by Joan Hess
“I can drive. I suppose we ought to go directly to the police station so they can examine the bullet hole.”
Cyndi leaned across the seat and twisted the rearview mirror. “I can’t go anywhere until I’ve had a chance to fix my hair. I look really, really disheveled because someone rolled all over me.”
“I saved your life,” Steve protested.
She shoved the mirror back and glowered over her shoulder at him. “So now you saved my life. A minute ago I was never in any danger; you were the one half the hit men in the entire state of New Jersey were aiming at. I was just a silly little girl with grandiose ideas.”
“Your ideas are pretty damn grandiose,” he said coldly.
“That doesn’t change things, does it?” She scrambled over the top of the seat and arranged herself next to me. “Could we please stop by the theater for one teeny tiny second, Mrs. Malloy? I just know the reporters and television crews will descend on us when they hear the story, and I’ll absolutely die if they see me like this. Please?”
“Every minute counts if the police are to find the sniper,” Steve said from the backseat. I noticed in the rearview mirror that he was combing his hair, but I doubted Cyndi wanted to hear about it.
I considered the possibility of catching up with Arnie. We could share his bottle, watch the rest of the parade, and hit the Gala Sidewalk Sale. My passengers could flip a comb to decide which of them was the intended victim and who’d saved whose life. I concluded I was still in shock, and reached for the key.
“We will stop at the theater for five minutes and no longer,” I said in my steeliest maternal voice. “Whoever fired the shot is gone by now, so there’s no reason to race hysterically to report this to the police. Cyndi can fix her hair in the office while I call Luanne. Steve can watch for hit men. We will then proceed to the police station. Is everybody ready?”
Everybody was ready, so I drove through the back streets to the theater in order to avoid the Thurberfest crowds. The parade was at the far end of the street by now, its flank protected by a police car. There was no indication anyone was the least bit alarmed about our graceless escape from the procession.
We went inside. Steve asked us to hurry and began to pace in the outer lobby, no doubt preferring to be a moving target. Cyndi and I went on to the office. She continued into the washroom while I dialed Luanne’s number. After ten rings, I replaced the receiver, uneasily telling myself she was asleep with the bedside telephone unplugged.
It occurred to me that Peter might appreciate some advance notice. It also occurred to me that he might not understand our side trip by the theater so that Miss Thurberfest could repair her hair for the media. Although he could be charmingly spontaneous in certain situations, he was rather a stickler for proper procedure in police matters. What to do, what to do. Had the room been larger, I would have wrung my hands and paced. As it was, I was apt to bump my nose every fifth step.
“Do you think you ought to call the police?” Cyndi said through the washroom door.
If she was mature enough to see the dilemma, I was more than mature enough to grasp it by its horns. I called the police station. I will admit to a flicker of relief when the desk sergeant told me Peter was out of the office, and that he would be pleased to take a message.
He made a few amused noises as I explained that someone had fired a shot at us during the parade. No, none of us were hurt. Yes, there was a bullet hole in the backseat of the convertible. No, I was quite sure it hadn’t been there before. No, we hadn’t seen anyone with a rifle. No, we hadn’t heard the shot but there really and truly was a hole in the upholstery. When I mentioned the political title of one of the passengers, the chuckles stopped.
“Stay there and wait,” he said. “It could be dangerous for any of you to go outside, much less drive across town. I’ll have a squad car there as soon as they can get through the parade traffic, and an investigative team in ten minutes or so. Lock the doors and stay away from the windows. Don’t take any risks.”
I hung up and yelled at Cyndi to wait in the office. Steve declined to join her but did agree to pace in the inner lobby. But there was no way to lock the door to the theater without a key, so I dutifully went to find Mac. He came up from the basement as I entered the auditorium.
“You’re not supposed to be here before six,” he said.
“We had a small problem during the parade. The police are on their way to investigate, and they might want to examine the weight that almost killed Cyndi. Have you found it?”
