Staged 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  “Dear God, Mother. This is community theater, not Broadway.”

  “Exactly. If it was Broadway, they’d hire a hitman. This is a retirement community. People don’t have money for that sort of thing. All the more reason why you need to take that list seriously. At least when we thought there was a possibility Miranda’s death could be accidental, we were able to function. But now . . . now it’ll be like walking the London streets with Jack the Ripper on the loose.”

  Short of banging myself in the head with the phone receiver, I couldn’t see any easy way out of this conversation without fabricating some sort of interruption. “Nate’s at the door, Mom. I’ve got to get back to work.”

  “Call me when you get home. If I’m still alive at the end of today’s rehearsal.”

  “And you thought Sue Ellen was dramatic? You’ll be alive, Mother.”

  I took the spreadsheet from the copier and filed it. Nate liked having a hard copy of all the financials as well as the cyber version. In some ways, he was more like my mother’s generation than mine. Maybe it was the twenty year age difference and the fact that old habits, such as needing written tangible evidence, died hard. Then something dawned on me.

  Tangible evidence. Had the sheriff’s deputies uncovered anything on the catwalk that would link back to the killer? If so, they weren’t about to share that information with the cast. But maybe the men who worked the lights would have noticed something out of the ordinary. Especially Bill Sanders, who found the body. I grabbed my calendar and jotted down “Bill, dog park, Kramer.” A quick call to Cindy Dolton and I’d have that mutt’s potty schedule down pat. And hopefully, the dog was an evening pooper.

  * * *

  My mother had calmed down considerably by the time I called her later that night. She and Myrna had been “glued at the hip” from the minute they entered the Stardust Theater. Myrna had also purchased a small device called “The Screamer” for her keychain. If anyone tried to attack her, one push of the button and a deafening scream would reverberate throughout the building. The device, or Myrna’s own shriek.

  To placate my mother, I decided to really tackle “the list.” I figured I’d begin my “inquest” with Bill Sanders the next evening after work. According to Cindy Dolton, Kramer was a regular fixture at the dog park between five-thirty and six-thirty and had made a habit of tipping over the water bowls.

  “You’ll be able to spot that dog right away, Phee. He goes straight to the community bowls, sticks his paws in them, and dumps the water.”

  “What about Bill? How will I recognize him, other than his being tall? I didn’t get a good look at him in the theater. The lighting was dim, and I wasn’t really paying attention.” And some of those old men look alike.

  “He’ll probably be wearing a dark blue baseball cap. If not, he’s bald on top but has lots of wild, curly hair on the sides. Looks like Larry David, only older. More than likely, you’ll hear him first.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, inevitably some dog will do something that upsets Bill, and he’ll get on a rant. Huffing, puffing, and stomping all over the place.”

  * * *

  I was grateful for Cindy’s information because it took me less than three minutes at the park gate to locate Kramer and his master. I could hear the commotion across the parking lot.

  “That’s not a community watering bowl. It’s Kramer’s own bowl. His special park bowl. And that basset hound just took a drink from it and got specks of dirt in the water. I’ve got to pick them out before Kramer will drink from the bowl!”

  Stepping into the park, I asked a tall, blond lady why they couldn’t simply refill the water bowl from the hose.

  “You must be new here. Bill brings bottled water for Kramer. Not the cheap kind, either. The expensive Geyser Spring Water.”

  I smiled and thanked her. Geyser Spring Water for a dog. It made me question my own parenting skills, since the only water my daughter drank when she was growing up came from the tap.

  Bill was sitting on one of the benches under the palm trees and painstakingly removing bits of debris from the water bowl. I immediately took the seat next to him and said hello.

  He looked up. “Can you believe this? A million water bowls and none of those dogs can leave Kramer’s bowl alone. Which one is yours?”

  “Oh, I don’t have a dog. I stopped by in case one of my friends was here, but I don’t see her. She’s working on that play for the Footlighters and was really upset about the news.”

