by Parnell Hall
“Yeah,” I said, somewhat dubiously I must say I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. What Chief Bob had been saying was not reassuring me. In fact, I had visions of the investigation dragging on for weeks. Months, even. While Chief Bob leisurely investigated the everyday motivations of everyone in town.
As if he read my thoughts again, Chief Bob suddenly reverted to crisp efficiency.
“But enough of that,” he said. “We have work to do here. First I’m going to outline the basic problem, then I’m going to need your help.”
“The basic problem?”
“Yes. Aside from who did it, of course, which is the real basic problem. No, the basic problem here is that we know what everyone was doing at the time of the murder. Or the approximate time of the murder. Because the murder took place during Act Three and we know what each and every actor did during that act. Unfortunately, the murder is entirely consistent with the actions of those actors. In other words, any of them could have done it and still maintained the strict schedule required of them by their performance in Act Three.” He paused, frowned, shook his head. “Except ...”
I looked at him. “Except what?”
“They had to act.”
“What?”
Chief Bob rubbed his chin. “See, I’ve been an actor myself. I’ve been onstage. So I know. It’s not easy, acting. It requires concentration, skill. That’s why I tend to think it wasn’t an actor.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. To kill someone, and then walk out onstage. Remembering your lines, your blocking, your part. Keeping in character. Not letting the fact you’ve just killed someone show.” Chief Bob pursed his lips and shook his head. “That would really take concentration, wouldn’t it. Be some hell of an acting exercise.”
I frowned. “I see what you mean.”
“Yeah. And the fact is, none of the actors seemed any different than usual. We know that because nobody’s mentioned it. Not one person has commented on anything out of the ordinary with regard to that act.” He smiled. “With the exception of you, of course. Actually, several people have commented on the fact that you seemed particularly fired up toward the end.”
“Yeah, I was. Because it was going well, the lines were coming and I was getting into it. Not because I’d just killed the stage manager.”
He held up his hand. “No need to protest. I’m just telling you we have nothing useful in that regard.
“Same goes for the audience. If Herbie’s wife, for instance, had gone backstage to kill Goobie Wheatly at the same time she slipped out to call her baby-sitter, you’d expect her to be somewhat frazzled-looking coming back. Or you would expect the baby-sitter to find her somewhat distracted on the phone—either because she has just killed him or because she was about to, depending on when she made the call.
“Same with the rest. No one, for instance, can remember Amanda going out and coming back during the act. Where, if she had come back from just having killed Goobie Wheatly, you’d expect her manner to have been such that people would have remembered it.”
Chief Bob broke off and looked at me. “Do I seem to be going around in circles? If so, it’s just because I am. The problem with the crime is, from the evidence we have here, no one could have done it. At least, is likely to have done it.
“The motive, if any, is obscure. Opportunity was open to all. We have no way of narrowing this thing down. We are, in effect, no closer to solving this crime than we were three and a half days ago when the murder was committed.”
My thoughts exactly. It was nice to have Chief Bob voicing them, so I didn’t have to.
“So what can we do?” I said.
“Take a different tack, that’s what we can do. We can stop focusing on the murder as such. You’ve taken a good step in that direction, questioning the actors. That was good work with Constantine. Now I’d like to see you get the others. Why didn’t you, by the way, when you were into it last night?”
“The ones who play Major Petkoff and Catherine were busy running lines. It would have been tough to disturb them. And Nellie Knight was being hit on by Avery Allington.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Really? You didn’t mention that. Now, that’s interesting. That’s just the sort of stuff we need. Did he get anywhere, by the way?”
“I don’t know for sure, but according to Beth he wasn’t about to.”
“Oh?”
I told him what she told me about Nellie being a cock-tease.
He smiled, shrugged and held out his hands. “See? There’s a wealth of information here. You think anybody mentioned any of these things during my questioning? Of course not. Because they have nothing to do with the investigation. No one thinks they’re important. No one mentions them. But how the hell can I get a picture of what happened unless I know the personalities of the parties involved?
“This is excellent stuff. You get any more tidbits like that, don’t keep it to yourself pass it right along.
“Now, where were we? Oh, yeah—what can we do? As I say, we gotta broaden our scope. Stop concentrating just on the murder. All this little stuff will help, but let’s try to be specific. Pin people down. When you talk to people now, steer them away from the murder. Get them talking about the things that happened prior to it. Relationships, arguments, fights, disputes. Anything at all.
“Once you got that—and this is something you should ask everyone—try to find out if anyone remembers anything prior to the murder—anything at all and I don’t care what it is—but anything that struck them as strange, unusual, out of the ordinary.”
I frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. Anything worth commenting on. Anything worth remembering is something I want to hear. Anything they tell you, tell me. I really want to know if there was anything that happened before Goobie Wheatly’s murder that was the least bit strange.”
