I nodded slowly; Maggie’s words jibed with the theory that we’d been toying with, that the killer was not only re-creating Josiah Black’s crimes but also enacting an act of revenge on the town that had shaped his family all those years ago and continued to shape it, even now.
“Did Griffith tell you what his plan was? There are similarities with his grandfather’s crimes, but differences, too. Important differences, like locations and victims. As far as we can figure, we think Griffith might target the Playhouse for his final attack.”
Maggie started crying again. This time, Armstrong left his space in the corner. He came and held his daughter’s hand, tight. She said, sobbing through her words, “You might be right. Milo said that after tonight, we wouldn’t be able to be together … and then he said he’d rather see me dead than not be with me. I honestly thought he might kill me. He gave me a shot of something, in the arm, then said I had to stay away from the theater tonight. Gemma, I think he might hurt himself.”
“We’re going to find him before that can happen.” I didn’t bother telling her that we would do whatever it took to prevent a massacre, even if that meant stopping Griffith with force. Deadly force, if necessary.
“He’s not a bad man,” Maggie said, her voice choked with emotion. “I think he’s sick. He … gets angry easily. Shuts me out. Then he’s apologetic, upset with himself.”
“Did he talk about his years as a SEAL?”
She nodded. “Yes, though he’d told me most of it when we first started dating. It wasn’t some big secret. He joined the Navy when he was eighteen. Within a few years, he was recruited for the SEALs. He loved it, really thought that was where he’d spend the rest of his days. Milo liked the idea of serving his country, like the grandfather he’d never met. But then he was involved in an accident. He wouldn’t go into details, but he said the military forced him to resign. Milo was lost after that. He had no degree, no real home, no ambition to do anything but be a SEAL. And that was taken away from him. And he started thinking it was an awful lot like what had happened to his family; everything they loved was taken from them one by one. And he had an idea about something that might make him feel better.”
“Take revenge on the town that started it all.”
Maggie tipped her head in acknowledgment. Her eyelids fluttered, and for a moment it appeared as though she might pass out. Telling the story, reliving Milo’s pain, was taking a toll on her.
But we were too far in to stop now.
“Maggie, what else can you tell us?” I asked her urgently.
Armstrong had been watching his daughter. Now he turned to me and shook his head. He whispered, “She’s had enough. I’ll stay with her; if she remembers anything more, I’ll call you. You and Finn should get to the Playhouse.”
* * *
By the time we arrived at the theater, it was nearly four o’clock. Doors would open in three hours and Nash Dumont was fit to be tied. He, and his crew, had been sequestered across the street in a pancake joint that had been cleared of all other customers, a sign hung in the door that read “Temporarily Closed.”
Dumont and the actors had been told that there was a possible gas leak, and the source of it needed to be found before anyone could reenter the theater. It was a weak excuse, but at the end of the day, no one wants to die from a gas explosion, and so the whole lot of them went, in their medieval costumes, and picked at blueberry pancakes.
Everyone except Nash Dumont.
The director stood resolutely in the front window of the restaurant, his stage manager, Waverly, by his side, watching as yet another emergency service vehicle pulled up. She was dressed in gold from head to toe, a shimmery turtleneck sweater atop gold-toned jeans, bangles at her neck and wrist. I realized it wasn’t red she preferred at all, but monochrome dressing. The gold reminded me of something, but before I could put my finger on it, Nash Dumont broke free from the pancake place and intercepted me in the street.
“Goddamn it, Gemma, tell me what the hell is going on. I am supposed to open my beautiful theater to a sold-out crowd in three hours, and no one will tell me a damn thing about what is happening. Where are my lead actors? Do they have anything to do with this bullshit about a gas leak?” His face was practically the same shade of purple as his shirt, and it was painful to watch as he threw an adult-size tantrum. When he actually stomped his feet, it was hard not to giggle.
But there was nothing to giggle about, in all of it.