  “There’s more news? What news?”

  “The cast and crew found out one of the actors was murdered.”

  “Oh, that. I could have told you that on day one, seeing as I found the body.”

  “You did? How awful! How horrible for you.”

  “Eh. More horrible for her. Miranda Lee, that is. The body. Sprawled out on the catwalk with all those cords all over her. Looked like she strangled herself, but there was something fishy. Looked like someone stuck that tunic over her after she was dead.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It looked staged. The way the electrical cord was around her neck and her arm dangling. Now I’m not saying she wasn’t strangled or maybe even electrocuted, but whoever did it wanted it to look like it was an accident. Accidents ain’t that neat.”

  “Um . . . yeah. I suppose.”

  “And there’s another thing. When Kevin and I, he’s another electrician on the crew, finish up for the day, there are no cords lying around. It’s a regular safety hazard on a stage, but on a catwalk, it’s a disaster. If you ask me, someone wanted it to look like we were the ones responsible. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not happy that they said it was murder, but if it was an accident, it would be my butt and Kevin’s they’d be coming after.”

  A thought raced through my mind. Was someone devious enough to commit murder and make it look as if Bill and Kevin were at fault? Nah, no one could be that diabolical. I muttered, “Uh-huh,” as Bill continued to talk.

  “You know what the worst thing was about that Miranda Lee? Excluding her personality, of course, which was none too pleasant. I’ll tell you what. It was her perfume. That sickeningly sweet, flowery perfume that got into my nostrils every single time she climbed up to the catwalk to mess with the lighting. I’m not saying I’m pleased she bit the dust, so to speak, but it’s a damn good relief not to smell that perfume anymore. That stuff lingers, too. Worse than an old fart.”

  I stifled a laugh. “Was there anything else odd about the scene of her death?”

  “Odd how?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe something out of place. Other than the electrical cords.”

  Bill scrunched up his mouth until it touched the bottom of his nose.

  “Perfume smelled worse. Pungent. Maybe it gets that way on a dead body, but, come to think of it, there was a crumpled up instrument schedule a few feet from Miranda’s head. I figured it was probably an older version that Kevin meant to throw out. No big deal.”

  “What’s an instrument schedule?”

  “I guess you’re not too familiar with play productions, huh? It’s a spreadsheet that lists every fixture in the show and every detail. Before we had spreadsheets, it was written on grid paper.”

  “What happened to that instrument schedule?”

  “I don’t know. Probably got thrown out.”

  “Tell me, other than you or Kevin, who would need an instrument schedule?”

  “Oh heck, lady, lots of people. The director, for one. Then the stage manager, the assistant stage manager, and anyone on the lighting crew. Oh hell! I bet I know where that darn instrument schedule came from. I bet Miranda had it all along. That woman was always on the catwalk trying to readjust the pipe clamps.”

  It was like having a conversation with an auto mechanic. I was totally lost. “Pipe clamps?”

  “Yeah. They attach the fixture to a hanging position. She wanted the fixtures spaced so she’d get ‘optimum exposure.’ Her words.
Not mine. Well, guess she got her wish, huh?”

  I nodded as Bill went on and on about stage lighting.

  Finally, I broke in. “From what I’ve heard, she wasn’t too well liked.”

  “Got that right. Say, you look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “Um, er . . . Not exactly. I’m Harriet Plunkett’s daughter. Phee.”

  Suddenly Bill stood and started yelling. “Kramer! Kramer! You get your nose out of that dog’s butt!”

  I took that as my cue to get going and quickly thanked Bill. “It’s been nice chatting with you. I’ll make it a point to see the play.”

  Closing the gate behind me, I wondered if that instrument schedule had inadvertently dropped from the killer’s pocket as he or she struggled with Miranda, or if Miranda had had it all along. Either way, it was one clue that was now missing.

  Chapter 9

  “Don’t bother about Sue Ellen Blair. It couldn’t possibly be her.”

