by J. R. Ripley
I searched my brain. Who had said something about an electrical fire? This had to be where it had occurred. Unless there had been more than one.
I also realized what was on the other side of the room’s back wall—Ava Turner’s dressing room. Was that a coincidence or had someone intended to somehow burn her to death?
That was a scary thought. I didn’t feel like being charred to a crisp while performing Annie Get Your Gun, decked out in some long-forgotten Hollywood designer’s idea of a Native American costume. How would that look on my tombstone? Lame, that’s how. I reached out and ran my fingers along the metal sides of the panel. It was cool to the touch.
“Careful, Amy.”
I turned with a gasp. “Eli!” Eli Wallace, the actor playing the expert knife-throwing Tommy Keeler, blinked at me.
He nodded his chiseled chin at the open circuit breaker panel. “That thing could be dangerous.” Eli was in full cowboy costume. He looked very handsome and very devilish. And not just a little scary with that knife attached to his belt. Rubber prop or no.
“I-I guess you’re right.” He stepped aside as I moved to leave the cramped space. The handle of his knife brushed my hip as I passed. Patsy Klein had been savagely murdered with a knife. And Eli Wallace, aka Tommy Keeler, was the show’s expert. Was he an expert in real life?
“Trust me,” Eli said.
I brushed down my slacks in the hallway. “What are you doing here?” I heard the sounds of dancing on stage, and the dull thud of my heart beating against my ribs. “Shouldn’t you be out there?”
“I’m off stage for now. Mantooth sent me and your cousin Riley looking for you. He went one way,” Eli said with a jerk of his thumb, “and I went the other.” He smiled lasciviously. “Looks like I found you first.”
“Tell me,” I said, as we walked side by side in the narrow hall toward the others, “are you an expert with that thing in real life?” I stopped and tapped the tip of the knife.
“This?” Eli rubbed the handle. “You might say so,” he bragged.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Taxidermy.”
I shuddered. “Taxidermy?”
“You shoot ’em and I stuff ’em,” he said with a flash of big white teeth.
“Interesting.”
“Come by the studio sometime and I’ll show you around.” Eli waved me forward as we approached the short flight of stairs leading up to stage level.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I said. “But between the show and running Birds and Bees—”
“Patsy loved it,” Eli interjected before I could complete my planned graceful refusal.
I paused. Alarms went off in my head. “Patsy visited your studio?”
Eli puffed up his chest. “Yep. Patsy was real interested, too. She said she might have a job for me.” He tipped his head meaningfully. “A real big one.”
“You know,” I said, “I’d love to take you up on your offer. How about tomorrow?”
“Great,” said Eli, a giant smirk on his face. “It’s a date. Maybe we can even rehearse our lines.” He eased his arm over my shoulder. “My character is supposed to be in love with yours. We should work on that.”
“Amy!” Riley said. He laid his hands on his hips as he looked down on us. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Coming!” I couldn’t remember ever being so happy to see Cousin Riley.
Eli held me back. “I like you, Amy. You’re not like the rest of them.”
“The rest of them?” I asked, uneasily.
He waved his hand. “Yeah, like Patsy. Always fawning over me. I mean, I get it. I’m a good-looking guy. I’ve got my own business. But a man wants to do the chasing, not be chased. You know what I mean?”
“Are you saying Patsy was chasing you?” I couldn’t resist smiling.
“Yeah, but I put a stop to it.”
My eyes grew. “You did?”
“Amy! Now!” Riley hollered. “Director’s waiting!”
14
“Did somebody really try to run you off the road, Riley?” I asked as I followed behind. Both Aunt Betty’s kids were prone to hyperbole.
He looked over his shoulder at me. “I admit I thought so at first, Amy. But then Patsy told me she’d dropped her cell phone under the passenger seat of her car while she was driving. She was bending down trying to reach for it because it was ringing.”
“Patsy? She’s the person you thought tried to run you down?” If what Patsy had told my cousin was the truth, it was pure stupid. She could have been killed.
