Note of Peril

by Hannah Alexander

  “Wow, Mitzi, you said that?” Grace looked at the wardrobe manager with new respect.

  “Yeah, no wonder he threatened to fire me Friday night, huh?” She sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Why did I open my big mouth? Why didn’t I just take it?”

  “Because he shouldn’t have treated you that way,” Grace said. “Did anyone come out of the dressing room afterward?”

  Mitzi shook her head. “I was so flustered, whoever it was could’ve walked right past me and left the building while I was yelling at Henry. When I went into the room later, it was empty. I did see Blake up on the catwalk about twenty minutes after that, checking out the spotlight.”

  “That’s nothing new,” Grace said.

  Mitzi shuddered. “I hate that catwalk. They’d never get me to go up there.”

  Grace agreed. She was afraid of heights, and she was glad taking care of the spotlight wasn’t her job. In this theater, the shadowy passages that led up to the catwalk made her feel as if someone were hiding in the darkness, watching her every move.

  “Do you think it was Blake arguing with Henry?” Michael asked.

  “I doubt it,” Grace said. “He isn’t exactly a hothead.”

  “So Henry could have been arguing with anyone that day,” Michael said. “Cassidy, Peter, Blake, one of the other band members or stagehands.”

  “That’s right,” Mitzi said. “Should I call the police and tell them what I heard?”

  “You could,” Michael said. “But what are you going to say? That you heard Henry shouting at someone?”

  Mitzi placed her elbows on her knees and rested her chin in her hands with a sigh. “I have to admit there were times when I thought life would be better if Henry just disappeared, but I never wanted anything like this to happen.”

  “None of us did,” Michael said.

  Mitzi gave him a strange look. “Seems to me the police still suspect that someone hated him enough to do him in.”

  “We work with most of these people every day,” Grace said. “We know them. You can’t tell me we’ve been working with a murderer all this time.”

  Mitzi rolled her eyes at Grace. “Honey, you believe what you want. After twenty-four years of marriage, I thought I knew my husband—until he left me for a woman young enough to be his daughter. People can fool you.”

  “This investigation is just a formality—you wait and see,” Grace said. “By the end of the week we’ll discover Henry died of natural causes.”

  “But when I spoke to the detective, he told me to be sure to let him know if I thought of something else that might be important. I think I’ll call him in the morning.”

  Grace nudged Mitzi’s arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here before we spook ourselves and start jumping at every little sound. I don’t like this place at night.”

  Delight sat in her chair before the long mirror in the dressing room she shared with Carlotta, Phoebe and Rachel, the three female band members and occasional backup singers in the show. The others had gone home, and except for Cassidy, Blake and Peter, who were loitering in the hallway outside the dressing-room door, the theater was silent.

  The guys, however, didn’t know how to be silent.

  “Cassidy, if you don’t watch your attitude with Mapes, you’ll find yourself out on your ear,” Blake warned.

  “Yep,” Peter agreed. “You’d better cool it.”

  “What do you mean I’d better cool it?” Cassidy snapped. “Peter’s the one who hinted that somebody might want to kill Denton—right to Denton’s face.”

  “I wasn’t threatening him,” Peter said. “I was trying to lighten the mood. You all take life too seriously. If we don’t try to get along with Denton, we’ll miss our chance at television.”

  Delight rolled her eyes at the mirror and put down her hairbrush. Often, after a show, she liked to hang around and soak up the atmosphere, making believe this was her own personal dressing room, and she was the star. The guys were ruining the mood.

  “So, Peter,” Blake said so quietly that Delight had to strain to hear him, “what about your police record?”

  There was a pause. “Nothing much” came the quiet reply. “A guy picked a fight with me at a bar a few years back. I left and tried to drive away. He tried to stop me. I didn’t stop.”

  “You ran him over?” Cassidy exclaimed.

  Another pause. “It was dark. How was I supposed to know he’d run out in front of me? The guy ended up in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and I got tossed behind bars.”

