by J. C. Eaton
“She was concerned about you and your mother. Tell me . . . What am I walking into?”
“The lead actress in the play, Miranda Lee, who, incidentally, was despised by cast and crew alike, was found dead on the catwalk this morning. One of the electricians who was working on the lighting found her and told everyone she might have been strangled.”
“Oh, that’s terrific. Nothing like getting a qualified opinion from someone who has absolutely no training in forensics. Nothing is for sure until the medical examiner passes judgment.”
“I know. The deputies appear to be taking statements, but, according to my mother, all of the cast and crew came into the building at about the same time. Then Bill, one of the guys working the lights, went up the catwalk to get set up, and that’s when he discovered Miranda. Listen, if the sheriff’s department says it was foul play, it couldn’t have been one of the book club ladies. Honestly. None of them are comfortable with heights. In fact, I had to go over to Cecilia Flanagan’s house once, as a favor to my mother, to change the lightbulb over the kitchen sink.”
“Slow down. Slow down. No one’s accusing anyone of anything yet. Why don’t you go back and sit by your mother. I’m assuming that’s where you were before I walked in. I’ll have a word or two with the deputies, and then I’ll be right over.”
“Um . . . has Nate told you anything about my mother and her friends?”
“Nate? No. Only your mother’s name. Harriet Plunkett.”
“Good. Good. It’s always good starting with a clean slate. Uh . . . er . . . what I’m trying to say is my mother and her friends tend to jump to conclusions quickly, and well . . . oh, what the heck! You’ll find out soon enough.”
Marshall gave me a pat on the shoulder and headed straight for Deputies Bowman and Ranston, who’d just asked Randolph Tilden Jr. to report to the stage area. I returned to the seat next to my mother and looked across the stage. Randolph Tilden Jr. was nowhere in sight. I watched Marshall shake hands with one of the deputies while my mother wasted no time scrutinizing the Mankato Police Department’s latest retiree.
“You didn’t tell me the new investigator was so good looking, Phee. What is he? Divorced? Widowed? Gay?”
“What? You don’t stop for a second, do you, Mother? He’s single. That’s all I know.”
“Single. Hmm . . . That could mean anything. Of course, if it’s a choice between widowed and divorced, you’re better off with divorced. Divorced men are ready to move on. Unless, of course, you’re stuck with someone who has to pay alimony. He doesn’t have to pay alimony, does he?”
“SHH! How should I know? I don’t have his dating profile. He’s not someone I met on Match.com. For goodness sakes, I work in the same office as he does. That’s all.”
“And Kate Middleton went to the same college as Prince William. You saw how that turned out.”
“Fine. Starting tomorrow, I’ll enroll at St. Andrews University.”
In that instant, another announcement was made for Randolph Tilden Jr. and a new announcement for Len Beckers. A tall man seated in the third row stood and strode to the front of the auditorium as if he was about to take a bow.
Someone shouted, “Hey, Bill, looks like the crown prince himself is going to honor the authorities with his presence.”
The room got quiet and we could hear every word Herb Garrett’s pinochle buddies were saying.
“Aw, give him a break, Wayne.”
“I’d like for someone to give us a break and get us the hell out of here. They’re wasting their time talking to Len Beckers. He didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t dare get his clothes all crumpled up on the rafters.”
“How do you know? Since when did you become the expert on murderers?”
“It ain’t murder until those two deputies say it is. For all we know, that darned woman could have strangled herself on the electrical cords.”
New voices added to the cacophony, and I lost track of who and what was being said until Myrna spoke.
“What I’d like to know,” she said, “is what Miranda was doing up there to begin with.”
“I heard that!” Bill added from a few rows over. “You want to know what she was doing up there? What wasn’t she doing? Meddling woman was on that catwalk more times than a lineman up a pole during a power outage. Always wanting the spotlight to be on her.”
“How did Miranda know where she’d be on stage for that spotlight?” I kept my voice soft and low so that only my mother would hear me, or so I thought.
“I heard that, too!” Bill shouted. This time louder than before. “Why don’t you walk over here so we don’t have to twist our necks to speak?”
In that instant, one of the deputies stood and faced the cast and crew. “I’ll ask you to please keep your voices down. Don’t make this process longer than it has to be.”
My mother bent her head down and motioned for me to do the same. “Blocking.”
“Huh?”
“Blocking. It’s the positions on the stage. Ellowina used a technique called triangular blocking. It centers on three pinpoints, so Miranda knew exactly where the spotlight should go.”
“Oh. I see.”
I was satisfied with my mother’s answer, but for some reason she felt the need to continue. “The new director, Cliff Edwards, was changing some of the blocking and that really got Miranda in a tizzy.”
“Why? Why should that matter?”
“Because she wasn’t always center stage.”
Lucinda spun around in her seat again, anxious to add her own commentary. “If you thought the arguments between Ellowina and Miranda were bad, you should have seen the ones between Miranda and Cliff. It was like watching Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?”
Myrna cleared her throat and whispered, “Everyone said she slapped him backstage during one of their fights.”
“Who’s everyone? I never said that, Myrna.”
“Well, maybe not you, Lucinda, but everyone else.”
