by J. C. Eaton
“Well,” I said as I started to stand, “guess that pretty much sums up the missing Randolph Tilden Jr., huh?”
“Don’t go running off, Phee!” It was my mother, and I tried not to cringe.
I wasn’t about to get off the hook that easily with just a breakfast; she had to have something else in mind.
“I need to speak with you for a minute once we pay the checks. Meet me at the car when you’re done.”
I nodded, said good-bye to the ladies, as well as Herb and Kevin, and walked over to the cash register. Using a debit card made it a whole lot easier than the production that was still going on at the table.
The ladies’ voices were anything but soft.
“Does anyone have three cents?”
“Who has change for a quarter? My tip should be one sixty-five, and I don’t want to overpay.”
“Do you count the tax in with the bill when you figure the tip?”
“Do you think someone’s going to steal the money we’re leaving on the table? I hate leaving it right out in front.”
As I finished up at the cash register, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
It was Louise Munson. “If I were you, I’d be looking into that Randolph Tilden Jr.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, nothing specific, but did you ever meet someone who kind of gave you the willies, like there was something ‘off ’ about them?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Randolph is one of those people. I picture him tearing the wings off of flies and saving them in numbered envelopes.”
“Ugh. That’s a horrible thought.”
“Like I said, I don’t know why, but he gives me the creeps. Keeps to himself a whole lot, too. Not like the other players. When they’re on break, they’re yacking to all of us on the crew. Not Randolph. Even when he walked into the prop room. He announced whatever he needed if it wasn’t on stage and then left. Like that. After a while, I got used to it. Randolph would come in, say something like, ‘notepad and pen,’ and then head out the door.”
“It sounds as if he’s very businesslike, that’s all. Mom told me he was a former theater professor back east.”
“So I’ve heard. Someplace like Massachusetts or maybe Rhode Island. Or was it New Hampshire?”
“Did you notice any tension between him and Miranda?”
“Wherever Miranda went, there was tension. Of course, I was so busy with the props, still am, as a matter of fact, that I didn’t notice anything with those two. Now, Stanley Krumpmeyer is an entirely different story.”
“Huh?”
“He plays Christopher Wren. And let me tell you, there was no love lost between the two of them. I was on stage right, ready to replace the small wobbly stool with another one, while Miranda and Stanley were doing a scene together. She stopped dead in the middle of her lines and accused him of upstaging her.”
“I imagine the director must have been furious.”
“Oh, he was. He most certainly was. Told them both to take a five-minute break. Then he yelled for Miranda to speak with him in the back of the auditorium. What happened after that, I don’t know. I switched the small tables on the stage and went about my business.”
“Wow. Thanks, Louise. For sharing that. I’d better get going. Mom’s waiting for me by her car, and she’s probably wondering what’s keeping me so long.”
I walked as fast as I could, but it didn’t make any difference.
My mother was as impatient as ever. “Goodness, Phee. What took you so long? If you would have paid cash, you could have left it on the table and gotten out of there.”
“Louise wanted to tell me something about Randolph and Stanley.”
“What? Does she think one of them killed Miranda? She didn’t say anything to me.”
“That’s because there was nothing to say. Louise has a bad feeling about Randolph, which is neither here nor there as far as investigations are concerned, but she did witness Miranda giving Stanley a ration of grief during one of the scenes they shared.”
“Okay, okay. You can look into that later. I found out something really important. Len Beckers used to date Miranda Lee. It was a few years back, but maybe there was still bad blood.”
“How did you find that out? And what makes you think they still had issues?”
“At the beauty parlor. The hairdresser who has the chair next to my stylist is the sister of Len Beckers’s deceased first wife. When she found out about Miranda’s murder, she said it was awful and all of that, but . . . and here’s the interesting part . . .”
“What? Get to it already.”
“I am. Hold your horses. The stylist said she was really relieved her brother-in-law stopped dating Miranda.”
