A Little Night Murder

by Nancy Martin

  I could have sworn I saw the tall, distinctive figure of Fred Fusby unlocking a side door. He slipped inside before I could be sure.

  Fred? Going back to the theater, the scene of the crime against the arts?

  I headed down the alley, passing litter and two parked taxicabs. The drivers were leaning against the trunk of the first car and eyed my shirt with amusement. They watched me go to the steel door marked STAGE DOOR. I tried the handle and found it hanging on the latch. Perhaps foolishly, I let myself into the old theater.

  A small backstage lobby lay just inside the door, illuminated by the exit sign and a single bare lightbulb swinging from the cracked ceiling. I breathed the musty scent of a large space left empty for long periods of time. A desk sat to the left of the door—the spot where the stage-door guard normally kept watch. Today, the chair was empty, the walkie-talkie abandoned. Beside the desk, a wide staircase ran up. Opposite the desk, a narrower staircase led down into darkness. Straight ahead was a velvet curtain. I peeked through it and saw the darkened auditorium of the theater. Only the light of the exit signs cast a dim glow across the rows of seats. The hushed silence of the big open space was eerie. Overhead, I saw the shadows of the private boxes and the looming curve of the upper balcony. There was no movement, however, and no sound. Not even the distant noise of the city penetrated the theater’s thick walls.

  I tugged the velvet curtain closed. Where had Fred gone? I had no intention of blundering around all by myself. But I steadied my breath and took a few tentative steps up the wide staircase to get the lay of the land. On a wide landing, I found myself standing just a few yards from the empty stage, where the remnants of the Bluebird of Happiness set were cast in dim light. I could see no human being on the stage.

  But if I looked up the rest of the flight of stairs, I could plainly see a hallway lined with a dozen open doors. Dressing rooms? A lone light was shining in the last room at the end of the corridor. I could hear Fred speaking to someone there. Quietly, I edged up the stairs toward his familiar voice. My sneakers made no noise on the smooth linoleum floor as I eased down the narrow hallway toward the light.

  When I reached the halfway point, I heard Boom Boom’s voice. She sounded even more warbly than before. And frightened.

  “Look, I brought food,” Fred was saying. He sounded weepy and apologetic. “It should make you feel better.”

  I fumbled my cell phone out of my bag, prepared to call 911. But a noise in the dark dressing room next to me nearly stopped my heart in my chest.

  A human voice. Strained. Muffled. Scared.

  Instinct told me someone needed help. With my pulse pounding, I leaned into the small room. On the floor, I could make out the shape of a chair knocked on its side. Tied to the chair was a person. Lying on her side on the floor, she strained to turn her head toward me.

  Bridget O’Halloran. Her mouth taped shut, her wrists and ankles bound with electrical cord. Her eyes were wide but flashing with fury.

  “Bridget!” I whispered, dropping to my knees and reaching to free her.

  She grunted and wriggled, jerking her head in the direction of the door. I got the message and quietly closed the door behind myself. In the dark, I scrabbled for the cell phone on the floor and turned it on. By the faint blue light of the screen, I could see well enough to try loosening the electrical cords wrapped around Bridget’s ankles. She wiggled angrily, and I realized she wanted the tape off her mouth.

  “I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered.

  From down the hall, I heard Fred say, “Did you hear something?”

  I froze. Bridget’s glare intensified, though, so I gingerly picked the edge of the tape from her cheek. When I got it loosened, I carefully tried to peel the tape back, but she gave an impatient jerk of her head that tore the tape from her mouth.

  She gasped, teeth clenched, then snapped as quietly as she could manage, “It took you long enough! Where have you been?”

  “Shh! I just—”

  “Never mind that now! Get me loose.”

  Again, we heard Fred speak. Then he walked out into the hallway. Both of us held as still as rabbits for an agonizing minute. We heard Fred return to Boom Boom’s dressing room and resume their conversation.

  “Damn,” Bridget whispered. “I gotta pee something awful! No, no, untie my wrists first.”

  I broke a nail, then another, as I pried the tight cords apart to free her hands. When I ripped the last loop away, she flexed her fingers and shook both hands to get the circulation going again. Then she contorted her body to help me untie her feet.

