by N. C. Lewis
Chapter 38
I've always thought the afternoon is for sipping coffee, chatting with friends, or networking on social media. But this afternoon, I slept long and hard. The sun was low in the sky when I opened my eyes, its golden rays above the treetops with the shadows of the evening gathering muster.
The cell phone screen flashed 5:45 p.m. I'd been asleep for three hours. It felt like fifteen minutes, and my head as groggy as if I hadn't slept. Up I sat, staring and blinking.
Clarity slowly crept into my mind, followed by the thought that I was late for something. Just about every day of my life, weekdays or weekends, workdays or vacations, rain or shine, I'm late for one thing or another. I hurried to the office to look at my to-do list.
6:30 p.m.—the Lilly building to discuss the assistant position with Lenny.
I figured it would be more of a show you the ropes, although, I admit it remained somewhat vague. At least, I sighed, the job will provide an extra source of much-needed income.
In and out of the shower, into the Tahoe, and off toward the Lilly building, I sped. Traffic was heavy due to construction work. As I crept along at a crawl, tension built behind my eyes. "I'm going to be late," I muttered.
At last, I swung into the car lot at the side of the Lilly building, the pounding in my head growing by the second. From the glove compartment I took out a bottle of painkillers. Two tumbled out. I shook out two more. "That should do it," I said.
Grackle birds roosted in the treetops as I scurried toward the side entrance of the Lilly building. Close to a dumpster, I stopped to listen. The piercing squawk seemed sinister in the evening twilight, but it was the faint chortle of voices which appeared to rise and fall with the squawks that caused the hairs to rise on the back of my neck.
Then I saw her, Rita Lilly. She strolled arm in arm with a pencil-thin man. He wore a pinstripe suit and carried a leather briefcase. Rita was holding his arm and leaning close into him. Her body language suggested this was more than a business acquaintance.
Rita and the man were looking at each other, walking and talking. If they glanced up they would see me. I looked around for somewhere to hide. The dumpster stood to one side, a few feet away. Into its shadows, I slipped. As I watched the couple, the pencil-thin man stopped. He raised his arm and pointed toward where I hid. I crouched lower.
Rita tugged his arm and he leaned forward, and they embraced for several moments. The man rubbed his chin, then pointed, this time in the direction they came from. Together they turned and walked back toward the Lilly building.
For several minutes I waited. When I was certain they had gone, I darted out toward the entrance beside the building. At the wall I turned around. The car lot was empty, the sun had set, and it was dark. At the closed door, I caught my breath.
Suddenly, the air filled with a piercing shriek. I jumped. A flock of grackles, dark as a storm cloud, descended on a tree, squawking and flapping over roosting spots.
Into my lungs, I sucked in the evening air, expelling it out in short, sharp breaths—a yoga technique used to calm and soothe the nerves. But I was edgy, creeping around and avoiding people, not my usual mode of operation.
The cell phone buzzed. I jumped. A message from Millie. Once again, I took in several deep breaths as I read:
Visited with Glinda at the Driftwood Herbal Store. She sold Bryant Reynolds a case of potions. Little mauve glass bottles with cork stoppers, just like you mentioned. They were love potions! Looks like Bryant needed a little herbal aid to persuade Liza to marry him! Now, I'm doing a little digging into Liza's relatives, especially Christoph Cleon. I'll let you know what I find.
Again, I sucked in air and breathed out in short, sharp bursts. If the mystery of Liza's death didn't lead to Bryant Reynolds, where did it lead?
I placed the cell phone inside my bag. Even though I had avoided the piercing eyes of Rita Lilly, I still could not relax. Another deep breath, this time holding it for several seconds before breathing out. Of course, it was more than possible nothing further would happen, that Mrs. Lilly and her pinstripe-suited man would return to the executive office, pick up what they had forgotten, and head back toward the car lot.
I half wondered whether they had worked together to engineer the disappearance of Liza Gilbert and Mysterious Malcolm. Still, I couldn't be sure, but I couldn't rule it out either. I'd have to be extra cautious as I passed the executive suite—on the tips of my toes, eyes observant and ears wide open.
