by Laura Childs
Sliding ahead, slowly and quietly, Suzanne tried to pick her way through the gloom.
Was the ghost waiting to attack her? He’d already killed one person, so he probably had no qualms about adding another victim to his dance card.
A narrow hallway loomed ahead of her. Her back against the wall, Suzanne eased herself forward.
And there, just ahead of her, heading for the back door of the theater, was the ghost.
“Stop!” Suzanne cried as she scrambled after him.
The ghost slid to a halt and spun around to face her, all dark cowl and quivering cheesecloth. Holding up a mean-looking serrated knife that glistened with a few beads of blood, he jabbed the tip at her.
Suzanne backpedaled mightily, her heart practically beating out of her chest.
Holy crap!
Wide-eyed and practically breathless, Suzanne stood and stared at the ghost. The heavy cowl still obliterated his face; the knife was clutched in his hand. She took one cautious step backward. And then another.
What was I thinking? This is such a bad idea.
The ghost raised his knife and then tilted it in a perpendicular fashion, almost as if he was making some kind of medieval symbol or benediction.
Suzanne’s heart fluttered with fear. Had Toni called 911? Had anyone followed her back here? Was she about to become this madman’s next victim?
Then, with eerie but coordinated stealth, the ghost whirled about and kicked open the heavy metal stage door. A draft of ice-cold air flowed in as the door banged hollowly against the outside wall, launching a miniature snowstorm of ice rime. Seconds later, the ghost flitted outside, his footsteps crunching hollowly as he disappeared down the back alley into the frozen, dark night.
CHAPTER 2
IT was both a tragedy and a comedy of errors. A tragedy because a man had bled to death onstage, a comedy because Toni was convinced he’d been murdered by an honest-to-goodness ghost.
“The temperature must have dropped thirty degrees when that phantom started whooshing around,” Toni said. “And I’m positive I smelled something strange.”
“Strange like what?” Suzanne asked.
Toni scrunched her face and made a wringing motion with her hands. “Maybe like . . . brimstone?”
“You’re sure it wasn’t just cheap drugstore aftershave?” Suzanne asked. Nothing here was particularly funny but she still struggled to keep a straight face.
“No, I think that ghost blew up from the pit of hell.”
Sheriff Roy Doogie and Deputy Eddie Driscoll had shown up at the theater almost immediately. They’d rushed down the center aisle in a flurry of khaki, snorkel parkas, and pac boots and checked Allan Sharp’s body to make sure he really was dead. Then they listened carefully to Suzanne’s eyewitness account of the murder and subsequent chase. Toni’s explanation, however, had left them scratching their heads.
“It was a real ghost,” Toni insisted.
“If it was a genuine ghost I was chasing, then he was wearing genuine Sorel boots,” Suzanne said. “I saw them as he hoofed it out the back door.”
“But you didn’t see his face?” Sheriff Doogie asked Suzanne.
“Difficult to see a shape-shifter,” Toni muttered.
“I never saw the man’s face,” Suzanne said to the sheriff. “He wore his hooded cowl pulled low the whole time.” She turned toward Toni. “We’re talking flesh and blood here, Toni, not a ghost.”
“You’re sure it was a man?” Deputy Driscoll asked. When everybody looked a little sideways at him, he added, “Versus a woman?”
Suzanne gave a brisk nod. “I think so. Even though he wore a costume, he still looked tall and fairly husky. And then when I chased him . . . he turned around and threatened me.”
“Threatened you how?” Doogie asked. “Verbally?”
“First he held up a big hunting knife; then he aimed the tip at me like he wanted to kill me.”
“I’d classify that as a serious threat,” Doogie said. “Did he speak to you? Did you recognize the guy’s voice?”
Suzanne shook her head. “Not really. He just kind of grunted, low and gruff, as if he was using a fake voice. You know, the way the actor Nick Nolte always talks?”
“Killer disguised his voice,” Driscoll said. He was making notes in a small spiral notebook.
