by Marvin, Liz
Murder Takes A Bow
A Betty Crawford Mystery
By Liz Marvin
Copyright 2012 Johnston Media LLC All Rights Reserved
CHAPTER 1
Jarvis almost liked the Lofton Theater in the morning. The lights were dim and everything was peaceful. There were the creaks and rattles common to all old buildings, but to Jarvis they were the gentle sounds of a sleeping building coming to life.
Jarvis brought the theater to life. He was the one who knew how to work around the quirks of old wiring, the hang ups on the curtain, the creaky floorboards backstage. He knew the theater better than anyone. And he knew, even though there were no unusual sounds, that he wasn’t alone. He could practically hear another person breathing.
It was annoying, having another person here. It was barely 9 AM. He should have another hour at least before the noise and bustle began. The first rehearsal was scheduled to begin at noon, and since Clarise had scored a bona fide TV star for the production he expected people to arrive early to gawk and fawn. But today of all days he needed the theater empty for just another ten minutes. Ten minutes, and he’d no longer be trapped here, tied to this building.
There was no adventure for him here. No dazzling lights and new sights to see. All that was good in Lofton came in these early morning moments, when the theater was his.
He was leaving theater behind. He was changing his luck, moving on and dusting Lofton from his shoes. In a few weeks he and his partner would never have to work or worry about money again. But he needed these ten minutes. Now he was forced to hurry.
He pushed the janitor’s barrel across the uneven wooden floor to the director’s office. With only the emergency lights on the theater was dim, but he knew where he was going without having to see. He unlocked the door and slipped inside, bracing the door open with the trash barrel.
The office was quiet and dark. Neat shelves lined the walls. The director’s desk and computer sat in front of the far wall. Jarvis made his way to the desk and turned on the computer, the LCD sending a white blue light throughout the room and casting him in high relief. Jarvis was normally thin and pale, but in this light he looked scrawny and sallow. His eyes were bright.
Jarvis fetched a towel from the janitor’s barrel. It had been so easy to fit in the bucket, so easy to sneak it out without anyone knowing. He opened the towel, checking to make sure that the antique Fresnel lens was unharmed. It was dusty, but unscratched and perfect. He blew on the lens, careful to not get any dust on the laptop.
“Why am I worried?” he thought. “Who’ll care about dust?”
He sent an e mail and re-wrapped the lens in the towel. Then, his work done, he shut down the computer and went to roll the barrel out of the door and leave. He turned to check the room.
The pipe hit him square in the temple, shattering it.
Jarvis slammed into the barrel, knocking it over. Trash and the towel tumbled around him as he slumped to the floor. He landed flat on his back with the barrel on his legs and struggled to open his eyes.
He heard the pipe clatter.
The light was bright. It hurt his eyes, but he had to look.
Clarise knelt over him, his blood spattered all over her clothes.
“After all these years she’s still the prettiest girl in Lofton. Did she hit me? Why?” He thought about fighting back or calling for help but it didn’t matter. His big plans didn’t matter. He thought about breathing but that didn’t matter either. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t. No matter, everything was getting darker. Nothing mattered.
CHAPTER 2
Twenty minutes. Betty had been waiting for twenty minutes in the sterile fluorescent lit doctor’s office. She swallowed against her dry throat and tried not to dream of the water cooler in the reception area. Maybe she could make it there and back before the doctor came in. Then again, she’d probably wind up missing the doctor in that short period of time, only to have to start waiting all over again. Best to go thirsty. She promised herself a nice, cold root beer from the vending machine at the gas station if she was patient. Positive reinforcement! What a wonderful, wonderful thing. Much better than doctor’s offices that always smelled funny and had nurses who were obsessively happy.
“The doctor will be just a minute,” the nurse had said, her thousand watt smile reflecting off her neon smock.
Liar.
It was thirty five minutes before Betty heard the telltale knock on the door.
“Come in.”
