by J. C. Eaton
I figured Monday afternoon’s rehearsal must have gone well because I didn’t receive any frantic calls from my mother. It wasn’t until I pulled up a late-day email from her that I learned the rehearsal had been moved to the next day. Something about Cliff and a dentist appointment. My mother also mentioned that Williams Investigations had sent her an official contract and that “it was a good one.”
I’ll say one thing for my boss. He can be quite clever. According to the contract, Williams Investigations offered an introductory special for new clients, plus a family and friends discount, as well as a senior citizen discount, bringing the grand total for the month to thirty-nine ninety-nine. Split six ways, it would amount to less than seven dollars each. I had all I could do to stop laughing. The hourly rate for our services was more than the total. But if Nate had offered to track down the information for free, my mother would’ve been convinced he wouldn’t give it his full attention.
“So, are we competing with T-Mobile, now?” I asked Nate as he headed home for the day.
“Ah, so your mother must have liked the family and friends discount.”
“If she knew what the rates really were, she’d have a coronary. Well, at least you or Marshall can now find out more about the cause of death.”
“Sooner than you think. Marshall headed out to Peoria on a missing person’s case, but he plans to stop by the sheriff’s office before he calls it quits for the day. Speaking of which, shouldn’t you be on your way out, too? Augusta’s already gone home.”
“I have a few odds and ends to finish up, and then I’ll lock up and enjoy a quiet evening in Vistancia.”
And miraculously, that was exactly what I did. I enjoyed a peaceful evening at home with a late day swim and a frozen pizza.
* * *
I found out early the next day that the only thing clean about Miranda’s cause of death was the toxicology report. Apparently the woman suffered a bump to the back of the head. The blow could have been the cause, but the medical examiner thought it had occurred after she was already dead. Perhaps from falling backward. Then there were the ligature marks on her neck. Unlike marks from a rope, cord, or wire, the ones on her neck came from her own necklace, as if it had gotten tangled in the maze of electrical cords and inadvertently strangled her. But how did she get tangled in the first place? And if that wasn’t enough to throw a monkey wrench into the cause of death, possible electrocution was.
While one of Miranda’s hands was clearly dangling over the catwalk, the other was holding the male end of a cord that appeared to be frayed. Had she tried to plug it in so that she could see for herself if the spotlight would surround her on stage? Was that what killed her? And shouldn’t there have been burn marks?
When the deputy on duty at the Stardust Theater told my mother the investigation was ongoing, I guessed what he really meant was that he wasn’t about to divulge anything to her. His department, however, shared what they knew with Marshall, even though it wasn’t much.
“I’m sorry, Phee. This is all we’ve got for now.”
Marshall had this adorable schoolboy sheepishness going for him when he spoke to me that morning. I was so taken by the sincerity on his face, that I didn’t say a word and waited for him to continue.
“Don’t worry. We’ll figure it out. I can make myself useful now, too. Starting with a quick chitchat at this afternoon’s rehearsal. I was able to get ahold of the stage manager, Richard Garson. According to him, they’re rehearsing from three to seven. Care to stop by when you get off?”
“Um. I don’t think that’s such a great idea. Len and Randolph think I’m really an investigator, and I know my mother’s friends are going to squelch that ruse the minute I step into the theater. I need to do my snooping on the periphery.”
“Speaking of which, I’ve uncovered an interesting tidbit for you, thanks to the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department. Miranda Lee was born Miranda Lee Shumway. She dropped the Shumway when she married her first husband, the unfortunate Leonard Milestone. Poor guy never even survived the honeymoon. Died while trekking the Andes.”
“The Andes? Like in Peru? I heard he fell off the balcony on a cruise ship.”
“Nope. Slipped somewhere on the Inca Trail.”
“You don’t suppose—”
“No. It was a long time ago, and, according to the report filed with the Peruvian authorities, it was an accident.”
“What about her second husband? Did you find out anything about him?”
Marshall was literally grinning from ear to ear. “Oh yeah. Hold on to your seat for this one. Her second husband is none other than the esteemed director from Peoria, Cliff Edwards.”
“Really? Cliff Edwards?” I could barely contain myself. “Oh my gosh! That would explain all the bickering going on between them. According to Myrna, it even got physical with Miranda slapping the guy.”
“Seems like this Miranda created a maelstrom wherever she went.”
“Given her past relationship with Cliff, he might have had a darn good reason to kill her. I’d put him on the suspect list for sure. As the director, he had access to every area in the building. No one would think it unusual for him to be up in the catwalk. Maybe he even lured her up there.”
“From what I’ve heard, if anyone was going to be doing the luring, it would’ve been her. Anyway, no one’s off the hook for now. Well, I’ve got to work on a few other cases. Talk to you later. And if you change your mind about this afternoon, you’ll know where to find me.”
Was he dropping a not-so-subtle hint? Did he want me to join him, or was it one of those open-ended things? Darn it. I was too old to play these junior high games. Next thing you knew I’d be writing “Mrs. Sophie Gregory” on notebook paper.
* * *
I was looking forward to another noneventful night back home when the next Mousetrap bombshell hit. Marshall called me at a little past four from the Stardust Theater.
