by N. C. Lewis
Once the last child had placed the final fruit into their basket, Mysterious Malcolm reappeared on the stage. He waved his hands toward the tree in the basket. The sheet reappeared covering the entire basket.
As the lights dimmed so he was barely visible, Mysterious Malcolm walked back and forth across the stage muttering and mumbling in a foreign tongue. Then, suddenly, the drums rolled, the sheet vanished, and there in the basket was Luxurious Liza.
I knew something was wrong by the way she was sitting, slumped to one side, and her eyes wide open. Mysterious Malcolm turned to stare at the basket, then the audience, then the basket again. It was only when he ran from the stage that the first inkling of the unusual hit the audience.
There was an instant of indecision, broken when the two crew members clambered onstage, scurrying toward the basket. The short, fat crew member ahead of his lanky coworker slipped, and like a bowling ball clattered into the basket, tipping it over. Luxurious Liza rolled out, arms spread wide, and her neck twisted at an inhuman angle. It was then that the first high-pitched scream rang out from the audience.
Chapter 15
Very pale, the lanky crew member gestured for the houselights. "Is there a doctor in the house?" he shouted in a hoarse, raspy voice as the orange glow of the houselights slowly illuminated the theater.
An elderly gentleman with gray hair, wearing a dark, pinstriped suit with shiny, patent leather shoes and a medical bag in his hand, appeared at the front. "That's Doctor Thomas Tobias from the Medlin Creek Community Clinic," said Millie, half turning to look in my direction.
By the time Doctor Tobias climbed onto the stage, the dancing cowgirls, Rita Lilly, and the crew members had gathered around Liza. "I don't know what's wrong," Rita said in a strangled voice. "Doctor Tobias, please help."
Over Liza the medical man knelt. "Send for an ambulance," he said, pulling out his stethoscope. The doctor worked to save Liza by administrating cardiopulmonary resuscitation. Amid his frenzied activity the paramedics arrived. "She's not breathing," Doctor Tobias said. "She's just not breathing." The senior paramedic hooked up some equipment to Liza and continued where Doctor Tobias left off. After several minutes she looked to the doctor and shook her head. "There's no response."
"All right, you've done what you can," said Doctor Tobias in a somber whisper. "I'm going to call the time of death at 8:45 p.m."
"No," screamed a voice from the side of the stage. Everyone turned. It was Bryant Reynolds, face pale and his colorless eyes, glassy. "Can't you do anything else?"
Doctor Tobias shook his head. Then, looking at the body again said, "I'm going to call the sheriff's department, something is not right about this."
Chapter 16
Nobody knew exactly what happened next, but an announcement over the speaker system informed the theater that sheriff's department deputies would be on the scene shortly. This caused a stampede for the exit.
"When the deputies arrive, they'll detain everyone still in the theater," explained Roger, staring with dismay at the line of people in front of us.
"Could be awhile before we get out of here," agreed Peter, his creepy voice creaking like a graveyard gate. "I'm going backstage to look for Lenny and Malcolm."
"I'll join you," I said, envisioning an easy escape through the entrance at the back of the building. I did not want to spend the night waiting for deputies to take my statement.
"Me, too," added Roger, likely thinking along similar lines.
Millie hesitated. "This story might be front page on the Medlin Creek Times. I'll call the owner of the newspaper and hang around to see what the deputies dig up."
"Good idea, I'll stay with you," said Bob, her boyfriend, a defense attorney from Austin.
We slipped across the stage into a back room. The tall, lanky crew member looked up absentmindedly as we crept past the growing crowd of people surrounding the corpse. A sour feeling flooded my stomach as I looked back for the last time, at Liza. Her eyes were still open staring up toward the ceiling, but the firm grip of death had already taken away their bright sheen.
We hurried into a large room lit by a single, low-wattage bulb. It served as the holding area for performers before they went onstage. There were pullies used to control the house curtains, an array of brightly colored, unknown levers, ropes, and other mechanical devices whose use I could not imagine. Near the entrance, two plastic chairs next to a rack held a suit, top hat, and a cane. At the far side, by a large, white door, there was a stack of cardboard boxes, almost six feet high and perhaps four feet wide.