He was also married to the town’s judge and I knew he deserved to know the truth, at least part of it. I took a deep breath. “Milo Griffith attacked Maggie Armstrong. She’s in the hospital. We have people looking for Milo, but we currently believe the biggest threat is to the theater itself. So, we are doing our due diligence and checking things out.”
The director went completely pale. His hand went to his chest and for a moment, I thought he was having a heart attack. He managed to gasp out, “What … are … you talking about?”
Finn cut in and as usual, got right to the point. “There’s a good chance your play is going to be canceled tonight, by order of the Cedar Valley Police Department. And I’d find yourself a couple of new lead actors.”
Dumont staggered backward and not without some grace sank dramatically down to the street curb, where he sat, head in hands, and wept.
Ramirez and Fuego emerged from the theater. She gestured for Finn and me to join her, off to the side, in privacy. She wiped sweat from her forehead, and for a moment I had a terrible sense of déjà vu. This was how I’d first seen her, wiping at her brow, standing by the body of a burned man.
“There’s nothing.”
I stared at her. “Nothing?”
She shook her head and squatted to pour water from her bottle into a collapsible bowl for Fuego. The dog lapped it up, then lay down. “There’s not a trace of explosives in the theater. Nothing. The place is cleaner than a whore on Sunday … Well, let’s just say it’s clean.”
“That doesn’t mean Milo couldn’t still be planning to hit the Playhouse. He could lock everyone in and set fire to the building from the outside. Throw a couple of Molotov cocktails through a window and whoosh, the whole place would go up.” My imagination was running down a dozen scenarios. We were missing something, but what? The Shotgun Playhouse fit with everything we knew about Milo Griffith. “We can’t let the play go on tonight.”
“The hell you can’t,” a low but insistent voice said from behind me. I recognized it immediately and made a face at Finn and Ramirez for not warning me that Mayor Cabot had crept up.
I turned around and faced her. “Excuse me?”
She smiled coldly. “Detective, over my dead body will the opening night of this play be canceled. Gloria and Nash Dumont are upstanding citizens of our fine town and they’ve sunk a lot of money into this theater. I’ll be damned if we don’t open on account of a little theory of yours. Yes, Chief Chavez filled me in. Decades-old crimes, comic books … you’ve got a fancy imagination in that pretty little head of yours.”
“But Mayor—”
“No.” She wagged a finger in my face and hoisted her shoulder bag up higher. From within the depths of it, her terrier, Dixie, let out a growl. “No. You can station cops wherever the hell you want. But these doors will open on time or you’ll find yourself out of a job. Understand?”
She didn’t wait for a reply, at least not one from Finn, Ramirez, or me. Instead, she went to Nash Dumont and leaned down close, whispered something in his ear. Dumont’s face lit up. He shot me a look of triumph.
“Damn it,” I muttered underneath my breath. “Can she do that?”
Finn had an equal look of dismay. “I think she just did.”
Dumont sprang up from the curb, his fedora askew, and raced across the street to the pancake house. Within a minute, the whole troupe of cast and crew was running back into the theater, their medieval costumes gathering modern dirt and grime at the hems.
Finn and I spent a few moments
conferring, realizing we needed to change our game plan. Finally, we decided that if this was really going to happen, if the doors would open come hell or high water, then we’d have to cover every exit and entry point. I called Moriarty and asked him to join us, and to bring another couple of officers. Meanwhile, Finn called the chief and recommended that he position all other available personnel, including Sheriff Underhill and anyone else from out of town, in strategic places across town.
As soon as Moriarty arrived with two officers, I politely requested that Nash Dumont lead the seven of us, including Ramirez and Fuego, on a complete tour of the theater. Dumont agreed, though remained snooty throughout, muttering the whole time that Fuego better not dirty the carpets.
After Ramirez finally muttered back that her dog was better behaved than he was, Dumont shut up.
