Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  I felt ill. What had I gotten my sister into?

  Within minutes, Tawnia was pacing in a small alcove area awaiting her turn to go onstage. I held Destiny, while she practiced her lines.

  “You can’t do this,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  She looked up from her script. “Why not? It’ll be fun. I haven’t acted in forever.”

  “Because this isn’t community theater. These people aren’t in it for fun. It’s their livelihood, and they mean business. The other actors in the play think this is their big Broadway break.”

  “Broadway? From here?” Tawnia shook her head. “Not going to happen. That’s just a fantasy.”

  “What about Destiny?” I rocked the now-sleeping baby in my arms.

  “That’s what you’re here for. Rehearsals shouldn’t last more than a few hours. They’ll have to work around her.”

  “What if she needs to eat?”

  “There’s a bottle in the diaper bag in the car.”

  “Is it breast milk? You know it’s best for babies.”

  Tawnia rolled her eyes. “I hate to remind you that both of us grew up on formula and somehow we survived. But yes, it’s my milk, and it’s on ice.” She gave me another placating grin. “Look, you need someone on the inside, and I can get us the inside scoop. We’ll solve the case in no time.”

  “Then what? You’ll go off to Broadway and be an actress?”

  She laughed. “No. I’ll do the play, have a little fun, and while I am, you and Bret finally get your share of Emma.” She put her head close to mine. “Don’t worry. No one’s going to hurt me. They know the police—and you—are watching.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Tawnia didn’t understand the lengths people would go to in order to get what they wanted—poisoning, murder, hitting someone with a hammer. I barely understood it, and I had witnessed it as though I’d lived it. Whoever had murdered Cheyenne and those other two actors eight years ago was still around, I was sure of it, and at least a few people believed the deaths were connected to this play. That meant Tawnia was in danger. Still, they had to understand that my sister wasn’t a serious actress nor a contender for any Broadway role. I’d make sure of that. Maybe it would keep her safe.

  Waiting until Tawnia was with Millie, the other actress in the play, I went in search of Paxton Seaver. He was standing before the stage arguing over a scene with Lucas, who was playing bad boy Alex.

  “I just don’t think I should use that line,” Lucas was saying in his unnaturally high voice. “It sounds too feminine.” His good looks still took me by surprise, especially when coupled with that odd voice.

  “Not if you deepen your voice when you say it,” Seaver countered.

  “That’s easy for you to say. You have all the good parts, and you get the girl in the end. How realistic is that, anyway? A muse getting the girl instead of a human?”

  What? I blinked my surprise. Paxton Seaver was playing Romeo, the muse who was grooming Juliet for Broadway? Suddenly the whole idea of my sister playing Juliet seemed much more serious when the director had cast himself in the play. But if he was trying to shine for the aunt in New York, why would he pick Tawnia? Was she really the best available with Rosemary and Cheyenne out of the picture? Or was there some other reason?

  Though the idea disturbed me, I couldn’t figure out why his being in the play would make him more suspect. Would no other male actor take the part? I somehow doubted the superstition ran that deep. Maybe he was trying to get away from this two-bit outfit, hoping for a chance to make a name on Broadway. No wonder Walsh first had said Seaver had as much to lose as he did.

  “Do it, or we’ll find someone else,” Seaver growled. Lucas stalked off, tossing his wavy hair as he went. He had really good hair. Too bad brains didn’t seem to come with the package.

  “Look,” I said to Seaver, shifting Destiny’s weight to my other shoulder. “My sister’s not looking to go to Broadway. You know that, don’t you?”

  He shrugged. “As long as she’s good enough, Millie and Lucas have a chance.”

  “Not you?”

  He rubbed a hand over his face. He seemed about to say something, but his eyes went past me, and I turned to see that Walsh was coming toward us. “Look, we’ll talk later,” Seaver said. “I need to block this scene with your sister. I’m glad she’s seen the play before. That really helps.”

