by Cynthia Kuhn
The story, written by one Rudy Sharpton, detailed what was known at the time: cast members witnessed Malcolm Gaines discover and confront Camden Drake and Althea Gaines. The two men fought and the police were called. Neither was arrested. Rudy made a point of underlining the adultery aspect. It didn’t really seem like it deserved such a lurid headline, but I knew those sold papers.
There wasn’t any immediate follow-up to that story, but I kept scrolling until I found, almost twelve months later, an edition that proclaimed “ALTHEA GAINES MISSING.” Sharpton again didn’t have much to report other than the fact that she was missing. He began by noting that she’d recently put out an album of songs, including a ballad written by Camden, then he rehashed the details of the fight a year earlier, interviewed several witnesses who opined that she had gone to join Camden, who had left for New York after the scandal broke, and that was that. Malcolm, of course, hadn’t agreed to speak to the reporter.
Shortly afterwards, “MALCOLM GAINES FOUND DEAD” was the headline. The story described how he’d been found by a member of the cleaning crew and mentioned that he left behind a baby daughter.
Afterwards, it just dropped out of the news. Nothing more appeared about Althea. Nothing about the daughter.
I sat back. That was it?
I resumed scrolling until I had seen every edition in the year following. She had disappeared from the pages of the news the way she had disappeared from the town.
Turning to the fiche for the year before the initial argument, I discovered ads for a variety of plays starring Althea, several articles about Camden Drake and his numerous projects, and an interview with Malcolm about the upcoming season. I felt a rush of empathy: he could never have imagined, when he finalized that lineup, what lay ahead.
Going back to the library computer, I did a quick internet search for Althea Gaines and Camden Drake. There were links leading to the mentions of the scandal, their bios, and pictures of them from various productions at Stonedale. But nothing from New York. They must have changed their names after they left town since theirs had been dragged through the mud. I couldn’t blame them.
Moving to let the next patron take my spot, I tried to figure out what to do with the letters. They didn’t belong to me, and I didn’t know what their value was, but they deserved careful treatment. To whom should I give them? Bella, who had genuine questions about why her parents left her? Clara, who was so deeply invested in the history of the theater? Chip, who seemed to want to own everything connected to the Opera House? The ghost busters would also probably be interested, given that they were foregrounding this very tragedy in their show. And then there was the chancellor, the one who technically had the authority to make decisions about the Opera House.
Definitely needed some caffeine to sort this one out.
Chapter 14
After a vat of coffee at Scarlett’s Café and a scone to boot, I had narrowed it down to Lex Archer. The detective would give me an impartial take on what to do with the letters—he was the only one I could think of who wouldn’t be interested in getting his hands on them himself. As a bonus, I could ask about the murder investigation. In fact, Lex had risen to the top of my list once I realized that asking for his help with the letters gave me the perfect opportunity to try and obtain some information without asking for it directly.
I was curious as to why Lex hadn’t already checked in; he knew Jean Claude was my friend. Then again, I wasn’t a police officer. And Lex was one of the busiest people I knew. I’d learned that the hard way, after we’d begun to circle around dating a year and a half ago.
Perhaps Lex and I weren’t the most obvious fit: when we met during my first semester at Stonedale University, he’d been interrogating me about a crime, which he thought I might have committed. We’d been thrown together during another investigation later that year, and it was clear by then that there was something between us.
And that something made me even more awkward than usual around him. I’d never be one of those elegant women in a love story who pines gracefully and imperceptibly for her man. I’m more the spill-my-drink-on-him and blurt-out-absurdities kind of girl.
He’d asked me out once, but almost immediately had been reassigned to another precinct a few hours north of Denver to work on a serial killer case. He’d been up there ever since. Initially we had talked on the phone occasionally, but he couldn’t talk about that case, and I didn’t want to burden him with the ins and outs of trying to finish my scholarly book in progress.
Plus, I was already behind on everything else. Teaching was such an all-consuming job. People seemed to think being an English professor means showing up on campus a few hours a week to exchange witty banter with students, like in the movies, but I’d found it to be more like a seven-day-a-week routine, what with the preparation for classes, advising, committee work, research, and grading. There was never enough time in the day to finish it all.
In any case, Lex and I had stopped talking after awhile, and that seemed to be that.
I sighed. No sense in lamenting our missed connection. He’d been back in town for a few months, I’d heard, and he hadn’t contacted me. It didn’t seem as though he had any interest in getting together.
This was business, however, so I called, apologizing for the short notice and explaining that I needed his assistance. He was surprised but readily agreed, which was a relief. Even if we weren’t going to pursue any sort of romance, I wanted us to be able to call each other if we needed to.
I had just enough time for a brisk house cleaning, meaning that I threw everything in the closet and closed the door. Next was menu-planning, which involved rummaging through the cupboards to see what was languishing in there. Since I didn’t have time to run to the store, I was thrilled to find a full box of ziti and jar of tomato sauce. Typically, I was more of a warmer-upper than an actual cook, but I could manage pasta. I also tossed a salad, sliced some whole-grain bread, and set the table with barely a minute to spare.
