by Joan Hess
“Oh, yes,” I said as I walked across the lobby and started down the corridor, forcing her to follow. I went into the auditorium and up the short flight of steps to the stage. Her heels clattered on the wood floor, and her breathing was audible. The houselights were on, but dimmed enough to keep both of our faces shadowed and the rear areas of the stage murky. I turned around abruptly. “The trespassing was inadvertent. I spent the night at the police station, making a formal statement, and then found myself stranded on the sidewalk.”
“The sidewalk?” she said, bewildered. “But that hardly explains why you’re in here.”
“It all began on the sidewalk,” I said with a wry chuckle ( or what I hoped was a wry chuckle, having always felt the term ought to describe a visitor at a birdfeeder) . “I was trudging toward Thurber Street when I managed to catch a ride with our mutual friend, Arnie. Wasn’t that a stroke of luck?”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to walk all that way, but I’m afraid I don’t know anyone named Arnie.”
“Of course you do, although you may not have heard his name. I’m sure you’d recognize him—short, black hair, red eyes.”
She gave me the look that probably worked well when one twin accused the other of tie-dying the family cat. “Perhaps I have, if he’s one of the myriad of loyal campaign workers. I meet so many people, but I simply can’t keep them straight. Steve was very good at remembering names and faces.” She stopped and took a lace-edged handkerchief from her purse to dab her eyes. I leaned forward to look for a weapon, but she snapped the purse closed and stepped back, her expression turning leery. “I do appreciate you taking the time to call me about the schedule. If you don’t mind, I’m in a bit of a rush. The girls were asleep when I tiptoed out, but they may wake up any moment. The hotel manager is already perturbed about a broken lamp and some crayon scribbles on the wall.”
“Surely Warren can control them,” I said. “He seems quite efficient, even in his hour of grief over his loss of poor, poor Cyndi Jay. He’s done a remarkable job of amusing your children all weekend. First the Thurberfest yesterday afternoon, and then the movies last night. You must appreciate the opportunity to be alone so that you can, as the kids say, do your own thing.”
“I suppose all parents enjoy a few minutes of privacy. Now, if I could have the schedule?” Patti came forward, her hand outstretched. She was wearing suede gloves, which matched her purse, which matched her shoes, which may well have matched her underwear. The woman did accessorize. Although her smile was correct, her eyes glittered in the gloom and her hand shook. “I really must have the schedule, Claire.”
“I’ll get it for you in a moment,” I said, retreating a few inches. “I thought you wanted to know about our mutual friend, Arnie. He was nice enough to give me a ride to the theater. We even played an abridged version of Twenty Questions.”
“How amusing for you.” She didn’t sound envious.
“Our game was called Three Questions, due to lack of funds on my part and a feverish desire to watch ‘Meet the Press’ on his part. He’s somewhat of a political buff, our friend Arnie.” Wishing I had Caron’s flair for theatrics, I forced myself to stop at the shore of the murkiness. “I was trying to guess who slipped him a few dollars to make the convertible vanish before the police got to it. Whoever bribed the chap made a mistake by paying him in advance, thus allowing him to stop by a bar before the parade, but it worked out. Arnie was supposed to be driving, but he did manage to repossess the car after the parade and abscond for the hinterlands.”
“And you were permitted three questions?” she murmured. “I think I’d prefer three wishes. But this person you insist I know isn’t exactly a magic fish, is he?”
“Three wishes,” I repeated pensively. “Attorney general, governor, third star on the left and straight on till Pennsylvania Avenue? Steve might have been able to pull it off, had he not been killed. These days the voters hardly judge the candidates by intelligence, convictions, or the potential for decisive leadership. Dimples and affability seem to be the order of the decade.”
“Steve was very popular with his constituents. He served them well and had an excellent reputation with his peers at the capitol. The governor was devastated when I told him this morning that Steve had been gunned down by union thugs. He swore he’d demand a federal investigation, and then asked me to complete the tenn.” She paused to dab a few more invisible tears. “I told him I would, despite the pain of the tragedy and the hardship on the family. Staying busy will help me through the grief, I hope, and the girls will be able to stay with their friends at their little nursery school.”
