Stranded

by Lorena McCourtney

  Paul was there the second time, fretting about a lost cuff link and looking for a replacement in the glass jewelry case.

  When the final curtain closed on the chorus line, and Paul, complete with two cuff links, stepped out to wrap things up, we all knew the evening had been a big success. The applause proved it.

  Everyone was hugging everyone else backstage as the audience milled around and out into the lobby. I hadn’t thought since opening curtain about murder and Chris, but when he and Kelli came backstage to give Charlotte a congratulatory hug, the truth hit me hard.

  On Monday, when I went to the authorities with the evidence about Chris, another curtain would be closing. And that time there’d be no applause and congratulations.

  27

  With Friday night’s successful performance behind us, the high-energy atmosphere backstage just before the Saturday night show was more party time than performance. A celebration party for the cast was, in fact, scheduled for later.

  The curtain had been tried and pronounced in perfect working order for tonight. Laughter but no squabbles were issuing from the dressing rooms. Magnolia had had her hair coloring refreshed this afternoon, and it looked like a royal flame piled atop her head. Even Paul Newman was smiling and cracking jokes.

  I was wearing my new necklace again, and I’d made a wonderful discovery. Mac had had the back side of the silver circle engraved! To Ivy from Mac.

  Earlier, when I’d showed it to Kelli, she’d said, with a knowing nod, “When a man gives a woman a piece of jewelry, it means something. And engraved, that really means something.”

  I wasn’t examining what the necklace or the engraving might mean, but both brought me great chunks of joy.

  I checked my props carefully to make certain nothing had gone astray overnight. I spotted Lucinda standing at the edge of the curtain. It was surprisingly chilly backstage tonight, and she was wearing a jacket over the satin gown. She still looked slim and slinky, but there was a peculiar stiffness to her stance as she peered around the curtain at the audience. I walked up behind her.

  “Everything okay?” I asked.

  She jumped, her expression oddly guilty, as if she’d been doing something illicit, but her smile flashed spotlight bright. “Oh yes. Fine! We’re sold out tonight.”

  Unconvinced that she was as fine as she said, I stood on tiptoe to look over her shoulder. I saw Geoff, of course, right up front. The fire chief was there. Oh, and there was Nick from Nick’s Garage, along with a chunky, red-haired wife. I was surprised to see Kelli and Chris in the audience again tonight. Then I realized Lucinda’s gaze wasn’t targeted on any of these people. She was staring at a young woman alone in the back row. There wasn’t enough light to see the woman clearly, but I could see enough to flutter my toes. I knew I shouldn’t ask, but that curiosity gene got to me again.

  “Is that, uh, someone you know?” I asked cautiously.

  “The woman with dark hair in the third row? She looks familiar, doesn’t she? I think she’s someone’s granddaughter.”

  An adroit detour and a safe enough comment. Isn’t every woman someone’s granddaughter?

  “No, the one in the back row. With the long blond braid.”

  Lucinda gave me a sharp glance, spotlight smile turned off now. “Do you know her?”

  “She looks familiar.”

  “Yes, she does, doesn’t she?” Lucinda said in a tone that held enough acid to dissolve every hair in that blond braid.

  Before I could think what to say next, a frantic voice interrupted.

  “Lucinda, help! Stella is saying she can’t possibly wear that black dress again tonight! This afternoon someone told her it made her look like a hooker in mourning, and she’s all in a tizzy. I don’t know what to do!”

  “For goodness sake, who’d say such a terrible thing? And why? She looks great in that dress.”

  “I have no idea.” Charlotte threw up her hands in helpless exasperation. “Would you talk some sense into her? We have nothing else for her to wear. Nothing. She’s too short and chubby for any other dress in our wardrobe.”

  Thank you, Charlotte, I murmured silently, because Lucinda, distracted, rushed off to soothe Stella.

  I peered out again. No doubt about it. The young woman was definitely KaySue. What was she doing here? The Revue posters, of course. They’d been plastered all over Hayward, with Lucinda’s name as director in small print down near the bottom.

