Staged 4 Murder

by J. C. Eaton

  No sooner did I get into the car, fasten my seatbelt, and turn on the AC when my cell phone rang.

  My God! The woman doesn’t waste a second, does she?

  I slid the arrow and took the call, not bothering to check the number. “So, how bad was it? Chuck forget his lines again?”

  “What? It’s me. Marshall.”

  “Marshall. I’m sorry. I thought it was my mother. What’s up?”

  “I didn’t want to wait until tomorrow to fill you in on my little encounter with Maeve Fletcher. I still can’t believe I walked out of there without breaking anything. I’ve never seen so many teeny little glass figurines in my life. And one whole section of animals with wings on them. Seriously. Pigs. Horses. You name it. I all but broke out into hives in that place. But, the good news is Maeve was more than willing to offer up her observations.”

  “Was I right? Was I right? Sue Ellen and Cliff were having an affair.”

  “Whoa. Get a grip. And uh, yeah, you were right. At least as far as Maeve was concerned. Said she saw Sue Ellen and Cliff locking lips on more than one occasion when they didn’t think anyone else was around.”

  “I knew it. I knew it. She has to be the one who murdered Miranda. Can you confront her and get her to crack?”

  “Get her to crack? I’m not exactly Philip Marlowe, and it isn’t all that easy. I’ll need more evidence, so I’ll be speaking with the sheriff’s department and backtracking the timeline. We’ll see where that takes us.”

  “But you do think it could be her? Don’t you?”

  “Quite possible. Yeah. I’d be more inclined to worry if it wasn’t a motive like love or revenge. I don’t think anyone in the cast or on the crew has anything to worry about. Even if Sue Ellen is the one playing all these little games with cryptic notes and ghost-like vanishing acts.”

  “Speaking of which, it’s been pretty quiet lately. Oh, bite my tongue.”

  “By the way, if it turns out you’re right, then who takes over for Sue Ellen?”

  “Paula Darren. She knows all the lines. She’s the prompter for the first act. She and my mom both have to continue prompting during the performance in case Chuck backslides. And get this—Herb is the understudy for two of the men’s roles.”

  “What about the other parts? Don’t tell me it’ll be one of the deputies who’s had to babysit.”

  “No, they do a ‘flip-flop.’ It’s kind of common in the theater, from what I’ve been told. Main characters learn one other character’s role in case they have to switch around.”

  “As much as I want to catch the killer, I’d be more inclined to wait until closing night, or I might really wreak havoc with that play.”

  “Closing night? That’d make for one hell of an encore.”

  “Anyway, I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. The carpets won’t take long to dry, and the service company will be there way before we open to put back the furniture.”

  “Sounds good. Thanks, Marshall.”

  I ended the call and pulled out of my parking spot. Cast and crew members were working their way out of the main entrance. Without wasting a second, I headed straight for the parking lot exit and didn’t bother to glimpse at the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 25

  I never thought I’d be so happy to sit at my desk as I was the day after Thanksgiving. It had been a relatively quiet week, compared to the frenetic ones I’d been experiencing. Even Thanksgiving Day at my mother’s wasn’t as godawful as I’d expected.

  Shirley appeared to be more relaxed since there weren’t any more ghost sightings at the theater. She attributed it to the fact that Cecilia had filled an entire spray bottle with holy water when her priest wasn’t looking and spritzed that water generously throughout the stage, auditorium, and dressing rooms in the Stardust Theater. Cecilia even talked Bill into taking what was left and spraying it into the air on the catwalk.

  Lucinda thought the whole thing was a bunch of poppycock (her words) and told us as much when she wasn’t gorging herself on everything in sight. The best part of the day was that no one pressured me about my love life. Instead, they fabricated all sorts of scenarios involving Miranda, Sue Ellen, and even Paula Darren. The screenwriters for The Bold and the Beautiful would have been proud.

  “It’s too bad you have to work tomorrow,” my mother said. “The three of us are meeting Myrna and Louise at Home Goods tomorrow morning, and then we’re going to Arrowhead Mall for winter fashion shopping.”