“And you won’t have to worry about Steve’s peccadillos, will you? Affability sometimes leads to situations that end up in a sticky mess—worse than cotton candy on a chin. However, you had things under control until the Miss Thurberfest pageant, when Cyndi decided her swan song would involve a final payoff that would sustain her career move.”
Patti’s smile faded. “I think you’ll have to discuss the girl’s problem with Warren. Steve and I had very little to do with her, beyond listening to Warren talk incessantly about her.”
“That’s unfortunate, since you and she had so much in common. Oh, I realize she was a small-town celebrity and you’re the scion of a major political dynasty, but both of you were fiercely determined. She pulled her pitiful stunts for publicity, and you unwittingly were playing the exact same game to ensure Steve’s victory in the primary.” I shrugged as I tried to read her expression, self-preservation being dear to me. “Arnie admitted everything, I’m afraid. Mac tried to imply he shot at the convertible because Cyndi forced him to, but he’ll name names rather than be parboiled in someone else’s hot water.”
“The girl’s feeble little ploys inspired me. I realized I could assist my husband’s campaign, and, if it fell apart, allow the blame to fall on the girl’s back. She was a cold-hearted tramp.”
I heard a rustling near the area of the audio booth, but I kept my eyes on the Senator’s widow, who was not smiling as she edged forward. Her fingers were white as she clutched her purse, and her shoulders more squared than a marine’s. “Then why did Steve have an affair with her?” I asked.
“Warren had an affair with her.”
“That’s what everyone kept saying,” I agreed amiably. “But Steve admitted to me in this precise spot that he was the one who had an affair with Cyndi. He even admitted he killed her when her demands became impossible and she threatened to expose him.”
“He would have admitted to masterminding the Teapot Dome scandal, if you’d accused him of it. He had a whimsical sense of humor, and at times failed to consider the wisdom of speaking on impulse. We had to be quite careful at press conferences; he was inclined to say things that later proved regrettable. Warren and I tutored him nightly, although it was an uphill struggle.” She gazed sharply at the shadows behind me. “Did you hear something? Is someone back there?”
“That’s Luanne Bradshaw,” I said. “She went to the prop room to see if she could find a revolver. My daughter had it late yesterday afternoon, but swore she returned it before the police finally permitted us to leave the theater last night. When Caron had it, it was loaded with blanks. Someone used real bullets last night to murder your husband.”
She laughed. “Come now, I’m sure the police searched the theater for weapons all night long. They must have tried the prop room.”
I laughed, although without her conviction. “I suppose you’re right, although they did manage to overlook the envelope in the office—the one Steve implied was a schedule for the next week of campaigning. We both know you paid Mac to fire a blank at the car and Arnie to steal it afterward to prevent an immediate investigation. As long as you’ve established a rewarding financial pattern, you might as well pay me for the so-called schedule.”
“I seem to have misjudged you,” she said appraisingly. “I thought you were just one of these frustrated, busybody spinsters. The ones whose lives are so dr
eary that they feel obliged to stick their noses into everything in hopes of a vicarious thrill or two. I hadn’t noticed this felonious stripe down your back.”
“What can I say? I read the contents of the envelope, and it’s a convincingly lurid account of the affair between Cyndi and Steve. She listed motel addresses, dates, possible witnesses, presents he gave her, and the dates she deposited blackmail money in her account. You’re not the widow of a politician who sacrificed himself in selfless service to the public; you’re the widow of a good-natured philanderer who carried on with an eighteen-year-old girl.” I tilted my head and gave her a perplexed look. “Good-natured, but also a murderer. There’s a problem with the portrait, isn’t there? If he murdered Cyndi, then his posthumous reputation is tainted, to say the least. If he didn’t, then someone else must have. And we still have the very real problem of who murdered him while he was explaining all of this to me.”