“I have been trying to repair the audio system for tonight. It seems someone fiddled with all the knobs and all the switches. It sounds great downstairs, but no one up here will hear a thing if I don’t undo the damage. If you want me to stop working on it and search the back of the stage, I will. Then none of us will have to suffer through the caterwauling or listen to idiotic jokes and squeals.”
I held out my hand. “I think you’d better work on the audio system. I need the key so that I can lock the front door.”
“The audience that eager to get front-row seats?”
“No,” I said, moving toward him with what I realized was a maniacal glint, “I am following orders from the police. The officer who took my call felt we might be in danger. I need the key. Give it to me.”
He retreated a few steps and unclipped a ring of keys from his belt loop. “Sure, but aren’t you locking the barn door a little late?”
“Give me the key.”
“You want me to get a monkey wrench and stand guard?”
“Give me the key.”
He gave me the key. I stalked back up the corridor to lock the door, but the horse was more than gone, metaphorically speaking. The outer lobby was packed to the walls with television interviewers, cameramen, and shrieking reporters. The lights from the cameras and the din of voices were enough to send the horse cross-country and then some. Steve stood on one side of the ticket booth, with a bouquet of microphones in front of him. Cyndi stood beside him, frowning as she tried to sort out questions from the deafening babble.
It seemed we were having a press conference. Peter would be enchanted, I thought bleakly as I edged toward the office. In an abrupt lull, I heard Steve say, “The union organizers have vowed to stop any investigation into their pension records. I am appalled at this crude attempt to frighten me—or to silence me. I see this as a critical test of my candidacy, and I want to go on record right this minute to say I am not afraid. I will not be intimidated.”
Cyndi put her hands on her hips and gave him a dazzling smile. “Senator Stevenson is overlooking the fact that the bullet was aimed at me. There has been a series of threats made against me this week, and one attempt to kill me. I have proof.”
Despite her words, the majority of the cameras turned to Steve and the reporters surged forward. “When will the investigation take place, Senator?” “Have you or members of your family received any threatening calls?” “Will you demand the FBI investigate this incident?” “Have you spoken to your wife and children?” They continued forward, screeching questions at him.
Cyndi’s smile faded, and her hands fell to her sides. Her eyes narrowed so angrily that I could almost see sparks shooting from them. After a moment, she spun around and marched through the door to the inner lobby. “I am going to my dressing room until the police come,” she snapped at me, then went down the corridor without telling me how really, really pissed off she was. She didn’t need to.
I was sitting behind the desk when Peter came into the office. I fluttered my fingers at him and said, “I called to speak to you, but the sergeant said you were out of the office. Did you have a nice lunch? I didn’t, and I can’t get these drawers open to see if there might be a bag of ancient corn chips left over from the days when Bogie was in bloom.”
“What the hell is going on?”
“It depends on one’s perspective, I suppose. If one is a state senator, one assumes teamsters are attempting to silence one. If one is t
he reigning Miss Thurberfest, one assumes a maniac is trying to drop a weight on one’s head or put a bullet hole in the same general vicinity.”
He made an exasperated noise as he sat down on the couch. “Is there any possibility you’ll tell me what’s going on?”
I told him the entire story, from Luanne’s initial appearance on crutches to our graceless exit from the parade. “And it’s not funny,” I concluded with a frown.
“But it is. You are the last person in the entire town to be associated with a beauty pageant,” he said, barely able to restrain his glee. “I can see you in the middle of all those giggly girls, sharing your wisdom about mascara and strategic padding. Do you get to crown the queen and chaperone her for the next year while she opens supermarkets and rodeos?”
“No, and I’m doing this to help a friend, not to provide you with hours of merriment. Caron was in the room when Luanne asked me to help. I was being a good role model, although I now wish I’d let Caron see my selfish, egotistical, fair-weather side. What are you going to do about the shot?”