  I couldn’t imagine anything worse. This wasn’t a crew that would have responded tactfully to such questions as “Does this make me look fat?” or “Does this make me look old?” I simply smiled and explained that we had to catch up at work due to the water main break.

  Now, sitting comfortably at my desk, I was about to do exactly that. At least until Marshall gave a quick rap on the door frame and stepped in.

  “Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable. The sheriff’s department called to let me know they plan to arrest Stanley Krumpmeyer for Miranda’s murder.”

  “Stanley? They’ve got it all wrong. All wrong!”

  “I’m driving over to their posse station in Sun City West right now. Funny, but up until I moved to Arizona, I’d always thought posse’s disappeared with the cowboys. Having a citizen patrol that’s connected to the county sheriff’s office is a real boom for the community. Anyway, Deputy Bowman agreed to fill me in. All he would tell me over the phone was that, in retrospect, they shouldn’t have allowed everyone to stay seated together in the auditorium when they questioned the cast and crew.”

  Small gurgling noises seemed to take over my throat, and all I could do was nod. How could I have gotten this wrong? Stanley Krumpmeyer? It didn’t make sense.

  “So, I’ll keep you posted. Nate’s flabbergasted, too. He’s with a client right now. Feels as if we’ve been blindsided on this one.”

  Marshall was out the door before I got my voice back. Robotically, I went through the weekly accounts and updated the billing, but my mind kept going back to Stanley. If it was a horserace, he’d be the longshot.

  “Are you all right in there, Phee?” It was Augusta. “It’s been over three hours, and you haven’t gotten up once for a break. In fact, Nate shouted out a ‘good-bye’ as he headed off to see a client, and you never even heard him.”

  “Oh gosh. I’m sorry. I’ve literally had to force myself to concentrate on work because the police are about to arrest the wrong suspect, and there’s nothing we can do at this point. Poor Stanley.”

  “Is that the suspect? Stanley?”

  “Uh-huh. Stanley Krumpmeyer, whose only claim to fame is the broadcast club and now, of course, this. Miranda’s murder. Only he didn’t do it. I’m positive it was Sue Ellen.”

  “The sheriff’s office wouldn’t be arresting him if they didn’t have evidence, would they?”

  “That’s what Marshall’s going to find out. If there was evidence, what on earth did we miss?”

  Augusta crinkled her nose and stood still for a moment. “Planted evidence.”

  She emphasized the word “planted” before continuing. “In most of the murder mysteries I’ve read or seen, the killer usually plants evidence to incriminate someone else.”

  “That’s got to be it. I bet that’s exactly what Sue Ellen did. But I wonder how . . .”

  “Wouldn’t wonder too much longer. Look out the window. Here comes your answer now, and if my eyesight is good, he’s brought us lunch.”

  I knew it was Ray’s famous meatball subs without even bothering to check out the large box Marshall had carried inside.

  “My treat, ladies! I had to pass Ray’s on the way here and couldn’t resist. We’ve got to have soda in the fridge. I’ll grab some cans and we can eat in the back room. It doesn’t look as if they’re knocking the doors down to get inside. Not with all those sales going on today.”

  We both thanked him as he handed us the subs to carry while he took care of getting the drinks. A few seconds later, we
were all gathered around the small table in back.

  Augusta had barely unwrapped her sub before poking me in the arm. “Aren’t you going to ask him? It’s been bothering you all morning.”

  “Augusta’s referring to Stanley’s impending arrest. I had to tell her. She’s following this case, too.”

  Marshall grinned as he popped the tab on his soda. “I figured as much. Well, I won’t keep you in suspense any longer. It doesn’t look good for Stanley. Bowman and Ranston went over the notes they made on the day Miranda’s body was found and had some more questions for a few of the cast and crew members. Instead of a repeat performance at the theater, they called those folks into the posse station for questioning.”

  “It couldn’t have been any of my mother’s friends, or I would have heard about it. Heck! I would have been asked to escort them like the last time something like this came up.”

