Murder in the Theater (Cold Creek Book 4)

by Christa Nardi

  MURDER IN THE THEATER

  CHRISTA NARDI

  Copyright 2016

  ISBN-10: 0-9910547-6-8

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9910547-6-3

  Cover design by Victorine Lieske

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously to fit the story. Hopefully you can relate to the characters; however, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading and/or distributing of this ebook via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

  Books in the Cold Creek Series:

  Murder at Cold Creek College

  Murder in the Arboretum

  Murder at the Grill

  Murder in the Theater

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  Author Note

  CHAPTER 1

  November in Cold Creek arrived with a crisp blast of cold weather. Following severe rains and wind, the sudden chill meant sniffles and coughs by students and faculty alike. With or without sniffles, early morning classes were always a challenge and Monday mornings were the worst. The effects of my cold continued to plague me even after a restful weekend. I’d slept late, got stuck in the early morning traffic, and rushed to gather everything for my class. I dashed in to Georg’s Café for my coffee with high hopes the caffeine would dissolve the fog in my head. Thankfully, I’ve taught the same class over and over and could almost teach it in my sleep.

  Relief washed over me once class ended and I had another cup of coffee in hand. I escaped to the calm of my office to wait for the second jolt to kick in. Unfortunately, the paper work and grading hadn’t disappeared while I’d been sick. I’m a faculty member in the Psychology Department at Cold Creek College, a small private school. The daily routine provided a semblance of structure, often interrupted by students, faculty members, or staff. Others might find it boring with too much of my time spent on the computer researching for my classes or reading the occasional print book or journal. Most of the time I liked my job, even if it tended toward tedium.

  Ever since I’d become involved with Brett McMann last fall, life was more interesting and not always so predictable. He’s a State Police Detective and we met when one of my colleagues was murdered. Now some of my computer attention extended beyond the academic and I checked news alerts across the Appomattox Region where he was headquartered. His region includes Cold Creek and sometimes his assignments were nearby, always a bonus for both of us.

  As I checked the news alerts, the headline about a man found dead in the Altavista Community Theater caught my interest. North Shore and Altavista are the two nearest towns to Cold Creek. The online release offered minimal information, but the death of someone only 38 years old, a possible suicide, pulled at my heartstrings. Alarm bells went off in my head at the same time as my colleague and best friend, Kim Pennzel, popped into my office.

  “Did you see the news Sheridan? Even though it happened in Altavista, you know what’s going to happen, don’t you?” Kim’s speech was clipped and quick to match her usual high energy level.

  Kim referred to the potential panic and our role in crisis response on the Cold Creek College campus. She, Mitch Pilsner, and I are not only faculty members, but psychologists, and as such had been put in charge of crisis response on campus.

  “I was reading the report as you came in. You’re right, of course. When someone commits suicide, it serves as a wake-up call to administrators to be sure plans are in place to prevent it happening in their town or their school.”

  Kim nodded. “So what do we have ready …”

  My Department Head, Jim Grant barreled into my office, gasping for breath. “Sheridan, terrible, terrible what happened in Altavista. President Cramer already called. He wants to know if we have a suicide prevention plan.”

  When he stopped speaking, he looked from me to Kim and nodded. In his sixties and more than a bit overweight, his face was red and he hesitated while he caught his breath.

  “I see you’re already on this. Send me a report ASAP.” With that, he left as abruptly as he entered without waiting for an answer.

  Kim rolled her eyes and sat down. “See? I was right.”

  As if on cue, Mitch appeared in the doorway. He was about the same age as Grant, but he enjoyed a more active and healthy lifestyle so he looked much younger and didn’t huff and puff.

  “I heard. Grant applauded me for our efforts and looked awful. What magic are we doing?”

  He plopped down into the one empty chair and looked from Kim to me. His bright eyes and the twitch of his lip belied the seriousness of the question.

  “Nothing yet. It’s not even for sure a suicide. We could send out the notice of what behaviors warrant attention and who to contact if there is a concern through the faculty and staff listservs. How about an extra reminder to the staff at the Student Counseling Center as well?”

  Mitch became the Director of the Student Counseling Center after Priscilla Montrose was not re-hired in the fall. She’d harassed me with hang-ups and left threatening notes during the summer. When I filed a complaint and Chief Hirsch talked to her, she screamed at him. From what Hirsch and Grant shared with me later, she was enraged with my involvement in three murders, as well as with my relationship with Brett. Jealousy spurred her actions.

  Mitch had agreed to take on the Director position and immediately demanded some changes be made. On the plus side, Mitch’s clinical experience and supportive attitude worked at the Counseling Center. In the few months since he had taken over, the feedback on the changes he’d made was positive. He’d been at Cold Creek College the longest of the three of us and sometimes his cynicism and lack of patience with the college administration surfaced.

