Show Time

by Suzanne Trauth

  Lola and Carol bent their heads over sketches of hairdos and makeup.

  “What’s upstairs?” I asked Lola. “I’d like to check out the rooms. Are they locked?”

  “Why?”

  “Today when Pauli and I were out in the herb garden behind the Windjammer I noticed that there’s a broken window on the second floor. Somebody should check out any damage.”

  “All right, there’s not much up there. A prop shop, some storage, nothing else. I wonder how a window got broken.” Lola pulled out a key. “Here’s the master,” she said. “It will lock or unlock all of the doors in the theater.”

  “Thanks.”

  “The light is at the top of the stairs,” Lola said.

  “Got it.”

  Lola and Carol resumed their conversation as I stepped into the hallway and faced a flight of stairs that led to the second floor. Though I’d been under the stage in the costume shop, I’d never been above the stage. The propped-open dressing room door sent a shaft of light onto the first few steps. At the top of the steps, a short hallway was flanked by doors at either end. I flipped on a wall switch and nothing happened. I tried a few more times for good luck, but again, nada. I pulled my cell phone out of my pocket and hit the flashlight app.

  I stood still to get my bearings. The door to my left was marked STORAGE, and when I unlocked the door and peeked in, I saw racks of costumes and dozens of boxes stacked floor to ceiling, but no broken window. The Windjammer would be to my right, I reasoned. I unlocked the door at the other end of the hall. It was unmarked but had to be the prop shop.

  Inside the dusky interior, the room was spooky. An odd collection of objects used in previous ELT productions filled shelves: kitchen utensils, bottles of every shape and size, shelves of books, several dolls with scary, painted features, bouquets of fake flowers in dirty glass vases, and three cowboy hats. The room gave off the odor of mold, and the floor was grimy. It needed a good cleaning. A large center table, marked up and gouged, was obviously the construction area. On it were a hot glue gun, a stapler, and containers of fluids.

  I directed my flashlight at the far wall and lit a small bank of windows; the middle one had a large hole in the center of the pane. I moved to the wall and was about to reach for the window frame when my foot crunched shards of glass. I had been thinking kids had thrown a baseball or a rock. But if someone had thrown an object at the glass from the outside, a substantial number of broken pieces should have been on the floor. But they weren’t; there were only a few fragments. Maybe the window was broken from the inside, I thought.

  I waved my light around the walls and floor more carefully to see what I might have missed on first entering. I bent down. There were lighter, cleaner square patches on the floor, the same size as the table legs. The table had been moved. Something was wrong here. The air was stifling and oppressive, and I felt like I couldn’t get my breath. The room began to whirl and I dropped my cell. I put out a hand to steady myself, grabbing a shelf of books, and volumes tumbled down, clattering to the floor and creating a pile at my feet. I stooped to retrieve my flashlight. Burrowing my hand in the heap of books, I pulled a paperback from where it was hidden partway under the bottom shelf of the bookcase. I felt the hairs on my neck rise.

  “Dodie, are you okay?” Lola said from the doorway.

  She and Carol had heard the noise and came up to see me sitting on a mound of books, speechless. I held up the paperback: it was Cindy Collins’s latest mystery, Murder One and a Half. Jerome had been reading it the night of auditions.

  “What is it?” Carol chimed in.

  I tried to fan the pages open, but they stuck together, held in place by a thick, hardened, dark splotch of something. My hands shook.

  “Dodie, talk to me.” Lola entered the room and stood above me.

  “I think I know where Jerome died.”

  * * *

  Theatrical scoop lights saturated the prop shop with a harsh brilliance to help the crime scene investigation unit do its work. Ralph was standing guard at the bottom of the stairs leading to the upper hallway, and Suki was assisting the CSI team.

  I sat on the top step with a container of caramel macchiato that Carol insisted on buying for me. Downstairs, it was chaos, according to Lola. Once I had called Bill, Lola had stopped rehearsal, much to Walter’s irritation, and informed everyone that the police would soon be at the theater—again. The actors had taken the occasion to cut out, and Penny was flapping her arms and nudging her glasses, trying to maintain order. Fat chance.

