“Like what?” Randall asked.
“Stealing, for one thing,” Penelope said. “She pulled a dine and dash at an upscale restaurant right before she was killed.”
“Maybe she was broke, same as a lot of girls,” Randall said. “Lots of them get here and don’t realize how expensive just living here can be.”
“But Abigail seemed to think she had money, that she wouldn’t have to do something like that,” Penelope said.
“That is strange then,” Arlena said. “And who is she anyway? How can they not have figured that out yet? I mean, with DNA, fingerprints…still nothing?”
Penelope shrugged.
“I’d like to know how she got to be a Big Apple Dancer using someone else’s identity,” Penelope said.
Randall rubbed his hands together. “This is the real story of the Vitrine. We have to be investigative journalists on this one.”
Arlena looked at her father with a wary glance, and then determination. “Okay. We look into the murdered girl in the alley and explore Ruby’s death. The main storyline will center around the production and the theater itself, and how the culture here might impact the performers’ lives.”
“Do we tell Armand the focus?” Penelope asked.
“No,” Randall said quickly. “This remains between us three. We quietly pursue this story…you have a rapport with the roommate, so maybe you talk to her again, see what else you can dig up on our mystery woman. She already told you some very interesting things, maybe even more than she told the police.”
Penelope nodded, a bit uncomfortable, but since she hadn’t been directly asked to do anything she felt was out of her realm of ability, she kept quiet.
“Arlena carries on with the documentary filming,” Randall said. “We film the shows, we talk to the girls, but we keep in mind we’re looking for anything that might tie into our focus. I’ll keep funding the project. The donation I gave the theater was very much appreciated, so that will buy us some flexibility, as far as our presence during the shows.”
“And what are you going to do?” Arlena asked.
“I’m going to find out what happened to my mother,” Randall said.
Chapter 27
The next morning Arlena and Penelope rode into the city early together, sitting in the back of a large black SUV. Randall had sent a car service for them, so they wouldn’t have to worry about parking or taking the train. When they arrived on Forty-Fifth Street, Penelope saw the nose of her kitchen truck pointing out from the alley. Francis was at the wheel, slowly backing the vehicle between the buildings, edging it along carefully so as not to scrape the paint.
“Hey, Boss,” Francis said after he put the truck in park and hopped out. “Nice spot, huh?”
Penelope smiled. “Have you seen the paper this morning?”
“No,” Francis admitted. “What, they did a write-up on us already? Red Carpet Catering live in Manhattan?”
“Um, no,” Penelope said. “There was an incident at the theater.”
“Oh man,” Francis said, his smiling face morphing to concern. “You okay, Boss?”
“I’m okay,” Penelope said. “Some strange things have been happening around here, is all.”
“I heard about the girl,” Francis said. He looked at the alley behind the truck then back at her. “They said to park here, so…”
“Yeah,” Penelope said. “It’s okay.”
“Feels weird, though, right?” Francis asked.
“Yeah, it does.”
A homeless man shuffled past them on the sidewalk, mumbling to himself. He had what looked like a tarp on top of his head, which Penelope thought must be a plastic sheet cut into a makeshift raincoat. A wiry gray and black beard obscured the rest of his face.
After he got a few yards away Penelope said, “There’s a shelter on the next block. Keep an eye out on the truck, you know.”
“Yeah,” Francis said. “Understood.”
“And whatever we have leftover each day, if we can’t use it again, let’s go see if they want it, okay?”
“Sure thing.”
“Okay, so the other guys are on their way in. What else do you need from me?” Penelope asked.
“We’re good, Boss,” Francis said. “Your text said the office is up there, right?”
Francis shielded his eyes from the sun and looked up at the building across the street.
“Yeah, we’re on the top.”
The front door of the building opened and three of the dancers stepped outside, pulling their jackets closer in the cold winter air.
“They live there too, huh?” Francis said, eyeing the women as they headed to the coffee shop on the corner.
“Yes,” Penelope said. “I hope you don’t find that too distracting.”
“Nah,” Francis said. “Not at all. It’s New York, there are beautiful women on every corner.”
Penelope gave him a stern look and slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay, get going. I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Oh, here’s your key.”
“Got it,” Francis said, taking the set from her. His eyes drifted toward the coffee shop again.
“You want a coffee?” Penelope asked.
“Let me go get you some,” Francis offered quickly.
Penelope chuckled. “Okay, fine. My usual. Bring it up, will you?”
“You got it,” Francis said as he hurried away.
Penelope watched him go for a minute then shook her head before heading up to the suite.
Chapter 28
Up in the suite, Penelope made some notes. Using the notebook, she normally carried for recipes and menu planning she’d begun a new page with notes about Elspeth Connor, Abigail Hamilton and a question mark to represent the woman found in the alley.
