MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS

by Shawn Reilly Simmons

  The dancer cocked her hip and gave Penelope a wink. “Much obliged.”

  Penelope followed the hallway to the end, turning right and going through another door.

  She entered a small kitchen complete with a tiny stove that looked like it hadn’t been used in years, a few dusty looking cabinets and a sink full of coffee cups. She opened the refrigerator and saw a few sodas and some cupcakes wrapped in plastic, and a half-empty jar of olives.

  Penelope put her hands on her hips and turned around, staring at the small space, picturing where she might set things up.

  Heading back out to the dressing rooms, Penelope came across another dancer, the one who had been stretching on the floor.

  “Hey, do they have coffee set up anywhere? Like a craft service table?”

  “Once in a while they bring in sandwiches from the deli,” the dancer said. “We’re basically on our own for anything else.”

  “Not this year,” Penelope said. “You guys will have to tell me what you like. I’ll be sure to have it all.”

  She continued on, looking for Arlena, finally stepping back through onto the stage. Music was playing and five of the dancers were going through one of the routines dressed in matching sparkly leotards.

  Arlena and Armand were standing near the front row in the aisle, watching the dancers as they chatted to each other. Martha eyed the women sharply, tapping a forefinger on her bicep in time with the music.

  Penelope descended the steps and joined Armand and Arlena.

  “Okay, two minutes,” Martha shouted and clapped her hands. “Take your places.”

  “Let’s watch,” Armand said, motioning to an aisle a few rows back from the front.

  Martha stood stage center as the dancers moved into place, forming an inverted V on the stage. A dancer hurried out from backstage and took the empty spot at the top point of the V, her costume slightly different than the others, and she had a headpiece in the shape of a star on her head.

  “Meredith is this year’s Snow Queen,” Armand mumbled as the woman got into position.

  “How do you choose the queen?” Arlena asked.

  Armand crossed his legs in a smooth motion. “The queen chooses herself, really. It’s that one dancer each year that has that special…how do you say it? Star quality. Martha and I have always agreed on who to pick, actually.”

  “And she’s the queen for the whole season?” Penelope asked.

  “Generally,” Armand said, “unless she can’t manage the demands. It’s an honor these dancers work hard for, so they don’t easily give it up.”

  The orchestra settled as the conductor stood, raising his baton and flicking his wrist. The music began and the dancers stood frozen, each looking slightly to the left, their legs perfectly posed and identical to one another.

  The lines of dancers began to move, marching in place in unison until the V became a straight line. Then they split into four groups, turning in circles together that looked like snowflakes rotating on the stage.

  Martha watched from the front row, her head slightly bobbing along with the music.

  A loud clatter from the lobby jarred Penelope from her rapt attention to the production on the stage.

  “Why isn’t that door locked again?” Armand said, turning his head. “For the life of me I can’t understand—”

  “Where is she?” someone shouted from the lobby.

  A man burst through the curtains and rushed down the aisle toward the stage.

  It was Elspeth’s father. Penelope recognized him from the picture in the article she’d read.

  “Where is she?” he bellowed. Spotting Martha in the front row, he charged toward her. Martha turned her head in annoyance, and her expression remained one of stern disapproval as Mr. Connor got closer.

  Detective Doyle lumbered down the aisle after Mr. Connor, with Mrs. Connor close behind.

  “You tell me right now what happened to my daughter,” Mr. Connor said. “Lord knows what’s happened to her in this godforsaken place.”

  “Stop now,” Martha yelled at the stage, and the dancers froze in place. Martha eyed Mr. Connor warily.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Armand said, standing up from his seat. Arlena and Penelope watched him hurry behind Mrs. Connor and join them all in the front with Martha.

  “Mr. Connor,” Martha said. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “The problem?” Mr. Connor almost spit. “Where is she?”

  “I’m sorry,” Armand said. “I know you’ve had an awful shock. But I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see where she was found. Try to remember her as she was, full of life, and beautiful.”