The deep darkness of night pressed against the flickering streetlights. It was very quiet standing beside the door by the side of the building. I was wide awake now, at my most alert for the day. I listened. Not a footstep, not a whisper, not so much as the scampering of tiny feet or the buzz of an electric light. Softly, expertly, making no noise, I reached for the door handle. It twisted before I touched it, and the door flew open.
Christoph Cleon peered out of the doorway, his face red with fury, and his eyes filled with menace.
Chapter 39
Stunned by the suddenness of the bright light that flooded out of the doorway, and by the sweet, sickly, malty odor that filled the air, I stood for a few moments in a state of total bewilderment.
"Christoph!" I gasped at last in a shaky voice. Then without thinking asked, "What are you doing here?" This time my voice came out confidently, but it was a confidence I was far from feeling. Christoph didn't answer but swayed from side to side. All the while staring with dark, menacing eyes.
"Yes," he said eventually. "It is I, Christoph, and I remember you lady, asking questions about Aunt Liza." He paused, a look of puzzlement filled his eyes. "How did you know?"
"Know?"
"How did you know I would be here tonight?"
"It is my business to know such things," I said, edging backward and preparing to run.
He accepted this without question and became reflective. "People say I'm a drunken loser, that Christoph is a bum. Not anymore, not with my inheritance!"
The man sobbed. I edged farther back.
"Oh, Aunt Liza," he cried in a bitter voice. "I'm so sorry I…"
I swallowed with a dry throat as thoughts formed into words. "Is that why," I hesitated, "you did it?"
Christoph turned to stare out into the deepening darkness of night. I sensed he was anxious to escape the question.
"Is that why you did it?" My voice was insistent although I trembled.
Christoph waved his arms in the air like an angry sea crab. "Yes," he cried in a drunken slur, "yes, yes, yes!"
Just then a voice came from the hallway.
"Chrissy baby, what's wrong." A slender woman with heavy makeup peered around Christoph. I recognized her at once, Mary Jo Wilhelm. She was wearing a tan-colored, fake leather, mini skirt, and the same skimpy top she wore at Don Andrews' pizza parlor.
"You," she screamed, trying to push past Christoph.
He stretched out an arm to hold her back. "Gold digger," she hissed in a drunken slur, "keep away from my man."
Christoph half turned, a smile on his lips. "Baby, the woman followed me here," he said, pointing a chubby finger at me. "Darling Mary Jo, you were right, the lady's after my money. But she's not getting a penny. You're my gal now." He swept Mary Jo up into his arms.
She squealed, "We still getting married next Friday, Chrissy?"
"Oh yes, honey, oh yes."
Just my luck, I thought. A couple of drunks acting like teenagers. Christoph believes I'm after his money, Mary Jo believes that I'm after her man to get his money. I sighed. Time to change tactics.
Clearing my throat, I said. "Christoph, I'm not following you, nor am I after your inheritance. I'm here to meet with Lenny."
"That dirty, rotten snake won't give me my money," spat Christoph.
"It's his," added Mary Jo. "Liza earned it, and it belongs to Chrissy now. It's part of his inheritance."
Then it clicked. "Oh! You asked Lenny for Liza's back pay?"
"Yes, I did it, I did it." Again
, he waved his arms in the air like a demented crab. "Haven't I've already told you I did it? I asked for my aunt's back pay. I would've asked Malcolm if he hadn't run off. Lenny is in charge now, he owes me that money and I have to have it."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding and bit my lip. "Why?"
Mary Jo pushed by Christoph. "To pay gambling debts," she said and turned to Christoph. "But when Chrissy gets the inheritance, we'll pay it off, and he will never gamble again. Will you, Chrissy baby?"
Christoph belched.
"Not necessary, honey. We'll have enough money to do whatever we want. Bling, bling, ka-ching, ka-ching."
"Yeah," laughed Mary Jo, wriggling her butt and dancing.
Christoph was as drunk as he was the other night, and his girlfriend was equally tipsy. Drink has a way of encouraging people to answer truthfully. I figured I'd better ask the question, before sheriff's department deputies showed up, before the happy couple were sober, and before the lawyers befuddled the truth.
