Final Call

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  “He’s questioning the director of the Portland Players.”

  “Paxton Seaver? I thought he’d already been interviewed.” At least that told me why rehearsal had been canceled. Can’t practice a play without the director, who was also a main character.

  Tracy gave a short laugh. “Ah, but we uncovered new information about Mr. Seaver. Apparently, Seaver is not his real last name, and under his real last name we discovered he has a violent record involving an ex-wife. Two incidences of domestic violence.”

  “Seaver? Really?” He’d appeared so mild, so nondescript, except when on stage. I’d guessed that he was behind any artistic success the company had, aside from Walsh’s rich aunt, but domestic violence and a fake name? That didn’t fit with my impression of him.

  “Interestingly enough, his real last name is Earl, the same name as the director who originally started the Portland Players.”

  A ripple of goose bumps ran down my back. “Oh, the father connection.” Tawnia would be happy to know there was some value in what she’d overheard.

  “Yes, but it’s not the only one we’ve found. It appears that the father of Rosemary’s still-missing boyfriend, Grady Mullins, was at one time an actor with the Portland Players. That was before he branched off and created the company where Rosemary used to work before quitting to play Juliet. There may be a longtime grudge we’ve overlooked.”

  “And another reason why Grady could have been so upset about her taking the Juliet role. If she’s as good an actress as I think she is, Grady’s father wouldn’t have been happy about her defection. You say Grady is still missing?”

  “We’ve been searching for him since the break-in at the theater yesterday. Not even his father knows where he is. Or claims not to know.”

  “I thought Grady hadn’t been released in time to have made it to the theater.”

  “Well, we might have the time wrong because he fits the description, and every other likely person has a solid alibi. The very fact that he’s on the run might mean we let him go prematurely.”

  “What about the other actors? Weren’t there two who were involved in the theater eight years ago as children?”

  “Yes, but their roles were very limited and only part time. They didn’t tour with the group, and their fathers or mothers weren’t connected to the theater in any way. They were found through a local high school Walsh sometimes does free performances for.”

  We’d reached the room now, and Tracy indicated that I should sit at the table near where an officer was already in place behind a video camera on a tripod. Two other officers were in the room, but she dismissed them. I was glad to have less of an audience. I might find absolutely nothing, but what I found could knock me out, if the imprint was strong enough.

  “Wait,” Tracy told me. “Shannon wanted to be here. I’ve already let him know you’ve arrived.”

  I wasn’t surprised. The guy had saved my life, and I’d saved his. It was a hard habit to break. He’d learned the hard way how imprints could affect me, and he felt responsible. Of course, there was also that other aspect of our relationship.

  “What about the rest of the company?” I asked, removing my coat and placing it on the back of my chair. Tracy had cleared the gun when I entered the station, so it was still there in my pocket along with my cell phone.

  “No one else has parents connected to the theater that we are able to determine. There have been nine divorces and several deaths, and one actress was adopted at age ten after her mother died, though we don’t have information on the biological parents. She spent some time in foster homes. She wasn’t at the first one long, less than six months, and the foster parents were later convicted of child abuse. She had better luck at the second home; they ended up adopting her and two other children before they quit being foster parents.”

  “Who’s the actress?” I wondered if it was Cheyenne, because if it was, maybe my long-shot idea about Mr. Taylor being her father had some basis after all. Except Tracy was talking about suspects here, not the victim.

  She looked through several papers in her hand. “Erica Tibble.”

  Erica? Ah, now perhaps I understood her abrupt, bitter manner a little better. She’d experienced early losses, which had hardened her. At least she’d finally found a home. I hoped it had been a good one. Maybe if I had a chance, I’d ask.

  “But no information on her biological parents?” That seemed a gap we shouldn’t ignore.

  “Well, the mother died of a drug overdose, so there’s no current connection there. We have no information on what she did for a job, if anything. The father was never named.”

  What if the father was someone at the theater? There weren’t more than two or three actors the right age, but there were some. Or maybe it was Mr. Taylor, though how that might work into the murder, I had no idea. Unless Cheyenne had found out and was blackmailing him, and that’s what got her killed. A long stretch at best. “Is there any way we could find out if the father is someone connected to the case?”

  “We could ask Ms. Tibble. She might know. But short of doing DNA testing on everyone involved—which would require a warrant—we’re pretty much at a dead end.”

  I thought of that picture in Walsh’s office with the dark-haired girl I’d thought at first was Erica. “What was Erica doing before she joined the Portland Players?”

  “She attended a community college full time. More than full time, actually. All drama, dancing, or singing classes. No GE. She was there two years before joining the company six years ago.”

  So Erica had been telling the truth. Whoever the other dark-haired girl was, she didn’t seem to be connected with the theater now. The police must have obtained the full list of employees eight years ago and would have researched her. I needed to let that go and find something that clicked.

  “Cheyenne wasn’t adopted too, by chance?” I asked to make sure.

  “No. Her parents flew in from Denver on Sunday. Nice couple. It’s really sad.”

