Murder in the Multiverse

by R E McLean

  Monique stopped pacing and looked at Alex and Holey-Beard at the back of the room. She frowned.

  Alex shifted from foot to foot, hoping no one would turn around. The man with the banana had finished it now and was dangling the skin from his fingers like it was a silk handkerchief.

  Monique’s gaze passed on and Alex let herself relax. Beside her, Holey-Beard pushed out a sigh.

  “As I was saying,” Monique continued. “We need to talk to him. It needs to be handled with care, so I’m taking that on myself. The case has some—ah—unusual aspects.”

  Alex heard groans. Holey-Beard stiffened.

  “Meanwhile, you people find out all you can about Claire Pope.”

  Monique hit a key and the pale face of Claire Pope appeared on the screen. She was blonde, with a sharp nose and high cheeks. She was pretty, Alex thought, stifling a memory of Siobhan, the mathematician who’d dumped her.

  “We know about her career. The pet food business. Pussy Galore and all the rest.”

  Pussy Galore was Schrödinger’s favorite. Surely this woman hadn’t made billions selling pet food?

  The man next to her laughed. “You don’t believe it,” he said, leaning in. “Nor did I. But it’s legit. She started with cat and dog food. One hundred and one percent, remember that?”

  Alex shook her head.

  “Anyways, it had Dalmatians on the front. Funny, huh?”

  She shook her head.

  “No. Me either. But then she moved on to other animals. Seems there’s a fortune to be made in feeding not just hamsters and budgies, but tarantulas too.”

  “Eww.”

  “Ha. Yes. Impressive, for someone who hated animals. Couldn’t stand them. Or people.”

  “Mike, please,” hollered Monique.

  Holey-Beard—Mike—muttered an apology. Monique turned back to her board.

  Alex leaned toward him. “If they divorced six years ago, why does she think he did it?”

  “He’s the only person she had contact with in all that time. She never went out.”

  “Never?”

  “Uh-huh. She barricaded herself into that apartment like it was her own private Alcatraz. Never went out.”

  “How do you become a billionaire if you never go out?”

  He looked at her as if she’d just asked him where babies come from. “The Internet, of course.”

  “But how could she run a business?”

  She wondered when he would ask her what she was doing here, why she was asking questions. But Alex was naturally inquisitive and this guy, it seemed, was naturally talkative.

  “Did it all remotely,” he said. “Email, apparently.”

  “Wow.”

  “Mike, what did I tell you?”

  Monique was advancing toward them. Alex pulled away from Mike. She tried to look innocent, never easy with a face the color of blueberry pie.

  “Sorry boss,” muttered Mike.

  Monique was with them now. She smiled. “Good to see you two getting acquainted. Mike, this is Alex Strand. The physicist. She’s going to be coming with us to interview Sean.”

  Mike turned to Alex. His face had lost all the casual friendliness of before. She shrank back. He looked back at Monique, his eyes sharp, and shook his head.

  He leaned toward Alex as if about to speak. She leaned away, saying nothing.

  “Mike, behave,” said Monique.

  The room was silent, the only sound the traffic passing outside.

  Mike grunted and clattered out of the doors. Alex watched, puzzled.

  What had she ever done to this guy? And what was his connection to Dr Pierce?

  9

  Ballet

  San Francisco

  25 March, 3:21pm

  They were ushered into a cramped office and asked to wait. The woman who’d brought them here was little more than a girl, waif-like with pale skin and thin, wispy hair. She wore a purple neck scarf that gave her an air of jaundice, and a loose blue blouse over a long green skirt. Alex wondered if she was a dancer, a receptionist, or maybe an aspiring rainbow.

  The office was small and full of theatrical junk. In one corner a pile of cardboard boxes teetered, scrawled text on the sides listing the props they contained. A shelf held a row of ballet shoes, neatly arranged and dust-free, as if often handled. In another corner was a battered chest of drawers on which was placed an ornate silver tray with a kettle and a collection of china mugs. They were bright with mismatched floral colors. If deliberate, they would be trendy. Alex waited to see their owner before making a judgment either way.

