by John Gaspard
Quinton stood awkwardly behind Megan and we nodded to each other.
“We were debriefing last night’s performance,” he said by way of explanation. “Megan was too worried to drive, and of course Franny doesn’t drive, so, here we are.”
We both nodded again. At that moment, the person in the chair next to me got up and Megan wasted no time sliding into the empty seat. She took my hand.
“What did they say?”
“Not much, really,” I said, trying to remember any tidbit which might have relevance. Thankfully, Deirdre chose this moment to return with an actual report.
“Here’s what they know,” she said to me after a brief acknowledgment of the others. “It’s a pretty severe concussion, with a scalp wound that produced a lot of blood, but they currently don’t think there is any internal bleeding. He’s still unconscious, but his vital signs are good and there is no indication of any spinal injury. They’re going to take him down for a CAT scan and MRI. After that, they’ll move him up to Intensive Care. You still look pale. Did you have dinner?”
I shook my head gingerly.
“You should eat something.” She looked at the rest of the group. “Why don’t you take him down to the cafeteria? It’s going to be awhile before they know anything.”
She started to head away, but I grabbed the hem of her jacket. “What about Tracy? What’s going on with her?”
She looked back at me. “They bandaged her up and Fred is going to take her downtown and get a full statement. And Wright is bringing in Mrs. Tyler James and her, um, friend, to ask about her connection, if any, to this assault. And her earlier incident with the ladder.”
“You mean when she was pushed off the ladder? You think this is connected?”
“We’re looking into that. Anyway, the doctor said if you’re feeling okay, you can go.”
I put up a hand, but she cut me off. “I explained you’d want to stick around to see how Harry’s doing.” She looked at Megan. “Why don’t you take him down to the cafeteria and get some food in him?”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” Megan said as she got up.
“I’ll let you know what we find out from Mrs. James,” Deirdre said, then turned and headed toward the front door. I stood up, with Megan holding my elbow, an unnecessary but welcome gesture.
“I’m staying here,” Franny said with finality as she slid into my empty seat. “To keep an eye on Harry.”
I recognized that tone and I knew it was pointless to argue with Franny when she got into that zone. “Can we bring you anything?” I asked.
“If they have hot chocolate with little marshmallows, I wouldn’t turn it down,” she said as she turned her attention toward the door marked “Staff Only.” “But if they don’t have tiny marshmallows, don’t bother.”
They did indeed offer hot chocolate with little marshmallows, so while I gathered some food for myself, Megan purchased a hot chocolate and headed back to the ER to deliver it to Franny while the drink was still relatively warm. This left me alone with Quinton and my tray of food. I had missed the dinner rush, when full meals were available, so I assembled an odd collection of items—a scoop of cottage cheese, a small bowl of peaches, a slice of pizza and a bowl of pudding—which made dietary mockery of the classic food pyramid.
We had our choice of tables so I picked one by the window, which afforded us a view of the downtown skyline and the beginnings of yet another new snowfall. Under other circumstances, it would have been a pretty sight.
“You picked an interesting time to come to Minnesota,” I said to Quinton as I assembled my food selection in front of me.
“You mean it isn’t always like this?”
“If you mean cold and snowy, then yes, it is always like this, except for two weeks in July, when it’s insufferably humid. But if you mean the murders and the police and the concussions and the ambulances, no, not so much.”
“It’s a fascinating puzzle,” he said, gesturing that I should go ahead and start eating.
“And it gets more fascinating all the time,” I agreed, surprised at how hungry I actually was. “I spent the better part of the day listening to interviews with the three key suspects and I’m no closer to figuring this out than I was before.”
“I thought there were four suspects?”
“There were four,” I said. He gave me a look that indicated I should continue. I pretended to be slowed down by the presence of food in my mouth, but in reality I was weighing the pros and cons of actually asking for his help on this mystery. With the image of Harry sprawled out on the sidewalk burned into my brain, I decided that—at least for the time being—I would set my petty jealousies aside and add Quinton’s brain power to the mix.
With that decision made, I filled him in on the facts surrounding the recent death of Clifford Thomas. My recap was interrupted several times by a table across the room—of what I am assuming were male nurses or orderlies—telling stories and laughing loudly at the recounted antics of past patients. It appeared that after hours, when foot traffic in the hospital was diminished, the cafeteria became a de facto break room.
“He didn’t realize he’d been shot?” one of the nurses was saying.
“Didn’t have a clue. He was just dropping off his brother when someone pointed out the bloodstain on his back and the drops of blood on the floor.” This produced knowing laughter from the table across the room. I turned back to Quinton.
“All right, then,” Quinton said, ticking the suspects off on his fingers, “you’ve got the big-hearted comic book store owner, the banker who collects and hides illegal art, and the executive who loves to swoop in and buy something out from under an unsuspecting buyer.”
