by Joan Hess
“You are the oddest damn woman I’ve ever met,” he growled. “Yeah, you stay up there in your roost, and I’ll call the police from the office. Any messages for them?”
“Ask for Lieutenant Rosen,” I said in a small voice. “And please ask him to hurry.”
TWELVE
Jorgeson had to come up to the catwalk and coax me down as if I were a terrified kitten on a branch. My fingers were raw from having dug into the metal surface, and my knees were scratched and sore. Jorgeson held my elbow until we reached the lovely security of the stage, which was swarming with policemen, paramedics, plainclothed men with cameras and black cases, and one disgruntled medical examiner whose turquoise pajamas showed beneath his trouser cuffs. All of them stopped to stare as Jorgeson escorted me across the stage to a still figure with crossed arms and an exceedingly stony expression.
I opted to take the initiative. “Arrest that man,” I said, pointing at Mac.
Mac shrugged his bony shoulders. “You might prefer to arrest this woman.”
“I might,” Peter said levelly. “However, I suppose we ought to explore the issue before I call the paddy wagon. In that the team would like to begin the homicide investigation, I suggest we continue this in the office.” He instructed Jorgeson in a low voice, conferred with the medical examiner, barked at an unseen person in the light booth, and then brusquely gestured for McWethy and me to follow him off the stage.
Mac unlocked the office door. Peter sat down in the chair behind the desk, thus leaving me no choice but to sit next to a purported murderer on the couch. Oblivious to my frown, Peter took out a notebook. He arranged a pencil beside it, studied both for a moment, then looked at us and soberly recited the Miranda warning.
Once Mac and I agreed we understood our rights, he said, “This is preliminary, just to give me an idea of what the hell is going on. Both of you will be taken to the station shortly to give formal statements. With luck, some of you may be home by dawn. Others of you may be less fortunate. Mrs. Malloy, why were you in the theater?”
I explained about the rifle and the inexplicable cosmic force. It did little to ease the cold anger in Peter’s eyes, but it was the best I could do. I then repeated the crazy conversation with Steve and the subsequent events that resulted in my hiatus on the catwalk.
Peter wrote down several pages of notes, then regarded me for a long while, his mouth almost twitching. He looked at my companion. “And why were you in the theater, Mr. McWethy?”
“Pretty much the same reason,” he said as he lit a cigarette and leaned back. “I thought the prop room was an ideal place to hide a weapon, but when I came back to the theater and saw the girls with the revolver, I realized they’d been prowling around in there. I should have buried the rifle in the pasture out behind my house, but I hate to discard anything that might be useful in the future. Except ex-wives, of course. That’s not to say I’ve buried any of them in the pasture. I’ll admit I’ve considered it.”
“Then you did assist Cyndi in some of her pranks?” Peter continued, ignoring the diversion with a pinched smile.
“Not with any enthusiasm, Lieutenant. It seems Eunice Allingham knows some loudmouthed chippy down at city hall. The chippy told Cyndi about a small exchange of favors with the wiring inspector, the exchange involving cash on my part and a passing report on the inspector’s. Hell, this building is ancient; it would have cost a fortune to bring it up to current standards. The inspector was cheaper than at least one of my ex-wives.”
I held back a smile of triumph. “Then Cyndi used that information to coerce you into giving her a key and helping her with her dirty deeds in your theater?”
“Mrs. Malloy,” Peter inserted rather rudely, “if it isn’t too much of a bother, I’d like to conduct the inquiry. I am not only a trained detective, but also the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Unless you’ve received a mail-order badge, you are a civilian. A civilian who is up to her neck in very hot water, I might add.”
“I arrived at the conclusion before you did.”
“Could that be because you operate without restraint or reason? Without concern for your well-being? Without regard for previous promises to mind your own business and stay out of this?”
I nodded politely. “That seems accurate, Lieutenant Rosen, if not especially conducive to further cooperation from a concerned citizen who was merely assisting the police.”
Mac cackled at this temperate exchange of words. “You two know each other, right?”
