A Really Cute Corpse

by Joan Hess

  “The heater was from antiquity. Either it had a rusted pipe or the pilot blew out. You shouldn’t feel responsible for what happened,” I said soothingly.

  He gave me a surprised look. “Oh, I don’t feel any responsibility for this, Claire. None at all.” Whistling under his breath, he flipped the cigarette into the weeds, then strolled to the top of the alley and disappeared through the crowd of tourists.

  Cyndi was loaded into the ambulance and taken away. A policeman dispatched the crowd, while another approached me with a scowl. “I need the girl’s name and address, and that of her next-of-kin. Then you can explain your relationship and exactly what happened.”

  “Her information ought to be in a file in the office,” I said, wishing Peter would rescue me from the grim-faced inquisitor. He and several other officers had vanished, however. I related what I knew, which didn’t take more than a minute. I graciously added that Mac was the person who owned the theater and was most familiar with the heaters, and that he might be found on the stage or in the light-control booth.

  The policeman snorted and went toward the front of the theater. I hesitated at the metal doors, still somewhat queasy as gas drifted past me. Peter and his minions were in the basement; I could hear low voices and the sound of doors being opened and furniture scraping on the concrete floor. I finally accepted the fact I could not force myself to go inside and walked back along the sidewalk to the front door.

  Luanne was propped on her crutches in the office doorway. “What is going on? First Heidi came in here shrieking about a gas leak, then you barreled through to call the ambulance. Now there’s a policeman hunting through the file … Is Cyndi—?”

  “She was alive when they took her in the ambulance.” Since the office was occupied, I leaned against the wall and tried to focus on a particularly odoriferous basket of flowers. “I don’t know much more than that. I smelled gas and sent Julianna to get a key from Mac. He unlocked the door, and the room was thick with the stuff. He carried Cyndi outside and gave her artificial respiration while I called the emergency number. Peter and his men are examining the dressing room now. I suppose they’ll find a rusty pipe or something.”

  “How long had Cyndi been in there?”

  I let my shoulders sag. “I have no idea. Long enough to lose consciousness, obviously.”

  “Why wouldn’t she have smelled the gas when it first began to leak? It has a very distinctive odor.”

  “Why would someone fire a shot at a convertible in the middle of a local parade? I’m an assistant pageant director, not an oracle.” I looked at Luanne, who had much the same horrified expression I suspected I had. “What about the pageant? Are we going to cancel it?”

  “I don’t see how we can. Over two hundred tickets were sold in advance, and the girls have been preparing for this for weeks. Some of them have spent a fortune on clothes and accessories. I feel dreadful about Cyndi, but I have an obligation to those eighteen girls.”

  “Who are in the auditorium, and can’t return to their dressing rooms until the basement is aired out. What’s more, the reigning queen will not be available to perform in the opening number or crown her successor.” I held up my hands and shook my head. “Don’t even think about it. Personally, I suggest we tell everyone the pageant’s been postponed for a month or two. Your ankle will be well. Cyndi will be back in bloom. The girls might have learned another step or two of the opening number, although I have reservations about that.”

  Steve came up the corridor from the auditorium. “What happened in the basement? The girls are dithering and crying, but none of them seems to know exactly why. A gas leak?”

  I told him about Cyndi. He seemed deeply shocked, and suggested we go to the hospital to check on her. I mentioned the proximity of the pageant, and Luanne added quite firmly that the show would go on.

  “I think your brain is sprained,” I said. “However, I’ll tell the girls to grab their things and use the greenroom to dress. Steve can explain that the opening number has been canceled because of the accident. He can read the names of the finalists, and tomorrow night he can crown the winner. We can then wipe our tears and go away from this place, which is beginning to have the allure of Bleak House.”

  A woman in a print dress and jacket came up the corridor. She eyed the three of us curiously, then slipped her arm through Steve’s. Her hair was fashionably cut and colored, her clothes expensive yet conservative, her eyes a cool, appraising shade of gray. She would have been equally at ease in front of a country club fashion show committee or astride a thoroughbred horse. I was not surprised when Steve introduced her as his wife, Patti.

