Cover Band
Patience Scudder closed her umbrella as she walked through the door of The Quill and Dagger and put it in a plastic bag to avoid leaving a trail of water on the floor. Although it was mid-July, the weather felt more like October. The sky was a slate gray in color, the rain was falling steadily, sometimes in sheets that caused rivulets to rush down Essex Street, and the wind was fiercely blowing.
"Sorry, I'm late," the librarian apologized as she headed toward the bookstore's coffee bar. "It's absolutely diluvial out there!"
"No problem," Shannon Devlin, proprietor of the Green Man Pub, said. "I just got here myself a few minutes ago."
Carrying a tray of coffees and pastries, Rebecca Coffin, the bookshop's owner, joined Patience, Rebecca and Martha Prescott, the former cable television host Belladonna Nightshade, at a table for four.
"Café mocha hits the spot on a day like today," Patience declared, warming her hands on the warm ceramic mug.
"From what I've heard, Puritan Falls is about to get a tea shop," Martha announced as she reached for a chocolate chip cookie.
"Where did you hear that?" Shannon asked.
"From Jacqueline Astor."
Ms. Astor, the town's real estate agent, was a trusted source of information, whose word not one of the women seated at the table doubted.
"Jacqueline says it's going to be a traditional English tea shop."
"Cream teas and high teas with those little finger sandwiches?" Patience asked. "Mmm! I love a scone with clotted cream and strawberry preserves. Where is this place going to be located, anyway? Are there any vacancies on Essex or Gloucester?"
"It's not going in a storefront. The owner, a woman who recently moved to America from Bath, England, bought that old Victorian on Atlantic Avenue, the one near the lighthouse."
"I'm glad to see something going in there," Shannon said. "The place has been empty for more than a year."
Once talk of the tea shop came to an end, they got down to the business at hand. In three months' time, the town would hold its annual Harvest Festival, and the four friends were in charge of the arrangements. For more than two hours, they discussed a tentative schedule of events. After their third round of coffees, the meeting began winding down.
"One last item on the agenda. Does anyone have any suggestions about our Saturday evening live entertainment?" Patience, the chairwoman of the committee, asked.
Throughout the day local church choirs, school bands and talent show winners would grace the stage of the old-fashioned bandstand in the center of the Common. On Saturday evening, however, it was customary to have a concert by professional entertainers.
"I liked the Yankee Doodle Fife and Drum Corps from Concord we had last year," Rebecca replied.
"They were good," Shannon agreed, "but I don't think the teenagers enjoyed them very much. Why don't we do something different this year? Something fun, that people of all ages can enjoy."
"What about the Celtic rock band we had play for St. Patrick's Day?" Martha asked.
"I was thinking more along the lines of Vegas-style entertainment," Shannon said.
"Good God!" Patience exclaimed. "Not an Elvis impersonator!"
"No, not Elvis. The Beatles."
Mention of the iconic band's name added a spark of excitement in the room. All four women smiled, each enjoying a memory evoked by the group's music.
"Do you think we could afford to hire a Beatles cover band?" asked Martha, who had never quite gotten over her schoolgirl crush on Paul McCartney.
"I read about a tribute band called the Liverpool Lads who play the New England area," Shannon replied. "I can get in touch with them and see how much they charge."
"Why not?" Patience decided. "We still have time to make other arrangements if we can't afford them. After all, I doubt the Yankee Doodle Fife and Drum Corps is in that great a demand except for around the Fourth of July."
With no further business to discuss, the meeting came to an end. After saying goodbye to her friends, Patience huddled beneath her umbrella, which offered little protection against the raging storm. As she sprinted toward her car she began humming "Let It Be."