"Wow," said Roger, pulling on a lever with a yellow handle. "I wonder what this does?"
"Don't touch that!" It was the tall, lanky crew member. "What are y'all doing back here?" The man's thin face swiveled to peer at us a sour smile fixed on his thin lips.
I spoke first. "Shouldn't you be out front helping Doctor Tobias and the paramedics? Mrs. Lilly would want you onstage, I'm sure." I recalled how she had cowed him and his colleague earlier. "Now, run along back to the front and make yourself useful." This type of little speech had always gone down well before, especially in my corporate days where I used it on receptionists to get access to the higher-ups. It was hard to tell how it was going to do now, or if it was going to go over at all.
His thin jaw trembled just the slightest bit and uncertainty flashed in his eyes. For a moment, he appeared to hesitate. "No, there's nothing I can do back there, at least not for Liza. This area is off-limits to members of the public." His expression firmed. "I'll have to ask you to leave through the front of the theater."
Peter tried a different tactic. "Have you seen Mysterious Malcolm since the end of the show?"
The lanky man's thin lips moved nervously as he looked from Peter, to Roger, to me. "Are y'all plainclothes police officers or something?"
"No," interrupted Roger, resting his hand on the yellow lever. "We are members of the audience who were enjoying the show."
"I told you not to touch that," he snapped at Roger. Then his thin lips tugged into an ugly snarl. "I'll escort y'all to the front of the house. Please follow me."
As we turned to walk back onto the stage there was a sudden disturbance. Several of the boxes by the white door tumbled to the floor, revealing the shadowy silhouette of a crouching figure wearing a robe with a large, white turban atop of the head.
"Malcolm," shouted Peter, glancing over his shoulder.
More boxes tumbled to the floor. For an instant, the figure was visible. "Malcolm, we need you onstage," yelled the lanky crew hand.
There was a sound of a slight fizzle, the single, low-watt bulb's meager light faded into blackness. More boxes tumbled to the floor, followed by a shard of bright light as the white door at the side of the boxes opened and closed.
Chapter 17
Peter was first to get to the door, stumbling over boxes as he went. He grasped the handle, heaved, and flung it open. "Hey, Malcolm, come back," he yelled, rushing through the doorway.
The light from the adjacent room gave enough illumination for Roger, the tall, lanky crew hand, and myself, to pick our way around boxes to the door. It led to another medium-sized room, a strange space, almost like a chamber within a chamber, for it had no windows.
The décor was that of a living room, with a dark-tan leather sofa, two wingback chairs, a coffee table, and a small, flat-screen television on top of a mock-oak cabinet. On the wooden floor, a thick-pile, brown rug, and prints of Hill Country landscapes hung on the wall. There was even a fireplace set in the wall between the landscapes, with artificial logs in it. A tall, wooden pole, like that found on a mop, leaned against the wall.
There were only three doors. The one we came through and two others, painted white and identical—both closed. There was no one else in the room but us. Peter looked around baffled. "Where did he go?"
"Maybe he went through one of the other doors," said Roger, trying to catch his breath.
"No, I didn't hear either open or close. Surely
, I would've heard something."
"Yes," said the crew hand sourly, "if you were paying attention. But you were in such a hurry to catch Malcolm, and so focused on the task that you might have missed it."
There was a general murmur of agreement.
"I guess," Peter said, rubbing his chin. "It's just that—"
A scraping sound came from behind one of the closed doors, like the rustle of paper or crunch of leaves underfoot on an autumn day.
Peter rushed toward the sound, flung the door open, and charged headlong into a tiny closet. The sound of his agonized scream as he tripped into a rack of clothes rattled my fraying nerves. Roger jumped backward, stumbling into the crew hand. "Oh gosh, are you alright?" asked Roger apologetically.
With a look of fury in his eyes, the crew hand dusted himself off but said nothing. Roger sighed.