At this rate, she’d be late for lunch with Clarise. They were supposed to go over the list of props the theater still needed for And Then There Were None so Betty could search for them. Betty ran a small business out of her bedroom, buying and selling items through online websites. Thanks to Clarise, the theater was one of her best customers. Betty rolled her head, trying to sooth away her crankiness and wincing as she felt her neck crack.
Dr. Brackett entered, holding a small stack of papers and a folder. She was a tiny slip of a middle aged woman. That was another reason Betty hated going to the doctor’s. Her physician was so thin. Not that she was fat herself… just a little chunky. It probably didn’t help that she’d taken to wearing clothes just a little too tight, prompting the inevitable small belly fat roll right above her slacks. Especially when she sat. (Why didn’t they ever have chairs in fitting rooms, so you see how the clothes fit while sitting?) Her fluffy brown curls that fell to just below her shoulders added just a little bit more roundness to her face. She used to wish for the straight hair that streamlined the angles in her cheeks, but in recent years she’d embraced the immense volume of her hair. She’d resigned herself to the idea that her cheeks would always be rosy, never fine boned, and embraced headbands and hair ties. Frizz be damned.
Dr. Brackett didn’t have any frizz. She looked absurdly composed and thin. Her white coat didn’t have a single wrinkle.
Dr. Brackett sat in the rolling chair and pulled it around so that she and Betty were face to face. She crossed her legs, and set an open folder on her knee. “I have the results of your A 1 C test here,” she said. She’s getting right down to business, Betty thought irritably. What ever happened to common courtesies? Hi. How are you? Sorry I was late, and all that jazz?
“A one what?” Betty thought she had been testing her blood sugar.
“A 1 C tests your blood glucose levels over the last several months.”
“And?” Betty asked. The doctor’s expression wasn’t giving her any clues, and she wasn’t in the mood to dance around a topic. If it was bad news, she just wanted to hear it! “The blood glucose levels are a bit high. Your A1 C is 12.”
High glucose, Betty thought. So that means what? My blood is sweet? Oh no! Mosquitoes and vampires will hunt me down. I’ll never be free! She tried not to laugh. The doctor was serious. But she wasn’t being carted off to the E.R., so it couldn’t be that bad. Right?
“You have Type Two Diabetes.”
Well, there went that theory. Betty blinked. “Excuse me?”
The doctor shifted the pile of papers in her lap. “The good news is we caught it early, so it’s manageable.”
Betty stared at the doctor incredulously. There had to be a mistake. The lab had mixed up the blood samples. A machine had glitched, or a person had mistyped the results. Humans were fallible, right? That had to be it. There was no way that she could have diabetes. That was only for old people, or people with Big Mac addictions. She ate her fruits and veggies. She even had cottage cheese for breakfast! Well, some days.
&nbs
p; Betty cleared her throat around a sudden tightness. “Are you sure?”
The doctor nodded, giving Betty a small smile. She must have been trying to put Betty at ease, but her attempt was too little too late. If Mama couldn’t fix a disease like diabetes with a kiss on the booboo, a tiny smile from a sterile skinny twit was even less effective. “The good news is, now that we know what’s wrong we can help you manage it. Your tiredness will go away, the mood swings, being thirsty and getting numb feet a lot, even the nausea can all be fixed now that we know what we’re facing. There’s treatment.”
Betty snorted. Good news. Right. Good news for her insurance company. Well, her parent’s insurance company, since she was still on their plan. But, that would be gone in less than a year, when she turned twenty six. How would she pay for this wonderful treatment then? She was barely eking out a living as it was. The thought of more bills tightened a knot of panic in her gut. Diabetes.
“You’ll have to manage your diet and your blood sugar,” the doctor continued. “Cut back on carbohydrates and sweets, and work out some sort of regular exercise. I’ve written you a prescription for medicine that will help control your blood sugar levels and for a blood glucose monitor test kit.”