I looked up to see Len Beckers returning to his seat and Marshall heading toward ours. Randolph Tilden Jr. was still AWOL. The next announcement was for Shirley Johnson.
She stood and edged her way toward us, her knees knocking into everyone in the row. “Oh Lordy, that’s me. They want to question me next. Lordy, Lordy! What do I do now?”
I grabbed her by the elbow just as her knee hit mine. “Just tell them the truth, Shirley. That you don’t know anything.”
“I might know something. Lordy.”
“What do you mean?”
“The body . . . her body . . . she was wearing my teal tunic.”
If this was a bad situation to begin with, I had the uneasy feeling that it was about to get worse.
“What do you mean she was wearing your tunic? Was it something from your personal wardrobe or something from the show?”
“It was mine. I kept it backstage to throw on when the air-conditioning got too cold. It was with the costumes.”
“So someone who wasn’t familiar with the play could have thought it was one of the costumes?”
“Heavens. I suppose so. But everyone on the set, except for maybe those cranky old men who work the lights, knows the play takes place in the nineteen fifties. In England. And no one would be sporting a teal tunic with a beaded fringe. I know I certainly won’t be wearing it ever again, that is . . . if they give it back to me. I’m not letting my skin touch anything that was last worn by a dead person.”
No sooner did Shirley say “dead person” when she collided into Marshall in the aisle and jumped back, nearly falling on top of my mother and me, since the “musical chairs” from earlier had put us close to the aisle.
Marshall reached over to steady poor Shirley and nodded at all of us. “Pardon me. Didn’t mean to give you a scare. I’m Marshall Gregory. I’m a private investigator in Phee’s office.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I should have introduced you when Marshall first came in, but he need
ed to speak with the deputies.”
A mumbled chorus of “nice to meet you” and “who?” was interrupted by another announcement for Randolph Tilden Jr. and one for Shirley.
“Lordy, that’s me. I’d best be speaking to those deputies.” She skirted around Marshall and walked down the side aisle.
“Excuse me a moment,” Marshall said. “I need to have a word with Phee.”
When we were out of earshot, he shook his head and groaned. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life, and, believe me, I’ve been through lots of investigations. They don’t even know if this Tilden guy even showed up for rehearsal today. And that’s not the worst. How can they expect to get honest statements from everyone if people are allowed to sit here and talk with each other? Someone’s bound to change their story if they think they have to protect a friend. Holy cow! I’m glad this isn’t one of my cases.”
“What did the deputies tell you? Do they think it’s foul play?”
“It might be. Too early to say. They don’t think it’s a suicide, but it could be accidental. All they’re trying to do right now is to get a statement from everyone who was in the building at the time the body was discovered.”
“And then what?”
“They’re going to be making an announcement after they question everyone. The theater is going to be closed for a few days while their investigation takes place.”
“After that?”
“Then the show goes on, I suppose. They said they have no intention of stopping the regular activities in this community.”
“Don’t they realize one of the cast or crew members could be a killer?”
“They do. In Bowman’s own words, ‘It’s pretty darn likely someone in this audience knocked off the lead in the play, but hell, we can’t keep everyone locked in here indefinitely while we investigate.’”
“So they’re just going to let a killer loose in the theater?”
“In the theater . . . in the community . . . Until they know who did it, the cast and crew are presumed innocent.”
“Maybe the director will cancel the play.”
“Not likely. He told the deputies he planned to call the next rehearsal as soon as they get the all clear to be in the building.”
“They may get the all clear, but that doesn’t mean the cast and crew will come back. You heard Shirley Johnson. She’s totally freaked out that a piece of her clothing was found on the dead woman. What do you think she and the other ladies are going to be like when they think there’s a murderer in the room?”
“They may not have a choice.”
“Huh? What are you saying?”
“Bowman and Ranston will need to keep a close eye on the cast and crew if indeed one of them turns out to be a killer. They need the play to go on. Bowman said they intend to have a sheriff’s deputy in the theater at all times once rehearsals resume.”
“Oh brother. That lucky stiff is going to earn his or her keep. It’s funny, but my mother’s friends are all shaken up over this, yet the men seem so . . . so . . .”
“Impervious?”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s a good way of putting it.”
“Got news for you. They’re kind of unhinged, too, but they won’t show it. According to the deputies, some of those guys would be downing a good stiff drink if they could get their hands on one.”
“Did the deputies give you an idea of how long their questioning was going to take?”
“Maybe another hour or so. Did you want to stay and give your mother moral support?”
“You’re kidding, right? I need to get back to work. And I’m really sorry for messing up your day. Things are under control around here. No reason for me to stay. I’ll let my mother know, but I guarantee one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“She’ll insist I stop by her house on my way home from work, so I’m doomed one way or the other.”
“Doomed or not, are you hungry? Because I’m famished. What do you say we find the nearest restaurant?”
“Fine. But whatever you do, don’t say anything about eating or we’ll get stuck bringing them a takeout order.”