  “Wait. Did you see this man come here last Thursday looking for Rosemary?” I fumbled for my phone and shoved the picture of Mr. Taylor under his nose.

  “Nope. Never saw him before.”

  “Thanks.”

  He gave a quick nod and bounded onto the stage. “Tawnia,” he called, “let’s go through this scene.”

  There was a brief delay in her arrival, which had me panicking, but eventually she swept onto the stage. Seaver smiled and led her to the far side. For a moment, I stood fascinated as I watched them run through a few lines. I’d noticed before that the plain Seaver had presence, but on stage this was more apparent than ever. Even as he stopped to discuss the scene with Tawnia, he was mesmerizing.

  “I would have done it!” Vera’s voice interrupted my concentration. She’d come up and was speaking to Walsh while glaring at Seaver and Tawnia. “You didn’t have to go and hire another outsider.”

  Walsh blinked at her. “Then why didn’t you speak up?” He shook his head, like a dog shaking off an unwanted hand. “Anyway, I know how you feel about this play, so you’re off the hook.”

  “Maybe I don’t want to be off the hook. I deserve my chance at Broadway just as much as anyone else!” She flounced her hair as she turned and stalked away.

  “Actors,” Walsh grumbled under his breath.

  Her outburst surprised me. Either she’d miraculously overcome her fear of the play or the fear had been an act. Maybe she’d been vying for a part all along, and now with Rosemary and Cheyenne out of the picture, she had a much better chance. Her romance with that playboy she’d been kissing in the hall might mean she had an accomplice. I’d have to ask Shannon to dig into her background.

  Next to me, Walsh’s breathing sounded loud in my ears. “Have you seen this man?” I asked, showing him the picture of Mr. Taylor.

  He held the phone away from his face to see it better. “No. I haven’t. Really, I’ve told you guys that none of us knows anything about what happened to Cheyenne.”

  “Well, someone knows. You just got back from the police, didn’t you?”

  He wiped his sweaty forehead with a white handkerchief. “A while ago. How’d you know that?”

  “I consult with them, remember?”

  “I don’t think you ever said.”

  “Well, I do.”

  On the stage, Seaver was speaking, waving his hands energetically. For a moment, we both watched, mesmerized. “He’s good,” I said. “Maybe he should be on Broadway.”

  Walsh blinked and shook his head. “He’s just trying to make Millie and Lucas shine. They’re the best actors I’ve got.”

  I hadn’t seen the two in any role, so I wasn’t betting money on their abilities. “Too bad about Lucas’s voice,” I said, more to needle Walsh than anything.

  Walsh drew his round figure up to his full height. “He overcomes it quite well.”

  “Carl!”

  We turned at the harsh voice. Erica was coming down the steps between the seats, walking with a stiffness that showed annoyance, her dark eyes flashing. “Are you still going through with this play? After everything that’s happened?”

  “Of course,” Walsh said. “You know as well as I do that the play must go on.”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “There are other plays. Better ones that use more actors.”

  “So you’ve said, but I feel this is our best chance.”

  “Ours or yours?
” Her disgust was obvious, but Walsh didn’t seem to notice.

  “Everyone’s,” he said.

  Ignoring him, she turned to me, her face softening. “Babysitting now, are we?”

  I indicated the stage with my chin. “My sister’s filling in. This is my niece.”

  Erica stepped closer. “She’s really cute.” She admired the sleeping baby for a polite space of time before turning back to Walsh. I’m always amazed at the power babies have over people.

  “So are we going to run through our play?” Erica asked, sounding less upset. “You remember that we open next week, right?”

  “At five o’clock we’ll work on a few scenes. And again tomorrow morning before the Juliet rehearsal.”

  Erica rolled her eyes. “That’s going to be fun, getting these night owls here.”

  “They’ll be here. Besides, we’ve done that play before. Everyone knows it well.”

  “Don’t you have a performance tonight?” I asked.

  Erica shook her head. “We’re only open for the public Thursday through Saturday, except for special events.” She shot a glance at Walsh. “We’ll probably do some of the Juliet performances on Mondays and Wednesdays.”

