Murder Most Meow

by Louise Lynn

  Strange to say that about a murder, but here they were.

  "He seems like the type of person that would rent that place. But don't tell my mom. She’ll claim it’s part of the curse on the house."

  That got a chuckle out of the sheriff. "Don't get me started on curses. Everyone in the crew told me the curse of Macbeth killed the victim, including Mr. Allen, who I thought had more sense."

  Hazel smiled that. "Sense or not, these theater people are superstitious. And anyway, maybe it was the curse that killed Dominic. A person using the curse as a cover up," she said and waggled her eyebrows. “And since I'm an unofficial part of this investigation, does that mean I can poke around Dominic Dane's tent without getting into trouble?"

  His eyes, as blue as the deepest depths of Lake Celeste, sparkled. "I have a feeling you’d do it whether you would get in trouble or not, so sure. Just don't move anything. Or take anything."

  "Scouts honor," Hazel said and leaned into his strong arms.

  Colton gave her a quick hug, and his lips pressed gently against her forehead for a moment that was all too brief. "Let me know if you find anything of interest that we missed."

  "Of course."

  She watched him go, then made her way to Dominic Dane's tent.

  Chapter 10

  When she threw back the flap, Dominic’s tent was empty. So, whoever had been there earlier was already gone.

  It was disappointing, but not unexpected.

  The tent was similar to his wife's, with an armchair in one corner and a large mirror and vanity in the other. However, Dominic Dane also had a number of empty whiskey bottles littering the floor and some unopened bottles of wine, scotch, and several other alcoholic beverages on a table as well.

  Hazel glanced at them and raised an eyebrow. She was sure Jay would appreciate some of this, but it was probably evidence. And likely unable to be donated or sold. At least for the time being.

  While most of his personal belongings were likely at the mansion he was using as a temporary home, Hazel decided to try her luck anyway.

  She opened each drawer of the vanity and checked its contents carefully.

  She found more flasks, a few bottles of makeup—concealer that seemed perfectly blended to match Dominic Dane's skin tone. A few bottles of pills, which she wasn't sure were an actual prescription or some kind of recreational drug, though she wouldn't have been surprised at the latter, and nothing else.

  That was until she opened last drawer and it came up remarkably short.

  Hazel raised an eyebrow. The other drawers were all at least twelve inches deep, and this was only about half that. Getting on her knees, she glanced around the back of the vanity.

  No—there wasn't a reason for the drawer to come up short. So, that meant the drawer was hiding something.

  Her heart beat faster as she tugged it free. It caught on something, and she had to pull it up and out in order to get it to budge.

  Anthony Ray sat next to her and pawed at it, yowling as he did.

  "I know. Let’s hope it's actually useful and not another flask," she said and shook her head. She could just imagine that was where Dominic Dane kept his most prized whiskey or something silly like that.

  Thankfully, the hidden compartment didn't need a key to be opened. It was a simple button that popped the lid when pressed.

  Hazel stared at the contents for a moment, then carefully removed them.

  Not a flask, but something else.

  She frowned.

  There were about a dozen different photos of young women, some of whom she recognized as the college girls that had been lamenting to her mother that morning. On the back of each photo was a short note, a name and email address and usually a little declaration of love. Most of them read something like:

  You're the best actor in the world, and I love you so much.

  Your biggest fan,

  XOXOXO.

  Kind of silly, but nothing worth hiding.

  But the last photo made Hazel's breath catch in her throat. She knew that smiling face all too well. And while the picture was an innocent one, an obvious selfie, it still seemed inappropriate for a man nearing forty to have it.

  The teen was wearing one of her band T-shirts and had that sweet girlish smile on her lips. The back of it read:

  You are the best Heathcliff ever.

  Your biggest fan,

  Violet.

  Hazel stared at it and frowned. She thought Violet had been hiding something about Dominic Dane, now she knew for sure. Though, she wasn't certain what it meant.

