by J. C. Eaton
“Maybe it’s an odor on one of the costumes. Dogs have an amazing sense of smell.”
“It’s not an odor. If it were an odor he’d be growling at everyone he comes in contact with,” my mother said.
The low growls grew in intensity as the dog inched toward the closet space. Then, out of nowhere, snarls and snapping.
“My God! She’s in here!” my mother shouted. “Miranda’s horrible spirit is in this room.”
By now, Streetman was standing in front of the closet barking like crazy. I grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open before I had a chance to think twice. I half expected something to jump out at us. Instead, I found myself staring at old cardboard cartons and wadded up clothing stuffed into every cranny. In some instances, the cardboard looked so old I thought it was going to disintegrate.
Streetman bared his teeth and continued to growl.
“This is really weird,” I said, “even for him.”
I looked at the dog again. The hairs on his back were standing up and he was actually shaking. Shaking and growling.
I reached over to pet him, and he snapped. “Yikes. Maybe he smells something that reminds him of a bad experience he had.”
“Or maybe it’s Miranda’s spirit.”
Just then one of the cleaning ladies knocked on the door frame to the costume room. She took one look at Streetman and waggled her fingers.
I knew what she meant. “Mom, see if you can put him back in the canvas tote. We should get out of here.”
My mother took a few steps toward the dog, but he wasn’t having any part of it. He raced over to the closet and began to paw at the nearest box.
“Can you get him away?” I asked. “He’s going nuts.”
“He senses something.”
“Um, more than likely he smells something.”
Streetman continued to paw at the box, pausing only to bark and growl. At one point he lunged at it and bit the edge. The cardboard collapsed inside the box.
“I’m telling you, Mom, there’s something in that box that’s got his attention, that’s all.”
My mother tried calling the dog, but he ignored her. Selective hearing must apparently run in our family.
“That does it!” I said. “It’s late, and I’ve got things to do.” With that, I walked over to the closet, pulled out the box, and gave it a kick. “Hey, for all we know, there may be mice or worse in this box.”
“Streetman’s scared of mice,” my mother said. “He wouldn’t be acting that way. You know, Shirley said sometimes spirits can inhabit the—”
“Oh for God’s sake, no one’s inhabiting anything.”
I reached over to open the box, but the dog beat me to it. He tore into the cardboard, and, in what could best be described as sheer madness, he ripped the thing apart, flinging the contents all over the room. All I could see were beady eyes, round black noses, and, in some cases, teeth. Streetman grabbed the nearest one and shook it like a play toy. Then he growled and shook it again. My mother was horrified.
I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. “Yep, there’s Miranda’s spirit for you. Or should I say ‘spirits’? Seems we’ve got mink, muskrat, and ermine. Oh, and if I’m not mistaken, isn’t that some sort of beaver pelt?”
Streetman wasted no time attacking the pelts. No sooner did he grab one and shake it ferociously when he moved on to the next one. Snarling. Growling. Biting. Small clumps of fur became airborne.
“I hope the Footlighters aren’t planning to do a twentieth century period play anytime soon,” I said. “Your dog seems to have an issue with the wardrobe.”
The fracas continued as my mother took a step closer to the dog. “Stop that, Streetman! Stop that this instant!”
I rolled my eyes. “He doesn’t seem to follow commands well.”
“That’s because he thinks he’s protecting us. He doesn’t know the pelts are harmless.”
“Mom, we’ve got to pick up those things and get them back in the box before they’re no longer usable.”
“I know. I know.”
She bent down and grabbed what I presumed to be a dyed muskrat tail from Streetman’s mouth. “Give that to Mommy. Give that to Mommy, now!”
For the next five minutes, my mother played tug-of-war with Streetman. The dog was in his glory, and I was ready to explode. Finally, I had an idea. I found an old, smelly rag in the costume room and somehow was able to substitute it for one of the costume stoles. As my mother and the dog wrestled with the thing, I gathered up the remaining wraps, some of them covered in dog saliva, and shoved them back in the torn box before stashing the box in the closet. Streetman stopped growling and whined.
