“What was strange about that?” I wasn’t sure where this was going.
“She was really angry.”
“Do you think it was because you startled her?”
“No, she was angry before she looked up and saw me. Then she was angry at me too.”
I remembered the time I overheard her on the phone with someone. She had been annoyed that time as well. In fact, she had slammed down the phone. Could she have been upset that Carlos had overheard her conversation?
“Did you hear anything she said on the phone while you were at the door?”
Carlos twisted the brim of his hat back and forth and his breathing quickened.
“Please believe me, Carlos. Anything you heard might be helpful.”
“Let me think. The police, they didn’t ask me about the package. At the time, I was upset because she was angry with me for opening the door. I didn’t mean to scare her. When no one answered, I only wanted to push the package inside.”
“What was her mood on the phone? Did she sound casual, like she was talking to a friend, or did she sound like she was doing business?”
“Like I said, she sounded angry—at the person she was talking to. Something about her getting the money.” He paused again. “I believe she also said something about tomorrow. Si, that’s what it was. I want the money tomorrow or else. Si, that’s what she said, or else.”
“Or else? Did it sound like a threat to you?”
“It did. That’s why I pushed the package in quickly and left. I didn’t want to wait around. Was that important?”
“Si, Carlos. It was. Thank you very much. By the way, I hope Maria is doing better and your cousins come back after visiting their other relatives.”
I walked back to the patio seating area to collect the shopping bags and wrappings that had covered candles and colorful mats I’d placed on the table. The mats were there, but the candles were gone. I searched the area, but there was still no sign of them. Thinking about it, I realized I’d noticed a number of small items missing. At the time, I’d blamed myself for misplacing them. Now I wasn’t so sure.
Chapter 15
Light colored or white fabrics perk up a drab room. Inexpensive remnants are an affordable way to make window or shower curtains and recover throw pillows.
I drove toward home deep in thought. As I sat at an interminably long traffic light, I again mulled over the list of people who had surrounded Victoria before her death. Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I couldn’t decide whether my growing impatience was because of Tyrone’s situation, my frustration, or my increasing hunger pangs. I’d skipped lunch, so all of them.
When the light changed, I spotted Monica Heller’s tall figure going into a fabric store nearby. Without making a conscious decision, I turned into the lot, parked quickly, and followed her into the store. No time like the present to question her.
As casually as I could, I roamed the store aisles looking for Monica. When I spotted her nearby, I turned slightly away, trying to decide how best to approach her, and, once I did, what I should say. I was determined to tamp down the discomfort I usually experienced being around Monica. I had no way of confirming it, but I always suspected there had been something between her and my late husband Derrick.
I examined the fabric in front of me. If nothing else, while there, I could get the fabric I needed to recover throw pillows I’d found throughout the Denton home. Although still good, the dark pillows would no longer match the color schemes Tyrone and I’d selected for various rooms. It wouldn’t take much effort, time, or money to give them new life, and the payoff would be well worth it.
Hearing my plans, Mrs. Webster had insisted she would cover the pillows for me, saying she wanted to use her sewing skills to show her appreciation for all I was doing to help Tyrone. I took her up on the offer, with a plan to find a way to pay her, knowing money must be tight for her with the loss of Tyrone’s income.
“My, you must be going upscale with the Denton staging,” a voice drawled behind me.
Turning, I found Monica Heller standing nearby. Well, that solved the problem of how best to approach her.
As always, Monica was impeccably groomed and looked remarkably like the pictures I’d seen of Grace Kelly, her blonde hair swept up in a French twist and wearing a dress that could have been designed by Edith Head or, at the very least, Alexander McQueen. Standing next to her was like being back in high school wearing my cousin’s hand-me-downs.
“You do realize, don’t you, those fabrics are fifty-five dollars a yard?”
“Nothing but the best for this project.” I picked up a bolt of silk as though ready to purchase it. No matter how many years we had known each other, and my new attitude about dealing with her, Monica’s condescending manner still managed to raise my hackles.
“How is the staging coming along?” Monica stroked some of the silk. “Skip is a dear and should be easier to please than Victoria would have been. You lucked out.”
I had to admit there was a certain amount of truth to her tasteless statement. As long as I kept within the budget Skip and I’d agreed to, I’d have a free hand to stage the rooms as I saw fit. But the new budget definitely wouldn’t cover the cost of silk pillow covers.
Monica started to move away, but I stepped forward to delay her. I didn’t know if Monica could contribute anything to my investigation, but I had nothing to lose by questioning her. Well, maybe a little face, but it would be worth it if it helped Tyrone.
“Monica, how well did you know Victoria?” I hoisted the bolt of silk over my shoulder, wishing I had gotten a cart. For good measure, I added a second one.
“Why do you ask?” Monica’s expression became suspicious.
“I’m curious. I found her to be quite sad, and I was wondering what might have been going on in her life before she died.” Died was definitely a euphemism for murdered, but I still had a hard time using the m word.
