I didn’t think I should answer that.
“People running around loose in the theater can get themselves in trouble. Just look at you.” She turned on her heel. “I got a show to run.”
I stayed in the green room for a couple of minutes, during which time I heard half a dozen sharp blasts of Penny’s whistle. She’s baaaack. I let my gaze meander around the room. If I wanted to find something in the theater, where would I begin?
I slipped into row five next to Lola. Her eyes popped as she watched Penny once again dictating orders, and actors holding their ears whenever her whistle detonated. “How did you do it? You’re a miracle worker!”
“Just took a little ego massaging and some downright lying.”
“Well, bravo to you.”
I dropped my voice. “What are they doing up there?”
“Walter always saves this exercise for a few days before opening. To get the cast working like an ensemble. It’s called counting. They’re supposed to really listen to each other and sense when to speak.”
The actors began in a circle—as most of Walter’s exercises did—shoulder to shoulder, eyes closed, and counted. One, two, three . . . The only hitch was if more than two people said the same number at the same time, the group had to start over with “one.” There was a good deal of poking and giggling and eye rolling. Which was hard to do with your eyes shut.
“Focus! Focus!” Walter yelled. “Start again.”
“Okay, people, let’s knock it off.” Penny made some notes on her clipboard.
They started again. Silence, then a tentative “one” from Edna, followed by a competitive “two” from Abby. Romeo sneered a “three,” and I thought, Hey, not bad. Then Tiffany lost count and jumped to “five,” the two cops cackled, and Mildred’s husband Vernon asked, “Should I go back to four or ahead to six?”
Carlyle exhaled heavily, Walter slapped his forehead, and Penny’s whistle erupted.
“Do they ever get to ten?” I said.
“Oh brother,” said Lola. “Let’s go.”
In the office, Lola plopped into the leather executive chair that Walter insisted he required for his back, and I perched on the edge of the desk. “I have a theory. I haven’t run it by Bill yet, but I hinted at it.”
“About Antonio?”
She grasped at my notion like a drowning man clenching a life preserver. Anything to take her mind off rehearsal.
“I think that Kenneth Amberlin and whoever knocked out Penny and me, as well as whoever locked me in the scene shop, were all trying to search the theater. Now, some of the stolen property from the Creston robberies has been recovered, but some hasn’t.”
“I saw the story in the Enquirer.”
“Right. We know Kenneth Amberlin and Antonio were acquaintances, so what if Antonio had some of the property at the time of his death and hid it somewhere he thought was safe?”
“Like where?” Then it dawned on Lola. “You mean there might be stolen goods hidden in the theater?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Do you think Antonio told . . . whoever . . . where he hid it?”
“Probably not. If they knew where it was, they would have found it by now. They’re still hunting.”
“But if Antonio was in on the burglaries, why wouldn’t he just tell them where to look?”
“I can think of two reasons. Either he died before he could let them know. Or . . .”
“Or what?”
“He was double-crossing someone and it got him killed.” I filled her in on my trip to Bernridge. “Regan is still very much a loose end.”
Lola slumped in her seat. “I’m really impressed, Dodie. I thought your finding Jerome’s murderer might have been a fluke, but now . . .”
A fluke? Really?
“Thanks.” I lowered my voice. “So where might Antonio have hidden the stash?”
24
Lola and I brainstormed on potential hiding places: the scene shop, the costume shop, the upstairs prop shop, wardrobe storage, dressing rooms, even the fly space. Of course, as per Bill’s directive, I did not let the word “jewelry” slip out of my mouth. I simply suggested that whatever Antonio had concealed was probably smaller than the proverbial breadbox, as my great aunt Maureen would say. Since the intruders had Penny’s keys they could make themselves at home.
“The ELT needs to change the locks around here,” I said.
“Walter has a locksmith coming this weekend,” Lola said, and headed back into the theater.