  Mrs. Connor’s shoulders caved and she held a handkerchief up to her lips.

  “You tell me right now,” Mr. Connor said, his rage boiling just beneath the surface. “Where is my daughter?”

  “What do you mean? She is with the police, at the morgue,” Martha said, dropping her voice on the last word and looking away from him.

  “Whoever that girl is in the morgue,” Mr. Connor said loudly, “is not Elspeth Connor.”

  Chapter 22

  A flurry of gasps sounded from the stage. The dancers and musicians stared at the Connors uneasily.

  “What are you talking about?” Martha asked. “Of course it’s Elspeth.”

  “That girl we saw is not our daughter,” Mrs. Connor said meekly.

  “Well, who is it then, Detective?” Armand asked.

  Detective Doyle shook his head. “They’re saying they can’t positively identify her. I tend to believe them, based on the family photos they brought with them from Seattle.”

  “Tell them about the contacts,” Mr. Connor said, his voice cutting through the air like a knife.

  Doyle crossed his arms tightly, the shoulders of his coat rising a few inches to reach his ears. “It appears our murder victim had her hair dyed red and was wearing emerald green contacts. She’s really a brunette with brown eyes.”

  “What is going on?” Penelope whispered to Arlena, who shrugged in response.

  “I assure you,” Armand said, “the same person who was in our rehearsals is the same person who auditioned and won a spot in our troupe.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?” Doyle asked. “You’re willing to swear to that?”

  Armand nodded his head, but a look of uncertainty had settled on his face.

  “It’s just that…” Martha said cautiously, “we auditioned over three hundred dancers…it’s possible to confuse one with another, Armand, isn’t it? When we meet them for three minutes at a time, most of them unknown to us?”

  Armand shrugged his shoulders and rubbed his hands together. “Well, putting it that way, I guess anything is possible.”

  “How many faces can you really remember out of all of them?” Martha continued. “Sometimes I’m just looking at their legs, to make sure they’ll match up on the kick line, if they’re strong enough to hold the line all season.”

  Armand pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Martha as always is very wise. But from what we knew, she was Elspeth Connor, at least the past few weeks during rehearsal.”

  “If anyone here has any information about the identity of the woman found in the alley, we are asking you to come forward now,” Detective Doyle said.

  Several of the dancers shook their heads. A couple of them had tears in their eyes.

  “Now I want you all to think back,” Doyle urged them. “Did at any point the woman you knew as Elspeth Connor call herself by another name, in passing, or by mistake? Or maybe something she said didn’t line up, or sounded off to you?”

  Most of the dancers continued to shake their heads or just stare at him. Mrs. Connor sat down carefully in the nearest audience chair and twisted her handkerchief in her fingers.

  One of t
he violinists in the orchestra pit raised his hand. He was a lanky young man with a dark mop of black hair and thick glasses. “I overheard her on the phone once. She mentioned something about a friend back home in Phoenix. I remember she said she was from Seattle, though. I wasn’t trying to listen, I just overheard by accident.”

  Doyle sighed. “That’s great, thank you. Anyone else hear something that might help us identify her?”

  “Have you asked Abigail?” Penelope asked. “Her roommate would probably know the most about who she was.”

  “She’s home sick today,” Martha said. “Resting in bed.”

  “Okay, maybe there’s something in Elspeth’s things…” Doyle paused. “I mean, our victim’s things that can help sort this out.”

  “I can go with you, let you in,” Penelope said, then glanced at Arlena. She stood and slung her messenger bag over her shoulder.

  “You’re leaving?” Arlena asked.

  Penelope nodded. “I need some air. And I want to check out the space we’ll be working out of anyway, so I can let them into the building, so Martha and Armand don’t have to. I’ll be back to watch the show with you tonight.”

  “Okay,” Arlena said. “You sure?”

  “Yeah,” Penelope said. “I want to see what it’s like over there.”

