by Vicki Delany
“The festival is important to me, I have to admit,” Rebecca said. “There’s so much competition with so many other theater companies, it’s hard to stand out. I needed something—someone—to set us apart from all the rest. To my delight, Sir Nigel tentatively accepted my offer to appear in The Hound, pending his recovery from an illness.”
“From a stint in rehab, more like it,” Harry said.
She stared him down. “I didn’t know that, now did I?”
Harry shrugged.
“Perhaps not,” I said, “but you quickly realized he wouldn’t do your production any good. As you pointed out, competition is tough. A couple of bad reviews—even worse, mocking reviews—would be a disaster.”
Rebecca’s eyes blazed enough fire to match the light off her diamonds. “I’ll admit I was somewhat disappointed when I met Nigel. But I can survive. My livelihood doesn’t depend on this theater.”
“No, but your reputation, as you see it, does.”
She sputtered, but I turned my attention to Pat. “You weren’t happy with him in the role right from the beginning.”
“That’s also not exactly a secret. I knew no one would cast him anymore and why. He’d be a disaster, as you said, movie or stage. Yes, I wanted Eddie all along, but Rebecca insisted. She’s the boss, after all, the one with the deep pockets.”
Eddie grinned and lifted his glass in a salute.
I studied the stage. Some of the actors looked delighted at the news that they were about to become film stars. A few didn’t appear to much care. Most of the crew were grinning from ear to ear at the prospect of union-scale wages.
“You,” I said to Eddie, “knew about this proposed movie deal, didn’t you?”
“Me?” His big smile faded. “I had no idea until now.”
“That’s not what you told my friend Jayne. You said this was your chance at the big time.”
“I was trying to impress her.” He glanced around the stage. “Don’t tell me none of you have ever tried to make things sound more important than they are to impress a date?”
“Never!” Andy said, sneaking a sideways peek at Jayne.
“Impress is one thing,” I said, “but no one would logically conclude that a role in a play in a barn, as successful as it might be, would lead to great things. Yes, you knew. You also would have known that understudies don’t get a chance at the brass ring, as long as they’re trapped in the role of understudy.”
“I . . .”
“Renee, you knew, didn’t you?”
The actress tossed back her glass of wine. “So what if I did? I wasn’t ever going to get the starring role, now was I?”
“No, but you wouldn’t have a movie role at all if there was no movie because Leo wouldn’t do it with Nigel in the role of Sherlock.”
“Leo has Hollywood written all over him,” Harry said. “I had an inkling something was up. I didn’t expect it would have anything to do with me. I figured he was here looking to cast someone in a movie.”
“Any idea who that someone might be?” I asked.
“Eddie, of course.”
“Hey!” Eddie said. “Don’t start accusing me.”
“He could have been interested in me, you know,” Renee said. “I’m not chopped liver here.”
“You can count me out,” Tanya said. “I’m finished with the movies, and I don’t want any part of it. I agreed to this to give me something to do. You’ll have to cast someone else in my roles.”
“As far as I’ve determined,” I said, “prior to this evening, three people knew for sure why Leo was here, apart from Leo himself. Eddie, Renee, and Pat. But . . . only one of them knew about it on the day of the tea. The day Sir Nigel died.”
“Hey!” Eddie said.
“You’re off your rocker, lady,” Renee said.
“Do tell,” Harry said.
“I’ve had enough of this,” Pat said. “In case you’ve all forgotten, we have a performance to put on tomorrow. Someone close those bottles and get rid of the glasses. This party is over.”
“Pat told Renee when she was in the hospital after her . . . food poisoning incident. Presumably as way of encouraging her to get over her blues. Renee then told Eddie, in what was probably an attempt to distract him from his amorous pursuit of Jayne Wilson. Only after Renee’s bout of food poisoning did Eddie start talking about this play being his big chance.”
“As if I care what he gets up to.” Renee couldn’t help glaring in the direction of my friend.
“Pat spent a lot of time at the tea with Leo,” I said. “Fussing over him, even.”