“So what does that prove?”
“You’re not letting me finish, Phee. She was relieved they stopped dating because she was afraid he was going to wind up killing her.”
“Oh my gosh. Shouldn’t she tell that to the sheriff’s investigators?”
“Tell what? What’s there to tell? She said Miranda was the kind of woman who could push someone over the edge. In this case, it would have been Len Beckers . Would have. We don’t know for sure. That’s where you come in.”
“Me? You want me to meet with a potential killer?”
“In public. In a public place. Now, according to the list I gave you, the man belongs to the archery club. They practice every Saturday from two to five at the archery range off of Beardsley Boulevard. You can go today.”
“An archery range? With bows and arrows? Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Where else can I find him?”
“Uh. Let me see. I’ve got some notes in my pocketbook that I didn’t put on the list. Give me a minute.”
While my mother rummaged through her bag, I stood back and watched the endless flow of cars in and out of the parking lot of Bagels ’N More. By next month, the Canadians were sure to arrive for their usual five-month stint in Arizona, and finding a parking spot would be next to impossible. I was wondering just how early my mother and her friends were willing to wake up, when she finally finished routing through her bag.
“Here it is. I knew I wrote this down. Len Beckers is involved in all sorts of activities. He bowls with a league on Sundays at three-thirty at the RH Johnson Rec Center. Good timing. It doesn’t interfere with rehearsals. Since you’re not busy on Sundays, you can—”
“How do you know I’m not busy on Sundays? Sundays might be my busiest days.”
“Well, are you?”
I groaned and shook my head.
“Good. Then it’s settled. You can drive over to the bowling alley tomorrow, and when he’s in between rolling a ball, you can talk to him.”
“That’s not going to be so easy. I mean, in front of everyone.”
“It’s that or the archery range.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll think of something.”
“Pretend you want to sign up to join his bowling league. That might work.”
“The last time I bowled was before I gave birth to Kalese and, no, that wouldn’t work. Look, don’t worry about it. I’ll come up with something.”
“Just be careful. You don’t want him dropping a heavy ball on your foot.”
“No, he’ll be too busy trying to stuff it in my mouth.”
Just then a car pulled up behind my mother, and the driver waited to see if the spot was going to open up.
“I think we’d better get going, Mom. I’ll let you know how things work out.”
I wasn’t sure how I was going to broach the subject of Miranda’s suspicious death with Len Beckers, but I figured I had at least twenty-four hours to come up with something. Former boyfriends usually fell into two categories—they either wanted to talk about their exes or they didn’t. I hoped Len fell into the first category.
The rest of the day was pretty mundane. I ran errands, picked up groceries and threw in a load of laundry. My mother would have been ecstatic to learn I did the wash when the low
weekend rates were in effect.
At six-thirty, I finally sat on the couch, tore into a bag of popcorn and propped my feet on the coffee table. Turner Classic Movies was about to show one of my favorite movies, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir, when the phone rang. I made no effort to budge. Whoever it was could leave a message, and I’d get back to them. Unfortunately, the “whoever” was my mother, and her message was more like a bellow.
“Pick up your phone, Phee. I know you’re home by now. We got a death threat. I’m holding. I’m holding. Get to your phone.”
I shoved the coffee table back, tossed my bag of popcorn against one of the couch pillows, and raced to catch her call. “I’m here. I’m here. What’s going on? Are you still at the theater?”
“Yes. We’re all here. For the time being.”
“Okay. What’s going on? What death threat?”
“Remember those notes Myrna and I got? And the one Paula accused me of sending to Miranda?”
“Uh-huh. With the message ‘And then there were none.’”
“Well, someone wrote that same message with bright red lipstick across the large mirror in the ladies’ dressing room. Shirley saw it first when she unlocked the door.”
“Oh no. Not Shirley. That must’ve sent her over the edge.”
“She’s way past that. Screaming hysterically. The sheriff’s deputy on duty had all he could do to calm her down.”
