Rudder nodded. “What sort of reunion did you two have here at the Playhouse?”
“That’s what hurt me the most, Sheriff. The way Hildie treated me during this production—like I had done her wrong. And do you know, at first, she pretended not even to recognize me?” He gulped air. “All right, so maybe I did have a reason to want to kill her. But I didn’t. I didn’t. You know why?”
“Why, Leroy?”
“I still love her.”
He began to weep, and Brandy got up and showed him out. Such a good heart, my little girl. But all I felt about Leroy was a sense that he was a very, very good suspect.
Oh, think ill of me if you must! But you have to be tough to be a good detective! Hard-boiled. Merciless. And if Brandy should tell you that I got teary-eyed myself, remind her that such moisture is a side effect of my glaucoma medication.
Next in the chair was Paul. The lighting designer, his anxiety apparent, nonetheless readily agreed to questioning.
To Rudder’s inquiry of where he’d been between seven forty-five and eight-fifteen, Paul responded, “No surprises there. I was in the lighting booth in back of the auditorium.”
Brandy discreetly shook her head.
Catching that, Rudder asked Paul, “The entire time?”
“Ah . . . no,” Paul corrected. “I guess, come to think of it, I did leave the booth for a short while—about a quarter to eight. Vivian asked me to make an adjustment to the stage lights after Madeline complained about them.”
Rudder said, “Would that put you in the vicinity of the prop table?”
He shrugged and grinned nervously. “Well, yes, in order to get to the stage lights scaffolding, I had to walk by it—but so did just about everybody.”
“What about the maintenance room?”
“What about it?”
“Did you go near it this evening?”
“No. Why would I?” He frowned, shifted in the chair. “Look, Sheriff, I had no reason to kill Madeline. None at all.”
From the couch the little mouse peeped again: “Paul, dear, perhaps it’s best you throw some light on your affair with our leading lady . . . however brief it may have been. Back in the early stages of preparing for our production?”
Paul seemed to be deciding whether to scowl or start crying. “How is that any kind of . . . of murder motive? It ended amicably enough.”
“I hardly think so,” I replied. “After your wife found out about the dalliance, she filed for divorce, didn’t she?”
“We’d been having other problems—”
“And you had a problem of your own, when Madeline dropped you and set her sights on Miguel. She always was a fickle pickle!”
Paul was shaking his head and there was something almost pleading in his tone and manner now. “Vivian, that affair, and Jenny filing for divorce . . . that was just a speed bump. Maybe you haven’t heard, but we’re getting back together. But I am guilty of one thing.”
The sheriff sat forward. “Yes?”
Brandy sat forward. “Yes?”
And I sat forward. “Yes?”
“I purposely gave that monster unflattering lighting.” He paused. “Want a real motive, Sheriff? Ask Martha if Madeline didn’t find out that our esteemed wardrobe mistress was selling costumes and pocketing the money.”
First I’d heard of this!
Paul was saying, “Madeline read her the Riot Act and threatened to go to the board.”
That was a motive! And what is the Riot Act, anyway?
Rudder asked, “Paul, what makes you privy to this damning information?”
Another shrug. “Madeline told me. Pillow talk, before I got dumped.”
Shortly, when the wardrobe supervisor occupied the suspect chair, mannish Martha snapped, “That’s a damn lie!”
She swiveled toward me. “Vivian, I swear to you, I’ve never sold costumes for personal gain. Why would I jeopardize my job at the Playhouse, not to mention my reputation? I demand to know who said that!”
Rudder, who had not mentioned Paul, said, “Ah . . . let’s just say it’s come up.”
“If you’re going to assault me with scurrilous rumors, Sheriff, I have a mind not to answer any more of your questions!”
Rudder had painted himself into a corner, so I said indignantly, “Sheriff, you must cease besmirching this woman’s good name! You need to lay this foul rumor to rest. A check of the inventory list against the costumes in wardrobe should clear this up, toot-sweet.”