“I was attempting to be a good hostess,” the director replied. A light layer of sweat was beginning to appear on her face. She shifted uncomfortably on her heels, and her eyes darted nervously around the stage, doing everything they could to avoid mine.
“Most commendable, I’m sure. At what point, Leo, did you tell Pat you were not going forward with the deal?”
“When the drunken fool couldn’t even finish one line. I had my doubts about him anyway. I wanted a fresh face.” A glance at Eddie. “My backers want Holmes to be a young athletic man, not an old codger past his time. I came here intending to suggest that Nigel be given a lesser role. Barrymore, perhaps.”
“He never would have agreed,” Gerald protested. “He would have regarded that as an enormous insult.”
“So he would,” I said. “I think we can agree with Gerald that Sir Nigel would have refused.”
“Pat told me Rebecca was adamant that Nigel have the role,” Leo said. “She suggested we put on a special performance for the filming with Eddie playing Holmes. Without seeing Nigel’s contract, I couldn’t agree to that. My backers were having cold feet as it was. I told Pat I was going to have to withdraw the offer.”
He paused. No one said a word. Pat’s face had gone completely white.
I turned to the director. “Rebecca realized Nigel wasn’t going to work out. If you’d waited a little longer, she would have agreed to replace him.”
Pat wiped her hands on the side of her dress and glanced around the room. We were a strange assortment: actors in nineteenth-century costumes, the crew in jeans and T-shirts, Rebecca in satin and diamonds, Jayne and her mother and I in our best clothes, the men with their suits and ties. But we all had one thing in common: everyone watched Pat Allworth.
“All I’ve worked for,” Pat said at last, “all I’ve ever wanted was to direct a film that played to a larger audience than a backwater film festival. And it was going to be ruined by some aging actor who should have died years ago, and no doubt would soon enough.”
“So you did something about that,” I said.
The look she gave me was one of pure hatred. Then she faced the watching crowd. “Things may have worked out to my satisfaction, but I guess I was just lucky. Let’s get out of here. We have a performance to put on tomorrow, people.”
I let out a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I’d lost. I’d been so sure of myself, so confident in my reasoning, I’d played all my cards, expecting Pat to simply confess. As if life was a classic English crime novel and I was Sherlock Holmes or Lord Peter Wimsey.
Pat Allworth smirked at me.
Ryan Ashburton stepped out of the shadows. “I’ve been noticing your shoes, Ms. Allworth.”
What the heck?
All the blood drained from Pat’s face. I looked at Ryan, his face set into determined lines. I looked at Pat’s feet. At the black mesh shoes with gold stars fastened to the stiletto points.
“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me, Ms. Allworth,” Ryan said. “I’ve been wondering what created that unusual star pattern I saw at the crime scene.”
Chapter 16
“That was interesting,” Donald said. “Now are we going to supper?”
“I want the film dedicated to the memory of Sir Nigel,” Gerald said. “A portion of the profits paid into his estate would be a kind gesture.”
Renee pul
led out her phone. “I’m calling my agent right now. We’ll be renegotiating contracts here.”
“I don’t want anyone forgetting that we have a sold-out performance tomorrow,” Rebecca said. “For now, all this movie stuff is incidental. The stage play is the most important thing.”
“Are you still going ahead with it, Leo?” Eddie said. “I mean without Pat?”
Leo threw up his hands. “I have to talk to my backers. ‘There’s no such thing as bad publicity,’ as we all know. But some of my sponsors might not be so confident. The news that Pat Allworth killed—”
“Allegedly killed,” I said. “Such has not yet been proven in a court of law.”
“My partners will not be making a distinction, Ms. . . . Ah . . .”
“Doyle.”
“That Pat killed, allegedly or not, Sir Nigel Bellingham in order to see this film get made will be all anyone in LA or New York will be talking about tomorrow. Some people might think it’s in poor taste to carry on with it.”
“Poor taste.” Harry laughed. “When did that ever stop anyone from making a movie?”