  Delight shivered. She’d heard enough. “Would you guys go home?” she called through the open door. “Practice is over.”

  They fell silent, but she didn’t hear them leave. Of course not. It couldn’t be that easy.

  She sighed and picked up the sheet music she’d been hoping to memorize tonight. Sweeping out the dressing-room door, she nearly collided with Blake.

  “Well, if it isn’t the ponytailed wonder blockin’ my exit,” she drawled. “Blake, your hair’s barely long enough to reach that rubber band. Why don’t you get it cut?”

  “Sorry, Delight.” He stepped aside to allow her out. “We didn’t know you were in there.”

  She immediately regretted her words—Blake had a tender heart—but she’d lose face if she tried to retract them. “It’s a free country. You can gossip anywhere you want, but it’s stupid to do it here.”

  “You know,” Peter said, “for a pretty woman, you sure have an ugly tongue sometimes.”

  “Can’t take honesty, Peter? Now, why don’t you three skitter on home and leave me in peace?” She held up the sheet music. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Sure you do,” Peter said. “You’re just hanging around to see if the self-appointed king of the roost comes calling for you tonight.” He chuckled and winked at her. “My sister used to do that in high school, you know? Hang around in the hallway at school to see if the jock of the week would notice her.”

  “Stop it, Peter.” Blake nudged the drummer in the direction of the exit, and Cassidy joined them.

  The three clowns had barely reached the water fountain when Blake broke formation and glanced back at Delight. “Why don’t you walk out with us? You don’t really want to hang around alone here after what happened.”

  “Oh, give it a rest, Montana,” Cassidy said. “Nothing happened here except an old man died of a heart attack doing something he was too old to do, and crashed to the floor.”

  Blake ignored him, still watching Delight. “Coming?”

  She hesitated. This place could be spooky after hours. And Blake had that endearing, puppy-dog look in his eyes.

  “I could wait around a few minutes,” he said. “Those guys can find their cars without my help.”

  At that moment Mitzi, Grace and Michael rounded a corner at the end of the hallway, heads together, talking softly. They nearly collided with Cassidy and Peter.

  Delight grinned at Blake. “Later. You go on. As you can see, the place is crowded. I’ll be fine.”

  He looked almost disappointed as he turned away.

  “Um, Blake?” she said softly, then waited for him to turn back around. “Maybe the ponytail doesn’t look that bad.”

  He chuckled and winked at her, then caught up with the other guys.

  Delight couldn’t help smiling as she pivoted and strolled away. In spite of his ponytail, Blake Montana reminded her of her father. Solid. Dependable. Not exactly boring, but predictable. A big-brother figure—the kind of guy who settled down with a good, wholesome woman and had lots of kids and walked around showing people pictures of his family.

  She wasn’t even close to being in the market for a husband.

  She opened the backstage door to find the lights still on. Good. She would get her coat where she’d left it at the edge of the stage, then take her music home and practice on the keyboard until she could get this song right. She’d tape it on the voice-activated recorder. Hearing the glitches helped.

  But when
she reached the stage, she found Denton sitting at the ledge, legs dangling over the side as he stared out into the empty auditorium. There was something…vulnerable about his expression, about him, like a kid nobody wanted to play with.

  He glanced over his shoulder at her. For a moment he just studied her, his expression unchanging.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she said. “I’ll just get my coat and get out of here.”

  He swung his legs around and stood. He picked up the coat, rubbing the back of his hand against the fur. “Do you think I’m trying to be a self-appointed king, too?”

  Uh-oh. “You heard the guys?”

  “I don’t miss much that goes on around here.” Instead of handing her the coat, he wrapped it around her shoulders.

  She resisted the urge to apologize for the comments he’d heard. That would make it seem as if she felt sorry for him. No man appreciated that.

