“I’ll do the crawling around and dirty work. Maybe you could find a flashlight? Better to leave off the house lights.”
Lola produced a utility lantern and we made our way furtively to the stage. Everything was as it had been since the last time I was in the theater. The flashlight sent eerie shadows dancing around the curtains and on the wall that divided the turntable into Acts One and Two. Lola provided illumination as I made my way to the location of the murder. I slipped under the yellow crime scene tape and knelt slowly, examining the wooden floor. I avoided the conspicuous dark stain and focused on the furniture that had been sitting on the stage both before and after the killing. Chair by chair I worked my way across the turntable, picking them up, feeling around the seams of the seats and checking the undersides.
“Find anything?” Lola stage-whispered.
“Nothing yet.” The CSI unit had, no doubt, done a thorough job of scrutinizing the area where the body was found, the area that functioned as the graveyard for the second act of Eton Town. I sat on the floor and scanned the turntable once more. Examining this part of the stage presupposed that Gordon Weeks wasn’t in any other part of the theater. But Sally was a theater geek; she understood stage etiquette, despite Penny’s assumption that anyone new to the ELT was totally uninformed. I’d heard Penny often enough warn actors to stay off the stage before and after rehearsal. Sally might have heeded this advice and intended to meet with Gordon Weeks elsewhere in the theater. Except that he was dying when she got here.
“What are you doing?” Lola asked nervously.
“Sally said she walked into the theater and came up to the stage. Of course, no one knows if Gordon Weeks was anywhere else in the theater. Just that he died on the stage,” I said.
“Maybe we should get out of here,” Lola said.
“Okay.” There didn’t seem to be any point to searching the rest of the theater if Sally was telling the truth. “While we’re here, let’s take a look around for the photograph Sally claimed she dropped that afternoon. She’s really anxious to get it back.”
“Let’s hurry,” Lola said quickly, waving her flashlight across the stage floor. “What’s it look like?”
“Three-inch square. Folded in half, according to Sally. She said she probably dropped it when she ran out of the theater.”
“That makes it easy. Let’s scan the aisles and see if we find anything.” Lola hurried up the left aisle.
“Sounds good.” I treaded softly around the crime scene tape and joined her.
“I don’t see anything,” she said. “Which aisle did she run up when she left the theater? Left or right?”
I closed my eyes and tried to visualize that afternoon. Sally frantic, my confusion at her appearance, her disappearing from the stage, my tripping in my colonial outfit…I stiffened. I never actually saw Sally run through the house. I had fallen forward and when I looked up she was gone. I assumed she’d run through the house. I hurried back onstage. “Come on!” I yelled to Lola.
“What? Where to?”
“The emergency escape.” I knew about the relatively hidden hallway that ran from the backstage to the lobby since I’d used it during the sting to catch Jerome’s killer last April.
Lola flicked the flashlight over the Act One furniture stacked in a haphazard pile by the main drape. “Penny left the scenery in a mess,” Lola mumbled.
The unmarked door in the offstage right wing creaked when it opened, a musty, damp smell permeating the air.
“We never use this. I even forget about it.” Lola waved her hands over her head briskly to bat down cobwebs. It was a week’s worth of cardio. “Doesn’t seem like anybody’s been in here.”
“Let me have the flashlight.” I swung the light back and forth, skimming the cement floor and cinder block walls. Lola was right. It didn’t look as though anyone had been moving through this area. Of course, a shorter person could run the length of the escape and leave most of the cobwebs undisturbed.
Lola scurried after me. “You think she left the theater through here? Would Sally know about this escape?”
“All of the actors know about it.” In the past, I’d seen a few sneaking out of rehearsal via this hallway. I shined the flashlight ahead of me and lit up the door at the end of the passageway, the one that opened into the lobby. I didn’t see anything, not a scrap of paper, or food wrapper, or soda can. “Might as well check out the other entrance,” I said, and Lola followed me to the end of the escape.