Ryan had left a few minutes ago with a handcuffed Pat Allworth. She had not protested her innocence or claimed she’d been misunderstood but walked offstage with her head down and her hands behind her back. Ryan told me I’d be needed at the police station tomorrow to make a statement.
He also told me, not in words, that he had something to say to me.
Leslie had followed them out, saying she’d give Ryan’s mother a lift home. One by one, the actors and stage crew drifted away, most of them shaking their heads.
Eddie snatched a bottle of wine out of the cooler and held it up. “Care for a nightcap, Jayne?”
She glanced at Andy, standing by her side. “I don’t think so. Right now I need to be with my friends.”
“Understood,” the actor said, pouring himself a drink.
“The news that Sir Nigel didn’t die in a senseless accident but that he was murdered by his own director should send the value of his memorabilia through the roof,” Donald said. “Too bad you didn’t purchase my playbill, Gemma. I wonder if Rebecca would be agreeable to giving it back.”
“She bought it, did she?” Grant said. “In that case, the first round’s on you. Is the Blue Water Café still open, Andy?”
“I’ll make sure it is.” He touched Jayne’s shoulder. “That’s if you want to come for a drink, Jayne?”
“Great idea.” She gave him a big smile, and the one he returned was almost dazzling in its intensity.
Overhead lights began to go off.
We filed out. Behind me, I heard Eddie say, “It’s been quite a night. Feel like a drink, Renee?”
The barn was dark and empty. Only the emergency lighting and one lamp over the door broke the gloom.
All the magic was gone, leaving nothing but an old barn at night.
* * *
I joined my friends at the Blue Water Café for one drink but declined to stay for dinner. They peppered me with questions about when and how I’d come to realize that Pat Allworth had murdered Sir Nigel Bellingham, but I wasn’t in the mood for talking about it.
I pushed back my chair and said I’d walk home. Grant leapt to his feet and offered to escort me, but I gave him a soft smile and said that wouldn’t be necessary.
He studied my face for a long time and then sat back down.
I hadn’t gone more than a few yards before I took off the heels and walked the rest of the way in my bare feet, vowing to drop the shoes in the hospital’s donation box tomorrow. I strolled through the quiet streets and let myself into my saltbox house. I put Violet out and made myself a cup of tea. I switched the light above the door on but left most of the interior lights off. I changed out of my evening clothes into shorts and a T-shirt.
When Violet was back inside, I took my tea and my book into the study and curled up in the wingback chair. I eyed the portrait of the black-haired opera singer next to the fireplace. Tomorrow, I’d get the pink ribbon out of the safe and burn it in the kitchen sink.
I sipped tea and read. It was well after midnight when my phone beeped.
Ryan: Finished here for now. Still up?
Me: I’ll put the kettle on.
He couldn’t have been far away because, by the time I reached the kitchen, white lights were washing my driveway, and Violet was running to the door.
Ryan still wore his good suit, but he’d taken his tie off and undone the top button of his shirt. Stubble was coming in thick on his jaw.
“Tea or coffee?” I said.
“I’m coffee’d out. Orange juice would be nice if you’ve got some.”
“I do,” I said.
I made myself a pot of fresh tea and poured his juice. We sat at the kitchen table, and Violet curled up beneath.
“Did Sherlock Holmes ever say ‘singing like a canary’?” Ryan asked.
“Not in the stories by Conan Doyle, but I’m sure somewhere, in some modern pastiche, he does. Can I assume that’s what Pat’s been doing?”
He nodded. “When the average person, meaning not a professional criminal, commits a crime, they want nothing more than to rationalize their actions. We catch a surprising number of them because they can’t resist telling someone what they’ve done. Once they’re arrested, they can’t wait to get it all off their chest to make sure we know how justified they were. As you surmised, Pat realized that the Hollywood people wouldn’t go ahead with making a movie of her play if Nigel Bellingham was in the lead. Since she wanted to direct a movie, Bellingham had to go. She’d told Leo she could handle Nigel and ensure that Edward Barker would play Holmes. Eddie has the looks for the movies.”
“Does he?” I said. “I hadn’t noticed.”