  I frowned, glad I hadn’t been around to witness their pain. I knew too well how it felt to view the body of a loved one.

  So still no obvious motive for Mr. Taylor, though Paxton Seaver was looking more and more likely. My mind went over my mental list of suspects for someone we might have overlooked. “Nothing on an actress named Vera?”

  “No. Why?”

  I shrugged. “One minute she’s talking about how the play they’re doing is bad luck, and the next she’s upset because she didn’t respond fast enough to be in it. She has a boyfriend there, too, another actor. A playboy—you know the type.”

  “I’ll take another look,” Tracy said. “You never know. Ah, here he is.”

  Shannon walked through the door, his sandy hair mussed on top as though he’d been running his hand through it. “Hi, Autumn.”

  “Hi.” I hadn’t felt self-conscious before, but I did now.

  “You can go,” Shannon told the officer behind the video camera. “I’ll do this.”

  The officer nodded and relinquished his post. I smiled. The fewer witnesses for me, the better, though for all I knew, they would show this video to their officers as a part of training.

  I hoped not.

  “So what’s Seaver’s story?” I asked.

  Shannon shook his head. “The director says his father has nothing to do with the theater now and that he’d been retired several years before Seaver took over as director.”

  “So the murder isn’t a way of trying to get back at Walsh for somehow gaining control of the company?”

  Shannon left the camera and sat down in a chair next to me. “Seaver says there really isn’t anything to control. They survive month to month.”

  “You believe him?” Tracy asked.

  “I don’t know. He doesn’t seem to have much love for Walsh or his f
ather for that matter, but he’s intent on doing this play. I think he thinks it’s his way out. His big break.”

  I snorted. “He’s not the only one who’s thinking that way.”

  “There is a twist in his story. This morning Mr. Paxton Seaver, AKA Mr. Paxton Earl, claims to have received a threatening note.”

  I leaned forward, nearly placing my hand on the objects on the table by accident. Not a good idea where murder was involved. “What did it say?”

  “Not to continue with the play or another actor in it would die.” Shannon sighed. “He can’t produce the note, though. Says he showed it to Walsh, who thought it was nonsense. I called Walsh, and he claims he saw it but threw it away.”

  “So we go through the trash,” Tracy said.

  Shannon shook his head. “According to Walsh, today was trash day. It could be anywhere by now.”

  “So,” I said. “No evidence. Seaver could be lying, and Walsh could be covering for him in order to save the company.”

  “Seaver had canceled the rehearsal before we brought him in for questioning, so I’m not quite sure he’s lying.” Shannon stood and walked to the small window.

  “Has to be,” Tracy said. “He’s looking more and more like a suspect to me.”

  “On the other hand, he might be telling the truth,” I countered. “After all, Tawnia received that threatening call, and I know she’s not lying.”

  Shannon grimaced. “Speaking of which, I wish you would have told me about that last night.”

  “Tracy and I had it covered.” Better he understand from the beginning that I was my own person. Falling for him—if that’s what I was doing—wouldn’t change who I was. I had a job to do every bit as much as he did, and I was growing more confident in my ability to protect myself and find leads in our cases.

  “I had a patrol car sweep Tawnia’s neighborhood several times,” Tracy said. “Nothing suspicious. It could be a prank and totally unrelated to Seaver’s claim.” A smile touched her lips. “Hey, I just had an idea. What if, after we’re finished here, we find something on Seaver for Autumn to read? We have cause.”

  “We’d still need a warrant at this point.” Shannon had left the window and now fiddled with something on the camera.

  She shrugged. “Unless it’s voluntary. Or put them in a room together. He might not even have to know.”

  “He’s not exactly going to hand over his wallet.”

  I watched them go back and forth as though I weren’t in the room. I’d become a simple asset again, which didn’t feel as good as one might think.

  “Uh, I’m ready to do this,” I said. There were imprints on the objects in front of me. I could sense them. One by one, I removed my antique rings and put them into a pocket of my jeans.

  First the costume, but there were no imprints from Cheyenne, only fading ones from actresses who’d worn it in the past. Okay, moving to the shoes. Faint imprint signaling pride of ownership. They were fine shoes. Her own, not from the prop room.

  “She liked to dress up,” I said. “She favored these shoes. Thought they made her look slim.”

  “She was as skinny as a rail,” Tracy said with a grimace. “Too thin.”

  Nothing on the nylons, so I moved on to the small gold earrings. Jewelry was the best holder of imprints, especially fine jewelry, and these looked like white gold, or at the very least silver.

  The first imprint came from Saturday afternoon as Cheyenne/I put on the earrings while dressing for rehearsal. Who cares if he sees me wear them and reads something into it. I don’t care. They go with the costume, and I’m the star now. I’m going to Broadway, not that lying sneak Rosemary. With this thought came a quiver of guilt, but Cheyenne/I pushed it away. My day. Don’t think about her.

  An older imprint followed from Friday, a day before the murder. Cheyenne sitting at a vanity, the earrings in her hand, and Paxton Seaver standing behind her.

  “You have to leave me alone! I don’t love you, Paxton.”

