There, in the second row of chairs, Meg sat huddled in the protective embrace of Jared Cameron. Both of them stared at me.
A blush rose from my toes. I’d only been thinking of getting out of the bloody dress, not that there might be people around. Hastily I turned my back to them and searched frantically until I found my blue sweater. As I tugged it over my head, Kirk came through the library door leading several uniformed cops. A tall young cop known as Lofty stared in at me, stumbled, then hurried to catch up with Kirk.
I grabbed a pair of jeans and pulled them on, struggling to zip them. I leaned over, looking for my shoes, and the lipstick fell out of my bra and caught in the sweater.
Kirk’s voice came from the doorway, “Anything I can do to help?”
I froze.
“The cops won’t let you leave, you know.”
“Would you mind excusing me for just a minute?” I said, my tone frosty.
“Sure.”
I didn’t see my purse anywhere. As he moved away, I crouched, pretending to look for my shoes, my back to Meg and Jared. I extracted the lipstick from the folds of my sweater and thrust it into the pocket of the jeans, then reached for my loafers. Carrying them, I walked out of the computer room and down the shallow steps.
Kirk had joined Jared and Meg who had been crying.
Jared still had his arm around Meg and would probably keep it there until she noticed and moved away. Quiet, medium-sized, with medium-brown hair, he usually faded into the background. Tonight, costumed as a country singer in fancy western duds, he couldn’t be overlooked. Despite his reddened eyes, he smirked and said, “You do realize this isn’t a strip club?”
“A gentleman wouldn’t have looked,” I said.
Jared and Kirk exchanged glances. “Riiight,” Jared said.
“Why on earth were you changing clothes in front of God and everyone anyway?” Meg asked.
“I thought everyone was in the hall. Why didn’t you warn me?”
“We didn’t realize what you were doing till it was too late,” Meg said, her brown eyes wide.
I bit my lip. Meg’s innocent act in the face of my humiliation was so typical of her behavior these days.
Kirk cleared his throat. “Those aren’t your jeans, you know.”
“What?”
“Yeah,” Jared said, “they’re too long.”
“And tight,” Meg added.
I’d been so embarrassed and distracted, I hadn’t paid attention. Now I realized just how tight they were. The lipstick dug into my side. I pulled my sweater down.
Kirk said, “They must be Fran’s.”
“You’d better go find your own,” Meg said.
“At the moment there’s no place that offers privacy.”
Jared asked, “Why were you in such a rush to change?”
“There was blood on the dress. I couldn’t stand it.”
“Oh, Aunt Liz,” Meg said, squeezing between two chairs to reach me. “What an awful shock.”
I put my arm around her and pulled her close.
“How did he die?” Jared asked, a strange, tense note in his voice. The pre-med student in him, I thought.
A man’s voice interrupted, “Where’s the action?” It was Max, Fran’s reporter.
So whatever else Fran was up to, she’d called him.
Kirk pointed and said, “Down the ramp, in the janitor’s closet. But the police won’t let you in.”
He grinned, “We have our ways.” He went back out the front door of the building, presumably on his way to the side door near the restrooms.
Moments later Gene herded all the play’s subdued participants back into the library, some of them crying and clinging to each other.
Gene wore brown slacks, a white shirt and a light blue-and-beige striped tie. Alisz had wanted him to wear his uniform for his role, but Gene felt that was improper. He’d compromised by wearing his shoulder holster and gun. Now he had his badge case tucked into his belt.
Gene said, “Go on and sit down now, all of you.”
Meg and I sat together.
Gene remained standing on the stage. He crossed his arms over his broad chest and said, “There’s not much I can tell you at this point except that Andre’s been murdered. Looks like it was a blow to the head that did it.”
“But who killed him? How could they have done it when we were all here?” Kirk asked.
Gene leveled a look at him, and the room went absolutely still. That’s when I realized he thought one of us had done it.
CHAPTER THREE
Meg gripped my arm. There were whispers behind us. Gene said, “Settle down, please.”