  Walsh inclined his head in agreement.

  “Look, Erica,” I said, taking advantage of the brief lull in the conversation. “I need to ask you a few questions.”

  “Okay, but I have a lot to do. Can you walk with me?”

  “Sure.”

  We went through the door and down the hall to the women’s dressing room. From a cupboard she took a basketful of folded clothing and a sewing kit. “These need fixing before our next play.” She frowned as she glanced toward the closet where we had found Cheyenne. Evidence tape still crisscrossed the closed door. I wondered how long it would stay there.

  I brought up the picture of Mr. Taylor on my phone. “Have you seen this man?”

  She tilted her head to the side. “Hmm, maybe. He might have walked through here on Thursday. I was a little busy.”

  “Might have?”

  She shrugged. “I think I overheard him or someone else talking to Cheyenne.”

  “Are you sure it wasn’t Rosemary?”

  “Maybe. I didn’t hear her voice, just his, and I caught a glimpse of her hair as I went past.” She looked up at the ceiling, trying to remember. “I guess Rosemary has the same kind of hair, more or less. It could have been her.”

  Her comment made me wonder if maybe Rosemary or whoever had been hit by the hammer had been mistaken for Cheyenne. Maybe the killer thought the poison hadn’t worked after all. No, it would have had to be the other way around since Rosemary had gone missing between Thursday night and Friday lunchtime, and the imprint on the glass said the poison had been given to Cheyenne late Saturday afternoon. Maybe the murderer realized he’d hit the wrong woman and used the poison to correct his error. The only thing that wouldn’t make sense was the previous poisonings. The feelings in both poisoning imprints had been so similar that I was convinced they’d been committed by the same person, and successful murderers didn’t usually change their methods so drastically. The poisoning was planned, well thought out; the hammer, a moment of passion.

  “I’m going to find a window and a bit more light,” Erica said. “Do you have any more questions?”

  “Not right now.”

  She took a few steps toward the door before giving me a tight grin over her shoulder. “I really hope you find whoever did this. Things will never get back to normal here until you do. That’s not good. Actors are very sensitive, you know. Stress like this can throw off their acting.”

  I hadn’t noticed that actors were any different from regular people, except for the added drama within their group, most of which I felt was for show, but I didn’t really care how Erica saw herself or her theater family. “Thanks for your help. I’m just going to look around a bit.”

  Cradling Destiny in my right arm, I reached out and touched a hairbrush on the vanity in front of me. Seeing it reminded me of how the imprint on Rosemary’s brush had abruptly cut off when she’d looked up and seen a man enter the dressing room. Surely that wasn’t when she’d been hit, because the man would have been a witness.

  Unless he was a conspirator with whoever hit her. But if the man had been Rosemary’s father, they would have had to talk first for her to leave the imprint on her princess rock. Maybe it wasn’t the father at all on the brush imprint but Rosemary’s supposed boyfriend. I wished the imprint hadn’t cut off before I’d seen his face.

  I toyed with the different ideas as I set down the brush. The faint imprints it held were unremarkable. Many here had used it over several years, and no one claimed ownership. I touched a few more objects as I contemplated Grady Mullins’s possible involvement with someone at the theater. Maybe he’d also been hoping to win a part in the play, and therefore a shot at Broadway, and getting rid of Rosemary was the act he had to perform in order to receive his prize. Except he wasn’t in the play and Shannon didn’t think Grady knew where Rosemary was. My dislike and suspicion of the man might simply be a result of my bruised body.

  A movement at the door to the dressing room drew my attention. Erica was still standing there, studying me with narrowed eyes. “What are you doing?” she asked me.

  “Getting a feel for things.”

  “Are you some kind of psychic?” There it was—the hint of derision people used when they first learned of my gift. I was accustomed to that, and the old desire to convince didn’t even surface.

  “No.”