  Monique sniffed and looked around the space, picking up a few knick-knacks and then replacing them carefully. She eyed her fingers and wiped her hand on her coat.

  There was a commotion behind them. Alex turned to see Mike stride through the door. The rainbow girl was behind him, looking worried.

  “You can’t go in there,” she said, her voice cracking.

  “It’s all right,” said Monique. “He’s with me.”

  Mike blew a lock of hair away from his face and nodded at Monique. She looked back at him, her face blank.

  “I expected you to be here first.”

  “Sorry,” he panted, searching the room for somewhere to put his battered black leather messenger bag. He settled for the floor, bending down to place it at his feet. “I was held up. Traffic.”

  Monique arched an eyebrow. Then her face softened.

  “How are you?”

  He straightened. “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look it.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  Alex watched him. He was mid-height and lean, with dark brown hair that twisted around his ears. He no longer had a hole in his beard. It was full and thick, but above it was just one half of a mustache.

  He caught her staring at it and put a finger to his lip. He frowned at her.

  “It’s rude to stare.”

  She felt her cheeks catch fire. “Sorry.”

  “Now now, Mike. Play nice.”

  His face darkened. “I told you I didn’t need another partner.”

  “That’s not up to you.”

  The door clattered open again and a large, balding man in his mid-fifties appeared, muttering apologies. His face was flushed and there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He hurried into the room, offering his hand to Monique.

  “Philip Gladstone. Pleased to meet you.”

  Monique leaned forward to shake his hand.

  “Lieutenant Monique Williams. SFPD. This is Sergeant Mike Long, and—”

  “I know who you are. Let’s just get on with it.”

  Monique lowered herself to a chair. Alex shivered and remained standing behind her. Mike grunted and sat down.

  Philip Gladstone plumped down behind a battered wooden desk which groaned with paperwork. On it were three framed photographs. They were of him as a younger man, performing in some ballet or other. Alex wished she was more knowledgeable.

  He caught her looking at them.

  “My younger and slimmer days.” He pulled them toward him, regarding each in turn with a wistful look. “Romeo and Juliet at Covent Garden, Manon at the Met and finally Candide right here in San Francisco.” He looked up at her. His eyes were small but a bright, piercing blue. “These days I’m a strictly behind-the-scenes man.”

  Alex nodded acknowledgement. His accent made him English, from Yorkshire. There was a trace of the years he’d spent in the US in his voice but once a Yorkshireman, always a Yorkshireman. A bit like being Scottish, she thought. But without the hair and the skin.

  Monique leaned forward in her chair. “I’m sorry to bother you, Mr Gladstone. But I’m sure you’ll be aware we’re investigating the murder of Claire Pope. The ex-wife of Mr— of your principal male dancer.”

  He gave a nod designed to convey sadness. “Of course. Tragic business. Sean is distraught.”

  Monique raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

  Gladstone frowned. “Of cours
e. It’s—” his face darkened “—it’s affecting his performance. In rehearsal.”

  Alex swallowed. Monique gave Mike a look that said don’t believe a word of it.

  “We were hoping to ask you a few very quick questions about his performance last night,” Mike said.

  Gladstone blinked as if trying to understand what he was saying, then nodded. “Of course.”

  Alex watched Mike fumble with a notepad. He leafed through pages, finally alighting on an empty one. Monique sighed.

  “Can you tell us if you were with Mr Wibble last night?” Mike asked.

  “Well, yes. Of course. I was with the entire company for the whole evening.”

  “Were you personally with Mr Wibble?”

  “Yes, I was with Mr Wolf.” He gave him a meaningful look. “I was directing him in Swan Lake, after all.”

  “And was Mr— Mr Wolf on stage for the entire performance?”

  “No.”

  Monique shifted in her seat. Alex felt her pulse rise.

  Mike looked up. “No?”