* * *
The first weekend in October brought its usual invasion of tourists to the New England area. Although the peak foliage was still a week or two away, there was enough color in the trees to satisfy city dwellers to the south. Tourism brought prosperity to many of the small towns, including Puritan Falls. Bed and breakfasts were filled to capacity. Local artisans organized craft fairs that sold everything from hand-sewn quilts to knitted baby booties, and there was always a brisk business in homemade Christmas items. Farmers also took advantage of the influx of visitors, selling apples, pumpkins and squash as well as preserved fruit and pickled vegetables canned in mason jars.
That Saturday morning as Rebecca was stocking shelves at The Quill and Dagger, Roseanne Dwyer, the representative from the local Welcome Wagon and notorious gossip, entered her shop to spread the word: Victoria's English Tea Shoppe was opening for business on Monday.
"Have you met the owner yet?" Roseanne asked and received a negative reply. "Such a lovely woman named Victoria Broadbent."
"I assume you already got her life story."
"Not all of it, just the highlights. She lived in Bath where she worked at Sally Lunn's—you know, that place that came up with the delicious bun by the same name."
"I've heard of it."
"Well, her husband died, and rather than be a lonely widow in England, she decided to start a new life for herself here in the States—as she calls America. Although at her age, I don't imagine it will be a long one."
"She's an older woman, then?"
"It's hard to tell. Her hair is white, not gray, but her face appears young. There's not a wrinkle on it," Roseanne said, scarcely able to hide her envy.
"They do say English women have good complexions. Something to do with the moisture in the air."
"She also told me she was a pensioner, so she must be around retirement age."
Seeing a customer enter the bookstore, Rebecca politely extricated herself from the conversation with Roseanne. Unlike the Welcome Wagon representative, she had never been one to gossip, preferring to form her own opinions about people without being prejudiced by the opinions of others.
After helping Shawn McMurtry's teenage daughter select a book for her father, she sent a text message to Abigail Cantwell, who was working in the Bell, Book and Candle, across the street from the bookstore. She informed her close friend that the tea shop would soon be open for business and suggested that the two of them go to Victoria's for a cream tea the following week.
Four days later, Rebecca and Abigail were busy decorating the faux gaslights on Essex Street with cornstalks and scarecrows in preparation for the Harvest Festival that was only three days away. With employees minding both the bookstore and the New Age shop, the two women decided to take a break and walked to Victoria's English Tea Shoppe on Atlantic Avenue.
The large Victorian house was painted pink, and its extensive gingerbread trim was white. The steep peaks of the roof and the circular tower room gave it the appearance of imposing height.
"From the outside, it reminds me of a little girl's birthday cake," Abigail commented.
The pink and white color scheme dominated the interior of the home as well. The floral wallpaper was reminiscent of Laura Ashley's prints, and the throw rugs that protected the mahogany floors were pastel pink with a thick, white border of tiny pink roses. From the large foyer, where customers could purchase bags of tea leaves or baked goods to take home, one could turn either right or left into two tearooms, each having three tables for four and four tables for two. Two large bay windows, one in each room, were installed along the rear wall, so that customers could enjoy a view of the ocean and the lighthouse while they drank their tea.
The two women waited only a few moments before Victoria Broadbent appeared. As Roseanne Dwyer had said, it was not easy to guess her age. Her snow-colored hair was common of elderly women, but her skin was youthful in appearance. Her cornflower blue eyes, undeniably her most striking feature, twinkled with merriment, making her resemble a jolly Mrs. Santa Claus.
"Two?" she asked, with a pleasant smile.
"Yes, please," Abigail replied, and then she and Rebecca followed Mrs. Broadbent into the room to the left of the foyer.
"Here is a list of all my teas," the proprietor announced, handing the women two parchment-like sheets of paper each. "And this is a menu of my sandwiches and baked items. On the reverse side is a description of what the high tea includes. I'll be back in a few minutes to take your order."
Abigail watched the woman walk away, taking note of the long-sleeved, high-necked, floor-length pink dress she wore beneath the starched white apron.
"I suddenly feel like I've been transported to the set of Downton Abbey," the owner of the Bell, Book and Candle laughed.