  “Bowman’s faxing me a complete set of notes, but this is what I’ve gotten so far. A few days before the murder, Miranda and Stanley were having one of their usual spats involving upstaging, and I guess Stanley lost it. He was heard saying, ‘what I wouldn’t give to put my hands around your neck and squeeze the last breath out of you.’”

  Augusta reached for a napkin and wiped some of Ray’s famous tomato sauce off of her chin. “He’s an actor. Of course he’d say something like that if she ticked him off.”

  “That wasn’t the most incriminating part,” Marshall replied. “The timeline was. The medical examiner was able to pinpoint a fairly accurate time of death, and it coincided with the hour immediately following a late rehearsal that only involved a few of the players.”

  “And Stanley was one of them.”

  “I’m afraid so. And that’s not all. Two of the people that the deputies spoke with said they saw Stanley follow Miranda up to the catwalk as they were leaving the theater. I imagine Miranda wanted the lights adjusted to suit her, and Stanley had other ideas. They probably had a big row, and he gave her a shove. Enough to knock her down before actually strangling her.”

  I had all I could do to contain myself. “Wait a minute. Wait a good minute. Why didn’t those two alleged witnesses say something on the first day?”

  “Bowman and Ranston asked them the same thing. The answer was pretty simple. They were afraid to say anything because Stanley was sitting right there, and if all of a sudden he got carted away, he might have figured out who turned him in.”

  “So now what? When do they plan on arresting him?”

  Marshall glanced at his watch. “I think they already have.”

  If I could read anything at all in Marshall’s expression, it was a combination of astonishment and genuine sadness.

  “You don’t think he did it, do you?”

  “It’s too easy. Something’s missing. I feel as if it’s right in front of me and yet I can’t see it.”

  “The only thing that’s right in front of you, Mr. Gregory, is your sub, and you’ve hardly touched it.”

  “I know, Augusta. I know. I guess I’m not that hungry. I’ll save it for later. I need to put a call in to Phee’s mother and let her know what’s happened. I really feel awful about this.”

  “Well, you can feel good about one thing,” I said. “My mother’s out Black Friday shopping, so it’ll be you and the message machine. Until, of course, she returns the call . . .”

  We thanked Marshall again for lunch and watched as he headed into his office. I knew he was beating himself up over this, but I also knew he was as persistent as Nate when it came to tracking down the truth. I didn’t expect Stanley to remain behind bars for long.

  * * *

  The phone was ringing the minute I got home and unlocked the door. Thinking it might be Marshall with some new information, I picked it up immediately, only to find myself flinching at the sound of my mother’s voice.

  “Herb just called. I had to hear it from Herb! Stanley’s been arrested for Miranda’s murder, and Herb is now playing the part of Christopher Wren. That’s like having Andy Devine play the part of Butch Cassidy. I don’t know what’s worse. The play’s going to be a disaster. I never figured Stanley for a killer. Honestly. This is going to devastate the broadcast club. And who knows what it will do to our ticket sales.”

  It was typical Harriet Plunkett—all over the place with me at the other end unable to get a word in.

  “Calm down, Mom. Didn’t you get Marshall’s message?”

  “I haven’t checked my message machine. I walked in the door, put my packages on the couch, and, by the way, there were lots of bargains at T.J. Maxx. I bought Streetman the cutest little winter sweater.”

  “No way! The dog has a better wardrobe than most of us. Anyhow, Marshall called to let you know about the arrest. It came out of nowhere.”

  “I’ll say it did. Stanley was the last person I’d suspect. Not that I blame him. She probably pushed him to a breaking point. At least we can all relax now. We don’t have to look over our shoulders anymore. Did the deputies find out why on earth he took Shirley’s tunic? Phee? Are you listening?”

  It was like an electric shock. The tunic. If the witnesses said they saw Stanley following Miranda to the catwalk, then what about the tunic draped over her arm? No one mentioned seeing Stanley carry it up there.

  “Mom, I’ve got to make another call. I’ll get back to you later tonight.”

  “Call me before Blue Bloods comes on. I like to watch Tom Selleck.”

  Who doesn’t?