They were all gathered onstage, like some sort of impromptu acting troupe. Suzanne, Toni, Sheriff Roy Doogie, Deputy Driscoll, the play’s director, Teddy Hardwick, and the still-very-dead Allan Sharp. Doogie had told the rest of the cast to sit tight in their theater seats.
“I still think it was a genuine ghost,” Toni said. “There have been several well-documented cases of hauntings in theaters. There was even a series about haunted theaters on the Travel Channel.”
“But this ghost stuck a nasty serrated knife into Allan Sharp’s gut and then waved it in my face,” Suzanne said.
“Maybe the ghost was running low on ectoplasm,” Toni said, reluctant to abandon her theory.
“No, this guy . . . this killer . . . was real. Terrifyingly real,” Suzanne said. She’d felt genuine hostility radiating off him.
“What we have here is a straight-ahead homicide,” Doogie said. “We don’t need an exorcist; we need an investigation.” He planted his feet wide apart, grasped his gun belt with both hands, and hitched up his khaki pants. Doogie was a big guy with a shock of gray hair and a meaty face. People thought because he was slow moving that he was slow with his thinking, too. Not so. Doogie was smart and crafty and had the facile mind of a chess player who could see fifteen moves ahead. And just because he was considerate to preachers and little old ladies didn’t mean he couldn’t be as irritable as a rattlesnake.
“I agree completely,” Hardwick said. “We need to solve this murder fast so we can get on with the play. Without any sort of blowback on our actors’ reputations.” Hardwick was a serious-looking guy in his mid-thirties. Tonight he wore dark slacks and a faded blue sweater and had a long scarf looped around his neck. Artsy-like.
“We need to think logically,” Doogie said. “Explore any and all possible motives.”
“Maybe the ghost wanted to play the Scrooge role,” Toni said.
“It has to be more serious than that,” Hardwick said. “There had to be more at stake.”
“Who hated Allan Sharp?” Doogie murmured, almost as if he were posing the question to himself.
“Everyone,” Suzanne said. “Sharp was a scummy lawyer who dabbled in all sort of things. Politics, shady real estate deals, any kind of kickback he could weasel out of the city or county. And remember, Sharp was booted off the board of directors over at the prison.” She was surprised someone hadn’t bought him a toaster for his bathtub—he was disliked that much.
Doogie rocked back on the heels of his boots. “Even though Allan Sharp served on the city council, he wasn’t what you’d call your upstanding citizen.”
Deputy Driscoll made a low sound in the back of his throat. “But we’re still sworn to uphold the law. To pursue any and all criminal activity to the best of our ability.”
“You don’t have to quote law enforcement scripture to me, Edward,” Doogie said. “I intend to find Sharp’s killer, arrest him, and drag his sorry carcass into court. And if he gets messed up along the way . . . well, those are the breaks.”
“Then we’d best get to collecting evidence,” Driscoll said.
Doogie nodded. “You grab the crime scene kit from the car.”
While Driscoll took pictures and bagged Allan Sharp’s hands for possible evidence, Doogie called George Draper, owner of Driesden and Draper Funeral Home.
“You’re transporting him to the funeral home?” Suzanne asked.
“No, I only called Draper because he’s the one with the meat wagon and the county has a contract with him. I’ll have him haul Sharp’s body o
ver to the hospital and stash him in their morgue,” Doogie said. “You never know; we might end up bringing in an outside forensics expert. Maybe call the state guys up in Saint Paul.”
“Then you should check the footprints out back, too.”
“Let’s go do that.”
Suzanne and Doogie wound their way through the back of the theater and down the short flight of steps and pushed their way outside. Snow immediately whipped at their faces, driven by a chill wind. The alley was deserted except for a brown hulking Dumpster, and dark except for a single light from a neighboring building. But the fresh white snow glowed as if touched by a black light.
“Huh,” Doogie said. He sniffed the air like a wolf. “He ran out this way, huh?”