From his seat in the first row, Victor intoned, “We’ve come to bury Andre, not to praise him.” The founder of the Warfield Community Theatre, he’d agreed to direct my play and had seized the role of magician. He was dressed in black pants, black satin shirt, and a black cape lined with scarlet silk.
Very thin, with dark hair and pale skin, always intense and a little intimidating, tonight Victor looked more vampire than magician.
I’d been anxious when Meg was cast to play the magician’s assistant because Victor had quite a reputation, but when I’d worked the conversation around to whether she found him attractive, she’d shrugged and said, “He’s okay for an old guy.” He was 32.
Gene pulled at the knot in his tie, and frowned at Victor. He started to say something, then stopped, his blue eyes sweeping the room once, then again, until his gaze fixed on me. “Where’s Fran?” he demanded.
I cleared my throat. “She wasn’t feeling well and went looking for a restroom.”
Murmurs broke out behind me, people who hadn’t realized Fran was gone, I supposed.
Gene turned and spoke to one of his men who hurried off, then he said, “You let her wander off? There’s been a murder here!”
My heart skipped a beat. I was so used to Fran’s willful ways that I hadn’t considered she might be in danger.
Sybil Aynesworth, the director of the community library system, stood to face Gene. “We want to know what happened,” she said.
“You know everything I can tell you at the moment.” He addressed us all, “I know it’s difficult, but don’t talk about this while you’re waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” Sybil demanded, stepping onto the stage near him.
“As soon as the lab people get here, we’ll start asking you questions while events are still fresh in your minds.”
“I want to go home.”
Obviously she’d never heard of the legendary temper that went along with Gene’s red hair. I waited for the inevitable, glad it would not be directed at me.
“Nobody’s going home for quite a while,” Gene said.
“I don’t believe you heard me say—”
“You’re not going anywhere.” When she opened her mouth again, he growled, “Get used to it.”
Not many people were rude to Sybil. Although only in her forties, she was director of a three-county library system. The unwary took her at face value as an easy-going, new ager because of the ash-brown hair hanging down her back and the jingle of the gold bracelets, earrings, and necklaces she wore. However, Fran had told me she had a reputation for skewering her underlings on her sharp tongue and roasting them slowly over her fiery temper.
But then, stories about Sybil abounded.
Gene turned and walked up the steps, leaving Sybil, her shoulders rigid with tension, alone on stage.
He stationed Lofty, the young cop who’d stared at me, in front of the checkout counter.
Muttering, everyone stood up and walked toward the stage. Sybil continued to hold the high ground. “Just who does he think he is, anyway?” she asked when I joined her.
“The chief of police,” I said.
“That’s no excuse to be rude.”
“Can’t you give him a little slack? Warfield hasn’t had a murder since he’s been chief. He’s in over his head.”
Her lustrous bro
wn eyes examined me. “I find it interesting that the way you wrote your play gave everyone an opportunity to leave the stage during the early scenes and—”
Jared spoke from behind me, “That was the whole point, to make everyone a suspect and to keep the audience guessing.”
“It’s only a play,” I said.
Sybil turned to Laurel Strachan, the librarian of the Warfield Community Library. “Too bad your fund-raising effort is ruined.”
“Can’t we still put it on?” Laurel asked, her aquamarine eyes anxious. “We’ve worked so hard, and the tickets are completely sold out. People are looking forward—”
“Our pretend victim was just murdered!” Sybil said.
“But the show must go on. Isn’t that what they say, Victor?” Laurel gazed earnestly at him. She looked like a teenager tonight with her strawberry-blonde hair fluffed into curls on her shoulders.
He stared down at her, brown eyes narrowed.
“You always hear—” Laurel faltered to a stop.
“Count on you to apply a theatrical cliché here,” Victor said. Everyone shifted uncomfortably.
Tears welled in Laurel’s eyes, and she blinked rapidly.