I peered in through the doorway. Peter pushed to his feet, shakily. Boxes of shoes lined up along the floor with jackets, shirts, and trousers ordered by color, hanging on wooden racks. But no sign of Mysterious Malcolm.
"No one in here," said Peter, sheepishly prodding one of the wooden racks.
The tall, lanky man opened the second door. It led to a brightly lit hall. I recognized it as the passage that snaked around the perimeter of the building and to the back entrance. We looked in both directions, but there was no sign of Mysterious Malcolm, not even the sound of footsteps. Only silence.
The lanky crew hand rubbed his chin. "That's strange," he said. "Very strange." Then he turned, without looking at us, and went back through the doorway toward the stage.
Chapter 18
"There's no point going back the way we came," I explained to Peter and Roger. "Unless, that is, you want to wait around until the deputies are ready to take your statement."
They didn't seem excited about that possibility.
"Deputy Dingsplat might speed things up a little," Roger said halfheartedly. Deputy Dingsplat was a member of the Speaker Circle although not voluntarily. The mayor had ordered his attendance as part of a sheriff's department community involvement initiative. He had drawn the short straw, a straw he was not thrilled with.
"Maybe," said Peter. "But, at my last Speaker Circle presentation, he was wearing a baseball cap and dark shades. Did any of you guys notice?"
I looked at my feet as did Roger. Deputy Dingsplat had discovered an ingenious way to sleep through Peter's monotone fire-ant talks. I had already bought a baseball cap and dark shades from an online store, hoping to try them out at his next presentation. Out of the corner of my eye I glanced at Roger, the guilty flush to his face gave him away. He had done the same.
"Okay, we can always stop by the sheriff's department later in the week," I said, "when we have time, and if Liza's death is suspicious, provided they make a public call for information…" I didn't want to get involved. Neither did they.
"Agreed," said Roger and Peter simultaneously.
"Follow me to the exit," I said, relieved my evening of relaxation was drawing to a close. "I've been here before."
Outside, the flashing blue lights of Medlin Creek Sheriff Department vehicles illuminated the side of the building. Silently, like three dancing shadows at sunset, we slipped across the car lot to our waiting vehicles.
As I climbed into the Tahoe, a tiny meow brought back the events of earlier in the evening. The kitten was no longer trembling, and the huge dark eyes regarded me with curiosity.
"Kitty, you'll be at home with Augustine Granger," I said, texting a message to Augustine. I started the engine and set off.
It was just after 10 p.m. when I pulled into the driveway outside of Augustine Granger's house. She was sitting in an old, rocking chair on the porch rocking back and forth with a contented gleam in her eye.
"Ollie, it's been a wonderful day at the animal shelter, busy, but great. We found homes for six dogs, four cats, and a rancher who owns property in Driftwood has agreed to take the old donkey that lives in the barn. That softie has been with us for almost a year, now he has a new home. As I say, it's been an enjoyable day."
After I explained how I discovered the kitten, leaving out the part involving Rita Lilly, I handed over the crate. The kitten let out a loud meow as if satisfied with its new home. Augustine's love of all creatures great and small shone through even at this late hour. "How nice," she said, clapping her hands and dancing a little jig on the porch.
Back home at Ealing Homestead, after playing with Bodie and refilling his water and food bowls, I took a long, hot shower. It was almost midnight when I climbed into bed. The cell phone buzzed—a message from Millie.
Oh my gosh! Still at the Lilly Building waiting to give a statement. Not sure I'll get time to write an article for the newspaper. Not happy, not happy at all. I'll fill you in on the details tomorrow.
I didn't think I'd get much sleep, but I zoned out as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Chapter 19
I was wide awake when a Rooster crowed somewhere, its shrill squawk chasing away the shadows of night through the golden embers of the rising sun. Out of bed I slid, put Bodie outside, and warmed low-fat milk for cereal. The cereal was awful, oats with nuts and raisins and dried apple, but it was food.
