“I wouldn’t know what to compare it to. It isn’t like I get involved in murder investigations on a regular basis.”
He smiled and glanced down the empty corridor. “I’m sure you did fine. We’d better keep our new plans under wraps until all the excitement blows over and things settle back to normal. Give it a week or two.”
Delight shrugged and started to walk away.
“One more thing,” he said before she could reach the door.
She looked back. He looked more tired than usual, with extra lines around his eyes and his hair not quite in place.
“Did you mention to anyone where we were at the time I received the call about Henry last night?” he asked.
“Nope.”
“Don’t bring it up unless someone specifically asks you.”
“Why not? It wasn’t as if we were doin’ anything wrong.”
“Of course we weren’t,” he snapped. Then he sighed, closing his eyes. “It just wouldn’t be a good idea to stir up any speculation right now,” he said more softly.
“Don’t worry,” Delight assured him. “I’ll keep it zipped.”
“But if anyone asks, don’t lie.”
“Okay. Fine. I won’t.” She reached the door and escaped before anyone else could stop her and ask questions.
Chapter Seven
After two hours of unproductive practice Wednesday afternoon, Grace found herself hating Denton Mapes with a passion, and knew she’d be spending some time in prayer tonight. The man made it obvious Henry’s death mattered little to him. He’d insisted the cast come in for practice the moment the police gave the okay. And now he seemed to relish usurping Ladonna’s authority in his attempt to move the musicians around in a game of chess, using human beings as board pieces.
Finally Michael, Grace and Blake refused to comply with the changes—which involved a complete restructuring of the song sequences and a gratuitous display of overt affection between Michael and Delight, of all things. Grace battled a twinge of surprising and irrational jealousy. Then, when Michael rebelled, she battled a twinge of satisfaction.
“This is Branson,” Michael snapped, “not the Vegas Strip.”
Peter gave his drumsticks a final twirl and set them down, then stepped from behind the drums. “Doesn’t look like we’re getting anywhere today.”
Cassidy picked up his cowboy hat from the floor and put it on his head. “Time for home.”
“Not yet,” Denton snapped. “We’re not finished.”
“I am,” Grace said. “This isn’t jelling. We can’t change the whole style of a successful show and expect the public to buy it. What we were doing worked.”
“Grace is right,” Michael said. “Don’t fix what ain’t broke.”
In spite of the tension on the stage, Grace had to suppress a grin at Michael’s affected country tone.
“I can’t believe you people.” Denton clasped his hands behind his back and shook his head as he strolled across the stage. “This show could double its income if we set the stage for that to happen. We need to look to the future, not stagnate in the past.” He directed another cool gaze toward Grace. “Don’t stand in the way, Miss Brennan. If you want your own agenda, start looking for it elsewhere. This is my theater.”
Grace held that gaze. “Who said I had an agenda?”
“What is this, Pick on Grace Week?” Michael asked. “First Henry, then Jolene’s piece in that magazine, now you.”
Peter snickered as he raised his hat from his head and ran his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “Better watch out, Mr. Mapes. Look what happened to Henry.”
Denton raised a bushy eyebrow at the spiky-haired drummer. “Peter, is that a threat?”
“Course not!”
“Good, because I recently discovered that you spent some time in jail for assault a few years ago.”
Shock registered sharply across the boyish features of Peter’s face. Rachel, one of the band members, caught her breath audibly from the far edge of the stage.
“Oh, stop it!” Ladonna called from her seat in the shadows of stage left. “How can you all talk like this with Henry lying dead on some cold table? Denton Mapes, you need to pack up your agenda and take the rest of the day off. Your contract doesn’t give you the right to barge in and take over without consulting the other partners.”
“Henry’s death gives me that right,” Denton said quietly.
“No, it doesn’t,” Ladonna snapped. “If you want to call a meeting, you call it the right way, and include the show’s administrative staff and our investors. Do you want the cast to walk out on you?”
Denton folded his arms over his chest. “I doubt that’ll happen,” he drawled, as if unperturbed by her outburst. “They need their paychecks. And they still have obligations.”
“I have Henry’s itinerary from now until the end of the year,” Ladonna said. “Until further notice, we need to stick with that.”
“Sounds good to me,” Michael said. “Ladonna knows this show better than anyone who could be brought in at this late date. If we start changing the program now, we’ll lose our momentum. If we end with a healthy crowd instead of a fizzle, we have a chance of jump-starting a good season come March.”
The silence hovered for several seconds before Ladonna gestured to the rest of the cast. “You all go on home, and unless you want to see our dirty laundry aired in that trash magazine again, keep this conversation quiet. Got it?”
“Sure, we got it,” Cassidy muttered as he strolled across the stage, slinging his guitar over his shoulder as if it were a shovel. “We have to be good little boys and girls while the grown-ups plan our futures for us.”
As the others filed out, Grace looked at Delight, who stood in the shadows, uncharacteristically quiet. She was watching Denton, who walked toward her. And for the first time today, he smiled.
What was up between those two?
Michael followed Blake down the steps backstage. Peter trailed after them, nudging Cassidy in the ribs. “Who died and made Denton king?”