Kirk’s quiet voice cut through the tension. “One thing that surely cannot be out of place is a prayer.”
Victor’s sneer didn’t faze him.
“Shall we join hands?” Kirk reached for Meg.
Sybil’s icy fingers closed around mine. Kirk stepped up onto the stage and took my other hand. People joined hands so we were in a rough circle.
Kirk said, “Let us pray.” Some minutes later he was finishing up, saying, ” … these things we pray … ” when a loud voice demanded, “What the hell is going on?”
We turned to see Gene, his face brick red.
“We’re praying,” Kirk said.
“Well, save it for church. Go sit down. I told you not to talk to each other.” He glared at Lofty.
“Chief, the lab guys are here,” a voice called from the ramp.
Gene pointed at the rows of chairs. “I want you all to sit there. Silently. At least two chairs between you and the next person.”
“Don’t you think that’s excessive?” Kirk asked, his voice mild.
“No,” through gritted teeth. “You people do not seem to realize there’s been a murder and that someone in this room may have done it.”
We gazed at the walls, the carpet, the magazine rack, anywhere except at each other.
Meg shivered and stepped close to me. I put my arm around her.
“Sit down and don’t talk,” Gene said.
Sybil said, “Aren’t you going to call in the state police to investigate?”
Laurel chimed in, “If anyone took over the investigation, it would be the Sheriff’s Department. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes. Your information is correct. If we needed help, we would call the Sheriff’s Office.” Gene’s hands clenched. “However, though our department is small, we can do the work required of us.”
“But you could be considered just as much a suspect as any of us,” Sybil persisted.
His face went from brick to beet. “I want you to sit down,” he said, each consonant articulated.
Sybil’s mouth opened again.
“Now,” he bellowed.
We all hastened to chairs, sitting two chairs apart from each other.
Gene glared at us, but when we didn’t say a word, he rotated like a robot and left, taking Lofty with him. This time two cops appeared at the checkout desk. One of them, whose name I could never remember, had the reputation for being the toughest cop on the Warfield force.
After a few minutes Alisz retrieved her needlework bag from a bookcase where she’d stashed it. She took out an unfinished needlepoint of black-eyed susans. The diamonds on her left hand flashed as she stabbed her needle into the fabric.
Occasionally her hand rose from her work to tuck her light brown hair behind her ears. She’d always worn it in a short pageboy, what in my mother’s day was called a Dutch boy, with the bangs cut straight across.
Jared mounted the stage. He got a biology textbook out of his backpack and sat on the piano bench to read.
For awhile we all sat quietly, Meg twisting a strand of her dark red hair around and around her index finger.
My mind spun like a pinwheel wondering why Meg had been late tonight, why her lipstick had been in Andre’s hand, why Fran had disappeared.
Five minutes later, Meg stood up. She approached the cops and spoke quietly. They both shook their heads. She gave them the big-brown-eyes treatment. When the tough one still shook his head, she followed through with the Macrae dimple, and the older cop, Millay, caved. He and Meg came back to us.
“Want to play bridge?” Meg asked, taking a small deck of cards from the little satin pouch she wore on a gold belt around her waist.
“No thanks,” I said.
Meg and her attendant cop turned to the others. Victor and Sybil agreed to play, completing the fourth. Kirk and Laurel looked disappointed. Victor suggested they play poker. “Not for money,” the cop said, “and we don’t talk about anything but the cards.” They sat around a table that had been pushed to the back of the library.
I rubbed my cold hands together. I’d have given anything if I hadn’t written the stupid play. I had written in a murder, sure, but it was make-believe. Who had made it real by hitting Andre with such force that it shattered his skull?
I glanced over at the windows with a shiver. Surely it had happened by horrible chance, a madman from outside, Andre in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I, too, was in the wrong place. By rights I should have been at home finishing my overdue book proposal. I wrapped my arms around myself and shifted restlessly.
The lipstick dug into my side. What was I going to do about that, anyway? I got up and started for the windows.