"Except everything here is pink and white, with just a touch of pastel green," Rebecca observed. "It's so feminine looking, but I like it."
"Me, too," Abigail agreed, admiring the shelves full of antique porcelain dolls and tea and saucer sets by Spode, Wedgwood and Royal Doulton. "I normally prefer blue and purple to pink, but all this flowered chintz makes the room feel so cheerful, and so English."
"I know what you mean. It wouldn't surprise me one bit if Queen Elizabeth were to come through that door."
"It wouldn't surprise me if Queen Victoria came through it!"
Having worked up an appetite from their morning labors, the women ordered the high tea. As they finished the last of the finger sandwiches from the three-tiered plate, both were keenly aware of Mrs. Broadbent's presence. Throughout the meal, the white-haired proprietor hovered nearby. Although the two women were excellent judges of character, neither Rebecca nor Abigail could get an accurate "read" on her. It was as though Victoria sensed their curiosity and was deliberately hiding behind a façade of benign amiability.
* * *
As though in answer to the villagers' prayers, the three-day long Columbus Day Weekend was blessed with unseasonably warm temperatures and clear, blue skies. The Indian summer weather made for larger crowds to Puritan Falls' annual Harvest Festival—and even larger profits for the festival's vendors and the local businesses.
Sarah Ryerson and Lionel Penn walked through the crowds on late Saturday afternoon, stopping at several tables to browse through a selection of crafts and antiques. There was also a table offering used books where Sarah picked up paperbacks by Dennis Lehane, Stephen King and John Irving. They would come in handy on those occasional nights when the hospital's emergency room was deserted, and she was able to curl up in the chair in her office with a cup of coffee and read.
On their way to the refreshment stand to sample the mulled cider, the two doctors passed a young woman in a rose-colored pullover sweater and white leggings. There was no reason for them to acknowledge her presence. She was a stranger to them, after all, most likely one of the many tourists from New York or New Jersey who came to New England for the holiday weekend. They took no notice of her as the pretty blonde cast her cornflower blue eyes in their direction and watched them greet the McMurtrys in front of the ring toss game.
For several minutes she continued to stare at the couple.
Dr. Lionel Penn, she thought. Psychiatrist with a special knack for treating phobias. Amateur sailor with a fondness for good food. Dr. Sarah Ryerson, M.D. Works in Puritan Falls Hospital emergency room. Big heart. Wants to save the world.
The stranger filed this information away in a mental folder along with similar notes on other individuals in the community. After adding the two physicians to her inventory, she turned and headed toward the table of an antique dealer who had several Victorian-era porcelain dolls for sale.
"Are you a collector?" the handsome man behind the table asked when he saw the young woman pick up and examine one of the dolls.
"Of sorts," the blonde replied with a mysterious smile.
The cornflower blue eyes widened with curiosity as she faced the antique dealer.
"You're not from Puritan Falls, are you?" she asked.
"No. I'm originally from New York, but I moved to Essex Green after attending college there."
Assuming her question was an indication of her personal interest in him, the dealer took a closer look at the woman in pink and was pleased with what he saw.
"Are you here with anyone?" he inquired.
"No. I'm all by myself."
He glanced at his watch and said, "In a little over an hour, there's going to be a free concert over at the bandstand featuring a Beatles cover band. Would you like to go with me?"
"Sorry," she answered, putting down the doll and turning away. "I've got plans tonight."
For the next hour, the woman in the pink sweater walked through the Common, briefly pausing at the stalls where children were carving jack-o-lanterns and bobbing for apples. She also stopped at the tables where the ladies from the Puritan Falls Church were holding a rummage sale.
"How much do you want for these?" she asked, holding up a Waterford teacup and saucer.
"Five dollars for the set," the minister's wife answered.
"I'll take it."