  Hazel was sure she would've gone staring at the photo for several more minutes, but a sound caught her attention.

  The tent flap opened, and a figure she didn't expect stepped inside. The figure in question didn’t notice her at first, but when the person turned, they froze and blinked.

  Hazel blinked back. “Darcy? What are you doing here?"

  Chapter 11

  Darcy Allen looked torn between wanting to dart away and stubbornly answering her question. He did neither. Instead, he posed one of his own. “What are you, uh, doing in here?” He glanced around as if something dangerous lurked in the tent’s shadows.

  The interior was darker than the other actor’s tents, and Hazel wondered if it had something to do with Dominic needing a somber place to get into the headspace of a murderer like Macbeth. It sounded like something an actor would do.

  "I think I asked you first," Hazel said and tucked the pictures into her pocket. She promised Sheriff Cross she wouldn't take anything, but she needed to talk to Violet about this. And then the sheriff.

  Darcy looked at his feet and sucked in a breath. “I—I just wanted to see what his tent looked like."

  Hazel raised her brows. "I have a hard time believing that. This isn't officially a crime scene, but I don't think the sheriff would be too happy with you snooping around."

  She realized the irony of that statement as it left her lips, and she hoped Darcy Allen didn’t.

  Darcy met her eyes. "Then why are you allowed in here?"

  Hazel smiled. "I got permission first. But if you tell me what you're looking for, maybe I can help."

  Darcy chewed on his bottom lip. He took after his mother more than his dad, which was fortunate. Christopher Allen wasn't bad looking, just bland in a way that meant he was completely unmemorable. His wife was pretty, though her hair obviously wasn't naturally that red. Darcy himself had medium brown hair and his bangs were so long that they hung into his eyes incessantly, but Hazel thought when he got older he‘d probably clean up well. Though she could see why Violet was annoyed with him.

  "So you won't tell the sheriff?" Darcy asked.

  Hazel wasn't about to make a promise she couldn't keep, so she shrugged. "It really depends on what you were doing in here."

  Darcy looked behind him and then took a step into the tent.

  The bustling energy of the festival outside seemed impossibly far away in the shadows around them. It felt shrouded in silence and secrets, like a crypt under a church.

  "My dad was looking for the check he paid Dominic with. He thought if the guy hadn’t cashed it yet, he could get it back."

  That was interesting. “He didn't want to pay someone who's dead, huh?" Hazel said.

  Darcy wrung his hands. "He's always worried about money. So, I guess. And since Dominic’s dead, he doesn’t need the cash."

  Hazel couldn't argue with that, even if it was unethical. "Can't he just demand the money back from the agent since Dominic died before completing the contract?"

  Darcy shrugged. Right. How would a fourteen-year-old know that? "I don't know. My dad just said if his star was dead, he might as well not have to pay them. He told me to come in here, and I thought I'd help."

  Hazel wasn’t sure if that was the whole truth or not, but she decided to accept it for the time being. She glanced at the vanity. "Well, I didn't see a check in my search. So I don't think it's in here. But thanks for telling me what
you were looking for."

  Darcy nodded slowly and didn't make a move to leave.

  Okay. Either he had something more to say, or he thought Hazel would leave him to check on his own—which she wouldn’t. "Anything else?"

  Darcy chewed on his bottom lip and scuffed his tennis shoe into the floor, which was a surprisingly expensive looking rug. Hazel wondered if Dominic had brought that himself, or if Christopher Allen paid for it.

  If it was the latter, she could understand why Mr. Allen wanted his check back. With Dominic dead, the big pull to the festival was gone. That meant Festival attendance could drop, and Mr. Allen could lose the council’s investment.

  Well, more of the council’s investment than he’d already lost.

  Which said nothing about what the town itself would lose.

  “I, uh, heard Violet moved in with you,” Darcy said.

  Hazel crossed her arms. “Oh really? Where'd you hear that from?" She didn't think Violet was in the habit of telling Darcy Allen personal details about herself.