“That isn’t funny,” Blake said over his shoulder as he tied his damp hair back in a ponytail. “Wouldn’t hurt to keep your mouth shut every once in a while, Peter. Especially if Denton’s going to play dirty with your past.”
Peter scowled. “In case you ain’t noticed, it looks like he’s playing dirty with your girlfriend.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Okay, I’ll spell it out,” Peter said. “Have you seen him with Delight lately? How much do you want to bet—”
“Peter,” Blake snapped, “I’m usually a nice guy, but I don’t have to be.”
“Sorry. All I’m saying is he sure is pushing for more exposure for her. The way he’s acting, you’d think he killed Henry so’s he could have creative control.” Peter glanced over his shoulder toward the stage, as if to make sure Denton wasn’t following. “Or who do you think did it?”
“Did what?” Michael allowed an edge to settle into his voice.
Peter made a face at him, apparently unaware of everyone’s growing irritation. “Offed the dictator. I mean, it was a stupid move, but the guy was such a jerk lately, I can almost see how someone—”
“Stop it.” Michael had never had a hot temper, but the events of the past two days had brought out some unfortunate latent tendencies. He felt his fingers tingle with the urge to clench them into a fist and show Peter the error of his words. “You need to watch yourself more closely, Peter.”
He felt a hand on his right arm and turned to see Grace stepping up beside him. She gave him a warning look, and he realized his voice and words had suddenly developed some bite.
“You people are a bunch of grumps lately.” Peter shook his head as he rounded a corner toward the dressing rooms.
Grace tugged on Michael’s arm and urged him in the opposite direction along the corridor that led to the lobby. He went willingly. He was tired of being here.
Grace said nothing as their
footsteps echoed along the quiet corridor. Michael studied the autographed pictures, hanging on the wall, of musicians who had performed in Branson.
“You doing okay?” Grace’s voice was gentle, hesitant, as if she thought he might be ready to explode and didn’t want to push him over the edge.
“I missed Henry today.”
“Me, too.”
“Can’t figure out why. He was such a curmudgeon lately.”
“You’re telling me,” Grace said with feeling.
“But his moods were directly related to his health. I can’t help thinking I should have been able to pick up on any symptoms of illness. I didn’t recognize any warning signals that he might have been building for a heart attack or stroke Monday.”
“You’re saying you’d feel responsible for his death if they discover it was his heart?”
Michael shrugged. “Sounds a little arrogant, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds like you think you can play God,” Grace murmured.
“Nope, but I should have read the signs.”
“You mean like a blood-test result or EKG reading? Come on, Michael, even licensed physicians need to run tests for things like that.”
“If I’d been a licensed physician, maybe I’d have known what to look for.”
“But if you’d been a licensed physician, you wouldn’t have been in Henry’s office discussing Star Notes, would you? Give yourself a break, okay, superhero?”
He sighed and shook his head. Her pragmatic words had the desired effect.
They emerged into the cavernous lobby with its marble floors and statues of country music legends, which loomed in the dim light like hovering ghosts.
Michael gestured around them. “Sometimes I can’t help wondering what we’re doing here. What difference are we making?”
She nudged him with her shoulder. “You’re the one who’s always reminding me that we can’t focus on changing the whole world or we’ll be overwhelmed. What we need to focus on is being the best at what God created us for. We sing.”
“You sing,” he said. “Sometimes I feel as if I’m just treading water.”
She glanced sideways at him with a look of concern. “You can’t be serious. The fans love you. I’ve heard those women cheer when you walk on the stage.”
“Cheers aren’t something a guy should hang his hat on,” he said. “Your passion for what you do shows in every move you make on that stage, every expression on your face, every word you write and sing.”
She stopped and turned to him, arms crossed over her chest. Her pink T-shirt was darkened with perspiration from their vigorous practice, and she wore no makeup. Her golden-brown hair fell in tangles around her neck and shoulders.
“You obviously belong onstage,” he said. “Sharing that voice, sharing your heart with people who need a message of hope. You’re where you need to be.”
“You have a message, too, Michael. According to the Bible, when we sing about God, we’re prophesying. Musicians have a place of honor in the Scriptures.”
He wanted to reach out and touch her face, cup her chin and tell her how much she meant to him. But she already knew. No reason to talk it to death.
He sank onto a padded carved oak bench in the center of the vast lobby. “All your life you had a driving desire to sing. All my life I’ve had a driving desire to heal people. That desire didn’t end when I quit med school, and I can’t seem to get it out of my mind lately. Being a phlebotomist at the clinic isn’t even close to what I once imagined I’d be doing at this point in my life.”
“What did you imagine?”
“I wanted to be a medical missionary.”
“Deep in some primitive jungle, risking your life, carrying water from a nearby river, operating under extreme conditions?” There was a gently teasing lilt to her voice.
He couldn’t miss the affection in that aquamarine gaze. “I’ve realized recently that I could help a lot of people right here in our own spot in the world. There are so many who fall through the cracks. They can’t afford medical insurance, and can’t afford not to have it. Our medical system is broken.”