Then to Martha, I asked sweetly, if not tootly, “What do you think of that solution, dear?”
The woman glared at me.
“Well, Martha?” Rudder asked. “Is that our next step? Check the inventory?”
The wardrobe supervisor sighed unhappily. “All right, okay . . . maybe I did sell a few old moth-riddled costumes. But all of what I got went back into the costume account—every penny!”
I asked, “Was that before or after Madeline threatened to go to the board, dear?”
“Well . . . I guess, uh . . . after. But that was an accident of timing.”
“Ah, but timing is everything! Especially in the theater. And murder.”
Martha adjusted her weight in the chair. “Whatever. I didn’t kill her. I don’t mourn her, but I didn’t kill her.”
Rudder said, “No?”
“No. But I . . . I did put that dead rat in her dressing room. There’s no law against that, and didn’t that feel good!”
Bad reviews come in all forms.
Rudder asked Martha about the crucial half hour.
She said, “I was in wardrobe, where else?”
“You didn’t leave that room?”
“No.”
Brandy interjected, “But I saw you backstage.” Martha frowned at her, then said, “Oh. Yeah. Forgot. I did grab a smoke.”
I asked, “Where?”
“Out the stage door.”
“Which took you backstage,” Rudder pressed.
“Well, duh! That’s the only way to get to the stage door.”
Rudder pressed further: “At what time?”
Martha pursed her lips. “Umm . . . about a quarter to eight?”
Who was she asking?
Looming over her, Rudder demanded, “And how long were you gone from the dressing room?”
“Maybe five minutes, tops. You can ask Clara—she was helping me with the costumes.”
“Who’s Clara?” Rudder asked, checking the names on my list.
I said, “Assistant stage manager. High-school student—an intern.”
Rudder’s gaze returned to Martha. “Did Clara leave wardrobe during that half hour?”
Martha shook her head. “No. The girl was there when I left for a smoke, and was still there when I got back.”
Rudder turned to Brandy for confirmation or denial.
Brandy said, “I didn’t see Clara backstage, Sheriff.”
Rudder asked, “Martha, then what did you do?”
She shrugged. “Then I left to go watch from the audience.”
Rudder snapped his little notebook shut. “All right, then. You can go.”
Martha stood, said dramatically, “Thank you,” a trifle over-the-top for my taste, and left.
The sheriff called for Miguel, who leaned a hand on the interview chair, but did not sit, meeting the law enforcer’s gaze head-on.
“I know what questions you’ve been asking, Sheriff,” the handsome man said, rather belligerently. “So let’s make this brief. I was backstage, and I did have access to the maintenance room . . . because I’m the stage manager! That doesn’t mean I had a damn thing to do with Madeline’s death.”
As Miguel was heading out, Rudder asked his back, “But you did have an affair with her.”
Miguel turned, dark eyes flashing. “That’s stretching a point. What we’re talking about is a one-night stand, which I regret.”
I said, “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen . . . but, Miguel, did Madeline threaten to tell Kimberl
y about your . . . one-night stand?”
“Yes, she did. But I told Kim myself, before Madeline got to her. End of story.”
And on that decent curtain line, he left.
Finally Kimberly took the chair.
“Miguel advised me not to talk to you,” Kimberly began. She’d been crying, eyes red. “But I . . . I want to.”
“I appreciate that,” Rudder said. “Let’s start with who you saw backstage—no matter how briefly—in the half an hour before the play began.”
The attractive blonde understudy thought about that. “Well, I was there, of course, with Brandy—we were sitting together, just off the wing. Paul came through on his way to fix some stage lights.... Martha walked by and went out the stage door, lighting up a cigarette.... Leroy was there, getting ready to run the conveyor belt . . . and Miguel came over just to be with me for a while. Then Madeline got into position for her entrance, and Miguel left, then Brandy, and I went over to the prop table and picked up the fruitcake on the platter, then I stood behind Madeline, ready for my first line.”
“What about this high-school girl?” Rudder asked. “Clara?”