  No hello. No “Good morning, did I wake you?” No greeting. Those were the only words out of my mother’s mouth so early in the morning that my alarm clock hadn’t even gone off. It took me a good thirty or more seconds to register what she was saying. Let alone what day it was—Friday.

  “Huh? Wha—?”

  “I thought you’d be up by now, Phee. I was going to call you last night, but it was so late when we got back from rehearsal. The schedule’s been completely changed, so we go day by day. Different days. Different scenes. Who the heck knows what that director is going to do. Not like Ellowina. She was much better organized.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  I fumbled for my reading glasses as I cradled the phone against my ear.

  “Well, like I was saying, you don’t have to question Sue Ellen. I’m sure she had nothing to do with Miranda’s murder.”

  By now I was awake enough to process the conversation. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Sue Ellen was nearly killed last night. It scared the daylights out of all of us.”

  “Killed? How?”

  “She was on stage for one of the scenes and all of a sudden, BOOM! Out of nowhere. Fine, not exactly nowhere, but one of the lights from that strip of overhead lights came loose and crashed inches from her. Inches! Not feet. Inches. She’s lucky she wasn’t killed on the spot.”

  “You mean an entire lamp from the strip of lights? Which, by the way, is called a batten. I got an earful yesterday about stage lighting from Bill when I saw him in the dog park.”

  “Yes. That. The entire big black thing. It crashed to the ground. The lighting crew swore up and down they had fastened those clamps, but somehow one came loose. And I’ll tell you another thing. They don’t come loose by themselves. It’s the murderer. Sue Ellen was so panicked, it took a full forty minutes for her to calm down and run the scene.”

  “I can imagine. I’d be pretty shaken up, too.”

  “Then, if that’s not bad enough, the stage manager starts going on and on about the cost of another tungsten-halogen lamp. All the while Sue Ellen is bawling her eyes out.”

  “Yikes.”

  “So now, before we rehearse, Herb promised they’d lower that batten thing and check the clamps.”

  “Good idea.”

  “For the lights, maybe. But I’m telling you, Phee, it’s the killer, and he or she isn’t done yet. Maybe they won’t get us with the lights, but it’ll be something else. All of us are on edge. Anyway, you can cross Sue Ellen off your list and question someone else. You are working on that list, aren’t you?”

  “Of course I am. I just told you I spoke with Bill Sanders last night at the dog park.”

  “Good. Good. What did you find out?”

  “Not much. Except for one thing. He thought Miranda’s body was staged, which would mean someone draped Shirley’s tunic over the corpse.”

  “Whoever did it, had to have done it on that catwalk. It would have been near to impossible to drag a dead body up there.”

  “I agree with you, Mom. But why would they bother staging the body? Unless they were trying to hide something. But what? Dead is dead, don’t you think?”

  “I think that if you don’t act fast, there’ll be more dead bodies lying around, and I don’t want mine to be one of them. As soon as you get out of work, go interview someone from the list. If I were you, and I’m not telling you what to do . . .”

  Sure you’re not.

  “I’d start with Paula Darren. Find out all you can about Miranda Lee from her. If it’s not a crazed serial killer, then it has to be someone with a darned good motive to kill Miranda and then go after the rest of us to make it look like a deranged psychopath. For your information, the news media is all about delusional murderers. It’s as commonplace as road rage killers or those meth addicts who go berserk.”

  I’d been down this road before, and I knew I had to get off the phone before my mother dredged up every recent story from 48 Hours, 20/20, and Frontline.

  “Fine. Fine.”

  “I’ll save you some time. There’s no rehearsal tonight, and I guarantee you’ll find Paula at Karaoke Night in the Ocotillo Room at Beardsley Rec Center. It costs two dollars if you plan to sing.”

  “That’s the last thing I plan to do.”

  “Call me when you find out something.”

  Suddenly my alarm clock went off, and I reached across the nightstand to shut it off. “That’s my cue, Mom. I’ve got to get going.”