“You think you could fix it?”
“Maybe I could be there for some people who need care and can’t afford it. We make good money on this show. I’m saving to go back to med school,” he confided.
Grace’s eyes filled with concern. “You’ve thought a lot about this, haven’t you?”
He nodded. He knew when he did return to school he wouldn’t see Grace every day the way he did now. Missing her would be the hardest part, even when she refused to acknowledge a potentially romantic relationship between them.
Med school…could he do it this time? He’d already dropped out once.
They fell silent for a moment, and the grandfather clock chimed from the far corner of the lobby.
“Henry was going to apologize to you for Friday,” he said.
“He always got around to that eventually.”
“He wanted so much for you. For the whole cast.”
There was a long silence. Grace raised her right hand and dashed at her eyes. “Are you trying to make me cry again?”
“Nope, but he would have wanted you to know.”
“I never doubted his dedication,” she said. “With Henry gone, we could both be out of the picture here next year, especially if Denton gets his way.”
“Denton doesn’t understand that you are the focal point of the show.”
“That’s your biased opinion.”
“I’ve just got a lot of common sense and business savvy,” Michael protested. “You write the songs they love the most. You sing those songs with all the emotion that went into writing them. Denton doesn’t want a gospel show, but judging by the response we get from fans, the spiritual element is what they come for. They need to be lifted up, reminded that God’s there for them through the hard times and will rejoice with them through the good times.”
“Wow,” she said, gazing up at him with awe. “You know how to encourage a girl.”
“I’m only telling it like it is.”
“Thank you,” she said softly. “Speaking of Denton, is there some kind of connection between him and Delight?”
“You picked up on that, too?”
“She’s just a kid, Michael. She’s got all these wonderful, high hopes, and she’s obviously passionate about succeeding onstage. How far would she go to get what she wants?”
“She’s twenty, not twelve,” Michael said. “She wouldn’t appreciate your interference. Or mine, for that matter.” Although he wasn’t positive about that. Lately Delight had made it more than obvious that she might not mind his interference at all, in certain situations.
“Grace? Michael?” A female voice echoed through the hallway into the lobby. It sounded like Mitzi. “You two out here anywhere? I thought I heard voices.”
“We’re here,” Grace called. “You wanting to lock up?”
The woman’s footsteps echoed in the huge lobby, and she stepped around a bronze statue of a cowboy on a bucking bronco. Her perfectly plucked eyebrows were drawn together in an uncharacteristic look of perplexity, and her short blond hair looked as if it had been freshly washed and left to dry naturally.
“I didn’t even know you all would be here today,” Mitzi said. “I thought we weren’t going to have a show.”
“We had rehearsal, though.” Michael stood to offer her his place on the bench. They would have a show tomorrow night—the police had removed all the crime-scene tape. But would the audience stay away from a show with a possible murder hanging over it?
“Mitzi, what’s up?” Grace asked. “You look worried about something.”
Mitzi glanced over her shoulder toward the corridor. “I need to talk to someone. I think I should call the police, because I forgot to tell them something today.”
Chapter Eight
Grace drew Mitzi down beside her. “What is it?”
Mitzi looked down at her hands clasped tightly in
her lap. Her eyebrows drew together with worry. “It’s crazy. We all know Henry fought with a lot of people these past two years. That’s why I didn’t even think about this until later.”
“Think about what?” Michael crouched beside her.
“Last Wednesday, before everyone came in to practice that new song, remember? I was in the women’s dressing room working on Delight’s new costume for the roping scene. You know, the one where she’s supposed to rope Cassidy and drag him to her?”
“I remember.” Grace thought the song was cute, but Delight needed to work on her notes.
“Well, anyway, I heard Henry shouting at someone, and not because they were hard of hearing, you know?” Mitzi’s droll voice shot sarcasm through the lobby.
“Who was the other person?” Grace asked.
“I couldn’t tell, because Henry was doing most of the talking—or in this case, shouting. I couldn’t even tell if the other person was male or female, but it sounded like the voices were coming from the men’s dressing room.”
“So most likely male,” Michael said.
“Not necessarily,” Grace said. “It could have been anybody, because the dressing room wasn’t in use at that time.”
“Or maybe it wasn’t the dressing room, but just nearby,” Mitzi said. “Anyway, I don’t know who it was or what they were doing here.”
“Were you able to make out Henry’s words?” Grace asked.
“You’d better believe it. He said, ‘You think I can’t remember faces? It’s my job, and I’m good at it. I’ve got a long memory. A new name and a nose job won’t fool me.’ Something like that, anyway. He was still shouting when he barreled into the women’s dressing room—you know how he does…did, to make sure everything was in order. He saw me there sewing and snapped at me for eavesdropping.”
“What else did he say?” Michael asked.
“I didn’t give him a chance to say much. He made me mad, and I told him he was a hateful jerk and nobody liked working with him anymore, so if he didn’t stop treating us all like second-class citizens, we’d walk out on him one day.” Her voice wobbled, and she raised her hand to her chin.
Note of Peril Page 7
