Prudence didn’t even bother to respond to that, though she did perk up as Buchannan stepped out of the dressing room. I prayed he’d go straight to Lawrence, who was busy berating poor Dean again, as if Chuck’s death was somehow his fault. Instead of heading for the director, however, Buchannan strode straight over to me.
“What happened?” he asked, as if I’d personally witnessed the murder.
“I was on the stage with everyone else,” I said. “I didn’t see anything. In fact, I didn’t even realize Santa was missing until Lawrence said something.”
Buchannan’s eyes narrowed. Apparently, something I’d said didn’t sit right with him. “What did you see?” he asked, putting on his angry cop voice.
I sighed. As much as I disliked Robert, I didn’t want to get him into trouble. Maybe he had a perfectly good explanation as to why he and Trisha had left so abruptly.
Or maybe, he actually did kill Chuck. Protecting him would be doing no one any favors, myself included.
“Can you at least tell me what you found first?” I asked. “It might help me remember something.”
Buchannan gave Prudence a meaningful look. She nodded once, and then with a squeeze of my arm, walked away. He turned back to me, still frowning.
“Santa was stabbed to death.”
“Chuck.”
“What?”
“His name was Chuck.”
Buchannan removed a pad of paper and a pen and scrawled Santa’s real name. “I don’t know if there is any evidence on the knife, and I won’t know for a little while yet. There was some sort of liquid contaminating the scene.” His nose wrinkled as if remembering the smell.
“It was eggnog,” I said.
Buchannan’s eyes narrowed. “How would you know this?”
“I could smell it.” I shuddered, hoping the memory of finding Santa lying in a pool of not just his blood, but a puddle of spilled eggnog, wouldn’t put me off it for good. “Chuck was carrying a large mug with him. I’m guessing he was drinking eggnog and when he was stabbed, he dropped it.”
“I see.” Buchannan wrote something down. Once finished, he looked me up and down, and then asked. “Can I see the bottom of your feet?”
“Excuse me?”
“Your shoes,” he said, gesturing toward my elven pull-ons. “Let me see them.”
I pulled off my elf shoes and handed them over. I realized then I might not need them now that our Santa was dead. Would be kind of hard to have a Christmas play without him.
Buchannan checked the bottoms of my shoes, as well as the insides, and then handed them back. “They’re clean.”
I knew for a fact they were filthy from the backstage floor, but knew that wasn’t what he’d meant. “Why did you want to see my shoes?” I asked, pretty sure I knew why, but wanted to hear him say it.
“There’s a footprint by the body,” he said. “Was shaped funny, with no tread. I’d guess it was around a size ten or so.”
Robert was a size ten. My entire body clenched, including my teeth. Could Robert have actually killed Santa over a girl? I mean, I’d dated the guy for way too long and not once did I ever think him capable of murder. Cheating and lying, sure, but not killing anyone.
“What do you know?” Buchannan asked, adopting a stubborn stance that told me I wasn’t going to get away until I told him.
I glanced around to make sure no one was listening before speaking. There were quite a few eyes on us, but no one was close enough to hear what I had to say. If I was wrong about Robert, I didn’t want to spread rumors about him, knowing it would somehow bite me on the butt if I did.
“I saw someone fighting with Chuck earlier. Before he died.” I winced, realizing how unnecessary that last bit was.
“Who?” Buchannan had his pen poised above the pad of paper and was giving me an intense stare. If I was wrong, Robert was going to kill me.
“A guy named Robert Dunhill,” I said, reluctantly. “He’s my ex.”
Buchannan gave me a surprised look, as if he couldn’t imagine me ever having a boyfriend, before he scribbled down Robert’s name. “What was the fight about?”
“A girl. Her name’s Trisha. I don’t know her last name. She’s playing Mrs. Claus this year and Santa was acting quite un-Santa-like toward her.”
Buchannan raised his eyebrows at me.
