Denise stretched back in her chair and pulled her hair into a ponytail at the top of her head with both hands, scrunching her fingers into her hair, fighting for clarity. “Well, if we accept that premise, then the rest of the events have to fit. Could Kieran have killed Oren and Eleanor and Christian? Was it physically possible for him to be there to kill them? We’ll have to sort through everyone’s timetables. God, it feels like a Freeman Wills Crofts mystery with railway timetables clogging up everything.”
“Wasn’t that Dorothy Sayers?”
“She did only one, as I recall, to twit him. He was very popular in his day.”
“I didn’t know you read that sort of thing.”
“Normally I don’t, but I was tracing references to and effects of Thomas Bowdler’s Family Shakespeare, and came upon Croft in my grad days. His novels were so calming and predictable that I used them to put me to sleep at night. I have a soft spot for timetable mysteries, I guess.”
“Well, whatever the case, we have Kieran capable of killing Eleanor, trussing up her body and getting her down the hillside to stuff her under the stairs. We know he climbs.”
“But his ropes are missing.”
“So he says. Maybe he was actually in his house last night—was it just last night?—and saw us checking out the sports shed, and so he trashed his own place to cast more suspicion on us and cover up the fact that his climbing ropes were missing.”
“And what about Christian?”
“I can’t think of anyone more likely to be let backstage than Kieran, can you? He knows everyone in the theatre community. He could have just said he was looking for Christian, gone back, killed him, strung him up the bell tower and strolled out to the front of house. It would be easy enough to say he couldn’t find him and ‘would you tell him I’ve called round?’ No one would have batted an eye.”
“Did that happen?”
“Did what happen?”
“Did Kieran tell the front of house that he was looking for Christian and then announce that he couldn’t find him? Is that in the police file?”
“How should I know? I’ve been here with you. I am just trying to point out how easy it would be for Kieran to move among the folks in any theatre. People would know him on sight, some would be in awe of him, others would be wanting to curry favour to be thought of for roles, others would have worked with him previously and be on friendly terms. He could walk anywhere. You talk about Golden Age mysteries—Kieran is Father Brown’s proverbial letter carrier. Like Chesterton pointed out, no one notices him because he is supposed to be there.”
Denise pursed her lips, ready to say something, and then stalled. She was thinking hard. “Okay, so he had the means, and he had the motive—if the motive is indeed wanting Oren Gentry’s job. So, are we thinking he killed Oren, too?”
“It’s got to be pretty easy to stage a heart attack with someone who trusts you enough to let you get close to their tea or food or whatever. Kieran and Oren could have been dining together for any number of reasons. Who knows, maybe he stuck foxglove in his salad?”
“I don’t think I’d even know what foxglove looked like.”
“I barely know what arugula looks like. Those boxed salads are so full of assorted, somewhat bitter, leaves that I think we might occasionally be eating nettles.”
“Okay, but what about breaking into my place the other night? Could that have been Kieran?”
“We know he has climbing gear, and we know he was familiar with where you lived. Why couldn’t it have been him?”
Denise’s face crumpled. “Because I thought he was a good person. We were intimate. I don’t drop defences for just anyone. There is some scrutiny involved. And now you’re telling me I’ve been used, and fooled, and duped, and nearly killed by someone I’d thought was trustworthy enough to see me naked. That’s why I’m fighting this.”
“I know. This is not easy, and it’s a lot to parse. You have to get over the idea that it was somehow a weakness that he managed to fool you, though. He is a great director, and before he was a great director, he was a fabulous actor. He can set a scene and have hundreds of people at a time believe the sky is orange and pigs can fly through it. He turned the full forces of his talent onto you, Denise. You didn’t have a chance.”
“And like Othello, I was looking only for truth, as I had told no lies. That is how he managed. Why would I second-guess someone like Kieran asking me out? I’ve had a fair share of attractive, high-powered men in my life. He played on my vanity and I never saw it coming.”
“No, he played on your convenience. It was despicable, but certainly no more despicable than murdering the competition to get what he wanted. There is a measure of sociopathy in his makeup.”
“I was reading about how there are more psychopaths walking about among us than you’d think, that a lot of charismatic, manipulative people like politicians and directors and CEOs score pretty high on the psychopath test.”
“Yes, you don’t have to be sadistically cruel to be a psychopath. You could score very high on narcissism or manipulation or lack of empathy.”
“You would need empathy to be a great actor, though, I should think.”
“Maybe. Sometimes I think you just need great observation. Think about Ripley.”
“Sigourney Weaver?”
“No, from the Patricia Highsmith novels. He’s a chameleon, able to just fit into any world he wants to get into, but he has no empathy or remorse or kindness.”
Denise sat forward and put her forearms on the table, and looked, just for a moment, like a sphinx. “I can’t take this. We have got to call Steve and toss this all at him.”
“You’re right. But how do we frame it so he’ll take us seriously? At the moment, I’m a little worried about having worn out my welcome with him. He seemed pretty angry at us for sneaking out.”
“He’ll be even more ticked off at us if we just sit here and let ourselves get killed by a mad director.”