She handed two slips of paper to Betty. Betty didn’t realize her hands were trembling until she saw the papers shake. She pressed them together, hoping the doctor hadn’t noticed.
“You should read up on diabetes, get an exercise coach and see a nutritionist. The receptionist can make a list of referrals for you. And Betty?”
Betty looked up. The doctor was trying that small and comforting smile trick again. Somehow, it still didn’t make Betty feel any better. “It really will be okay. We caught this early, so there’s a good chance you can avoid the worst side effects.”
“Thanks,” Betty said. What were the worst side effects? Could you die from diabetes? Death was a pretty major side effect. Betty vowed to scour the internet when she got home that afternoon. She couldn’t fight what she didn’t know. And right now, she wasn’t sure she knew anything.
Except that the doctor had said to cut down on sweets, so she wouldn’t be getting that promised root beer. Or eating the brownies her mother had made that morning. I really need a hug, Betty thought. Preferably from Clarise, who would give her one without questioning, without even needing to know why. Clarise, who knew just how to distract her from gloom. She glanced at the clock. She was already five minutes late for lunch.
“Is that everything?”
Dr. Brackett stood and held open the door. “Make sure to get those referrals.”
And that was all. Her time with the doctor was over. Betty followed the doctor out of the office and went to the receptionist in a daze. She got the numbers she needed, accepting the sheet of paper from the man behind the desk and stashing it away in her purse without thinking. In her car, she pulled out her phone, dialing Clarise to let her know she was running late.
“Hi, this is Clarise. I’m off living La Vie Bohéme, so leave a message!”
“Hi Clarise. Sorry hun, I’m running on theater time today. I’ll be there in twenty.”
She clicked the phone shut and tossed it on the passenger seat. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking. Just get to the theater, she told herself. Drama had been her escape for years. There was no reason it wouldn’t work today as well. Diabetes and that sinking feeling in her gut would have to wait. Things will be better once you get to the theater.
CHAPTER 3
Driving back from her doctor’s office in Plympton, Betty felt sanity begin to creep back in. It was reassuring to leave behind picket fences and rigid highways for the curving roads and open lawns of Lofton. She let the feeling of “home” wash over her. The sensation was still new even though it had been months since she’s returned from Los Angeles, The sun was shining. With all the windows down and the warmth of a North Carolina spring day tousling her hair, Betty reminded herself that if old people had diabetes that meant she could live to be old with it. She could do this. She’d tackle it like any other problem in her life: face what needed to be done, figure out her next few steps, and start taking them. One step at a time. Just one. Step. At. A. Time. She could do this.
Winding roads and houses gave way to zig zag Main Street, lined with shops and restaurants kept in business by regulars, because tourists hardly ever bothered with Lofton. Residents worked hard to keep the town off the radar of summer travelers. They liked having no traffic to back up the narrow roads. Betty navigated the sharp turns and parked vehicles with the ease of familiarity.
One turn away from the Lofton Community Theater, Betty saw flashing blue lights reflected in a window. She didn’t think much of it. Sometimes Sergeant Wes left his lights on by mistake while he ran in to grab sheet music. Clarise had roped him into playing clarinet for An American in Paris a few years ago, and he hadn’t missed being in the orchestra of a single production since. Betty thought that had more to do with the way Clarise blushed around him than his suddenly reignited passion for classical music.
For the brief instant before she turned the corner, Betty debated parking outside the theater for a few minutes to give Clarise and her crush more time. But the moment she could see the theater, Betty knew the cruiser wasn’t there for a social call. An officer had just started to put up yellow crime scene tape. There were yellow police barriers blocking off the street, and an ambulance was parked behind the police car. A small group of lunchtime walkers had gathered across the street to murmur and gawk. Some of them were on their cell phones, and Betty expected that the crowd would be growing shortly.
The theater door opened and EMTs lifted a stretcher down the stairs. It had a black, zippered body bag.