  “You doing okay?” Bill asked me quietly.

  I nodded and sipped my drink. “I think so.”

  “That was some skillful detection out in the herb garden.”

  “Just an accident,” I said.

  He frowned. “Could have taken us months to discover this place.”

  I had the feeling he was speaking about himself, maybe kicking himself for not having the entire theater thoroughly searched.

  “Do you think there’s other evidence in the room besides the book?” Unaccountably, I had begun to shiver despite the fact that the upstairs was warm. Bill gave me his jacket.

  “Even though the murderer obviously cleaned up well, there are always microscopic traces of blood they miss. But the book is a major find.”

  “What was the dark stuff on it?” I asked, even though I was pretty sure I knew the answer.

  “We’ll take it to the lab to check it out.”

  “Chief?” Suki poked her head out the prop shop door.

  Bill followed Suki into the prop room. From below, I could see Lola moving up the steps.

  “Oh, it’s all too much,” she said and sat down beside me.

  I put an arm around her shoulders. “At least I didn’t have to watch rehearsal.” I tried to lighten the mood.

  “Dodie, that’s not even funny. Things are going haywire. With the police here and Walter freaking out and actors insecure, I’m thinking we should cancel the show.”

  “You can’t do that, can you?”

  “The ELT has never done it, that’s for certain.” She shook her head. “It could mean the end for Walter. That and the missing money.”

  The missing money made me think about a thousand dollars, which made me think about the documents service. I whispered, “You know how I told you about Pauli and me in Jerome’s email?”

  “Yes. And the document company.”

  “I made an appointment to go there.”

  Lola grabbed my arm. “You did? When?”

  “Tomorrow. Don’t say anything about this to anyone. I haven’t even told Bill.”

  “Why not?”

  “When I mentioned Jerome’s email over dinner, Bill went a little crazy because of the hacking. Illegal, etc.”

  “Oh. But maybe he’ll think differently now that you’ve found out where Jerome was murdered.”

  “Maybe. But I want to have something definite to give to him.”

  “Mum’s the word,” Lola said.

  Bill walked into the hallway holding one of the containers that had been on the table, now in a plastic evidence bag. “Looks like a nail in the coffin. So to speak.” He held it up. “Liquid polyurethane.”

  “Jerome used that to make props. You create a mold and then pour it in. It’s like rubber,” Lola said. “He’d made firearms and statues and all kinds of things.”

  “When the lab guys examine this, I have a feeling it’s going to match resin that was on Jerome’s trousers.”

  “So he was definitely murdered here?” I asked.

  “Looks like it,” Bill said.

  “And the broken window?”

  “It’s preliminary but the fracture pattern is consistent with gunshots. A weapon was probably fired in there. We’ll check out the ground outside beneath the window.”

  Carol took Pauli home and Lola and I hung around for another hour, waiting to see what other secrets the prop room revealed. But aside from numerous evidence bags with wood splinters from t
he floor and bookcase, and samples of dirt from various surfaces, there was little else to report.

  I said good-night to Bill, and we trudged down the stairs. Walter was in his office, his head in his hands, bent over the prompt book. For once, Penny was not at his heels, waiting to do his bidding.

  “Walter, I’m going,” Lola said simply.

  Walter looked up, dark rings under his puffy eyes, his face slack and ashen. Romeo and Juliet—and possibly Jerome’s murder investigation—had taken a substantial toll on him. “Walter, are you all right?” I asked.

  He looked at me as if I were crazy. “Of course not,” he said and began the litany of rehearsal crises. Walter did have a lot on his mind, but much of it was his own doing. Not that I thought he was capable of seeing the truth.

  “Are they finished upstairs?” he asked.

  “Still at it,” I said. “Do you want me to hang around and lock up? I’m pretty wired and doubt I’ll get to sleep anytime soon. Besides, tomorrow is my day off.”

