Curtains for Romeo

by Jessa Archer

  Curious, I reached for one of the hammers on a nearby table. Turning it around, I worked the claw side between the nail and the wood on one of the slats. Sure enough, the area where the metal claws came in contact with the nail went from worn to shiny.

  Ben laughed and called out, “What are you doing? I thought we were putting the place back together, not ripping it up.”

  “We are,” I said. “But come over here for a minute and take a look at this.”

  When Ben and the two girls joined me, I nodded down at the nails in the dustpan and then tapped one of the nails in the board.

  “How are these different?”

  Ben frowned, and shook his head.

  Dia, the girl next to him, said, “The edge of the nail is different. Shiny. Maybe from pulling it out with the hammer?”

  Ben’s eyes widened as he looked down at the dustpan. Most of the nails had shiny rims. “What the…? That doesn’t make sense. This damage was from the storm, right?”

  I shrugged. “When we were dealing with the sign out front the other day, I noted the same thing. Just before you cut your finger. It didn’t really click, though, until I saw all of them together like this.”

  “But why?” Ben asks. “Why would someone want to make it look like the place took more damage than it did?”

  “Insurance, maybe?” the other girl suggested. “To get extra money.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “At any rate, I think I’ll set these inside rather than with the rest of the trash.”

  Ben nodded. “Good idea. Hey, we’re about to head back to campus. You want me to put the rest of the food back in your car? You bought way too much. There’s at least a whole pizza left.”

  “I’ll put the sodas and water in the fridge inside,” I said as I carried the dustpan and the box of tools back into the lobby of the theater. “Just leave a few slices in a box for my daughter. You guys can divvy up the rest.”

  I put away the drinks and was about to leave myself when the silver frames on the wall caught my eye, reminding me of the cast photo in my bag. Might as well hang it while a hammer and nails were at hand. But when I pried the back of the frame loose, a small plastic rectangle tumbled to the floor.

  A thumb drive.

  I bent down to retrieve it, and noticed four letters written in black marker on the opposite side. ARDI.

  Curious, I pulled my small laptop from the computer pocket of my bag and flipped it on. It was painfully slow, but eventually it loaded. When I plugged in the thumb drive, however, I discovered that it was password protected. I considered the letters on the side, although I doubted that was long enough for a password. It wasn’t. So, I counted up the asterisks that masked the password. Ten.

  That was annoying. I didn’t know enough about Amundsen to guess his passwords. For that matter, I didn’t even know for certain that this drive belonged to him. Drives like this are cheap enough that they’re sometimes used in advertisement. Maybe ARDI was the name of the frame company.

  No. That was stupid. If it was an advertising gimmick, it wouldn’t be handwritten on the side. And it certainly wouldn’t be password protected. I’d have to turn it over to Travis and see if he could figure it out. Which meant I’d probably never know what was on the thing, because it would be secret.

  I really hate secrets.

  Once the laptop was back in my bag, along with the thumb drive, I slid the cast photo from the envelope. I centered it in the frame and replaced the backing before hanging it on the wall with the others. My hand was on the doorknob leading out to the deck, but that whole hating-secrets thing kicked in, and I headed back to the theater manager’s office where I’d found the two ledgers. I knew it was far more likely that any clues that might exist were at Amundsen’s house and not here, but I didn’t have access to his house. At least this was something. And, no matter how dated they might be, these ledgers were the only information I had about the finances of the Playhouse, which I’d be overseeing and which I needed to learn more about.

  As I piled my things into the backseat of the Sonata, my brain kept working on the puzzle. Ten characters. It could be his initials and last name…JAAMUNDSEN. Probably not, but from what everyone had said, the guy had a gigantic ego, so it was possible he’d be both vain enough and stupid enough to use his own name.

  I was tempted to pull the laptop out of my bag again and try typing in those letters, but my attention was drawn to a car pulling into the parking lot—a blue convertible Mini Cooper. As the car came closer, I recognized Melinda Barry behind the wheel.