Monica shrugged, as though she didn’t have anything more pressing at the moment and might deign to respond. “I met her about fifteen years ago. We belonged to the same women’s league, so we met socially from time to time. Why she was sad? She was divorced, broke, and going to lose her home. Isn’t that enough to make anyone sad?”
“I still can’t get over the cause of her death. Do you know anyone who would have wanted to harm Victoria?”
“Oh, my dear, I don’t think we have enough time before this store closes to cover the number of people who had something against Victoria. I know it isn’t nice to talk unkindly about the dead, but Victoria found it much easier to make enemies than friends.”
“In which category did you fall?” I asked, with more gumption than I knew I possessed. I couldn’t come right out and ask Monica if she had been upset when Victoria had hired me to stage her home instead of her—or angry enough to kill her for another reason.
Monica’s brow furrowed, and her eyes flashed. “What are you insinuating?” Her tone was so cold I almost saw icicles hanging from each word.
“Uh, nothing.” I lifted the bolts of silk a little higher. “I was wondering if the two of you were close enough for her to have confided in you about problems she might have been having with anyone. After all, someone caused her death.”
“Are you now playing detective as well as stager? Where do your talents end?”
Embarrassed, I sputtered, “Since I was there at the time of her death, it’s natural I’d wonder who did it.”
“Well, I can clear your mind of one thing—it wasn’t I.” Monica gave me a withering look and brushed past me, knocking several bolts of silk to the floor.
That certainly went well.
Chapter 16
Brighten rooms by removing heavy curtains and removing or cleaning dusty blinds. Clean windows will make your house sparkle. Pay particular attention to carpets and floors.
&nbs
p; Slipping quietly into Franklin Auditorium through an open back door, I took a seat in the back row. Except for the few spotlights shining onto the stage, the auditorium lighting was dim, and it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark. The Louiston Players’ rehearsals were usually closed to the public, but since I wanted to talk to Warren Hendricks there rather than at the funeral home he owned, I didn’t want anyone asking me to leave. Tyrone had volunteered with the Players, and, with Warren’s link to Tyrone and his long friendship with Victoria, I hoped he might be able to give me some information. Anything was worth a try.
The musty smell in the auditorium reminded me of the many plays I’d seen there, sometimes with my father, who had loved the theater, and later with friends, since Derrick hadn’t been interested in going. The place was also a reminder of my dismal performance when I’d auditioned for a part in The Merry Widow. Unfortunately, my enthusiasm and desire to be a part of the play hadn’t been matched by any acting or singing talent on my part.
Sinking low into my seat, I became aware of my shoes sticking to the floor from years of accumulated spilled soda and smashed candy bars and moved to another seat. I loved this old theater, even if it could use a good cleaning.
Warren stood in the front row, waving directions to the actors on stage. I smiled, recognizing the set for Arsenic and Old Lace, one of my favorite plays. I’d seen it a number of times, and it still made me laugh.
Warren slapped a script on a seatback, punctuating each word with another slap. “Not so fast.” He plopped back into his seat. “You have to wait until Mortimer opens the lid of the window seat and sees the body before you change positions. Try it again.”
Watching him, I marveled at how fitting it was that Warren, a funeral director, was directing a production chock full of dead bodies—twelve, if I remembered correctly.
The actors changed positions. Of the four onstage, I recognized Dr. M playing Teddy, an amiable lunatic who thought he was Teddy Roosevelt, a perfect role for him, and the local florist, who was playing Dr. Einstein. With his wiry frame, thinning hair, and glasses, he looked almost like Peter Lorre, who starred in the film. I didn’t recognize the other two actors on the stage.
Cora Ridley and another woman stood in the wings. They were playing the main character’s dotty aunts. Cora was looking toward me, so I waved at her. She didn’t wave back, maybe too embarrassed about the scene she had created at the Denton house I’d witnessed.
As the rehearsal progressed, Warren’s exasperation became more evident. “Enough. We’ll regroup tomorrow night. And, for Pete’s sake, Nick, either learn your lines or we’ll get someone else to take over the role. We don’t want to look like fools on opening night.” As he picked up his script, he muttered, “Why do I do this to myself each season?”
“Because you love it, frustrations and all.” I walked up behind him. “And, if they got another director, you’d be upset.”
Warren turned. “Why, Laura, what a nice surprise. You’re right, but don’t tell anybody. I have my reputation as a cranky old director to uphold.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” I sat next to him. “How many times have you directed this play over the years?”
“I’ve lost track. People enjoy it, so we can’t go wrong. Are you here looking for a role? I may need someone to fill in for one of our actors if she moves to Texas with her husband.”
“Not on your life. One humiliation on stage was enough for one lifetime. Don’t you remember how awful I was when I auditioned for The Merry Widow? Actually, what I came to talk to you about is Tyrone.”
“I can’t believe they’ve arrested him. Anybody who knows him would tell you he couldn’t hurt a fly. Why, if he finds a spider in this old barn, he takes it outside and lets it go.”
“We all know that, but convincing the police is another thing.”
“Is there anything we can do to help him? Tyrone is my set person, and I need him back—now. We don’t have time for the police to come to their senses.”