“He hit on her,” I said, hating every second of this. “Robert and Trisha are dating, I think. Chuck and Robert argued before they went their separate ways. The guy over there talked to Santa in the dressing rooms afterward.” I nodded toward the good-looking elf. “And then we all met up onstage.”
“Was everyone but the victim there?”
“No.” I swallowed. It was really starting to sink in that my ex might have killed someone. “Robert and Trisha are gone. Neither was Chuck because by then he was . . . well . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say it.
Buchannan glanced back at the elf I’d indicated before turning back to me. “Do you know where Robert and Trisha are now?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t seen Trisha since the fight, but I did see Robert leave right before we found the body.” I blinked my eyes to keep back the tears. “He wasn’t wearing his shoes. His elf shoes, I mean.”
Buchannan’s eyes grew even more intense. “Are you sure about that?”
I nodded and couldn’t seem to stop. “He’s dressed as an elf and was wearing his shoes earlier. I . . . I can’t believe he would do such a thing! Robert’s a jerk, but kill someone? It can’t be him. I mean, maybe someone else snuck in and did it. Robert could have forgotten he had a doctor’s appointment and took off and . . .” I trailed off at Buchannan’s frown. I was babbling, defending a man who’d made my life miserable for years, yet I couldn’t seem to believe he was capable of murder.
“Garrison!” Buchannan called once I fell silent. She’d just come out of the dressing room and had started to speak to Lawrence when he’d called to her. He glanced at me, muttered, “Thank you,” and then hurried over to where she stood.
I sank down to the floor, head spinning. Never in my life had I thought Robert capable of murder, yet here we were. Who else could it have been? Randy? That good-looking elf? If he killed him, then why was he still here?
I watched as Buchannan talked to Garrison, Lawrence looking on nervously. She nodded, glanced at me, and then nodded again. Somehow, I didn’t think what he was saying was very flattering.
They parted a moment later, Garrison coming my way, Buchannan toward the good-looking elf whose name I had yet to learn. I started to rise, but Officer Garrison wasn’t interested in me. She pushed open the door, letting in a blast of cold air, as well as Rita, before stepping outside.
“Oh my Lordy Lou,” she said, shaking off her puffy coat. Apparently, it had started to snow since the police had arrived. “What’s happening here? There’s an ambulance and police cars outside!”
“Someone killed Santa,” I said. Buchannan had the good-looking elf lift his feet to show him there was no blood on his elf shoes, before asking him some questions.
Rita gasped, hand going to her mouth. “Here? In the theatre?” She said it like she couldn’t imagine anyone defiling a place like this with murder, even though it often was depicted onstage.
“It happened in the men’s dressing room,” I said, automatically. I was in shock, but this time, Paul Dalton wasn’t there to comfort me. “You can’t go in.”
“Why would I want to do that?” Rita asked, appalled. “Oh dear, what are we going to do? Lawrence!” She waved at the director and hurried over to him, much to his apparent annoyance.
I remained seated, mechanically watching as Buchannan moved from person to person, asking questions. I had a feeling most of the questions involved Robert. And by the occasional glances I received, a few were about me.
I’m not sure how long I sat there, stunned. More people showed up: cops and paramedics, but none of them were Paul. He would have known what to say, would have made me f
eel better, despite the situation. I’d call Will, but he’d still be at work. If I remembered right, this one was one of his long days, though lately, they all seemed to be long.
Eventually, Chuck was brought out on a stretcher, a sheet covering his body. That was my cue to get up and move away from the door. Buchannan had finished with his questions and was making sure everyone kept back. Garrison hadn’t come back, so I was assuming she was off looking for suspect number one: Robert. I moved to stand with Prudence as the paramedics and cops all left together, leaving the shell-shocked cast and crew alone in the theatre.
“Everyone!” Lawrence called as soon as they were gone. “Gather ’round, please.”
We were all pretty much standing in a loose huddle already, so hardly anyone moved.
“A terrible tragedy has befallen our production tonight,” Lawrence said as we fell silent. “A murder most foul. Death.” He pressed his hand to his mouth, dramatically.