  “No. Sean was playing the lead but that doesn’t mean he was on stage for the entire performance. I’ve never known a ballet where that is the case. Especially not for the male lead.” He switched his gaze to Monique. “We get passed over in favor of the ballerinas, you see.”

  Mike opened his mouth but Gladstone interrupted him. “Tell me, son—”

  “Sergeant Long,” corrected Monique. Mike smiled.

  “Tell me, Sergeant. Do you ever go to the ballet?”

  Mike shook his head. Monique said nothing.

  Alex raised her hand, tentatively. “I have.”

  Gladstone looked up at her and rolled his eyes. “Other than to see some matinee performance of the Nutcracker.”

  “I’ve seen that, and Swan Lake.”

  “Of course. Haven’t we all. But if you or your colleagues were familiar with the ballet, you’d understand the requirements it puts on the principal dancers.”

  “Such as?” asked Monique.

  “Well, with the performance of a ballet like Swan Lake, our Sean has had to train hard. He’s had to rehearse for long, grueling hours. His feet are probably in permanent pain, but there’s no way he’d ever admit that to me or to anyone else in the company. Ballet is an intensive discipline, Sergeant. It demands everything of a person. Everything.”

  Mike met his gaze. “That doesn’t answer our question.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “No?”

  “No.”

  Alex wondered if all ballet managers were this prickly. Compared to this guy, the Dean was a puppy.

  Monique leaned in. “All we’re asking, Mr Gladstone, is the times Sean was on stage. If you’re not sure, I imagine we could easily ask one of the other dancers. Or it’s something we could get from any member of the audience—”

  “No. You don’t need to do that.” The theater director pulled at his collar. “I can let you have a copy of the score. That tells you most of what you need to know.”

  Monique smiled.

  “Will it have timings on it?” asked Alex. “We need to know at what time during the performance each scene—each dance—took place.”

  Monique frowned. Gladstone gave her a patronizing look. “No. Of course not. But you might be able to work it out.”

  “I think that would be easier with your help.”

  Gladstone curled his lip. “Alright then, but I don’t have much time.”

  “Thank you, Mr Gladstone,” said Monique, “We appreciate it.”

  “If it means you leave Sean alone, then I suppose it’s worth it.” He paused and looked wistfully at the photos. Alex noticed there was one of Sean too. Then he cleared his throat. “I need him here.”

  He walked to the doorway. “Penny!” he yelled. Alex rapped on her knee three times, then caught Monique’s look and stopped. Not a Big Bang Theory fan then.

  The rainbow woman appeared, out of breath. “Yes?”

  “Where do I keep my score for Swan Lake?” he asked.

  “Erm, in your desk.”

  “Right.” He pulled his chair back and started rummaging through drawers. At last he slapped a document on the desk. “Thanks.”

  Penny gave him a frustrated look and hurried away, her feet light.

  “Is she one of your dancers?” asked Mike.

  Gladstone looked up from the score, which he was flicking through. “Penny? Oh, yes. Corps de ballet. Earns money to pay for shoes and the like by doing some admin work on the side. Not uncommon—we’re an impoverished lot, us dancers.”

  Alex looked him up and down. The long nose, dark, ill-fitting jacket and straining shirt buttons made her think of Despicable Me more than Rudolf Nureyev. But his clothes weren’t cheap.

  “Philip? What’s going on?”

  Alex looked round to see Sean Wolf standing in the doorway.

  He did indeed resemble the boy wizard. He'd gelled his hair in an attempt to look his age, but it only succeeded in making him look like Harry Potter on his way to the school disco. His t-shirt was tight and yellow, revealing lean, muscular arms. But his glasses made her stop and stare. They looked like something Elton John might have worn in the 1970s, or maybe Dame Edna Everage on an especially flamboyant day. On anyone else they would attract attention, making him instantly recognizable to the paparazzi. But in his case, they just made him look like a lunatic who'd broken into a branch of GrandVision and started experimenting.

  He stared at them, his lips pursed. “I said, what’s going on?”