  “What happened?” I demanded as softly as I could while we worked together. “Why are you here? What’s going on? I hear Boom Boom and Fred—”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost noon.”

  “What day is this?”

  “Friday. How long have you—”

  “I got here Thursday afternoon,” Bridget reported. “I followed Poppy, that little stinker. I knew she was some kind of rat, and sure enough, she had Boom Boom here—”

  “Wait. Boom Boom is a prisoner?”

  “Yes. Poppy’s in cahoots with Fred to keep her here. I tried to get away, but most of the doors are locked around this joint. And then somebody hit me over the head in the dark, dammit. I almost conked out, it hurt so bad.” She used one hand to carefully touch her scalp, and she winced. “These people mean business, lemme tell you. They must have grabbed me while I was still confused. When I figured out what was going on, they had me tied to this chair. I knocked it over trying to get loose, and then—oh, man! Where’s the nearest bathroom in this hellhole? Do you know?”

  “We’ll find one. How badly are you hurt? Can you stand up?”

  “I’m fine. These people really piss me off!” Bridget was already clambering to her feet. She had lost her shoes. She reached down and hauled me to an upright position. “We gotta get out of here. If these maniacs get ahold of you, babycakes, Mick will be really mad at me.”

  “Fred’s here now,” I whispered. “He’s talking to Boom Boom.”

  “Gotcha.” Bridget eased open the door and peeked out. “Stay here. I’m going to find a john, and then we’ll blow this joint!”

  “I’m coming with you,” I said firmly. “While you’re in the bathroom, I’ll call 911.”

  We scampered silently back down the hall. Well, Bridget scampered. I lumbered. We went down the steps, and she darted through the velvet curtain into the empty theater. With my phone in one hand, I went after her. But I heard a thunk and assumed she’d fallen in the gloom, so I blundered through the curtain to rescue her, only to have my phone knocked from my hand.

  Then Poppy Fontana swung a long aluminum pole like a baseball bat, aiming for my head. I ducked back through the curtain and instinctively used the fabric to entangle the pole.

  Bridget cursed, and then Poppy cried out as if injured.

  Bridget burst back through the curtain and grabbed my hand. “Let’s go!”

  Bridget dragged me up the three wide steps and out onto the shadowy stage. I staggered clumsily in her wake until we reached the back of the stage, where a series of ropes ran upward into the gloom over our heads. Each rope was tied with nautical precision around what looked like an upside-down bowling pin. Bridget grabbed one of the ropes.

  “Here,” she said, thrusting my arm through a strap attached to the rope. “Hold on and don’t let go. This will all be over in a second.”

  “What will be over?” I cried. Because I could see Poppy dashing out onto the stage in pursuit of us, the lethal pole in her hands.

  Bridget grabbed the other strap with one hand and used her other arm to get a solid grip around me—holding me firmly by my armpit. I felt the bottom fall out of my stomach as she kicked the bowling pin with one foot, knocking the lever sideways.

  Instantly, we were off ou
r feet and propelled upward into the darkness, ropes hissing around us as we took off as if on a rocket. My feet sailed sideways in midair. I screamed.

  “Take it easy! It’s the old fly loft,” Bridget said breathlessly as we zoomed smoothly up. “Just hang on.”

  I had no intention of letting go. I saw the stage grow smaller and we jetted upward, then jerked to a stop with our heads just a few feet from a grimy steel beam. We dangled there for a heartbeat, high above the stage.

  “Hope you’re not afraid of heights.” Bridget angled herself sideways and found a ledge with her bare foot. “There’s a place to stand here. Feel it?”

  “I won’t fit!” I cried, unable to suck in a breath of air. “I’m too big!”

  “You’re not going to fall,” Bridget said sternly. “I won’t let you. Keep your head, babycakes. Put your feet over here. No, here, feel it?”

  I found the ledge with both sneakers, but I was afraid to let go of the strap around my wrist. I panted. “We’re going to be trapped up here.”

  “We’re not trapped. I know my way around a theater. C’mon, I thought you had more nerve than this.”