“Union thugs killed my husband. As for the girl, we may never find out who realized the world might be a better place without her.” Patti moved forward until she was less than a yard from me. She looked over my shoulder, then patted her purse. “I did bring some money, just in case you turned out to be an unscrupulous sort who’s willing to destroy my dead husband’s reputation. How much do you want?”
I gazed out over the rows of seats, rather aggravated with her eagerness to pay me off and toddle away to the state senate. I was trying to decide how best to provoke her when Luanne came out of the darkness, her crutches thudding softly.
She held up a revolver. “I found the weapon in the very back of the prop room, under the Arc de Triomphe, if you can imagine. At least I didn’t have to climb the Eiffel Tower to reach it.” She nodded to Patti, then offered the gun to me. “The police must have missed it, but it’s most likely the murder weapon.”
Patti’s fingernails cut into her purse. “It’s not the murder weapon. It’s a damn toy. I don’t know what you two are trying to pull, but I’m not staying here any longer. Give me the schedule. I’ll pay whatever you say, as long as it’s reasonable, and we can be done with this nonsense.”
I pointed the gun at her. “Are you sure it’s a toy? What if it’s loaded with real ammunition?”
“It’s a toy. The real gun is—” She caught herself and shook her head. “A prop is a prop is a prop. You can’t kill someone with a prop.”
I looked at Luanne. “She’s right. It’s not a real gun.”
“Then she didn’t use it to shoot her husband?” Luanne said, scowling at me. “Then why on earth did you insist I poke around that filthy little room to find it? I snagged my stocking on a spear for nothing.”
“I’m sorry. It seemed so logical to think she”—I gestured at Patti, who was observing us with a bemused look—“murdered Cyndi yesterday afternoon, then murdered her husband last night when she realized he was likely to implicate her if he continued babbling to me.”
Luanne raised a crutch to point at Patti. “But we already decided she didn’t kill Cyndi. She wasn’t even in the theater Friday afternoon when the first attempt was made. She couldn’t find a baby-sitter—remember? You really must stop making wild accusations, my dear.”
I idly twirled the revolver around my finger as I said, “She didn’t have a baby-sitter because Warren was here. In fact, I spotted him trying to sneak out of the auditorium that very afternoon. What’s more, one of the contestants heard a male voice down in the dressing room. I’ll bet you a case of Twinkies that Warren went to talk to Cyndi.”
Patti’s head had swiveled back and forth as she observed this Abbott and Costello routine. She stopped to stare at me. “Why would Warren go down there—if, as you claim, he hadn’t had an affair with the girl?”
If I’d possessed dimples, I would have switched them on. “It’s a matter of the old midlife crisis. Warren’s too young, but it seems to be epidemic with those of us approaching forty. Steve told me that was the reason he took up with Cyndi. Was that the reason you and Warren—ah, found solace in each other’s company when Steve was at Warren’s apartment?”
“I fail to see the relevance,” she snapped.
“It escapes me, too,” Luanne contributed, blinking at me.
“Well,” I said, “let’s suppose that Cyndi called Patti from the office immediately after the parade and demanded money. Motherhood posed a problem, so Patti sent Warren down to talk to Cyndi. He appraised the potential of the faked asphyxiation, locked the door, and went back to the auditorium. Everybody wandered away for dinner, but Cyndi was discovered before it was too late to revive her. She again called the hotel, and this time Patti came down to the theater and made sure things went more successfully. She was feeling quite confident until Steve mentioned the damning letter Cyndi hid in the theater. The two came down to search for it. I stumbled into Steve and began asking awkward questions. Patti, who’d been searching the light booth, realized he was about to slip and shot him. She then tried to shoot me.”
Luanne gaped at Patti, who was decidedly displeased. “Did you really try to shoot Claire? I know she’s meddlesome and occasionally infuriating, but she owes me money for lunch last week.”