Betty finished pulling into a parking spot, the sound of Clarise’s answering machine playing over in her mind. “I’m off living… I’m off living…”
Clarise. Screw Diabetes. Clarise was the only person who was supposed to be at the theater that morning. Rehearsal wasn’t until that afternoon. There were no meetings, no press releases, no meetings… Clarise would have been alone.
“Wait!” She called to the EMTs, slamming her door and rushing towards the yellow barriers. “Who is it?” They ignored her. Betty winced at her question as it left her mouth. Really? Could she be any more callous? A person was very obviously dead. No matter who it was, it was a tragedy. But if it was Clarise, then Betty was going to fall apart, right there on the street, They’d have to pick her up in pieces, Humpty Dumpty style. Clarise, who was only 32. Clarise, who’d convinced Betty to follow her dreams and pursue theater. Clarise, who was so beautiful that the women in town had been trying to marry her off for years just to get her out of the dating market. Her best friend. Her sanity. Clarise wasn’t allowed to be dead.
A policeman moved to block her as she started to rush around the barriers, unthinking and uncaring about any reasons they might have to keep her away. If that was Clarise… She needed to know, now. She almost swerved around the policeman and continued on her way, but he spread out his arms to block her progress. Betty met the officer’s eyes, preparing to tell him off for not letting her through. Her face flamed. Bill.
“Miss, you’ll have to wait across the street with the others.” He was just as she remembered him. Scruffy beard, laugh lines, and almost six feet of muscle with just a little padding. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked good in a blue uniform, though she’d certainly never inflate his head by telling him that. Handsome men didn’t need to be reminded they were handsome. Besides, she could tell by his expression that he had no idea who she was.
She’d known he was the new Chief of Police. Of course she had. So did everyone in Lofton, because an outsider in such a high position had really gotten the Gossiping Grannies going. But she hadn’t expected to run into him at a crime scene, or for him to not even recognize her. They’d been no more than casual friends, but still. Three years in theater together should at least guarantee some sort bell ringing.
It’s not like she’d gone and shaved her head.
Well, if he wasn’t going to recognize her, she certainly wasn’t going to waste time helping him remember. “Is Clarise okay?” Betty asked, trying to keep any trace of panic from her tone. “I was supposed to meet her for lunch half an hour ago, and… and…” She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t ask, “Is she dead?” It seemed too much like a jinx.
“Clarise Birdsong?” Bill asked. Betty nodded. “She’s safe.”
Betty sagged with relief. Clarise was safe. She was safe. Safe.
Then who was dead?
Bill paused, his forehead creasing as he looked at her. Betty could practically see his brain trying to place her. She let him work it out. “Betty?”
“Bill?” she returned with a touch of sarcasm. His eyes lit up.
“I thought it was you!” he exclaimed, grinning. “Fancy meeting you here. How’ve you been?”
“Right now?” Betty asked. “Crappy.” His face fell a little and Betty sighed. “I’m sorry Bill. I’d love to catch up some other time. But right now “
Movement on the theater steps drew her attention. The door opened and Clarise came out. She was flanked by two officers. Clarise towered over both of them by almost half a foot. Her normally cheery face was pasty, her light brown skin almost grey. Her green outfit clashed horribly with white sneakers that Betty knew she kept in her office for gym days only. There were brown dots and splotches all over her pants and shirt. Handcuffs glinted around her wrists.
Betty couldn’t believe that Bill had said she was safe. Obviously, something was very, very wrong. She barreled forward. “Clarise!”
She ran right into Bill. He reached out to steady her and reverted back to what Betty was already thinking of as his cop voice. “Sorry Betty, but you’ll still have to wait across the street with the others. She’s safe, we’re just taking her into the station.”
“What for?” Betty exclaimed.
But she knew. She knew by the guarded expression on his face, by the handcuffs around Clarise’s wrists. They thought she had done this.