“My men are running off the reporters and the rubberneckers. Then, once we can breathe, we’ll take a look at the bullet hole. You don’t seem all that concerned, however, since you took a side trip here instead of going to the station.”
“It was closer,” I lied.
He gave me a smirky look as he went back to the lobby. I called Luanne’s number again, but there was no answer. It occurred to me that I might look around for the missing weight, since Mac was clearly busy with more important things. I went down the corridor and through the auditorium to the stage. The opening bars of “The Impossible Dream” blared, then mercifully stopped, which meant we were either making progress or we weren’t. I poked around under a stack of flats, then kicked at a dusty pile of costumes. After a discouraging sneeze, I gave up and started back across the stage. Someone moved in a row near the doorway.
I stopped and squinted into the gloom. “Who’s there?”
The figure stood up and came down the aisle. He was a youngish man with stylishly cut hair and glasses. His face was as round as a child’s, and his smile as innocent. “I’m Warren Dansberry,” he said. “I was looking for Senator Stevenson, and someone said he’d gone to make a telephone call to his family.”
“In here? There’s a telephone in the office off the lobby and some pay telephones in the west corridor, but I can’t imagine why he’d be in the auditorium.” I came down the steps. “Steve mentioned your name earlier. You’re his aide, aren’t you?”
“His gofer and his errand boy,” Warren said, grinning. “I’m the one he yells at when the schedule snarls up or some local party chairman gets too close. I guess you could say I’m a Renaissance whipping boy.”
“Are the reporters gone?” I asked as we walked toward the lobby.
“They’ve regrouped across the street, although I don’t know why. According to the master plan, the Senator was supposed to go back to the hotel suite until the pageant begins tonight. He likes to take a short nap before a public appearance. I don’t know how he does it with the twins making such a racket, but he manages.”
“The twins?” I inquired politely, all the while wondering what Peter and his men had discovered about the bullet hole in the convertible.
“Cassie and Carrie are four years old. They’re cute, but they are rather feral little things. Mrs. Stevenson has her hands full all the time. He likes to show them off, and of course the constituents absolutely drool all over the girls. It’s a way to emphasize Senator Stevenson’s family ties and commitment to future generations.”
One of Peter’s minions, a bulldoggish man named Jorgeson, nearly leaped on me as we came into the lobby. “I was about to send out a search party, Mrs. Malloy. Lieutenant Rosen wants to speak to you—now.”
Warren murmured something and wandered toward the office. I frowned at Jorgeson. “I went to the auditorium for a moment. What’s the big rush?”
“The lieutenant’s hotter than a jalapeño pizza. Something about some cock-and-bull story about a convertible and a bullet hole.”
I bit back an acerbic editorial and followed Jorgeson through the lobby to the sidewalk. The reporters and camera crew were milling around across the street, salivating loudly enough to be heard on our side. Peter and a trio of uniformed men stood in a tight circle, but as I came through the door, he looked up. “Where’s the bullet hole?”
“It’s in the backseat, about a foot from the top.”
“Where’s the backseat?” he continued, ominously calm.
“In the car. I realize I’m a mere civilian, but that’s the first place I’d look.” I gestured at the curb, then met Peter’s eyes. “I parked the car right here, not more than fifteen minutes ago. I parked it in this precise spot.”
“Oh,” he said. “I realize I’m a mere policeman, but I can’t seem to find the car you say you parked in this precise spot. Neither can any of my men, and they’re very good at finding big things like cars. We may miss a microdot every now and then, but—”
“I parked the damn car right here!”
He shook his head. “We’ll keep looking, then, but we haven’t had any luck thus far.”
“Ask them,” I said, pointing at the reporters, who in turn leaned forward as if they were magnetized. “Or ask Cyndi and Senator Stevenson. They were with me when I parked the car—right here!”
