by J. R. Ripley
“Aww.” She stuck her finger in the box. “Poor thing. We’ll get you fixed up.” She looked back to me. “New patient?”
I nodded and she handed me a form and a pen. I filled out the new patient card and was led to Examination Room 2.
Moments later, a second woman in blue scrubs and a white lab coat entered, carrying an electronic tablet. She looked in the box, then at me. “Amy Simms?” Her honey-blond hair was tied in a ponytail and tucked under the collar of the white coat. She had a lovely face and didn’t appear to be wearing any makeup.
I nodded. “You must be Dr. Buchman’s daughter.”
She smiled. “Jane. Pop’s down in Charlotte seeing his cardiologist.”
“We must have been in school about the same time.”
“I think I was a couple of years behind you. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Simms from high school.” Both Mom and Dad had been high school teachers.
“I heard you were back in town.” The vet reached into the box and held the bird gently in her cupped hands. “A towhee?”
I smiled. “Very good.”
Jane nodded. “I don’t think the wing is broken, but I’ll shoot an x-ray.”
I said okay. I wasn’t sure how much this whole trip to the vet was going to cost me, but, whatever the charges, I wasn’t going to let that stop me.
I sat while she left with the towhee. There was a slight medicinal smell to the small room. I thumbed through a tired-looking dog magazine. Several minutes later, Jane returned and placed Sammy back in his cardboard box. Jane’s assistant handed her an x-ray. She examined it for a moment, then faced me.
I braced my knees as I awaited the verdict.
“If anything,” the vet said, “it’s only a hairline fracture of the left ulna.”
I rose and tried without success to see what she was seeing on the x-ray sheet. “So he’ll be okay?”
Jane tapped her tablet. “I’d say so, yes. With a little patience, proper feeding and handling.” Her fingers ran along the tablet’s screen. “I can give you the name of a local wildlife rehabilitator, if you’re interested?”
“That would be great.” An expert on bird rehabilitation was what the towhee needed, not somebody who sold birdseed. And definitely not Esther the Pester feeding him cookies. “Thanks, Doctor.”
“Call me, Jane,” she said, placing her tablet in one of her coat’s oversized front pockets.
“Thanks, Jane.” I picked up the cardboard box from the stainless-steel examination table. “How much do I owe you?”
Jane reached into the box and let the little towhee peck at her finger. “Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
The vet nodded. “We like to do a little community service here at Buchman’s. I’d say this little fellow . . . Sammy?” I nodded, and she continued. “I’d say Sammy deserves some of that charity.”
“I can’t thank you enough for your time and your help.” I hesitated at the door. “If there’s anything I can do for you . . .”
“Well . . .” Jane bit her lip.
“What is it?”
“I hear you’ve joined the cast of Annie Get Your Gun.”
“You did?” It had been what, maybe twenty-four hours?
“Hey”—she shrugged—“life in a small town.”
“Can I get you free tickets to the show?” I said with a laugh.
“Nah.” Jane waved away the suggestion. “Pop and I have seats. Heck, he’s a subscriber, gets us season tickets every year.”
“What is it then?”
Jane’s fingers touched my wrist. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but Pop would be thrilled to meet Ava Turner.”
My brow shot up.
“I know it’s a big imposition. It’s just that Pop’s such a big fan of hers. Even though she’s been living in town for years, as you know, she is quite reclusive.” Jane stopped and laughed. “Too bad she doesn’t have a pet. That way, Pop could at least see her when it was time for its checkup.”
“Of course,” I said without thinking. “I’m sure I can arrange for that.” Why not?
“Personally, I mean, I know Miss Turner’s a big star and all,” Jane said, following me out to the front counter, where I signed a couple of papers. “But I don’t see the big deal. Maybe I’m not the starstruck type.”
Jane asked her receptionist for the wildlife rehabilitator’s card, which she then handed to me. “Be with you in a minute, Mr. Langstrom,” she called to the man with the collie. The vet held the door as I juggled the cardboard box outside. “Then when you add all Ava Turner’s sordid history, the drug and alcohol addictions, the love affairs, the murder—”
I stopped on the sidewalk. “The murder?”
