Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries)

by Marvin, Liz

  “I brought you some clothes,” she said to change the topic. “Bill has them.”

  “Hallelujah!” Clarise called, raising her arms to the sky and shattering the tension that had built in the room. “Do you have any idea how gross these feel?” She picked at the wrist of the sweatshirt. “They itch.”

  “Well then” Betty said brightly. “Problem solved. And by the way, I suck as a basketball coach.”

  Briefly, she related what had happened at the game the previous day. By the time she was done, Clarise was practically falling off the seat she was laughing so hard. “Betty, that’s terrible!”

  “I know,” she groaned. “Are you sure you don’t have someone else who can cover?”

  Clarise shook her head. “Sorry honey, you are stuck. But if it helps at all, at least you did everything wrong at once. After this, it can only get better.”

  “Great,” Betty deadpanned. “I am so looking forward to proving you wrong.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Clarise said. “Just be sure keep your eyes on the players with the ball next time. And once you’ve been with them for a practice, you’ll get to see who plays what and what sort of drills they do. You just need to learn how the team works, that’s all.”

  That was easy for Clarise to say. She didn’t have an angry mob of parents ready to bring torches and pitchforks to the next game.

  A knock came from the door. A guard entered. No time left.

  “Be careful if you go to the theater,” Clarise said. “There’s still a killer out there.”

  As if Betty needed to be reminded.

  CHAPTER 15

  By the time she’d walked from the police station to the theater, Betty’s breath was coming in gasps and her feet hurt. Apparently she needed to go to the gym a little more often. Walking the two miles between locations shouldn’t leave her exhausted. She collapsed on one of the chairs in the lobby.

  Thankfully, the smell from yesterday was gone. Just the scent of wood polish and dust remained, as it should be. Yellow crime scene tape crossed the door to Clarise’s office.

  There was still an hour before people began showing up for rehearsal.

  Whatever would she do in the meantime?

  Snoop, she thought. Obviously. Betty promised herself she wouldn’t touch anything in the office. She would just peek in, look around to see if she noticed anything odd, and pop back out again. There was no harm in looking. And she’d know things about Clarise’s office that the police didn’t. She could tell them if something was out of place.

  Betty checked to make sure she was alone before swinging her leg over the crime scene tape and hopping into Clarise’s office.

  A dark spot still stained the floor. Betty forced down the bile that rose in the back of her throat. The thrill of investigating disappeared.

  Jarvis had died here.

  She left the office as quickly as she’d entered and headed towards the stage.

  Her footsteps echoed.

  She clicked the lights on in the auditorium. Her heart slowed down, just a little. She inhaled the familiar scent of dust and polished wood. This. This was home. She had performed her first play here. This room, with its cherubs peeling gold paint and oil paintings dulled by age, was where everything had started for her. It was beautiful in the silence.

  The back wall, where most theaters held souvenir and drink sales, was lined instead with shelves and glass cases packed with memorabilia: the county flag, pictures of the original Lofton family, and one copy of every Lofton High yearbook that had ever been published. There was another collection very similar to it in the library, but that collection had gathered dust waiting for people to take an interest in it. Here, the cases were bright. Townspeople would gather after performances, pulling down their yearbooks and talking about the “good old days.”

  Jarvis had graduated three years before Betty.

  She pulled down his yearbook, her eyes filling. She couldn’t remember what he’d been like then—he was too far ahead of her in school for either of them to have noticed each other. Now, she wanted, needed to know what he’d been like. She hadn’t taken the time to find out while he was alive.

  Betty wandered down to the first row and plopped into a chair in the corner, sinking down until she was comfortable and her head was barely visible above the back of the seat. She thumbed through the book, looking for him.

  There he was. Drama club. Chess club. Mathlete.

  God, she thought fondly, he was a geek!

  There was his senior photograph. He looked young: cheeks just a little pudgy, glasses far too big for his eyes, and a huge smile. Carefree, like she’d never seen him smile in life. She touched the photo, tracing the contours of his face. The quote below the photograph read, “To Melody, my girl now and always”.