Kimberly shook her head. “I didn’t see her. Did you, Brandy?”
“No.”
Rudder asked, “What about the bit players playin’ factory workers?”
“They were already onstage,” Kimberly answered. “In position for the curtain to rise.”
Rudder paced some more, then came to a stop in front of the seated Kimberly. “So then, after Brandy left you, and after Madeline made her entrance . . . that put you alone with the fruitcake.”
“Yes,” Kimberly said, barely audible. “I’m afraid it did. There’s no one who can prove my innocence. But I am innocent.”
Rudder said, “You don’t deny you knew that your ‘friend’ Miguel had an affair with the de Morlaye woman?”
“That was before Miguel and I . . .” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “Is there anything else, Sheriff?”
“No. No, that’ll be all. For now.”
When Kimberly had gone, Rudder looked at me, then Brandy, then me again. “Well, ladies, what do you make of our little cast of characters?”
I rose from the couch. “I think . . . I know . . . you have the kind of problem, Sheriff, that no detective relishes.”
Brandy, taking Sushi with her, got to her feet as well. She finished my thought, saying: “Too many suspects with means, opportunity, and motive.”
My cell phone rang, the screen identifying Virginia Shoemaker. Word had reached the chair of the Playhouse board of directors of Madeline’s untimely demise.
“Vivian,” the woman said, in that archly theatrical way of hers, “I’ll come right to the point. In spite of this terrible tragedy, we all agree that we must go forward with the production. The food pantry is depending on our contribution this Christmas. We simply can’t let the destitute down.”
“No, indeed,” I replied somberly, my acting skills masking my joy. My little masterpiece would go on after all!
Virginia was saying, “I realize we may take some criticism. . . .” She trailed off, to make way for validation.
And I gave it to her: “My dear Virginia, there may not be a Santa Claus, but there will be a fruitcake play. It’s what Madeline would have wanted. Why, I can hear her now up in that great playhouse in the sky, saying, ‘The show must go on!’ ”
Or was it from down below?
“Yes, yes!” Virginia blurted. “Our thoughts precisely. Is the understudy up to the job?”
“I’m quite sure Kimberly will be marvelous.”
She would be even better than someone else whose name I won’t mention because it’s unkind to speak ill of the dead. Particularly the recently dead.
Now, dear reader, you may wonder why I—after coveting the leading role myself—wasn’t jumping at the chance to take over. The answer (as another great detective once said) is, it was easy. There was one role in this production I would rather perform than Mrs. Hattie Anne Babcock, and that’s Vivian Borne, Sleuth.
“Very good,” Virginia said. “Do keep us posted!”
And she ended the call.
I turned to the sheriff, who’d been listening to my half of the conversation. “It is possible, isn’t it? To release the theater from crime scene quarantine?”
Rudder was rubbing his chin. “Might be to our advantage at that. Yes, Vivian, the show can go on.”
“Goody goody!”
“Restrain your glee, Mother,” Brandy said sourly. Even at Christmastime, she could find a way to be negative! “Do you want me to go find Kimberly?”
“Yes,” I ordered. “But let me give her the news that though she was going out there an understudy, she’s coming back a star . . . suspect.”
Act Three
All I Want for Christmas Is a Fruitcake
Brandy back at the helm, and it was a tuba.
When Mother informed me that the murder of our leading lady was not going to prevent the show from going on, I was skeptical that we’d have anyone in the opening-night audience, apart from relatives of the cast and crew. Oh, there might be a few ghoulish folks curious to see what the play would be like, now that its star had fallen. I considered such people akin to ambulance chasers, and gawkers lingering near the scene of a crime.
But as curtain time neared, the auditorium began filling up, until hardly an empty seat could be found.
Maybe I’d underestimated the number of ghouls in Serenity. More likely this solid attendance reflected the show’s substantial presale of tickets—if there’s anything a Midwesterner hates, it’s not getting his or her money’s worth.