“A little much, isn’t it?” Prudence muttered.
Someone snorted behind her, which drew a sharp look from Lawrence, but he went on speaking, unperturbed by the interruption.
“Chuck’s death is a blow to us all, a stain on our sterling reputation.” He sucked in a breath and looked like he might cry before continuing. “Many of you must be asking yourselves, ‘How can we go on after this?’ I admit, I myself have thought the same.”
“He can’t possibly . . .” Prudence whispered, sounding shocked.
“I have decided that the show must go on!” Lawrence proclaimed. “I’ve already contacted someone to replace our poor, departed Santa. There is no reason for us not to continue on, in his name, and make this the greatest Christmas play ever to grace our beloved theatre!” He finished his proclamation with a flourish, closing his eyes and throwing back his head like he expected applause.
We all just sort of stared at him, uncomfortably, until he sighed and lowered his head.
“That will be all for tonight,” he said, sounding annoyed we hadn’t thrown roses at him. “Practice tomorrow is canceled while I arrange things with the police. The men’s dressing room is off-limits until the murderer who invaded our beloved theatre to commit this heinous crime is found. See you in two days.” And with his grand declaration complete, Lawrence spun on his heel and walked out the door.
6
“I mean, really, Misfit,” I said, picking up another ornament—this one from the kitchen. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes without you causing a mess!”
The cat in question sat on the couch, watching me with a contented gleam in his eye. The tree was thankfully still standing, but half the ornaments were strewn around the house. It’s hard to believe one cat could cause so much mischief in such a short span of time. You’d think one ornament would be enough, but no, he had to try to bat them all around, as if looking for the one that would make the most satisfying crunch when it collided with the wall.
Yet, for all my complaining, I wasn’t truly mad at him. When I’d put up the tree, I fully expected him to lose his mind right then and there, so it was good he at least waited until I wasn’t in the room. Shiny round objects tend to draw felines like bouncy ones make dogs race across the park.
But I was tired, and it was making me grouchy.
I picked up the last ornament and deposited it back onto the tree, knowing I’d find it on the floor again in the morning. I wondered if it would look too trashy if I used duct tape on the ornaments to keep them attached to the tree. Knowing Misfit, he’d just chew it off, leaving a bigger mess than he already had.
I plopped down onto the couch beside him with a heavy sigh. He eyed me a moment to make sure I wasn’t angry with him before climbing into my lap and curling into a fluffy orange ball. I stroked him absently, mind already elsewhere.
Robert. A murderer.
Did I really believe that?
All the evidence pointed at him as the doer, at least, the evidence I was aware of. The size ten shoe print. His own missing elf shoes. His flight. His argument with Chuck right before Santa ended up dead.
And, of course, Robert was a cheating, lying jerk.
But did that make him a killer?
When we’d dated, I never once saw him do or say anything that would make me think he was capable of it. He’d never even been in a real fight as far as I was aware. When confronted, he usually wilted.
But hadn’t there always been something off about him? It went deeper than his inability to remain faithful or take a hint. He was a terrible boyfriend, a not so good person, yet he always seemed to land on his feet. Maybe I’d never seen the true Robert because he never truly cared about me as much as he cared about Trisha now. I had been the victim of his pushy nature when it came to women, and while it wasn’t murder, it felt darn near to it at the time. He’d tried to kiss me when I didn’t want him to, and had no problem pushing me around in an ill-guided effort to win me back, so he did do some selfish stuff sometimes.
Maybe Robert the killer wasn’t so far-fetched after all.
Misfit’s warmth and the rumble of his purr had a calming effect on me. I settled back and instead of turning on the TV in search of yet another Christmas movie, I chose to stare at the tree. The lights didn’t flash, yet something about the way they reflected off the ornaments, and the soft glow in general, was hypnotic. Within minutes of sitting down, I found myself drifting off to sleep.
A loud pounding startled Misfit, who went flying off my lap, back claws digging painfully into the soft flesh of my thigh. I yelped and leapt to my own feet, eyes wide, head swimming from my all too short nap. My heart was pounding and my leg was barking, though I don’t think Misfit drew blood.