I took a look at the floor. Something caught the light from the lantern. Something pale in color that lay flush to the cinder block wall. I crouched down. It was a small photograph, dog-eared and creased where someone had folded it. “Got it,” I said.
“The photo?” Lola asked.
I trained the light on its surface: a young couple smiling and holding each other. They looked very happy staring into the camera.
Lola leaned over my shoulder. “Who are they?”
“I have no idea but Sally was dying to get it back.”
A door slammed in the lobby. I jumped up. Archibald was supposed to be in New York, according to Edna.
“Oh no!” Lola gasped.
“Shh! Let’s stay put for a minute. It’s the safest place,” I said and stuffed the picture into my pants pocket.
We hunkered down. Someone was opening and closing doors in the lobby—the office, the box office, the entrance into the house. We had to get out of there. When everything was quiet for thirty seconds, I inched the door open. The lobby was dark, save for the security light.
I motioned to Lola. “Let’s go. Whoever it was is either gone or on the stage.”
She nodded and tiptoed into the lobby behind me. We had crossed the distance between the escape and the theater office, and I was congratulating myself that we had avoided an altercation with Archibald, when, without warning, a piercing shriek split the silence.
“Aaaah!” we yelled in unison. I braced myself for the worst and Lola put up her hands as if we were caught in a robbery.
“Hold it!” a familiar voice screamed.
The lobby lights flashed on. I blinked. “Penny?”
“Lola?” Penny said, whistle in hand. “What are you doing here?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked in return.
She shoved her glasses up her nose. “I asked you first.”
Lola stammered, “We…uh…”
I jumped in. “We were in the office and thought we heard some noise backstage,” I said.
Penny looked skeptical. “O’Dell, you’re not supposed to be in the theater.”
Lola had regained her composure. “Penny, you shouldn’t be in the theater either.”
“Walter wants me to keep my ears open. After all, I am the production manager.” She eyed us smugly. “Now that they’re releasing the body, maybe we can get this show onto the road again.”
“They’re releasing the body?” I asked. “How do you know?” Bill hadn’t said anything to me.
Penny zipped up her jacket. “Keeping my ears on the ground.” She chuckled. “I also heard some of the ELT actors are auditioning for the Creston Players. Guess that’s show…” She shot a look at Lola and stopped herself. “I’m outta here. Lock up.”
Lola and I watched Penny exit the lobby.
Red spots appeared on Lola’s cheeks. She was fired up. “That does it. I’m calling Walter and the board and the police department. I refuse to lose the membership of the Etonville Little Theatre to the Creston Players. I don’t care what production they are doing and who died on the ELT stage. I’m not going down without a fight.”
“You go, girl. I have to stop by Snippets in the morning, but let’s meet up afterwards to see Bill together.”
We made plans, wrapped up, and braced ourselves for the wintry night; the wind had subsided, the sky was a clear, inky black
, and the remnants of the earlier snow shower had stuck to the sidewalk. I said good-bye to Lola, peeked into the darkened Windjammer, where Henry had indeed closed up early, and cranked the engine of my Metro. The picture I’d found in the corridor was burning a hole in my pocket. Who were those two people and why was Sally so eager to have it back?
Swathed in my terry cloth robe, sweatpants, and wool socks, and fortified with a glass of chardonnay and a jar of peanut butter, I was ready to work at my kitchen table. First I wanted to check out Gordon Weeks’s arrest for attempted burglary in 1997 in the Louisburg Square of Beacon Hill. My digging revealed that it was one of the most prestigious addresses in Boston, and one of the most expensive residential neighborhoods in the United States. In recent years, townhouses sold for over ten million dollars. Whew!
I googled the Boston Globe and discovered I had to subscribe online to have access to its archives. I followed through and searched the Metro section for a 1997 burglary in Beacon Hill. It was tedious work, scrolling month by month through articles. I had just begun the October archive. My eyes were scratchy, weary from staring at the screen. I yawned. It was almost midnight and I was starting to think this was a wild goose chase. But I was determined to finish 1997 so I traded my wine glass for a mug of hot tea and settled in again.