Might be too late by then. I decided to go home and think through the day’s events. A light mist had begun to fall, just enough dampness to blur the windshield and require intermittent attention from the wipers. I crawled down Main and stopped for the light at Amber. Was Bill in the Municipal Building burning the midnight oil? Of course he could also be home, stretched out in front of the fireplace in his early American living room with classical music, a good bottle of wine, and the brunette from Creston—
A horn honked and jolted me out of my reverie. Someone was in a hurry. I stepped on the gas and zipped down a block before turning onto Fairfield. I pulled into my driveway and turned off the ignition. The neighborhood was quiet, except for the occasional barking of the Shetland sheepdog up the street and the revving of an engine somewhere.
Unexpectedly my neck hairs stood at attention and demanded notice. What was I doing at home, envisioning a relaxing night, when I was so close to solving this mystery? If the stolen property—maybe jewelry—was hidden in the theater and someone was desperate to find it, what was I doing fantasizing in my driveway? I hadn’t pulled an all-nighter since college, but I was ready to do it now.
I drove back to the theater just in time to catch the last twenty minutes of stage mayhem as the old ladies are found out, the love interests reconcile, and the bad guys are put away. Not a bad ending.
When the houselights came on after the cast took a practice bow and the main drape fell, I spotted Lola seated next to Carlyle. Their heads together, I gave them time to confer on the night’s performance before I intruded.
“Dodie? Didn’t you go home?” Lola said.
“I did, but I forgot something. Don’t let me interrupt you.” I backed away.
Lola shook her head. “We’re finished. Carlyle and Walter are doing notes.”
I signaled to Lola that I would be in the rear of the house. She nodded, puzzled.
The curtain rose on standard theater bedlam: actors half in, half out of costume, Chrystal flying from person to person rescuing clothing, JC testing a door apparently missing a hinge, Walter debating with Romeo about something, and Penny slapping her clipboard against her leg. All was well.
“What’s up?” Lola asked.
“I got all the way home and then decided, why go home? Why not search the theater and see if we can find whatever the bad guys are looking for?”
“We? You mean you and me?”
“We can’t tell anyone else. Too many cooks . . .” I said.
“Walter sometimes stays late and does I-don’t-know-what in the office.”
“Can’t you get rid of him? Tell him he looks exhausted and needs sleep?” I asked.
Lola was skeptical. “Where would we start? There’s so much space . . .”
She was right. “I think we have to do something. Bill might know in the morning how Antonio’s heart stopped. The word will get out and the perps will make a last ditch effort to search the theater. We have to beat them to it.”
“Perps!” Lola said.
“You talk to Walter and I’ll organize a plan.” I rummaged around in my bag for a pen and piece of paper.
* * *
I’d always thought Lola was a great actress, but the scene she played with Walter was award-winning: concerned friend and colleague who just wanted him to go home and rest up and feel fresh for the weekend’s technical rehearsal. She even threw in “I’m worried about you” and “You need to save your creative spirit.” Walter was h
ooked. He kissed Lola’s hand in gratitude and left her to lock up.
“Yuk,” Lola said.
“I guess the bloom is completely off that rose.” I stifled a laugh.
Lola winced. “I don’t know what I saw in him.”
We went to work, first in the scene shop, where we checked the saws, drill press, tool cage, paint storage, and worktables. Nothing. Next we went downstairs and peeked in the costume shop.
“How do we search all of this?” Lola said.
“You start with the sewing machines and cutting table. Check out those bolts of muslin. I’ll look into the storage.”
I began at the bottom and worked my way up a series of drawers that held costume paraphernalia—shoes and boots, hair accessories, undergarments, hats, and odds and ends of ribbons and sewing supplies. After forty-five minutes, we’d come up empty.
“Nothing in here, either,” Lola said.
“We can’t give up yet. Let’s check the dressing rooms and the fly space.”
“I can’t believe Antonio would go up on the fly rail.”
“You never know.”
Lola yawned. “It’s almost one a.m.”
