Curried Away

by Gail Oust

“Sandy seemed stressed is all,” she said at last. “Rehearsal didn’t go well. Mary Lou couldn’t remember her lines and probably qualified as the worst Truvy Jones in the history of Steel Magnolias. To make matters worse, the entire cast was uptight because Sandy insisted we rehearse over Thanksgiving weekend.”

  “It’s my understanding you and Caleb went out afterwards.”

  “We had a bite to eat; then Caleb dropped me off at the opera house where I’d left my car, and I came straight home.”

  Frustrated, I twisted the knit cap in my lap into a pretzel shape. I wasn’t making any headway with my line of questioning. “Think harder, Madison. When Caleb dropped you off, did you notice anyone hanging around?”

  The kettle whistled then, and she poured boiling water over the tea bag. “Nope, didn’t see a soul.”

  Taking a seat at the table across from me, she gave an apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

  “Did you hear anything, for example a car engine starting? Or maybe smell something?” I was grasping at straws, and we both knew it.

  Madison frowned. “Well,” she said slowly, “now that I think about, I do remember something odd.”

  It took all my willpower to sit still and not shake the information out of the girl. “What do you remember?” I asked, keeping my voice quiet, soothing.

  “It could have only been my imagination, but … I thought I smelled cigarette smoke.”

  CHAPTER 34

  CIGARETTE SMOKE?

  Upon leaving Pets ’R People, I reminded Madison to lock the door behind me. As I drove toward home, my mind busily sorted through the various possibilities. This was the girl’s first mention of cigarette smoke. “Smells ring bells” was something my college psych professor had once said, and for some reason it had stuck in my head. If I’d fired up a cigarette—and risked choking—would that have triggered a significant memory from somewhere in Madison’s brain? I concentrated, trying to visualize the rear of the opera house. In my mind’s eye I pictured an overhang above the door. The perfect spot to mount a security camera. And a place where odors could easily get trapped and linger.

  Then again, the vague memory of smelling cigarette smoke might leave me no closer to solving the riddle. Elated one minute, deflated the next, my emotions were a wild roller-coaster ride.

  I parked in my usual spot on the street behind my shop and took the footpath through the vacant lot to my back door. There was no sign of Lindsey’s Mustang, so I assumed she was still at Taylor’s. With SATs on Saturday, she was hitting the books—and hitting them hard. I’d just entered my building when the phone rang. I dug my cell phone out of my fleece and read the display: CALLER UNKNOWN, aka Reba Mae Johnson. I might’ve known it was her. I sank down on the stairs leading to my apartment. Far from windows and prying eyes, the stairwell seemed the safest place to conduct a conversation with a fugitive from justice. Or, in this case, a fugitive from injustice.

  “Sure you’re alone?”

  “Positive,” I said but caught myself looking around to double-check. McBride could be a sneaky devil. “You can’t hide out forever, girlfriend. You need to turn yourself in.”

  “And then what? Develop a likin’ for bracelets with chains attached?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Talk away, but give me the Reader’s Digest version. I don’t have unlimited minutes.”

  Ka-chuk! Ka-chuk!

  “What was that?” I asked, but I already knew the answer. It was the noise Reba Mae and I had heard at the scene of the crime. The sound of the furnace at the opera house.

  “Gotta run,” Reba Mae said in a rush.

  The phone went dead in my hand. I’d found my friend, but had I found her only to lose her? The sands of time were running through the hourglass faster than I could slow them. I needed to see Reba Mae, make sure she was all right, talk to her. Maybe, if we put our heads together, we’d figure out a solution.

  Bounding to my feet, I exited through the door I’d just entered from and eased into the night. I released a pent-up breath when there was no sign of McBride or one of his men. Creeping along the back of the neighboring shop, I squeezed into the gap between Yesteryear Antiques and Second Hand Prose and hurried through the narrow passage until I reached Main Street. A look in either direction assured me Brandywine Creek was buttoned up tight. The statue of the Confederate soldier in the town square would be a mute witness to my escapade. Hugging the shadows, I hurried down the block and at the corner cut across to the opera house. I skirted along the side of the building and rounded the corner.