“We’ll bring over a new box and replace that one,” my mother said as the dog sniffed around the room. “And not a word about this to anyone. As far as Shirley and Lucinda are concerned, Streetman’s venture was inconclusive. Understand?”
“Oh, believe me, I’m not admitting to anything. Although we probably should get those things dry-cleaned. It must have been the musty odor that attracted him in the first place, because those stoles are processed.”
The poor dog was exhausted by the time he was plunked back into the canvas tote and carried to the car. He didn’t make a move until my mother plopped him on the couch and fussed over him, muttering “my brave, brave little man.” Then she looked at the floor and shrieked. “Teeth! There are teeth on the floor!”
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “He must have pulled them off one of the stoles and kept them in his mouth.”
My mother walked to the kitchen, got a paper towel, and removed the teeth. “Don’t tell a soul about this. Understand?”
“Believe me, it’s not going to come up in any conversation I’m about to have.” Now and well into the next decade.
“Good. Good. So, maybe you’ll have better luck with those trapdoors tomorrow. And don’t forget, be sure to find out if Nate and Marshall can make it for Thanksgiving.”
“No problem. I’ll tell them to bake a pie for you and trap an animal for the dog.”
Chapter 22
If it wasn’t ghosts, it was my love life. Or lack of it. How I survived dinner last night and that awful experience at the theater was anyone’s guess. In my wildest imagination, I never pictured the dog going berserk over some animal stoles. And now I was faced with a worse scenario—Thanksgiving with Nate, Marshall, and the lunatic fringe. Well, it wasn’t too late to avoid it. After all, I hadn’t invited the men yet.
As I placed my Jamaica Me Crazy, a Wolfgang Puck favorite of mine, into the Keurig, I had second thoughts. On the one hand, I didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable at my mother’s house, especially if she or her friends started dropping not so subtle hints about how I was available for dating. Then again, I felt badly that Nate and Marshall would be alone for the holiday. In the end, guilt trumped comfort, and I decided to offer up the invitation on Monday. Meanwhile, I spent Saturday morning dusting, vacuuming, and tackling a substantial pile of laundry. It amazed me how much dust could permeate the door seals and windows to leave a fine film of red specks all over. Still, it was a far cry from dealing with those brutal Minnesota winters.
I jotted off a quick email to Kalese, who was feeling pretty low she wasn’t able to spend Thanksgiving with me. At least she had made plans with some of her teacher friends and was looking forward to flying out here for Christmas. Then I grabbed a strawberry yogurt for lunch and headed over to the Stardust Theater. It was twelve-twenty.
It wasn’t as if I expected to find a shimmery dress on the floor beneath one of the trapdoors, but I needed to see just how feasible it would be for someone to pull off a stunt like that. All they’d need was a semi dark room and someone with a decent wig. Shirley and Cecilia’s imaginations would (and in this case, did) fill in the rest.
Without a background in stagecraft, I was left to Google searches and the scant recollections I had when I was in a school play back in high school. What I discovered during my late ni
ghts on the computer was that there were literally countless different kinds of trapdoors used for all sorts of theatrical purposes, the most sophisticated being the ones in those illusion shows like David Copperfield. I seriously doubted Sun City West had shelled out the money for an automated system, especially since the theater was built in 1978 and designed to hold simple community events and performances.
Then there was the issue of the “trap room.” Apparently the trapdoor opened into a small room beneath the stage. What I learned was that many college and university theater departments had their trap rooms as part of a ground floor that could serve any number of purposes from classrooms to storage areas. I figured the one I needed to scope out at the Stardust would be more like a dark storage area in a sub-basement. And, not surprisingly, I was right.
My timing was spot-on when I got to the auditorium. The director had just completed his notes for the cast, and the stage manager told the crew to arrive a half hour early to the next rehearsal for their notes. My mother was seated down front on the center aisle, and I headed her way.