And, even under these circumstances, no matter who might be filling those seats and why, I’m sure all of us involved in the production were pleased to have a capacity house.
Yesterday, upon first hearing of the decision to go on with The Fruitcake That Saved Christmas, Kimberly had been reluctant, though admitting she was well prepared to step into Madeline’s role.
Mother, along with Miguel, worked to convince her otherwise.
“Dear,” Mother said, “you must put aside your personal feelings. Think of everyone, including yourself, who have put their all into this production. Think of the food pantry and those it serves. Think of the tradition of our annual Playhouse Christmas production.”
“I . . . I just don’t think I can,” the understudy replied.
“Kim, please,” Miguel said, facing her, taking her by the arms. “No matter what the circumstances, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You’ll be wonderful in the part.”
Kimberly blanched. “It’s not about me being ‘wonderful,’ Miguel—and it’s ‘once in a lifetime’ only because of a death. Shouldn’t we try to do the respectful thing?”
His cheeks flushed. “Do you think that diva would have hesitated stepping in, if the circumstances had been reversed?”
Her eyes flared, and she broke away from Miguel. “Stop it! All of you. I won’t be manipulated! It doesn’t matter that we didn’t like Madeline. She was murdered—on the very stage you want me to perform on! Maybe I should hit my mark and stand in the chalk body outline!”
“There won’t be one, dear,” Mother said. “That’s not a procedure that Sheriff Rudder employs.”
“I was just trying to make a point!”
Mother surreptitiously waved a hand to Miguel to stay back, then said soothingly, “I’m afraid as a director I do have a manipulative streak, and I do apologize if I drifted into the area of bad taste. The decision is yours.” She sighed. “Of course, if we don’t go on, the less fortunate here in Serenity will have to do without a Christmas dinner. There’s always next year!”
Good thing Mother was restraining her urge to be manipulative.
Blatant though that had been, Kimberly fell silent.
Mother and I exchanged glances. Miguel was studying the actress, his look tortured.
“All right, all right,” Kimberly said, shaking
her head, the corn silk locks bouncing. “I’ll do it. But only because it’s for charity.” Then she added, her voice breaking, “And because . . . because something good has to come out of this.”
Mother patted the understudy’s arm. “Thank you, dear. I felt sure you’d do the right thing.”
Definition of “the right thing”: what Mother wants.
Still, my first reaction was to think how brave Kimberly was. My second was to think that, if she turned out to be the killer, that had been a Tony-worthy performance....
And so, here it was, opening night, nearly curtain time. I was backstage, standing in the stage-right wing, not letting either fruitcake out of my sight. I was not about to allow a repeat performance of yesterday’s fatal dress rehearsal.
Clara, next to me, dressed in a drab factory costume, was saying, “I just can’t wrap my head around this.”
I glanced at her. Mother had given Kimberly’s role of the cook to the intern. Clara seemed both happy and terrified.
I said, “Around what, honey?”
“That I’m actually in a play. Even our high-school productions? Always backstage.”
I smiled. “That’s where I like it.”
The girl turned her plump face to me, some prettiness rising out of the plain features thanks to stage makeup. “I’m just so nervous, Brandy. I studied and studied my lines all afternoon. But what if I forget them?”
“You’ll be fine,” I told her. “And if you do ‘go up,’ as we say in the thea-tah, I’ll be right here to feed ’em to you.”
“You’re the best, Brandy.”
As the orchestra began the overture, Clara took my hand, holding it tightly, and I gave it a reassuring squeeze.
As it happened, Clara was letter perfect, and quite believable as a cook fond of fruitcakes.
Not that it took anything away from Kimberly, who really stole the show. She gave Hattie Ann Babcock a more sensitive, realistic reading than Madeline’s tough-businesswoman’s interpretation. If she lacked the late actress’s showbiz savvy, Kimberly had charm to spare. The audience loved her, and when she came out for her curtain call bow, she got a standing ovation, and enthusiastic applause from the rest of the company.
Antiques Fruitcake Page 4