“There has been enough publicity already,” Peter growled. He told one of his men to locate the Senator, then came over to me. “Will you swear this isn’t some kind of publicity stunt, Claire? I trust you, and I can’t imagine why you’d allow yourself to get involved in some crazy scheme, but I want the truth.”
This—from the man who shared my bed and my benevolence. Oh, he was showing me his even white teeth and baby brown eyes, and he was oozing sympathy like an oil slick. He was offering me the golden opportunity to admit I was a liar and a publicity puppet for the Senator. Now, wasn’t that really, really nice of him?
“The convertible was here fifteen minutes ago,” I said calmly.
“Okay, okay. What about the car keys?”
I unclenched my teeth while I tried to remember my actions. “I drove back here and pulled to the curb in front of the door. My purse was on the floor; I leaned over to get it while Steve and Cyndi started inside. We were all worried that the sniper might be in the vicinity and ready to take another shot. I was relieved that the door was unlocked, since I don’t have a key, and I told myself I needed to get one before tonight just in case Mac was late. Then I directly went to the office and called you.” I didn’t see the need to mention I hadn’t called him first. The call to Luanne had taken no more than half a minute.
“Did you take the keys out of the ignition?”
“No,” I admitted with a shrug.
“So you left the keys in the car, which happens to be our only proof that a shot was fired at the passengers in the backseat.”
“A shot was fired. I heard the noise and I saw the bullet hole. Steve and Cyndi were there; why don’t you ask them about the incident? You may think I’m a feebleminded dupe, but you ought to listen to a senator.”
He gave me an unfathomable look, then told one of his men to put out an APB on the missing convertible. He wasn’t especially pleased when I explained that I hadn’t noticed the license plate, was vague about the model, and didn’t know which dealer had loaned the car for the parade. I did, however, swear that one Sally Fromberger knew every bit of it, and would be delighted to find out the details for him.
“Or you might find Arnie,” I added.
He gazed at the crowds swarming up and down Thurber Street, clustering around street performers and food booths, fingering bargains on tables, and simply ambling along in the sunlit street. Wails from a rock band in the beer garden competed with the mellower music from strolling minstrels. The junior-high band members had been released at the conclusion of the parade, and some of them tootled on their instruments as th
ey jostled each other. The pompom girls gathered to squeal out a cheer and jiggle their stuff.
“Do you have any idea where we might find Arnie?” Peter said.
“I’d try the alleys and the dumpsters first,” I said, tiring of the whole thing and in dire need of food and tranquility. “The animal control officer might have taken him to the pound, or he may be snoozing in the grass behind the Book Depot. Those of you with trained noses ought to be able to sniff him out wherever he is.”
One of the uniformed men was sent to find Sally. As we trooped back into the theater, Warren approached us. “The Senator apologizes, but his wife had hysterics when she heard what happened and he felt he needed to go to her. He said to tell you that he’ll be happy to talk to you at the hotel or tonight before the pageant, and he wants to do everything he can to cooperate with the authorities.”
Peter ran his hand through his hair, then scowled at Jorgeson. “That’s dandy, just dandy. What about the girl? Did she feel some need to vanish for a few hours, too?”
“I haven’t seen her, Lieutenant.”
“She said she would be in her dressing room,” I said. Before I could offer to draw a map or even escort him, Eunice burst into the theater.
“Where is my gal? I heard something on the television about a shot being fired during the parade. I threw down the nail polish bottle and rushed over here as quickly as possible.”
I caught Eunice’s shoulders before she could burst onward. “Cyndi was not hurt. She’s fine, as are the Senator and the driver. She was upset, naturally, and went to rest for a few minutes.”
“Oh, thank God,” Eunice said, putting her hand on her bosom. Her fingernails fluttered like rose petals in a breeze. “I realize I’m just a fat old woman riding on her coattails, but I care very much about her. Her mother and father are both dead; I’ve done everything I could to take care of her and see that she achieves her potential. All I’ve ever wanted to do was to help her.”