  His face twisted, no longer nondescript but mean and dark. “So all this time you’ve been using me?”

  She/I flipped her/my hair over her/my shoulder. “How else could I get you to give me the best parts? But it’s over and has been since the minute you cast Rosemary instead of me for Juliet.”

  “She was good for the part! That’s the only reason I did it.”

  “Tell yourself what you like, Paxton. The truth is you just want to keep me here under your thumb. Or maybe you thought playing opposite her would get you to Broadway. Well, I don’t care what your reasons were. I have the role now, whether you like it or not, and I’m going to impress Walsh’s aunt, if it takes every last breath in my body. I’m going to make all the papers!”

  She’d succeeded in that last bit, the part of me that was still only me thought wryly. Though not in the way she’d intended.

  A third imprint came quickly on the heels of the second, but it was from nearly a year earlier. Cheyenne was standing in the theater kitchen with Paxton. “For me? Wow, thanks. That’s really nice.” She/I laughed. “But it’s not my birthday.”

  Seaver’s face, his eyes locked on hers/mine. “I love you, Cheyenne. I have for months.”

  A wave of revulsion swept through her/me. But also the thought, He does the casting. If I let him think I like him, he’ll give me better parts. I can endure a little attention if it gets me the practice and the roles I need to get out of this dive.

  “Oh, Paxton.” She/I let him hug her/me. His lips found hers/mine, and the sensation wasn’t as unpleasant as anticipated. He kissed with the same intensity he used when acting. She/I was the sole focus of his attention. Not bad at all.

  No more imprints came, and I set down the earrings, heat rising on my face. I’d liked Paxton Seaver the first day I’d met him, but I’d never expected to share such an intimacy. That was another danger of imprints. I was lucky there had been nothing more graphic, or I would have dropped the earrings sooner. Even in a murder investigation, certain things are not worth peeking into.

  “Well?” Tracy asked.

  “Um,” I hesitated, wishing I didn’t have to say anything. Shannon was behind the camera but not peering into it. “Seaver and Cheyenne were involved. But from what I can tell, she was playing him to get the best roles, and it all fell apart when he put Rosemary in the role of Juliet instead of Cheyenne. She thought he was trying to make it so she had to stay at the company or that he was trying to make himself look better so he’d get his chance on Broadway instead of her. Either way, she wasn’t happy. She told him exactly what she thought on Friday, the day before she died.”

  “That’s motive,” Shannon said.

  “But not proof.” Tracy gestured to the remaining objects. “Maybe there’s more.”

  I knew there was more. I reached for the ring.

  Immediately, I was choking. I couldn’t breathe. What was happening? Was I dying? I dragged in gulps of air, but I was still dying. I felt wrapped in plastic. My eyes couldn’t focus. My heart raced. My blood burned. My fists clenched, and the ring dug into my fingers. My legs cramped.

  The glass. Something had been in the glass.

  “Relax,” said a voice. “It’ll only take a few more minutes.”

  Distorted. But I knew who it was. Didn’t I?

  Oh, the agony. Everything hurt. Blackness filling the edges of the little bit I could still see. A blurred face with short hair watching. Grinning. Mocking.

  Pain, going on and on. First in my chest and spreading outward. No more thumping of my heart in my ears. Only the unending agony.

  Then blessed nothing.

  “Autumn!”

  I lay with my eyes closed, waiting for the scattered remains of who I was to come back to me. It took longer than I expected.

  “She needs something else. I do
n’t have my watch.” Was that Shannon’s voice?

  Something shoved into my hand. Paper? No, some kind of tickets.

  An imprint. A man laughing as he closed her/my hand over the tickets. “You’d better hold onto these in case we need to go out. The last time I lost them and had to rebuy tickets to see the show.”

  The way he’s looking at me, I’ll save them forever. He just might be the one. Walking into the theater, his arm around my waist. I could feel the pressure through my coat. So good-looking. Kind. Not to mention smart. My heart thumped with excitement.

  I opened my eyes. I was lying on the floor. Both Shannon and Tracy were kneeling next to me, Shannon holding my head and Tracy kneading my hands.

  “You were right, Tracy. He really is good-looking,” I murmured.

  She snatched the tickets from my hand, her face flushing as she shot a sidelong glance at Shannon. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “Are you okay?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I’ve never died before.” Of course, I hadn’t actually stayed with Cheyenne all the way to her death, just until she passed out. Probably a good thing. I didn’t know what would happen if I experienced death in an imprint. Would my body believe it had died? Not something I was going to try to disprove.

  “She was wearing the ring when the poison took effect,” I managed. “I saw it.” Experienced it, rather. “I could see a blurred face, and I heard a voice, but Cheyenne was in too much pain to record details. The murderer had short hair, though. Or maybe it was pulled back. Like I said, it was really blurry. The lack of air in her bloodstream affected her vision. The imprint didn’t start until she realized she was dying and gripped her hand tightly over the ring.” My head whirled as I pushed myself up to a seated position. “Hope you got all that on camera.”

  “Hardly,” Shannon said. “It was aimed at the table.”