Pulling out her iPad, she googled Elspeth. She sighed when she discovered she had no social media accounts, or at least any under her name that Penelope could find. A news article came up from the Seattle Times featuring a group photograph of a high school dance troupe where Elspeth was listed along with several other girls. Penelope enlarged the photo, focusing in on her face. She had a shy smile, long red hair and fair skin. The girls stood ramrod straight in a line, decreasing in size from the middle down each side in order of height. She resembled the woman in the alley, but there were differences too. Elspeth had plumper cheeks, and her eyes were set closer together. It also appeared she might have had freckles, if the black and white picture wasn’t playing tricks on her eyes.
Penelope then turned to the news, looking for any updates on the case. The main story, of course, was the incident at the Vitrine the night before, and the member of the crew being involved in an accident during the show. There was no mention of anyone tampering with the light box, and she wondered if Armand had pulled any strings to keep that news out of the paper.
She sat back in her chair and thought. Who would have been able to get to the power box and cut the lights during the show? It had to have been someone with knowledge of the theater’s layout, who came prepared to cut the lock. She didn’t imagine a patron would have been able to get backstage and go unnoticed.
The sidebar article was about the death in the alley, and Penelope clicked on it. They still hadn’t identified the victim. A computerized photo of her face was included with the article and Penelope stared at it, her hollow cheeks and thin lips, her narrow almond-shaped eyes, that were light brown, almost the same color as her hair. A tip line number was printed below the graphic, urging people to come forward with any information about the woman.
Penelope stood up and stretched, then went to her coat, which she’d slung over one of the dining room chairs. Reaching inside one of the pockets for the stack of coasters Abigail had let her take from her apartment, her fingers brushed against a small piece of metal.
She pulled out the item, remembering the
star-shaped medal she’d found in the coat closet at the theater. She held it up to get a better look, noticing it was tarnished and brassy, the design a star within a star. Walking back to the table she set it down, then spread the stack of coasters onto the table.
Picking up one after the other, she made a list, looking up the addresses for a few of them. The elevator pinged faintly outside in the hallway off the suite.
“There you are,” Arlena said as she came through the door.
“Hey,” Penelope said, setting down her pen. “Just doing a little research.”
“Everything coming along well?” Arlena asked.
“I’m thinking of it as mise en place,” Penelope said, nodding. “Everything in its place. The secret of all great chefs. Before you begin, get yourself organized.”
“If everything could only be that easy,” Arlena said. She took a seat at the table and crossed her arms.
“What’s up?” Penelope asked.
“Do you feel like I’m doing too much? I mean, this movie with Daddy, and I have a wedding to plan…”
“I think you can do whatever you think you can do,” Penelope said. “I can help with the wedding, you know. Come up with a menu. I worked a few nice ones between semesters in culinary school.”
“I know. I don’t want to ask too much of you,” Arlena said, shaking her head.
“Have you set a date yet?”
“Not yet,” Arlena admitted.
“Then it’s up to you. Maybe put off the planning until after this project?” Penelope said.
“You’re the most rational person I know,” Arlena said with a laugh. “I don’t have to drive myself crazy.”
“Exactly,” Penelope said.
“Anyway, back to the work at hand…the crew will be here soon to set up, and I’ve got some interviews with the performers before the show.”
“They’re going forward with the shows today?” Penelope asked. “I mean, after last night?”
Arlena shrugged. “They didn’t cancel them. I’m not sure how many people might not show up because of last night, but as far as I know they’re pressing on as planned. Armand said it was probably a prank.”
“Pretty stupid prank, and dangerous,” Penelope said darkly.
“I know,” Arlena said. “I get the idea that they can’t lose the revenue by cancelling shows. I’m not sure what they would’ve done if Daddy hadn’t come along with his influx of cash.”
The door opened and Francis entered, carrying a cardboard drink container with a few coffees tucked inside.
“Good coffee run?” Penelope teased.
“Yeah,” Francis said. “I brought a few.”
“Excellent,” Penelope said.
“That block is weird,” Francis said.
“How’s that?” Arlena asked.
“It’s a mix of beautiful women at the theater, then an office building full of accountants next door, and a bunch of homeless dudes thrown in for flavor,” Francis said.
Penelope got up and looked out the window at the theater, then down the block toward the shelter, then the other way toward the coffee shop. Commuters walked quickly down the street, heading off for their day or to the subway station that was two blocks away on Broadway.
“Hey where did you get the service medal?” Francis asked, picking up the small emblem from the table.
“That’s what that is?” Penelope asked.
“Yeah, my grandfather had one of these,” Francis said. “From his time in Vietnam.”
“I found it at the theater,” Penelope said. “When I was locked in the coat closet.”
“Probably fell out of someone’s jacket,” Arlena said. “Armand probably has a lost and found.”
“Good idea,” Penelope said. She remembered the closeness of the closet, the momentary panic she’d felt inside. She slipped the medal into the pocket of her jeans and reminded herself to bring it to lost and found the next time she was inside the theater.