  My fingers were fat and clumsy as I raced to dial Marshall’s cell number. Come on. Come on. Answer it. I jumped in as soon as Marshall said hello.

  “I knew something was wrong, Marshall. I knew it. Shirley’s tunic. Did any of those so-called witnesses say a word about Stanley carrying that fringy, teal tunic up the catwalk? If not, how do you explain how it got draped over Miranda’s arm?”

  “My God, Phee. I can’t believe I missed it. I must be slipping. Unless he went back up later to put it there, but that makes absolutely no sense. It had to be someone using it as a disguise. Like we talked about before. I’ve got to call the sheriff’s office. It won’t change anything since they’re convinced they’ve nabbed the right guy, but it will certainly muddy the waters for them.”

  “Good. Make it as murky as possible, or Sue Ellen will be getting away with murder.”

  * * *

  As things turned out, the tunic didn’t seem to matter to the sheriff’s department. Monday morning came, and Stanley was still stuck in the Fourth Avenue Jail in Phoenix, awaiting his arraignment. I had only seen that place once; it was when I first moved here and my mother and I got lost downtown looking for the art museum. As I recalled, the four-story brick structure with bars on its windows reminded me of a post-war warehouse. Dark and depressing.

  Rehearsals had also taken on that tone, according to my mother, who was now phoning me at least twice every night in case she forgot to mention something the first time. Her major complaint, aside from the fact Chuck was starting to “backslide,” was her observation that Herb was really not well suited to play the role of Christopher Wren.

  “At least Herb knows the lines. That’s a start, Mom, isn’t it?”

  It was Tuesday night, and I was in for a long discourse.

  “You know who would make a good Christopher Wren, don’t you? Marshall. Marshall would be perfect in that role.”

  “Don’t you dare even suggest it. I swear you’ll make him leave the state.”

  My mother went on to tell me the rehearsals were now timed run-throughs, and, to make matters worse, Cliff had become so obsessive about having the play meet the expected running time of one hundred and forty minutes, that the cast and crew were about ready to stage a mutiny instead of a play.

  “He’s like a madman if it goes even one minute over. The only saving grace is the fact that all those weird little disturbances like the air-conditioning going wacko, the smell of Shalimar, and those hateful little messages have stopped. And I’l
l tell you what I’ll be thankful for—when this play ends and we can go back to reading about murders.”

  “Disturbances. The disturbances have stopped.”

  “Yes, that’s what I said.”

  “If you ask me, that’s because Sue Ellen got what she wanted and there’s no need to keep the charade going. Darn it. I wish I could prove she did it. This is so unfair. So, only two more rehearsals, huh?”

  “That’s right. One tomorrow night and dress rehearsal on Thursday. You know you’re always welcome to sit in.”

  “Uh, that’s okay. I’ll be there for opening night. Marshall and Nate plan to attend, too, plus my friend Lyndy and her aunt.”

  “Good thing you bought tickets. I heard it’s a sellout.”

  “Marshall and Nate’s tickets were comped. Along with a few for the sheriff’s department. That was before they arrested Stanley. The Footlighters probably wanted to make sure there was enough security in case, well, you know.”

  “All I know is the same thing you do, Phee. They’ve got the wrong man. And poor Streetman. This has been very upsetting for him, too. He keeps looking for that set of teeth he absconded with the other night.”

  “You threw them out, right?”

  “Of course. Thank goodness that fashion statement went out in the thirties. I’d have to hide my wardrobe from him.”

  Chapter 26

  If Wednesday was the proverbial “calm before the storm,” then Thursday was an honest-to-God tempest. It started the minute I got into work. Marshall broke the news that he’d heard from Rolo Barnes. Nate was standing a few feet away at the copier, and Augusta was just coming in the door.

  “Before you get all worked up, Phee,” Marshall said, “keep in mind this isn’t enough to have Stanley released.”

  I was nodding so fast I probably resembled one of those Bobblehead dolls. “What did he find out? What? What? Come on, tell me.”

  “What did who find out?” Augusta tossed her bag on her desk and motioned with her arms as if she was coaxing a preschooler to recite the alphabet.