Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Lou Marshall took to the microphone again, settling the crowd down and trying to instill a renewed spirit into the group. The party continued after the shock wore off, and by the time the jack–o-lanterns and costumes were judged, it had reached full swing again. Maurice and Takeema won for their unique costumes. Finally, most of the crowd headed home.

  I wandered into the prop room to change. I'd left my clothes folded on a shelf in the corner, but didn’t see them. I searched on, above, below, and around the shelf, but they were gone. Who would want an old pair of jeans and a golf shirt? After five minutes, I gave up looking, tired of dealing with what was probably another prank from our nameless tormentor.

  I drove home as Zorro, and after dropping off Camille, locked the kitchen door, climbed the stairs, and fell into my bed with visions of purple men and scarecrows dancing a mad tango.

  Chapter Fifty-Si x

  T he day had passed quickly, and I’d been grading papers for my students when I fell asleep in my chair.

  In my dream, the streets were shrouded in mist. Wet cobblestones felt slick beneath my bare feet and the fog whispered moist threats as I hurried along. Rustling, evil words pushed me faster and faster, and an overwhelming sense of urgency pulsed through my body. I began to sprint in the darkness.

  Black tree branches swayed over the streetlights, casting dancing shadows on the cars parked haphazardly along the road. I collided with the bumper of a 1963 Cadillac convertible and paused to rub my shin.

  A dog barked in the distance. It sounded like Boris, echoing remorsefully through the town.

  Agnes Bigelow materialized out of the hazy vapors swirling through the air. She had rounded a corner, vigorously pushing a baby carriage toward me. The antique fabric peeled from its sides and the rubber wheels disintegrated as it rolled, leaving pieces of rubber that came alive as swarms of white ants. With each passing revolution, the carriage jerked up and shimmied sideways. In the confused fog of my dream, I prayed her child was a sound sleeper.

  Still dressed as Dorothy, Agnes stared straight through me, continuing on her purposeful march. I looked in the carriage and was horrified to see Boris neatly tucked under a pink blanket. He sniffed the air anxiously as she whisked him away.

  A three-story brick mansion loomed in the murky night, set behind an intimidating wrought iron fence that ran for miles. White gingerbread trimmed each window and spiky lightning rods protruded from the peak of the steep slate roof .

  Mystified, I noticed the owner had fastened stuffed versions of her cats onto the fence. I moved closer, and was horrified to see she’d preserved only the faces of her dead pets, mounted with twist ties to the wrought iron bars. Yellow tabbies, black coons, tigers, and white angoras—hundreds of furry faces stretched along the fence.

  In horrified fascination, I moved forward to inspect them. Abruptly, their eyes popped open in unison and they shrieked like banshees. “Open your eyes!”

  I opened my eyes. Max lay beside the woodstove, snoozing comfortably. My reading glasses had slipped down the bridge of my nose and dangled precariously on the end, ready to plop into my lap. Blue exam booklets lay in a heap at my feet. The B+ that I had scribbled on a student's paper had turned into a long, red scrawl.

  I looked at the mantle clock. Five o’clock . I had been dozing for over twenty minutes. What day was it? Sunday, I assured myself, the third Sunday in November. One more week to Thanksgiving and the expected birth of my second grandchild. Less than two weeks to the Spirit Me Away production.

  The aroma of chili filled the room. I rushed to the kitchen to stir the pot. Thankful it hadn’t burned, I relaxed and headed back into the great room to grade more papers.

  I’d made my way through three papers when Max lifted his head from the hearthrug. His ears perked up and his eyes widened. Barking hysterically, he shot toward the front door, racing in small circles.

  “It’s okay, boy. Let’s see who’s here.” With a sigh, I heaved myself from the chair and headed for the front door.

  Chapter Fifty-Seve n

  T he brass doorknocker lifted and dropped three times before I reached the front hall. Max whined and scratched at the door. I straightened my clothing and cleared my throat before I opened the inner door, still feeling disoriented from the nap.

  Cindi Fox stood on the porch wringing her hands and glancing fearfully behind her. A ragged red splotch resembling a handprint covered one cheek.