“And now one more late addition to the suspect list: the supposed wife of the first victim, Mrs. Tyler James and her constant companion, Gunnar.” I gave Quinton the thumbnail version of my run-ins with Mrs. James and her friend Gunnar, including Tracy’s handy and effective threat of a baseball bat in the theater lobby.
“Is that so?” he said. “It seems like this Mrs. James clearly thinks there is—or was—something of value in the projection booth.”
“There was,” I said as I finished off the peaches and moved on to the pizza. “There was an envelope with $75,000 in cash. And, at one point, a movie worth a whole lot more than that. She’s just a little late to the party.”
“Perhaps,” he said, looking off into the distance. “But just because we’re only seeing her now doesn’t mean she hasn’t been lurking and working in the background for some time.”
I nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“And I would be willing to wager if you look at the statistics, wives kill husbands more than customers kill memorabilia dealers. As a general rule.”
I nodded as I took a taste of the pudding, which had presented itself as vanilla but which turned out to be lemon.
I looked up and noticed a puzzled look on Quinton’s face, which probably matched my own, but for different, non-culinary reasons.
“What’s up?”
“Just had a notion. What kind of pet did you say the comic book store owner owns?”
“A monkey,” I said. Laughter from a table across the room required me to speak up. “A Javan macaque monkey.”
“I can tell you this much,” one of the nurses said loudly, “I would want to get as far away from him as I could.” This was followed by laughter and sounds of general agreement from the nurses, but something about the statement stuck in my head.
I looked over to see Quinton smiling at me. I glanced around, not sure what I had done to inspire it.
“I think I may have figured it out,” Quinton said, leaning back in his chair.
“Figured what out?”
“The murders,” Quinton said with a grin. “Well, the first one at least. But I’m assuming once we reveal the kill
er of the projectionist that will take us post haste to the killer of the mystery writer. In all likelihood, it’s the same person.”
As annoying as this proclamation was—and believe me, it was—I couldn’t shake the statement the nurse had just made.
“I wanted to get as far away from him as I could,” I repeated.
“What?” Quinton was leaning forward, but I was still following a train of thought, not sure where it would take me.
For some reason, the nurse’s statement triggered a memory: I was standing in the back doorway of the theater, looking out at the snowy alleyway. In my mind, I turned away from the doorway and stepped forward, parting the curtains and looking up at the dimly lit holes in the far wall which defined the projection booth in the murky light. At that point, I was about as far away from the booth as I could be and still be in the theater, but that wasn’t it. The words stuck with me: “I wanted to get as far away from him as I could.”
And then, like dominoes tipping over, seemingly random images started to connect in my brain. Getting as far away from that guy as I could. The power and lack of permanence of an avalanche of ice and snow. One specific title from Clifford Thomas’ list of potential book titles. Mrs. Tyler James’ offhanded sports slur coupled with my stunning ignorance of athletics of any kind. Even conjoined movie titles, random as they were, suddenly all tied together in my head.
I pulled out my phone. “So you’ve solved the mystery?” I asked as I opened Google and did a quick search.
“I believe I have,” he said. “Do you doubt me?”
I shook my head and for the first time in a long time it didn’t hurt. “Not at all,” I said as I scrolled quickly through an entry, confirming one key detail. “I might be on my way to figuring it out as well.”
Before he could respond, we looked over to see Megan making her way through the cafeteria toward us, guiding Franny slowly toward our table.
Megan’s face was impossible to read, as was Franny’s, and the more I tried the more nervous I got. They finally arrived at our table and stood for a moment, both trembling. Franny’s fingertips gripped the table’s edge.
“It’s Harry,” Franny said, her voice cracking with emotion. “He just woke up.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “They say he’s going to be okay.”
“He’s going to be just fine,” Megan added.
With this important news safely delivered, Franny and Megan broke into huge smiles and I was quick to join them. The yells and whoops from our table startled the other people in the cafeteria, including the nurses, but none of them seemed annoyed at our emotional outburst. In fact, the table full of nurses even applauded.
Chapter 20
“This feels like a scene right out of one of Clifford Thomas’ mystery novels.”
I looked around the auditorium and had to agree with Nathan’s assessment. “Yes, I think he would have felt right at home here.”
“How did you get the police to agree to this?”
I shrugged. “They recognized that sometimes a little theater is the best way to generate a positive outcome.”
“This isn’t a little theater,” Nathan said, looking out at the Parkway Theater’s vast auditorium. “A little audience, sure, but not a little theater.”
I could have taken the time to explain that my use of theater was differing from his, but thought better of it. Nathan was right on one point, though: There weren’t many people in the first three rows of the Parkway Theater, but it was a veritable Who’s Who of folks connected—directly and tangentially—with the deaths of Tyler James and Clifford Thomas.
Sherry Lisbon was in attendance, along with her two attorneys, while Chip Cavanaugh had come alone. Ms. Lisbon seemed to be in a sour mood about being summoned here, but Chip was, well, chipper. He had given me a friendly punch on the arm on his way in and then a quick wink before taking his seat. If he was putting on a fake front, he was doing a terrific job of it.