  “I’ve been trying to calm down the girls, but they’re frantic to know what’s going to happen,” she said in a soft voice that had a Southern lilt. “They were already excited about the pageant before this terrible accident occurred. Now they’re buzzing so wildly I’m afraid they’ll explode.”

  I spotted Eunice coming through the front door. “I’ll go talk to them,” I said hurriedly. “Someone needs to tell Eunice about Cyndi.” I went down the corridor, aware of Luanne’s black look burning into my back, and went into the auditorium. The girls crowded around me and demanded to know how Cyndi was. I told them the truth, which was I didn’t know but that she was alive when taken to the hospital. Then I told them the latest plans.

  Julianna regarded me mistrustfully. “There are policemen in the basement. Does that mean someone tried to murder Cyndi?”

  “The police always investigate accidents,” I said with more assurance than I felt. “I’m sure the gas company has found the leak and corrected it by now, and the police are simply there to assist. You all know this is an old building and therefore likely to have faulty plumbing, rotting ropes, and bent nails.”

  “What about the shot fired during the parade?” another girl said, moving forward. “My mom saw something on the news. Senator Stevenson said it was fired at him, but Cyndi was in the car, too.”

  “There could be a crazed rapist stalking Cyndi?” Heidi bleated helpfully.

  “He could be in this theater right now,” suggested a reedy voice from the back.

  They inched forward, closing me in. Julianna said, “But the theater’s been locked for rehearsals. No one could have walked in from the street.”

  “He must have been here all along,” said a nasal voice.

  “He? Why do you assume this horrible maniac is a man?” Julianna’s voice fell to a melodramatic whisper. “It could be one of us.”

  The girls glanced at each other and edged backward, thus allowing me to catch a breath of air that was not laden with perfume. “Now, let’s not get any wild ideas,” I said sternly. “We have a pageant to produce in less than an hour. It’s going to be crowded in the greenroom, but we have no option. You’ll have to make the best of it. Go get your things.”

  “I’m not going down to the basement,” said a snub-nosed baton twirler.

  The others nodded and repeated the avowal that they indeed were not going down there. I wasn’t sure if they were afraid of a madman, the police, the stench of gas, or each other, but I was quite sure I was facing a mutiny of epic proportions.

  “I can’t carry up all your dresses, swimsuits, props, makeup bags, hair dryers, and whatever else is down there,” I said.

  “We’re not going down there,” said a mulish voice from the crowd.

  We were in a wonderful stalemate when Eunice came into the auditorium. She clapped her hands and said, “Girls, I know that Cyndi wants you to put on the best pageant there’s ever been. Now stop gawking and go fetch your things at once! Most of you look disheveled, and the judges simply will not look kindly upon a gal with inferior grooming. We must think poise, poise, poise!”

  They obediently scuttled down the steps, no doubt panicked by the nightmare of being deemed inferior groomers. I thanked Eunice for her inspirational talk and asked her if she’d called the hospital.

  “I spoke to a nurse in the emergency room
. Cyndi is already much improved, although she is still unconscious. Her complexion is gradually turning pink, and she’s breathing without artificial aid. They’ll move her to a private room shortly.”

  I sank down in the front row. “Then she must be recovering. That’s wonderful news, Eunice. I was terrified that she …”

  “Cyndi’s a tough cookie,” Eunice said, sitting down beside me. “I’m usually around to rescue her, but this time it seems she owes you a debt of gratitude. Gratitude is hardly one of her strong points, so please allow me to express my thanks for your act of courage. I seem to have misjudged you, Claire; it must have taken great strength of character to go back into her dressing room.”

  “Mac carried her out,” I said, wincing as the scene replayed itself in my mind. “And I wasn’t courageous; I was too frightened for that.”

  “Why did you think she might be in there?”