  Chapter 23

  Penelope walked with the Connors and Detective Doyle across to the apartment building, jaywalking halfway down the block during a break in traffic. Mrs. Connor hurried behind her husband, appearing fearful of the busy street.

  Penelope used her key to open the outer lobby door, making sure it clicked shut behind them after they’d all entered the lobby. They stepped inside the elevator, and Penelope pressed the buttons for the twelfth and seventeenth floors.

  Mr. Connor’s body was ramrod straight, and anger radiated off of him like waves of heat. Mrs. Connor avoided looking directly at anyone, and stood cowering in the corner, her ever-present handkerchief shielding her face. Her faded red hair was tucked up under an antique looking hat, with a spray of green feathers glued to the rim. Penelope could see that beneath her mask of grief, she was quite lovely.

  The doors rattled open on the twelfth floor, and Detective Doyle ushered the Connors out into the hallway, giving Penelope a small nod as the doors slipped closed again. Penelope rode up to the penthouse level, the elevator shifting slightly beneath her feet as it shuddered to a stop.

  Stepping off the elevator, Penelope entered a wide-open space with a few desks and conference tables situated around the room. On the left was a doorway and an open island where a decent-sized, if a bit dated, kitchen sat. Penelope made her way over and sized it up, crossing her arms at her chest as she eyed the yellow Formica counters.

  “This will be fine,” she mumbled, picturing her chefs in the space. She was down to three on her team at the moment. The new chef she’d hired for a movie she’d catered in Vermont had decided to stay on there as head chef for a new restaurant owned by the film’s director. That was the nature of the business sometimes, she knew.

  Penelope turned and went to the windows, which lined the far wall, offering a pleasant view of the buildings across the street. She looked down at the Vitrine Theater, noticing for the first time the elaborate stone work on the building. There were comedy and tragedy masks on either end and gargoyles sneering down at the sidewalk from above. The glass office buildings on either side of the theater looked out of place next to the work of art in between them.

  When Penelope looked into the small round attic windows of the theater, she noticed shadows moving across the glass. She leaned forward, her forehead almost touching the glass, and looked behind the theater at the alley. She was able to make out the edge of the black set piece boxes tucked behind the building, and the spot where Elspeth, or whatever the woman’s name was, was found.

  Penelope pulled her notepad from her bag and jotted down a few ideas about menus for the first couple of weeks, then set it down on the table behind her and sighed, deciding what to do next.

  A quick tour of the rest of the apartment revealed two-bedroom suites on either side of the main room, both with bathrooms complete with a tub and shower. Perfect for a power nap between shows.

  A few minutes later, Penelope pulled the door of the suite closed and got back on the elevator. She pulled out her phone to send a text to Arlena, looking up when the elevator came to a stop once again on the twelfth floor.

  “That girl is lying, and you’d better find out—” Mr. Connor stopped speaking when he saw Penelope in the elevator, then sighed dramatically. “That’s the thing about this city,” he grumbled as he and his wife and Detective Doyle climbed inside, “you’re never without a stranger looming over your every move.”

  “What makes you think she’s lying?” Doyle asked.

  “Obviously she knows more than she’s saying,” Mr. Connor sputtered. “You can see it all over her face.”

  “Okay,” Doyle said, shooting Penelope a look of frustration as he jostled into place on the elevator.

  Mrs. Connor clutched her purse with both hands, holding on so tight she caused the leather to strain as her husband kept his back to her.

  Penelope reached into her messenger bag and plucked out a small packet of tissues. She reached over and handed them to Mrs. Connor.

  The woman shook her head quickly and gave Penelope an angry glance, the first time she’d seen anything but sorrow from her. A second later she relented and accepted the tissues from Penelope.

  “Was Abigail any help?” Penelope murmured to her.

  Mr. Connor turned his head slightly, showing Penelope his red-rimmed ear.