  Last time we were here, our getaway had been foiled by a security camera. How had Reba Mae managed to avoid detection with a camera monitoring comings and goings? I switched on my penlight and shone it over the rear of the opera house until I found the camera under the overhang. I smiled grimly. This time it wouldn’t pose a problem. Someone had sprayed black paint over the lens. Vandals, maybe, but I’d place my bet on a certain beautician with a fondness for hair dye.

  More confident now, I jiggled the door handle, hoping no one had thought to replace the ancient lock. The door squeaked open on rusty hinges. “Reba Mae,” I called softly as I slipped inside.

  No answer.

  “Reba Mae,” I called again, louder this time.

  Had I been mistaken? Had I jumped to the wrong conclusion? Reba Mae was superstitious—spooked by ghost tales. Maybe she wasn’t hiding here after all? She could be miles away. I advanced farther into the service area. The beam of my penlight picked out a recessed door that blended into the wall so well it had gone unnoticed on our previous visit. I tugged on what was more latch than knob or handle, and the door swung open to reveal a steep flight of stairs leading to a basement.

  “Reba Mae,” I shouted, “this place is creeping me out. If you’re down there, show yourself this instant or I’m leaving!”

  Like magic, Reba Mae materialized at the foot of the stairs, her sudden appearance startling me. “How’d you find me?”

  “Blame it on the furnace.” Holding the penlight with one hand, the banister with the other, I cautiously descended a rickety flight of steps. Once my feet hit the bottom, Reba Mae hugged me so fiercely I worried she’d crack a rib. The hug over, I stepped back to study her. Her face was pale, her hair limp, and her clothes rumpled, but she was still able to summon a smile. “You all right?” I asked.

  “I will be when I quit livin’ like a bat and see the light of day.”

  “Even so, you look mighty good—for a fugitive.”

  “C’mon,” she said, turning. “Let me show you my new digs.”

  She led me down a narrow corridor in the musty-smelling basement and toward a faint light at the far end. The basement was a warren of small rooms, most of which seemed used for storage purposes. Racks of costumes filled one; an assortment of props overflowed shelves and bins in another. One large room was reserved for tools, lumber, and painting supplies for set building. Reba Mae had selected a space in the far corner for her little nest. A small battery-operated lantern shed a feeble light, adding to the gloom rather than dispelling it.

  Reba Mae gestured to a soft-sided suitcase shoved against a wall. “I took the biggest one I could find to haul my stash.”

  From what I could see, Reba Mae’s “stash” consisted of a blanket, a small pillow, bottled water, pouches of tuna, packets of crackers, and protein bars. “What,” I said in mock horror, “no Peanut M and Ms? No wine?”

  “Didn’t plan on doin’ much entertainin’. I’ve come to the conclusion the opera house ghost is anorexic, ’cause she leaves my stuff alone.”

  “Smart move disabling the security camera.”

  “Ranks right up there along with me buyin’ a burner phone.” Reba Mae lowered herself to the blanket that she’d spread on the floor and sat Indian fashion, motioning me to join her.

  “Pretty clever of you to ditch your car at the airport,” I said, squirming to find a more comfortable position on the cold cement.

  �
�They found it already?” she said, disappointed. “I was hopin’ it’d take a while.”

  “How did you manage to get from the airport back to Brandywine Creek?”

  “I hung out for a while in Baggage Claim and overheard a couple talkin’. They were goin’ to visit their daughter not far from here, so I bummed a ride. Told ’em my kids were supposed to pick me up, but they had car trouble.” She plucked at a loose thread on the blanket. “Any luck findin’ the killer?”

  “Not yet.” I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. “I followed Wanda tonight, but she has a solid alibi. Believe it or not, Wanda’s a member of a motorcycle club. She rides with Dale Simons of the Swap and Shop.”

  “No kiddin’!”

  “What’s more, if Dale has his way, he’d like to get hitched.”

  “Wanda and Dale?” Reba Mae said, shaking her head in disbelief. “If that don’t beat all. But where does that leave us? Fresh out of suspects, that’s where.”