Peter slapped down the notebook. “Yes, Mr. McWethy, in one sense, I suppose we do. Let’s return to the immediate problem of a dead body on the stage, wild accusations, and the rest of this muddle. You came down to the theater to pick up the rifle, which you’d left in the prop room. Would you please continue?”
He crossed his legs and looked at me through a cloud of smoke. “I heard voices, and being an inquisitive sort myself, I tiptoed down the corridor to see who all was trespassing in my theater. About halfway to the auditorium, I heard a series of shots. I will admit I stopped for a moment to consider my options, then went on to the doorway in time to see Claire creeping along the catwalk, her fanny swishing like a widemouth bass in an eddy. The lights went out, which again led me to consider various options. After a couple of minutes of nothing happening, I turned on the house lights and went up to the stage to see if I could do anything for the Senator. It was a damn sight too late to do anything except compose a eulogy.”
“He’s lying,” I said. “He shot Steve. He tried to lure me down so he could shoot me, but I refused to cooperate.”
“Why would I do that?” Mac gave Peter a manly, aren’t-women-something smile. “I figured you boys would realize my involvement with the pranks sooner or later, although it didn’t seem as if you were going to find the missing weight. There was something about ‘The Purloined Letter’ that caught my fancy when I was but a mere lad drinking RC Cola and munching Moon Pies back in Carroll County, USA. An idyllic youth … me and Poe and a dog named Blue.”
“Then you stole the sandbag?” I said, scowling at him.
“In that it belonged to me, I think a more appropriate term might be ‘recycled, ’ don’t you? For the record, that was strictly wacko Miss Thurberfest’s idea. She’s the one who climbed up to the catwalk, sawed the rope, pranced around on the stage at a prudent distance from her mark, and ultimately entertained us with the bout of vapors. I told her it was harebrained. I told her that the bit with the nail was overly melodramatic and that I’d be delighted to push her into the orchestra pit whenever she wished. I don’t know why the silly girl declined my heart-felt offer.” His eyes narrowed and his voice turned grim. “I also told her not to fool with the space heater, but it was clear she was driving with one headlight by that point. I didn’t think to tell her that locking the dressing room door and turning off the light were not conducive to being rescued by the gallant men in blue.”
One of the gallant men gazed stonily across the room. “Did it not occur to you that we were investigating a homicide and you might want to share that significant tidbit with us?”
“Well, now that you mention it, it did occur to me. I was thinking I might wander by the station tomorrow and spill the whole crockpot of beans on your desk. But what I did isn’t Al Capone stuff. The girl was weird and her head was crammed with grandiose ideas, but I just did what I was told to do. I didn’t hurt anyone or break any laws. I had no reason to kill her—or that politician with the slick lips and manicured fingernails. I wouldn’t waste the energy on either of them.”
“The police dislike being called in on false pretenses, and firing at the convertible is worthy of attempted assault, reckless disregard, and whatever else we can find in the books,” Peter said.
Mac blew a stream of smoke toward the desk. “You may get to slap my wrists, Lieutenant, but I don’t see myself chopping any cotton at the state penitentiary.”
“You deserve worse,” I said. “You participated in a pr
ank that might have led to a car wreck—at best. Your role in the incidents in the theater may have been passive, but firing a rifle at a car in the middle of several thousand people is both active and totally idiotic. How did Cyndi persuade you to do it?”
“Now that the girl’s dead, we’ll allow that to rest in peace.”
Peter picked up the pencil and rolled it between his fingers. “Let me see if I’ve got this,” he at last said, flashing his teeth at me. “Senator Stevenson had an affair with Cyndi Jay, and used his aide to cover it up. It ended by mutual consent and a monthly payment. When she upped her demand, the Senator murdered her. He felt such minimal remorse that he amiably admitted it all to Mrs. Malloy, blaming it on a pesky midlife crisis. Someone in the light booth also heard the confession, and turned on the spotlights in order to shoot the two of you. Mrs. Malloy has explained her presence with her usual candor and charm. Mr. McWethy has explained his participation in the conspiracy and his presence in the theater. I have an accomplice, who will face a plethora of minor charges, if not some time in a restrictive environment. I also have a trespassing meddler. The question is: Do I have a murderer?”