  I rubbed my face as I tried to remember what had gone through my mind. “I don’t really know. I suppose it was because I never saw her leave the theater.”

  The contestants came up the stairs, their arms piled with pageant paraphernalia. They trooped across the stage and went behind the curtain. Abruptly the auditorium echoed with squeals and brays of manly laughter.

  “The football team is in the greenroom,” I said to Eunice. “I believe I suggested it in a previous life.”

  “The gals can hardly dress under that condition. Concentration is everything.” She stood up and stalked across the stage, clearly concentrating on how best to squelch any malingering.

  I felt a twinge of fear for the well-being of the football team, but sat and gazed blankly at the stage. Caron danced onto the stage and gave me a glittery smile. “Shall I take Cyndi Jay’s place in the opening number? I know practically all of it.”

  “Where were you during all the excitement? I thought you’d be out front directing traffic by now, or holding a press conference to explain your perspective on the events.”

  “The television crews were busy,” she said with a pirouette. “Are you absolutely positive I can’t take Cyndi’s place? That Horrid Man insists that I sit in this incredibly dumpy little closet and read some idiotic manual about lights. Inez is having oodles more fun than I am.”

  “No, I’m not,” said a small voice from between the folds of the curtain.

  “But you can see everybody,” Caron said, still spinning about and flapping her wings. “All I see are mouse droppings and little squiggles that are supposed to clarify the entire premise of electronics since the day Franklin flew a kite.”

  “It’s very dusty back here,” Inez said.

  “It’s very, very dreary in the closet,” Tinkerbell retorted sweetly.

  I left them to debate the issue of dust versus drear, and went up the corridor to the office, thinking how exhausted I already was and how dearly I would prefer to be in my bedroom with a cup of tea and a mystery novel.

  Luanne gave me a bleak wave. “Is everything under control?”

  “The girls are forced to dress under the benevolent supervision of the football team, and my daughter has lost her mind,” I said. “Other than that, the reigning Miss Thurberfest is at the hospital, someone fired a shot at someone, and I allowed a new car to be stolen from under my nose. This must be Friday the thirteenth and a dozen of its sequels.”

  “But we may survive. The police will eventually find both the sniper and the car. The rehearsals are over and done with, and it’s too late to worry about some baton twirler blinding a judge or that icky little dog piddling in front of three hundred people. Cyndi’s recovering from that horrible accident, and—”

  Peter appeared in the doorway. “It wasn’t an accident,” he said in a mild tone.

  “What?” I snapped, not the least bit mild.

  He held up a plastic evidence bag. “In here is a tiny square of cellophane tape, not longer than a half-inch. May I use the telephone?”

  Luanne pushed it across the desk. “Help yourself. But I don’t understand why a piece of tape proves … anything.”

  “It was taped over the keyhole of the dressing room door.”

  He began to dial a number while Luanne and I gaped at each other like a pair of groupers.

  SEVEN

  “Suicide?” Luanne murmured bleakly.

  Peter put down the receiver and ran his fingers through his hair. “It could be, although we’ll have to discuss that with Miss Jay. She’s recovering quickly, and has been moved to a private room for the night. We can talk to her in the morning. It’s difficult to imagine someone accidentally taping the keyhole to contain the gas until the room was saturated.”

  “But what about all the strange things that happened?” I asked. “I’m having a hard time categorizing them as coincidences after this last incident. There really was a shot fired at us during the parade. When you find the car, you can dig the bullet out of the upholstery.”

  He had the decency to look a little abashed, if not as thoroughly embarrassed as I might have wished. “I believe you, Claire. Senator Stevenson backed your story most vehemently. He’s convinced the shot was fired in order to intimidate him. I’ve notified the FBI, and they’re going to snoop around quietly. They weren’t too pleased with the delay between the incident and the call to the police station, but they finally agreed that a professional sniper wouldn’t linger to wave at the coroner’s convertible.”