"Christoph, did you kill Liza Gilbert?"
"How dare you," he exclaimed, springing forward. But Mary Jo held his arm, pulling him back.
"The money-grabbing, gold digger is not worth it, Chrissy baby," she said, hanging on with all her strength. "That nasty woman will say anything to get her hands on your money. Not like me, Chrissy baby, I love you."
He broke free, and with arms waving in the air, rushed through the doorway past me and out into night. As he peered back toward the entrance he yelled, "Auntie Liza made it clear, if she died before age seventy-five, ninety percent of the inheritance would go to the Medlin Creek Animal Shelter, Augustine Granger's place. I wanted my aunt to live to a ripe, old age, I only get ten percent now!"
Christoph stomped off into the night with Mary Jo hurrying behind to keep up, "Will ten percent be enough, Chrissy baby?"
Chapter 40
It only took a few moments to orientate myself to the hallway. "This place is beginning to feel like home," I muttered under my breath, moving silently along the brightly lit corridor. At the oak door that led to the executive suite, I paused. Through the frosted glass, two figures moved—Rita Lilly, and the man in the pinstripe suit. They were laughing about something, and Rita was talking excitedly in a high-pitched voice.
On the tips of my toes I scurried by, hoping they wouldn't see my shadow or hear my footfalls. As I turned a corner, the creak of the executive door opening echoed along the corridor. I stopped, crouched low, and peered around the bend.
The man with the pinstripe suit stood with his hands on his hips looking the opposite way. With the grace and finesse of a ballet dancer he turned to peer in my direction. Just in time, I ducked. I waited until he returned to the office before moving.
After a series of twists and turns I found myself in a familiar room in the backstage area. It had the decor 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.
Lenny was sitting at a small table, between two large landscape prints of the Hill Country. The table, covered with a patterned cloth, leaned against the wall near the mock fireplace. He wrote with energy into a leather journal. Although I entered the room without a sound, he sensed my presence and looked up.
"Ollie, you made it!" His lips smiled, but there was a faraway look in his eyes that I couldn't decipher. "Give me a moment and I'll tell you about the position, then you can decide whether you want to take it. As I said earlier, I can't pay much, but it is a unique opportunity." His head dipped, and he continued writing in the journal.
I looked around the curious, little room. The three identical white doors, the thick-piled brown rug, and the wooden pole leaning against the wall were as I remembered them. Something was different, but I couldn't place my finger on it. Suddenly, I felt claustrophobic and shuddered.
"Not long now," said Lenny, sensing my frustration. "You avoided Rita Lilly?" He did not look up.
"Yes, I saw her leaving, but she didn't see me."
"Anyone else see you?"
"Only Christoph Cleon with his girlfriend."
Lenny paused, looked up. "Drunken bums, always making things up." Then he bent forward and continued to scribble.
Again, I scanned the room, a dark-tan leather sofa, two wingback chairs facing it, a coffee table, and a small flat-screen television on top of a mock-oak cabinet. It was the sofa! Something was not quite right. The urgent buzzing of my cell phone disrupted my thoughts.
Again, Lenny looked up. "What's that?"
I peered at the screen, a message from Ticket Maestro confirming the earlier purchase of tickets to Lenny's Friday night show in Austin.
"What a coincidence, it's the tickets for your show," I said, smiling. Lenny laughed, bent his head and continued writing.
I watched as his hand moved furiously across the page. He's like a man possessed, I thought. Then, with little else to do, I clicked on the cell phone screen to view the tickets. That's strange, I thought. But for a minute or two I didn't realize why. As I put the cell phone down, it struck me. Swiping the screen, I reread the invite.
Admit one: The Institution Theater of Austin presents- The Great Lenny Crispin, Master of Disguise, in his very own interactive Many Faces Illusion Show.
My thoughts were on speculative ground, but everything was coming together. "Oh crap!" I gasped involuntarily.
Lenny looked up, his eyes hovered on my face for an instant, then he put down the pen.
