by Gail Oust
“Whoever heard of wearin’ a short skirt and stilettos to dinner at a Mexican restaurant?” Reba Mae said, voicing her disapproval of Shirley’s attire. “The exception bein’ you’ve got your sights set on a certain man. I hate when women are obvious. Makes it look bad for the rest of us.”
“They’re both single.” I took another bite of my burrito to demonstrate my disinterest. “No reason they shouldn’t be seeing each other.”
“Wyatt could have his pick of any woman in town, but far as I know, he hasn’t dated since movin’ here—and not because he lacks opportunity.”
“McBride’s personal life is none of my business.” No longer hungry, I abandoned the burrito in favor of my margarita.
“Vicki was in hot pursuit of McBride after her marriage went kaput and Kenny rode off on a Harley. McBride, bein’ smarter than the average bear, didn’t take the bait. If you believe Vicki’s version, a chief of police in a small town doesn’t earn enough to keep her in the lifestyle to which she’s grown accustomed. She’s on the prowl for a man with a hefty portfolio—and one who isn’t afraid of lavishin’ some of that portfolio on her.”
“Hey, you two.” Reba Mae and I looked up to find Gerilee, a sturdy, no-nonsense type who kept her permed hair a ruthless shade of brown, standing next to our booth. “Here, hon, I want you to have this,” she said, handing Reba Mae a crumpled paper napkin.
I craned my neck and saw a message scrawled across it in black ink. “What is it?”
Gerilee darted a glance toward the register and seemed satisfied that her husband, Pete, was still waiting in line to pay. “It’s the name of the lawyer my nephew Jimmy, Betty’s youngest, used when he got in trouble with the law.” She pitched her voice low even though no one was within earshot. “He got Jimmy off with probation and didn’t charge an arm and a leg like some of those fancier lawyers.”
Reba Mae opened her mouth to speak. “I—”
“No thanks necessary. Glad to help.” Gerilee turned and rejoined her husband.
Reba Mae stared at the wrinkled napkin in disbelief, then shook her head, making her earrings sway. “I feel so dang helpless. I don’t know if I should laugh or cry.”
“Neither.” I twirled the stem of my empty margarita glass. “It’s time we become proactive. Stop twiddling our thumbs.”
“I could kick myself for gettin’ into this mess,” Reba Mae wailed. “As if it wasn’t bad enough to threaten Sandy—even though I didn’t mean anythin’ by it—I had to make matters worse by lyin’ to McBride about bein’ home alone.”
Nacho dropped off our checks. Before Reba Mae had a chance to reach for hers I grabbed both. “My treat,” I told her when she started to protest. “I’ve got an idea.”
“Uh-oh,” Reba Mae said, frowning. “I’ve seen that expression on your face before—and it usually spells trouble. What devious plan is whirlin’ around that brain of yours? Out with it, honeybun.”
Smiling, I crooked my finger and beckoned her to follow me. “Come along, girlfriend, and you’ll see for yourself.”
There was no way to avoid McBride’s table on our way out. He looked up as we passed. I acknowledged him and his date with a polite nod. He returned the nod, equally polite; Shirley smirked. For an instant I was tempted to wipe the smirk from her face but smiled instead and continued on my way.
Once our tab was paid and we were on the sidewalk, I looped my arm through Reba Mae’s. “I think this is a good time for a field trip.”
“Field trip?” Reba Mae dug in her heels. “What sorta trip you talkin’ about?”
I gave her arm a gentle tug. “I’m thinking it’s a perfect night to tour Brandywine Creek’s star attraction.”
“The opera house?” Reba Mae stared at me in disbelief. “Now?”
“Seeing as Chief McBride is occupied by the Realtor of the Month, I can’t think of a better time for a little backstage visit. I suggest walking, since my car stands out like a—”
“—gecko green VW?” Reba Mae completed my sentence. “I’m not sure this is a good idea. Isn’t that place still off-limits?”
“Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” I prodded Reba Mae to get her moving.
“What do you think we’re gonna find that the crime-scene techs didn’t?”
“We won’t know until we find it, will we?”