  Darcy shrugged. "Around. You think I could come by sometime and say hi to her?"

  Hazel smiled sympathetically. "If you want to do that, you need to ask Violet first.”

  Darcy frowned. “She's mad at me so–"

  Hazel sighed and took a step forward. Gently, she patted Darcy's shoulder. "Sometimes, the best way to get a girl's attention is to lay off a little bit. Violet is under a lot of stress lately, and she's not at her best.”

  Darcy glanced up at her, and his brown eyes brightened. "So you think if she wasn't stressed, she'd like me more?" His voice held a tinge of hope that Hazel didn't want to smash, even if she thought she understood Violet’s feelings well enough.

  "I really can't speak for Violet. Like I said, you'd have to ask her. But, what I think she needs right now is some space and some kindness."

  Darcy nodded. "I try to be kind. I bought her a cupcake yesterday, and I picked those violets that she said were pansies. I even wrote her a sonnet, but she told me to shut up halfway through it.”

  Hazel bit the inside of her cheek.

  A sonnet? Well, she thought Violet would be impressed by something like that considering how much the girl like to read. But maybe it depended on who was reciting the sonnet that mattered.

  "Like I said, I can't speak for Violet. There are plenty of other girls at Cedar Valley High. Maybe one of them would be flattered by your attention."

  Darcy pulled his shoulder away from Hazel's hand and shook his head. “None of them are like her. Violet’s special. But never mind–" he said, then ducked out of the tent before Hazel could say another word.

  Well, that was weird. And she understood a little better why Violet was exasperated by Darcy. He came on too strong, and was a touch on the odd side. Not that being odd was bad, considering Hazel's mother and all, but still. Violet wasn’t interested. And if Darcy didn't take a hint soon, Hazel might have to ask Sheriff Cross to do something about it.

  But that information about Christopher Allen was new. And wanting a refund on a drunk actor sounded like a motive. Not to mention that weirdness Hazel had seen before Dominic died—how Christopher acted when she told him about his wife and the actor alone in the tent together.

  With that in mind, Hazel gave the tent another look, but didn't come up with any information about the money.

  Still, she needed to talk to the man, after she photographed the next play.

  The only other play at that the festival that year was A Midsummer Night’s Dream, though no major actor had been hired for it.

  Still, the matinee performance was as packed as the outdoor theater could be, and Hazel stood in her normal position ready to photograph the entire affair. And in better spirits than she had been yesterday since she was currently corset free.

  As she did, she kept an eye out for Christopher Allen.

  A different sort of tension hung over the production than As You Like It the day before. She noticed several of the actor’s keeping away from the lights, and she couldn't blame them. She found herself glancing up from time to time as well, just to make sure another ‘accident’ wasn’t going to happen.

  It took her until the end of the play to spot Christopher Allen standing toward the back of the stage on the opposite side. She only knew it was him by the balding spot on his head. He was bent over and talking to a red-haired woman.

  Sophia or Angela?

  Hazel couldn't tell because all she saw was the hair.

  Well, she'd have to catch him before he vanished again.

  Hazel also noted that Esther and Ruth weren’t present at this performance, though Celia was. To Hazel surprise, she sat with Paul, the owner of the ski and kayak shop, and they both seemed to be enjoying themselves.

  By the time the final lines were spoken, most of the tension had seeped out of the audience, and they gave the cast a standing ovation. Hazel herself didn't feel her nerves ease. Especially since she might be about to confront a killer.

  If Christopher Allen was the one who did it.

  Not to mention those pictures felt like they were burning a hole in her pocket. She hoped Sheriff Cross didn't get angry with her for taking them. However, she really didn't want to put them back until she’d spoken to Violet in order to find out why Dominic Dane had them in the first place.

  After the performance, the actors stood around the stage signing autographs and receiving praise from the audience.