  Her words stiffened my spine. I had a lot of nerve. But I was afraid for Baby Girl. The stage was at least thirty feel below us—maybe more. If I fell, both Baby Girl and I would be seriously hurt. I edged onto the ledge, which turned out to be a metal catwalk high above the stage. Finally, I let go of the strap and clamped both hands around the catwalk’s thin metal railing. “Now what?”

  “This way.” She jerked her head to the right. “I think.”

  “You think?”

  “There’s always a way out to the roof from a catwalk.”

  “The roof!”

  From far below, Poppy Fontanna shouted, “You might as well come down here, you two. I know you’re up there. All I have to do is cut this rope, and you’ll be flatter than Boom Boom’s singing!”

  Out of the side of her mouth, Bridget said to me, “Who’s calling who flat?”

  “Wait.” I caught Bridget’s arm.

  From our vantage point, we could hear more voices, and soon Boom Boom came lurching into view. On her skinny blue legs and wearing fuzzy slippers, she could hardly keep her balance. She looked weaker than ever. She still wore elaborate stage makeup, but it had melted down her face, making her look like an old, sad blue clown.

  Beside her, Poppy steamed with fury. She had lost her wig, but her anger was enough to send her pacing around the stage. Then the performance lights blazed on, and Fred hurried into view, wiping tears with his handkerchief. He looked decades older than when I’d last seen him. All three of them put their hands to their foreheads to peer through the bright lights to where we had disappeared.

  Perched on the catwalk beside me, Bridget whispered, “They can’t see us up here in the dark.”

  “I told them to come down,” Poppy said to her cohorts, her voice carrying easily up to us. “I don’t know what they think they’re going to do up there. Take a nap or something?”

  Fred gave a sob. “Everything’s come unraveled. We should get our passports and go to Cuba.”

  “What good will that do?” Boom Boom quavered. “Nobody’s ever heard of Toodles there. We’ll never get this show off the ground if there’s no audience.”

  “You old fool,” Poppy snapped. “This show closed before it opened! If you hadn’t killed Jenny, we’d be halfway to Broadway by now. But you ran scared.”

  “She was going to tell!” Boom Boom whined. “She was going to ruin everything for us. Who’d want to see a show written by a nobody? Besides, she tried to kill me first! She almost poisoned me to death! How am I going to make my comeback if I’m blue?”

  “Comeback,” Poppy spat. “The only place you’ll ever see your stupid name in lights is in a courtroom.”

  “Take it easy on her, Poppy.” Fred’s voice broke. “You’re only making things worse.”

  “And you!” Poppy swung on him wrathfully. “You had to go bake a poison cake and bump off poor old Higgie! What a dumb plan! Who made things worse?”

  “She knew everything,” Fred moaned. “She was going to tell the police what Boom Boom did. She was going to end the show for sure.”

  “Shut up,” Poppy said. She looked up into the darkness again, her face hard. “This show isn’t over yet. It’s still my best chance to get back on Broadway. We need to get those two snoops down here and shut them up. Anybody got a gun?”

  Bridget whispered, “That’s an exit cue if I ever heard one. Let’s go.”

  Poppy said, “Fred, there’s got to be a gun in the stage-door desk. Go get it.”

  I said, “I—I’m not sure I can move my hands.”

  “Sure you can.” Bridget pried my fingers loose.

  She pulled me along the catwalk. Below us on the stage, the three conspirators went on trying to decide how to lure us down. Fred disappeared, but I was too concerned about keeping my feet on solid metal to worry about him.

  When we reached the end of the catwalk, Bridget cursed. “No exit here,” she said.

  Her voice sounded different. I whispered, “Are you okay?”

  “I gotta pee something fierce. But we have to go back the other way. And I can’t get past you, so you’ll have to lead.”

  I edged along the catwalk, my hand clamped to Bridget’s. Once I thought I felt her lose her balance.

  “Keep going,” she urged when I faltered. “Here,” she said at last. “See it?”

  I looked up and spotted what looked like a hatch in a submarine—a small, square door in the grimy ceiling with a red lever attached. The lever was secured by a padlock.