  Grabbing Max’s collar, I opened the storm door, wondering who in the world had slapped her. “Cindi? What’s wrong?”

  Her ten-speed bicycle was propped against the side of the barn. Apparently, she’d pedaled uphill all the way from the village. She didn’t answer, but looked back at the woods apprehensively, still breathing hard from the exertion.

  “Cindi? Did you ride your bike all the way up here?”

  She shuffled and looked at the woods again. Max pulled hard and sniffed at Cindi’s hand.

  “What’s wrong, dear? Would you like to come inside and sit down? I’ll get you a drink.”

  She looked up at me with a start. “I have something to tell you. It’s very important. It’s about Boris.” Swinging her worried expression toward the woods again, she twisted her hands back and forth. Her short red hair stuck out from her pale brow, and I noticed that she was perspiring heavily in spite of the chill in the air.

  I held the door open, but she didn’t budge. “I know where he is,” she whispered. “I know where Boris is.”

  I began to ask, “Where?” but was interrupted by the roar of an engine tearing across the lawn.

  A loud crack filled the air. Cindi spun around, wobbling against me. The four-wheeler raced past in a blur and disappeared into the woods. She crumpled to the wooden floor of the porch. Blood oozed from the gunshot wound beneath her ribs.

  Max broke away from me, racing across the lawn in pursuit of the vehicle.

  I dropped to my knees and cradled Cindi’s head on my lap, pressing the heel of my palm against the bleeding hole in her side. Blood seeped through my fingers and ran onto the porch.

  She looked up at me with her forlorn eyes, trying to speak. “He took Boris—” Her eyes rolled up and her head slumped to the side. A wet breath escaped her lips. One green-sneakered foot twitched and her head slumped sideways.

  I checked her pulse. A faint beating met my fingers. Hurrying now, I grabbed my cell phone and called 911. With heart drumming beneath my ribs, I relayed information to the unruffled voice on the line, pressing my hand against the bleeding body of the woman who risked her life for the sake of a little dog.

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  I t seemed the whole world had shown up for Cindi Fox’s funeral. I walked up the brick pathway to St. Anne’s church. Dead oak leaves fluttered across the ground, inviting me to enter the vestibule. A line had formed at the door.

  The scent of incense and lilies filled the air. When I entered, my attention was drawn to the ceiling. Dark timbers arched overhead, accenting a vaulted white dome. At the front of the church, silver organ pipes covered one wall. An intricately carved wooden statue of Christ hung behind the altar.

  I followed the crowd of mourners who edged into the sanctuary and spotted Joe Russell sitting in the center section, about twenty-five rows back. I sat beside him on a purple pew cushion.

  He looked at me with a cagey expression. “Hey, Gus. You ready for this?”

  “I guess so. Is everything set?”

  Joe raised his right hand from his lap and twisted it side to side. “We’ve got video cams stationed at all entrances, and a few up there.” He nodded toward the choir loft.

  “How’s she doing?” I whispered this part, knowing he wanted to keep the fact that Cindi was recuperating in a local hospital a secret. His plan had been to fake the funeral and flush out the killer. I’d seen things like that in movies, but apparently the tactic wasn’t just a Hollywood idea. According to Joe, killers often take pleasure in basking in the aftermath of their destructi
on. Things were escalating, and Joe wanted to nab the bastard before he tried to kill anyone else.

  “She’s holding her own.” He peered around me. “Where's Camille?”

  “Home with the flu. She's got a 103 temp. She argued with me, tried to make it, but I wouldn't hear of it. ”

  More people shuffled into the pews around us. Some genuflected and made crosses on their chests. I felt a little nervous about the protocol of the unfamiliar service and turned to Joe. “You’re Catholic, right?”

  A puzzled expression crossed his face. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Can you help me through the mass? I haven’t been to one since I went with Jimmy Murray in the third grade.”

  Joe pushed a meaty hand through his silvery black hair, carefully scanning the pews around us. “No sweat, Gus. It’s probably not all that different from your church, anyway.”

