Ghost Light Killer

by Dahlia Donovan

  “Mind if we have a chat?” Haider motioned for Osian to follow him out a side exit. It led out into a garden the officers used for breaks. “Your friend’s in a spot of trouble.”

  Osian sat on a bench. He was going to be comfortable for whatever Haider’s casual interrogation would be. “Is he? Why am I suddenly suspicious of your willingness to share with me?”

  Haider paced in front of him before sitting on the bench across from Osian. “Be careful, will you?”

  Osian struggled to parse out what the warning meant. Be careful investigating? Be careful with your potentially murderous friend? “With what? Overly vigorous tooth brushing? Could you be more specific?”

  “Your friend may have murdered two people.”

  May?

  Two?

  Which two?

  Niall and Howard?

  “Only two? Could be worse.”

  “Osian.” Haider leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees. “We believe Mr Bishop may have murdered Mrs Dennis for discovering his many affairs.”

  “And Niall?”

  “What would you do if someone murdered your mum?” Haider apparently decided Osian’s immediately clenched fists were answer enough. “Mr Osman may simply have been in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “And you believe Archie did it?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think you’ve got twenty-four hours to hold him. And Wayne’s not a solicitor I’d want to be butting heads with in court or in an interrogation.” Osian hadn’t made up his mind yet on Archie’s guilt or innocence. His heart wanted to believe the latter; besides, Haider didn’t need his help. “You’re wrong about him.”

  “Am I?”

  I certainly sodding hope so.

  And now I’ve got to try to prove it.

  * * *

  “What have we learned?” Osian had called Dannel on the way home, asking if he minded company for tea. Wayne and Roland had shown up an hour later with a massive platter from Nandos with chicken, chips, rice, and more brownies than was probably healthy. “Aside from your brother needs a bib.”

  “You literally flicked your sauce at me. Git.” Roland grabbed a napkin to dab at the mess on his shirt. “Can you get me a damp cloth?”

  “Are we ever going to have a meal that isn’t at least mildly chaotic?” Wayne caught the tea towel Osian launched at Roland. “What am I thinking? Of course we can’t.”

  “Was Niall murdered because he stumbled on Howard?” Dannel wondered if the medical examiner would be able to determine a close enough time of death to figure out who had died first. “Or vice versa?”

  “I’ve no clue.” Wayne held a hand up when they all turned towards him. “You know I can’t tell you anything about my client’s case. Confidentiality is a thing. Plus I’m waiting to hear from Detective Inspector Powell on when they want to speak with Archie. I’ll let you know what I can afterward.”

  Osian tapped his fingers against the table. “Why did we invite you?”

  “Ossie. Rude.” Dannel stared at Osian for a moment. “Right. Sarcasm.”

  Eighteen

  Dannel

  “Edwin.”

  “Who?” Dannel sat up in bed, trying to process the over-enthusiastic yelling coming from the general direction of the door. “Ossie. How much coffee have you had this morning?”

  “Abs and I went for an early morning walk.”

  “And?”

  “Stopped for coffee and chocolate croissants on the way home. Tried a triple shot of espresso in a cherry mocha latte. I brought you one as well.” Osian set the cup and a paper bag on the nightstand. “I remembered Edwin.”

  “Again, I ask, who?”

  “The actor who claimed to have gotten injured in the loo at the theatre.” Osian sat on the edge of the bed. “Saw Ian on his way out; he said Edwin’s returning to rehearsals today.”

  “And?” Dannel pulled himself up, tucking a pillow behind his back. He grabbed his cup of coffee. “Am I going to be buzzing all afternoon with this?”

  “Only put one shot of espresso in yours.” Osian collapsed backwards on the bed. “Abs and I figured Edwin has to be behind the ghost.”

  “Probably.”

  “And if he is, maybe he’s behind the murders.”

  “What’s the motive?” Dannel sipped the coffee and tried to get his brain to wake up. “People don’t randomly stab people to death.”

  “Jack the Ripper?” Osian continued on to name several other serial killers.

  Dannel glowered over the rim of his coffee cup. “You know what I meant.”