  “Listserv is good. We usually do that once a semester any way. It can’t hurt. I’ll check with the counselors and see if anyone has even mentioned the death. I’m not sure our students concern themselves with the news beyond themselves or their own friends some times.”

  “I don’t know. Altavista is close enough the deceased could be a relative, family friend, or someone they knew from the neighborhood.”

  Most of our 1500 students hailed from the local areas, including Altavista and North Shore. About 30 minutes away, Altavista is larger than Cold Creek, but still a small town. It wasn’t too much of a stretch one or more students might know this man or be related to him.

  With grumbles all around, I agreed to execute our initial plan and send it to Grant. Mitch shook his head at the mention of Grant and asked about the next CPR class. After they left, I found the warning signs flyer and posted it to the faculty and staff listserv with a copy to Grant.

  The death in Altavista reminded me of the young man who’d been murdered in the Arboretum last year. My amateur sleuthing had taken off with that one and had been a big issue for Priscilla. At least thi
s death was in Altavista and there was no indication the man was connected to Cold Creek College, at least not directly.

  Once again, I reflected on Priscilla and her hostility and jealousy. I still wondered what I could have done differently or how I contributed to the problem. Although I’m not perfect by a long shot, I can work with most people. Not her. With a shrug and a sneeze, I reminded myself to let it go.

  The news report had mentioned a community theater and that caught my interest as much as the possible suicide. In small town Cold Creek, musical and theater events are limited to the one performance produced by the Fine Arts department each year. Altavista was close enough for special dinners or celebrations, and it was a lot closer than Lynchburg, Roanoke or Richmond. I hadn’t known there was a theater there. Hmmm. Maybe Brett and I could do a show some time.

  Google yielded the website and schedule for the Altavista Community Theater as well as a schedule for a theatre troupe with family offerings on Saturday afternoons. The website for the Community Theatre showed they were performing “A Christmas Carol” for the holiday season. Logical enough choice. The theater was located in an older building on Majestic Street. I didn’t recognize the street name. I scanned the Board of Directors’ names. Only one, Julien Gorganz, looked at all familiar, but I couldn’t recall where I’d seen or heard his name before.

  The website also included information on second call auditions. With only a few weeks before the first scheduled performance over Thanksgiving weekend, it seemed late to be holding auditions. Then again, it was a community theater in a small town. I stuck the performance dates on my calendar in case we wanted to go and bookmarked the site. My phone rang as I flipped back to my email and work. I smiled when I heard Brett’s ring tone.

  “Hi Sher. How are you? Feeling better?”

  “Much better, Brett, but still sneezing. What’s happening?”

  “I wanted to give you a heads up. It looks like I’ll be working in Altavista for the next couple days.”

  “Okay, great.”

  Not unusual for Brett. He requested cases in North Shore or Altavista so we could see more of each other. The other detectives took most of the cases in the other direction, closer to their homes. His tone was tense though and missing his usual warmth.

  “Tonight will be late, so I’ll stay here, but I should be able to get to Cold Creek tomorrow. With any luck, this will be a simple case and resolved in a few days.”

  “Keep me posted so I can plan dinner, okay?”

  “Tomorrow for sure. I’ll call you later. Gotta go.”

  His tone was definitely off and I wondered what was going on in Altavista besides the suicide. On a hunch, I pulled the browser back up and found the news item again, complete with an update and correction. The death of William Thompson was no longer considered a suicide, it was under further investigation and the State Police had been alerted. It occurred to me this was likely Brett’s case.

  I read the statement twice and marked the story so I’d be notified of any updates. I recalled the name Will Thompson from the Community Theater site and pulled the site back up. Sure enough he was listed as the Director of Productions and the Chairman of the Board of the Community Theater. That could explain his death in the theater. With a shrug, I was back to the usual routine of a faculty member.

  CHAPTER 2

  The day passed quickly with another class, and no new crises or distractions. I made progress on my next lectures and article reviews. My mind wandered back to the death in Altavista and though I had plenty of grading to do, I found myself on the Internet, an easy place to get lost in time.

  No updates popped up on the death of Will Thompson. To appease my curiosity, I checked him out online. I didn’t really expect much, still it’s scary what comes up when someone’s name is put into a search engine. In Thompson’s case, his personal website yielded posters and pictures of various community theatre productions several years back and then more recently. The collection of articles related to his position or role in differing plays and productions, many of which were Rogers and Hammerstein musicals mixed in with some tragedy, mostly Shakespearian.

  Many photos appeared on the website. The photos were professional quality and showed an attractive man, with short dark hair and blue eyes. For the most part, he smiled and looked straight at the camera as if posed. Thompson looked athletic, slim with fitted shirts and pants.