Then again, she had been killed.
He nodded. “She apologized and everything.” Riley pointed to the makeup station. “So I guess it was an accident after all. But when I saw that car coming straight at me and Miss Turner, I was sure we were both going to be goners!”
“Miss Turner was with you?”
“I was giving her a ride to the theater.” Riley gave me a push. “Now get moving. Rhonda’s waiting for you in makeup. She’s got your costume and everything.”
Sure enough, Rhonda was tapping a hairbrush against her palm when I arrived. I’d have to digest Cousin Riley’s words later. What he’d said about Patsy had been interesting, but his mentioning that Ava Turner was in the car with him was especially intriguing.
And confusing enough that I got a headache just thinking about thinking about it all.
“Rhonda,” I exclaimed. “I’m so glad to see you.”
She made an ooh that’s icky face that I usually saw only on three-year-olds. “What’s that sticky stuff all over your cheek?”
I rubbed my face and studied my fingers. Baklava. Great. Why hadn’t Derek mentioned I was covered with dessert? “It’s—”
“Never mind,” snapped Rhonda, a wad of gum bouncing atop her tongue. “Let’s get to work on you.” My cousin pointed to the makeup chair and I plopped myself down. “Darn chief of police hasn’t stopped hounding me.” She yanked the brush through my hair.
“Ouch!” I winced.
“Sorry.” Rhonda slowed down.
I patted my scalp, testing for blood. “Hounding you how?”
“Coming around to the salon, asking questions.” Rhonda worked in a local beauty parlor called Spring Beauty. “Spooking our clients.”
I grunted an acknowledgment.
“Misty was fit to be tied.” Misty Spring was the salon owner.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. “I’m sure the police will find Patsy Klein’s real killer soon enough.”
“Huh!” Rhonda sniffed, attacking my head with a bottle of hair spray that smelled like wet latex paint and geraniums. “You know he’s been poking his nose around here all day. He might still be here as far as I know.” She looked to see if anyone was listening, then brought her lips to my ear. “Though I don’t get tired of looking at Officer Sutton, I don’t mind telling you.”
“He is a handsome fellow.”
Rhonda nodded. “And I didn’t see a wedding ring on his finger.”
“Maybe you ought to ask Sutton to interrogate you next time,” I teased.
Rhonda giggled. She pressed her finger against my chin, turning my head from side to side, with a frown. “You’ll do.” She pointed to a rolling clothes rack. “There’s your costume. Put it on and join the party.”
I snatched the hanger holding my outfit and scooted toward the ladies’ dressing room. There was a large common room with a row of battered lockers without locks, which were available for us to stash our street clothes and valuables, like purses and such. With all the petty thievery that had been going on, Lou might want to rethink that no-lock policy.
The separate communal dressing rooms for the men and women were located off this main room. I changed quickly, bundled up my clothes, and went in search of a free locker.
Each locker seemed to be identical, with a small upper metal shelf and a metal hook on each side of the larger compartment. The first several I tried were jammed with clothes
and shoes. I thrust my street clothes and purse in the first empty locker I could find, down near the end of the line. At least it was nearly empty.
A gray, soiled towel lay coiled atop the shelf of this one. I wrinkled my nose and reached for it with two fingers. “Disgusting.” There was no way I wanted my clothes soaking up the rancid smell of perspiration and stage fright coming from that towel.
As I lifted the towel by its corner, I heard a muffled metallic clatter. There was something in the towel. As much as I dreaded touching the towel, curiosity got the best of me. I palpated the clumsily folded towel.
There was definitely something inside. As I carefully unwrapped the old towel, a knife tumbled out, bounced off the inside of the locker, and landed point down in my slacks, where it held.
I stared at it, my mouth gaping. This was definitely no prop knife, not the way it had penetrated my slacks. My fifty-dollar pair of slacks.
