“I was thinking of Aziza Zorn.”
“Ugh.”
That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. “So you do know Aziza,” I said noncommittally.
“She makes sure everybody knows her. Aziza thinks she’s the new Cate Blanchett or something,” Sunny sniffed. “A real drama queen. Not to mention the fact that she always acts like she’s better than everybody else.”
“Would you have recognized her voice?” I asked. “If she was the woman who was arguing with Simon that night?”
Sunny shook her head. “I’m really sorry, but it’s like I told the police. I couldn’t tell whose voice it was. I was in the dressing room next door, for one thing, so I heard them through the wall. There are two dressing rooms, one for men and one for women. I was in the women’s, cleaning the big mirror. Somebody had gotten lipstick all over it. Can you imagine? It’s such a pain to get that stuff off too. And to answer your other question, it was around nine. I wasn’t wearing a watch that night, so I’m afraid I can’t be any more precise than that. But I know I was running late, because my friends were teasing me about it when I finally caught up with them afterward.”
“What about Lacey Croft?” I asked patiently. “How well do you know her?”
“Not much better than I know Aziza,” she replied. “She sure seems a lot nicer, though. She does the costumes for a lot of the shows, so a lot of times she works here late. In fact, sometimes it’s just me and her, both of us working away long after everybody else has gone home.”
“I see,” I said, thinking, So no one would find it unusual if Lacey was here after hours.
“Hey, have the police figured out what the murderer used to kill Simon yet?” Sunny asked eagerly.
“No, not yet.”
“I have a theory of my own, you know,” she announced with pride. “Not that the cops were interested in hearing it. Especially that obnoxious guy who’s named after a bird and is only about as big as one.”
Her characterization of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone made me smile. “I’m interested in your theory,” I told her.
Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial near-whisper, she said, “There’s this really cool place backstage called the props closet. Have you ever been in there?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I have. I go in there to dust every once in a while. It’s where all the props from the show are stored every night after rehearsal. But lots of old props from other shows are in there too. There’s all kinds of great stuff! And my theory is that somebody took something out of that closet and bashed poor Simon in the head with it. Then they put it back, probably pushing it behind a bunch of other old props. For all I know, the killer’s fingerprints are all over it and it’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered!”
It was an interesting theory—especially since it raised the question of whether or not Simon’s murder had been premeditated. From the first, I’d assumed that Simon had been killed in the heat of the moment, mainly because of where he’d been struck down. An empty theater wasn’t the best place to commit such a heinous crime, since it wasn’t exactly private. People went in and out of Theater One all the time. Simon, for example, who had shown up there even though no rehearsal was scheduled for that night, as well as the mysterious woman who had gotten involved in a shouting match with him. The killer must have been aware that someone could walk in at any time.
Then there was the problem of hiding Simon’s body. The killer had stashed it in a trunk. Once again, not a good choice, especially for someone who wanted to keep the crime a secret for at least a little while.
There was another possibility, of course. And that was that the murderer was making a statement by killing Simon inside Theater One. After all, this theater was undoubtedly the most important place in the victim’s life. Within these walls, he was witnessing the musical he had created on paper come to life. It had to have been a thrilling time for him—and his killer had to have known it.
“What did the police say about your theory?” I asked.
“Actually, that bird guy hardly let me say anything,” Sunny said, grimacing. “Aside from answering his stupid questions, that is. When I tried to tell him I had an idea about how the murder went down and where the weapon was, he gave me this little speech about how I should leave the investigation to the pros—like him.”
Been there, done that, I thought. Aloud, I said, “That sounds like something Falcone would say.”
Sunny’s eyes suddenly grew big. “Wanna see it?”
“See what?”
“The props closet. I’m telling you, it’s a really cool place. Maybe you’ll even be able to pick out the murder weapon.”
“Sure. Let’s go.”