Ryan didn’t look as though he quite believed me, but he continued. “Leo dug into Eddie’s bio and theatrical credits and liked what he saw. Then when he arrived at your tea, Nigel was being introduced as the star. He told Pat the project couldn’t go ahead, and she decided it would be up to her to make an unannounced change in casting.”
“Foolish. All she had to do was give it some time. Rebecca would have realized soon enough that Nigel couldn’t pull it off.”
“Pat figured she couldn’t wait. Leo told her he was catching a plane back to LA the next morning.”
“I don’t understand about the shoes,” I said. “One minute Pat was laughing at my deductions, then you noticed her shoes and she collapsed like a house of cards.”
He shook his head. “A serious mistake on my part. We found one unusual print at the scene, very close to where Nigel had gone over the cliff.”
“A small star.”
“Precisely.”
“I didn’t see it. If I had, I would have recognized it. I’d noticed those shoes with the unusual heel earlier.”
“It was half-covered by a dead leaf. The leaf must have blown to the ground after Pat left the scene. I didn’t know what it was. Louise thought it might be the tip of a cane. We spent a lot of time checking into who at the tea carried a cane. Two elderly people did. Neither of them had the slightest reason to want to kill Bellingham and, even if they had, not the ability. They showed us their canes. No star pattern. We decided the mark had been made earlier by a trespasser onto the property. Then tonight, on the stage, I got a good look at Pat’s shoes, and I knew.”
I thought back. I hadn’t seen Pat again that day after finding Nigel at the bottom of the cliff. I’d heard her crossing the lawn but not seen her. “She wasn’t wearing the shoes when you questioned her at the house?”
“Nope. She must have changed out of them.”
“Common enough for women to carry an extra pair of shoes,” I said. “Why we wear ones that are so uncomfortable we have to slip out of them the first chance we get, I will never know. Too bad you didn’t mention this to me.”
“Yes,” he said, “if I’d shown you a picture of the pattern, this would all have been over a long time ago.”
“
Did you interview Leo after the killing? What did he have to say for himself then?”
“Louise spoke to him.” Ryan lifted one hand when he saw the beginning of an expression cross my face. “He said nothing about any movie. He told her he was from LA and was in Massachusetts visiting his parents. Which turned out to be true, but not the main reason for the trip. He said he came to the tea because he likes to support regional theater. He told Louise he’d never met Nigel before, which was true, and didn’t speak to him that day—also true. So Louise went on to interview the next person.”
“He told you enough facts that you could dismiss him as a suspect. If he’d only mentioned wanting to film the play and working with Pat to that aim, it would have saved us a lot of time and trouble.”
“Speaking of Louise, she said to tell you good job.”
“Through gritted teeth, no doubt.”
“You two may not get on,” Ryan said, “but she’s a good enough cop to be pleased when we catch a killer. No matter who made that happen. If you hadn’t gathered us all backstage after the play, I never would have noticed the shoes. My view was blocked when everyone took their bows.”
I attempted and failed to suppress a yawn.
Ryan put his empty glass on the table. “I’d better be going. It’s late. Pat contacted a lawyer, and she’ll be at the station bright and early tomorrow morning.”
“This morning,” I said.
“Right.” He got to his feet.
I stood also, and Violet hurried to join us. We walked with Ryan to the mudroom door. He put his hand on the knob and hesitated.
Then he turned. He put his arms around me and gathered me to him. My heart pounded. He bent his head, and I tilted mine up. He kissed me, long and deep.
Violet barked. She didn’t care to be ignored.
Acknowledgments
I’ve said many times that the best thing about being a writer is all the friends I have made in the Canadian crime-writing community and beyond. Thanks to Barbara Fradkin, Mary Jane Maffini, Linda Wiken, and Robin Harlick in particular for our annual summer writers’ retreat. (Much retreating is done, little writing!) Thanks also to my fabulous agent, Kim Lionetti, and the gang at Bookends, and to the people at Crooked Lane, including Sarah Poppe, who always brings a keen but fun-loving editor’s eye to my manuscripts.