“Don’t you remember? Gosh, it must be twenty years ago.” The vet explained how Ava Turner had returned home from an L.A. film studio to discover her daughter being attacked by her boyfriend. Ava had shot and killed him. The court had ruled it justifiable homicide.
I sighed. “I do remember. How horrible.” I set the box back in my van. “Isn’t that about the time she moved here to Ruby Lake?”
“Yeah, then, not a year later, the daughter committed suicide. Shot herself.”
6
I arrived at TOTS five minutes late, parked quickly, and ran to the front door. “Locked,” I mumbled, rattling the door and seeing no one inside. “Of course.”
I ran all the way back to the parking lot and the side entrance. Crawford’s Harley was parked beside the dumpster at the back corner of the building.
I was huffing and puffing like a sad old spinster by the time I was standing on the stage with the rest of my cast.
August Mantooth crossed his arms over his expansive chest. “How nice of you to join us, Miss Simms.”
“Very disrespectful, if you ask me,” said Amy Harlan, looking sideways at me. Not that anybody had asked her.
“Sorry.” I waved to everyone, then leaned over, pressing my hands against my thighs as I fought to calm my breathing. I nodded to Ben Harlan. The attorney was chatting offstage with a Native American named Nathan Longfellow, whom I had been introduced to earlier in the day. He was playing Chief Sitting Bull. I’d heard he was part-Cherokee. The director definitely seemed to lack imagination.
Dick Feller, Amy Harlan, and T-Bone Crawford were missing. Were they off in a corner somewhere playing skat, Germany’s most popular card came for three persons?
The afternoon had been a flurry of activity, from taking Sammy the towhee to the wildlife rehabilitator—who lived well outside of town, in the countryside—to dealing with customers, then wolfing down a quick supper with Kim and Randy at Ruby’s Diner, where they battered me with talk of load-bearing walls, the benefits of laminate over hardwood, and whether to go with granite or quartz kitchen countertops.
I should be home, kicking my feet up on the sofa, watching the Hallmark Channel and sipping Chablis. But no, I was rehearsing my unasked-for role in Annie Get Your Gun.
Oh, sure, I’d always imagined I’d make a great Broadway star. But, unlike Cousin Riley, I knew better than to think I actually had what it took to be one. Like talent. And the ability to sing. OMG, were they going to ask me to sing?
The ancient Romans and Greeks had eaten songbirds, particularly nightingales, in the belief that it would improve their singing voices, but I wasn’t up to testing the theory.
“It’s bad enough that the police were here earlier asking questions,” moaned August.
“The police?” I said.
“And Lance Jennings.” This from Rhonda. For the first time, I wondered where Riley was. It wasn’t like him to be far from his sister.
Lance is a reporter for the Ruby Lake Weekender, the town’s newspaper. Lance is no ace reporter. Not that it mattered. His father, Monty, owned the paper.
“The police and Lance were asking questions about the earlier incident involving Miss Turner,” answered Ben.
“How did they find out?” I wondered. After all, I knew I hadn’t said anything.
That had been my deal with the director.
“It was that stagehand fellow,” August Mantooth said, his jaw tight. “I fired him.”
I remembered how he’d taken the movie star’s picture as well.
“I explained to the police and that nosy reporter that it was all a simple accident.”
I wasn’t sure what about clobbering a woman in the head with a board with a nail in it was simple or an accident, but wasn’t surprised that Jerry Kennedy, our chief of police, had bought what August Mantooth was selling.
“Where’s Miss Turner?” demanded the director.
“I left her in her dressing room,” Rhonda answered.
“Somebody please go get her!” August Mantooth ordered, clearly exasperated.
“Miss Turner told me she didn’t want to be disturbed,” Patsy said, staring the director down. She wore a white shirt with long white fringe along the undersides of each arm and a buckskin skirt.
“She always tells you that,” muttered the director, rubbing his left wrist.
“She told me to stand in for her.” Patsy smoothed down her billowy skirt. “I know all the lines.”