My heart was pounding as I followed her into the left wing and through a doorway that led backstage. Not only would this impromptu tour give me a chance to see the props closet. It also afforded me the first opportunity I’d had to get a good look at the crime scene without arousing suspicion.
We walked along a hallway lined with doors, including one marked WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM and one marked MEN’S DRESSING ROOM. As soon as we passed them, she made a sharp left onto a much shorter corridor. At the end was a closed door.
She flung it open, revealing a closet that measured about four feet by four feet. Three of its walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. A single bulb in the ceiling provided enough dim light to see the amazing assortment of items packed in there. There were trophies, a globe, a silver Viking helmet, and an elaborate crown that could have been worn by King Arthur. The rolled-up flags of several different nations stood in one corner. One shelf was crammed with fake food, including a big bowl of fruit and a rubber fish, as well as empty boxes of Cheerios and other familiar name-brand products. I saw wineglasses, umbrellas, eyeglasses, an old-fashioned radio, a teddy bear, paper fans, guns, busts, a guitar, plastic lizards, a rubber snake, and a stuffed bird that looked really fake up close but probably worked just fine onstage.
“What’s that?” I asked. I pointed to a good-size metal box with a handle that was sitting on the floor, shoved beneath the shelves. It looked more like a piece of electrical equipment than a prop.
“That’s a fog machine,” Sunny explained. “See? It says Pro Fogger here on the side. I accidentally flipped the switch once when I was cleaning up in here. A couple of minutes later, all this fog started pouring out of it. Once I figured out what was happening, it was pretty cool.” She laughed. “See, it’s things like that that keep this job interesting.”
The amount of stuff packed in the props closet was mind-boggling. And Sunny was right. Many of the items sitting on the shelves could have been used to commit murder.
“So what do you think?” Sunny asked, holding out both hands to indicate the incredible assortment of items. “Did Miss Scarlet use the lead pipe, the candlestick, or maybe that bust of Socrates over there? Of course, it’s only papier-mâché, so you’d be lucky if you could kill a mosquito with it. But how about this clock? It’s made of brass, I think. You could easily bash somebody’s head in with that. And check out this metal sword. It’s pretty heavy. That’s what I’d use if I wanted to kill somebody.”
I suddenly realized that our impromptu backstage tour presented me with a golden opportunity.
“Sunny,” I said, “could you show me exactly where you were standing when you overheard Simon arguing with a woman?”
“Sure,” she replied brightly. “Follow me.”
We retraced our steps, this time stopping in front of the door marked WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM. As I stepped inside, I saw that it looked just like the ones I’d seen in the movies. A counter lined one wall, and directly above were large mirrors framed with round white lightbulbs. The counter was littered with makeup, hairbrushes, bobby pins, cotton balls, and tissues. Plastic bins sat on a shelf high above, labeled Beauty Products: Wipes, Etc; Hair Spray/Gels; and Wigs, Hats, Q-tips, Fabric Freshener.
“Where were you standing when
you heard the altercation?” I asked.
“Right here.” Sunny took a step sideways, then stood up straight as a soldier once she got into position. “I remember exactly where I was, because I was struggling to get this stupid lipstick stain off.” Frowning, she leaned forward and ran her finger over the mirror. “Look, you can still see a smudge.”
“And you heard the argument through here?” I pointed at the wall behind the mirror she was still scrutinizing.
“Yup. I guess these walls aren’t that thick. Besides, Simon and whoever else was in there were both pretty loud.”
“But you didn’t hear what they were saying.”
“Nope. As soon as I realized a fight was going on, I drowned it out with my music.” With a shrug, she added, “I come here to clean, not eavesdrop. I figured I’d give them some privacy, since they seemed to think they were the alone in the theater.”
No doubt, I thought.
“Can you also show me the spot where the police found Simon’s body?” I asked.
“Sure. It’s right next door, in the men’s dressing room.”
The other dressing room was almost identical to the first. But they were mirror images of each other.