Myrna saw me first and rushed over. She grabbed my arm and ushered me into a seat before speaking. “Harriet has what you need. You know . . . the program.”
“It’s okay, Myrna. You don’t have to whisper. There’s no one around us.”
“Do you think Sue Ellen’s our killer? She doesn’t strike me as a murderess.”
“She knew Cliff before doing this show. I want to find out if they had a prior relationship that wasn’t limited to the stage. Maybe someone from the production of The Odd Couple will know that.”
“So you think she and Cliff were in cahoots to get rid of Miranda?”
“Uh, no . . . not exactly. I mean, I don’t know. That’s what I need to find out, and please don’t say anything to anyone.”
“Oh you can count on me. Only your mother knows about it. And Cecilia. And Lucinda. And . . .”
Oh what the hell! Why not come out and announce, “Phee is trying to find out if Sue Ellen and Cliff were once an item.”
My stomach started to rumble as I thanked Myrna and walked toward my mother, who was a few feet from me, heading up the aisle.
“I’ve got the program, Phee. Quick, stash it in your bag before anyone sees you.”
“My gosh, this isn’t The Man from U.N.C.L.E. No one cares if you’re handing me a piece of paper.”
“You never know. Here. Take it.”
I slipped the program into my bag and watched as the cast and crew filtered out of the auditorium.
“Listen,” I said. “I need to check out what’s below those trapdoors. Any chance you or someone you know can show me without making too much of a scene?”
“Hold on. I’m pretty sure Wayne can. He did the set construction, and they were always going down into the storage area.”
Next thing I knew, my mother belted out, “Wayne! Are you still here?” I swore it echoed off of the walls.
Wayne was above us on the catwalk with a few of the other men and shouted back, “What do you need?”
It was followed by, “I can’t tell you out loud,” which produced a bunch of caterwauling from his buddies.
“Hang on, Harriet, I’ll be right down.”
My mother hustled Wayne into a corner by one of the exits and told him I needed to see what was below the stage. Since he had no idea why on earth I would need to do such a thing, my mother had to fabricate something. It was better than rehashing what Shirley and Cecilia thought they saw. Wayne would’ve dismissed that as a waste of his time.
“Phee was here the other day when Cliff said he was going to make sure those trapdoors stayed locked. She told her boss she’d check on that.”
Wayne shrugged and motioned for us to follow him. “Whatever you do, don’t pull on those side curtains. Don’t even shove them back. They’re as old as the hills, and some of the grommets are coming loose from the top. Can’t get them fixed in time for the show.”
I kept my hands to myself as we walked backstage to a small door near stage right. It wasn’t locked, and as soon as Wayne opened it, he flipped on the lights—small, dim wall lights that reminded me of the staircase to Dr. Frankenstein’s lab.
“Be careful,” he said. “The stairs down to the basement are steep.”
“I’ll wait here,” my mother announced, “to make sure no one turns the lights off on you.”
Wayne walked in front of me and waited until I reached the bottom step. I was standing in a large rectangular room also dimly lit with wall lights. Most structures in southern Arizona don’t have a basement. But this was a theater and its builder, Del Webb, must’ve seen a play or two in his time. Plays that needed trapdoors.
“Just so you know,” Wayne went on, “I carry a flashlight in my pocket. Can’t be too careful around here. Come on. I’ll show you where the trapdoors are.”
My eyes were getting adjusted to the semidarkness, and an exit sign hung directly across from where I was standing.
“Where does that go? The exit, I mean?”
Wayne swept his flashlight across the room in a grand gesture. “Secondary exit. It’s an even steeper staircase that leads directly outside around back, where the Dumpsters are.”
At the mere mention of the word “Dumpster,” I cringed. My first experience in dealing with murder in Sun City West had me Dumpster diving in front of a large senior citizen apartment complex. I had no desire to try it again.
“So, um, where are the trapdoors? All I can see is this dark room.”