Forty minutes later I was approaching the last week of December. Then I saw it. December 24, 1997. Bingo! A man named Gordon Weeks was arrested for a forced entry through the back door of a Greek Revival townhouse in Louisburg Square. When arrested, the perpetrator was in possession of personal items belonging to the occupants of the house who were out of town at the time. Personal items? My eyes popped open and I was exhausted no longer. The house belonged to Olivia Holmes Oldfield and Charles Oldfield who lived there with Olivia’s mother and her three-year-old daughter, Sara. Purely coincidence? That Sally was a suspect in the killing of a man who had attempted to rob her home when she was a child? Did she have a connection to Gordon Weeks even though she claimed she didn’t know him?
A dull ache was growing at the back of my skull. I swallowed two aspirin to quell the throbbing, but questions continued to pile up: What exactly was going on here? I ran to my bedroom and retrieved the picture from my pants pocket. I dug out my magnifying glass from a miscellaneous drawer in the kitchen and scooted into bed under my down comforter, photo and magnifier in hand.
The picture was unremarkable. A young man and woman, probably in their early twenties, grinning animatedly. Both wore dressy outfits: He was in a suit and tie, she in a beige dress with a lacy bodice. It had to be spring or fall. No outerwear.
I adjusted the glass and pored over every detail. In the background were a set of steps, that fronted a large building, and people who moved behind the couple seemed oblivious to the photography. Doubled over, it was small enough to fit inside a wallet. Someone had carried this with them for years, maybe folding and unfolding, possibly staring at it endlessly. For some reason, I felt sad studying the picture. Who were these people and why had someone treasured it for so long? And what was its significance to Gordon Weeks and Sally? Given its condition, someone had hung onto the photo for dear life. I hesitated texting Sally, knowing that Bill and Archibald were now keeping an eye on her. Facebook was my only option. I private messaged her: I have the photo. Who are they?
I set the picture aside and turned out the light.
22
“Maybe Sally was a little…” One of the Banger sisters twirled her forefinger next to her ear in the universal sign for “crazy.”
Takes one to know one.
“But murdering a poor homeless man? Who would do such a thing?” said the other.
“Number one, she hasn’t been arrested for murder. Only questioned about her whereabouts in the theater that day. And number two…” I scanned the group waiting eagerly for any nugget of gossip I could offer. The Banger sisters, Mildred, Georgette, Carol, and Snippets’ staff—Rita and Imogen—surrounded me. It would be pointless for the nth time to repeat that Gordon Weeks was not a homeless man. “Well, let’s stick with number one.”
“I knew some Weeks from Bernridge,” Imogen, the shampoo girl, said helpfully, cracking her chewing gum. Everyone looked at her with interest, nodding their heads approvingly; maybe there was some connection to Gordon.
“Sally had a lovely singing voice,” said Mildred. “I was glad she was in the chorus of Eton Town.”
“Well, I liked her. She gave me a huge tip last time,” said Rita, assistant manager at the salon.
“She certainly could afford to,” said Georgette. “She’s worth millions.”
A brief pause while the women contemplated the magnitude of having a chorus member of the ELT wealthy enough to buy the theater lock, stock, and barrel.
“I liked her too.” I smiled at Rita and corrected myself. “I guess I should say I like her. She’s still with us.”
“For the time being,” said the first Banger sister ominously.
“Okay, ladies, let’s get shampooed.” Carol broke up the grapevine, Imogen escorted the sisters to the sinks in the rear of the salon, and Rita started in on Mildred’s hair.
“Let’s talk up here. I have a minute,” Carol said and motioned for me to follow her to the reception desk.
The shop would be busier in half an hour. But at the moment Carol could afford to take a short break.
“I can see that the scuttlebutt on Sally has made the rounds,” I said.