  Monique sighed and put her hand to her face. “Mr Wolf,” she said. “We were just having an informal chat with Mr Gladstone here—”

  “I can see that.” He looked at the director, and then back at Monique. “But why? You told me I’m not a suspect. And I don’t imagine Philip here is.”

  His eyes flicked to Gladstone who looked down at the desk. Alex tried to imagine the group dynamics of a ballet company. Who was really in charge—the manager or the precious dancers?

  “We’re just establishing events on the night of Claire’s death, Mr Wolf,” said Mike.

  He ignored Mike and stared at Monique. “You mean you’re checking up on my alibi.”

  Monique pursed her lips. “We are double checking what you’ve told us.”

  “Why?”

  Gladstone stood up and put a hand on Sean’s shoulder. Sean shook it off. “Leave it, Philip. If they’re checking my alibi, that means they think I killed her.”

  Monique stood up. “We don’t think that. But we need to rule you out. I’m sure you understand that with your ex-wife never leaving her apartment it makes it very difficult for us to—”

  “That has nothing to do with it. We divorced six years ago, dammit. We were only married eight months. I’ve been with Philip ever since.” He eyed the ballet score on the desk. “You think you can use that to check when I was on stage?”

  Alex watched Gladstone. He kept glancing at the door. His face was hard, and she could sense him all but holding his breath. It wouldn’t be good for his company’s reputation, to have their star suspected of murder.

  Mike stepped forward. “We don’t want any fuss. Mr Gladstone is helping us so that we don’t have to involve any of your colleagues.”

  Sean glared at him. “Including me, it seems. I’m calling my lawyer.”

  “Mr Wolf,” said Monique. “You haven’t been charged. If we have to invoke Miranda now…”

  Sean twisted his lips and looked at Gladstone, who shook his head. Sean sighed.

  “Please, just show us the score,” said Alex. “Tell us which parts of the ballet you were on stage for, and we can go. If we wait for your lawyer to get here then that’ll take ages.”

  Sean glared back at her. “Who are you? You’re Scottish.”

  She blinked. “I’m just observing.”

  “Well, damn well observe then.”

  Monique flashed her a look and she shrugged.

  “Cops,” muttered Sean. �
�Throwing your weight around. Intimidating people.”

  Alex smiled. “Look at me. I’m a five foot two, twenty-four-year-old ginger who could do with some fattening up, despite my best efforts with the chips and chocolate. You could overpower me with a flick of your big toe.”

  “Alex, please.” Monique didn’t sound happy. Alex thought of her broom cupboard, and the numbers she’d promised Rik she’d run this afternoon.

  “Sorry.”

  Monique smiled at Sean. Her expression was somewhere between apologetic and patronizing. “I’m very sorry if we’ve given the wrong impression, sir. If you could help us get this done, then we’ll be on our way.” She paused. “I’m sure you want us to find whoever killed Claire as much as we do.”

  Sean picked up the score. For a moment Alex thought Gladstone would snatch it off him but he seemed to decide otherwise.

  “OK,” Sean said. “I’ll walk through this with you. I’ll tell you how long each piece runs and which I was onstage for. Philip will back me up.”

  Gladstone slumped into his chair and looked pointedly at his watch but said nothing. Sean grabbed a folding chair and held it in front of him.

  “So who am I doing this with?”

  Mike shuffled forwards. “Let’s get this done, huh?”

  Sean placed his chair next to Mike, flashing Alex a look. He licked a thumb, and opened the score.

  “Right,” he said. “So, Scene One is the waltz in the park. I’m in that. Philip?”

  “Yes,” agreed the other man. “He’s in that one. Ten minutes.”

  Alex watched Mike flatten his notebook. Monique grabbed her elbow.

  “Come with me. We need to talk.”

  10

  Starbucks

  San Francisco

  25 March, 4:05pm

  “Let’s walk,” said Monique. “I need to get my steps up.” She brought her wrist up to her face and shook it, checking a fitness band.