“That’s right.” Suzanne’s breath plumed out into the night air and she started to shiver. Not because she wasn’t wearing a coat, but because she was thinking how close she’d come to being the second victim. Too close.
Doogie glanced down and pointed at a set of tracks that was mashed into a couple of inches of snow. “Those are his tracks? That’s where he ran? You didn’t go after him and mess things up?”
“No,” Suzanne said. “I was too scared. So those are definitely the killer’s tracks.”
Doogie pulled out his cell phone, knelt down, and snapped a few pictures. Then he took a pen from his pocket and laid it alongside the tracks for context and snapped a few more shots from different angles.
Suzanne stepped back inside the building and called Sam, wondering just how much she should tell him. Let’s see now, a murder, bizarre chase, and a big knife waved in her face. She decided it might be better to wait until she got home; then she could soft-pedal her story.
As soon as Sam answered, Suzanne said, “Apologies, but I’m going to be late tonight. You probably shouldn’t wait up for me.”
“What’s wrong?” Sam asked.
“What makes you think something’s wrong?” Dang, was that a quaver in my voice?
“The tone of your voice, for one thing. And the fact that my pager just went off with a 187 code.”
“Which is . . . ?”
“A homicide.”
“Thanks a lot, Doogie,” Suzanne muttered.
“Suzanne.” Sam’s voice was unnaturally sharp and terse. “Wait a minute, you’re at the theater? I’m reading this text message. Mmn . . . holy cats, there was a homicide at the theater and you’re still there?”
“Uh . . . yes.”
“Suzanne, are you safe?” Sam demanded.
“I think so.”
“What does that . . . ? Never mind, I’m coming right over.”
And just like that he was gone.
Putting her phone away, Suzanne walked over to the backstage dressing area. Doogie had come in and stomped the snow off his feet and was poking around with a flashlight. “Find anything?” she asked.
“Kind of a mess back here,” Doogie said without looking up.
“We went tearing through here, knocking into things, I guess.”
Doogie shone his light on a backdrop that depicted a library scene. The thick paper had been ripped from top to bottom. “Looks like Hardwick’s going to have to replace a few pieces of scenery.”
“Along with his main actor.”
“You know anybody who was vying for that role?” Doogie asked. “The Scrooge role?”
“I don’t know anything about it. You’d have to ask Hardwick.”
“I will do that.” Doogie snapped off his flashlight, leaving them in the dark. “For now I’m going to go out front to interview the other actors.”
“I think most of them were seated in the audience when the fake ghost came onstage.”
“Somebody must have seen something,” Doogie said.
* * *
• • •
TEN minutes later, George Draper arrived, looking somber in his black three-piece funeral suit and pushing a clanking metal gurney.
Then, a hot minute later, Sam rushed in, right on Draper’s heels. Dressed in faded jeans, a gray hoodie, and tennis shoes, he glanced around the theater, a look of panic etched on his handsome face. When he finally spotted Suzanne, sitting in the second row, he raised a hand and called out, “Suzanne!”
Suzanne saw the worry on his face, the tension in his body, and jumped up. She ran to meet him and flung herself into his arms. God, he felt good.
“Are you okay?” Sam asked.
“I am now,” Suzanne said.
Sam kissed her on the forehead and then moved down to her lips. But only for a brief moment because now Sheriff Doogie was waving at him and calling his name.
“Lucky me,” Sam said in a low voice. “I’m still acting county coroner for another two months.”
“And now you’ve got a murder dropped in your lap,” Suzanne said.
“Doc,” Doogie called again, more forcefully this time.
“Don’t go anywhere,” Sam told Suzanne. He vaulted up onto the stage, not bothering with the steps, and walked over to where Doogie and Draper were surveying the body. The three of them put their heads together and muttered in low voices for a few minutes. More photos were snapped. Then they waved at Deputy Driscoll to join them, and together, the four of them rolled Allan Sharp into a black plastic body bag and hoisted him up onto the gurney.
When the body flopped down, a hush fell over the other actors. Somehow the arrival of Dr. Hazelet, the gurney with one squeaky wheel, and the shiny black body bag made Sharp’s death feel all too real.