  Had KaySue come here with the idea of carrying out her threat, confronting Lucinda, and making her confess to killing Hiram? Did she intend to sit through the performance and then seek out her former rival? Or, remembering KaySue’s soup-tossing, fist-throwing temper, did she plan some spitfire drama backstage … or even onstage?

  Frantically I scrambled around the curtain, down the side steps, and up the aisle. The seats were now filling rapidly. By the time I reached KaySue, she’d moved down three rows. Oh yes, she had something in mind. I scooted in beside her.

  “KaySue!” I whispered.

  “Oh. You.” She gave me a look as if I were a sack of garbage that had just been dumped beside her. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m the props person for the show. What are you doing here?”

  “It’s a free country. I bought a ticket.” She held up a torn stub.

  “KaySue, I don’t know why you’re here tonight, but if it’s to cause Lucinda trouble, she didn’t kill Hiram—”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re afraid I might do something to mess up your big show!”

  I thought she might do something, all right. Anything from an onstage Perry Mason–type confrontation to a catfight in the aisle. “No, KaySue, it’s true. I found some papers and letters that I’m sure prove someone else did it. Someone who also set the fire at the house.”

  “Yeah?” she challenged. “Who?”

  “I can’t tell you yet. I haven’t told anyone yet. But I’m taking everything to the authorities soon. Very soon.”

  “Why haven’t you done it already?”

  “Because I didn’t want to ruin the Revue.”

  She gave me a look that would wither an oak tree. Not ruining the Revue was right up there with a Save the Cockroaches campaign on KaySue’s list of concerns. But then her head tilted with reluctant interest. “It’s someone else in the Revue?”

  “I can’t explain now, but please, KaySue, please don’t do anything awful tonight. Just enjoy the show. We’ve all worked very hard on it. A friend of mine does a great Will Rogers impersonation. And come Monday—”

  “Who’s Will Rogers?”

  Generation gap. I squelched a sigh. “An entertainer from a long time ago, someone I’m sure Hiram liked very much.”

  The music was starting. The seats were almost full, and people were settling down. Anticipation danced in the air.

  “Please, KaySue? Promise, no fireworks tonight, okay?”

  “Does this mean you don’t think I killed Hiram?”

  “Exactly! Not Lucinda, and not you either!”

  Paul Newman stepped out from behind the curtain. “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! So good to see you all here tonight!”

  I was out of time. I jumped up, gave KaySue a hopeful thumbs-up gesture, and hastily scurried to my position backstage.

  The show moved along nicely. The Three Stooges skit drew enthusiastic applause. The chorus line still wasn’t precision-perfect, but the big smiles and enthusiasm made up for any glitches in timing. I kept dashing over to the side of the stage to peer around the edge of the curtain at KaySue, still afraid she might do something drastic. Lucinda was busy keeping everyone organized, but once I spotted her peering around the curtain on the far side. Did she think KaySue had killed Hiram?

  Mac helped me get props on and offstage, but there was no time for personal conversation, and I was too busy checking on KaySue every few minutes. I did manage to give him a quick good-wishes kiss before he sauntered onstage. I claimed a good spot off to the si
de of the stage to watch. I didn’t want to miss a minute of this.

  “Howdy, folks.” He pushed back the hat. “You’re all lookin’ good!”

  Oh, that grin! Pure devastation. But I missed whatever he said next because Lucinda grabbed my arm. “Ivy, can you run upstairs and find another purse for Stella?” she whispered frantically. “Something’s happened to the one she’s supposed to carry, and she’s gone all prima donna and says she can’t go onstage without one. Charlotte has to fix a split seam before the next chorus-line number, and she’s about to go into orbit.”

  “But I don’t want to miss Mac!”

  “Oh, maybe I can get someone else.” Lucinda lifted her head and scanned the backstage crowd, frown lines cut into her forehead.

  Plenty of people were milling around, but the chorus-line ladies were all in costume and couldn’t go sneaking up the aisle through the audience, and everyone else looked occupied. Duty called.

  “Okay, I’ll go.” If I hurried, maybe I could get back before Mac’s performance was over. “Where can I find a purse?”

  “Maybe in that big old chest of drawers by the bed. There must be several that we’ve used in other years. And hurry!”