  The pictures were eye-catching, but not in a good way. His shirts and pants weren’t color coordinated by any stretch of the imagination. In one picture, he had bright orange pants with a blue and green plaid shirt. In another he donned pink pants with a lime green plaid shirt. Perhaps he was colorblind, which might explain his color combinations. Or maybe he was dressed for a part in a play. I glanced at his credits again for a hint, but his position was often in set design or he played minor parts in recent productions.

  As I scrolled down, his bio revealed a wife and two children. There were no pictures of children and I couldn’t tell from the photos which of two women pictured with him might be his wife. One looked to be about his age. The other looked more sophisticated and had an air of maturity about her. Neither of the women’s attire mimicked his mismatch of colors with no indication of emotion aside from smiles. The bio ended with a note that Thompson had a degree in urban planning. Other than he was employed by the town, there was no indication how he used his degree.

  All in all, the website was well done and brought the man alive for me. It conjured up a person rather than a body and included various links, including links to YouTube videos and even a blog. I didn’t have time to check out the videos or read his blog, so I bookmarked the site for later.

  I was ready to leave when Kim came to my office. Although both of us were in our forties, she was the one with a personal trainer to help her keep in shape. Most times she looked stylish and confident. A sharp contrast to her usual high energy and her earlier sense of purpose, she looked distraught. As she stood at the door, her eyes filled and her lips quivered.

  “What’s the matter? Come, sit down.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong. Not really. I mean I do. Marty called and cancelled our dinner plans. He was very abrupt and didn’t even tell me why.”

  It was odd to see this side of Kim. Of the two of us, she was the more positive, upbeat one, always quick to find the silver lining or come up with a sound rationalization. Usually as vibrant as her red hair, this subdued and distressed mood was troubling.

  She and Marty hooked up last spring when he defended Clive Johnson. Since then, the four of us – Kim, Marty, Brett and I – would get together for dinner or a game night on weekends when Brett was in Cold Creek. I hadn’t picked up on any negative vibrations between them.

  I stilled her wringing hands with one of mine. “Maybe he is tied up with a client. He wanted to at least let you know and not stand you up. Maybe he’s sick and had to run to the bathroom. There are lots of possible explanations here.”

  “I know, I know. It just hit me how much he means to me. I never wanted to get serious. You know, with my history of bad choices in men. I only wanted to enjoy his company and have fun. But I care and now I’m scared.”

  I smiled. “I know what you mean. Not much you can do to change the way you feel though. There’s probably a good explanation that has nothing to do with you. He’s a criminal attorney and his clients don’t exactly only need him during office hours all the time. Look, I’m hungry and you have no plans for dinner. Let’s go to the Grill. What do you think? You have to eat you know. And besides, I don’t have any food in the house.”

  She took a deep breath and stood up.

  “Okay. You’re right. I’ll meet you there.”

  The Grill was our favorite of the limited restaurants in Cold Creek. It was one of the few restaurants not a fast food franchise. It was family-owned and with recent changes in management, even more popular and homey than ever. Thankfully, we were early and it wasn’t very crowded. Rebekah
, the hostess, greeted us by name and made conversation as she showed us to a table.

  Our favorite waitress, Zoe, took our order and brought us our food. With the family secrets no longer a burden, she seemed much younger and more animated. Kim and I laughed over some of Zoe’s jokes and comments on life in general. Kim hadn’t heard any more from Marty but was back to her normal bubbly self, at least on the surface.

  Dinner was good as always and the homemade minestrone felt good on my throat. We saw some other people we knew and everyone complained about sniffles, the change in the weather, and the upcoming holidays. No one we talked to at the Grill mentioned the possible suicide or now suspicious death in Altavista. As Mitch had implied, unless it affected them personally, it would likely not be remembered after the initial reaction of shock and dismay.

  At home after dinner, I fed and played with Charlie, my Sheltie, and settled down with a cozy mystery. Charlie curled up with her head in my lap. I scratched her ears and remembered when I brought her home from Sheltie Rescue. She had been my primary companion and comfort after my divorce.

  As I read and cuddled with Charlie, the television was on in the background so I’d be able to catch the news. No sooner did the musical cue for the start of the KCCX news come on and Brett’s ring tone sounded.

  “Hi, long day, huh?”

  “Very. How are you? Anything new going on in Cold Creek?”

  “Nothing unusual. With the possible suicide up there, Grant wanted us to respond of course. Nobody wants to talk about suicide, and then when it happens – or they think it happened – everyone panics. Now it’s no longer suicide, everyone will calm down.”

  His response was so slow to come I wondered if we’d lost the signal.

  “Brett, are you still there?”

  “Yes, I’m still here. So you heard it was no longer being considered as a suicide?”