“I’m getting used to spending late nights here,” I joked. “Seriously, I appreciate you helping me. I think we’re close to cracking this thing wide open.” If only.
The dressing rooms were a bust as well, if you didn’t count candy wrappers, soda cans, someone’s half-eaten Cobb salad, and a pair of socks. “Actors can be such slobs,” Lola complained.
“It would be pretty difficult to hide anything in here.” I scanned the makeup tables and chairs. “Let’s take a last look in the fly space before we call it a night.”
“I hate it up there. And it’s hard to get to.”
“Which makes it a great hiding place.”
With reluctance, Lola followed me up a steep, winding stairway to the rail above the stage. The fly system was run manually. Ten or twelve steel pipes were held in place by lift lines that were connected to counterweights. The lighting for the show occupied six battens and the main drape was attached to the batten farthest downstage.
“It’s so dark up here, I can’t really see anything,” Lola said.
I switched on my cell phone flashlight and moved it over the ground and around the fly rail. Nothing seemed out of place. Anything squirrelled away up here would have to be small and compact.
“Let’s get out of here,” Lola said. “It’s giving me the creeps.”
I flicked off the flashlight and stepped forward toward the circular set of stairs. A loud thump stopped us.
“What was that?” Lola whispered.
“I don’t know. Everyone was gone when we started searching.”
“Unless Walter or Carlyle came back.”
Or someone else did.
I crouched and peered between the line sets where I had a decent view of the security light that lit up the front third of the stage. I tugged on Lola’s sleeve. “Stoop down.”
To be tucked away in the fly system would normally have seemed safe to me. But knowing someone was determined to search the entire theater made us vulnerable. I looked around the floor for a weapon of some kind. I have to start carrying pepper spray.
“What do we do?” Lola asked, worried.
“Sit tight until whoever it is leaves.” Or finds us.
A ghostlike figure passed in front of the security scoop light and darted backstage.
“The green room,” I mouthed to Lola.
A few minutes later a door slammed and then all was quiet. “I think he’s gone downstairs to the costume shop. That could occupy him for a while. Let’s make a break for it.”
“Leave here?” Lola’s voice squeaked.
“Shh! We don’t want to stay here for hours, do we?” Been there, done that.
Lola nodded, then shook her head.
I held my finger to my lips and edged closer to the top step of the stairs. All was still quiet below. “Wait until I get to the stage and then come down. If someone shows up, stay put and call 911.” I handed her my cell.
Before Lola could argue I slipped down the stairs, tripping on the last step and falling forward on my knees. I squatted, immobilized for a second.
“Dodie! Are you okay?”
“Shh!”
Lola hurried down the staircase. I grabbed her hand as she hit the stage floor. We sprinted through the house and dashed from the lobby to our cars. I hesitated.
“What are you stopping for? That guy could come after us at any moment.” Lola thrust my cell at me and unlocked the Lexus’s front door.
“You go on. I’m going to wait and see who turns up.”
“Dodie, if you’re right, this person might have killed Antonio. We could be in real danger. I’ll call 911.”
“No! The Etonville police will only scare him off. We’ve got to find out his identity. I’ll move my car down the block where I can still see anyone entering or leaving the theater. If I feel threatened, I’ll call the police. Go.”
“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay?” Lola didn’t want to leave me alone, but clearly longed to beat a hasty retreat.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Or before if something happens. Promise?”
“Scout’s honor. I’m probably going to sit for an hour, see nothing, and then go home.”
Lola took off. I cranked my engine, locked the doors, and proceeded to drive past the theater, down Amber, and into the alley to get a clear view of the loading dock door. Was it only days ago that I sneaked around the walkway and got knocked out for my efforts? I would be wiser this time; surveillance from inside my Metro. Once again, I pulled behind the dumpster in back of the bookstore and scrunched down in my seat. Though I implied to Lola that I would be sitting safely in the car on Main Street, I knew that my chances of seeing a break-in artist come out the front door of the ELT were zero to none. That ship had sailed the last time I got caught spying. No, if someone wanted a quick, quiet getaway this time, it had to be through the shop door.