“This is it,” Sunny said ruefully. “The room where the argument took place and the room where Simon was killed. From what I understand, the trunk his body was found in was right about here.” With both hands, she indicated an area toward the back of the small room, near the counter. “Of course, the police took it with them as evidence. But it had been sitting in this corner for a long time. Certainly as long as I’ve been working here, which is, like, seven or eight months.”
We were both silent for a few moments, as if each of us was contemplating the awful event that had transpired right in this spot just a few days earlier. I had hoped that finally visiting the scene of the crime would provide me with some insights I wouldn’t have had otherwise. Instead, being here just made me feel sad.
“Simon was really a nice guy,” Sunny finally said, speaking with a kind of reverence. “I know everybody’s talking about how great he was, now that he’s dead. But that always happens when someone dies. Simon was pretty great, though. He had a terrific smile, and he never walked by me without saying something friendly. He had a way of making me feel like I mattered—”
Suddenly she gasped. “Oh, my gosh. What time is it?”
I glanced at my watch. “A few minutes past noon.”
“I gotta get busy. I just took on a new cleaning job at a law office. I’m supposed to meet with them at three to find out exactly what they want me to do.”
When we returned to the stage, where Sunny had left her broom, she turned to me and said, “Hey, have you got a business card?”
“Sure.” When I handed her one, she studied it. “Wow. Jessica Popper, DVM. It must be so cool to see your name like that. With those letters after it, I mean. It makes you seem really important, y’know?”
“The main thing is that those letters mean I can do a job I really enjoy.”
“You’re so lucky,” she said wistfully.
“I guess I am,” I agreed. “Anyway, thanks for the tour. And thanks for sharing your theory about the murder weapon with me.”
“No problem. Think about my offer, okay?” she called after me as I headed down the aisle. “If you ever need help, I’m your girl.”
“I’ll keep that thought in mind,” I told her.
And I did file it away, just as I’d promised. Even if it was way in back.
Chapter 9
“No animal should ever jump up on the dining-room furniture unless absolutely certain that he can hold his own in the conversation.”
—Fran Lebowitz
As I left the theater, I checked my schedule and saw I had some time before my next appointment. I decided to use it to pay Kyle another visit.
Making a second house call so soon after the first was only partly legitimate. True, it wasn’t a bad idea to check up on Monty and see how the Weimaraner’s wounds were healing. But my real purpose was trying to pump a little more information out of his owner. I’d been interested in his claim that Lacey was the guilty party ever since I’d first heard him voice his opinion. Now that I knew Sunny had overheard Simon arguing with a woman Friday night, I was anxious to find out more about the status of Lacey’s relationship with Simon at the time he was killed.
I decided to call first to make sure he was home. After pulling into the first parking lot I spotted, outside a supermarket, I punched Kyle’s number into my cell phone. I was greeted by the usual “Hello?” at the other end of the line.
“Hello, Kyle?” I said. “This is Jessie Popper. I’m close to your house, and I thought I’d stop by to see how Monty is doing, if this is a convenient time.”
“Sorry, Kyle’s not here right now.” It was only then I realized the man I was speaking to had a British accent. After a pause, he added, “This is his roommate, Ian.
“But if you’d like to check on Monty,” he continued, “you’re welcome to come over. I’m sure Kyle wouldn’t mind. In fact, he’d probably be grateful that you’re taking such good care of that beloved beast of his.”
“Great. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
I was mildly disappointed that I wouldn’t have a second chance to pump Kyle for information. But the opportunity to meet his roommate was at least as valuable. While Ian Norman wasn’t part of the theater world in which Simon traveled these days, I was still curious about just how “friendly” this trio of college buddies was—and whether the intrigues within their little group could have driven either Kyle or Ian to murder.