  “We’ve only one way to find out.” Osian smiled brightly.

  The special smile.

  The one Dannel had always loved. It reminded him of all their happy times together. He sighed internally and got out of bed; the smile could not be refused.

  Coffee and his chocolate croissant didn’t make for a complete breakfast. They grabbed breakfast burritos from a café down the street before heading to the Evelyn Lavelle. They made one last stop to pick up a couple dozen doughnuts for the actors.

  Sweeten them up; maybe they’ll be more chatty.

  They weren’t chatty initially. Hope and Derrick eventually wandered over for a doughnut. They cheered up with the sugary hit.

  “Why’s everyone so glum?” Osian asked.

  “Edwin and Pretty Princess P are back.” Hope nodded surreptitiously across the room.

  “Hat lady,” Osian whispered to Dannel.

  Dannel quickly spotted the impressively dressed Philippa in conversation with Ian and his newly hired costume designer. “Wasn’t she the assistant fired by Birdie?”

  “Ian’s frazzled by all the delays and… murders.” Derrick’s voice dropped to a whisper on the last word. “We’re running out of time to get the costumes finished, so he hoped Triple P would help.”

  “Help?” Hope scoffed. “She’s a menace. Swans around all up on herself like she’s Evelyn Lavelle reincarnated.”

  “Desperate measures, I suppose.” Dannel exchanged a glance with Osian. “We should say hello to Ian.”

  And see what we can figure out from Philippa.

  We’ll have to track down Edwin as well.

  “Do you get the feeling we’re in the middle of a penny dreadful where the author hasn’t figured out the plot yet?” Osian pulled the doughnut that he’d grabbed in half and offered a part to Dannel.

  “Life is always stranger than fiction. The odder things get, the more I’m inclined to believe it’s true.” Dannel brushed his fingers off on his jeans. They headed across the room towards Ian. “Except for ghosts. Don’t believe in them.”

  “Oh, hello.” One of the actors stepped in front of them. “Edwin Tilbury. Were you hoping for an autograph? I usually say no. Perhaps a selfie for the ’gram?”

  “For the ’gram?” Dannel mouthed to Osian, who was trying not to laugh. “I’ll pass. Do we know you?”

  Oh, that was definitely too rude.

  Bugger.

  “We were hoping you’d tell us about your accident.” Osian smoothly covered the awkward moment. Dannel nudged him in thanks, realising this was obviously the actor who’d faked being electrocuted. “Must’ve been such a traumatic experience. Are you channelling it into your work?”

  “Close encounters of a ghostly kind,” Dannel interjected. “We’re budding paranormal investigators.”

  We’re budding something.

  If Ossie doesn’t quit snickering under his breath, I’m not going to get through this conversation.

  “Are you?” Edwin’s smile seemed to grow taut, as if pulled too tightly. Dannel couldn’t tell if it was from excitement or concern. “How… interesting.”

  “Shouldn’t actors be more practised at lying?”

  Osian choked on a laugh and elbowed Dannel in the side. “He means—well, honestly, I’m sure he meant exactly what he said.”

  “What?” Dannel glanced at him in confusion. Oh, right, too bl
unt. “I’ve just heard so much about your skill as an actor.”

  Walk away.

  Walk away now. Let Ossie handle the rest of the conversation. It’ll be so much easier for him.

  “It wasn’t me.” Edwin suddenly sounded far less posh and more like he’d grown up around the corner from them. “Harold had the idea for the ghost. I just helped. I’m not tech enough to rig up some of the contraptions.”

  “You mean Howard, right? Go on,” Osian prompted when it became apparent Edwin didn’t care about his co-conspirator’s name.

  “Everyone always says the Evelyn Lavelle is haunted. All the theatre fans flock here to see for themselves.” Edwin kept his voice low, eyes darting around as if he expected someone to swoop down on him. “We thought if we made the ghost real, the play would be a massive triumph.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Edwin reared away from Dannel’s pointed question. “What? Me? Why? We were in it together. The loo stunt might not have been our best idea. Had a devil of a time explaining to the coppers why I wasn’t hurt in the slightest.”