  He squeezed her shoulder and nodded toward the exit. “Since our dinner was interrupted Monday evening, why don’t we make another attempt?”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Perhaps after the Sunday-afternoon show?” This past Sunday had been the final two-show day for the season.

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “We can dine at my place.”

  She couldn’t resist a quick blink of surprise.

  He frowned at her. “The curtains will remain open. You can leave if I make one wrong move. Remember, I don’t rob cradles, and you don’t rob rocking chairs.” He switched off the stage lights as they left, then led the way out into the well-lit, unoccupied corridor. He gestured to the sheet music she held in her hand. “Have you memorized that?”

  “I’m still working on it, but it’s comin’.”

  He placed his hand at the small of her back. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  She slowed her steps. “There’s already talk about us, and that Jolene Tucker’s a bulldog when it comes to makin’ up dirt and publishing it for the world to see. Look what she did to Michael and Grace. You’re already worried about bad publicity with Henry’s death.”

  He chuckled. “You expect to see Jolene camped out in the bushes with a camera and a notebook?”

  “She wouldn’t need a notebook, just her imagination or her spy from Friday night.”

  “In that case, I do have some work I need to finish upstairs in my office. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” They reached a T in the hallway, and he turned left while she headed for the exit to her right.

  She had almost reached her car when she heard footsteps behind her.

  A shot of adrenaline pulsed through her, and she swung around, suddenly ready to scream.

  It was Grace, bundled in her long wool coat and matching gray wool cap, face flushed from the cold air.

  Delight released a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “You know, you could warn a person when you’re sneaking up on them.”

  “Sorry. Delight, we need to have some girl talk.”

  Delight pressed the auto unlock remote button of her Viper. “I know. I’m completely flat on that one song. Phoebe told me, too, and I got a weird look from Blake.” She held out the sheet music. “See? I’m practicing tonight. Happy?”

  Grace wrapped her coat more tightly around her. “That can wait.” She glanced around the quickly emptying lot and stepped closer to Delight. “I want to talk about Denton.”

  Oh. Delight sidled closer to her car. “Nothing to talk about.”

  “Honey, you need to tread cautiously. I’m worried about you. I’d hate to see you get hurt.”

  Delight reached for the door handle. “You sure about that? Maybe you’re just afraid he’ll give me some exposure on the show.” As soon as the spiteful words tumbled from her mouth, she couldn’t believe she’d actually said them.

  “You should know me better than that by now,” Grace said quietly. “There are people who will try to take advantage of your dreams, Delight. They’ll try to take advantage of you. Don’t let—”

  “Hey, you two lunatics!” Michael called from the cast entrance. “Did you realize it’s below freezing out here?”

  Grace’s cell phone chose that moment to chirp, or Delight would’ve apologized.

  Grace shot a glare at Michael’s retreating figure, gave Delight a look of frustration, then shrugged and answered her phone. “Hi, Sherilyn. What’s up?”

  Delight got into her car and drove away, leaving Grace in the middle of the lot talking to her agent.

  Grace meant well, but Delight wasn’t in the mood for a nursemaid.

  This had been a rotten day. Delight had to admit that with Henry gone things really didn’t seem to work so well at the theater. And even though she’d resented the man, his death was a tragedy. He’d been a lonely old man who didn’t have many friends, just a lot of underlings who were mad at him all the time. He’d died alone at the theater to which he’d devoted so much time.

  And even though Delight was thrilled that a theater owner believed she was star material, most of the cast thought Denton was practically a nut case.

  And Grace thinks I’m a silly floozy willing to do anything to get ahead.

  Am I?

  Was Denton really planning to take advantage of her? A guy could talk a pretty good line when he wanted to fool a girl. But was that what Denton wanted?

  Grace stepped into the crowded entrance of Ruby Tuesday’s and spotted her agent immediately. Sherilyn’s ebony face glowed with a smile that radiated across the room as she waved from a table at the far right corner of the room.