The moon glided behind fast-moving clouds. The alley darkened, killing visibility. I strained to see through the blackness: the edge of a dumpster, the theater dock with its large trash cans, and beyond all of it, Henry’s herb garden behind the Windjammer. Which reminded me, I needed to create my mental to-do list for the weekend. I fervently hoped that Rita’s rehearsal dinner would go smoothly, that Henry’s menu would generate enough enthusiasm to trigger renewed customer traffic, and that Honey’s favors wouldn’t be mocked right out of the restaurant.
I adjusted my head to release a cramp in my neck. I checked my watch—1:45 a.m. The car was getting stuffy, so I cracked open the window and inhaled—just enough chill in the air to cool the inside of the Metro and set my skin quivering. I burrowed into my jacket and checked my watch again. Only ten minutes had passed.
My cell rang and I jumped. “Lola? What are you doing up?”
“My insomnia kicked in. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I have my eagle eye on the ELT but no action. Did you try chamomile tea?”
“I tried everything. Counting sheep, my white noise machine, tea. I think you should just give up for the night,” Lola said.
“In a little bit. Is Tiffany in tonight?”
“She was gone when I got home.” Lola tsked. “Probably in Creston with Carlyle. I must say, that doesn’t seem to be an ideal match. I understand she needs someone and he’s certainly sympathetic. But what would he see in her? I don’t care for Carlyle all that much, but he is a really smart, capable guy. And Tiffany is . . . well . . . Tiffany.”
Lola thought the same thing about Antonio, I remembered. Tiffany was a redhead with a fantastic figure. ’Nuff said. “Opposites attract, I guess.”
“Or else he’s got another agenda.”
“Like what? Like maybe Tiffany’s going to come into an inheritance?” I joked.
“You know, I asked Tiffany about Antoni
o’s finances before his funeral and she said he’d taken care of things, money-wise.”
“A bank account?”
“Some kind of insurance, she said. Antonio had told her he didn’t believe in banks.”
Given his history, I could see why.
“Antonio liked to spend money. Fancy cars, expensive clothes . . . maybe that’s why he got into the scams in the first place,” Lola said.
The moon scooted out of its hiding place in the clouds. The alley looked peaceful, the backs of the buildings dark, no sign of life. “Guess I’ll head out,” I said.
“I think that’s a good idea.”
Lola clicked off and I sat for moment. Antonio had insurance, all right. But had he sold the jewelry already? Or simply hoarded it for a rainy day?
Back on Main Street I parked a block away from the entrance to the theater. The lobby night light was undisturbed and no other illumination was visible from the office. It was now 3:00 a.m. and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I headed home. The intruder had won this round.
25
I tossed and turned for an hour, flipping my pillow back and forth to rest my head on the cool side. The last thing I remembered was 4:00 a.m. on my clock. I dreamed I was at a theater party and all of the usual suspects were present: Lola, Carol, Walter, Bill, Tiffany, even Abby and Edna. Everyone was having a grand time onstage, drinking champagne and toasting. I was grateful that the show had been a triumph. Music was pouring out of loudspeakers. Then everyone fell silent and stared offstage into the house. Antonio walked down the aisle in Walter’s gangster costume, laughing, not joyfully but sadistically, at all of us. He pointed at me and nodded. I asked him where he’d been, that he’d missed the opening. He laughed harder and said it would never open. Carlyle and Regan and a third shadowy figure surrounded Antonio and draped a cape over his head. Then they all disappeared. The only sounds were Antonio’s harsh, terrifying laugh and Penny’s whistle. I screamed, “No!”
My eyes flew open, my face damp, the whistle still ringing in my ears. Except it wasn’t the whistle but my cell. I forced myself to reach for the phone. It was eight thirty.
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