  So, camera slung around her neck, Hazel ducked around the back of the stage in search of Mr. Allen. She found him right away, though he had a cell phone pressed to his ear and was tucked into the shade of the cedar tree that stood behind the stage.

  "I don't know what else to tell you. The money is gone. We’ll just have to sell. No, it's not what I want either, but what am I supposed to do? The contract doesn't specify any means of a refund unless he didn't perform any of the production!”

  The man ran his fingers through his hair and it fell over his ears, not covering the bald spot at all.

  Hazel hung back, stuck between eavesdropping and not. The information was relevant, and if she was investigating, she shouldn't feel too badly about that. But it was also odd that Mr. Allen said Dominic cashed the check. If he knew the check was cashed, why did he send Darcy into the tent?

  She felt her lips pulled into a frown, and waited for Mr. Allen to finish his phone call.

  "What else do you want me to do? You're the one who insisted on Dominic Dane– right. You didn't know he’d die. Well, neither did I." With that, Mr. Allen ended the call and shoved the phone into his pocket with a huff.

  Hazel hovered near the back of the stage and waited for him to step out of the shadows of the tree.

  For several moments, he stood still and composed himself, fixing his hair and his red shirt. "Did you need something, Ms. Hart?" he finally asked.

  So he had noticed her. That was awkward. Nothing she could do about it though. "I did. Actually–"

  "I hope you didn’t come to tell me you need more money as well,” he said and scowled at her.

  Hazel widened her eyes. "As well?"

  Mr. Allen shook his head. "Never mind. Don't you have actors to photograph?"

  "I do, but they were talking to the audience and doing autographs, so I thought I’d wait. Actually, I wanted to ask you about Dominic Dane. I hear you spent a lot of the council’s money to get him to perform here this year?"

  Mr. Allen's lips pulled into a sneer. "The council’s money? Who told you that? The council for the festival has a set amount of money, and it goes to cover things like stagehands and the set up. Hiring the actors is entirely separate since most of the time the actors perform pro bono. It looks good on their resumes that they performed in the Shakespeare Festival,” he said and a shadow covered his eyes.

  Hazel felt her heart beat faster. “If the council didn't finance Dominic Dane’s performance, who did?"

  “You’re asking an awful lot of questions for a simple phot
ographer," Mr. Allen said and crossed his arms.

  Right. Hazel didn't want to bring up the investigation in case the man got spooked. So, she shrugged. "I'm curious is all. A man was killed, and someone involved with the production probably did it. You think there's anyone who wanted the festival to lose money?"

  It was a reasonable enough question, and Mr. Allen didn't seem to take offense to it.

  He sighed and scuffed his shoe into the dirt, much like his son had into the fancy carpet in Dominic Dane's tent. "When you say the festival, you mean me. Because that's what this is going to do. I had to fund his performance myself."

  Hazel wasn’t expecting that. "How did you even track him down? I mean, he's a famous actor, isn’t he?”

  Mr. Allen scoffed. "I think you mean was a famous actor. And yes, his price was exorbitant. Not to mention his wife's price tacked on alongside it. But, I have friends in high places. I was a producer in Hollywood until—well, that's not important. What is important is that I have enough connections to get a hold of Dominic Dane, and I scrounged up the money to afford his bill. Only now, in case you haven't noticed, he’s dead and the festival is awash," he cried and threw his hands into the air.

  Being upset about someone's death didn't necessarily preclude him from being the killer, but it was a pretty good indication he wasn't.

  Unless it was an act.

  "Did you know anyone who would want to ruin you?"

  Mr. Allen rubbed his hand over his face. She noticed he had day-old stubble on his cheeks, which was unusual for him, and dark bags under his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping, which wasn't good for the director of the plays this week.

  This added stress was enough to give someone a nervous breakdown, never mind a man like Mr. Allen that always was teetering on the edge anyway. "I left Hollywood to get away from this kind of thing, so I have no clue. I'm not a threat to anyone. I just wanted to raise the caliber of the festival and now…" He shook his head.