I tugged my collar higher against the November chill. The night was cold and dark. Clouds scudded across the sky, often obscuring the moon. Elms and maples, bereft of their leaves, waved their skeletal branches as we hurried down the sidewalk.
“I want to go on record as sayin’ this wasn’t my idea. What if we get caught?”
“Don’t be such a sissy! We’re not going to get caught. In and out. Easy peasy.”
“Okay, smarty-pants, but how do you propose we get inside?” Reba Mae hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder.
“Getting in should be a no-brainer. Ned mentioned the lock on the back door is ancient.”
“Ned’s right about the lock.” Reba Mae cast a nervous glance back toward North of the Border. “All you have to do is give it a good jiggle and the door swings open. It’s how I entered after rehearsal that night.”
We reached the square and, seeing Main Street deserted, we cut a diagonal swath toward the opera house. A plastic bag, caught by a gust of wind, pinwheeled across the street and into a gutter. Crime-scene tape had come loose from its moorings in several places and flapped in the night breeze. The building stood before us, solid as a fortress and just as forbidding. I almost suffered a change of heart. Perhaps Reba Mae was right about this not being a good idea. But Reba Mae’s freedom hung in the balance. There was too much at stake to turn back.
Hugging the shadows, we walked quickly along the side of the building and rounded the corner into a small parking lot with cracked concrete. A rusted light fixture with a low-wattage bulb hung over the door. Reba Mae hovered so close her breath fanned my ear. “Do you suppose it’s true what they say about murderers returnin’ to the scene of the crime?” she asked.
“Well, let’s hope if that’s true they chose another night.” I jiggled the handle and, like predicted, the door opened.
CHAPTER 18
THE REAR DOOR of the opera house opened into a service area. I foraged through my purse and withdrew a small penlight I’d started carrying.
“There’s a stairway on the right that leads to the main floor,” Reba Mae whispered although there was no one around to hear. “If you go up the stairs, you can walk straight down the aisle through the auditorium. Beyond that is the lobby with the box office and manager’s office. To the left of where we’re standin’, there’s a shorter flight of steps that leads backstage.”
“We’ll check backstage before we leave.” I found myself whispering, too. “At the moment, I’m more interested in the third-floor balcony where the body was found. What’s the best way to get there?”
“There’s an elevator off the lobby, but if you want my opinion, it’s creepy. Might quit on us. Let’s take the stairway.”
We took the stairs on the right. At the top was a door marked EMERGENCY EXIT, which opened into the auditorium. I paused for a moment to get my bearings. The stage was behind me and rows of vacant seats in front. “Was Sandy in the balcony when you spoke to her?”
“Nuh-uh.” Reba Mae pointed. “Over there, onstage, inspecting sets that still needed a coat of paint. The finished sets are supposed to resemble the inside of a beauty shop.”
I started down a side aisle with Reba Mae nipping at my heels. The theater had a dusty, musty smell. I’d been in the opera house on occasion, but tonight the place had an alien, unwelcoming feel. The sooner we looked around and were out of here, the better I’d like it.
“Imagine! After firin’ me, Sandy asked if she could borrow my salon chair. What did she expect my clients to sit on while I’m cuttin’ and highlightin’? That woman had some nerve—not that I’m one to speak ill of the dead,” she added hastily.<
br />
“I hope you told her no.”
“Not exactly,” Reba Mae hedged.
I shoved through a set of wide double doors and into a small lobby. The elevator and the stairs Reba Mae suggested we use to reach the balcony were to the left. “Translate ‘not exactly.’”
“I might have said somethin’ along the lines that if she’d rehire me I’d consider her request.”
“You need to grow a backbone, Reba Mae. Need to say good-bye to Truvy Jones, move on with your life.”
“Soon as I’m no longer a prime murder suspect, I plan to do just that.”
The steps, swaybacked from decades of use, emitted soft groans as we crept upward. I felt rather than saw Reba Mae shudder. We passed the landing for the second-floor balcony and continued onward. The stairs terminated in a narrow hallway with a series of closed doors. The beam of my penlight swept over a wainscoted wall with framed photographs of celebrities taken in their heyday, then moved downward to follow a strip of carpeting, threadbare in spots, that marched down the center of the floor.