  Wait. What? She flipped through the pages. Sure enough, Melody Hall, now Melody Biels, smiled up at her, blonde hair perfect even when the rest of the world still had 90’s hair.

  To Jarvis, Always yours. Love, Melody.

  Well. That was interesting.

  Voices were coming in from the lobby. The actors were arriving for rehearsal. Betty put the yearbook in her bag. She’d have to show it to Bill later.

  The door to the auditorium opened. Actors began arriving in twos and threes. She went to sit on the edge of the stage facing the audience, mindful of her role as replacement director for Clarise.

  “Come in,” she called. “Everyone have a seat. I have a few things to say before we get started, but I want everyone here before I start so you might as well settle yourselves in for a long wait. I’m sure at least a few people will be running on theater time.” That garnered a few weak laughs from the somber crowd.

  As the cast trickled in they filled the first few rows. They were more muted than Betty had ever seen in a theater group. Most were wearing some sort of black. Almost everyone seemed to be leaning on each other for support, exchanging hugs and tissues and quiet words of comfort. Except for Melody. She sat right in front, her hands clasped tightly together. Her black dress turned her pale skin translucent. Her eyes were bloodshot. She stared out into space, not saying a word to anyone around her.

  Twenty minutes after the hour, Walter was still missing and Betty was tired of waiting. She clapped her hands together, bringing a halt to any quiet conversations.

  “Alright,” she said. “I’m filling in for Clarise today.” She tried to make eye contact with as many members of her audience as she could. “You all already know what happened here yesterday, but just in case someone here has been living under a box, I’m going to come out and say it.” Her hands clenched the stage edge, her knuckles turning white. Grief twisted her gut. “Jarvis was murdered yesterday,” she forced out. “They’ve arrested Clarise.” She held up a hand to forestall the protests that she could see growing on the lips of some of the cast members, “I don’t think Clarise killed him. I know she didn’t. No one knows for sure what happened.” The almost protestors relaxed. Melody’s expression didn’t change.

  “The police might want to question some of you. They’ll be in and out of the theater as they need to be for the investigation. Now,” she said, “this is very important. If any of you have any information anything at all, you need to let someone know. It doesn’t matter how small it seems, if you’ve seen or heard anything out of place, especially if it’s connected to Jarvis, tell someone. If you don’t feel comfortable going to the police, then tell me. I’ll make sure the information is passed along. And I’d suggest arriving to practice in small groups or pairs, just to stay safe. The real killer is still out there somewhere.”

  She saw some people nodding. Others seemed shell shocked, or had small tears running down their faces.

  “Alright,” she said, hopping off the stage. “I know this is hard. But, well, this is theater. So buck up and get to work! We’ve got a show to put on in a week. And,” she said, smiling, “if Clarise found out that I let you slack off on rehearsals, we would all be in real
trouble.”

  On which note, Walter burst into the auditorium. His blue blazer flapped open. His hair piece bounced.

  “My fellow actors!” he proclaimed. “I did it!” The cast and crew stared. “I did it! It was I! I am the one who killed Jarvis! I confess!”

  The sound of sirens filtered in through the cracked door and Walter looked towards the door. “The boys in blue!” he yelled, punching the air. “Right on time. How do I look?” He asked dreamily. “Am I ready for my close up?”

  Betty heard the sirens stop. There was shouting. Walter ran out of the auditorium towards the racket. Betty followed. She saw Walter pause before the closed doors and button his jacket, pulling it down to smooth the wrinkles. He sniffed and threw open the doors, falling to his knees on the threshold.

  “I can’t take it anymore!” He screamed. His face was contorted with angst. Betty saw camera bulbs flashing and moved to stand where she could see out the doors.

  Camera crews lined the sidewalk. Two policemen were trying to contain them, stopping reporters with microphones from rushing up the sidewalk to question Walter. They called out questions.

