Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  He nodded. “Be careful.”

  How did I know he was going to say that? I didn’t bother to remind him that I was perfectly able to take care of myself now. I’d been training for months. Besides, the killer had to be long gone or at least wouldn’t attempt anything more now that everyone was aware of the murder and the police were on their way.

  The backstage of the theater was alive with movement. Actors scurried past me carrying props and costumes, and two were fixing a wooden set. One cluster of actors practiced lines, Lucas among them, and I was surprised to learn he could lower his voice so well. It sounded a bit fake, sure, but then all acting did to me.

  I didn’t see Walsh and Seaver as I nosed about, my hands once again trailing everything from props to walls and spare costume pieces someone had dropped on the floor. It was exhausting to experience the lives of a group of people who as a matter of course blurred the lines of reality and make-believe. Some scenes I knew were faked because of the language, but others made me shiver with the realism.

  I knocked on each door that I entered but besides a small office and the men’s dressing room, now deserted with the preplay frenzy, there wasn’t much to see. Nothing I touched pointed to Rosemary’s disappearance or poor Cheyenne’s death. I even went onto the darkened stage and touched the props there. Nothing.

  Peeking through the curtain, I saw that the seats in the small stadium theater were indeed full of patrons. Whatever opinion I had of Carl Walsh, he had apparently come through in dredging up an audience. Of course, none of them knew that there was a dead woman in the women’s dressing room. Shaking my head, I headed back to the prop room to see if I’d overlooked something there.

  “That must have been terrible,” came a voice from around a bend in the hallway. “I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “It was horrible! She was just sitting there, stuffed in a corner. I didn’t like Cheyenne, but to end like that—behind a garbage can in a closet. It isn’t right. And now there’s a killer on the loose. I’m so scared!”

  “It’ll be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. I promise.” Abrupt silence that probably meant kissing.

  I kept walking, wanting to know who these actors were, though I already suspected the identity of one. They pulled apart as I rounded the corner.

  “Hi, Vera,” I said. She had replaced her red wig and fixed her makeup—all but the lipstick that was now shared by the male actor next to her. Or maybe it was his lipstick. One never knew with actors.

  “Oh, it’s only you,” Vera said, her voice slightly hostile.

  “Who is this?” her friend asked. He had blond hair and was a little on the short side even for a man, but he was broad and strong-looking and had a certain appeal in the way he smiled.

  “She’s looking for Rosemary,” Vera said, pushing her lips into a pout. “She’s the one who found Cheyenne.”

  “I’m Autumn Rain,” I said.

  He smiled again and held out his hand. “Beautiful name.” Trust an actor to say that. People usually thought my name odd. “I’m Trenton Cauley. Nice to meet you.”

  “You, too.” He shook hands well, not like a limp fish, and I found myself liking him more than I liked the dramatic Vera. “Well, I’d better let you two go. I know your play is starting.”

  “Oh, no! She’s right. See you later, love.” Vera grabbed the sides of her dress and fled down the hall, apparently all her fear of murderers having vanished. I tried not to roll my eyes.

  Trenton Cauley gave me an obviously admiring look, which in my book made him a player, a ladies’ man, and I wasn’t interested in more drama.

  I nodded and moved down the hall toward the prop room. The large space was as dim as ever but now it held a sense of foreboding I hadn’t experienced earlier. Murders do that to you—not that I knew much about murders. Most of the cases I consulted on involved missing people I eventually found alive.

  This time I ran my hands close to the props, not touching them unless I felt a prominent tingling that signaled a stronger, more recent imprint. Anything connected with a murder or kidnapping would be strong. Usually, I’d avoid clothes altogether, as they weren’t good receptacles for imprints, too often being washed, discarded, or taken for granted, but costumes were different.

  Then I felt her—Rosemary. She was trying on a dress and in the imprint her contentment was palpable. Rosemary/I get to be Juliet. So what if it’s a modern play and I fall in love with a muse instead of a real man. It’s a good part, and I just know it’s going to mean my big break when Mr. Walsh’s aunt from New York sees it. It’s finally my turn. The recent imprint faded to others that were irrelevant, and nothing else on that clothes rack shed more information.

  So Rosemary had come to the Portland Players with an agenda, a hope that it would be her big break. Liam and the script had already hinted at such, but now I had solid confirmation. No way would Rosemary have left of her own free will.

  A noise pierced my consciousness. “Hello?” I called. “Is anyone there?” I paused to listen and heard nothing. The noise had probably come from the hall. Of course if someone was in the room with me and was trying to hide, I wouldn’t be able to find him in this decades-old collection without more light and several helpers. It would be too easy to duck behind a rack or slide under a table.

  Goose bumps rose on my skin. Nothing like the dark to evoke images of crouching attackers or more bodies hidden in closets. Instinctively, my hand went to the gun in my pocket, but that made me feel worse. I could never shoot a person.

  Shaking my head, I bent to the table near the rack of clothes. Something seemed out of place here, but what? There were dishes, a box of costume jewelry, a slew of hats, and a hammer—a hammer that radiated strong imprints I would have to read.