I was already familiar with the soaring lobby, and the beautiful theater itself, with its burgundy seats and polished-to-a-sheen banisters. The enormous chandelier shone brighter than I’d seen before, throwing down thousands of sparkly beams of light. Tucked discreetly behind a gold, shimmery curtain about halfway down the aisle was an emergency exit. I tested it, noticed no alarms went off when I found it unlocked and pushed it open. I also noticed there was no knob or handle on the outside; the door could only open from the inside.
Then a deep whirring noise drew our attention to the stage, where the curtains were slowly parting. I gasped when I saw the set. I could practically smell the open fires of the military camp and feel the chilly night air of the gathering storm. In the forefront, to the side, was the courtyard of a gray stone castle.
“What play is this?” Finn asked in a low voice. “Hamlet?”
“No, it’s Mac—”
Quicker than I could breathe, Nash Dumont had swirled around, a raised finger practically up my nose. He shouted, “Do not say that word!”
Then he turned around and continued to walk us down the aisle and backstage. Finn looked at me, his eyebrows lifted high. I shrugged and said, “It’s a long story. The play is cursed. You’re not supposed to say M-A-C-B-E-T-H.”
Ahead of us, Dumont stopped suddenly. “There are three dressing rooms on the right, three on the left. It’s what you’d expect, where we do our costume changes and apply stage makeup and in general take a break from the spotlight.”
“How are they separated? By gender?”
Dumont rolled his eyes at Moriarty. “This is the theater, pal. Nothing shocks us. No, the rooms are used by whoever needs them, whenever. There’re no prima donnas in my cast.”
I stepped into the closest dressing room. It was the size of a bedroom, the walls lined with counters and exposed bulbs, costumes draped over chairs. It was the same dressing room that had been trashed by the theater vandal, though it was clean now. Or rather, not clean, but the mess was the kind you’d expect from a frequently used dressing room.
Something caught my eye in the corner and I knelt down. With a gloved hand, I dragged my finger through the thick, dark substance. When I held my hand up to the light, the scarlet sticky substance glowed and I stood up, my heart suddenly pounding. “Guys, I’ve got blood over here.”
The team crowded into the room and I pointed to the puddle, then turned to Dumont. “Nash, this is now an active crime scene. I’m going to need to call in our crime scene techs, have them sample this.”
“Oh, for crying out loud!” To my horror, Dumont grabbed my hand and licked my gloved finger, then spat. “It’s corn syrup and food dye. Stage blood. Get it? It’s not real. So there’s no problem.”
I yanked my hand from his. “Well, give my regards to your makeup director. And get someone to clean that up, it’s creepy to leave a puddle of blood, even fake blood, out like that.”
Dumont rolled his eyes again. “Shall we continue?”
He showed us the rest of the dressing rooms. There were a few closets, a bathroom that had been updated and remodeled, and another one-way exit to the outside.
Then we went to the control booth, another add-on to the original theater. It was a small, enclosed space above the lobby, accessible by a narrow staircase. We peeked inside. I recognized the woman sitting at the controls, her thick eyeglasses emphasizing the roundness of her face. Her hair was piled atop her head in a tightly wound bun and big headphones covered her ears. It was Freya, the sound and light technician, busily testing things on stage. She blushed when she saw the large group of us crowding into her personal space.
I glanced out at the seats, the stage. “I want to station an officer up here, with her. It’s the perfect vantage point to see the whole theater and the audience. Is this the highest point in the building?”
Dumont thought a moment, then nodded. “Yes. There used to be access to the roof, but we secured that door when we built on this control room. Gloria and I have the only keys.”
I looked out over the stage as the lighting technician played with shadowy effects. The lights themselves came from bulbs set into big black rigs affixed to the ceiling with thick safety cables and chains. The whole apparatus looked to easily weigh hundreds of pounds.
“Nash, those lights … those are new?”