“Isn’t that Fanny Brice?” Reba Mae asked, gesturing to a particular photo, her tone reverent. “I read an article about her once. Sandy told the cast that tourin’ companies from New York used to stop here on their way to Atlanta.”
“Hmm, could be. All I know about Fanny Brice was from a movie starring Barbra Streisand.” The last door was festooned with yellow tape. One end drooped to the floor where it had been trampled on. “X marks the spot,” I quipped.
“You first.” Reba Mae practically hugged my backside.
I approached cautiously. Fine, black dust—fingerprinting powder?—clung to the doorknob and surrounding area. Seeing this stifled any lingering qualms I might’ve had. Who killed Sandy and why? I wanted answers. And something here at the scene of the crime might possibly be a clue to that person’s identity.
Not wishing to get fingerprinting powder all over my hands, I used a tissue as a barrier between the knob and my hand, then stepped inside. The beam of my penlight played over the interior of what resembled a private sitting room, more opera box than a balcony seat. Heavy red velvet draperies trimmed in gold braid were swagged on either side of the box. The furniture, comprised of a small Victorian-style table and four chairs, appeared to be genuine antiques. One chair, however, sat somewhat apart from the others. I assumed this was the chair, as tradition dictated, reserved for the resident ghost.
“Can we go now?” Reba Mae asked.
“In a minute,” I replied absently. I examined the small space, hoping against hope to find a clue others had missed. I wished I could risk turning on an overhead light but didn’t want to take the chance. Additional fingerprinting powder coated the chairs and railing. Can fingerprints be taken from fabric, expensive silk scarves in particular? I wondered. But what good are fingerprints unless they match ones already on file? Most people go through their entire lives never being fingerprinted.
I aimed the beam on the deep gouges on the wood floor that looked fresh. “What do you suppose Sandy was doing up here?”
“Darned if I know,” Reba Mae said. “This part of the theater isn’t used anymore, but it gives you a bird’s-eye view of the stage.”
Ka-chuk! Ka-chuk!
Startled, Reba Mae and I both jumped at the loud metallic noise that erupted from the bowels of the opera house. Reba Mae clutched my arm. “What was that? Think it’s the ghost?”
“It’s an old building,” I replied as my pulse slowly settled into a normal rhythm. “Probably the furnace kicking on.”
“R-right, right,” she stammered. “Lots of folks reported hearin’ strange sounds. Think Sandy’s ghost will come back to haunt this place?”
“I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Me neither”—Reba Mae inched closer—“but you gotta admit roamin’ around in the dark is kinda … spooky.”
“We’re done here,” I said finally, disappointed by our lack of success.
Back on the main floor once again, I remembered Madison’s charm. “Madison Winters lost a little gold key from her bracelet that night. Ned said he found one that matches the description and put it in the lost and found box in the office. Long as we’re here, I thought we’d take a look.”
“Can’t we do it another time? Maybe in broad daylight?”
“It was a gift from her grandmother,” I added for good measure, knowing Reba Mae’s soft spot for her meemaw.
“Fine,” she agreed reluctantly, “but let’s make it snappy.”
Apparently nothing of value was kept in the front office, so the door was unlocked. It opened with token resistance when I used my hip to give it an extra nudge. I breathed a sigh of relief when I spotted a shoe box labeled LOST AND FOUND on top of a file cabinet. Taking it down and placing it on the desk, I rummaged through the flotsam and jetsam: sunglasses, lipsticks, mismatched gloves, ballpoint pens, two handkerchiefs, and, in the corner, a tiny gold key on a silver chain. “Got it!” I cried triumphantly, holding it up for Reba Mae to see.
“We done yet?” Reba Mae asked plaintively.
“Honestly, you remind me of how the kids used to sound when we drove to Michigan to visit my parents. By the time we reached the Ohio state line, I was close to losing my sanity. Let’s check one more thing and then we’re out of here. I’d like to see what a stage looks like from up close and personal.”
