Note of Peril

by Hannah Alexander

  “Obviously I didn’t push hard enough.”

  “You can’t cram your personal faith down someone’s throat,” she said.

  “I could have tried harder. The last time I discussed my faith with Henry, he told me to save it for the songs because he wasn’t interested. And so I gave up. Too soon.”

  She squeezed his arm. “Spoken like a true preacher’s kid. Michael, there’s no way for you to know about his eternity. It could be that something we said to him years ago finally struck home, and he turned to Jesus in faith in his final moments. We honestly have no way of knowing.”

  He looked at her in the glow from a nearby security light. “Did you ever consider taking up counseling?”

  She released his arm and patted him on the back. “If I did that, I’d have to charge you.”

  He grinned, but inside the questions churned. If Henry had suffered a heart attack, then Michael might have been able to anticipate it if he’d done a brief exam.

  Henry, did I let you down?

  Chapter Six

  Grace pulled into the theater parking lot fifteen minutes before noon on Tuesday—an unusual time to be there during the week. She was not surprised to find the lot filled with news crews, police and curious onlookers.

  Interview time.

  She had been forced to turn off her cell phone last night, because some creative souls had discovered her new number.

  The press would have a field day.

  Of course, Grace couldn’t miss Jolene Tucker’s smoke-blue sedan parked near the back of the building. She would be all over this. No telling what she would try to imply.

  “Miss Brennan?”

  She looked up and saw a policeman holding the cast entrance door open. He smiled as she stepped into the foyer.

  “I’m Detective Abrams, and I’ll be your interviewer today.” He said the words the way a waiter at a restaurant would say, “I’ll be your server today.”

  Grace returned his smile, hoping he wouldn’t notice her watery eyes.

  “I’ve seen your show several times,” he said.

  She began to relax. Okay, this might not be so bad.

  “I know this is difficult,” Detective Abrams said, “but we decided it would be easier to gather everybody and process information here at the theater. The auditorium is roped off as a possible crime scene, and we’re not allowing anyone inside except those cast members we’re questioning.” He gestured toward an unoccupied office along the hallway, then closed the door behind them as they entered. “Do you have any thoughts about what Mr. Bennett might have been doing on the catwalk?”

  “He could have decided to check out the spotlights. We’ve had trouble with one of them lately, but it isn’t something he typically sees to.”

  “Who does that?”

  “Usually Blake Montana. He’s kind of a jack-of-all-trades, the one we call when there’s something wrong with the lights.”

  The detective pulled a chair out for her in front of the desk, then circled and sat across from her, placing a notebook on the desktop and pulling a voice-activated recorder from his pocket. “Do you mind if I use this?”

  “Not at all.”

  His fifty something face creased with a frown. “Blake Montana? Is that his real name?”

  “No. A lot of entertainers use stage names.”

  “Are the two of you friendly with each other?”

  “Sure. Blake’s a good musician, and he doesn’t have an ego problem.”

  “How about you and Henry Bennett?”

  “Henry was like a cantankerous uncle. We disagreed on a lot of things, but I’ve worked with him, off and on, almost since I started singing in Branson shows full-time.”

  “How long would that be?”

  “Eight years.” Before that she’d worked part-time at every job she could find to support herself through college.

  “My chief handed me a copy of an article this morning that described a meeting that took place Friday night,” the detective said. “Henry blasted several people pretty harshly. I believe you were one of them.”

  Grace leaned back in her chair. This was the worst possible time for Jolene Tucker’s observations. “As I said, he could be pretty cantankerous at times.”

  Detective Abrams jotted several lines of notes. “Did you read Sunday’s article in Across the Country?” He reached for a manila folder beneath his notebook and started to open it. “I brought the copy with me if you—”

  “Oh, please, no.” Grace spread her hands out in front of her in self-defense. “I read it yesterday morning. Once was enough.”

  The detective repositioned the folder beneath his notes. “If the article can be believed, he was rough on you.”

  “Very.”

  “And Miss Swenson?”

  “Yes, and her.”

  He looked down at his notebook. “Can you remember if he criticized anyone who wasn’t mentioned in the article?”

  “No, he didn’t.” Jolene’s spies had been thorough, for once.

  “Miss Brennan, I hope you understand I have to ask these questions.”

  She forced a smile. None of this was his fault. “Please call me Grace.”

  “Thanks. Grace, would you mind telling me a little about your activities yesterday?”

  “I spent Sunday night in Hideaway, slept late the next morning—or tried to, until my agent called and woke me up before the crack of noon. I didn’t return to Branson until we received a call from Barb, who works with the cleaning service. She’d discovered Henry’s body.”

  “You say ‘we’ received a call,” Detective Abrams said. “Was someone else with you?”

  “Yes, Michael Gold and I were together at the time. After the call we came back to town and went to the hospital.”

  The detective tapped the tip of his ink pen on the paper and gave her an inquisitive smile. “I understand Gold paid Bennett a visit here at the theater around noon Monday?”

  “Yes, but Michael lives in Hideaway, and he came to talk to me after his meeting with Henry.”