I’d barely pulled up in front of the tiny brown house when the door opened. A man in his thirties stood in the doorway. He was dressed in very dark jeans that looked crisp and new. The same went for his navy blue sweatshirt with Massachusetts Institute of Technology emblazoned across the front in white letters. If that old saying about the clothes making the man was correct, then Kyle hadn’t been exaggerating when he’d described his roommate as a computer geek.
Yet the rest of his look didn’t quite fit the nerd template, as if he was trying not to succumb to it fully. Underneath his baseball cap, he had curly hair with a reddish tinge that made him look like a throwback to the 1960s. His scraggly beard, also reddish-brown, was sorely in need of a trim, which went even further in giving him the look of an aging Flower Child. Then there were his wire-rimmed glasses. They weren’t at all the type of spectacles favored by the computer nerds I’d encountered.
“Dr. Popper, I presume,” Ian said, his dark eyes peering at me through his thick lenses as I neared the door.
“That’s me,” I replied. Smiling, I added, “For some reason, that big old van parked outside always gives me away.”
“It does, rather, doesn’t it?” he replied, chuckling. “I’m Ian Norman. Ian Michael Norman, if you want the complete introduction.”
“Nice to meet you, Ian,” I said, shaking his hand. “Especially since I’ve already heard so much about you.”
“Oh, dear,” he said, sighing. “Now I have to worry about what Kyle’s been saying about me.”
“Nothing but good things, I assure you.”
“That’s a relief. But, goodness, I’m certainly not being much of a host, am I? Please, come inside.” As he opened the door, he added, “And I should mention that Kyle has also told me wonderful things about you. Mainly that you’ve taken good care of Monty.”
I had to smile at his proper way of speaking. He reminded me of Winston, who epitomized the proper English gentleman. You couldn’t help expecting this man to suggest tea and crumpets—if not a tour of Buckingham Palace.
In fact, I found it absolutely charming. But my focus quickly shifted to Monty, who had raced over to greet me.
“Hey, Monty,” I said, crouching down and fondling his soft silver ears. “How’s my boy? How’s my fella?”
Glancing up at Ian, I asked, “Has Monty been staying inside? I told Ky
le that was important to help his wounds heal.”
“Goodness, yes,” Ian replied. “The little devil’s been underfoot constantly.” Rolling his eyes, he added, “It’s been positively maddening.”
“But the best way to help the poor guy get better,” I commented. “I’m anxious to see how he’s coming along.”
“Maybe you’d like to take him into the kitchen to examine him,” Ian suggested.
“Normally I’d bring him into the van,” I said. “I’ve got an entire clinic in there. But for something like this, I can check him out right here.”
Still crouching beside the dog, I examined the wounds on his thigh. There was almost no pus, a sign that the infection was clearing.
“Monty looks great,” I told Ian. “But it might not be a bad idea for me to check on him again in a few days. In the meantime, please tell Kyle to continue giving him the antibiotic and to keep up with the warm compresses twice a day.”
“Will do,” Ian assured me. “Now, how about a cup of tea? Or do you have to run off?”
I generally don’t avail myself of my clients’ hospitality, largely because I simply don’t have the time. But Ian wasn’t just any client. He was the friend and roommate of one of the suspects in Simon Wainwright’s murder. He was also the person who’d provided Kyle’s alibi—and possibly a suspect himself.
“Tea would be great,” I told him.
“Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested. “I’ll just toddle into the kitchen for a moment to get things started.”
“Thanks.”
As Monty settled happily into a corner, I took advantage of being left alone to do a little snooping around the living room, something I hadn’t had a chance to do during my first visit. I started with the wooden bookshelf tucked away in the corner, next to what appeared to be a nonworking fireplace. Not surprisingly, many of the tattered paperbacks were plays. I spotted the works of Samuel Beckett, Anton Chekhov, Sam Shepard, Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, Tom Stoppard, Neil Simon, and, of course, William Shakespeare. I didn’t know much about acting, but I knew a comprehensive collection of the world’s greatest plays when I saw one.
Who's Kitten Who? Page 13