  “The girl is in shock, and she’s quite unwell over it,” Mrs. Connor said. “To her the young lady in the alley was Elspeth. She’s as confused about all of this as we are.”

  “Hmph,” Mr. Connor said. “I think she’s in on whatever is happening.”

  “When’s the last time you saw your daughter?” Penelope asked gently.

  Mrs. Connor pressed a tissue beneath her eye. “Months ago now, the beginning of summer.”

  “Mr. Connor, we’re going to have you come down and answer some more questions. Look through some photos,” Detective Doyle said. “I’m going to request the theater hand over whatever photos or headshots they might have for all of the dancers who auditioned for the show.”

  “We’ll do whatever it takes to find our daughter,” Mrs. Connor said.

  The elevator doors opened in the lobby and the Connors hurried toward the door. Doyle held the door for Penelope just as her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and answered.

  “Hi, Mrs. Sotheby.” Doyle looked at her curiously as she stepped into the lobby. Penelope pressed the phone closer to her ear and smiled. “I’d love that. I’ll ask Joey if that’s a good day to join you.”

  Doyle nodded goodbye to her as she finished the call, then turned back toward the elevator. He looked back at her from the front door to the lobby and raised his eyebrows.

  “I left something upstairs,” she said, pressing the elevator button again. He raised his hand in a wave and stepped outside onto the sidewalk.

  Stepping out onto the twelfth floor, Penelope could see it was much different from penthouse level. It looked much more like a typical city apartment building with doors on either side of a long-carpeted hallway. A sign pointed to A through D to the left, and E through H to the right. The rug in the hallway was a serpentine pattern that made her a little seasick if she looked at it for too long.

  Penelope didn’t know which apartment was Abigail’s. So she decided to start with the first door and give it a knock. This building provided housing for the Big Apple Dancers, most of whom were across the street at rehearsal, so it would be a process of elimination.

  The third one she tried was yanked open, even before she had a chance to pull her hand away.
/>   “I told you—” Abigail said. When she saw Penelope she said, “Oh, hello. What are you doing here? You’re the one from yesterday…the lady who found Elspeth.”

  “Yes, right. I’m sorry to bother you,” Penelope said. “But I’m going to be working upstairs on seventeen for the next month or so and I was wondering…”

  Abigail raised her eyebrows and leaned against her door.

  “Do you know of a good place to get coffee near here?” Penelope asked. “Not a chain, a local place if possible? Maybe organic?”

  Abigail looked at her curiously. “There’s the Urban Bean on the next corner over, facing Broadway.”

  “Oh that’s perfect,” Penelope said. She looked casually past Abigail into the small apartment.

  “There’s also this thing called Google,” Abigail said. “You can type in ‘coffee near me,’ and find that kind of stuff out for yourself. You know, instead of knocking on every door in an apartment building.”

  Penelope smiled and shrugged, her cheeks blushing pink. “I like personal recommendations. Also, Martha said you were sick. I was checking to see if you needed anything. I could grab you some soup or something.”

  Abigail relented and gave her a small smile. “That’s nice of you. Normally we have to scrounge for ourselves. Want to come in?”

  “Sure,” Penelope said. “I’m not intruding, am I?”

  “Nah,” Abigail said. “I’m going to have to start charging people to take a tour of my dead roommate’s place.”

  “I saw the Connors leave,” Penelope said distractedly. “I guess I’m a little curious about her too. I keep picturing her there in the alley.” Penelope stepped inside the studio apartment. Two beds were pushed up against opposite walls, a kitchenette gleaming in the corner. A door inside the kitchen led to the bathroom, the claw foot of a tub just visible past the stove.

  “I wish we’d had more time together,” Abigail said. She plopped down on one of the bright orange bean bag chairs in the center of the floor and crossed her legs, her heels resting on opposite thighs. She wore bright white yoga pants and a slouchy black sweater, and no makeup. Even though she appeared delicate, like a porcelain doll, Penelope got the feeling underneath that fragile exterior she was tough as nails.