  The moment I reached for it, I heard a rushing sound. Something heavy hit me, spinning me against the rack of clothes that shot away with the impact. Thankfully the rack and clothes were heavy enough not to go far, and I didn’t hit my face on the concrete floor when I fell. Or at least not too hard. My body protested the jarring, even as I forced it to move, trying to shove away from my attacker, fear arching through me. The dark-clad figure reached for something on the table.

  Jumping to my feet, I sidestepped another rush. My attacker stopped short of running into the rack and whirled to face me, hammer in hand. The figure was wearing all black, including a ski mask and a thigh-length coat that hid his build. The hand with the hammer jabbed in my direction, but I blocked it and threw a punch that landed with a satisfying crack. The figure curled momentarily in pain, dropping the hammer.

  I took two steps forward and kicked it away. Now we were on equal footing, and with my training, I might have the advantage. I still had my gun, too, though I worried it might end up being used against me.

  The attacker launched at me again. Not exactly an intelligent martial arts move for the untrained, so he either knew nothing or was sure of himself. I turned before the impact, grabbing his arm and using his forward movement to roll him over my back where he slammed onto the floor. His grunt of surprise filled the quiet. My shoulder ached where his boot had caught me on the way over, but I reached for his mask. He jerked away, rolled from me, jumped to his feet, and ran to the outside door.

  I sprinted after him, reaching the door as he rounded the side of the theater. By the time I got to the front, he was nowhere in sight. Only the full front parking lot and cars lining the street both ways for a quarter of a mile greeted my arrival. Puddles of water reflected the tiny slice of moonlight peeking through the overhead clouds. He could be hiding anywhere.

  At least it wasn’t raining, though my breath came in soft white clouds. My shoulder throbbed, and my face felt slick. When I touched my right cheek, my hand came away wet with blood. I’d hit the floor harder than I’d thought, or perhaps I’d been scraped by something sharp
on the clothes rack.

  I searched the darkness, though I had no idea what I would do with the attacker if I found him. A car so far down the street that I couldn’t identify the make roared to life and disappeared down the road.

  Rats! I kicked at the ground in frustration. He’d gotten away, leaving only the hammer behind as evidence, but since he’d been wearing gloves, it wasn’t likely he’d left an imprint.

  As I debated what to do, two police cars and two unmarked vehicles drew up in front of the theater, blocking the street. Two officers emerged from each car, and Walsh hurried from the front of the theater, where he must have been watching for them. I knew Shannon would be among the officers and detectives and that he’d want to talk to me, but an idea wouldn’t leave me alone and I had to take care of it first. When the assailant had grabbed the hammer, had he been trying to hide evidence or simply searching for something to stop me from doing whatever he thought I was doing?

  There was only one way to find out. A coroner’s van pulled up as I went around the theater and back inside the prop room. The hammer lay where I’d kicked it. I knelt beside it and touched my finger to the handle.

  I gasped at the mental image. Hate and rage filled me, so great there was no way to contain it. I felt the hammer in my hand, saw it rise. In front of me was the back of a woman’s head, her identity obscured by her long brown hair. The hammer came down hard, and she crumpled at the impact. The vivid imprint went immediately dark.

  I snatched back my hand, shaking all over at the terrifying scene. The hammer had definitely been used as a weapon, but for the life of me, I couldn’t identify either who had received or who had delivered that terrible blow.

  Chapter 5

  I hadn’t fainted, and I’d been able to remove my hand from the hammer without help from either Jake or Shannon. That meant I was learning something or that the imprint, though horrendous, had been too short to hold me in a repeating loop. I suspected the latter, but for whatever reason, I was grateful Shannon wouldn’t find me mopping the floor with my face—again.

  Now to find something to wipe my cheek before Shannon and the crew showed up looking for me.

  I was too late. Already I could hear Walsh coming in the back door, complaining about the brick holding open the door, how it was impossible to stop the show, and his concern about inconveniencing his customers.

  I stood and grabbed the nearest thing I could find for my cheek—a winter scarf that was so full of dust, I’d have to wash my wound thoroughly later to be sure it didn’t become infected.

  “Autumn?” Shannon peered through the dimness. “That you?” He came toward me, sturdily built and compact, each movement unwasted and undeniably graceful.

  “Hi, Detective Martin.” Better to keep it formal in front of Walsh and the police officers.

  “I thought I told you to stay with the body.” He took several steps closer.

  I shrugged. “Jake’s got it. No one will touch anything.”

  “I can personally vouch for all my actors,” Walsh said. “None of the people in my company has anything to do with this dreadful act. We vet our actors very carefully.”

  Which likely meant he hired any halfway decent actor willing to accept substandard pay, but Shannon would discover the truth about the company’s financials without my interference.

  “I’m sure you do,” Shannon said dryly, his eyes not leaving mine. “What happened to your face?”

  “I, uh, was looking around in here and had a little run-in with a guy in a black mask,” I told him. “I chased him outside, but he took off in a car just before you arrived.”

  Shannon’s expression darkened. “You get the license plate or a make?”

  “Too far away. Too dark.”

  Everyone was interested now, especially Walsh, who looked ready to accuse me of lying.