  “Thanks.” I looked ahead to the altar; amazed to see it was as spacious as the stage at the school auditorium. An older man and woman sat in high-backed chairs on either side of the pulpit. I opened the program and noted that a deacon, Mr. Thomas Long, and a lector, Mrs. Ariel Breatnich, were listed. A small raised podium stood to the right of the altar next to the organ. Behind it, a woman with long, blond hair stood quietly waiting with her hands folded on the stand.

  When the organ began to play, celestial music swelled through the church. The woman at the podium began to chant in a strong, pure voice. I searched the bulletin and found a reference to the cantor, Evelyn Reece. I rose with the rest of the congregation when the priest entered, bumping my ankles on the padded kneeling bench at my feet.

  A priest in white robes welcomed the community and addressed the family. I wondered how Joe had prepared them. Of course he’d had to tell the family the truth. It occurred to me that they must be real troopers to agree to go through with the emotionally exhausting pretense of burying their beloved Cindi. Of course, if it worked, their daughter would be safe from such evil in the future.

  Everyone but me traced crosses on their chests in one fluid motion. It happened too fast for me to try to mimic them.

  Cindi’s seven brothers and sisters lined the front row, all with red hair. Mr. and Mrs. Fox sat in the front row corner, closest to the altar. The gray-haired father draped his arm around his wife’s shoulders. Although Cindi wasn’t dead, she’d been through a great deal in the past few days, with two surgeries and a close call with death. How must this family feel that their sweet and innocent daughter/sister had been targeted by a madman? And how awful to have to pretend to bury one’s child.

  My heart ached for them.

  The organist announced a hymn. Two different hymnals stood in the slotted shelf in front of me. I searched the program for a clue and finally noticed a “W” scribed next to hymn number 579. Joe picked up the red book with a “W” pasted to its binding, and I copied him.

  Joe was good. Although he went through the motions of the service, I saw him carefully scan the church constantly, slowly, purposefully.

  Was there anyone new in the crowd? Anyone unexpected? Would Cindi’s killer come to gloat? Would we find it was one of us? Someone from the show or school?

  We sang a hymn I didn’t know and sat down. The service progressed, and I cast my eyes around the crowd. Students from the school gathered in one section. Quiet weeping came from all corners of the church. Frank and Jonesy sat three rows ahead of us. They bowed their heads in sorrow, and I saw Jonesy’s shoulders shake a few times.

  The cantor began to sing short chants, followed by responses from the audience. Some of them were familiar phrases from hymns sung in our Methodist service. The priest lead “The Lord’s Prayer,” and I recited along in unison until we reached “forgive us our trespasses—” section. I waited to see if they used “trespasses” or “debts.” The congregation continued with “trespasses” and I followed along. To my horror, just before the end of the prayer, the whole church stopped and the priest added a few words of his own. Thankfully, Joe silenced me with a nudge in the side. With the prayer finally finished, the congregation sat down again.

  The male deacon moved forward and presented a number of items to the priest. Next, the priest performed some curious actions over a hanging pot. He chanted, swinging the incense back and forth around the altar. The exotic scent from the sacred ritual calmed me. I watched the smoke spiral to the vaulted ceiling. Joe knelt several times during the service, but I was uncomfortable with the whole thing, so I perched half on and half off the edge of the pew.

  Communion was offered. I was hesitant. Is a baptized Christian approved for communion in a Catholic service? I didn’t think so, so I stayed in my seat while Joe walked to the front of the church to join the line of people waiting to receive the sacrament. Our church’s version of communion involved small white chunks of bread and grape juice served in vials. I watched the congregation cup their hands to receive a wafer from the priest. Joe walked along behind the crowd to return to the pew, placing the wafer in his mouth. He folded his hands and came back to sit beside me.

  As the hour passed, my thoughts flew back and forth from the past to present, from my father’s funeral to Elsbeth’s and back again, to this mock funeral. A former teacher of Cindi’s came forward with a touching eulogy. I half-listened to the glowing speech, but in private, I mourned for my loved ones all over again.

  When the cantor finally rose to sing “Ave Maria,” the entire congregation broke out in fresh weeping.