My eyes widened. “Oh, good lord.”
He frowned. “What is it? You remember something?”
“Yeah.”
“What?”
“A light almost fell on my head.”
32.
I FOUND RIDLEY WORKING ON a Fresnel in the lighting loft in the scene shop.
He didn’t look up, though he must have realized I was there. He paid no attention, continued working on the light.
I let him work, glanced around the loft.
The walls were hung with wires and lights, mostly in poor repair. Which of course figured—all those in working condition were presently hanging in the theater.
There was a window high up in the wall with a chair underneath it. The window was open a crack, and I noticed the faint but unmistakable smell of marijuana in the air. I figured Ridley must stand on the chair and try to blow the smoke out the window. That conjured up quite an image—from the looks of it, he’d have to stand on tiptoe, and what getting high like that must feel like I couldn’t imagine.
I gave Ridley another few seconds to pretend I wasn’t there, then cleared my throat and said, “Ridley?”
Even then it was several moments before he very reluctantly looked up.
“Hi,” I said. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m Stanley Hastings.”
The bloodshot eyes staring at me registered zero comprehension. If he’d heard me you wouldn’t have known it. He tilted his head on one side and—as he had when I’d seen him that first night at the theater—once again struck me as the result of years and years of inbreeding.
I felt like waving my hand in front of his face, but I didn’t want to piss him off, assuming he was the type of person who got pissed off. Freak him out, more than likely. Or whatever phrase his generation would use to refer to that happenstance.
I took a breath. “I’m in the show,” I said. “I play Captain Bluntschli. You must know that. You take some of your cues off me. In Act One, you know? When I run around striking matches and you have to bring the lights up?”
Ridley said nothing, turned his attention back to
the Fresnel.
“I need to talk to you,” I said.
He didn’t look up, just mumbled, “Gotta fix the light.”
“Of course you do,” I said. “That’s your job. And you wanna do a good job, don’t you?”
Ridley had started to pick up a screwdriver. He stopped, looked back up at me, and this time there was light in his eyes. “You gonna get me fired?” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “Of course not.”
He wasn’t convinced. “You got Kirk fired, didn’t you?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did. I was there. I saw.”
I shook my head. “Kirk got himself fired, Ridley. By doing a bad job. And I didn’t fire him. Goobie did.”
“You asked him to.”
“Let’s not quibble. The point is, I don’t want to get you fired.”
“Did you want to get Kirk fired?”
Shit. Behind Ridley’s vacant stare there was some primitive intelligence at work. Some instinctual sense of self-preservation.
“I didn’t want to get Kirk fired. I wanted to be prompted by someone competent. It turned out that meant he got fired, but that wasn’t what I wanted. I wasn’t thinking of Kirk. I was thinking of me.”
That was too much for Ridley to follow. I could almost see the thoughts groping to make it through his brain.
He exhaled, said, “Whew,” and went back to working on the light.
“I need to talk to you, Ridley,” I said. “You wanna work on the light, fine, but pay attention. Do you hear?”
He mumbled, “Yeah.”
“Now, look,” I said. “I’m not trying to get you fired. This has nothing to do with your job. But Goobie Wheatly got killed, and it’s important we figure out why. You can see that, can’t you?”
Ridley said nothing, continued working on the light.
“Don’t you wanna know who killed him?”
“I didn’t do it.”
“I didn’t say you did. Of course you didn’t. You were up in the light booth, waiting for him to give you the light cue on the headset. But someone killed him, and I have to find out who.”
“I don’t know who.”
“I know you don’t. But I need your help. I need you to answer some questions. Will you do that?”
There was a pause. Then, without looking up, he shrugged.
I took that for a yes. “Fine,” I said. “Now look. The dress rehearsal. The night Goobie was killed. I’m not concerned with that now. But the night before that. The night before the dress rehearsal. Remember when you were at dinner at the diner and they called you up and had you come back because a light fell on the stage?”
Ridley’s head jerked somewhat at that, but he didn’t look up. “Not my fault,” he said.
“I didn’t say it was your fault, Ridley. You gotta understand. No one’s trying to blame you. I’m just trying to find out why. It’s important, so concentrate and try to answer my questions. You remember that?”
“Yeah.”
“They called you up and you came back and you found one of the Lekos had fallen and smashed on the stage, right?”
“Yeah.”
“And you didn’t have one to replace it, did you?”
There was a pause. Then he said, “How do you know that?”
“I was there that night. I saw you working on the stage.”
Ridley’s head moved slightly I could see one eye peering up at me. The moment it caught mine it shifted, looked back at the light.
“You were working on the light. Just like you are now. Except this is a Fresnel and that was a Leko. You were working on the Leko, taking pieces of the smashed one and pieces of another old one and putting them together to make a working light. So I figured all the working Lekos were already in the show and you must not have had another one to use. So you were putting one together, see?”
