the kitchen. "I suppose." Flipping her script over another time, she reached for her highlighter, marking out another sentence as committed to memory. "It's coming along. But it's only a couple of minutes, once I've learnt it all."

"Then hopefully it won't take long at all."

Cully rolled her eyes, leaning against the back of her chair. "That's the easy part, you know that."

"Certainly," her father said, waving a hand at her. "That's why you're the one who does it, not the rest of us."

She laughed quietly. "Thanks, Dad."

He folded his hands on the table, leaning forward. Sometimes, at the most unexpected moments, he appeared older to her, as though the decades of violence and horror he had observed weighed him down, the pain of all those years an unmanageable burden. In the sunshine, his face was suddenly lined and withered, his eyes puffy and circled with blue. Ever since she was a young child—unable to understand why her father disappeared from Christmases and birthdays unlike any of her friends' fathers, why he often refused to speak of his work, those moments when he arrived home folding both her mother and her into a rather tight embrace without a word—she knew he saw and heard and felt more than he ever allowed them to see. "Can I help you read through it?"

"Uh, no," she said, shaking her head. "I'm almost off script, really just trying to—take notes on the character—what I suppose she's thinking." Folding the printout of the script in half—she had two or three clean copies on her bedside table—Cully tucked it into her notebook. "Maybe this evening?"

As he smiled, that old man vanished and her father returned: the man who had painted many a drama group set, carried out much of the final work in her parents' home, helped her mother dig up the back garden every spring and autumn, and still occasionally chased down suspects and criminals. The man who saw so much, but let the most vile memories remain at CID. "I'll hold you to that."

"And, I'm going out in a few minutes anyway. Gavin promised he'd do a couple read-throughs with me."

"I see I've been replaced as your script supervisor," he said, his face wrinkling with a frown.

Setting her pen and highlighter on her notebook, she said, "He was very helpful!"

"I know. You were excellent as Eliza." He pushed his chair back again, like he was about to leave. "I only meant to offer, as I'm here." He ran a hand over his hair as the frown turned upward into a small smile. "Who knows, if I'd been the one to help you with that first role instead of your mother, the mess at Badger's Drift would have turned out differently."

"You only have yourself and being distracted to blame for that. I did ask."

"All the more reason to be cautious." He stood after a long minute, striding across the kitchen to the counter where the kettle sat faithfully. "Cup of tea before you go?"

"No, thank you," Cully said, her eyes following him. Sometimes, she couldn't decide whom she was watching when she spoke to him: the caring father or the detective chief inspector. "We're just going to a café, anyway."

"As you like." He topped the kettle up with water, ticking its switch before reaching for a single mug. "What's this one about anyway? Your monologue?"

"It's just a short piece about a young woman, thinking about wishes."

The kettle already began to hiss, the first tendrils of steam emerging as her father took a tea bag from the jar beside it, leaning his back against the counter as he waited. "Doesn't sound like much to work with."

"That's a bit of the point," Cully said, tugging her jumper sleeves down to her wrists. "And besides, it's only just been published."

"And you don't think anyone will use it as blueprint for murder?"

"Unless it's a young woman upset about not knowing what she wants in life."

"Quite unlikely," he said, nodding his head with another smile. The kettle hissing at full force, the switch clicked, the whistling immediately beginning to die. "Are you sure there's nothing I can do to help?"

I know what you want me to say, she thought. "I'm fine, Dad." Finally standing and smoothing the bottom hem of her jumper over her jeans, Cully reached for her notebook, pen, and highlighter. "I'll be home in a couple hours." Walking around the table, she kissed his cheek as she passed him. "If Mum's making dinner before I'm back, tell her not to worry about me."

Her father laughed quietly, finally dropping the tea bag in his cup before pouring the boiling water over top. "A very smart decision, if you manage it."

"How have you been?" Gavin asked, settling into the chair beside her, sliding his dark jacket onto its back.