“That’s all anyone can talk about. Sally murdering that Gordon Weeks. Even if she is just a ‘person of interest.’ But that’s not why I had you come here.”
I sat on a stool behind the counter. “Okay. Give.”
“Remember when I said she talked about taking a cruise next month?” Carol asked.
“Sure.”
“And she said maybe her father was coming to the show?”
“Right.”
“There was one thing I forgot and I only remembered it when I read the article in the Etonville Standard about how Sally was from Boston and had this unbelievable background and her family came over on the Mayflower and then they lived on Beacon Hill and—”
“Carol!”
“Okay. So I’m rethinking that morning in the shop,” Carol said.
“The day Eton Town was supposed to open,” I reminded her.
“Yes. She received a phone call as she was on her way out.” Carol lowered her voice. “I couldn’t help overhearing even though she tucked herself away in the corner.” Carol pointed to a small waiting area with padded benches, shelves of cosmetic products, and a stack of magazines.
“What did you hear?” I could feel a shot of adrenaline kickstart my nervous system.
“Sally said something that sounded like ‘I want to be alone’ or ‘leave me alone’ or something like that. Then I heard ‘at the theater.’ And before she ended the call, I ducked my head so it wouldn’t look like…you know…” she said.
“Like you were eavesdropping?” I prompted her.
“That’s right. And Sally said ‘I don’t care about the money,’” Carol said. “It was the money part that I remembered after I saw the article.”
“You’re sure? She said ‘I don’t care about the money?’”
Carol nodded. “Do you think she was talking to Gordon Weeks?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going to have to tell the chief. He may want to interview you,” I said. Had Bill confiscated Sally’s cell phone to track her calls?
Carol’s revelation added fuel to the Gordon Weeks fire. Maybe she was negotiating with him to stay away from her. And offering him money to do so. Still she had agreed to meet him at the theater later.
Lola and I had decided to meet at the Municipal Building at nine thirty. I’d stayed at Snippets longer than I’d anticipated and now had to hurry. I parked on a side street that was clear of snow drifts and avo
ided patches of ice as I made my way to the police department. My head was tucked into my scarf to dodge the gusts of cold air that were blowing through Etonville, so when I yanked on the front door, I didn’t see Archibald opening it from the other side.
“Somebody’s in a hurry,” he said, a cocky smile on his clean-shaven face. A shirt, tie, and overcoat had replaced his leather jacket and jeans. Only his signature cowboy boots remained.
“A meeting with Bill,” I said in what I hoped was a friendly, neutral fashion.
“He’s waiting for you.”
Was that a look of triumph? I’d texted Bill last night that Lola and I wanted to meet with him this morning. I couldn’t help myself. “Liking your new digs?”
“The rooming house? Not bad.” His eyes narrowed as if he knew what I was up to. “Good vantage point for keeping an eye on things.”
“Like Sally?” I asked.
“You’d better talk with Bill.” My heart dropped into my stomach as he tilted his head and observed me. “Maybe Bill should hire you full-time. It would be simpler than trying to keep tabs on you too.” He grinned.
What did that mean? Before I could offer a retort, Archibald turned up his collar and climbed into his Ford. I entered the Municipal Building and spied Lola at dispatch chatting with Edna.
“Hi, you two.” I rubbed my hands together. “The chief in?”
“Yep. I told him you were here.” Her headset crackled. “I think it’s good news-bad news,” she said with an arched eyebrow.
Lola and I leaned into the dispatch window. I was afraid to hear.
“The case is about to be closed, which is good for the theater. But it looks like Sally—”
“Edna!” Bill had entered the hallway.
“Yes, chief?” She slipped on her headset.
“Where’s Ralph?” he asked.
“Anderson and Main. There’s an 11-66 and he’ll need to direct traffic,” Edna said.
“Forget the defective signal. Have him call in to Suki for another assignment.”
“Copy that, chief.” Edna went to work.
Running Out of Time Page 20