  I shifted so I could see my friend’s face more clearly. “Wanda and her Harley-riding friends weren’t the only ones I visited tonight. I also had a nice chat with Madison Winters. Something she said started me thinking,” I said slowly. “What if we’ve been wrong the whole time?”

  “What do you mean—wrong?”

  “What if we’ve been working under a false premise? All along we’ve assumed the killer is a member of the cast, but what if—other than Vicki Lamont—it’s someone not in the play? Maybe we should broaden the scope of our investigation. Think outside the box.”

  Though Reba Mae listened, she didn’t seem totally convinced. “Just what was it Madison said that’s got you all fired up?”

  “She remembered smelling cigarette smoke when Caleb dropped her off. Who do we know that smokes?”

  “Most folks I know have given up smokin’ for one reason or another, all except…”

  “Bitsy Johnson-Jones,” I said, completing her sentence. Excitement fizzed through my veins like champagne.

  Reba Mae frowned. “I don’t get it. Why would Bitsy want to hurt Sandy?”

  “Bitsy wanted to be in Steel Magnolias so much she could practically taste it.” I squirmed, unable to sit still. “Remember the night we were here. I found a script on the stage with not one but two roles highlighted—Truvy Jones and Annelle. I didn’t think much of it at the time, but it’s all starting to make sense. The day of the press conference, Bitsy told me she’d memorized the lines of several characters, but Sandy insisted the parts were already cast. Bitsy even volunteered to be an understudy only to have her offer rejected. What if she heard the rumor that Mary Lou was about to be replaced and came after everyone left in a desperate attempt to audition? Bitsy has lost a ton of weight and wants everyone to notice. She craves attention and adulation. What better way to show off her new figure than being onstage? Sandy denied her that opportunity.”

  “Might make sense to us, but the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question is, will it make sense to McBride?”

  “All we have to do is find a way to convince Bitsy to confess.”

  Reba Mae snorted. “Piece of cake, right?”

  “Get out the dessert plates.” I pulled out my cell phone. “I think I know a way.”

  CHAPTER 35

  “YOU SURE THIS WILL WORK?”

  “Do you want to continue living like a bat and never seeing the light of day?”

  “No, but…”

  Persuading Bitsy to come to the opera house had been child’s play. All it had taken was a single phone call—and acting talent I never knew I possessed. In the blink of an eye I’d transformed into Brandywine Creek’s own—a vertically challenged, red-haired version of Meryl Streep.

  “She’ll be here any minute,” I said. “We’d better set the stage.”

  We hurried up the basement stairs. I located an electrical panel backstage and threw a couple switches. Instantly the stage was bathed in light, leaving the rest of the theater shrouded in darkness. The script was right where I’d dropped it. Picking it up off the floor, I flipped it open.

  “Want me to search the costume room for a beret?” Reba Mae asked. “A beret would give you an artsy look.”

  “Thanks, but no thanks.” I rearranged a container of pink sponge rollers and a can of hair spray next to a mock shampoo bowl. “A beret might give Bitsy the impression I’d gone Picasso and wanted to paint her portrait.”

  Reba Mae twisted her hands together. “My nerves are jumpin’ like fleas on a hound.”

  “Mine, too,” I sighed. If this didn’t work, I was fresh out of ideas. “Let’s just stick to the plan. Your job is to keep out of sight and record our conversation while I wheedle a confession out of her.”

  “What if Bitsy turns violent?”

  “Quit worrying. I’m not wearing a scarf, am I? No way she can strangle me.”

  Reba Mae cocked her head to one side. “Hear something?”

  “Quick!” I whispered when I heard the telltale squeak, too. “Exit stage right.”

  “Bitsy,” I called. “That you?”

  Bitsy emerged from stage left. She’d taken time to prepare for the role, with her hair done up in a bouffant style and thick makeup. She wore a loose jacket over tight jeans, which I’d come to think of as her trademark, V-neck sweater, and high-heeled ankle boots. “Got here as fast as I could,” she said.

  “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” I said, attempting to put her at ease. “It’s tragic what happened to Sandy, but the show must go on. When I offered to take over as director, Mayor Hemmings agreed. As you might expect, time is of the essence. The role of Truvy Jones is yours if your audition goes well.”