With her purchase wrapped in newspaper and placed in a plastic shopping bag, the stranger in pink followed the crowd to the bandstand where she stood behind Sarah Ryerson and Lionel Penn. Ten minutes later, the Liverpool Lads appeared, wearing replicas of the iconic collarless suits worn by the Beatles back in 1963. They opened their act with "I Want to Hold Your Hand" and immediately followed it with "She Loves You."
"They're pretty good," Sarah told Lionel.
"Yes, they are," he agreed. "But they're not the Beatles."
The cornflower blue eyes of the woman in pink focused on the faces of the performers. She dismissed the young men who portrayed George, Ringo and Paul as bearing little resemblance to the originals. (As Martha Prescott was overheard to say, "No one looks like Paul McCartney!") However, the stranger believed the ersatz John looked a lot like the real Lennon.
Halfway through their performance, the band took a break. When they came back fifteen minutes later, they were dressed in the colorful Sgt. Pepper uniforms and were sporting facial hair to mimic the 1967 version of the group. The glasses, mustache and green costume made the musician look even more like John Lennon.
Having covered most of the Beatles' number one hits, the Liverpool Lads closed the show with "Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band (Reprise)." The applause was deafening, not only for the talent of the cover band but for the genius of the Beatles' oeuvre and the memories it invoked.
"I've got to hand it to Shannon," Lionel shouted to be heard over the loud ovation. "This was a lot better than the Yankee Doodle Fife and Drum Corps!"
Behind the clapping psychiatrist, the woman in the pink sweater turned, silently made her way through the crowd on the Common and headed toward Atlantic Avenue. With nearly all the residents of Puritan Falls still attending the Harvest Festival, the road was dark and deserted. As she neared Victoria's English Tea Shoppe, her cornflower blue eyes momentarily narrowed, and the lights in the large pink and white house came on.
* * *
Despite the chilliness of the October evening, Trevor Mitchison was perspiring as he entered the recreational vehicle that served as the band's dressing room. After removing the non-prescription glasses, mustache and garish green satin uniform, he hopped into the compact shower. When he came out, he looked less like John Lennon and more like himself.
"I'm next," insisted Jason Stocker, the Liverpool Lad's version of Paul McCartney.
"Do you think there's any nightlife in this town?" asked Manny Hernon, the pseudo-Ringo Starr.
"We're only about a half an hour away from Boston," George Harrison, alias Salvatore DeVito, replied.
Three of the four Lads opted to head to the city for some post-show excitement. Only Trevor Mitchison vetoed the idea.
"I think I'll just stay here. I'm not in the mood to party."
"Suit yourself," Manny said as he stood in line for the shower.
There was anger in Trevor's eyes as he stared at the drummer, but he held his tongue.
Why bother? What else is there to say? he thought as he walked out of the camper.
It was past ten o'clock, but the Common was still filled with people, even those with small children in tow. Although many vendors had sold out their wares, the food stands were doing a booming business as were the games of chance.
Trevor had no desire to be around people, not in his current state of mind. In jeans, a North Face jacket and a baseball cap, he was able to blend in with the residents and tourists and escape detection. Like most people who wanted to be alone, he followed the beacon of the light house toward the ocean. As he sat on a large boulder, listening to the waves break upon the beach, his eyes were drawn to a large Victorian house. Only moments earlier it had been as dark as its neighbors. Now, however, it glowed with warm, welcoming light, giving the appearance of a Thomas Kinkade painting.
A gentle breeze carried with it the scent of cinnamon and other spices he associated with his mother's holiday baking. Trevor got down off the rock and, for reasons he could not understand, walked toward the pink and white house. He stopped in front of an elaborate sign on the front lawn, in the center of a bed of mums.
"Victoria's English Tea Shoppe."
As he read the words aloud, he felt a sudden hunger and a craving for something sweet. He ascended the stairs and tried the front door. It was open.
"Is anybody here?" he asked, popping his head inside.
"Yes. Won't you come in?" asked a voice in a heavy English accent.