  My usual invisibility helped, and no one seemed to notice as I scurried up the side aisle. I peered back over my shoulder a couple of times. Mac was chatting in Will Rogers’s folksy style, doing his thing with the rope, acting mystified by its antics, and the audience loved it. I looked for KaySue but couldn’t see her, which made me wonder nervously if she’d sneaked off to do something drastic. I almost turned back, thinking I’d better warn Lucinda … but no time for that now. I’d tell her as soon as I got back. I hurried on out to the lobby and up the stairs.

  Upstairs, puffing from the fast climb, I raced for the chest of drawers. It stood at the foot of a bed they’d used in a scene in some other year. I started at the top drawer, frantically clawing through gloves and scarves. No purses.

  Second drawer was gourds. Gourds? Yes, a zillion gourds, rattling like some mariachi band gone berserk as I scrabbled through them. Wigs filled the third drawer. A wig with eyes? No, a mouse! I slammed the drawer shut.

  I knelt to get the bottom drawer open. Yes, purses! What color? Lucinda hadn’t said. I grabbed a red one. It would show up nicely against Stella’s black—

  The thought ended there. Vanished in a crashing thunder of whirling stars and something weighing me down and darkness …

  Darkness of length unknown, maybe a minute, maybe an hour. Then I was looking groggily at something that didn’t make sense. Two pointed black somethings. My dazed mind finally identified them as shoes, toes pointed upward. Now, that isn’t right, my mind argued dizzily. Toes don’t point up toward the ceiling …

  It got through to me. Those were my toes. I was lying on my back on the floor looking at them.

  No, not just lying … the floor was moving!

  Wrong. It was me moving. Someone, I realized, had hold of the back of my sweatshirt and was dragging me down the hallway.

  “Hey!” I protested. Gurgled, actually, because the front of the sweatshirt was pulled so tightly against my throat that I was almost choking. I clawed at it weakly.

  The dragging stopped. Fingers felt at my throat. Looking for a pulse, I realized. What had happened? Was I being rescued after some catastrophe? I had a vague memory of something crashing down on me. Building collapse? Earthquake?

  I heard a muttered grunt, not a particularly pleased-sounding grunt, and then the dragging started again. It felt faster than before, as if the person felt some new need for speed. But the person had a different grasp now, so the sweatshirt wasn’t quite so tight around my neck, and there was a certain dreamy pleasantness to the movement, no effort required. I had a new perspective on the faded wallpaper and scuffed baseboards. One piece of advice, however. If you’re going to be dragged around, wear something more substantial than thong panties.

  I was conscious enough to know I was being dragged, but not conscious enough to feel more than a puzzled bewilderment by what was going on. We must be headed toward the stairs. I felt a first twinge of alarm. Did this person intend to drag me bumping and bouncing right down the stairs?

  Indignantly I tried to protest. If you’ll just give me a minute to get my bearings, maybe I can walk. But my groggy brain and my tongue couldn’t seem to connect, and nothing but a garble came out.

  Then I realized something even more puzzling. We weren’t headed toward the stairs. We were headed the opposite direction, down the long hallway toward that old elevator shaft. Hey, no, turn around, this direction is a dead end! And it’s dangerous—The fog in my brain finally lifted, cleared by alarm over something more important than uncomfortable thong panties. What was going on here?

  Something had knocked me out. A blow to the head? No, I vaguely recalled something crashing down on me. The chest of drawers. Yes, that was it. The chest of drawers had accidentally fallen on me.

  Or not so accidentally?

  Twisting my head, I got a glimpse of the legs of the person dragging me. Dark pant legs.

  With sudden panic I tried to dig in my heels and elbows and stop this relentless drive toward the far end of the hall. Another grunt, and then a ruthless kick knocked my elbow out from under me. The dragging started again.

  And now I knew one thing for certain: this was no rescue.

  28

  Full consciousness blasted through. With it came realization of what was going on here. Chris Sterling must have spotted me coming up here alone. Somehow he knew or suspected I’d found those incriminating letters and decided he had to get rid of me. While I was searching for the purse, he’d sneaked in behind me, climbed on the bed behind the chest of drawers, and shoved it over on me. And he was planning a deadly fall for me, the same way he’d gotten rid of Hiram.