  My stomach clenched, but I slid my bag and the leftover pizza into the backseat and braced myself. The odds of this remaining civil seemed slim, but I needed to keep what the dean had told me firmly in mind. It hadn’t exactly been a threat to the continued existence of my job, but I’d definitely sensed that undercurrent.

  Melinda got out of the car. She was wearing faded jeans, a brown suede jacket, and much to my surprise, a smile. Not a fake smile, but a genuine, happy-to-see-you smile.

  “I was just stopping in to see how the repairs are going,” she said. “Didn’t realize I’d get to meet you as well. I guess it’s not really meeting you, since we’ve already met, but that was so long ago that we’d probably better start from scratch.” She stuck out a hand. “Melinda Barry Eastland.”

  I took her hand and returned the smile, although it felt strained. I’d been preparing for a verbal slapdown at a bare minimum, and instead I was facing Miss Congeniality herself.

  “Tig Alden,” I said. “We were just finishing up. Aside from the sign there, the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d imagined.”

  “Huh.” Melinda looked over at the pile of boards, limbs, and other debris. “So…the company already finished the major repairs, then? From the flood?”

  “Yeah, I guess?” I fumbled with the keys for a moment and then found the one that opened the door. “This is my first week on the job. My assistant and the dean both seemed to think there was a lot more to be repaired than what we saw when we drove out here on Tuesday, so maybe Dr. Amundsen had already taken care of some of it. But…to be honest, it doesn’t look like much was replaced to me, and I don’t have any way to tell what he might have spent because the office laptop is missing.”

  She heaved an annoyed sigh. “Of course it is. Things constantly disappear from this place.”

  Melinda shook her head in disbelief when we stepped inside and into the lobby. “This really doesn’t make sense. I saw photographs. Dozens of them. There was standing water in this lobby. Mold, too. That’s the reason I didn’t come inside to look around when we were down for the holidays. I’m allergic and from what they said, I’d have been wheezing for days.”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know what was done before I arrived, but the paint doesn’t look fresh. Neither does the carpet. And the outside damage was minimal, as well. My set-design class was out here this afternoon clearing away the debris. I think we’ll need to have a few shingles replaced, but otherwise, it’s not nearly as bad as everyone seemed to think.”

  “Doesn’t make sense,” Melinda repeated, looking into the main theater. “The estimate I saw said the lighting and sound equipment was damaged, too. Did he lie to me about that as well?”

  “Maybe. I mean, the equipment is clearly used. I guess they could have replaced damaged equipment with used stuff, but I think Ben would have noticed that.”

  “Ben? Ben Baker? Oh…yeah. I guess you inherited him as an assistant if you’re taking Jerry’s place. Ben’s a sweetheart…and you’re right, he’d know if any of the equipment had been replaced. In a tiny theater like this, being stage manager means he does a bit of everything.”

  Melinda stared around at the theater, her expression tight and angry. “I just can’t believe he lied to me. That report said insurance would cover some of the repairs, but not all of it. The total cost was high enough that I actually considered taking the offer.”

  “Offer?”

  “For the
land. Several companies have approached me over the past few years, especially since the restaurant next door closed down. A larger parcel like this makes it more attractive to developers. But Phil—that’s my husband. He talked me out of selling. The rest of my year is stressful. Summers with the Coastal Players is my outlet, my relaxation. I can’t really do theater up there…not without drawing way too much attention to his work and to our foundation. Down here, though? A few of the locals know who I am, but not many. I’ve been coming here during the summers since I was a kid, and most people just know me as Melinda Barry.”

  I winced. If that had been true in the past, it probably wouldn’t be after today’s issue of The Clarion.

  Melinda, who apparently caught my wince, gave me a questioning look. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m guessing you haven’t read the local paper today?”

  She sniffed. “I don’t read that rag even when I’m here. It’s a complete joke.”