  I wiped a few renegade tears from my eyes and saw Joe glance sideways at me. Pain etched his face. He leaned toward me and whispered, “Too damned many funerals between the two of us.”

  He pressed his beefy hand over mine, holding it there for a few seconds. I'd lost my wife, parents, and grandparents all in recent years. I knew Joe had buried a brother last year and he’d lost his wife, Jeanne, in a car accident ten years earlier. He confided the story of his wife's death to me during our flight to Maine earlier in the spring to arrest Elsbeth’s murderer.

  Joe’s wife Jeanne had been killed when he’d drunk too much on that fateful New Year’s Eve ten years ago. He’d lost control on icy roads. Whether it was due to his slowed response time, or a cruel twist of fate, the car slid on a patch of ice and went over the side of the road, plunging into a lake. He pulled Jeanne out of the water, but it was too late. Joe blamed himself and had soberly co-existed with the guilt for ten long years.

  I sat up and returned my attention to the service. When it was over, we joined the line of mourners waiting to console the family.

  Someone touched my arm. I turned around and was surprised to see Camille.

  “You're supposed to be in bed!” I whispered.

  Her feverish eyes confirmed my theory that she should have stayed home. She’d pulled back her hair and wore a black dress with long sleeves.

  “I couldn't stay away, honey. I had to come.”

  Although she’d been taken into Joe’s confidence too, she knew her students would wonder why she hadn’t shown up. She stifled a cough, and we followed Molly Frost and Lisa Bigelow down the line. Both girls leaned on each other, sobbing as they passed the casket. A picture of Cindi stood on top. She looked about sixteen years old and very happy.

  After several minutes of shuffling forward, we faced Cindi’s mother and father. Mrs. Fox's face well-worn face met me, and I recognized Cindi’s gentle nature in her green eyes.

  Camille took her hand and spoke softly. “Camille Coté, Ma’am. I’m so sorry about what you’ve had to go through this week.”

  Cindi’s mother lowered her voice to a whisper. “It’s been tough, Miss Coté, but we’ll make it.” Raising her voice to a normal level, she played the charade well. “Cindi spoke very highly of you, dear. She said you and the professor were very kind to her. She especially liked the little dog.”

  Camille squeezed. “We were very fond of Cindi, Mrs. Fox. And so was Boris. He was always a good judge of character.”

  Cindi’s father leaned
closer to Camille. “Would you please thank the Drama Club for the flowers? They were beautiful. ”

  We nodded and moved on, following Joe’s broad back into the parking lot. A cold downpour drenched the earth. The leaves plastered the walkway in slippery layers.

  I carefully hurried Camille to her car. “Promise you'll go right back to bed?”

  She smiled at me through fever-bright eyes, coughed into the crook of her elbow, and started the engine. “I promise. Don't worry. I'll be fine.”

  Joe and I faced each other with rain dripping down our faces. We watched Camille drive away.

  “Joe, can we talk somewhere?”

  Joe turned up his coat collar. “How about right now? It’s as good a time as any, and it’ll take my techs a while to process all the video. I’ve got some ideas to toss around, too. Why don't we meet over at the station?”

  I nodded and we both dashed to our cars, seeking refuge from the storm.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  T he Conaroga Police Station was quiet. I walked up to the front desk, and Joe spotted me, motioning for me to come around the counter into his office.

  Adam Knapp sat on a rolling office chair, slowly pushing back and forth between the desk and the wall. He looked up and tossed us a smile. “Any leads?”

  Joe shook his head. “Not sure yet. No one stood out to me, but we’ve got lots of video to study. The guys should be bringing it over soon.” He turned toward me. “Coffee, Gus?”

  “Please.”

  Joe made the coffee, and I glanced at the photo standing on the shelf behind his desk. A woman crouched beside a big, tri-color collie. It had to be Jeanne. Her arms wrapped around the dog’s neck and her cheek pressed his fur. Affection for the man behind the camera sparkled from her eyes.

  My mind gravitated toward a slippery precipice, and I tried to push against the dark thoughts.

  Poor Jeanne.

  Poor Elsbeth.