The white-haired Victoria Broadbent stepped into the foyer and welcomed him. She was dressed in her long-sleeved, high-necked, floor-length pink dress and starched white apron. The woman with the bizarre combination of white hair and youthful complexion led him to a table in the room to the right of the foyer and handed him the same two menus she gave all her customers.
Trevor opted for a sandwich and a cup of tea, although he would have preferred coffee. He was surprised at how quickly his food arrived. After he thanked the woman, she disappeared, presumably into the kitchen.
"My name is Vicki. Mind if I join you?"
Trevor turned and saw a young blonde in a pink sweater and white pants cross the foyer and head toward his table.
"I think you and I are the only two people in this town who aren't at the Festival," the blonde observed.
Although he did not relish the idea of idle conversation, he could not refuse the company of a woman with such incredible blue eyes and shapely curves.
"I hope you won't think me rude if I eat while you talk. I'm starving."
"What happened to your English accent? I thought you were from Liverpool."
"That's only for the show. I'm actually from New Jersey."
A melancholic look clouded his face as he slowly sipped his tea.
"You look like someone stole your puppy. What's wrong?"
Normally not one to divulge personal information to strangers, Trevor felt compelled to bare his soul to Vicki.
"It's the group. We're breaking up. The other guys are tired of being a cover band. They want to try something new, something original."
"And you want to stick to the Beatles' songs?"
"My parents were diehard Beatles fans, so I grew up listening to their records. When I was a teenager, the first song I learned to play on my guitar was 'Norwegian Wood.' I swear," he laughed, "the only thing I ever wanted to be in my life was John Lennon."
He finished the last of his tea and put the cup down in its saucer.
"Why don't I read your tea leaves and see what the future has in store for you?" Vicki offered.
"You can do that?"
"Of course, I can. It's easy."
The dregs at the bottom of the cup had quite a story to tell, not of Trevor Mitchison's future but of his past.
"I see here you're a ladies' man."
"Naturally. I'm a musician. The two go hand in hand."
A series of images flashed through Vicki's mind: pretty faces marred by black eyes, swollen and split lips, bruises, lacerations and other signs of abuse.
"What else do you see?" he asked.
Vicki's cornflower blue eyes stared at him, as though she were making up her mind what to say. Her silence made Trevor uncomfortable.
"Well?"
"You said you always wanted to be John Lennon. Then that's what you should be."
"What?" he asked in confusion.
"Do a solo act. Look at how many Beatles tribute bands there are. Why not think outside the box and become a post-Beatles John Lennon?"
Trevor's eyes widened with surprise, and a smile slowly lit up his face.
"John did some amazing work after the Beatles parted ways: 'Imagine,' 'Instant Karma,' 'Woman,' 'Working Class Hero.' Yeah, I can build an act around that period of his life. What a fantastic idea! I don't know how to thank you."
"No need to thank me. The answer was right there at the bottom of your teacup."
* * *
Trevor Mitchison stood outside the rear of the bar, drinking a complimentary beer. He had reached the midpoint of his performance and was taking a twenty-minute break. It was stifling up on stage under the lights, and he enjoyed the cool air as much as he did the cold drink. The wire-framed glasses he once wore as part of a costume when he was with the Liverpool Lads had become a necessity.
His eyesight was not all that had changed since the demise of the cover band. Unlike the other three former members of the defunct Liverpool Lads who had all gone on to more successful musical careers, Trevor found it difficult to find work.
"I don't understand it," he complained to Jason Stocker, the former Paul McCartney. "I've been told not only do I sound just like Lennon, but that I look like him as well."
"Maybe it's time for you to forget about singing someone else's songs. I did, and I've already got a recording contract."
"I appreciate your advice, man, but that's not what I want. I like what I'm doing. If I can't find a gig singing Lennon's songs, then I'd just as soon quit music altogether."