  “So it was a business meeting between you and Mr. Gold?”

  He looked disappointed, and Grace suppressed a smile. Even big, tough policemen had a touch of romance in their hearts.

  “Michael and I are friends,” she said.

  “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Henry Bennett?” Detective Abrams asked.

  “Half the cast and crew at one time or another have been angry with him, Detective. But I don’t think I work with anyone who would be capable of murder.”

  He jotted a note. “I noticed the backstage door has a keypad entrance. How many people know the code?”

  “Only the people who work here. They change it often.”

  “Are any doors ever unlocked when the theater is closed to the public?”

  “No. Our security personnel are sticklers about things like that.”

  He leaned forward. “So, if Bennett’s death was not from natural causes, it’s probable that an access code would have been needed to enter the building and get to him.”

  She stared at him. “Y-yes. That’s…right.”

  As the detective completed his questions, Grace struggled with the dawning truth. No one got inside the theater on Mondays unless they knew the access number.

  It had already become obvious that a cast or staff member was a snitch. Was it truly possible one of her co-workers was also a murderer?

  Delight tapped her toe against the leg of her chair as she faced her inquisitor across the table. The guy’s military-cut blond hair and blue eyes were the only attractive features in a face that looked like a smile never visited it.

  If she had his job, she’d never smile, either. “Is this going to take long?”

  “That all depends on the answers I get,” he said. “When was the last time you spoke with Henry Bennett?”

  She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms over her chest. “Yesterday around noon.”

  “You pra
ctice on Mondays?” The guy stared at her as if he could see the spot on the wall directly behind her head.

  “No.”

  “Miss Swenson, we have a report of a black Dodge Viper being driven from the parking lot of this theater at a high rate of speed, complete with squealing tires, about noon yesterday, and we have evidence to back up that report. Did you and Mr. Bennett have an altercation at this theater yesterday?”

  Altercation? Why couldn’t he just speak plain English? “Okay, look, it’s no secret Henry didn’t like me, but Michael Gold was here at the same time, and he walked out with me. I left before he did. Why don’t you grill him?”

  “Miss Swenson, we have reason to believe you returned to the theater later in the afternoon.”

  Delight felt a sudden chill slither across her shoulders. “I wasn’t aware Denton had hidden security cameras installed.” Careful, Delight. This is serious.

  “Did you or did you not return here a second time yesterday?”

  You can’t lie, Delight. Tell him the truth. “No use in makin’ a big deal of it. I just wanted to return an outfit I’d worn home Friday night. Henry freaks if we take anything home from the dressing room.”

  The guy didn’t look like he believed her, but then, he didn’t have much of an expression at all.

  He consulted his notes, then flipped the page. She nearly groaned out loud. Judging by his list of questions, they were in for a long session.

  Michael caught sight of a tall, skinny woman with black hair as he climbed from his SUV in the theater parking lot. Jolene Tucker. The woman everyone most wanted to avoid. He’d lost count of the well-intentioned people who had shown him her write-up about his “brush” with the law. At the moment she mingled with a few curious onlookers who were banned from the theater. He hoped she didn’t con someone into allowing her inside. The woman was a menace.

  Tipping his hat low over his face, Michael pivoted away from the tableau and strode toward the cast entrance. At the edge of his vision Jolene quick-stepped toward him on an intercept course.

  He punched in his coded number on the keypad and pulled the door open.

  “Michael?” she called as he stepped inside. “May I have a word with you?”

  “Sorry, no.” He allowed the door to close behind him.

  “You can’t avoid me forever, Michael.” Jolene’s deep voice, laced with humor, followed him.

  “I can try,” he muttered. Yes, his behavior contradicted his upbringing. Dad had taught him to face things head-on, to be polite when spoken to and always to treat ladies with respect. Jolene Tucker, however, had most likely never had that title bestowed on her. And Dad had never taught him how to respond to the venom of vicious gossip.

  Moments later Michael sat slumped on a bench in the lobby, elbows on knees as he faced the woman in a navy pantsuit, Detective Rush. She had already asked him the usual questions about the nature of his visit here yesterday, and his whereabouts the rest of the day.

  She was a plump woman on the young side of fifty, with graying hair and deep smile lines. “I’ve heard you and Mr. Bennett were friends. His family speaks highly of you.”

  Michael swallowed hard. “We met soon after I came to Branson. Are these questions really just routine, Detective?”

  She shook her head. “I’m supposed to be asking the questions, Mr. Gold,” she said gently.

  “Michael.”

  “Thanks, Michael. I’m Trina. Would you be willing to say you’ve got some hotheads in the cast and crew here?”

  He gave her a wry smile. “This is show business. Egos get bruised easily in our neck of the woods.”

  “Did Henry Bennett have a habit of bruising egos among the cast and crew of Star Notes?”

  Michael felt a flash of irritation. “It doesn’t feel right to be speaking ill of the dead.”

  “It wouldn’t be right to allow someone to get away with murder just to avoid a few awkward questions.”

  “So you’re saying you really do suspect that this was murder?” he asked. “Is there evidence that suggests it?”