  Lola shot me a look of pure gratitude. “That would be thoughtful, wouldn’t it, Walter?”

  He nodded numbly.

  “Come on, Walter, let’s go home. Thanks, Dodie.” She smiled and held Walter’s jacket for him. I watched the two of them walk out, Lola’s arm around his shoulders.

  I had two options. I could lounge inside the theater or sit in Walter’s office, the holy of holies. He must have been really disconcerted about the evening’s events to let me stay here alone. I gazed at the interior of the office. In addition to the props and costume pieces piled on each of the two desks, there were now a handful of foils leaning into one corner, a lady’s hoop skirt in another, and three two-by-fours stacked up against the drawers of a filing cabinet. All of this Romeo and Juliet paraphernalia was more evidence that Walter was juggling too much, trying to negotiate rehearsal and scenery and costumes.

  I sat at his desk and pulled some blank sheets of paper from a wire mesh basket marked SCRAP. Maybe I could analyze his budget and find money somewhere for a real balcony and Elizabethan underwear. I knew Walter was a little sloppy when it came to bookkeeping, but I’d seen him stash a file in the top drawer of the desk when he thought no one was watching.

  I assumed the desk was locked, but no harm in giving it a try. To my amazement, the drawer opened, revealing a compartment filled to the brim with papers, old programs, pencil stubs, ball point pens that didn’t write, and assorted rubber bands and paper clips stuck in place by a sticky brown gunk which I recognized as spilled coffee. On top of the debris, a manila folder was jammed into a thin slice of space. I withdrew the file and shut the drawer. It closed halfway, then refused to budge. Geez. A half-open drawer would be a dead giveaway that I had been snooping. I yanked and pushed and jiggled for a few minutes, then decided to start from scratch. I pulled the drawer out and off its tracks. When I’d removed the file initially, I must have inadvertently shoved something that slipped down behind the drawer.

  I reached into the open space. My fingertips just barely touched an object, but it was too far back for me to grasp it. I got down on my knees and angled my body so that my arm extended another inch or two into the drawer space. Now I came in contact with the offending item. It was hard and smooth. Glass, I imagined. I cautiously traced its outline.

  “What are you doing down there?”

  “Arghhh!” I yelled and turned my head to see Bill at the entrance to Walter’s office. “Don’t creep up on me like that.”

  “Sorry,” he said. “Why is your arm inside the desk?”

  “There’s something blocking the drawer,” I said between gritted teeth.

  I extended my fingers and shifted the object just enough to be able to grasp its sides. “It’s a bottle.” I withdrew an empty pint of alcohol and studied the label. “Chivas Regal.”

  “Walter was drinking on the job?” asked Bill.

  “Walter doesn’t drink. But this was the only liquor Jerome drank.”

  Bill’s eyes constricted. “Where’s Walter?”

  “He left with Lola a few minutes ago. I sent him home to sleep and said I’d lock up.”

  He reached for the bottle. “I’d better take it. Have CSI guys check it out at the lab. I’ll give Walter a call in the morning.”

  “I can’t believe that Walter would have had anything to do with . . .” I stopped myself from finishing the thought.

  “We’re done upstairs. Do you need a ride home?” he asked kindly.

  I shook my head. “I’m good.”

  “How about I follow you home? You’ve had a . . . busy night.”

  “Thanks, but I’m okay. Really.” I forced a smile, my face muscles worn out.

  Bill stared at me. “Come on. I’ll be right behind you.”

  I was too tired to argue.

  He hesitated. “About the other night . . .”

  “I get it. No problem.”

  I locked up, Bill trailing behind me as I tested the door handles to make sure all was secure. I waved good-bye, climbed into my Metro, and pulled out of my parking spot. Bill’s cruiser kept pace until I turned into my driveway; then he waited until I was in the house before he drove off.