“Watch your feet. Two of the doors are directly in front of you, and they have automated step-ups.”
“What?”
Wayne flashed the light in front of me, and I could see what appeared to be wooden boxes on the floor.
“Look straight down. Each of those has a button in the middle. When you climb on the box and step on the button, the box starts to rise until you’re on the stage. Step on it twice, and it goes down. It’s automated, like I said, but really old school. When they use these trapdoors, they’re supposed to put doggie gates around them so the actors and crew know where they are.”
“Doggie gates? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Hey, I didn’t build this. It was state of the art in the seventies. It’s a mechanical crank system. Not a whole lot different from the original ones in the eighteen hundreds. Still has to be oiled and cleaned so it doesn’t get stuck.”
“What about the other trapdoor? The one Gordon fell through?”
“That one’s a few feet behind you, and it’s not automated. It’s just an opening for scenes where the actor has to disappear in a hurry. That huge foam padding against the wall has to be placed under the trap so no one gets injured. Lucky for Gordon it was there. Of course, now that the trapdoors are locked from top and bottom, it’s not a worry.”
“Do you know who moved the foam padding?”
“Nope. Probably Cliff or Richard when they made sure the trapdoors were locked.”
Wayne made a point of flashing his light under each of the doors so I could see that the eye pin door latches were secure.
“Wayne, do you know the last time these doors were used in a show?”
“Gimme a second. I need to think about it.”
While Wayne stood there looking at the doors, my eyes finally allowed me to see what was against the walls. It was a veritable treasure trove of furniture, mirrors, and miscellaneous hardware, not to mention a small rack holding some costumes. The whole area struck me as the perfect hiding place for spiders, scorpions, and God knows what else.
“Got it,” he said. “It was a few years back. Ellowina directed A Christmas Carol and had the ghosts appear through those trapdoors. That’s why some of the costumes are down here. Too risky to have the actors wear them as they walk down the stairs. Since it’s Arizona, we don’t have to worry about mold. Anyway, the trapdoors haven’t been used since, and I should know since I’ve been working for the Footlighters since two thousand eight
.”
“So, who keeps the mechanisms from seizing up?”
“Daniel in building maintenance is supposed to, but, between you and me, I doubt it. Usually falls to the play director, and even if their play isn’t using the trapdoors, the director checks on them for future use. At least Ellowina did. Not sure it’s something Cliff’s going to do since he’s only temporary for this play. I’ll be glad when Ellowina returns for the spring production. I heard she was recuperating at her niece’s place in Surprise.”
“It’s a good thing she has a niece who can take care of her. Pretty nasty thing, food poisoning . . . Um, before we go back upstairs, I’ve got another question. Why on earth is there a chemical storage cabinet down here? I can see the primary color codes on the door.”
“It’s a regulation from the county. Has to be locked, too. Since we use chemicals from time to time, we’re required to store them properly. They inspect the buildings at prearranged intervals. We’ve got another cabinet upstairs in a separate closet near the dressing rooms.”
“I see. Uh, out of curiosity, who has the keys, and what kind of chemicals are in there?”
“We bought some cheap padlocks from the hardware store, and the keys are hanging in the maintenance closet near the dressing rooms. I know for a fact we’ve got lubricating oils for the machines, cleaning oils, and solvent. Also chloroform.”
“Chloroform? Why that?”
“It’s a great solvent and cleaning agent, especially for old stage machinery. That is if you can stand that sweet, pungent odor. Even with a mask you can smell it.”
“But don’t you have to worry about passing out? Isn’t that what kidnappers use in all the movies?”
“Yeah. In the movies. But in real life, all it will do is make you woozy. Someone would have to hold a soaked cloth over the victim’s head for hours, I suppose, not seconds.”
“My gosh, Wayne, you’re a wealth of information and—”
“PHEE! WHAT’S TAKING YOU SO LONG? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?” My mother’s voice bounced off the stairwell walls and could be heard well into the basement.