So she wasn’t only a member of the crew; she was a stand-in. That explained the costume.
“Nonetheless,” August Mantooth backpedaled, perhaps fearing the great woman’s wrath, “we’ll give her a few minutes.” He cleared his throat. “We can start without her.”
I unbuttoned my tan cardigan and handed it to Patsy Klein, who occupied my personal space and held up, by a wire hanger, a second buckskin cowgirl costume with way too much fringe.
“I took in the bosoms,” she snapped, a little too loudly for my taste. “The top might be a little loose yet.”
Patsy shot the director a look. “Mr. Mantooth likes to see the female form.” She slipped the costume off the hanger and pressed it to my shoulders “But it’ll do.” She frowned. “I suppose.”
“Thank you,” I said, not sure exactly what I was thanking her for.
Amy Harlan put her hand to her lips and giggled.
“Try it on and let me know,” Patsy ordered.
“I think you’ll look great!” I heard a man’s voice call from behind. “Why don’t you go slip it on? Give us a first look.”
I turned, gripping the hanger by the hook end. Paul Anderson stood there, looking like something straight out of a Wild West show, which was fitting because that was exactly what we were supposed to be doing. The real-life Annie Oakley toured with the famed Buffalo Bill in Buffalo Bill Cody’s Wild West show. That’s the story the Irving Berlin and Dorothy and Herbert Fields’s musical is based on.
He turned to the director. “This is supposed to be a dress rehearsal, isn’t it?”
Mantooth nodded for my benefit.
Paul Anderson tugged at his shirtsleeves. “You’ve done a great job with my costume, Patsy.” He cradled the woman in his arms. She was clearly thrilled with the attention.
Paul released her and sauntered toward me. “I’ll bet you’re surprised to see me again.”
“Surprised isn’t the word.” I held him at bay as he attempted to hug me, too. “You’re playing Frank Butler?”
Paul smiled and nodded. “If I’d known you were going to be playing Winnie, I’d have asked to switch roles with Eli.” He glanced over his shoulder. “That way, I’d be the one getting to throw knives at you.” He placed his hands on his hips as he laughed, deep and hard.
“Sorry, Paul, that’s my job,” said the man with the baritone voice behind him.
“Throwing knives at me?” I turned toward the man Paul Anderson had been addressing. He had jet-black hair and a day’s stubble across his square jaw. His broad shoulders bulged from a less flamboyant buckskin jacket than my own.
The stranger stepped in front of Paul, his hands brandishing a knife. When he saw the expression on my face, he brightened. “Don’t worry,” he said. “This is just a prop knife. See?” He grabbed the knife by its sharp tip and it bent easily.
I gulped.
“I’m surprised you weren’t aware of the knife-throwing bit,” Ben said, obviously noting the look on my face. “Your cousin Riley mentioned you’re quite the Broadway buff.”
I remembered now. There was a knife thrower in the original 1946 Broadway musical. In the revised 1966 Broadway book, as in the movie version starring Betty Hutton and Howard Keel, that character and mine had been written out. “Slipped my mind,” I confessed.
The man before me chuckled. “Eli Wallace.” He stuck out a strong, calloused hand. “I’m playing Tommy Keeler.” He pantomimed throwing the knife a couple of times. “Knife thrower extraordinaire.”
“And you throw them at me?” I pointed to my chest.
“That’s the idea,” Eli said with a shrug.
I was about to say, “Over my dead body,” but didn’t want to give the man any ideas.
The director’s telephone started ringing, and he whipped it from his coat, soured as he looked at the number, then answered. August Mantooth held his hand over the phone as he said, “Take five, everyone!”
Cast and crew dispersed as the director bounded down the stairs into the orchestra pit with his phone pressed to his cheek, then disappeared through the heavy brocade curtain.
“Where did everybody go?” I said to Riley, turning around and noticing that the stage had emptied quickly of everyone but the two of us.
Cousin Riley had opened his mouth to reply when we heard the shot.