“She’s meddlesome, all right—and wrong,” Patti said grimly. “This story of hers is a fantastic series of lies, theatrics, and wild guesses. If she repeats one word of it, I shall instruct my attorney to file a libel suit. She can peddle her books from a little wooden cart in the future.”
“Then you don’t have a gun in your purse?” I inserted before the two indulged in further character assassination. “It’s okay if we call the police and ask them to come down here right now to examine the contents of your purse?”
She stepped back, opened her purse, and took out the handkerchief to neatly touch the corners of her mouth. She then took out a nasty little revolver and pointed it at us. “It’s really not convenient at the moment, I’m afraid. It would have been much easier on everyone if you hadn’t insisted on playing detective, but what’s done is done. I want the schedule. Once it’s in my possession, we can discuss what else needs to be done.”
I pointed my gun at her. “Put that away or I’ll shoot,” I said in the fine tradition of the Old West. I would have clinked my spurs had I been wearing any.
“My gun is real. Yours is not,” she responded serenely.
I eased back into the shadows. “Are you sure?”
She advanced, looking somewhat tired of the scene. “Yes, I’m quite sure. Now shall we stop this silliness and deal with the situation like adults?”
At which time Luanne bashed her across the back with a right crutch. The revolver fell to the floor. Patti stumbled forward, waved her arms frantically as she teetered on the edge of the stage, then toppled into the orchestra pit. After what seemed like several seconds, we heard a thud and a muffled curse.
“Bravo,” I murmured as I went to peer down into the black hole. “I’d give her at least a five-six for technical merit. Do you think we ought to call an ambulance?”
“In a minute,” said a male voice from the back of the stage.
As Luanne and I looked up, startled by the intrusion, Warren appeared from the shadows. He bent down to pick up Patti’s gun and aimed it in our general direction. He looked around until he located her purse, which he then opened and dug through until he found a key chain. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll engage in a sudden and unexpected career move myself. I’d like to commend both of you for the calmness you displayed. She’s crazy, a political animal afflicted with rabies. She probably would have shot you dead without a moment’s hesitation.”
“Thank you,” I said, eying him cautiously. “It wouldn’t have saved her. We’ve already called the police.”
“She’ll have a lovely time trying to explain away the blackmail evidence, but I think I’ll take the revolver with me.” He raised his voice to include the woman in the pit. “If she keeps her mouth shut, however, there won’t be any evidence to involve either of us in the homicides. Her fathe
r can call in the lawyers, and the whole thing will eventually blow over. It’s been a pleasure, ladies, but I must run along now.”
“You’re not leaving me, you swine.” came a growl of outrage from the pit. “This was your idea, not mine.”
He went to the edge of the stage and leaned forward. “No, darling, it was your idea. Do you honestly think anyone would believe that I wanted to have an affair with someone old enough to play bridge with my mother? I merely assumed it was in the job description somewhere.”
“How dare you!” she called, recovering rapidly from the unexpected exit from the stage. “You seduced me, you pimply little frat boy!”
“I hate pimples,” Luanne said under her breath. She then lifted a crutch and poked Warren in the back. His exit was almost a five-eight.
Somewhere from the back of the auditorium came the sound of applause. The houselights came on more brightly, and policemen scurried in from the corridors on either side of the auditorium. The spotlights suddenly bathed us in a puddle of pink. The single member of the audience, one David McWethy, continued to clap. I took Luanne’s hand, and we bowed together.
FIFTEEN
“Climb every mountain,” warbled a voice from the center of the stage.
Peter’s hand tightened around mine, as if he were resisting the urge to clamp it over an ear to drown out the sound. “How many of them are going to sing this?” he hissed. “We’ve climbed every mountain in the Alps. Do we have to tackle the Himalayas, too?”
“Only these two,” I whispered back. I noticed the judges ( Mayor Avery, Ms. Maugahyder, and one Sally Fromberger) were doodling on their legal pads and less than entranced with the strange tremolos coming from one of the Lisas. Said girl came to a merciful stop, curtsied to the judges, and trotted offstage as the audience clapped dutifully, if not enthusiastically.