“Wait! Wait!” a strangled voice called out.
Everyone turned as a tall, hawk-nosed man in a long, flapping coat came half running, half stumbling down the aisle.
“Don Shinder,” Suzanne said to Toni, who was now seated next to her.
“Allan Sharp’s law partner?” Toni asked.
“Sharp Shinder and Young. They’ve been together almost four years.”
“Oh my God!” Shinder shrieked as he drew closer to the stage. He pointed a bony finger at the body bag on the gurney. “Is that Allan? No, it can’t be,” he said. He stumbled around, looking for a way onto the stage, then finally found the stairs.
Doogie intercepted Shinder before he could reach Sharp’s body. He grabbed the man by his shoulders and pulled him to one side. Shinder’s narrow face was flushed red and his arms flailed helplessly.
“Allan can’t be dead,” Shinder cried. “I was just talking to him. We just filed a brief together, for cripes’ sake.” He looked forlorn and positively unhinged.
Doogie led Shinder over to a folding chair and Shinder slumped down.
Shinder fought to make his mouth work, then finally croaked out, “What happened?”
Doogie bent down and quietly explained what he understood to be the sequence of events. All the while Shinder kept shaking his head and saying, “No, no, no.”
While they talked, Sam helped George Draper lower the gurney off the stage, then walked over to where Suzanne and Toni were waiting.
“There’s nothing more we can do here,” Sam said.
“You don’t have to, like, examine the body?” Toni asked.
“He can wait,” Sam said in his quiet, calming doctor’s voice. “Come on, let’s all go home. Suzanne, Toni? Whose car is here? Who drove over from the Cackleberry Club?”
“Neither of us,” Suzanne said. “Junior gave us a ride.” Junior was Toni’s ne’er-do-well not-quite ex. Four years ago, they’d run off to Las Vegas to get hitched, but before the ink was dry on their marriage license, before the bill for the hotel room came through on her Visa card, Junior was making goo-goo eyes at a waitress at the local VFW. The one with the cheap mohair sweater and hot pink extensions in her hair.
They drove over to Toni’s apartment, Sam’s BMW cranking out heat as tiny pellets of snow ticked hard against the windsh
ield.
“Take care,” Suzanne said as Toni hopped out.
“I will,” Toni said.
“Lock your doors,” Sam cautioned.
And then they were alone, snuggled together in the warmth of the car. They drove down Main Street through the center of Kindred, past Founder’s Park, past hundred-year-old redbrick buildings that still housed small businesses like Kuyper’s Hardware and Rudd’s Drugstore. At one street corner a city worker was up on a cherry picker, putting up strings of brightly colored lights and green garlands. Christmas decorations.
Neither Suzanne nor Sam spoke a word until they were a few blocks from home. Then Suzanne, sensing there might be something left unsaid between them, asked, “Is something wrong?”
Sam didn’t mince words. “I don’t want you to get involved.”
“I’m already involved. I saw Allan Sharp get stabbed.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Not really,” Suzanne said, even though she knew exactly what Sam was driving at.
“Doogie told me you chased after that guy,” Sam said. “And that he turned and pulled a knife on you. Almost killed you.”
Thanks a lot, Doogie.
“Doogie might have exaggerated that part a bit.”
“No, I think you’re the one who’s probably underplaying the truth. And I think I know why.”
“Excuse me, but what are we really talking about?” Suzanne asked.
“I’m asking you not to stick your neck out,” Sam said.
“I can handle myself, you know.”
“Like Allan Sharp did?”
He had her there.
Sam was silent as he turned into their driveway. The headlights swept the frozen pavement, which still held a thin skim of snow. “Suzanne, I’m the coroner. I don’t know what I’d do if I had to . . .”
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” Suzanne said.
“Just, please, I’m asking you to be careful.”
“Come on, Sam, you know me.” Suzanne tried her best to sound calm and even a little lighthearted.