I had no doubt this knife was real. I leaned closer for a better look. The solid-looking weapon was about eight inches long from end to end. The question was: Was this the knife that killed Patsy Klein?
* * *
“You’re telling me,” whined Chief Kennedy, “that you found this thing right here in your locker?” He looked from the knife sticking into my jeans to me. “We searched every inch of this place the other day. It sure as hell wasn’t here then.”
I hovered over his shoulder. “In the first place, it’s not my locker. Look around,” I admonished, with a wave of my hand. “These are communal lockers.”
“Get some pictures before I bag all this stuff,” Jerry Kennedy ordered Officer Reynolds. Unfortunately for Rhonda, the chief had brought one of his other subordinates.
I stepped aside as Officer Larry Reynolds got busy. “I assume by all this stuff you mean the knife?” I asked, hopefully.
“I mean everything in this locker.” He moved his gaze from me to Officer Reynolds. “Bag it all. The knife, that rag thing, all those clothes.”
“My clothes? Come on, Jerry. You don’t mean it,” I pleaded. “I mean, take the pants, sure,” I offered. They did have a fresh hole in them, after all. “But leave me the rest.”
Looking me in the eye, Chief Kennedy said to the officer, “And the shoes, Larry.”
I fell onto one of several wobbly wooden stools scattered around the common room. I was feeling a little unsteady myself. “Fine.” I ran my hands through my hair. I’d have to go home in costume. That would be perfect if this was Halloween night. Which it was not. “Can you at least tell me how the murder investigation is going?”
The corner of Jerry’s mouth turned down. “I could, but it’s got nothing to do with you.” He placed a hand on his leather belt. “Right?”
I quickly said that I agreed. “I’m concerned about Rhonda. She’s nervous as a sparrow in a room full of ravenous red-shouldered hawks.”
“She’s got good reason to be,” Jerry said, rather ominously. “Rhonda Foxcombe and Patsy Klein were mortal enemies.”
“Please.” I shot to my feet. “They had a disagreement or two. Besides. . .” I paused as Officer Reynolds turned and snapped a picture of me. What was that all about? “If you ask me, Patsy Klein was never the intended victim. Somebody wanted Ava Turner dead. Ms. Klein had the unfortunate luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Maybe.” Jerry chewed at his bottom lip. “But you want to tell me who wanted to kill Ms. Turner?” I started to form a reply, but the chief kept talking. “And why?”
“I haven’t figured that out yet.”
Chief Kennedy waved toward the door. “And you aren’t going to. Number one, it’s none of your concern. Number two, Ava Turner is a beloved movie star.”
“Maybe it’s a relative after her money.”
“She’s got no living relatives.”
“Really?” I said, nonplussed. “Well, there must be somebody who inherits.”
“It all goes to a charitable foundation,” retorted the chief. “I already asked her.”
I was surprised. Kennedy actually appeared to be doing his job.
“Anything else, Sherlock?”
“Yes,” I shot, from the door. “No matter what you say or think you know, it’s clear that somebody out there would love to see Ava Turner dead. Look around. Patsy’s already dead, but something is still going on, isn’t it?”
Chief Kennedy made no reply, but the troubled look he and his officer shared told me I’d rattled him.
Good.
15
“I think it’s a lovely idea,” Mom said.
I“Very cool,” agreed Kim.
Mom enveloped me in her arms. “I’m so proud of you, Amy. What you’ve done with the store and now this.”
I shot Kim a warning look. While I had told Kim the bad news about the eminent domain issue, I’d made her swear not to discuss it with my mother. I didn’t want to worry her any more than necessary. I still intended to fight this battle with the town and would do everything I could to win. I didn’t know how long I could keep word of yesterday’s meeting from spreading and reaching Mom’s ears, but I wasn’t going to be the one to burst her bubble.
I tacked the sign to the wall: DONATE HERE FOR THE SENIOR SEEDS PROGRAM. I’d made the paper sign and a couple of dozen brochures on my computer and printed everything on pale green paper.