“Did this happen right away when you first got to the rehearsal?”
“No. The cast ran lines first, and then the crew arrived about an hour and a half later. That’s when Shirley unlocked the dressing room doors because people were getting into costume. The director wanted to see how the costumes looked with the lighting. He was concerned that some of the clothing might be too drab.”
“Uh-huh. Then what?”
“Like I said, Shirley unlocked both dressing room doors so the cast could get into costume. When she turned on the lights in the ladies’ dressing room, that’s when she saw the message. Up until that point, the door had been locked. She’s the only one with a key. Except for the director and stage manager. They have master keys.”
“I hate to say it, but maybe one of those guys wrote the message. What do you know about the stage manager? Maybe he was dating Miranda, too.”
“Not likely. If he was dating anyone, it would be one of the male cast members.”
“Oh. I see.... Well, that still doesn’t mean he didn’t have a motive. Same goes for the director.”
“I doubt it was the director. He nearly blew his top when he read the message. Mostly he was upset because the entire incident took time away from practice.”
“I suppose a crime lab could figure out what kind of lipstick it was.”
“They don’t have to. It’s stage lipstick from Ben Nye. Marilyn Red LS-33 color, to be exact. The stage manager unlocked the cabinet where they keep the stage makeup. Shirley couldn’t get past the heebie-jeebies that it was Miranda’s ghost who left that message, and she refused to go near the cabinet. Honestly. It’s a good thing your Aunt Ina isn’t here, or she’d demand we hold a séance to confront the spirit. Anyway, Richard Garson, he’s the stage manager, in case I forgot to tell you, pulled out the tray of lipsticks and guess what? The Marilyn Red was missing. Someone had to have taken it to scrawl that message across the mirror.”
“You know that only leaves two possible suspects. Unless someone got into the theater the night before when there was no rehearsal and did it then. Is that possible?”
“The deputy said the same thing. Seems lots of people still have master keys to the theater that they never returned after their club events or performances were done. And the locks haven’t been changed in over twenty years. Twenty years. Who’s going to go that far back to see who might have a key?”
“What’s happening now? You said you were calling from the theater.”
“I am. The deputy took a few pictures of the mirror with his cell phone and phoned the incident in to his office. He asked everyone to keep their eyes open in case they spot the lipstick. Who’s he kidding? Even the worst dunderhead isn’t going to leave evidence lying around.”
“Are they going to continue with the rehearsal?”
“Of course. But I doubt it will be a good one. Everyone’s upset, and, other than Shirley, and possibly Cecilia, who are both positive it’s Miranda’s ghost, most of the cast and crew believe it’s her killer who’s doing this. My God, Phee. The very thought that a crazed serial killer is among us in this theater is enough to get my nerves rattling.”
“Un-rattle them. It’s not a psychopathic serial killer.”
“How do you know? What makes you the expert?”
“Because a lunatic killer usually kills more than one person.”
The minute I said that, I was sorry I did. My mother gasped, and I quickly tried to undo the damage.
“Um. Uh. Listen. Deranged killers don’t take their victims in front of an audience. They look for a quiet, secluded place. I’m sure you’ll be fine. Give me a call when you get home, okay?”
“Ah-hah! Now who’s worried?”
I was about to add something when my mother quickly ended the call with, “That’s Cliff. He’s calling for act one, scene one, places. I’m in this scene with Sue Ellen. Talk to you later.”
Chapter 12
My mother called at a little past eight. Other than being exhausted, she and her friends left the rehearsal unscathed. It seemed so odd to me that I was the one worrying about her instead of the other way around. Once she got past the disturbing incident, my mother wasted no time reminding me that Len Beckers was going to be at the bowling alley the next day.
“I know. I know. I already told you I’d go there. By the way, did any of those deputies on duty indicate how their investigation was coming along?”