“Don’t get upset, Phee. I wanted to call before your mother or any of her friends got to the phone. There’s been a minor accident at the theater. And I’m stressing the word ‘minor.’”
In the background I heard Shirley’s unmistakable voice shrieking. Something about Miranda’s spiteful spirit.
“What’s happened? Is everyone all right?”
“Yeah. Everyone’s fine. The rehearsal got off to a late start because the director needed the lighting adjusted and had to meet with that crew. I was able to speak with one of the actors, Chuck Mitchenson, for a few minutes. Not a wealth of information there. Anyway, the rehearsal got under way with act one, scene one. Sue Ellen came on stage first, followed by Gordon Web. Gordon had to cross in front of a small table when, all of a sudden, he fell through a trapdoor that had been left open.”
“Didn’t he see it? Didn’t anyone see it?”
“No. There was a small braided rug covering it up. Poor guy fell right through, taking most of the rug with him. He’s okay, though.”
Shirley’s voice was getting louder in the background, and hers wasn’t the only one. I hoped Marshall was able to hear me.
“Sounds like bedlam behind you.”
“It is. Like I said, everyone’s fine. But that doesn’t mean they’re not shaken up. I suppose actors use these trapdoors all the time because Gordon landed on some foam cushioning and not the hard floor. Do you know if this play calls for one of the actors to use a trapdoor?”
“I don’t think so. You’d better check with someone who’s familiar with the script. How’s Gordon taking it?”
“Believe it or not, he’s not nearly as razzled as the others. This Sue Ellen Blair lady is crying her eyes out. She’s convinced the killer is after her for taking over Miranda’s role.”
“Oh brother. I can see this is going to be a long night for my mother.”
“Right now, the deputy on duty is questioning the crew members, specifically the set crew and the prop crew about the incident.”
“Well at least no one got hu
rt. What’s your take on all of this?”
“Hard to say. Either someone is dead serious about sabotaging this play, or whoever killed Miranda Lee is trying to make it look like it wasn’t meant to be a single murder.”
“So you don’t buy the serial killer thing either.”
“Nope. Whoever’s responsible is taking the focus off of Miranda and spreading it all over the place.”
“Why? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does if they’re trying to conceal the motive for her death. By putting everyone else in jeopardy, or making it seem that way, the killer has effectively distanced the original murder because everyone will be scared stiff they’re next.”
“Do me a favor, will you, Marshall? Tell my mother I’m stopping by the theater on my way home.”
“I figured as much. See you in a while.”
I gave Nate a quick lowdown on what had happened the minute I got off the phone. He shared the same perspective as Marshall and the same concerns. “Be careful. And stay in sight. You do carry a small flashlight, don’t you?”
“This is scary. You’re sounding just like my mother.”
Chapter 14
I kept telling myself that as long as the book club ladies refrained from telling everyone I was an accounting clerk and not an investigator, then Len and Randolph wouldn’t bat an eye when I showed up at the theater. After all, it would seem pretty logical that I’d be conversing with another investigator in my office. And so what if I was an accounting clerk? I still worked for Williams Investigations, and, for all they knew, snooping around could have been part of my job description.
No one really noticed me that first day when Miranda’s body was discovered and I’d snuck in. I suppose the cast and crew had still been in shock. This time was different. A few of them, including my mother’s friends, were in panic mode, while Herb’s pinochle buddies from the lighting and construction crew seemed downright annoyed.
It was a quarter past six when I entered the building. When I walked into the auditorium, the stage was empty. A few people were clustered together near the stage, and I imagined the rest were backstage or in the greenroom, the technical term for the small waiting room/lounge that the actors used.
Above me, I heard men’s voices. Obviously, they weren’t too concerned about who might be listening.
I immediately recognized Bill’s voice. It was uncensored and loud. “I’m telling you, there’s a damn lunatic around here, and he or she is going to get all of us killed if we don’t do something about it. I’m thinking maybe we should booby-trap the catwalk so if they decide to climb up here, they won’t get too far.”
“Cripes, Bill. We’ll wind up killing someone. What were you thinking, anyway?” It was Herb’s voice. At least he didn’t look down and see me. I wasn’t in the mood to hear “Hi, cutie pie.”
Bill continued to spout off his plan. “Like the play says, ‘mousetraps,’ only in this case a few rat traps here and there.”
“Forget it. Hey, Kevin, what did you do with that penlight?”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to do with it, but seeing as we’re with mixed company down there, I’ll keep quiet. I’m sick of these damn interruptions. I’ve got a life, too, you know. I told my wife I’d be home in time for dinner. Now we’ll be lucky if we get out of here by eight.”
I walked straight ahead, figuring I’d go backstage and locate my mother and Marshall. I mean, where else could they be? I took the steps to the right of the stage when, all of a sudden, the director and stage manager walked across the set followed by Marshall and the deputy on duty.
“Psst! Marshall! Psst!”
He spun his head around and saw me. “Phee, come on up. Might as well join us.” Then, turning to the others he said, “Phee’s with our office.”
Yay! I have the Seal of Approval to be here.