Panting, I looked around, not quite sure what had woken me. Had something fallen somewhere in the house? Did a truck go down the road, loose load banging around like thunder? It had happened before, and since I was off in dreamland, it was hard to say for sure exactly what it had been.
The pounding came again, startling another yelp from me, before I realized the sound was coming from the front door.
Still drowsy despite how I’d been woken, I eased over to peer out the window. It was dark outside and my front stoop light was off. Thanks to the heavy cloud cover, there wasn’t even any moonlight to make out much more than a faint dark outline where someone stood outside my house, hand raised to knock again.
I hurried to the door and opened it before my visitor could knock the darned thing down. I opened my mouth to speak, but was nearly barreled over as my guest rushed inside, shoulders hunched.
“You’ve got to help me.”
“Robert?” My heart sped up again, and I considered making a run for it before he could turn on me. If he had killed Santa, then he very well might have decided to go all in and kill everyone who’d ever done him wrong.
Don’t panic, I told myself as I looked him up and down.
Robert was a mess. He was still wearing his elf outfit—minus his shoes, of course. His backpack was flung over one shoulder, stuffed completely full, as if he’d grabbed as much as he could before coming here. I wasn’t sure if he’d walked all the way to my house, or if he’d driven. Glancing outside, I didn’t see a car, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one out there somewhere.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, taking a chance he wouldn’t kill me, and closing the door.
“I didn’t do it,” he said, eyes meeting mine. They were wide with shock and fear. “I swear, I didn’t kill him.”
“Then why did you run?” I asked.
Robert frowned and ran his hand through his hair. He had flakes of snow in it and his fingers and ears were bright red, which hinted at a long walk in the cold—not a warm drive. He shivered and licked dry, cracked lips, further confirming my guess.
“I freaked. And I knew what people would say. It . . . I . . .” He shook his head and squeezed his eyes closed. He sniffed as his nose started to run. Now that he was in a warm room, every part of him was starting to d
rip.
Murderer or not, I couldn’t stand to see someone I knew suffering. I kept out of his reach as I worked my way around him, into the kitchen. I put on a pot of coffee, making sure not to turn my back on him as I did. Robert watched me work, but made no move toward me.
“The police are looking for you, you know?” I said. “You really should turn yourself in and tell them what you know before they make up their own minds about you.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he said. He moved slowly toward the island counter, dropped his backpack onto the floor, and then plopped down on a stool. He buried his head in his hands as he continued speaking. “When I found him, he was already dead. I panicked. I know I shouldn’t have, but what else was I supposed to do?”
“You could have told someone. If you didn’t kill him, the police would have had no reason to blame you for his death.”
“You’re the only person I could turn to,” he whined, giving me his best pleading look. “No one else understands me like you do.”
I wasn’t buying it. I crossed my arms over my chest and stared him down. “What about Trisha? Why not go to her?”
“I don’t want to get her into trouble.”
“But it’s okay to get me into trouble, is that it?”
“It’s not like that,” he muttered, sullen. “She’s my girlfriend.”
I know I wasn’t being fair, but I was still mad at him for how he’d treated me over the last few years. “How about you tell me what it’s like, then? Otherwise, you should go bother someone else.”
He frowned down at his hands. “You’ve helped people before.” He said it like it pained him to admit it. “You’ve solved other murders, found the real killer when no one else could. I want you to do that for me.”
“Robert, I’m not a detective. And there’s mounds of evidence against you, evidence you made more compelling by running off like you did.”
“Please, Krissy,” he said. If he wasn’t sitting, I had a feeling he would have dropped to his knees to beg. “I can’t go to jail. I’d never survive.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I turned and filled two mugs full of coffee. I handed one to him before grabbing a cookie for my own. I knew he preferred cream and sugar, but I wasn’t about to offer him any. I was giving him the coffee for the warmth, not the pleasure.
Death by Eggnog Page 5