“He did it,” I said.
“I still think you did it,” Mac murmured. He sent a haze of smoke into my face and gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe Cyndi wasn’t the only broad who was willing to do anything to attract attention.”
“Jorgeson would have noticed a weapon on the catwalk,” I said, trying not to cough.
“What do you think I did with the weapon—swallow it? You do overestimate my talents.”
Peter’s pencil broke with a loud snap. “Quiet, both of you. One of the uniforms will take you to the police station so that you may each give a formal statement concerning every single thing you’ve done in the last three days. I want to know everything you’ve had to eat or drink, I want to know when you brushed your teeth, and I want to know the precise color of the pajamas you wore to bed each night. It will occupy you for many, many hours. The investigation of the scene will occupy me for a similar time, so perhaps we will meet again at dawn.” He started for the door.
“I need to do something about Caron,” I said meekly.
He told me I could use the telephone and stalked out of the office. While Mac watched me with an amused look, I dialed my house and listened to the busy signal. Without maternal control, Caron would talk until she heard my footstep outside her bedroom door. Which might occur in twelve hours. I called Luanne’s house and allowed the telephone to ring until it became obvious she wasn’t hobbling across the room to answer it.
Peter would have to send someone to my apartment, I decided as a nasty tendril of pain shot across my temples. Still under Mac’s smirky scrutiny, I went into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Someone in the theater’s illustrious past had experienced a headache, but the label on the bottle was spotted and brown. The lone tablet in the bottle was equally spotted and brown.
Wondering if Luanne had stashed a bottle of aspirin in the desk, I sat down in the chair and tugged at the drawers. They did not budge.
“Do you have a key for these?” I asked Mac.
“I did, but I gave it to the Bradshaw woman last week. She wanted a place to keep the files and things, although I doubt anyone would be really desperate to get the invoice from the florist or the girls’ dossiers.”
“Oh,” I said brightly. “It’s not important. My head’ll explode at some time in the next few hours, but we can hope it happens with my usual candor and charm.”
A shiny-faced policeman who should have been at a high school prom came into the office and told us we were going to the station. As we went across the lobby, Peter came up the corridor. I told him about the small problem of reaching Caron, and he agreed to send someone over to transport her to Inez’s house for the duration. Although his voice was mild, I could tell he was still angry.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have come here tonight, but I wanted to make sure my theory was right before I told you about it. I was going to call you the second I got home.”
“Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to mention?”
I toyed with the idea of mentioning Luanne’s behavior, even though it had nothing to do with the crimes. I glanced at his face and decided he did not want to hear any jumprope rhymes, no matter how quaint and winsome they were. “No, nothing. Has someone gone to the hotel to tell Patti what happened?”
“I’m going now. You and I can discuss certain things later, but I need to wake Mrs. Stevenson to inform her that her children no longer have a father and she no longer has a husband. This is not an intriguing game, Claire; it’s ugly and painful and real. A nineteen-year-old girl was murdered this afternoon, and a promising young politician tonight. You’re damn lucky to be alive.”
On that cheery note he left the lobby. Our pimply policeman ordered us to follow him to his car. It would have been impressive had his voice not cracked, but I nodded and did as I was told. As we drove down Thurber Street, now deserted and lined with litter, I rehashed the noticeably peculiar conversation with Steve. He had, as Peter put it, amiably admitted everything. The covert affair. The blackmail demand. The first attempt to kill Cyndi by simply locking the door and hoping for the worst. When the worst didn’t happen, a call to the hospital with an invitation for a quiet little conversation. Murder. Remorse, but accompanied by dimples and a shrug. Had he actually admitted anything, or had he enjoyed my theory because he knew it was wrong? All wrong. Politicians and stagnant pond water were equally transparent.
Beside me, Mac lit a cigarette and gazed out the window, as serene as an elderly passenger on the deck of an ocean liner. He was hardly the type to express remorse, I thought with a frown. A century earlier he would have worn black and leased his six-shooter skills to the highest bidder. I wished I could come up with a motive that explained why he’d killed Cyndi and Steve, but I couldn’t.