  “What did you do?”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “Can I get an exclusive?”

  Walter sobbed, though no tears appeared on his face. “My guilt,” sniiiiiff, “consumes me! Jarvis, who only wanted to live in my shadow. My faithful understudy. And now…” he clawed at the ground and screamed towards the sky and, incidentally, the cameras.

  Betty rolled her eyes. The man really did belong on a soap opera.

  “Now he’s DEAD! AND I KILLED HIM!”

  Sergeant Wes stepped up to Walter. He had a sort of glee about him as he did so, and Betty was willing to bet that at least part of that glee was from having a suspect other than Clarice in custody. Looking at him now, Betty could see why Clarise thought he was attractive. He was almost six feet, with tanned skin and a layer of wiry muscle that was apparent just from the way he walked. He wore his jet black hair at shoulder length, though right now it was held back in a ponytail. His face was chiseled, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. Sergeant Wes moved with determination as he clicked handcuffs on Walter’s outstretched hands. Camera bulbs flashed.

  “Mr. Payone,” Wes stated, “you are under arrest for the murder of Jarvis Washburn. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”

  “Oh Jarvis!” Walter cried, drowning out the rest of Wes’s words. “Jarvis! JARVIS!”

  And that was that. Walter was away in a cruiser and the press turned their eyes towards the open door like vultures. Their eyes lit up when they saw Betty in the open door. As one, they rushed up the stairs.

  Oh no. No. they were not coming in. She scrambled back and slammed the door shut, clicking home the deadbolt. She fished her keys out of her pocket and locked the regular lock, just for safety. The door rattled.

  She turned to face the silent, assembled crowd of actors and stage crew.

  “Well,” she said. “That was interesting.” And if he really did do it, maybe they’ll let Clarise go. Though, his performance had seemed a bit… rehearsed. And horribly over the top. “Everyone leave by the back door tonight after we finish up. Try and avoid the press if at all possible. Back to work! I’ll read for Walter’s part until we find a new understudy. Rehearsal starts in five.”

  Betty watched everyone file in to the auditorium before she called out to the reporters, “You might as well go home! We have a show to put on, and none of us can hear you from the stage.”

  She heard some grumbling, and the door rattled one more time before falling silent.

  Betty turned to go to rehearsal, and had to stop herself from jumping. Melody Biels stood in front of her. The actress pressed her hands together, flexing her fingers hard. Her posture was ramrod straight. She stared off to one side, not meeting her eyes

  “I don’t think Walter did it,” she said in hushed tones. “I think… well, I heard… I don’t think it was Walter.”

  She rushed into the auditorium without another word.

  Betty stared after her.

  CHAPTER 16

  Betty was a self employed college graduate in her mid twenties, and the thought of coaching a group of middle school girls was making her nauseas with dread. Was that just a touch pathetic? On the way to practice, Betty went through a mental checklist. Water—check. First Aid Kit—check. Clipboard, pen, and paper—check. Copy of Basketball for Dummies skimmed and stashed in the back seat where hopefully no one would ever find it—check. Sometimes it really did pay off that she had no shame in the bookstore. She may have owned more than her fair share of “Dummies” books, but at least she had a few ideas for practice drills now.

  She arrived at the gym half an hour early, and was pleased to note that she was the first one there. The gym was one of those small community center gyms that doubled as an auditorium, with a stage at one end and carts of chairs in the back. Bleachers lined one side. Betty chose a spot on the first row of bleachers, and sat back to wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Twenty minutes until practice, and not one early arrival. That couldn’t be good. There were usually at least one or two players that arrived early, wasn’t there? Betty drummed the fingers of one hand on the wooden seat beside her, the noise echoing in the gym.

  When the door creaked open at a few minutes before the hour and a woman with a group of children entered, Betty leapt up.

  “Hi!” she exclaimed, purposefully going a bit overboard on the cheeriness. Are you here for practice?”