“No. Only that they were following procedure and protocol and all that other nonsense. That tells me they haven’t figured out a darn thing. In fact, we don’t even know what really killed Miranda. Her death was ruled a homicide, but that’s all we know. Even the papers dodged the issue. You don’t suppose you could get Marshall or Nate to find out, do you?”
“Not unless they’re officially hired on behalf of the family or someone. They can’t just call the local authorities and demand to hear the details of an ongoing investigation.”
“Yes, they can. Oh yes they can. They do that all the time on Elementary.”
“That’s because those people work for the police. Oh my God! What am I saying? It’s a TV show, for heaven’s sake.”
“Okay. You said someone would have to hire a private eye. Find out how much it costs. I’ll see if the book club ladies want to chip in.”
“You’re not serious, Mom, are you?”
“Well, the way those deputies are working on the case, we’ll be lucky if any of us are left alive by opening night. It’s not that I don’t think you’re doing a good job tracking down information, but let’s face it, those bureaucratic offices are used to one thing and one thing only, and that’s working with other bureaucratic offices.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call Williams Investigations a bureaucratic office.”
“You wouldn’t, but what do those deputies know? When you get to work on Monday, ask your boss about his going rate. And find out what he’s learned so far. Oh, and tell me how it goes with Len Beckers.”
“I’ll have a typed report in triplicate on your desk by midweek, how’s that?”
“Very funny, Phee.”
“Um . . . are you rehearsing tomorrow?” I didn’t want to sound nervous, but I was. Whoever was orchestrating those behind-the-scenes pranks at the theater could very well have something to do with killing Miranda.
“No. Sunday is still sacred for now. I don’t think the director wants to mess with the church goers, pickle-ball players, and bowlers. Next rehearsal is Monday afternoon. The schedule’s been completely changed. We never know from one day to the next when we’re rehearsin
g. Cliff sometimes calls for just scene rehearsals and not the entire act.”
“But the buddy system is still in place, right?”
“Absolutely. And Myrna ordered two more ‘Screamers.’ One for me and one for Shirley. Say, do you want her to get you one, too?”
“No. I’ll use my vocal chords if I have to scream. Try to get a good night’s sleep, Mom. I’ll talk to you this week.”
I didn’t know about my mother, but when my head hit the pillow, I was zonked out until the next morning. I got up for an early swim followed by a relaxing breakfast with some of the ladies I met in my development. Quite the contrast from yesterday. No one spoke with a mouthful of food, no one reached across the table to get the salt, and only one person spoke at a time.
It was strange balancing two different Arizona worlds—my mother’s retirement community and the multigenerational neighborhood I was starting to call my own. I hopscotched into my mother’s domain at a little past three with a sketchy idea of how I could get Len Beckers to divulge information about Miranda.
The guy was easy to recognize as I walked into the RH Johnson Lanes. He was the only one with a moustache and a decent physique. A number of leagues were apparently playing that afternoon. I figured as much by the color of the shirts they were wearing. Len’s team was decked out in red and khaki.
Leaning against a small counter where candy bars and soft drinks were available for purchase, I eyeballed the men as they took turns warming up. The plan I’d devised for initiating a conversation with the guy was about as subtle as dropping an anvil on him. I was going to wait for an opportune moment and then get right to the point. No sense pretending to be interested in bowling when I could pretend to be an investigator.
Pin by pin, ball by ball, I watched the endless lineup of men take their turn at the lane. Len seemed pretty good by comparison. A few spares and one strike. The process was slow moving and monotonous. Maybe that was why I never liked bowling.
Just as my eyes were starting to blur, I heard an announcement: “Desert Scorpions and Bowling Boomers up in five minutes.”
At that moment, the men stopped what they were doing and moved over to the small table by the lanes. A few of the bowlers headed in my direction and Len Beckers was one of them. He leaned over the counter and asked for a Milky Way. No sooner did he start to unwrap it when I took a step toward him.