  Luanne had been nodding like a dormouse in a teapot, but she shook herself and said, “You’re convinced this revolves around Steve? What about the nail and the weight?”

  “The nail was pounded back into its proper level two days ago, although I doubt we could have done anything with it. The weight has vanished. The other end of the rope has been sent to the lab.” He gave me a narrow look. “I understand you went up to the catwalk to investigate?”

  “Part of my job description,” I said, wondering who’d snitched on me. “Then, basically, you can’t do anything until you either find the car or talk to Cyndi?”

  “I’m going to talk to”—he consulted the notebook—“Eunice Allingham about Cyndi’s state of mind. I can’t imagine anyone being so depressed at the idea of turning in a pageant crown that she would do something drastic, but I truly don’t understand the ritual. Why would some girl care so desperately about an inane title like Miss Thurberfest?”

  Luanne sighed and leaned back in her chair. “The ones who get involved in the pageant business do care. They may enter the first time for fun, or for the opportunity to perform in front of an audience. Some of them are pushed into it at a tender age by overbearing parents. I’ve seen three-year-olds in tiny tuxedos wink at the judges like seasoned gigolos. The publicity, no matter how meager, begins to infatuate them, as does the perceived glory. It becomes an obsession after a few pageants.”

  “I suppose,” Peter said doubtfully.

  Something was disturbing me, gnawing at me like a theoretical rat on a theatrical rope, but I couldn’t force it into focus. “Did you find the source of the leak?” I asked Peter.

  “There wasn’t a crack in a pipe; the gas was on and the pilot was off. If we hadn’t found the bit of tape, we might have assumed the pilot had been blown out by a draft. But someone put the tape over the keyhole to prevent the hallway from filling up with gas until it was nearly too late. Cyndi’s darn lucky it finally seeped through the hole.”

  For some obscure reason, his response failed to answer my question. I covered my face with my hands and tried to decide what I’d expected to hear. All that came to mind was the realization I was nurturing a ferocious headache. “Do you want me to go with you when you interrogate Eunice?”

  “No. I don’t want you to do anything except supervise the pageant, Claire. Thus far we don’t know what we’re investigating—practical jokes, hit men from out of state, attempted suicide, a maniac in an evening gown, or none of the above. But whatever it may be, we will run the investigation without any volunteers.” He smiled at me, but I could see
it wasn’t all that easy for him. In fact, I suspected it was all he could do not to shake a finger at me like a stern, stubbly grandfather. After a moment of silence, he said, “I know it will be a challenge to a meddler of your vast experience and expertise, and I know it’ll take a lot of willpower and self-restraint, but this time I want you to stay out of it.”

  “I’ll stay out of it. I simply don’t like the idea of someone lurking around my pageant stirring up mischief. It offends my sense of decorum. If I have to endure this with a modicum of grace, everyone else should have to do the same.” I shrank back as his eyes bored into me. My angelic smile faltered briefly, but did not fail me. “Now, don’t get all excited, Peter. I shall utilize all my energy running the preliminary round of the pageant tonight.”

  He wasn’t especially convinced, but he stood up and put his notebook in his pocket. I suggested that he come by my apartment later—not to tell me about the investigation, mind you, but to have a companionable beer. Even less convinced, he nodded and left to be officious elsewhere. Steve, Patti, and Warren must have been hovering outside the door, for they came into the office before the smoke cleared.

  “What’s going on?” Steve demanded.

  “Cyndi’s out of danger and has been moved to a private room,” Luanne said. She glanced at me, then added, “The police don’t know if it was an accident or attempted suicide.”

  Or attempted murder, I amended silently.

  “Oh, my God,” Warren said. He sat down next to me and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “That poor girl. I can’t believe she’d try to kill herself. She didn’t have any reason to do something crazy like that. The last time I talked to her she was filled with all sorts of schemes about a career in Hollywood.”

  Patti’s voice was soft but it held a hint of anger. “That girl was a schemer, all right. A cheap, little, two-bit schemer.”