"Why?" I asked.
For an instant I thought I saw recognition flash deep within his eyes, then it was gone. Lenny smiled.
"Why what?"
He wasn't drumming his fingers on the table, but looked like he might start at any moment.
"Why did you kill Liza Gilbert?"
Lenny stood up with the appearance of a man trying to conceal annoyance. "What is the meaning of this? I ask you to help track down the killer and you accuse me! Why would I ask for your help if I had done the deed?"
So, maybe I should have thought this through before speaking, double-checked that the pieces of the puzzle fit together neatly before opening my mouth. But it was too late for that now. I stayed silent.
"Ollie," he said with a smile, "that type of talk will get you into trouble. Who else have you accused of being the killer?"
Oh crap, only half the town, but I didn't say anything. He took a step forward.
"Ollie, how many other people have you accused? Please God, let it only be me."
It was as he took another little step that I remembered what the great Sherlock Holmes had said, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."
I froze.
"Lenny," I said in a raspy voice. "I think I know what happened. I'm not sure which one. Whether you killed Malcolm before Liza or after. But there is one thing I am certain of: it was you, Lenny Crispin, Master of Disguise, that ran from the stage at the show, not Malcolm Maskerlyne."
Lenny's lip quivered with some indefinable emotion, but the glare in his eyes told me all I needed to know. He took another step forward.
"You figured it out didn't you, Doctor Stratford? Ha-ha-ha-ha. The Great Lenny Crispin's most intricate illusion uncovered by a feeble, middle-aged woman."
"Why?" The single word came out of my dry mouth like a rusty squeak.
"Ollie, I'm not a violent man, but as Malcolm's understudy, every penny above the bare necessities went for books, equipment, and seminars. Every spare minute was spent studying the art of illusion, the tricks of the trade. By the time I was done, I knew all Malcolm's illusions, how they worked, and how to make them better."
He took another little step closer. My legs were glued to the floor. There was no sensation in my arms. I couldn't move.
Lenny slid closer still, his hot, putrid breath filling my nostrils, and his eyes filled with hate.
"I, the Great Lenny Crispin, deserve a greater reward
, the same rate as Malcolm, at least. When he refused my request, and Liza refused to join my new venture, I took matters into my own hands. With Malcolm gone and Liza dead, I will resurrect the show without any hindrance." He turned to look at me, his eyes mean and cold. "And you, Ollie, are now a rather unfortunate hindrance."
It was all I could do to keep from panicking. I would have run had there been anywhere to run. Unless I could reason with Lenny, or disable him in some way, there was no hope of escape.
After swallowing twice, I tried reasoning. "Yes, I understand your situation. But to kill Liza—"
"You are the devil," he yelled, springing forward. A sudden, wicked, stinging slap on the side of my face. Then another, so hard it sent my teeth into my tongue and fireworks exploded before my eyes. Lenny's voice boomed through the pain. "Over there—you," he said, pushing me toward the wingback chair and snatching my cell phone.
Trembling, I staggered over to the chair facing the sofa, and sat with my back pressed hard against the frame. I watched Lenny place my cell phone on the table, and tear the tablecloth into long strips, which he used to bind my wrists together, and then my ankles.
"You didn't quite get all the facts, Doctor Stratford. But you are close enough to be dangerous. Dear lady, I approached you because I knew that amateurish sheriff's department would never catch the killer. The only risk to my freedom was you. I had to keep you as close to me as possible. What fun to have you perform in the show. Alas, it will not be so!"
He walked over to the sofa, bent over and fiddled with it. "Oh, Ollie, I hoped it wouldn't come to this, I hoped you wouldn't find the truth, but you did, and you must go the way of Liza and Malcolm."
Lenny jumped up. To the casual eye there was nothing to indicate anything odd about the sofa. But a moment after Lenny stepped away it pivoted to one side revealing a shallow pit. A figure lay at the bottom, the face pale with salt-and-pepper hair tumbled into curls above dull, gray eyes—open, but distant.
"This will be your resting place until I can get your body out of the building. You've got Malcolm to keep you company, but not for long by the looks of him."