At my office desk, I made my to-do list for the day. At the top, a morning walk on the trail with Bodie. The fresh air would do us both good, and a couple of miles across rugged terrain allowed time to think.
Within twenty minutes the list was complete. I called Bodie, and together we headed along the dirt path through the little iron gate, across the parking lot and out onto the lane.
"The short loop," I said to Bodie who wagged his tail jauntily at my side. "That way we can get back home before it gets too hot." Bodie continued to wag his tail.
The sun was over the horizon now and the shadows of dawn had retreated, replaced by the bright blue sky of a Hill Country summer morning. It was wonderful to be striding along the lane that snaked away from Ealing Homestead with Bodie at my side.
As we turned onto the main trail, a voice called out.
"Ollie, over here, behind you."
Over my shoulder, I saw a figure behind us, perhaps a hundred yards away. I recognized the dog first, a sandy-colored, purebred pug named Benji, Emma Garcia's hound.
"Good morning, Emma," I called.
Emma worked at the Medlin Creek Community College as an administrator for Professor Bingham, the dean of the business school. With her husband, George, they had transformed part of their property into a Mexican restaurant. Recently opened, they served delicious food Thursday, Friday and Saturday evenings.
Emma gave a little wave and hurried to catch up with us.
"Ollie, I'm walking into town," she said, "I want to order a few things at Gregg's Hardware Store."
"Short loop today," I chimed in.
"Great, I'll walk with you to the fork."
Emma stooped down to let Benji off the leash. I followed suit. Benji and Bodie rushed ahead of us, their tails wagging. Together, we walked for almost a mile in silence. As we approached a bend in the trail that looped around in the direction we had come from, I broke the silence.
"How's business?"
"Booming," laughed Emma. "All the paperwork went through without a hitch. I thought our restaurant would open in the fall, but nope, we are ready now!"
A tinge of jealousy surged through my body. Perhaps, I thought, I should have gone into the Mexican restaurant business. Then I reminded myself, that although I like to eat, I don't like to cook. That pushed the jealousy back into the do-not-disturb box where it belongs.
Emma continued. "If things stay at this pace, we'll have to run the restaurant full time. George is keen."
"And what about you?" I asked.
"We'll see, I like having various sources of income-my administrative position at the college, George's construction business, and the restaurant. Anyway, I love my job."
We had reached the part of the lane where another narrow trail offered
a shortcut into town. The dogs back on leashes, Emma waved.
"Oh, I almost forgot," she said, turning around. "Chancellor Cannington would like you to stop by his office next Tuesday at noon. Can I schedule you in?"
"Sure," I said without giving it much thought.
"Bryant Reynolds will be in attendance as well. I'll text over the details as a reminder," said Emma as she turned onto the path into town. "Ollie, I've pushed the meeting as far back as I can. Be warned Bryant is on the warpath, he is gunning for your head."
Oh crap, I thought as I waved to Emma.
At the little iron gate, I rummaged through the mailbox. It held flyers for local events, fancy sales letters from mainstream organizations, and the Medlin Creek Times—the early edition.
Back inside the house at the kitchen table, I scanned the newspaper for news of the previous evening's events. There was no mention of Mysterious Malcolm's Magical Masquerade or the death of Liza. Instead, the paper led with plans to expand the Medlin Creek Library. Apparently, it was now too small to serve the needs of a growing population.
"Can't say I've noticed," I said aloud. Then thought about the Speaker Circle meeting at noon today. "I'll look around the library later."
I switched on the radio.
It's the top of the hour and you're listening to MCR 101.1 FM. The radio station for the Hill Country and beyond.
I recognized the voice, Johnny Spinner.
Here's the news you need to know when you are on the go. There's a meeting tonight at the town hall to discuss the proposed plans to expand the Medlin Creek Library…
I turned off the radio, let Bodie out, and hurried to the office to begin preparation for my upcoming classes at the Medlin Creek Community College. I wanted to be done before 11 a.m. I settled down at my desk, opened the first student assignment and set to work. It was as if the events of yesterday evening were nothing more than a distant dream.