Then used that minute to throw on some lip gloss.
When the doorbell rang, I had a moment of uncertainty about how to greet him. After standing with my hand on the door for a moment, I just decided to let whatever happened happen.
Lex stood on the front step with a bottle of wine in each hand, looking slightly uncomfortable. His dark hair, which he usually wore in a buzz cut, had grown out a bit. It was still short but spikier. I liked it.
“Hello, Professor,” he said, smiling.
“Hello, Detective.”
I backed up so he could enter.
He handed me the bottles. “I didn’t know whether you liked red or white, so I got both.”
“Good, because I like both.”
He moved into the small bungalow. He wore a dark jacket with his jeans. His biceps looked even more impressive than I remembered. Not that I was looking.
“Do you want red or white?” I walked over to the little galley kitchen and waved him in.
“None for me, thanks. I’m on duty. Milk would be fine, if you got it.”
“You’re on duty and you’re here?”
“My shift starts in an hour.” He cast his blue eyes around the kitchen, which was barely big enough for two people. I wondered what he thought of my unfinished to-do lists plastered all over the fridge.
“Oh. Let me feed you quickly, then,” I said, reaching for the square white plates I’d stacked on the counter. “Please have a seat at the table over there.”
The last time we’d sat at my oak table, he was grilling me about my cousin, who had been arrested. He was probably thinking about that too.
I spooned up some pasta and sauce, then brought the plates out to the dining nook and set them down on the tablecloth. I hadn’t displayed any candles because that seemed a bit too romantic given our unclarified situation, but there were fresh flowers in a vase that looked lovely, if I did say so m
yself.
He didn’t say anything, though.
And everything felt wrong.
I wasn’t sure what I’d expected the dynamic to be, but it wasn’t this. Typically, we had a little spark. Tonight, he seemed distracted. Or bored. Or tired. Or—the breath caught in my throat—suspicious.
I ran back into the kitchen to give myself a second to think, where I realized that I’d forgotten to bring out the parmesan cheese. That was lucky. Now I could pretend it was the reason I’d fled.
My thoughts were racing, but I reassured myself that he wouldn’t sit down for dinner if he thought I was a murderer. Heading back to the table, I smiled at Lex.
“So,” I said, casually. “How are things going with the Jean Claude case?”
He slowly sprinkled cheese over his pasta and took a big bite.
I waited.
“Funny you should mention that,” he said. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“What do you mean?” I slid into the seat across from him and placed the napkin on my lap.
“Rumor has it that you’ve been asking around...”
I put on a mock affronted look. “Who has been talking about me? Tell me immediately.”
He didn’t laugh.
Uh oh.
“Just kidding. What do you mean?”
“Clara Worthingham came down to the station yesterday and complained about you.”
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.
“Complained about me? But I haven’t—”
“According to her, you’ve been...” he looked up at the ceiling. “‘Snooping,’ I think is how she put it.”
“Snooping? Who am I, Miss Marple?”
He shrugged and reached again for the parmesan cheese. “Her words, not mine.”
“I can’t imagine why she thinks that. All I did was—”
“You realize that most of the descriptions of your shenanigans have begun with ‘All I did was.’”
“That may be so, but honestly, I just went down to the Historical Society office to ask about the protests. I was trying to keep Tolliver happy and make sure the play could go on. And while I was there, I asked how much she’d spoken to Jean Claude. Nothing much worth mentioning.”
“And did something happen at the Opera House?”
“Not that I know of. I mean, I gave her a tour. We found a secret staircase leading from the corner dressing room up to the stage. Did you know that was there?”
I could tell he was surprised, though nothing moved except his eyebrows. “Tell me more.”
I walked him through the discovery.
He nodded, chewing slowly. When he was done, he took a long swig of the milk. “This is delicious, thank you. Been a long time since I had,” he glanced down at his plate, “noodles.”
“Noodles are my specialty.”
Wait, what did I just say? My face went hot. Maybe he didn’t hear it.
“Thanks for telling me about the staircase. We’ll check that out.” He cleared his throat and put down his glass. “But actually I’m here on official business.”
I froze again, thrown completely off balance. Here I’d invited him over for the express purpose of having a conversation about my thing, and I couldn’t even get to it because he had his own agenda.
He shifted in his chair a little bit. Good. I was glad to see he was uncomfortable too. “I’m here to ask you, respectfully, to stay out of the Jean Claude Lestronge case.”
“Stay out of it? I’m not even in it.”
“According to Clara, you’re right in the middle of it.”
I waved that away. “We just talked. It was nothing.”
“Until she came barreling into the station to complain about you and got everyone all riled up.”