Chapter 6
Even in the shadowy dusk, I recognized the lineup in front of my mother’s house—Buick, Buick, Toyota, and Chevy. Had the book club ladies been there since the afternoon’s “interrogation,” or had they arrived recently? It didn’t matter. Five minutes or five hours, I knew they were perseverating over the fact Miranda Lee was found dead. What I didn’t know was whether or not they had ordered out or unearthed something from my mother’s freezer.
No sooner did I pull up behind one of the Buicks when I got my answer. Hungry Howard’s pizza delivery truck double parked, and the guy got out carrying four large pies. We both made it to the door at the same time. My mother motioned us inside.
Behind me, I heard someone shouting, “Hold that door, Harriet! I’m on my way in.”
It was Herb Garrett, no doubt anxious to take part in my mother’s impromptu rumor fest.
“Hey, cutie, how’s it going? Did you drive straight here from work?” He followed me into the living room. “Here’s my five bucks toward the pizza. Who’s collecting the money?”
“Louise is,” someone shouted. “Harriet already paid the delivery guy and gave him a tip.”
Once the stack of pizzas was placed on the kitchen table, the guy bolted out of there. My mother had placed paper plates and napkins on the counter, along with bottled water and a few cans of soda. The dog came out from under the table and sniffed.
“Help yourself, everyone. No sense being formal. Sit wherever you want. And don’t give Streetman any pizza with pepperoni or sausage. He gets gas. He can have plain cheese pizza. Oh, and don’t give him the one with mushrooms either. I’m not sure if dogs can eat mushrooms.”
Then, she turned to me. “You’re staying for pizza, right? We ordered plenty.”
“Thanks, Mom. Hi, ladies!”
While Herb and the women began to put pizza slices on their plates and find a place to sit, I spoke to my mother at the entrance to her patio. “I’m afraid to ask. How did it go? The questioning, I mean.”
“How do you think it went? It was grueling. First, we had to give those deputies our name, address, and phone number. Oh, and our email address, too. I was waiting for one of them to ask for my blood type.”
“That’s pretty normal procedure. Then what?”
“Well, they wanted to know what time we got there, who we saw, who we spoke to, and where we were at the exact moment when Bill spied the dead body on the catwalk.”
“Is that all?”
“No. They also wanted to know if any of us were in the building last night. After hours. Like any of us would be stupid enough to go into an empty theater at night. Even if it was open, which it sometimes is, because people forget to lock up. Anyway, the pizza’s going to get cold. There are three kinds, plus cheese. Lucinda wanted plain cheese since she’s on a diet.”
I looked over at the women, who were either already eating or still piling pizza onto their plates. “Maybe Lucinda should stick to only two pieces of pizza if she’s trying to lose weight.”
My mother poked me. “Shh. She’s right over there.”
I seriously doubted anyone could hear me over the voices in the next room. As usual, the crew was all talking at once.
“Oh, and one more thing, Phee, before you go in there. We made a list for you.”
I all but choked. “A list? What kind of list?” It would never be anything as normal as a shopping list because my mother and her friends wouldn’t dare leave those decisions to anyone else.
“A list of the people you should talk to about Miranda’s murder. You know . . . the suspects.”
“The WHAT? The SUSPECTS?”
“Shh. Keep your voice down. They’ll hear you.”
“Let them. To begin with, no one knows if Miranda was killed or if it was an accident. But okay, okay. Let’s just say, for argument�
�s sake, she was murdered. I, of all people, am not an investigator. Why do you think the sheriff’s department was questioning the cast and crew? I’ll tell you why. Because they’re the professionals who are conducting the investigation, not your daughter, the accountant.”
“Accountant and bookkeeper. You have two certifications. Who better to conduct it than you? And before you answer, listen to me. You were the one who routed out the killers from the book curse last year. And what about my sister’s master chef? You figured out who murdered him, too. Plus, you have a good way with people. They trust you. They open up to you. You think they’re going to share their secrets with Deputy Bowman and the other one?”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not my job.”
“Let me ask you this. Why was that nice Marshall Gregory at the theater if your office isn’t going to get involved?”
“He came to make sure you were all right. As a favor to me. That’s all. Our office isn’t taking the case. It belongs to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department.”
“They have enough to worry about . . . kidnappings, illegal aliens, drugs, guns . . .”
“Good. Now they can add mysterious death to the list.”
“Harriet! We’re out of napkins. If you tell me where they are, I can put them on the counter.” It was Louise Munson, loud and clear from the kitchen.
“I’ll be right there, Louise,” my mother shouted as she gave me a nudge toward the pizza. “Hurry up before Herb eats it all. We’ll talk about the list later.”
The conversation in my mother’s living room never wavered from Miranda’s death. It included, but wasn’t limited to: murders in Sun City West, the time it takes for a corpse to decompose, killers who were never apprehended, famous people who died under mysterious circumstances, and the best techniques for self-defense.
To prove the point that no killer was going to get past her, Shirley opened up her bag and produced a small aerosol can of bug repellent. “I’m too darned old for that self-defense hooey. That’s why I carry a spray can of bug killer with me.”
Lucinda snatched it from Shirley’s hand and gave it a once over. “That’s fine if your killer is a mosquito or a gnat. What’s this supposed to do if you get attacked?”