The sign now hung at the front of the store, beside the double row of bulk bins that contained an assortment of loose birdseed. Customers could purchase the seed by the pound or buy custom prepackaged mixes that I put together. So far, the bins had been a hit with my customers. The brochures rested atop the shelf above the bins. I’d added a small plastic bucket for donations.
I hoped the new program I was instituting would be popular. The idea had come to me in the night. I needed to think about something positive rather than the murder and my fear that Ava Turner was in danger still. I already planned to get the feeder that Mr. Withers and his wife had used at their old house and deliver it to him at Rolling Acres.
I had no doubt he’d be glad to see the old feeder again. I’d be taking a sack of unshelled sunflower seeds, too. Whether the crusty old fellow wanted to admit it or not, he was as hooked on bird-watching as his now deceased wife had been. Perhaps his pal ex-chief Karl Vogel would learn to watch the birds as much as he seemed to like to watch the ladies.
Then the thought had hit me. Why not try to get other people involved as well? I couldn’t afford to do much on my own. But if a few other folks pitched in a few dollars’ worth of birdseed or money toward more bird feeders, we might really make a difference in the lives of some of our senior citizens. And not just Rolling Acres. We could expand the program to other senior living facilities in the area. Bird-watching and bird feeding could give the retirees something new and interesting to see and do. I could even arrange talks, if enough of the residents were interested and management agreed, and teach them a little about the various birds in our region.
I drove the last tack into the sheet on the wall. “It’s worth a shot.”
“Maybe you could pay a couple of kids to hang a few flyers around town?” Mom suggested. “I’ll bet some of the other shopkeepers would be happy to oblige.”
“Good idea.” Here at Birds & Bees, we were constantly hanging announcements for a local event of one sort or another in the windows. “But where are we going to find the kids?”
“School’s out,” Kim said. “How hard can it be?” She snapped her fingers. “Hey, I know. Get that boy and girl that dropped the towhee off.”
“The boy, maybe,” I replied. “But the girl . . .” I explained that the girl was Derek and Amy Harlan’s daughter.
“That could be tricky,” agreed Kim.
“Nonsense,” Mom said, untying her store apron. I knew she had planned a shopping trip with one of her friends. They were driving down to the mall in Charlotte. “I’ll talk to Ben. I’m sure it will be fine.”
I sidled up to my mother and draped my arm
over shoulders. “About Ben.”
She looked at me quizzically. “What about him?”
I wriggled my brow suggestively. “Anything going on that I should know about?”
“Amy!” Mom’s cheeks reddened. She tossed her apron under the front counter and headed for the door.
Kim laughed. “Barbara’s got a boyfriend,” she sang.
Mom shot her the evil eye, then shook her head. “You girls are bad!” She shook her finger at us and departed.
“Looks like it’s just you and me today,” Kim said.
“No,” I replied, as I headed for the door myself. I had several extra flyers and brochures in my hand. “It’s just you.”
“Where are you going?” whined Kim, following in my tracks.
“To see a few people so I can learn about Patsy Klein’s murder and figure out a way to save Ava Turner from becoming our killer’s next victim.” I told Kim my theory of how Patsy had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“That’s horrible.” Kim stepped aside as two women entered and headed toward the gift section, which contained items such as mugs, socks, and chimes. “But do you really think anybody is going to talk to you about murder?”
“Number one, this is a small town,” I replied. “People love to talk.”
Kim grinned. “You’re right there.”
I waved the papers concerning the senior seed project in Kim’s face. “And this seeds thing is going to be my entrée to get them to talk. One of them could be our killer.”
“Our killer?” Kim said, her voice rising in question. “Since when did this become our killer, and why would you want to confront them? Are you crazy? That isn’t safe.”
“Until Patsy’s killer is caught, none of us are safe. We could be collateral damage.”
“Maybe,” agreed Kim, with reluctance. “But maybe it was a stranger passing through. We don’t know the murderer was local.”