“I have questions. He was my friend. And I didn’t even know what the police were doing, because you didn’t tell me anything.”
Lex considered this. “It was on the news.”
“Good point. But I’ve been so busy with the play that I haven’t had time to keep up. My brain is full of script changes and lighting cues.”
“I see.” He took another drink of milk.
“Can you at least tell me what’s going on? What have you found out?”
“Sorry.”
“Even though I just gave you information about how the killer could have gotten out of there so fast?”
He dipped his chin. “And thank you for that.”
I stabbed some ziti. “What if I asked you some questions? Could you answer them?”
“Give it a try, though you already know I have limitations.”
“Why would Clara even think I was snooping unless she had something to hide?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“And who uses the word ‘snooping’ anyway these days?”
He shrugged, though I caught a flicker of amusement in his blue eyes. “Do you have something else to add, Professor? Or was that the extent of your question list?”
“Oh, I’m just warming up,” I assured him, putting down my fork.
He buttered some bread as he waited for me to continue.
“Do you have any suspects?”
Lex popped the piece into his mouth and chewed.
“Are you just going to stare at me?”
He stared at me.
“Let’s do this: if I’m right, don’t do anything. If I’m wrong, shake your head.”
He blinked. I took that to mean he was on board.
“Do you have any suspects?” The detective didn’t move a muscle.
“Okay, I’m going to do a test of the system. Make sure we’re on the same page. Is your given name Lex Luthor?”
He shook his head, never breaking eye contact.
“Thank you. Back to the questions. So is there more than one suspect?”
He moved his head again.
“Just one. Okay. Are they male or—”
Lex rolled his eyes. “This is going to take all night. Lila, I’ll just give you the information that we’ve already given the press, okay? We are working on the case. We have a person of interest. We’ll take it from there.”
I drummed the table with my fingertips. “Mmm hmm. And the person of interest is...?”
He remained silent. Stubborn, as always, which I found both maddening and compelling.
“I’m just wondering because we know there are so many potential suspects—everyone working on the play, plus the Historical Society people, not to mention all of his fans. Jean Claude had quite a following. I’m surprised you’ve whittled it down to just one person already. What’s leading you in that direction?”
“I can’t tell you anything, Lila. And you shouldn’t be doing anything related to the case. I know you’ve been involved in two already, but you aren’t trained, and I...I...” He looked down at his hands. “Look, I don’t want you to get hurt. We haven’t even had a chance to go on a proper date yet.”
Until that moment, I hadn’t been sure that I cared if there was a “we.” But now I knew I did.
I smiled at him. “A proper date is hard to accomplish when you run out of town after extending the invitation.”
“Yep, that’s my modus operandi. Easier that way.” He looked down, then up through his lashes. If I hadn’t been sitting, my knees would have buckled.
“I see.”
“But I’ve been thinking lately that I might want to try something new. Maybe go through with said date, see what that’s like. So how about next weekend?”
“I can’t do anything until after the show’s over,” I said. “We open November first and run for two weeks.”
“Just around the corner then.”
“Yes. Are you free after that?”
“I could be,” he said, fixing those gorgeous blue
eyes on mine.
“Wait,” I said. “Did you ask me out or did I ask you out? It got kind of confusing there.”
“Why does it matter?”
“So I can tell Calista that you asked me on a proper date finally.”
“You’re already telling people about us?” His cell phone made a sound, and he looked down at a text. “Oh—got to go.”
“Can’t you stay for a few more minutes?”
“Nope. Sorry ma’am.” He tipped an imaginary hat. “Need to make the city streets safe for our citizens again.”
We stood up from the table and made our way to the door. Which wasn’t hard because it was about three steps away. I wished it were longer because I was reluctant to see him leave. He turned to face me.
“I’m sorry things have been...”
I waited while he searched around for the appropriate word.
“Weird.”
That pretty much summed it up.
“It’s the job, Lila. Not you.”
I felt a rush of relief.
“I understand. I’ve been overwhelmed with work too.”
He moved closer, as though he intended to kiss me. I held my breath. He studied my face for a moment, then grinned. “Thanks for dinner. I can’t remember that last time I’ve had better noodles. They really are your specialty.”
Dang, he had heard that.
And then he was gone.
Chapter 15
As I walked to rehearsal on Wednesday, I realized that I never talked to Lex about the letters. But my mind was still trying to work out what their discovery meant. Had the trunk been placed in the staircase for us to find, and if so, by whom? The ghost himself? Could it be that the production in the Opera House was energizing the spirit, if Malcolm was really present? Or was someone trying to use the legend to get our attention?
I stopped in my tracks next to a plastic skeleton posed cheekily in front of a candy store.
Tolliver was desperate for his play to be a success. Could he be amplifying the ghost presence in order to ensure it? There was that famous saying, though the chancellor would definitely disagree, “No publicity is bad publicity.” I wouldn’t put it past Tolliver to make sure that word got out.