The director nodded again. He pointed to the rigs. “All of that, it’s state of the art. The original Shotgun had gas lighting. It would have been very atmospheric but was, as you can imagine, harder to control and often dangerous. After Edison, lighting in the theaters really improved. These that you see here are tungsten halogen, instead of incandescent. The bulbs use a halogen gas; helps the bulbs’ lifespan and output.”
Freya removed her headphones. In a voice shaking with indignation and fear, she said, “He’s right, though we’ve been having trouble with these lights for weeks. I think your contact sold you a pile of doo-doo, Mr. Dumont.”
Dumont’s face flushed. He said through gritted teeth, “Call me Nash. And let me deal with that prick. You just make sure everything is up and running by six.”
Freya’s blush deepened and she and I happened to make eye contact.
It was then that I saw it.
A single gold ball in her left earlobe.
“Did you lose this?” I withdrew the earring I’d found in the burnt-out lobby closet from my purse, carefully unwrapping the tissue and revealing the gold ball still smudged by ash. It was sheer luck, or carelessness, that I’d forgotten to place it in evidence. Freya paled and tried to stand up, but her legs gave out.
“Where … where did you find that?” She croaked out the words, her eyes already watering.
“I think you know. Guys, could you give up some space? Finn, you and Nash stay, please.” I waited until the tiny room had cleared out, then turned back to Freya. Nash looked thoroughly confused, though it was clear that Finn had quickly put two and two together.
“Why?”
Freya swallowed hard and straightened in her chair. She summoned the same strength that had helped her attack various parts of the theater and hissed, “Because Waverly and Nash and all the rest of these sheep treat me like I’m a talentless heel. ‘Oh, Freya, stick to the lights. You’re so good at them.’ The truth is, they just don’t want to see a plain, overweight woman of my age on the stage. They think it will turn audience members’ stomachs. Well, guess what? Guess who’s been acting for weeks now? Me. Freya Dunlop. I fooled you all.”
Next to me, Nash looked as though he were about to keel over from shock. He managed to whisper, “I trusted you. I had no idea you wanted so badly to act. And who on earth would you have played?”
“Obviously, someone with power. With skill. A witch, perhaps.” Freya stood up and the three of us, Finn, me, and Nash, all took a step back. She smiled at our obvious discomfort and raised her hands high above her head, channeling whatever spirit goddess she imagined herself to be. “Maybe I’m a witch in real life.”
She suddenly lowered her hands and glared at us. “Maybe I’m a witch and I’ve already cursed you all to hell.”
“Lady, this is Cedar Valley, not Salem
. You’re under arrest.” Finn had her in cuffs and her rights read within the minute. Freya stared at us balefully, then lowered her head and began to weep.
As Finn escorted her out of the control room, Freya muttered, “I just want to be someone. Someone who matters.”
Nash was angry. “Jesus Christ, what a delusional wreck. Sound and light is everything in the theater. She was someone. I’ve got to find Waverly; she’ll have to run effects tonight. Damn it, this just gets worse and worse.”
The tour finished, we took our places. Dumont stormed off across the street to round up the last of his actors. Finn and I remained in the lobby, front and center. I couldn’t believe what was happening. The front doors would open soon and though we had officers stationed at every entrance and exit, and inside the theater, it still felt as though we were playing Russian roulette with the devil himself. My only consolation was that if anything so much as an accidental fall happened tonight, I’d personally see to it that Mayor Cabot’s ass got handed to her on a silver platter, dog and all, in the next election cycle.
“This is a bad idea,” I whispered into the discreet radio on my wrist, tucked into my sleeve pocket. From across the lobby, Finn nodded in agreement. Even the air felt charged with a strange energy. For a moment, I wondered if the ghost stories were true and the old place was slowly filling with the spirits of the long-departed actors, builders, and audience members. It was unsettling to think that the people who’d last been in the Shotgun when it was open, more than a hundred years ago, were all long dead.
Shatter the Night Page 28