  The girls stopped chatting and glared at her. “What are you doing here?” one of the girls asked her. Betty recognized her as one of the point guards.

  “I’m coaching today,” Betty said, refusing to let go of her optimism. “Are you all ready to play? We’ll start once some more girls get here.”

  The woman who had entered with the girls shook her head. “I don’t think anyone else will be coming.” She shook Betty’s hand. “I’m Gina, Krissie’s Mom. I usually stay to watch the practice. Is that okay?”

  “Go right ahead,” Betty said. “I don’t mind.”

  There were five girls. Five. Betty counted twice to make sure she had the number right. That wasn’t enough for a full scrimmage. It was barely enough for a good drill. Still, Betty would work with what she had. They could run some shooting drills and practice plays.

  “That’s too bad,” she said. “The other girls will miss out. Okay,” she said, gesturing for the girls to come closer. “I know we didn’t get off to the best start the other day…”

  The girls looked at her incredulously. One of them rolled her eyes. Betty dropped the peppy attitude. The kids clearly weren’t responding to it well. She tried a serious expression instead. “Okay, maybe it was a terrible start. But today will be better, right?

  She waited for them to respond.” Right?” When their expressions continued to be blank, she plowed ahead. She wasn’t going to give up that easily. “Well, I have a few questions before we start. Can someone tell me what sort of drills Clarise has you doing?”

  Once she got them talking, it only took a few minutes for the girls to start losing their acidic edge. They loved being able to pick and choose which drills they practiced, and less players meant that they could all get more turns per drill. Betty helped them learn how to square up to the basket, with their shoulders straight and their feet both pointed towards the hoop. She could see the improvements in their shooting immediately, and felt pride for them bubble up.

  Halfway through practice, Betty called a break. The girls came over to her expectantly, and Betty handed out the bottles of water she’d brought. The girls looked at them in confusion. Gina called out, “I brought orange slices if anyone wants them.”

  Betty groaned. Right. Snacks. That’s what she hadn’t remembered.

  “Thank you,” she mouthed over the girls’ heads.

  “No problem,” Gina mouthed back.
She flashed Betty a thumbs up. “You’re doing great.”

  Brrrrrring. Brrrrrring. Betty’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket. Caller ID said Lofton Police Department

  “Can you watch them for a minute?” she asked the mother. “I have to take this.”

  “No problem.”

  Betty left the gym, standing just outside the door. “Hello?”

  “Betty? This is Sergeant Wes calling. Do you have a moment?”

  “Not really, I’m in the middle of coaching a practice.”

  “Well, you’ll want to come down here as soon as you can. It’s Clarise.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Betty yanked open the door, not noticing as it bounced off the hinges from her haste. “Sorry everyone. The rest of practice is canceled. I’ll see you all tomorrow.”

  The team looked at her in confusion.

  “But, we haven’t scrimmaged yet. Coach Clarise always has us scrimmage.”

  “Yes, well, I’m afraid we won’t get to today.”

  “Is everything okay?” Gina asked in concern. “Do you need a ride somewhere?”

  Betty picked up her bags. “No, but thanks.” She didn’t want to explain that something was wrong with Clarise in from of the girls. It was bad enough their coach was in jail without them worrying she might be hurt. “Have a good day girls! Great job today.”

  And with that, she was off and running. She fumbled her keys into the ignition. Her hands were shaking.

  Woah. Deep breath Betty. You don’t want to get into an accident on the way there. She placed her forehead on the steering wheel, forcing her heartbeat to slow and her hands to stop trembling. It took much longer than she had patience for.

  Clarise needed to see her. What was wrong? Was she okay? Did Walter do something to her? Did she get hurt? The litany of maybes and possible injuries (choking, head trauma, mental breakdown) ran non stop through her head. She pushed all the thoughts to the back of her mind. She could either call the station and waste time to find out exactly what was going on, or she could just drive on over and find out first hand. And she needed to relax. If it was life threatening, they wouldn’t waste time calling her, they’d be getting an ambulance.