  I dug in my heels again, but all that happened was a shoe flew off and slammed into the wall. The dragging didn’t slow, though it was more jerky now, and his breathing was labored. Maybe he wasn’t in as good shape as he looked. Or maybe I’d put on a few pounds. But obviously not enough pounds to stop what he intended doing.

  Frantically I dug for the whistle caught under my sweatshirt. Norman had warned I might need it. If I could just alert someone to what was going on …

  There, I had it! I put it to my lips. I couldn’t blow strongly, given my awkward position, but in the empty hallway my blast made as much noise as a blaring siren. My dragger paused and grabbed at the whistle. He got both chains, the one for the whistle and the one for my necklace too. One chain alone might have broken when he yanked, but two held firm!

  “It … doesn’t … matter,” the dragger gasped, breathing hard from the effort of pulling me. “Blow all … you want! No one can hear you.”

  Unfortunately, that was correct. There was a kind of vibration coming up from below, applause perhaps, or maybe the chorus line doing their thing. I must have been out long enough for Mac’s performance to be over. In any case, any noise I made wasn’t going to reach anyone three stories below. Then a different kind of realization hit me.

  The voice wasn’t identifiable because of the gasped breaths, but it was definitely not Chris Sterling’s voice. It was female. I also caught a flowery scent that was not male. Perfume.

  Lucinda? KaySue? Kelli?

  I struggled to a sitting position. I swung around, and we stared at each other. She was leaning over to catch her breath, left hand on the thigh of her dark pants, right hand on the prop from some long-gone Revue.

  “You’re supposed to be fixing a split seam on a costume!”

  “A minor deception.” She gave me a wry smile. “Surprised?”

  I eyed the baseball bat as the pieces of this puzzle finally snapped into place. Great sleuth I was. Headed down the wrong trail entirely. “You made a mistake last time, didn’t you? You intended it to look like an accident, but the police could tell it was murder.”

  “Not this time.”

  No, t
his time she’d used a falling chest of drawers for the preliminary blow, something that probably wouldn’t look all that different than injuries from a fatal fall.

  “I really didn’t want to do anything to you, Ivy,” Charlotte said, her tone reproachful, as if I’d brought this on myself. “I rather like you. Although you’re much too nosy for your own good, of course.”

  “You invited us to stay at your place because you like me?”

  “Well, mostly I thought if you were at my place I could keep an eye on what you were up to.”

  “And have a private, convenient setting in which to get rid of me if you figured I was getting too close to the truth.”

  Charlotte sighed. “You’re putting such an ugly spin on this, Ivy. It’s just that I don’t have any choice now that you’ve found those letters from the bank about Chris. I can’t let you expose him any more than I could let Hiram do it, and I’m sure that’s what you intend to do.”

  “What makes you think I found anything?” I tried to sound innocent.

  She laughed. The woman is up to her elbows in murder and attempted murder, out of breath from dragging her latest victim, me, down a hallway, but she can laugh. “Oh, Ivy, you should have seen yourself. You looked so guilty sitting there at your desk clutching that book. I knew something was up. So I went back later and looked. I have a key to the building, you know.”

  “And you took the letters, I suppose.”

  “Of course. And now all I have to do is get rid of you.”

  Charlotte’s preference for Kelli over Suzy the florist as a daughter-in-law made dreadful sense now. There was the big danger, once Kelli took over Hiram’s legal affairs, that she’d discover the embezzlement. But Charlotte had figured that if Kelli was in love with, or better yet, married to Chris, she wouldn’t expose him.

  “And once you’re rid of me, no one will ever know your son is an embezzler.”

  “It isn’t fair to look at it that way!” Charlotte protested vigorously. “Chris is no embezzler. He just borrowed the money to take advantage of an incredible opportunity on some oil stocks. He intended to put it back. Everything would have been fine if old Hiram hadn’t decided he needed the money to buy this stupid building.” She banged the baseball bat against the floor, as if both the old hotel and Hiram were to blame for everything.