"I've been good," Cully said quietly as she loosened her scarf. Even in the warmth and bustle of the tea shop, she was still too cold to unbutton her jacket. There might be another week and a half of summer, but the weather had turned cooler over the last few days. "Not a lot's been happening, since Pygmalion ended. There's a couple of productions rumored for the Playhouse, but nothing definite."

"Everything or nothing."

"The long and the short of it." The first sip of tea filled her with that sort of wonderful warmth that only tea could: comfort, not just heat. "And you?"

"Nothing new on my desk, that's for sure. I dunno about the rest of the office..." As he rattled off a few minor crimes reported to CID, Cully couldn't help looking at him more than listening. Even on a day off—no suit, no tie, wearing jeans, his dark hair still tousled by the wind on the street, so vibrant against his pale skin—Gavin rarely failed to dress well. "I think we're spending most of our days looking at all our old reports, trying to see what we've missed. Midsomer's murderers all look to be on a late holiday."

Cully laughed for a moment, before narrowing her eyes as she tried to remember. "Wasn't there something—I read about it in the paper...a couple weeks ago? A murder, out in Lower Warden?"

"Yeah, Lily—something. It's already stalled," he said quietly, taking a mouthful of his own tea. "No leads, no suspects, no witnesses. And for once, not my case."

"I know you aren't married to your work, unlike Dad, but—aren't you the least bit curious?"

Up until now, Gavin had met her gaze, almost studying her, she felt. But now, he was staring at the table, like he was trying to trace the knots in the brown, amber swirled wood and the cracks in the varnish. "Well..." He stopped, now looking back at her—and she saw him take a deeper breath. "If I've finally some downtime, I'd rather not worry about—work."

He needn't say anything else, Cully knew as his cheeks reddened. The last four or so weeks had been almost...lonely, just a few stolen visits and conversations since Pygmalion's premiere. She felt that absence vanish as soon as she saw him outside the tea shop's entrance, waiting for her. That alone was unexpected, for she was always a few minutes earlier than him. And how he smiled when she waved at him, taking a few quick steps in her direction—though he stopped abruptly, his smile evaporating, like he remembered himself. Of course you did, she thought. She always knew what lingered in his mind, even if he refused to say it.

"How is your monologue?" Gavin asked, taking another sip of tea.

"I'm getting there. Almost." After a few minutes inside Cully finally felt warm enough to unbutton her coat, though she still kept it on her shoulders.

"You don't sound certain."

She rolled her eyes, opening her notebook to the words she had jotted down earlier that afternoon, unfolding her partially highlighted script page. Already, she had notes here and there: louder here, worried there..."The easy part is almost done, being off book."

"That's the easy part?" As she held the page out, Gavin took it, his eyes scanning over the text. "Felt like it took forever last time."

Cully clenched her teeth for a brief moment. "Of course it took longer, you know that. That was a play, this is hardly a page."

"Well, what's the challenge, if it's so short?"

She had to laugh, dropping her forehead against his shoulder; even through his shirt, she felt his warmth, smelled him, the barest memory of soap clinging to him. "Didn't you learn anything, Gavin?"

"Hardly my job, is it?"

As his muscles stiffened, Cully lifted her head. "Sorry, I didn't—" She pulled her notebook closer. "It just makes it more difficult because then it's all about the character's emotions."

"Oh, those."

"Don't pretend you don't have any."

Gavin groaned, running his free hand over the back of his neck. "I'm not. It's just..."

"Just what?"

He shrugged his shoulders, dropping the script back onto the table. "It's nice for a story to have things happen, you know, not just characters feel things."

"So that's a 'no' on French theater from you?"

"I suppose."

Cully kissed his cheek lightly, a light pink flush spreading over his skin. "In that case, I'll be sure to never take you to Waiting For Godot."

"Never again, that one."

"What do you mean?" she asked, her eyebrows rising a bit. "You know it?"