Reba Mae heaved a sigh worthy of a martyr about to be burned at the stake. “All right, but it’s nothin’ special. I could draw you a picture.”
The stage was accessed by three shallow steps on either side. The stage itself was much larger than I envisioned. Most of it, however, was taken up with sheets of plywood, partially painted, partially sketched, stacked along a far wall. Tools and buckets of paint were scattered here and there. A half-dozen plastic storage bins were heaped with props such as pink sponge rollers, curling irons, hairbrushes, capes, smocks, and cans of hair spray. I’d turned to leave when an item on the floor, half-hidden behind a vintage hair dryer, caught my eye. A script lay splayed open. I stooped to pick it up and noted that on page after page certain lines were highlighted in pink, others in yellow. Two separate roles? Truvy and Annelle? Someone had to be a glutton for punishment for all that memorization.
“Someone must have forgotten her script,” Reba Mae said, peering over my shoulder. “Okay, you’ve had your look at a stage; now let’s get out of here.”
Bang!
Reba Mae let out a strangled scream. I felt her fingernails bite through the sleeve of my jacket. “That was a gunshot if I ever heard one,” she said. “Let’s beat it.”
I didn’t need further persuasion. Snooping through the darkened opera house was proving to be a cardiovascular workout. My heart rate must have doubled. Reba Mae and I ran—not walked, but ran—to the nearest exit, which in this case happened to be the rear door through which we’d entered earlier. Upon reaching it, I immediately realized where the sound had emanated. The cause for alarm hadn’t been a gunshot, but rather the door’s locking mechanism had failed to catch. The door stood ajar waiting for the next strong gust of wind to send it slamming against its frame.
Upon seeing it, Reba Mae reached the same conclusion. “It didn’t have me fooled for a second,” she boasted. “I’ve been around hunters all my life. I can tell a gunshot from a slammed door any day of the week.”
“Reba Mae Johnson,” I said through gritted teeth, “one more fib like that and your nose is going to grow long.”
I felt an instant’s relief at stepping out of the building and into the crisp night air. A reprieve that was cut short by the sight of a familiar figure lounging against a Ford F-150 pickup.
“Opera house offering private ghost tours?” McBride drawled.
“We had a big dinner and needed to walk off some calories,” Reba Mae ad-libbed, not caring about the length of her nose.
“Ah, a little nighttime stroll. That explains it.” He pushed away from the truck and sauntered closer
. “Don’t tell me, let me guess, you ladies got all tuckered out from all the exercise and decided to take a shortcut through a crime scene?”
“Why are you loitering here in the dark, McBride?” I slipped my penlight into the pocket of my jacket, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Your date finish early?”
“It was business, not a date,” he said with a thin smile. “I didn’t think you cared.”
“I don’t,” I said, perhaps a shade too hastily. I hoped he couldn’t see my telltale blush in the dark.
Legs braced, he hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. “I could bring you ladies in, charge you with breaking and entering.”
“We entered, but we didn’t break nothin’.” Reba Mae ended her protest when I jabbed her ribs.
“How did you know where to find us, McBride?” The adage “the best defense is a good offense” popped into mind. “Don’t try to tell me you were standing in a deserted parking lot late in November waiting for the ice-cream truck to come along.”
“Security camera.” He raised a hand and pointed to an object mounted on an overhang above the door. “I had one installed day after the murder. Precious saw you on the monitor. She worried you girls might get into mischief.”
“I’ve had about all the mischief I can tolerate for one night,” I said, “so unless you’re going to press charges, we’ll be on our way.” I hooked my arm through Reba Mae’s and urged her to get a move on before McBride made good his threat.
After only a couple steps Reba Mae stopped and turned. “Hey, Wyatt, the real reason for the security camera—true or not, do killers really return to the scene of the crime?”
He stood tall, a formidable figure, under the feeble light thrown by the low-watt bulb. “Don’t believe everything you see on TV, Reba Mae; that usually only applies to serial killers.”
Reba Mae opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. I drew her away, but not before I saw a smile flit across McBride’s handsome face.
CHAPTER 19