“Sit down,” said the tough cop.
“Please. Didn’t your mother ever teach you the word?”
“Sit down,” he repeated, his voice mild, his eyes empty.
I sat. Why did we need a tough cop anyway? Warfield’s just a little town. Where I’d just discovered the body of a friend.
No, I argued with myself, not a friend, not really. A year and a half ago, when Meg left for her freshman year of college and my life was empty, Andre had seduced me. It had been fun, being seduced by a Hollywood star, even if he was an ex-Hollywood star. Later, when I found seducing people was his hobby, it hadn’t been fun at all. But I’d gotten over that. Celibacy wasn’t so bad. Not really.
I’d needed something to fill my time. When I’d gone to Laurel with the idea of writing an interactive mystery play to benefit the library, she’d said, “When I put on a successful fund-raiser, I’ll show them I mean business!”
I wasn’t sure if “them” was the library administration or the people of Warfield. Maybe it was both. Fran said there was lots of gossip about Laurel.
“Why does everyone assume a librarian is going to have flat feet and her hair in a bun?” I’d asked.
Fran patted me on the head and said, “Innocence is really cute at your advanced stage of life.”
“What are you holding back?” I demanded.
Fran wouldn’t tell. As owner and editor of The Warfield Warbler, she knew everything that went on, but she had her own set of rules governing information. Lots went into the paper, of course. Some things she held in confidence like a doctor or a priest, and sometimes she gossiped just like anyone else.
I looked at my watch. It was almost nine. If it hadn’t been for Annamaria coming down with stomach flu, she’d have been the one to find Andre, the one sitting here with her behind numb from the hard chair.
A heavy door clanged in the distance and the sound of male voices approached. Gene led Lofty and another cop into the room. He came down to the stage to stand next to Jared who still sat on the piano bench. His red hair rumpled, his tie askew, Gene looked every one of his 41 years. “We’ll
take statements from each of you now.”
Sybil’s voice came from behind me. “I insist that you question me first so I can get out of here.”
“That’s fine,” Gene said, “anybody else want to volunteer?”
“I’d like to get it over with,” Victor said. As he reached the edge of the stage, he looked back at us. “Shall it be the Retort Courteous? The Quip Modest? Or—”
I glanced at my cast mates. No one appeared to understand his theatrical allusions.
“Just make it the truth,” Gene said, sending him into the work room with an officer.
Officer Millay took Jared into the school librarian’s office. Gene turned to Sybil and said, “You want to come with me?”
Would Gene have us searched? Ten minutes later, I was still trying to figure out how to get rid of the lipstick. Officer Millay opened the office door. Jared started to walk back toward us.
Millay stopped him. “I’ll need you to leave now.”
“I have to get a ride with Mom.”
“I’ll take her next. Mrs. Cameron, will you come with me?”
Alisz packed her canvas, yarns, and scissors. All evening Alisz had looked strange to me, and now, as she walked toward the office, I realized why. For her role, she wore jeans and a khaki shirt. I hadn’t seen her wear pants in years—I wondered who’d talked her into that costume. She was so self-conscious about her bowlegs, she always wore skirts at mid-calf length to conceal them.
Millay sent Jared out to wait in the small glass lobby.
Gradually I became aware of voices rising. Through the glass walls of the computer room, I saw Sybil and Gene standing almost nose-to-nose. Gene shouted at her. Sybil yelled back. Only occasional phrases made it through the glass. “Stupid oaf.” “—think you can get away with—” “Don’t be ridiculous—”
Everyone was watching the drama, including Lofty and Officer Tough. Casually, I walked around a bookcase. I struggled to get my fingers into the pocket of the tight jeans. They encountered something smooth. Paper. Fran was always digging into her pockets or her purse to retrieve notes. I dug deeper and snagged the lipstick. I rubbed the lipstick case with my sweater before dropping it to the carpet. What a relief!
Paula K. Perrin - Small Town Deadly Page 2