The small round windows on the top floor of the theater reflected the morning sunlight. Penelope thought about all of the people who had passed through its doors, their dreams of dancing on Broadway coming true, and all the joy they had given audiences over the years.
A shadow cut across one of the windows, and Penelope focused on it. A pigeon landed on the roof above it and fluttered its wings, then took flight, its shadow momentarily darkening the glass with its reflection.
Penelope watched the bird fly higher into the sky and took a deep breath. Something moved behind one of the attic windows again and Penelope saw someone staring back at her from the attic.
Chapter 29
“In the attic,” Penelope said. “I saw someone up there.”
“From across the street?” Armand asked doubtfully. He sat behind his desk in his office that hovered above the stage. Penelope was still catching her breath after hurrying over and climbing the stairs to find him dining on a croissant and latte at his desk. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” Penelope said. “At first, I thought it was a shadow, or the reflection of a pigeon on the roof, but then I saw him. There was someone up there, I know it. Who else is here right now?”
“Only me, unless someone from the crew decided to come in early. But no one really goes up there,” Armand said. “I’ve got the only key to the top floor. It’s just storage, and the archives.”
“Then you should definitely have a look, if you haven’t been up there yourself this morning,” Penelope said. “What if someone is hiding up there? Or it’s whoever pulled that prank last night?”
Armand sat up straighter at that. “All right then, I suppose we should check it out.”
“We?” Penelope said.
“Oh you must come with me,” Armand said. “I want you to show me exactly what you saw.”
Penelope followed Armand up a back staircase from the apartment suite attached to his office, through a hatch in the rear bedroom. When they opened the hatch, a bit of dust fell in on them.
“See, my dear?” Armand said. “No one has been up there in weeks.”
Penelope’s confidence in what she had seen slipped as they climbed into the attic. Armand flipped on the light switch and several bulbs suspended from the rafters came on, although the morning sun illuminated enough to show Armand was probably right, the attic was an abandoned space.
A dressmaker dummy had been pushed up against one of the walls near the window. Penelope’s cheeks reddened when she saw it, and imagined how the daylight may have been playing tricks with her eyes.
“I guess I imagined it,” Penelope sighed. “Sorry to drag you up here.”
“Not a problem at all, my dear,” Armand said, placing his hands in his suit jacket pockets.
“How is your injured crew member?” Penelope asked.
“He has a broken leg and a fractured wrist,” Armand said. “He’s fortunate he fell the way he did.”
“Did he say anything about what happened?” Penelope asked.
“Only kept repeating that Bainbridge pushed him,” Armand said with a shake of his head.
“Isn’t that the ghost?” Penelope asked.
“One in the same. You can see why I’m skeptical.”
“You don’t believe in Bainbridge?” Penelope asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t,” Armand said. “I find human beings are perfectly capable of causing all the mayhem on earth we require.”
Penelope walked to the dress form and put a hand on it, feeling the polyester material beneath her fingers. The toe of her boot tapped a box against the wall, and Penelope crouched down to open it.
“Oh my,” Penelope said.
“What is it?” Armand asked.
“Maybe I’m not crazy after all,” she said, plucking out a small picture.
Holding it up for Armand to see, s
he said, “This was the photo that was taken from my wallet the first day we were here.”
“I stand corrected,” Armand said. “It appears we have an intruder in the attic!”
“But how do you suppose he gets up here?” Armand asked, eyeing the neglected space around them.
Penelope looked at the floor, and saw that some of the dust had been trodden through, leading to one of the windows facing the rear alley of the theater. She went over and pressed on the window frame.
“This one is loose,” Penelope said, swinging it outward.
“I suppose our ghost in the attic could squeeze through there, if he wasn’t too large,” Armand said.
“I think you could make it,” she said, eyeing his slender frame.
“I would probably get stuck,” Armand said, patting his flat stomach. “I suppose I should call Detective Doyle.” Armand wrung his hands. “I fear all this commotion won’t be good for the Vitrine. I wouldn’t want word to get out some ghoul was pillaging our patrons’ personal items while they’re trying to enjoy a night at the theater.”
Penelope went back to the box and looked again. “Nothing in here looks all that valuable,” she said. “It’s all personal things: photos, and trinkets, souvenirs you could get anywhere.”
“Then why run the risk of taking them at all?” Armand said in exasperation.
“When we figure that out, we’ll be closer to finding your squatter.”
Chapter 30
Detective Doyle looked up at the fire escape snaking down the back of the theater into the alley and nodded.
“I suppose that’s how he gets up there,” Doyle said, shielding his eyes from the sunlight. “Tell me again exactly what you saw.”
Penelope related the events of that morning, including finding the dress form near the window. When she finished she asked, “Detective, have you gotten any closer to figuring out the name of the woman in the alley?”
“Not yet,” Doyle said, shaking his head. “We’ve had hundreds of calls, most of them dead ends, or people who have a family member missing, some who look nothing like our victim.”
MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS Page 12