A collective mumble followed as I took my place on the stage.
Cliff was pointing to the small rug and shaking his head. “I don’t get it. If this was supposed to be an attempted murder, the perpetrator failed miserably. Even without the foam cushioning, the worst that might happen is a broken bone.”
The deputy looked down at the rug as if it was concealing the Grand Canyon. “When was the last time you used the stage?”
Cliff spoke up immediately. “On Saturday. For rehearsal. And when we left, that trapdoor was secured. The actors had been walking back and forth across the stage all afternoon.”
This time Marshall spoke. “What about the rug? Was it there on Saturday?”
Cliff glanced down and shrugged. “A rug was supposed to be there, but I don’t know if it was. Guess I overlooked that detail. Let me get one of the prop crew.”
While the men milled around waiting for someone from the prop crew to emerge, I motioned for Marshall to step back near the curtains so I could tell him something. Keeping my voice barely below a whisper forced him to be mere inches from me. I swear my heartbeat was louder than my whisper.
“There was no rehearsal yesterday. And on Sunday, Randolph Tilden Jr. had the stage to himself. Remember? He could have opened the door and put the rug back down. Who would have known? Not the cleaners.”
At that moment, Louise Munson appeared on stage, and I don’t know what was shaking more, her head or her body. Her voice practically cracked. “When that rug went down, the door was closed. Completely closed. We wouldn’t place a rug over a hole in the stage.”
The deputy rolled his head, more in exasperation than consolation. “Now, now, no one’s saying you did. Calm down.”
That was the last thing Louise was about to do. She started tapping her foot and looking all around. Cliff walked toward her and told her everything was okay and that the prop crew wasn’t being blamed.
“Well I should certainly hope not!” Paula Darren blared. She strutted across the stage until she stood directly in front of Richard. “There are two more of these,” she said, pointing to the trapdoor. “Have you checked them out? As the stage manager, you should be aware of every nuance.”
Richard looked as if he was about to strangle Paula in front of all of us. His face turned beet red, and he clasped his hands together as if preventing them from doing the deed. “What do you take us for? Blithering idiots? That was the first thing we did. I mean, after we made sure Gordon wasn’t hurt.”
Marshall moved away from the curtains until he was inches from Cliff and Richard. “Can one of you tell me where the other trapdoors are located?”
Cliff nodded and turned his back to the audience. “One’s on upstage right and the other on upstage left.”
Marshall sighed. “Hey, for those of us who aren’t all that familiar with the theater business, where exactly is ‘upstage’?”
“It’s toward the back curtains,” Cliff said. “Downstage is by the audience. Look, from now on, we’ve got a new protocol for the stage manager. Those trapdoors are to be checked when the cast and crew enter the theater and again right before we begin rehearsing. And that’s not all. Crew chiefs are going to check their areas for any signs of tampering when they arrive.”
No sooner did Cliff finish with his latest directive when Kevin’s voice all but shook the walls.
“Hey, down there! Are we going to start any time soon? I want to eat my dinner while it’s still warm and someone’s going to serve it to me.”
Under his breath Marshall said, “Oh brother. Marriage of the year.”
I tried not to laugh as Cliff shouted back to Kevin.
“Hold your horses. We want to make sure there’s not another accident.”
A few seconds later, Stanley Krumpmeyer stuck his head out from the stage left wing and shouted, “The cast is getting really restless back there. What do you want me to tell them?”
“Tell them we’re finishing up.” Then, facing the deputy, Cliff added, “We are, aren’t we?”
“Yeah. For now. I’ll need to complete a report so don’t plan on leaving once the rehearsal is done. Ca
n’t speak for the private investigators, though.”
Marshall took another look at the trapdoor and then paced five or six steps past it until he was almost across the stage to the wing.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll speak with some of the crew backstage, and then we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Fine. Fine,” Cliff replied. “There’s a door on stage right behind the curtains. Follow the noise, and you’ll find the cast and crew.” Then, turning to Richard, he said, “Act one, scene one, five minutes to curtain. Notify everyone.”
Marshall and I walked into the greenroom seconds before the stage manager made his announcement. Other than Randolph, who was seated in a corner by himself, the rest of the cast was gathered in the middle of the room on a brown couch and the well-worn chairs that surrounded it.
My mother jumped up the minute she saw me. “Phee! It’s about time. That could have been your mother down that trapdoor.”
“You are my mother, and you seem to be in one piece. Whoever opened that trapdoor intended it to be for one of the cast members who appear on stage before you.”
“Tell that to Shirley.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Don’t tell me she’s still going on about a ghost. Ghosts can’t open trapdoors. Ghosts . . . What am I even saying? Ghosts don’t exist.”
“Shirley believes the malevolent spirit of the undead can inhabit someone’s body.”
“Terrific. She should swap stories with Joe Hill.”
“Who’s that? Is he on one of the crews?”
Marshall shook his head and smiled. “It’s Stephen King’s son, who also writes gothic horror, and your daughter’s trying to be funny.”
“Seriously, Mom, I don’t think anyone is after you, in particular, but the director is going to be speaking with all the crew chiefs about checking things over and taking precautions.”