That conversation had taken place three months earlier, and in the intervening time, Trevor had worked only six days. The rent on his crowded studio apartment was two months behind, his electricity was shut off, his car was repossessed and he was living on ramen noodles.
"Hey, buddy," the bartender—who never bothered to learn the performers' names—called to him out the rear door. "It's time for you to go back on stage."
"Thanks. I'll be right there."
Trevor put his empty glass on the bar, climbed the short staircase to the stage, picked up his Fender Stratocaster and stood in front of the microphone. Five more songs, and he would be unemployed again. He opened his mouth to sing, but when he saw the young blond woman from the small village in Massachusetts sitting at a table in the audience, no sound came out.
Vicki. That was her name.
"What's the matter?" a heckler drunkenly shouted. "Did you forget the words?"
Vicki smiled at him, and despite the hot lights, he shivered. As her cornflower blue eyes stared at him, her face seemed to change, taking on features of other women in his life. Seeing the battered victims of his abuse, he tried to deny his actions. He would never hurt anyone. He was a man of peace and love, just like John.
"I didn't hurt those women," Trevor declared, speaking directly to Vicki as though there was no one else in the room.
"Yes, you did."
"No. Would John have blackened Yoko's eye?"
"You're not John Lennon."
"Yes, I am!" he screamed. "I'm John Winston Lennon from Liverpool."
The smile on Vicki's face widened as the Lennon impersonator threw down his Stratocaster and bolted out the back door into the night.
* * *
The sixth floor nursing staff at the metropolitan hospital sat down at the desk for a well-deserved break. Home to a busy psychiatric ward, the sixth floor was usually noisy and overcrowded. This was the time of night, after the more obstreperous patients had all received their medication, when things finally began to quiet down.
"Anyone for a cup of coffee?" asked Regina Cuyler, the head nurse.
"No, I brought my chamomile tea with me," her assistant, Lindy Wahl, replied.
As the nurses enjoyed their beverages, Leanna Mullery, the youngest nurse on the floor passed around a tin of shortbread cookies. Suddenly, the elevator doors opened and two orderlies escorted a screaming man in a straitjacket up to the desk.
"Who have we got here?" Regina asked.
"According to his driver's license he's Trevor Mitchison from Garfield, New Jersey. He was brought into the ER half an hour ago. Dr. Mallard wants him kept up here for observation."
"Trevor Mitchison is not my name," the patient shouted.
"The guy thinks he's John Lennon," one orderly told the nurses. "He was picked up over on West 72nd Street, trying to break into the Dakota."
"You know," Leanna said, nibbling on her shortbread. "He does look a lot like pictures I've seen of Lennon."
The uproar at the nurses' desk woke several of the patients. One young African-American man, clad in his hospital-issued gown, stepped out of his room to see what was going on.
"I tell you, I am John ...."
Trevor stopped and stared at the patient in the hospital gown.
Chapman, he thought with fear. That's Mark David Chapman.
"No! Don't!" the delusional musician screamed with terror.
Trevor jerked backward and fell against the nurses' desk. As though his body were being battered with the force of a gunshot, he convulsed not once or twice but five times. Regina promptly went to his aid.
"Code blue—STAT! The patient isn't breathing."
The rapid response team was quick to answer. However, they were unable to resuscitate the disturbed patient. Although he did not have a mark on his body and an autopsy would later find no discernible cause of death, Trevor Mitchison, like the real John Lennon, was dead.
Two hundred and fifty miles away, in Puritan Falls, Massachusetts, a woman with white hair and a remarkably young-looking complexion stood in front of one of the bay windows of Victoria's English Tea Shoppe, sipping a cup of herbal tea and staring out at the Atlantic Ocean. After several minutes, she turned, placed the pink and white floral Waterford teacup down on its matching saucer and walked toward the kitchen, humming "Imagine" as she turned out the tearoom's lights for the night.
Salem once joined a Beatles tribute band. The other members fired him because he sounded more like Yoko than John!