Ridley said nothing, appeared very interested in the plug on the Fresnel.
“You know, I’m wondering if you figured out how that light came to fall?”
“Not my fault,” Ridley said sulkily.
“I didn’t say it was. So, you replaced the light that fell with the new one you put together?”
There was a pause.
“Ridley?” I prompted.
Another pause and Ridley said, “What?”
“The light you put together. You hung that up in the place of the one that fell?”
Another pause, then he said, “No.”
“No? Why not?”
“It wasn’t my light.”
“What do you mean?”
This time Ridley actually raised his head and looked up at me defiantly “The light that fell. It wasn’t my light. It wasn’t from the show.”
In spite of myself I felt a cold chill.
“What’s that, Ridley? What did you say?”
He shook his head. “It wasn’t my light.”
“Then where did it come from?”
“I don’t know.”
Jesus Christ.
I knelt down on the floor of the loft next to him. It was all I could do to keep from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him. Still, I tried to move him by my intensity.
“Ridley,” I said. “Think. Concentrate. This light that fell. How do you know it wasn’t from the show?”
“It wasn’t.”
“Yeah, but you thought it was. You got another light and you fixed it.”
“Yeah, sure. How was I to know?”
“You’re saying when you got the light fixed and went in the grid to hang it, all the lights were there?”
“Yeah. All my lights were there.”
“Then where did this light come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re saying someone took a Leko up in the grid and dropped it on the stage?”
“Yeah,” Ridley said. After a pause he added, “But it’s not my fault.”
I figured I’d given him enough reassurances. So I didn’t bother telling him I didn’t think it was his fault either.
33.
CHIEF BOB SHOOK HIS HEAD. “It doesn't make any sense.”
“What do you mean?” I said. “It’s perfectly logical.”
“And how is that?”
“The light wasn’t from the show. The kid puts together a new light, goes to hang it and finds all his lights are there. He’s a stupid kid, so he doesn’t bother to tell anyone. He’s just happy he doesn’t have to hang the light and goes off to smoke a joint.”
“So?”
“So? So it’s perfectly clear. Someone tried to drop a light on my head.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m a private detective.”
“How would they know that?”
“I have no idea. But Herbie knew. He could have told anyone.”
“Why would he?”
“What’s the difference? What if he did? The word would get around and people would know. And someone who cared could drop a light on my head.”
“Why?”
“I told you why. I’m a private detective.”
He shook his head. “Doesn’t wash for a lot of reasons.”
“Name ’em.”
“Who was with you when the light fell?”
“Herbie and Amanda.”
“Where were they?”
“Right next to me.”
“Onstage?”
“Sure.”
“So the light just missed them as well?”
“It missed them. It just missed me.”
“It was closer to you?”
“Much.”
“That’s relative and colored by your perception. You almost got hit by a light. How close were Herbie and Amanda standing to you?”
“I don’t know. A few feet.”
“So while the light was closer to you, it could have been meant for them.”
“It’s possible, but I don’t think so. Why them? They’re just theater folk. I’m the private detect
ive.”
“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” Chief Bob said.
“What doesn’t?”
“That part of the theory. That someone tried to drop a light on your head because you’re a private detective. That I can’t buy. On the other hand, you tell me someone tried to drop a light on Herbie and Amanda, now you’re talkin’. See, if they’re the targets, either one of them, the whole thing makes sense.”
“But I don’t?”
“Not at all. They’re the head of the theater. Big-time stuff. You’ll pardon me, but who gives a damn about you?”
“I’m a private detective.”
“Who gives a shit? I’m sorry, but what does it matter? The problem is, this whole thing’s the wrong way around.”
“What?”
“It’s all ass-backwards. If the murder had already happened, fine. Then Herbie brings you in and the murderer says, “Oh, shit, he’s bringing in a private detective to get me, I better nail him.” But there hasn’t been any murder. There’s no reason to suspect Herbie’s bringing you in for any other purpose but to play the role. See what I mean?”
“Yeah. But ...”
“But what?”
I frowned. “I don’t know. But if the murderer was planning on killing Goobie Wheatly, and the murderer thought Herbie suspected something, and figured that was why Herbie was bringing me in ...”
I broke off to see Chief Bob shaking his head back and forth and rolling his eyes.
“Oh, come on,” he said. “If that’s the solution, I’ll resign from the force. I mean, double-think? Triple-think? The murderer has to know in advance he’s killing Goobie Wheatly. Then he has to suspect that Herbie suspects that he’s going to kill Goobie Wheatly. Then he has to figure out that because Herbie suspects this, he’s going to protect against that eventuality by bringing in a private detective disguised as an actor in the show. You wanna suggest to me any way whatsoever that thought process might have evolved?”
“Not particularly.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Well, just because we don’t know what the killer was thinking doesn’t mean he couldn’t be thinking it.”