Tyrone had been volunteering with the Louiston Players since high school, hoping to gain more experience in the theater. His work with them had piqued his interest in set design. He impressed everyone with how he could establish the right mood with so little to work with.
“I wish I knew what we could do. We all know Tyrone couldn’t have killed Victoria, but how does one go about proving it?” It wouldn’t hurt finding out how others might go about it.
“I wouldn’t know. I only direct plays about murder. Have you talked to Tyrone since they arrested him?”
“Only briefly. Getting into the jail to see him wasn’t easy. I used the excuse that Tyrone’s grandmother is feeble and needs assistance when she visits him.”
“The police officer on duty must not have known her.”
“Mrs. Webster is a spry old thing. She did such a convincing job of acting, you might consider her for a future production. She’d be good enough to earn a Helen Hayes Award.”
“Are you kidding? She’d end up directing me.” Warren stroked his graying beard with both hands. I noticed the black turtleneck shirt and fawn-colored trousers he wore were a far cry from his usual funeral home garb.
Warren became more serious. “How was Tyrone when you saw him?”
“Pretty upbeat, but his good spirits are waning. Having his grandmother visit him in jail cheers him up, but it also embarrasses him. I tried to bolster his spirits by telling him he’ll know how to design a set for a prison scene.”
“Knowing Tyrone, he laughed. It would take a lot for him to lose his sense of humor.”
I twisted the shoulder strap of my handbag and decided to jump right in with my questioning. “Warren, you knew Victoria well. Did you know what was going on in her life? Did she ever say anything that would lead you to think she was feeling threatened by anyone?”
“No, but then I hadn’t seen her much recently. You might talk to Cora. She was the closest thing Victoria had to a friend. They were business partners for a while.”
I remembered the argument I’d witnessed between Cora and Victoria. I would hardly use the term friend to describe their relationship.
“Weren’t you in business with her, too?” I tried to sound casually interested.
“Wherever did you hear that?” Warren’s tone was sharper than I expected.
Startled by his reaction, I wished I hadn’t raised the issue. “When I was in Victoria’s library, I came across her yearbook and was looking at pictures of all of you. I found a paper tucked inside it with your name on it. Since it listed dates and dollar amounts, I assumed she either owed you money or the two of you had a business arrangement of some type. Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Not much.
He sat there quietly as though struggling with his thoughts. “I hadn’t planned to say anything about this to anyone, but, since she’s dead, it won’t matter. For the past couple of years, Victoria had been in a bad way financially. Out of friendship, I loaned her money from time to time—never expecting she’d pay it back. It’s interesting she kept a record of it.”
“That was kind of you, Warren.” I wondered if he was revealing the full story.
Aware that rehearsals were over and Warren must be anxious to get home, I picked up my purse and stood, ready to leave. “If I see Tyrone, I’ll tell him you’re looking forward to him coming back to work. Since he’s been in jail, he’s concerned no one will want to employ him when he gets out.”
“Tell him I want him back here. And good luck staging Skip’s place. Give me a call if you need some help. I’ve been known to lift a hammer occasionally to make repairs.”
“Thanks, Warren. I appreciate that.”
I walked up the aisle toward the exit, wondering about Warren’s reaction to my question about being in business with Victoria. It had surprised me. Looking back at Warren, I wished I’d been brave enough to ask him
where he had been on the night Victoria had been murdered.
Chapter 17
Place a receptacle near the front entrance for wet umbrellas if it rains on the day of open house. To protect new carpets or floors, leave disposable shoe covers for buyers to use.
Coming out of Franklin Auditorium, I walked toward the parking lot nearby and noticed, with dismay, it had started to rain heavily. On dark nights with heavy rainfall, I found it difficult to see the road clearly, especially with car lights coming toward me. Reaching into my oversized tote bag, I pulled out my compact Burberry plaid umbrella and opened it. I’d been thrilled when I found it at an estate sale, knowing I could never have afforded a new one. When I reached my car, I quickly jumped inside and locked the door. It had been a long day, and I was anxious to get home.
After I pulled out onto College Avenue, I noticed, with annoyance, the high beams of the car behind me. The extra glare and the heavy rain made it harder than ever for me to see the road.
I slowed down nearly to a crawl, hoping the driver would grow impatient and pass me. With little oncoming traffic, the car could have easily gotten around me but didn’t. In my rearview mirror, I noticed how close the car was to mine. Was he trying to push me along or out of the way?
Concerned, I sped up to get away. With the road slick from the rain and spring pollen, I didn’t want the car sliding into me. I turned left then right onto a parallel street, hoping to lose the car. With exasperation, I looked back only to see the car still close behind me.
No matter how fast or slow I went, the car continued to tail my bumper. My annoyance turned to fear. It began to rain harder, and I turned my wipers on as fast as they could go. Suddenly, I jerked backward and was stunned to realize the car had actually rammed into me. I pressed hard on the accelerator, hoping another car wouldn’t come from the other direction and blind me with its lights. Under other circumstances, I would have pulled over to see if there was any damage to my car and get information from the other driver. This time, my only goal was to escape.
Staging is Murder Page 9