He pulled the open notebook closer, his eyes running from side to side as if he was trying to take in her quickly jotted down ideas. "Think they tried forcing that one on us, last year at school."

"And?"

Looking up for a second, Gavin said, "I got through—half the first act, read the notes for the rest."

Of course, Cully thought, rolling her eyes. "Gavin..."

"Well, it's just two blokes standing around, talking to a couple of other people who wander on stage!"

"And that's why everyone still talks about it," Cully said, reaching for her cup. The milky tea was already cooling. "There's so much to read into it."

"But—something could happen."

"So, perhaps with your usual caseload, you'd prefer Macbeth!"

"At least that one—and your last play have something happen!"

"And that's neither here nor there," she said loudly, setting her tea cup down again, reaching for her notebook and pulling it away from Gavin. "In any play, you have to understand a character's emotions, what's motivating them, what they want."

He drained the last of his tea, setting the cup behind Cully's papers. "Okay, then, what does your character want?"

Flattening the creased script, Cully said, "That's the thing, she doesn't exactly know."

Gavin laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Of course she doesn't."

"That's the point. She knows what her wish is, but not if it's what she wants in the end, if it will give her the meaning she wants. The...ending she wants."

"Sounds like a mess."

"Exactly."

"All right, where do you want to begin." He pressed his hand on the creased page, as though he was still trying to take it in. "Not that you have much choice."

"Here," Cully said, touching the tip of her index finger—still wearing its couple spots of black ink—to the beginning of the third paragraph. When she selected this piece, her first task had been to alter the structure of the printed words, resetting them as she saw fit to get to know the character. What had been two were now three paragraphs. A bit unnecessary, she knew, but it helped her find the character's voice, just as it had in the past. She took her hand away and Gavin picked up the paper, mostly of the lines highlighted, a few words scribbled here and there in the margin. "'Each time—making my wish,'" she said quietly, the last sentence of the previous paragraph. "'Have you ever wanted anything so—'"

"'That', not 'so'," Gavin said, his eyes trained on the page. He had never read this piece before, but Cully had spent their first few sessions with Pygmalion reminding him that exactness was key; correcting a mistake during a performance was all well and good, but that was no reason to not learn the thing properly.

"Right," she said quietly, chewing her bottom lip for a second. "'Have you ever wanted anything that badly in—'"

The ringing caught her off guard, and Cully sat straighter in her chair. Gavin's face reddened once again as he dropped her monologue, twisting to one side to reach into his jacket pocket. "Ah..." As he raised his mobile, it rang a second time.

She sighed, leaning against her chair back again. "Go on, answer it."

As it rang a third time, he touched her hand. "I'll just be a minute." He flipped his phone open before it rang a fourth time. "Troy."

You should be used to this, Cully thought, sipping at her half-empty cup of tea. ("Angel, can't it wait?") After the past weeks of missing him, wanting to be with him—those two Mondays had not made up for all the other days and nights—she just wanted a few hours, for things to return to the way they had been. ("You're sure?") She released a quick sniff through her nose, tapping her fingers along the side of her cup. After all, this wasn't anything new, just the same thing it always had been. ("Really?") But suddenly seeing all this in Gavin… ("All right, I'll be out as soon as I can.") Of course. Really, how many moments, events, happy times were missed because of all this? Birthdays, holidays, school conferences...anything and everything, even just a quiet afternoon. Everything lay on that altar, ready to be sacrificed for another lead, another suspect, another witness...Sometimes, it's like nothing else matters—just the next—

Gavin snapped his phone closed, and Cully started at the unexpected noise, her eyes drifting back to him. "What is it?" she asked. Nothing she wanted to hear, she knew that already; Gavin wasn't bothering to tuck his mobile away and trained his eyes on the table again.

"You know that bastard who keeps breaking into houses all over the county?"

Cully leaned forward. "Of course. You and Dad have been working on that for weeks, off and on."

"Well, Angel has a report of some loitering too close to a house with too many fancy cars."