  Bridget groaned. “It can’t be locked!”

  But it was.

  “Wait a minute,” I said. I felt around the edges of the hatch with my fingers. The narrow rim was filthy, but I kept blindly reaching until my hand struck a small hook. I could feel a key hanging from it. “The door must be locked from the inside so nobody can break in from the roof. Here.”

  I lifted the key off the hook. But at that moment, Bridget lost her balance. She made a funny sound in her throat. I gasped and turned to her. Her face looked slack and sweaty. I tried to steady her, but her knees buckled. In the dark, she suddenly sank down on the catwalk.

  “I’m okay,” she insisted. “Just a little light-headed.”

  “Bridget, you’re hurt!”

  “I’ll be okay,” she insisted, but gingerly felt her scalp. “My head hurts like hell. Just—hurry up and get us out of here, will you?”

  I reached up and inserted the key into the padlock. It sprang open. I dropped the padlock over the catwalk and heard it hit the stage a moment later. I pulled on the door’s red lever, but it was stuck fast. I had to swing on it, using my weight to break the lever free. Finally, it popped with a clang.

  From the stage, Poppy shouted up at us, “Come down out of there!” Then, “Hurry up and load that thing, Fred.”

  Bridget pulled herself upright. “As soon as you open the door, the sunlight will come in. They’ll be able to see us. So make it quick.”

  I gulped down my fear and shoved up on the hatch with all my strength. It flew open and crashed onto the roof. Sunlight blazed down on us, and I was sure we were sitting ducks. That knowledge should have instantly sent me scrambling up the narrow ladder and through the small door, but I couldn’t maneuver my bulky body. The ladder was too narrow. The hatch looked too small. I tried to get my feet onto the steps, but I slipped and fell back. If not for Bridget, I might have gone careening over the metal handrail and plunged to my death.

  I said, “I can’t make it. You go first.”

  “I’ll pull you up,” she promised.

  I grabbed her foot just as I often did when I boosted Emma into a saddle. I realized Bridget wasn’t as nimble as she’d been a few minutes ago. She was weak
er, too. But she gamely grabbed the ladder and heaved herself up through the open hatch.

  We heard shouts from below. I wasn’t sure if it was Poppy ordering Fred to use the gun or what, but I knew my life was in danger—and Baby Girl’s, too. When Bridget put her hand down to me, I seized it. I swung wide, gasping, but with her help, I managed to struggle up the ladder. It was a tight squeeze through the hatch. Suddenly I was out in the sunshine, sprawled on my hands and knees in some gritty black mess, gasping fresh air, dizzy from the bright light.

  Beside me, Bridget collapsed. She fell to her knees first, then toppled down like a sack of potatoes, out cold.

  “Bridget? Bridget!”

  I staggered up and slammed the hatch closed again. If Poppy and Fred were armed, I didn’t want them climbing out of there to shoot at us on the roof.

  “Bridget? Bridget? Wake up!” I tapped her cheek, but her eyes rolled up, and her head lolled. She was flat on her back, arms and legs askew, her body inert. Her hair was a tangled mess, and I could see the gloss of dark blood on her scalp.

  And it was hot on the flat roof. Very hot. The summer sun beat down on the gelatinous goo that made up the roof’s waterproof material, which radiated a wet heat so intense that I could hardly draw a breath.

  I looked around. Other buildings surrounded the theater—but the closest ones were smaller. Nobody could see us. The taller buildings were too far away to hail. I forced myself to cross the roof to the edge—sneakers sticking to the tarlike roof—and I looked down at the street below. My head spun as I gripped the top of the stone railing and peered over the edge of the theater. Bizarrely, I felt as if I might get sucked over the side of the building. But I had no choice. I had to shout for help. It was up to me to call for assistance.

  I yelled and waved my arms. Pedestrians kept passing by. Vehicles moved up and down Broad Street without stopping. I shouted. I shouted some more. Finally, someone looked up. Someone else used a cell phone. At last, a police car pulled to the curb. A knot of people gathered below me. Eventually, a fire truck arrived, lights spinning, siren screaming. Only then did I stop shouting.