  She shifted in her seat, leaning forward. “Right now we’re really just covering all the bases. Can you recall the specifics of your conversation with him yesterday?”

  “Sure. We were discussing possible program changes requested by the theater owner, Denton Mapes.”

  She frowned. “Is that typical?”

  “No. Henry was the general partner. The boss.”

  “Were there ever any disagreements between Mr. Bennett and Mr. Mapes?”

  “I believe there were.” But not enough to incite murder.

  “Anything else you can tell me about your meeting Monday?” the detective asked.

  “We also discussed the possibility of a television show. Then I asked Henry about his blood pressure, and even threatened to check it myself. He apologized for Friday’s outburst and promised to apologize to Grace.”

  “Was Miss Brennan noticeably upset about his outburst?”

  “She’s accustomed to his behavior. They’ve known each other a long time, and she forgives easily.”

  “But was she upset?” the detective repeated.

  “Sure. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Did you notice if anyone else was very upset?”

  “Delight was stunned, I think. And Mitzi was more flustered than I’ve ever seen her.”

  “Mitzi?”

  “She’s our wardrobe manager. Basically, everyone seemed shocked by the tirade. Do you have any idea when the results of the autopsy will be available?”

  She smiled. “You don’t give up easily, do you? How about if I call you as soon as I hear something?”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Did Mr. Bennett often work on dark Mondays?”

  “Yes.”

  “So his presence here would have been a matter of general knowledge with the cast and crew?”

  “With anyone who knows Henry’s habits.” Until this morning, Michael had been convinced that Henry’s death had been from natural causes, though what he might have been doing on the catwalk had everyone stumped.

  “Was he worried about anything in particular?” the detective asked. “Did he happen to mention to you if he was having any problems with anyone at the theater or elsewhere?”

  Michael hesitated. “All Henry’s relationships had taken a nosedive in the past couple years. He became so driven to produce the best show in Branson, I’m afraid he lost sight of more important things.”

  She leaned forward, still writing in her notebook. “What would those be?”

  “Relationships. The human connection.”

  She nodded. “Anything else Henry shared with you?”

  “Not that I can remember.”

  The detective watched him for a moment, then closed her notebook and stood. “I’d like to keep this discussion confidential for the time being, if you don’t mind. I’d also like to keep it open, in case I have more questions later.”

  He jotted down his cell and home phone numbers and gave them to her. “Will you be sure to tell me as soon as they have the results of the autopsy?”

  “Of course.” She shook his hand and left.

  Michael sank back onto the bench and leaned against the wall. Could Henry have been murdered? There must be some other explanation.

  Delight tapped her toe on the floor, remembering again yesterday’s humiliation. “Everybody knew Henry disliked me, but it wasn’t as if that was a shock to me. I mean, he’s hated me for over a year, and I didn’t kill him in all of that time. Why should yesterday have been any different?”

  “I don’t know, Miss Swenson. You tell me.”

  “That’s what I am telling you. It wasn’t. And before Michael says anything about me eavesdropping at closed doors yesterday, I was not eavesdropping, even though Henry and Michael both probably thought I was.”

  The officer’s expression lightened, as if he’d suddenly realized this could become more interesting. Which was exactly wh
at Delight didn’t want.

  “I just happened to be walking by Henry’s door yesterday, and couldn’t help overhearing that Star Notes might be televised.” She spread her hands. “I mean, any idiot would understand how important that is. I stopped in the hallway, and Michael must’ve heard me, because he opened the door.”

  There was a flicker of something in the officer’s eyes, and Delight glared at him. He looked amused. The first emotion she’d seen in the guy’s face, and he was laughing at her.

  He closed his notebook. “Miss Swenson, we have your number if we need to speak with you further.”

  She stared at him. “That’s it? You’re done with me?”

  “For now. You’re free to go. Please exit the theater the way you came in. We’ve got roped-off areas.”

  He was dismissing her? Just like that? She got up and sauntered casually from the office, relief making her weak.

  She’d almost reached the backstage door when voices reached her from the intersecting hallway.

  “No changes!” She heard Ladonna’s angry hiss. “I can’t believe you would even suggest that now, with Henry lying on some autopsy table and the place crawling with policemen!”

  Delight stopped. She would have to cross that hallway to get to the door; Ladonna and Denton would see her and probably think she was eavesdropping again. Great.

  “As they say, the show must go on,” came Denton’s voice.

  “Oh, stop it with the platitudes,” Ladonna snapped. “You think you’re going to gain control of the show just because Henry’s not around to stop you.”

  “Henry and I had discussed these changes,” Denton said.

  Delight turned to creep away before they could see her, but just then Denton and Ladonna reached her corridor.

  “Delight,” Denton called after her, “what did you want?”

  She turned once more. Ladonna brushed past her, fury in every plump line of her body. Her curly dark hair stood out around her head as if electrified.

  “I was just leavin’,” Delight drawled. “I didn’t want to interrupt your friendly conversation.”

  Denton seemed to relax. “How did your interview go?”