I shrugged and picked up my cellphone to text Steve. Just then it rang, which startled us both into shocked laughter.
“Hello?”
“Randy? What’s funny?”
“Nothing, I was just about to text you. What’s up?”
“We just got a message from a patrol car in the area who spotted a plate we have on our list. I’m calling to tell you not to open the door to anyone. What were you about to send me?”
“We’ve been sorting through our collective memories and thoughts, and we want you to think seriously about Kieran Frayne as a suspect. We’re thinking he started dating Denise as a ploy to frame her for murders he was intending to commit.”
“As cold as that sounds, it’s something we’re taking seriously. It’s Frayne who is in your vicinity. I’ll notify Jennifer and then I’m coming over. Don’t open your door to anyone. We have access and can let ourselves in. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. What are we supposed to do? I don’t want to hole up in a bathroom again.”
“Get your backs to a wall, stay away from the windows, and keep your phones with you. Someone will be right there.”
I hung up the phone. Just hearing part of my conversation had made Denise stand up and hover, ready for fight or flight. “Steve says Kieran has been spotted in the neighbourhood. We’re to stay away from the windows and keep our backs to a wall. Steve’s coming, but I figure it will take him at least fifteen minutes.”
Denise ran to the kitchen island and brought out two sheathed knives. She took them to the living area and slid them down the narrow crevice between the cushions and armrests on either side of the leather sofa. She turned off the kitchen light and lit a pole lamp close to the window, drawing the curtains across the sliding glass window to the balcony.
“He won’t be able to see us moving about with the lamp casting the light to the curtains, like a scrim.”
“Ha, fight theatre with theatre. I like it.”
I pocketed my cellphone and took up position on the sofa. D
enise’s front access required a call up to the suite. She placed her cell on the coffee table and watched it obsessively, willing it not to ring.
“What will I say if he calls?”
“You are within your rights to make him stew. After all, he dropped you when you were considered a suspect and took up with one of your colleagues almost immediately. You could be stinging from that. He doesn’t need to know you suspect him of murder.”
“This could all be coincidence. Kieran might be driving through the neighbourhood to get somewhere innocuous, or to deke around traffic near the University Drive intersection. He might not be the murderer at all.”
“And maybe I’m Thomas Pynchon.”
We sat in Denise’s beautiful condo on her quiet street waiting for god knows what. I was just hoping Steve would get there before we got a phone buzz from the lobby or a grappling hook on the balcony.
Denise reached across the space between us and grabbed my hand to squeeze it. I squeezed back with all the reassurance I could put into my fingers. It occurred to me that we had never held hands before. How could that be? We had been friends since grad school, through thick and thin. Why was it that friends didn’t touch? My images of friendship had been forged on Anne Shirley and her bosom friend, Diana Barry, walking arm in arm down the flowered lane. Instead of that simple affection, modern life had brought us smart lunches and air kisses. I held my kindred spirit’s hand and waited for a murderer to come and find us.
A noise came from the hall. Our grip on each other’s hand tightened, even though I figured it had to be Steve, as he’d said he had access. He’d made good time.
The key scraped in the lock and the knob turned. I realized I’d been holding my breath, since it came out in a snort of fear. Steve could have knocked first. I was about to tell him off for scaring us like that when the door opened.
And there stood Kieran Frayne, smiling with sardonic charm.
“Well, well, it looks as if I might be expected. Is the coffee on?”
43.
How the hell did you get a key to my condo?” Denise sputtered. The anticipatory fear we’d been feeling was manifesting itself in anger. I just hoped she didn’t forget to factor in the fact that she was talking to a double or triple murderer.
“The key was simple, love. I filched your keys out of your bag one brunch and left you for a few minutes to grab something at Canadian Tire, remember? The extra fob I found in a drawer when I was rootling around for a corkscrew. I suppose you forgot to tell the police you had two designated parking stalls in this glorious building, and they didn’t think to ask. I’ve had these since May.”
Something was bothering me.
“But if you had the keys, why did you climb up the balcony to get in at Denise the other night?”
Kieran smiled, the same smile he’d used on me all summer down at the park, but now I saw it for the patronizing sneer it really was. “Stage dressing, I’m afraid. I just brought the grappling hook and scraped the edging there so that you wouldn’t twig to the fact I had my own entry to your little nest. Of course, it made for an easy exit later on from your bedroom window. You did call in the marines that night, didn’t you?” He shook his head, tsk tsk tsk, as if we were somehow lesser beings to have called the police when we heard an intruder.
He was still standing in the doorway, but he took a step in, making both of us tense up even more. Who the heck knew that was even possible?
I found my hand sneaking down beside me into the break between the cushion and the armrest, where Denise had stored a knife for me. I could barely carve a turkey. How could I possibly protect myself from an agile man who had already proved he could fatally wield a knife?
My phone, which was at my left side, was even more inviting, but I was aware that Kieran was paying attention to our every move. Denise must have looked as if she was about to reach for her phone, because he put up a hand to warn her. She pulled her arm back. I tried to relax my hand, letting the fingers play across the screen. I hoped I was hitting the right app, starting the dictation taping feature I’d thought might come in useful for listmaking while walking.