  “Remember, call me.”

  “As soon as I find out anything, I will. And if I don’t find out anything, I’ll still call. Probably tomorrow. Try to have a good day.”

  “I’ll try to stay alive.”

  A loose clamp on a lighting batten probably wasn’t that unusual, but, given the circumstances, I didn’t blame my mother for her reaction. She was right about one thing, though, and that was trying to find a motive for Miranda Lee’s murder.

  * * *

  Nate was still in Tucson, but Marshall had arrived in the office before I did.

  “Good morning, Phee! How’s the hunt for Red October going?”

  “Very funny. It keeps getting worse by the minute.”

  I proceeded to tell him about the official ruling on Miranda’s death and the near-death encounter Sue Ellen Blair had had at last night’s rehearsal. I also filled him in on my conversation with Bill Sanders at the dog park.

  “My mother is convinced the deputies are doing little to nothing and that the only chance of finding out who killed Miranda rests with my would-be investigative skills. Can you imagine that? I don’t know where she gets those ideas.”

  “From what little I’ve heard, I’d say she was pretty astute. Besides, it doesn’t do any harm probing into the matter as long as you don’t overstep the actual investigation.”

  “So you think I should be doing this, too? Following that list of hers and talking to possible suspects?”

  “I wouldn’t expect any less from you. Just be careful.”

  “Well, tonight should be a whole lot of fun, then. I’m going to attend Sun City West karaoke at one of the rec centers. It’s where Miranda Lee’s good friend, Paula Darren, goes on Fridays, according to my mother.”

  “No play rehearsal tonight then?”

  “Nope. There’ll probably be an afternoon one on Saturday.”

  “Hmm, do you plan on belting out a song tonight or just jumping into questioning mode?”

  “What? Me? Sing? Never. I’ll simply find a way to approach Paula and hope I can get somewhere with her. She’s really the only one who knows anything about Miranda.”

  “I’ve never gone to a karaoke night. Or anything karaoke for that matter.”

  I wasn’t sure if he was hinting at an invitation or merely making a statement. He must have sensed my hesitation because he immediately caught himself.

  “Yeah, work has totally consumed me in the past, so there are lots of entertainment venues I’ve never explored. Although casinos aren’t really my thing, and I doubt I�
��d enjoy Bingo.”

  “I think you’d find Bingo to be a real eye-opener around these parts.”

  Just then Augusta walked through the door and greeted us, saving me any further conversation with Marshall about entertainment options.

  At the end of the day, all he said was, “Let me know how it goes tonight. Either way. Your singing or your sleuthing.”

  * * *

  Karaoke Night in the Ocotillo Room began promptly at six-thirty. I arrived an hour later, having stopped at a local deli to grab dinner first. The music hit me as soon as I set foot in the Beardsley Recreation Center Building. A formidable lobby with floral chairs and tables opened into a long corridor that led to the assorted activity rooms, each named for a different species of cactus. The restrooms were straight ahead, marked with cowboy/cowgirl silhouettes.

  It was easy to spot the Ocotillo Room. It was the only one that showed any signs of life. A few people were milling around the doorway and others were coming in or going out. I showed my visitor card to the man at the entrance, and he waved me inside without saying a word.

  It took a minute or two for my eyes to adjust to the dim light. I suppose the organizers wanted the place to look more like a nightclub than an activity room for senior citizens. The large round tables with six to eight chairs were almost filled to capacity. Who knew this was such a popular pastime? In front of the room a man and a woman were singing Sonny and Cher’s “I Got You Babe.” They stood on a rectangular platform, each holding a wireless microphone.

  In the back of the room, it looked as if soft beverages and snacks were being sold. Some of the tables had wine bottles on them as well as beer. I figured it had to be BYOB. I walked toward the refreshment table, turning my head so I could get a good look at the audience. Wherever Paula Darren was seated, I intended to be close by so that if she got up for refreshments or to use the ladies’ room, I could somehow start a conversation with her.