Mrs. Tyler James and her “friend” Gunnar had slunk in and slouched in seats near the middle, both looking annoyed at being called out of whatever rock they had been hiding under. Numerous times she turned and looked up at the projection booth, and then whispered conspiratorially with her hipster friend, who nodded in agreement at the injustices piled upon them.
For some reason, the word louche came to mind when I saw that pair. I made a mental note to look that word up when I had a moment.
However, my attention was pulled away from the two of them when I noticed Randall Glendower slowly trudging down the aisle. In one hand he held the handle of a large, draped square box. He stopped and looked around, trying to get his bearings. When he spotted me, his face lit up.
“Hey, Eli. They didn’t tell me you’d be here.”
We headed toward each other, meeting at about the halfway point of the long aisle.
“This is mostly my party,” I said.
“That’s cool,” he said, then glanced around. “We can sit anywhere?” he asked, looking at the large empty theater and the relatively few people seated down front.
“Sure,” I said. “But you might want to sit on the aisle, to make things easier.”
“No problem,” he said with a smile, not even bothering to question how any of this might be easy or hard. He headed toward the front of the theater still lugging his draped box and I turned back to see who we might still be missing.
Tracy, her head bandaged, stood in the doorway chatting with Deirdre.
I was pleased she had agreed to let us use the space, as it would have been difficult to pull this off in any other location. As they spoke, they parted to let some others pass and I winced when I saw it was Megan with Quinton. If there had been another way to transport him here I would have jumped on it, but we all had key roles to play and Megan was really the only option to provide the needed taxi service, short of calling an actual taxi, which I suddenly wondered why I hadn’t done.
As they made their way down the aisle, I glanced back at Deirdre. I looked at my watch and then gave her a quick nod. I turned and headed toward the front of the theater.
“Good evening, everyone. I think we’re about ready to get started,” I said by way of introduction.
“Good, because I’m just about ready to leave,” Sherry Lisbon growled from the front row. “I have yet to be offered an adequate explanation as to why I’ve been called here.”
“All will be explained,” I countered, treating her like I might treat an obstreperous heckler. “We’re here this evening to take one last look into the mysterious murder of Tyler James. To get us kicked off, I’ve asked Homicide Detective Miles Wright to provide a short recap of what happened to Tyler James on the evening of his death.”
Wright reluctantly stepped forward, looking like a grade-school kid forced to make an oral presentation before the class. He kept his head down and read from his notes in a flat, businesslike monotone.
“Somewhere between the hours of ten and twelve p.m., the victim was shot twice in the back in the projection booth at the Parkway Theater.” He stopped and made an ineffectual gesture up toward the booth. But then several attendees turned and looked, so perhaps the move had more impact than I realized. When they turned back, Wright seemed flummoxed by their reaction. He ran his finger down the page and found his place in his notes again.
“The assailant fled, leaving the gun,” he continued, “along with an envelope containing $75,000 in cash. In addition, two empty film canisters, bearing the label LAM, were found in the booth. Mr. James had secured and locked the projection booth from the inside before expiring.”
He looked up to see if anyone was still listening, and then turned back to me, to see if he could be released from this torture. I nodded and he moved quickly to the rear of the auditorium, clearly relieved to be out of the spotlight.
“Thank you, Detective Wright, for that fine report.
”
Chip Cavanaugh began a slow clap, then looked around, feigning surprise that no one was joining him.
I gave him a long look.
He made two more claps and then put his hands in his lap, tossing me his best contrite smile.
“One of the many things which has bothered me, and others, about this sequence of events,” I continued, “is if the killer left the gun, why did Tyler bother to lock the projection booth before he expired? Certainly the firearm would provide adequate protection if the killer returned, and picking up the small gun would be far easier than closing and locking the heavy metal door.”
I scanned the small group assembled in front of me and then glanced up at the door at the top of the aisle, just in time to see Franny enter, holding Harry’s elbow. They both moved slowly into the auditorium and took a seat in the very back row. Once settled, Harry tipped his hat to me and I returned my attention to the group.
“Quinton Moon—a world-renowned magician and performer—and I have discussed this at length. The conclusion we’ve reached is that the gun was not in the projection booth when Tyler locked the door, but was in fact placed there after the fact, to confuse the police as to where Tyler was shot and why. We differ on some of the details, but he has some thoughts he would like to share with us this evening.” I gestured to Quinton and then stepped aside, handing the presentation off to him.
“Thank you, Eli,” he said as he checked his hair and stepped forward. For a brief moment I thought he was going to ask the crowd for another round of applause for his opening act, but he immediately turned on his stage charm and took over.
“What we have here, my friends, is a puzzle,” he said, his eyes twinkling, “and human beings love a puzzle. Just as nature abhors a vacuum, so too do we hate to let a question go unanswered. And the question that vexes me, on this occasion, is this: If the killer was in the projection booth with Tyler, why did our killer leave the gun and not take the money?”