  She shrugged. “Well, whatever. I hope you find what you’re looking for.” Balancing her basket on one hip, she disappeared.

  I chewed on my lip, staring first at the empty doorway and then at Destiny’s sleeping form in my arms. She stirred in her sleep, her tiny mouth searching for something to suck on. I’d probably have to go out and get the diaper bag soon. I knew from experience that she was impatient when she grew hungry.

  Wait. If two people had been poisoned eight years ago, two glasses were likely used, and since one of those glasses was still here at the theater and had been used in another poisoning, it was possible the other glass was also still here. If so, it might contain imprints that could shed more light on the identity of the murderer. If the glasses had been used as props for so many years, there might not be very many of them. Perhaps only a handful. Or only two.

  I needed to get back to the kitchen. The imprints hadn’t been washed away from the first glass, unlike with clothes, but I didn’t want to risk any more hot water. There was the chance that the second glass had broken long ago and been thrown away, but it might have survived as well as the first one.

  That was when the screaming began.

  Chapter 13

  Hugging Destiny tightly, I went into the hall. What now? Should I run to the door and get the baby out? What about Tawnia?

  Several actors ran down the hall in the direction of the kitchen, from where the sound was coming. Better that I stay with them. There was protection in numbers, though protection from what, I wasn’t sure. For all I knew, someone might have only seen a mouse.

  In the kitchen Erica was on the floor in the corner, her chest heaving with frantic breaths, her basket of costume pieces scattered everywhere. I tensed and looked around. No one else was there. The window, however, had been completely removed from its frame and was now shattered on the floor.

  “What happened?” I asked. Destiny wriggled in my arms, and I loosened my hold slightly.

  Walsh appeared in the doorway with the cast of Juliet, including my sister, who grabbed Destiny from me. Everyone waited for an answer.

  “Someone was in here,” Erica said, still breathless, her voice having lost all power with her fear. “Someone wearing a black mask. He had a bag, and he hit me with it. Knocked me down.”
She rubbed her upper left arm to show where the blow had landed. “I think he was stealing something.”

  I looked around again. The ancient dishwasher and the cupboards were all open and no glasses in sight. A sinking feeling dropped in my stomach. The glass I’d intended to look for was likely gone—and if so, that meant the killer must know about my gift. Why else would he steal an old glass?

  I met Tawnia’s eyes. In them was a question about why anyone would take dishes, but I moved my head slightly, communicating almost without indication, and she didn’t voice the thought aloud. I didn’t want to explain the importance of the glass now, but one thing was sure: whoever took it knew about the poisoning and also what I might find. Too bad the person had rectified the mistake of leaving the glasses in the first place. I should have been quicker.

  Did this mean that no one at the theater had been involved? Someone on the inside could have removed the other glass at any time after the police found traces of poisoning on the first one. If so, my list of suspects was dwindling.

  “I’d better see if they took anything from the office,” Walsh said. He looked at Seaver. “Why don’t you go outside and look around? Maybe Erica startled him enough that he dropped whatever it was he took.”

  “Or she,” Tawnia said. “Since the person was wearing a mask, it might have been a woman. Just like whoever attacked Autumn in the prop room.”

  My stomach lurched. Maybe Rosemary wasn’t missing but had left on her own. Maybe she’d stolen the glass. But eight years ago she would have been twelve or thirteen years old, and it was hard to believe she could have been involved in poisoning the other two actors—unless she was trying to help someone else cover up the murders.

  “I suppose it could have been a woman,” Erica said doubtfully. “He hit me awfully hard, though. I think it was a man.”

  Walsh turned to leave, but a figure loomed in the hallway. “What happened here? Did I hear someone say mask?”

  I’d know that voice anywhere. But who had called him? I certainly hadn’t.

  “Glad you’re here, detective,” Walsh said. “We’ve been robbed.” He motioned to the group. “They can explain. I have to check my office to see if they’ve taken anything important.” He pushed past the crowd, hurrying much faster than his bulk should have allowed.