  “Well, I thought that one of their reporters might have called you with some questions about your dinner with Dr. Amundsen the night he died.” I took a deep breath, preparing to launch into an explanation.

  “Ah,” Melinda said. “I was afraid that might come up. It occurred to me this morning that I should probably tell the police about that meeting before I head back to Trenton. I’m afraid I made a rather dramatic exit. And now”—her expression turned grim as she looked around the theater—“I’m wondering if all of this isn’t connected.”

  I waited for Melinda to go on. When she didn’t, I decided I might as well get the apology out of the way. “I have a confession to make. I’m sort of responsible for the police knowing it was you at the restaurant. One of the reporters at The Clarion had the idea that the woman with Amundsen at the restaurant was me. Someone noticed that you and I look a bit alike, and I knew the two of you were friends, so I took the cast photo in and asked one of the waitresses. I didn’t mention your name, but…one of the police officers saw me there, and I guess the reporter put the pieces together.”

  “Do you mean Alicia Brown? If so, you’re using the term reporter very loosely.”

  “Yeah. Do you know Alicia?”

  “Our paths have crossed,” Melinda said.

  “Then you have my heartfelt sympathy. Listen, I’m really sorry if this causes problems for you. If it’s any consolation, Alicia is still defending her initial theory that it was me at the Blue Lagoon. Apparently I killed Amundsen to get this job.”

  “You’re kidding. She actually accused you based on that?”

  “Not directly,” I said. “Even Alicia is smart enough to avoid a libel suit. It’s not what she says, but more what she insinuates. Although the story this morning is skating right on the edge.”

  “Well, I can get you off the hook for the restaurant sighting, at any rate. As I said, I was going to talk to the police before I headed home, anyway. Jerry had quite a bit to drink, and he was angry, so he might have kept drinking after I left. Obviously, I can’t clear you on anything else, but if it comes to it, I think they’ll have a hard time getting a jury to believe that you’d kill for an associate professor’s salary.”

  “Assistant professor, in my case. Which makes it even less likely. But…getting me off Alicia’s hook might put you on it.” I hesitated, not wanting to repeat the waitress’s exact words. That seemed like the sort of thing Travis wouldn’t want me to let slip. “The girl at the Blue Lagoon said you were pretty angry.”

  “I was. We had a very serious disagreement of a…personal nature. To be honest, I would cheerfully have wrung Jerry’s neck at that point. But he emailed me an apology the next morning. Begging forgiveness, and saying he’d find a way to make everything right. It’s probably a good thing that I have a solid alibi for the rest of the evening. I drove straight home so that I could discuss the situation with Philip. My assistant was traveling with me that weekend, as well…”

  Melinda glanced at her watch. “And speaking of my assistant, I need to get back to the house. She’s going to be wondering where I am. I’m just glad that the damage here was minimal.” Her expression tightened. “But, before I go, do you know if Martin is still in town?”

  “I think so. Last I heard, they’ve gotten everything rescheduled for a Saturday departure.”

  “Then I guess I can speak with him after the service. See you tomorrow.”

  Our conversation kept replaying in my mind on the drive home, during my quick dinner of leftover pasta with Paige, and even during the two hours I spent grading a homework assignment for my Theater and Society class. And it was definitely on my mind afterward when I spent way too much time typing in every ten-digit string I could think of that might be a password.

  Like I said, I hate secrets. I’m also stubborn.

  I finally had to admit defeat, though, in order to get some sleep. But even after crawling into bed, I couldn’t shut my mind down. The entire situation seemed off. If Melinda was having an affair with Amundsen and they’d had an argument, was that really something she’d be likely to go home to discuss with her husband? For that matter, why would she be having dinner with Amundsen at all if her husband was in town? It wasn’t the sort of thing I could have asked Melinda about on short acquaintance, but it felt…flawed.