  Chapter 21

  If I thought Etonville was abuzz over the break-ins, it was nothing compared to the hullabaloo that erupted the next morning. I was awake half the night, and when I finally nodded off, I dreamed of a large black hole, like a swimming pool, that I dove into, completely unaware of what I would hit when I landed. Exactly how I felt upon awakening and remembering the events of the previous evening. Jerome dying at the theater and the future of the ELT in question. The only comforting thought was that I had the day off. Benny would take over as assistant manager and handle the bar. Gillian and Carmen would take care of the dining room.

  The appointment at Forensic Document Services was at eleven so I had a couple of hours to relax yet. My head was still firmly planted on my pillow when my cell phone vibrated. I closed my eyes and toyed with the notion of pretending to be asleep. But curiosity got the better of me and I rolled out of bed. “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Maggie Hemplemeyer from the Etonville Standard.”

  “Who?”

  “I’m writing about the Jerome Angleton murder at the ELT.”

  I blinked my eyes and tried to clear my head.

  “I understand that you discovered where Jerome was murdered.”

  “Not really. I mean, it’s still—”

  “Look, we know about how you found the broken window and the book in the attic and the liquor bottle.”

  “I think you should talk with the police department before you—”

  “The Standard already published a story on the ELT being the location of the murder. Just hit the stands. I’m talking about a follow-up article. Kind of a human interest thing. You know, local gal thwarts crime spree.”

  Huh? “Maggie, I’ll get back to you.”

  “But—?”

  I clicked off for one second and it buzzed again. I answered without looking at the screen. “Look, I told you . . .”

  “Dodie, it’s Carol. I’m looking at the paper. What’s going on?”

  “What’s the headline?”

  “Windjammer Manager Locates the Scene of the Crime.”

  “Okay.”

  “The subheading is ‘Artistic Director’s Involvement Questioned.’ It says you found a Scotch bottle in Walter’s desk drawer that belonged to Jerome?”

  “I found the bottle, but I’m not sure what it says about Walter’s involvement.”

  “Just a minute, Dodie.” I could hear a tumble of voices in the background; Snippets must be beside itself. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask her.” Then a rustling on the receiver. “The shampoo girls are wondering if they will arrest Walter?”

  “Carol, I have to go.”

  “Okay. I’ll check in later.”

  I was about to jump in the shower when my phone dinged with a text. “Are you up? Call if you are.” It was Lola. I punched
in her number.

  “The town’s going berserk. You wouldn’t believe what people are saying,” she said. “What happened after we left?” She sounded scared and upset.

  “I found an empty pint bottle of Chivas Regal in Walter’s desk.”

  “Walter didn’t drink,” she said.

  “But Jerome did and that was his brand, and he was almost legally drunk the night he died.”

  “What was it doing there?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I was getting the show budget out of the desk drawer and—”

  “You were what?”

  “Whatever. The drawer stuck, and when I took it out to see what the problem was, I found the liquor bottle shoved in the back,” I said.

  There was silence while Lola processed everything.

  “This is a nightmare. One problem after another.”

  “Lola, Bill took the bottle to be checked out by the CSI unit. But it probably means nothing.”

  She hesitated. “I’ve been troubled by Walter lately. His financial issues, the way he’s been treating the cast, his fighting with Elliot. But I would never think he’d . . . have anything to do with Jerome’s death.”

  “There’s no point in jumping to conclusions,” I said hastily. “There has to be a logical explanation. Bill is going to speak with him this morning.”

  “This seems so trivial, but I guess we should think about the show,” she said.

  “Maybe Walter needs an assistant.”

  “He knew Shakespeare was going to be a challenge, but he wanted to put the Etonville Little Theatre on the map,” Lola said.

  It was on the map all right.

  I let the hot water ping on my face and cascade down my body. How had things gotten this out of control? I forced myself to step out of the shower, towel off, and dress. It was 10 AM when I backed my Metro out of my yard and onto Ames Street. Across the way, my neighbor Mrs. Dugan waved and smiled her approval. She’d obviously seen the paper. I was a reluctant local celebrity, starting to feel as if the citizens of Etonville needed to get a life.