  “I thought you’d never get here,” Sherilyn said as Grace joined her. “I’ve ordered for you—hope you don’t mind.”

  “I do.”

  “Tough. Your water’s on its way. Come to the salad bar with me. This is where I want you eating for the next few weeks, if you eat out at all.”

  “Since when did you become my social director?” Grace grumbled.

  “Since I put you on that diet Monday.”

  “I’ve got a banquet planned at the Chateau in a little over two weeks, and I’m not canceling.”

  “Fine, then learn some willpower before the banquet.” Sherilyn’s dark brown eyes softened, and she reached over and patted Grace’s hand. “It’s for your own good, babe. You’ve got some great things in store in your future, and I’ll tell you all about one of them as soon as we get our salads.”

  Grace followed her agent through the crowd and selected the veggies and dressing she was told to take—with no croutons.

  Grace asked a quiet blessing over their food before Sherilyn could launch into her spiel.

  “You’re going to love me for this.” Sherilyn’s eyes danced with excitement.

  Grace picked up her fork, dipped the ends of the tines into the low-carb dressing, then speared some lettuce. This diet wasn’t going to be easy after all. She was starved.

  “Hello?” Sherilyn waved her hand over Grace’s plate. “Are you listening?”

  “Sorry. My stomach’s growling so loudly I can barely hear you over the noise.”

  “What would you say to the offer of a recording contract?”

  Grace stopped chewing. She blinked at Sherilyn and slowly placed her fork on the table. “I’d say show me the contract and tell me who offered.”

  Sherilyn leaned forward. “Ever heard of Dove?”

  Grace nearly choked. “No way.”

  Sherilyn nodded. “They called me late this afternoon. I tried to get you earlier, but you turn your cell phone off when you’re practicing.”

  “What do they want to record?”

  “Your songs, Grace. I sent them a demo of your work. They’re talking good promotion. For a first-time recording with them, that’s excellent. Set your sights on Nashville, lady!”

  Nashville! “Do you have a copy of a contract?”

  “No, we still have to work out the details. They need to know if you’re interested.” Sherilyn smiled. “Are you?”

  Grace
hesitated. “Who wouldn’t be?” And yet…

  Sherilyn frowned. “Grace, a few months ago you’d have been dancing in the aisle by now. What’s wrong with you?”

  Nashville. It wouldn’t be forever, unless they sent her on a tour. And it might not mean much. This could be the opportunity she’d been waiting for her whole life, but Sherilyn was right. For some reason she wasn’t as ecstatic as she’d have expected to be.

  She’d received the threatening note on Friday, Henry had died mysteriously Monday. Everything was in an uproar, her whole life was unsettled and she felt overwhelmed.

  “Would you give me some time to think about it?” She picked up her fork again. Right now all she wanted was a filling meal, and then a hot bath before curling up in bed with a good book.

  Chapter Nine

  Sunday afternoon before the show, Michael Gold sat in Henry’s vacated office with the door open, listening to the occasional chatter drift upstairs from backstage. In less than a week Henry had died, an investigation had been launched, an autopsy performed and a decision announced. Death from natural causes. Heart attack.

  Detective Trina Rush, Michael’s interviewer on Tuesday, had been as good as her word and had informed him of the news. But he’d picked up on something in her voice—a small note of doubt.

  “A puncture wound on his upper arm,” she said when he asked her about it. “They found no evidence of drugs, and we knew he was a diabetic, so it’s possible it was merely an insulin injection site.”

  “Then what are you worried about?” he asked.

  “Outside upper arm? That’s a strange place for a diabetic to self-inject. Awkward. Did you ever know of him to have someone else do his injection for him?”

  “Never. Not Henry. He was an independent old cuss.”

  “Well, anyway, the official decision is in—he died of a heart attack.”

  Michael had thanked her and saved her number. All through the funeral service yesterday he’d thought about what Trina had said. Of course, the medical examiner had to be sure of the cause of death or he wouldn’t have released the body.