  Maybe she hadn’t been having an affair with Amundsen at all. Ben didn’t seem like the type to engage in idle gossip, so I was fairly certain that the woman had fought with Bethany about something. But it could have been a misunderstanding. Theater groups are full of dramatic people, sometimes offstage as well as onstage. They can be a fertile breeding ground for petty jealousy and wild rumors.

  The thing that bothered me most, though, was that Melinda had seemed surprised that Amundsen had lied to her about the damage to the theater. From everything I’d heard about the man, veracity didn’t seem to be his strong suit. The chemistry professor, Sam Davies, had seemed to imply that he lied on a fairly regular basis.

  Some piece of the puzzle was missing, though. I couldn’t shake the feeling that everything would make sense if I could just open that thumb drive. But I was completely out of ideas. Short of generating random ten-character strings, I was at a loss.

  I really wished my mother would show up so that I could talk everything through, but Caroline’s ghost seemed to have taken the day off. Paige was already asleep, and I’d thoroughly picked her brain earlier in the evening anyway. I started to call Justin, and then realized he was probably on stage. His touring company for Jersey Boys was in El Paso for the week. We’d only spoken once since I arrived in Caratoke, partly because we couldn’t sync up schedules. It always took Justin hours to wind down after being on stage, and given my new schedule with classes bright and early in the morning, he was heading to bed around the time I woke up.

  So I took two melatonin and climbed back between the sheets, reminding myself that the day had not been uniformly awful. Indeed, it had turned out better than I’d feared after seeing the paper this morning. Melinda not being angry about the incident at the restaurant would, hopefully, get Dean Prendergast off my back.

  And the rest of it really wasn’t my business, now was it? Jerald Amundsen’s killer would eventually be found. Or not. I needed to focus on teaching my classes and getting the rest of our things unpacked. Travis had been right the night before, even if his words had annoyed me. I wasn’t a detective. I needed to step aside and let the professionals handle this.

  But of course that didn’t stop me from running through every possible ten-letter combination I could think of as I drifted off to sleep.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sunlight slipped through the abstract tiles of the stained-glass windows inside the SCU chapel, painting the entire room in swaths of colored light that shifted as the wind moved through the live oaks and loblolly pines surrounding the church. The flickering lights reminded me a bit of a slowly revolving disco ball. That’s probably not what the church’s architect had in mind, but it was pretty.

 
At the front of the church was a table with a large brass urn in the center, surrounded by floral arrangements. A large photograph of Jerald Amundsen was mounted on an easel directly behind the table, facing the center column of pews, which was nearly full. The right and left pews were less populated, but it was still a decent turnout. Based on the email Dean Prendergast sent to the faculty, they had considered holding the service in the evening, like they did when my mother died, so that it wouldn’t interfere with classes. But knowing how unpopular Amundsen was among the faculty, she may have been worried that no one would show. In the end, they scheduled the service for noon, and broadly hinted in the public announcement that attendance was a valid reason for skipping class.

  I skillfully avoided the dean, who was at the rear of the chapel talking to a cluster of people in suits, and slipped into a vacant row near the back. Most of the people on my side of the church seemed to be faculty—I didn’t actually know the vast majority of them, but I spotted a few faces I’d seen in the hallways or at the cafeteria.

  Aside from the faculty and administration, the attendees were roughly split between Caratoke residents and students. Bethany Tartt and a cluster of her friends took up the better part of one row near the front. While the faculty contingent was fairly equally divided between men and women, the students and locals tipped very heavily female. Most of them were alone, but there were a few small groups as well. I wondered how many of those women’s phone numbers were clipped to the ledger in my office at home. I almost wished I had them with me. It would be interesting to send a group text message and see how many of the women reached for their phones.

  The weirdest thing, though, was their expressions. Actors all have one thing in common—they’re people watchers. We have to be in order to get the mannerisms and expressions right. I’m no exception, and I’d recently seen a lot of mourners at my mom’s funeral. Even those who aren’t close friends of the deceased usually mold their faces into a solemn mask, with perhaps a sympathetic smile from time to time.