  “I did, however, find something of interest,” I added. Something I didn’t want to talk about in front of Walsh. “If I could talk to you privately.”

  Shannon finally took his gaze off me and waved the others to go on without him. “You know the drill. I’ll be along in a minute.” He smiled at Walsh. “If you’d be so kind as to show them the way.”

  Walsh’s jaw jutted from his round face, but he didn’t object. I wondered if he was as compelled by Shannon’s eyes as everyone else always seemed to be. Okay, maybe not everyone. Maybe just me.

  “Let’s have it,” Shannon said when they were gone. “What happened?”

  I told him everything, from the moment I arrived at the theater to reading the imprint on the hammer.

  “Don’t you have your gun?”

  “What? I am not shooting anyone.” The weight of the small pistol weighed more heavily than ever in my coat pocket.

  “He tried to hit you with a hammer.”

  “Rather ineptly.”

  His hand went to my chin, turning my face so he could examine it. “This isn’t nothing.”

  His touch burned my skin, but I couldn’t tell if that was a good or a bad thing. “That was me falling.”

  His hand dropped. “Okay, so where’s this hammer?”

  I pointed to where I had kicked it earlier, nearly under the table. “You won’t find any of my attacker’s prints, though. He was wearing gloves, those socklike ones.”

  “You sure it was a he?”

  “Actually, no. He wasn’t really big, so I suppose it could have been a she. At any rate, I didn’t receive any other imprints when I touched the hammer. Just one of someone attacking a woman with long brown hair.”

  “Our vic?”

  “I’m not sure. She does have long hair, though, and it’s the right color. Like Tawnia’s, only longer. It could be anyone. I couldn’t identify the person wielding the hammer, either. All he concentrated on as he struck was the hair.”

  “He or she.”

  “Right. As for the murder vic tonight, I didn’t see any blood.”

  “You might not if she was killed somewhere else and then shoved into that closet. In fact, that’s likely. Who attacks someone in a closet? The murderer might have thought to hide the body until there was time to dispose of it without being caught.”

  Body. How sad to be reduced to such a word. Not woman or man. No names, just “body” or “vic” or “it.”

  “We’ll know more once we have the cause and time of death.” Shannon took a glove from his pocket. He and his coworkers seemed to carry gloves the way most people carried chewing gum. The glove was followed by a plastic bag to hold the hammer. He marked on the outside with pen. It said a lot about his increasing trust in me that he didn’t spend fifteen minutes trying to talk me out of what I’d seen, and that warmed my heart much the way his hand had warmed my chin. Time was when he’d have threatened to lock me up for trying to sway the investigation with my ulterior motives, whatever they might be.

  “Where’s Tracy?” I asked, realizing I hadn’t seen his partner.

  “It’s her day off. Mine, too, before you ask.”

  I knew that meant he’d come in because I was involved, not because he was the most successful detective on the force, though that could very well have been the case. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

  He smiled and suddenly the space between us was too small. I swallowed hard and looked away. Jake is here, I reminded myself. He’s my boyfriend. Except that he wasn’t, not really, not anymore, though he wanted to be and I wanted him to be. Maybe.

  “Anything else you want to see here?” Shannon asked, his voice thick with amusement—or perhaps something more.

  There were many items I should probably touch, but I was feeling reluctant. “Not unless I have to. The imprints here are strange. It’s hard to tell which are real and which took place on the stage.”

  “What about the hammer?”

 
“That was real.” But I was already beginning to doubt myself. If I touched it again maybe I could verify . . . No. I knew what I’d seen. That was real rage, and the woman had been seriously hurt. There’d been no fake blow.

  Without further discussion, I led Shannon to the women’s dressing room, where his men had already finished with pictures and were well into dusting for prints in the closet and on the garbage can. The incredibly young coroner was kneeling over the body. Shannon didn’t feel a need to push himself into the activity around the corpse but waited for the initial conclusions. Meanwhile, his sharp eyes took in the few actresses still present—a blonde I’d overlooked before and Erica, who looked out-of-time with her long black wig twisting around her face in gentle ringlets.

  Jake was standing back from the others, his hands in his coat pocket. He stared at my face, taking two steps toward me. “What happened?”

  “A guy knocked me over in the prop room. I scraped myself on the floor. Don’t worry. I’m okay.” I’d explain more later, but that would have to hold him for now.

  His jaw worked, but he nodded without further comment. Then his eyes met Shannon’s, and his head dipped. “Shannon.”

  “Jake. Thanks for guarding the body.”

  “No problem, but next time I’ll go with Autumn.”

  “Next time?” Shannon arched a brow. “Let’s hope there’s no next time. Not for this.” He chuckled, and Jake grinned.

  It still unsettled me to see them act so civilly when once they’d been at each other’s throats. Fact was that with my indecision, they both had more reason now to dislike each other, but apparently saving one another’s lives this past summer had created a permanent bond between them. It made things horribly awkward for me.

  “You will try to be discreet with this investigation, won’t you?” Walsh came to stand before Shannon, twisting his hands. “I don’t want my customers disturbed. In fact, I’d rather they didn’t find out.”