“No, I think this time is for the three of us to talk, before anyone else joins us. Don’t you think it would be nice to clear the air a bit? I couldn’t come out and chat when you were tiptoeing about in my back garden, so I thought this might be a good time.”
“What do we have to talk about?” Denise really was being brave. I am not sure I could have spoken just then.
“Oh, all sorts of things. What you were doing in my shed, why you made the announcement you were applying for the directing position, and just what you are playing at.”
“What I’m playing at? Why don’t we start with what you’re playing at, Kieran? Are you so monomaniacal that your killing people is running second to my sneaking into your shed?”
He waved his hand airily. This time there was a knife in it.
“I thought that was a given to the conversation, Ducks. Of course I have been going after what I wanted, and what I wanted certainly wasn’t staging two plays a summer in the vagaries of Edmonton weather on a budget that is decimated by three days of rain and bad houses.” He leaned against the kitchen island, still between us and the front door.
“Oren was remarkably trusting, and he really did have a faulty ticker, so a few doses of my father’s old digitalis pills just pushed him over the edge. I actually was down in Calgary the weekend he succumbed to his heart attack. It couldn’t have played out any better. It was as if it was slated to be. And then that tiresome Eleanor announces that she intends to stay in Edmonton and fill Oren’s position. As if.
“I’d just managed to talk her into doing the summer plays, thinking it would bring a whole other demographic out to the park, the sort who need name recognition before they shell out for a ticket. I suppose it could have been worse, of course. She could have been unreachable when she pulled that number. As it was, we were very closely connected.” He sneered again, and I put out a hand to Denise’s arm, willing her not to rise to the bait. “Pity Christian saw, or thought he saw something. I hope no one ever thinks he was a serious contender for Oren’s job.”
“And you dated me only to create a patsy for your crimes?” She couldn’t help herself. I didn’t blame her, but I didn’t want Kieran having the upper hand. He was already picking his fingernails with the tip of his very lethal-looking blade.
“Is that what this is all about? Getting back at me for using you so egregiously? Or is it that your ego has been bruised because you’re not used to someone playing you? Tell me, my beautiful Denise, what really bothers you? Being framed for murder? Or not really being universally adored?”
He was toying with her. Any minute now she was going to get up and run at him, goaded by his taunts. Then he would kill her, and I would be next.
Something shook loose in me. Maybe it was the thought of being alone with a murderer that had me panicked, but there was no way I was going to let Denise get killed. I stood up.
Kieran’s eyebrows went up.
“How do you feel about getting played, Kieran? Or haven’t you clued in even now?”
“Clued into what, Randy?”
“We’ve been on to you since the spring. Why else do you think I agreed to take on the camp job? Do you honestly think it was so fulfilling to spend my time with teenagers? Denise suspected you were up to something ever since Oren Gentry’s funeral, so she and I devised this means of keeping track of you.”
I was babbling, making it up as I went along, but all I had to do was keep him off balance until Steve and his gang arrived.
“We took our suspicions to the police the minute Eleanor was killed and we’ve been working closely with Detective Gladue ever since. It was she who suggested we promote Denise as a replacement for Gentry, to force your hand. In fact, this is all being recorded for use against you in the trial, since she was pretty sure you’d show up. We’ve been a step ahead of you all the way, Kieran. You
haven’t been playing Denise at all. She’s been playing you. That was the one dicey bit of the whole plan. How were we going to get people to believe that someone like Denise would actually be interested in someone like you?”
Kieran’s face lost its veneer and I finally saw the real man; a snarling, hateful, spitting face glared back at me. I wasn’t sure whether it was his pride at being in control of the production that bothered him the most or the thought that Denise was somehow slumming by dating him, but whatever I’d said, I’d hit the mark. He stepped toward me, and although I tried to hold my ground, I instinctively backed away from the monster with a knife in his hand.
Denise used the time he was focused on me to surreptitiously ease her phone into her hand. She must have hit 911, because both Kieran and I heard the tinny voice of the emergency response, “911 Emergency, how may I direct your call?”
Kieran laughed. “You think the cavalry is going to come riding in, in time to save you? Hello! Man with knife!”
Suddenly Denise was standing beside her sofa, bright orange knife in her hand. I hadn’t seen her go for it, and I didn’t trust her to do much more than julienne with it, but at least she wasn’t cowering. Meanwhile, Kieran had me backed up almost to the drapery. Maybe I could somehow wrap myself in the material and avoid the worst of the knife thrusts. Maybe I could kick the knife out of his hand. Maybe I could lie down and pretend I was dead. I wasn’t sure that ploy would even work on black bears, let alone madmen with knives.
I snorted a giggle, in spite of myself, bringing Kieran’s unwanted focus right back onto me.
“You find this amusing, Randy?”
“I sure as hell don’t, so I don’t know why she would. Drop the knife, Frayne.”
Jennifer Gladue and two uniformed officers stood in the doorway, guns drawn.
Kieran froze, and then with exaggerated precision leaned down and placed the knife on the floor. He raised his hands and turned to face the music. But before he broke eye contact with me, he winked.
The Roar of the Crowd Page 29