7
I dropped my costume, hurried down the narrow hall, and turned toward the sound of the banging.
“Miss Turner!” Lou pounded on a white dressing room door with a yellow star painted at eye level. His forehead glistened with sweat. “Are you in there? Are you all right?” He banged some more.
August Mantooth was right behind him. He hitched up his trousers. “Out of the way,” he barked. “Let me try.” He jiggled the door handle.
“I already told you it was locked.”
“Ava!” shouted the director. “Open the door, my dear!”
“Don’t you have the key?” I asked the stage manager.
Lou’s brow shot up. “Of course. It’s in my desk. I’ll be right back!” Lou’s heavy steps pounded down the hall, the sound dwindling as he disappeared.
August Mantooth sagged against the door, shaking his head. “I can’t believe she really did it.”
Riley and I looked at one another. “Did what?” I said.
August moaned some more.
“Did what?” I repeated, struggling to find his chin buried under all that beard and turning his face toward me. “What did Miss Turner do?”
“Shot herself!” huffed Lou, running along the hall, a thick ring of keys jingling in his hand.
I turned. “Shot herself?” A chill ran along my spine.
“I received her text telling me what she intended to do mere moments ago,” the director said with a trembling voice.
“Me, too,” wheezed Lou.
“Incredible,” whispered Riley, his face white. “Are you certain?”
“Will be in a minute,” replied Lou. He nervously tried one key after another until alighting on one that fit the antique doorknob. Lou glanced my way, as if steeling his nerves.
“Open it,” hissed August Mantooth, waving his hands.
Lou gulped and complied. The sweat was literally pouring off him now. His shirt was soaked through, and I could see the outline of his undershirt. “Miss Turner?” His fingers twisted the knob. “Ava?” The door opened with the tiniest of squeaks, then held. “The chain’s on.”
“Break it!” urged the director.
Lou hesitated, then put his shoulder into it. The chain gave way and Lou practically fell inside. “No!”
The director and Riley hurried to the doorway. “I don’t believe it!” shouted August Mantooth.
“What the devil is going on?” Ben Harlan demanded from the hall.
I pushed between the two men. Lou stood over the bod
y.
Only it wasn’t Ruby Lake’s own Ava Turner.
It was Patsy Klein.
She sat facing us with surprised, dead eyes, her arms at her sides, her long legs stretched straight out. A large red blotch spread across her white shirt.
A revolver rested on the floor below her extended right hand.
“Is that a real gun?” August reached for the gun.
I clamped my fingers on his arm. “No,” I said. “Don’t touch it.” I fought the urge to vomit. The shocking sight of the bloody corpse had left me nauseous and light-headed.
He looked at me quizzically. “Surely it’s only a prop gun.”
“She looks pretty dead to me,” I replied. “So I’d say the answer to your question is no.” My arms had broken out in a cold sweat.
“Amazing,” remarked Lou. “It does look exactly like one of our prop guns.”
“Like it or not,” I explained to the men, “this is a crime scene.”
August Mantooth nodded.
“I’m calling the police,” said Lou, reaching into his pocket for his cell phone.
“No need to,” replied Mayor Mac MacDonald, suddenly filling the doorway. “Chief Kennedy is already on his way.”
“I need some air,” gasped a white-faced August Mantooth. I caught a pungent whiff of spice as he brushed past me and shoved the mayor aside in his effort to escape the confined space.
The director did look bad, but not as bad as Patsy Klein. Her buttery-yellow flounce skirt rode above her bare ankles. I spotted a small blue butterfly tattoo above her left heel.
I looked around the small, cramped dressing room. A round-backed raspberry-colored settee sat along the right side. The director’s chair Patsy Klein was sitting in faced the door but was clearly intended for the cluttered makeup table behind. A tall six-drawer wardrobe chest and dressing screen took up most of the left side. A bank of lights above the three-sided mirror cast a friendly glow in a now decidedly unfriendly-seeming space. One small window high on the back wall gaped open mere inches.
Aged framed photographs of past occupants of the dressing room peppered the walls, including several more recent shots of Ava Turner.