I worked on Warren for three blocks, but I couldn’t come up with much of a motive for him, either. If he hadn’t had an affair ( and it seemed he hadn’t) , then he would hardly fly into a rage and strangle Cyndi with the hair-dryer cord or shoot the Senator from the light booth. I considered the possibility that he nurtured a secret passion for Cyndi, and had been forced to watch helplessly as the Senator took advantage of her youthful innocence. How many nights had he driven around town while his boss and his beloved frolicked in his very own bed?
It wasn’t great, but it might play and Warren did have opportunity. He had been in the theater at the time of the first attempt on Cyndi’s life. During the festival, he could have slipped away from his charges to meet Cyndi at the theater. He could have abandoned them to Disney’s enthralling clutches for a few minutes this evening.
Eunice? She had a motive, although a feeble one. Cyndi had betrayed her, had laughed at her affections, had cast aside her financial investment and her dreams of the Big One. Eunice had spoken to Cyndi in the hospital, and could have arranged a meeting at the theater. As I replayed the conversation at Eunice’s house that evening, I realized that she knew the truth about the affair, or at least had a healthy suspicion. Her acrimonious attack of Steve indicated as much. She might not have murdered Cyndi ( it sounded extreme, even to me) , but she might have listened to Steve’s “confession” and gone berserk with rage. Really extreme.
Before I could rationalize away the extremities, we arrived at the brick building that housed Farberville’s finest. The teenaged policeman parked, ordered us out of the car, and with a jaunty step guided us into Dante’s Inferno.
As Peter predicted, the early birds were hopping around as I came out the glass door to the sidewalk. The sky was metallic gray, the air oppressive with humidity. The infant officer had disappeared, as had my fellow grillee. The whiskery deskman had informed me that no one was available to drive me back to my car, which I’d left behind the theater about a decade ago. He hadn’t sounded overly apologetic about it, either.
> I trudged along the sidewalk, muttering to myself and kicking an occasional beer can. Now Peter could determine, should the mood strike him, where I’d been every blasted second for the last seventy-two hours. The final six had been spent in a grubby little room, done in contemporary dungeon. The scarred table was now covered with cups of cold coffee. Ashtrays brimmed with acrid cigarette butts. Somewhere within the hallowed walls, a clerk was facing the inspirational job of typing a two-pound manuscript of my mundane movements. I had been ordered to return within twenty-four hours to sign it. I doubted it was of publishable quality.
“Hey, Senator,” called a jovial voice.
I halted and looked back at a battered pickup truck, the predominate color of which was rust. Arnie waved enthusiastically from the driver’s side. His eyes were red, his smile effusive. I recognized the symptoms. “Hey, Arnie,” I said, edging back to the far side of the sidewalk in case he decided to jump the curb.
“Did they arrest you for reckless driving?” Arnie continued. “Don’t you have political amnesty? No, wait a minute—they call it something else. Diplomatic immobility. Don’t you have any diplomatic immobility, Senator?”
“Only in the sense I’m without transportation.” As soon as the words came out, I regretted them. I prayed he’d missed the message, but Arnie was too sensitive for that.
“Hop in, then. We’ll just have ourselves a little spin around town. This is a great time to tour, since everybody’s asleep. No traffic, no kiddies in the street, no cause to slow down for anything—except a stray dog or a suicidal squirrel. We can do every single street in town before most folks read their Sunday newspapers over bran flakes and instant coffee.”
“It sounds like a grand idea, Arnie, but I’m tired and I need to get home. It’s been a hard day’s night, and then some.”
“No problem, Senator. I’ll run you home.” He disappeared for a moment as he leaned across the seat and opened the passenger’s door. “Aw, come on. I’ll drive real careful; I swear it on my brother-in-law’s bass boat. It’s got a hundred-and-fifty-horsepower outboard you wouldn’t believe. Wowsy, can that baby take off like a bat outta hell!”