  Bitsy smiled eagerly. “Mary Lou Lambert was a terrible choice for the part. I don’t know why Sandy picked her in the first place. She never even remembers to come by for her dry cleaning.”

  I took a seat in a styling chair with torn red vinyl that looked as though it had been salvaged from Floyd’s Barbershop in Mayberry. “Your name was mentioned as a possible replacement.”

  “Where do you want me to start?”

  “I thought we’d start at the beginning. How about Act One, Scene One?” I removed the script from where I’d stuffed it under the chair cushions and held it out. “Look familiar?”

  Bitsy’s eyes widened as comprehension dawned. “Should it?” she said.

  If this was the extent of Bitsy’s acting talent, I could understand why Sandy didn’t take her seriously. But being a terrible actor didn’t make a person a murderer. I’d need to press harder if I wanted an admission of guilt. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  She licked her lips. “Where did you find it?”

  “Right where you left it—the night you strangled Sandy.” I slid out of the chair and advanced toward her.

  “What are you implying?” A tremor in her voice undermined her bravado.

  “I’m not implying; I’m accusing. You learned Mary Lou was being replaced. Knowing Sandy was always last to leave rehearsals, you waited until the cast left before making one final attempt to convince Sandy you were right for the part. You witnessed Reba Mae arriving, then leaving again, before you made your move. Unfortunately, you can’t act—and Sandy told you as much. You flew into a rage, and as they say, the rest is history.”

  “What if I did?” she spat, her fear transforming into anger. “You can’t prove it.”

  “I’m willing to bet that you’re the one who made the anonymous call about Reba Mae to the hotline.” I hoped Reba Mae was videotaping our exchange. Would any of it be admissible in a court of law? I wondered. If not, all this would be reduced to a case of she-said, she-said. “I also think you’re responsible for slashing the tires and keying ‘GO HOME’ on Madison Winters’ car in order to scare her.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” she sneered. “Why would I do that? I don’t even know the girl.”

  This was the moment to play the trump card I didn’t have, so instead I went for a big fat lie. �
�Madison remembers seeing someone duck around the corner when Caleb dropped her off to get her car. She’s pretty sure that person was you.”

  “You’re bluffing. If she was positive it was me, she’d have said something by now.”

  Any lingering doubts about Bitsy’s guilt vanished. “So you did kill Sandy.”

  “Too bad your plan to send Madison back to Chicago didn’t work.” Reba Mae stepped out from the wings, brandishing her phone. “I’m no longer gonna be the fall guy. I have everythin’ recorded right here on my cell phone.”

  Fury turned Bitsy’s expression ugly—the same look she’d probably worn as she tightened a silk scarf around a woman’s neck. Casually reaching into the pocket of her jacket, she withdrew a small revolver. “Don’t act so surprised, ladies. My husband Dooley is a long-haul trucker. He gave me this for self-protection when he’s on the road. If ever a situation calls for ‘self-protection,’ this is it.”

  Reba Mae inched closer and grasped my arm. “You’re goin’ to shoot us?”

  Bitsy frowned, considering her options. “No,” she said after some thought, “guns are too noisy. I have a better idea, but first toss me your cell phones. Don’t want the cavalry riding to the rescue, or all this would be for nothing. And don’t try my patience—I’ll shoot if I have to. Dooley made sure I knew how to fire this baby.”

  Our phones landed at her feet with a loud clatter. “You’ll never get away with this.” How lame was that? I cringed at using a line I’d seen or heard dozens of times in books and on television.

  Keeping the gun trained on us, Bitsy bent down, scooped up both phones, and dropped them in her pocket. Should I live through this, I’d ask McBride how to protect oneself from a frontal gun attack. Right now, however, it was a moot point.

  “Now, both of you, hands in the air where I can see them.” She herded us backstage and into a small dressing room, then slammed the door shut. A click of a bolt sliding home seemed to reverberate inside my brain. Reba Mae and I turned to each other in the dark.

  “Is she going to leave us here to starve?” Reba Mae whispered anxiously.