  “Did you?” Osian prompted when Edwin became distracted by Ian’s laughter behind them.

  “Yes.” Edwin straightened his shirt fastidiously, brushing the sleeves carefully. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe the ensemble is waiting.”

  They watched Edwin head off to a cluster of actors who’d fallen ravenously onto the doughnuts. Dannel wondered if he was as innocent as he claimed. Had they just been playing the ultimate prank?

  Why had someone killed Howard then?

  And Niall?

  And Birdie?

  “Does he realise he’s cosplaying as an actor?”

  “How meta. The actor is acting as an actor.” Dannel grinned at Osian, who seemed equally bemused. “What now? He hasn’t really cleared matters up for us. It’s more muddied than ever.”

  Osian looped his arm around Dannel’s. “Let’s assume the murders are connected. Maybe not all three, but two of them. If so, if we determine the motive for Birdie’s, it might lead us to which of the second ones came first. Niall or Howard.”

  “My bet’s on Howard. He set up the prank. He’s part of the company, where Niall isn’t.” Dannel thought it made sense—not that they had any proof.

  Osian seemed to consider his thoughts for a moment. “Or, what if Niall murdered Birdie. Howard, being around the theatre constantly, threatened to expose him and ended up at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Right, but who killed Niall?”

  “Got nothing. The ghost?” Osian shrugged.

  “The ghost was Edwin.”

  “Maybe Edwin killed Niall while trying to save Howard?” Osian did have a point. “We should’ve asked him about the cameras.”

  “Maybe Howard handled them? Edwin didn’t seem very tech-savvy.” Dannel scratched his head, slipping sideways to avoid walking into a part of the set. “It’s a bit far-fetched.”

  “Fart-fetched.” Osian snickered.

  “You make one mistake in the middle of a school presentation, and you’re never allowed to live it down.” Dannel shoved Osian into the thick red curtains bunched to one side of the stage. “Ever.”

  “Fart. Fetched.”

  “Are you twelve years old?”

  “Some days.” Osian took a minute to rein in his amusement.

  “Maybe he’s lying about it?” Dannel tried to get the conversation back on track.

  “Is he capable of being a good liar?” Osian grabbed his hand again, dragging him backstage and out through one of the exits into the passageway. “With the performance he gave us just now?”

  “What if it was a performance?”

  “You honestly think he could pull off acting like such a dismal liar?” Osian glanced over his shoulder at Edwin. “It’s a bit hard to believe.”

  They made their way through the theatre into the hallway outside the dressing rooms. It was quiet enough with most of the production on stage or elsewhere. Dannel felt as if he’d gone from a wind tunnel into the still calm at the eye of a hurricane.

  “How do we prove or disprove any of our theories?” Dannel leant against the wall next to Birdie’s old room. “There’s no ‘x marks the murderer’ spot.”

  For all their camera footage and ideas, none of their theories had panned out to a tangible clue. Killers weren’t Hansel and Gretel; they wouldn’t find a trail of breadcrumbs. It would’ve certainly made life easier.

  “We ask more questions.” Osian brought Dannel out of his thoughts.

  “Is that what Haider does? Drive people to distraction with questions until the truth comes out?” Dannel followed Osian inside the room. “Hasn’t changed much since the detectives released the scene.”

  “I’m not courting more bad luck by changing dear old Birdie’s sanctuary in the middle of a production. I’m Agatha Daniels. Newly hired costume designer extraordinaire.” She waved off their apology for intruding in her space without permission. “Ian explained your investigative skills. Nose around if you must.”

  “Have you found anything unusual while getting settled?” Osian played with a biscuit tin of buttons, shaking it, much to Dannel’s amusement. “Smoking gun, perhaps?”

  Instead of answering, Agatha chuckled, then seemed to remember something. She went over to her sewing table and pulled a slip of paper out from a drawer. After a brief hesitation, she handed it to Dannel.

  Dannel frowned at the poorly written note, trying to decipher the two sentences. “I know what you did. Meet me in the crypt.”