"I didn't know burglars went after cars," she said, frowning.

"Well, they could do." He let out a small smile. "But yeah, we don't call them burglars, then." His eyes dropped, and Cully knew she didn't want to look at him. "I'm—" He paused, his hand tightening on his phone. "I'm going to have to go, Cully."

"I know," she said quietly, sliding her hand forward for a second before drawing it back, "and I know what you were going to say."

"Sorry." As she saw him grin more, Cully felt her own spread over her face. "Do you want me to call you after, or—"

"No, I should probably be home," she said quickly, shoving her right hand into her pocket, checking for her keys. "Someone has to keep Mum under control, or we'll have stewed lamb neck again."

Gavin shuddered. "Sounds important."

"A bit."

"But I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Of course," Cully said, drawing her scarf around her neck once more. "Ten, Causton pitch."

After turning back to wave Gavin farewell—as she expected, he had immediately offered her a lift back home, wondering yet again why she didn't often drive in Causton ("I don't like worrying about the parking, Gavin, you know that.")—Cully rummaged through her pocket once more for her keys, clutching her purse close to her other side with her arm. Finding the key ring, she jostled through them, spinning one past after another until she found the muted silver one for the front door. The hinges creaked gently—some mixture of squeaking and squealing metal—and when she looked up, Cully saw her father peering at her.

As he dropped his newspaper onto his lap, her father said, "You're home early." His voice was a little higher than usual. Surprise, she knew.

Her mother looked up as well, closing the large cream-colored book she held over a finger to hold her place. "Yes, your father told me I shouldn't expect you for dinner." After a second, she added, "Not that we didn't want you for dinner."

Cully shut the door rather harder than she meant, the brass door knocker clanging on the outside. "Gavin had a call from CID, something about all those burglaries you've been investigating."

"Ah, yes." With a jostle of the pages, her father opened his newspaper again, now pressing his reading glasses farther up the bridge of his nose.

"We'd barely started when he had to rush off."

"Shouldn't you be expecting a call too, Tom?"

His face rose over the newspaper's top grey edge, the bottom bit of his jaw line a little darker with a haphazard Saturday morning shave. "Hard to tell. For once, Troy has put his neck out on a theory."

Cully took a seat beside her mother, sliding her purse off her arm, setting it and her keys on her knees before untwisting her grey scarf. "So do you have a suspect, Dad?"

He shook his head, eyes still on the headlines in front of him. "No, that would make it too easy."

"Then what do you mean?" Cully asked, leaning forward, pushing her jacket from her shoulders.

Her father folded his newspaper in half, setting it onto his legs again before pressing his back against his chair. "You know how it seems they come in clusters?"

"Yes," her mother said, wrapping her free hand around the spine of the book she held. Some sort of plant encyclopedia, Cully saw: purple blossoms atop green stalks, circled by creeping vines. "It always seems like you have three or four, one after another, then none for weeks."

Pressing his fingers together, just under his chin, her father said, "And isn't that odd?"

"How so?" Cully asked.

"Because, why would anyone stop?" he asked with a shrug of his shoulders. "It's often the most important question in a case like this. The motive is probably money—greed of some sort, certainly—but what is it that makes our burglar change his mind so often?"

"Could—" Cully began, but her mother started speaking at the same time.

"Could he be in prison?"

"No, because we have fingerprints from two crime scenes. Still unidentified. We'd be able to trace him if he was booked on any charge."

"Then what could possibly be the reason?" Cully asked. Really, sometimes he did talk in riddles.

"Yes, Tom, you said Gavin had a theory."

"Ah, he does, and a little far-fetched."

Cully tapped her foot on the carpet, clasping her hands in her lap. "Then what?"

"Well, Troy is working on the assumption that our thief simply isn't here, if he's not breaking and entering."

"Then, where would he be?"

"That is the question, Joyce. And, of course, why go?"

* "Wishing", by D. M. Larson,