  What in the world is the crypt?

  “Found it stuffed into the pocket of one of the ruined costumes. Hidden in a ripped fold of the fabric.” Agatha pointed to one of the gowns draped across the cutting table. “We’re doing our best to salvage what we can. And by we, I mean I’m doing most of the work. Ian’s not the best judge of character.”

  “Philippa giving you trouble?” Osian asked.

  While Osian got the dirt on the previously sacked assistant, Dannel inspected the note. It was torn from an almost see-through scrap. Tracing paper? Someone had obviously written their threatening note on something close at hand.

  I know what you did. Meet me in the crypt.

  “What’s the crypt?” Dannel interrupted Agatha’s rant about Philippa’s inability to do anything but flounce around with heavy sighs. “The crypt?”

  “Storage area in the basement.” Agatha returned to her conversation with Osian.

  Of course, the crypt.

  Who saw what? Was this why Howard had gone down the stairs? Was he meeting someone, or had he sent the note? What about Niall? Was Howard threatening Niall? If so, why place a note in Birdie’s office?

  Brilliant.

  We have our first real clue, and it’s only led me to have more questions.

  “We’ll get out of your threads.” Osian waved at Agatha and motioned for Dannel to follow him out of the room. He grabbed the paper once they were in the hall. “We should ask the cast if they recognise this chicken scratch.”

  “Why not check the play poster?” Dannel remembered seeing the poster outside Ian’s room. The entire production had signed it for him. “Maybe we can get an idea there?”

  “Why don’t I inspect the poster? You’re looking frayed at the edge.” Osian rested a hand gently on Dannel’s shoulder. “Maybe a bit of music and a heavy blanket? Centre yourself?”

  Dannel had been so hyper-focused on everything happening at the theatre, he hadn’t noticed the strain of so much socialising sneaking up on him. “You sure?”

  Osian leaned in for a brief kiss. “Go on. I’ll bring something for a late lunch, yeah?”

  “I….”

  “Don’t say sorry.” Osian shook his head sharply. “I’ve got my limits, right? Do you ever blame me for them? When I couldn’t do anything but flinch and hide when sirens went off? When helicopters gave me nightmares?”

  “Post-traumatic stress,” Dannel muttered.

 
“The strain you live under every day in a world that never bends even a little to accommodate your needs can and does cause post-traumatic stress.” Osian managed to be both gently comforting and sternly serious at the same time. “I love you with every fibre of my soul. Love you enough to let you have my last bite of cake. So trust me when I say meeting you halfway on rough days isn’t even the slightest bit of a hardship.”

  Dannel blinked at the sudden emotions bubbling up in him. He didn’t have the ability to process them at the moment. “Right. I should go.”

  “All right, Commander,” Osian teased, referring one of their favourite video games. “I’ll text you if anything interesting happens.”

  Putting in his earbuds and blasting the Hamilton cast album, Dannel allowed himself to enjoy the walk home. Music, a brisk breeze, and no need for conversation. He was jogging up the stairs into their flat in no time at all.

  Dannel kicked off his trainers, fell onto the sofa, and dragged the blanket over him all the way up to his head. “Love you too, Ossie.”

  Nineteen

  Osian

  How hard can it be to decipher handwriting?

  Some people spend far too much time practising their signature.

  Once Dannel had gotten safely away, Osian hunted down the play poster. None of the signatures had immediately jumped out at him. Most seemed overly fancy, making it difficult to match to the block letters of the note.

  Is it really a surprise? They probably tried to make their handwriting as different as possible. Never mind how different a signature can be from regular script.

  Mine certainly is.

  Holding the scrap of paper up, Osian attempted to compare each signature to it. The M was the only letter with any sort of flourish. He tried to focus on that in particular.

  Not every name had an m.

  This seems far easier when experts on the telly are solving crimes by comparing handwriting.

  “What are you doing?”

  Osian closed his fingers around the note, tucking his hand into his pocket before turning around to see Detective Inspector Khan frowning at him. “Hello. Found another body?”