“They should both be in the prop box,” Biggy said. “Liz was still downstairs.”
They followed him over to it. In clear view was a very large, very sharp-looking dagger.
“I’m sure the one in his back is the little one we used,” said Steve. “I thought so right away, so I looked at it up close.”
“I’m surprised you fought with such sharp weapons.”
“It’s not really dangerous. We didn’t ever actually fight.” He stopped abruptly. “I mean …”
“All right,” Fred said. “That’s it for now, unless you think of something we should know.” He paused. To a man, they looked at the floor, at the walls, anywhere but at the two detectives.
“We can leave?” asked the man in dark jeans, cut from the same mold as Chris Eads and the man in the robe. Fred wondered how he’d ever tell them apart, once the ghosts changed into street clothes. He’d have to start from scratch if they told him anything useful.
“For now. Just stay where we can find you. We’ll have more questions later.” He turned to the director. “Mr. Biggy, do you know how to reach all of them?” Biggy nodded. “Then I think we’d better talk to the rest of the cast.”
Downstairs, the men and women had bunched together in the women’s dressing room. Rose Maybud’s eye makeup was a smeary mess, and she seemed to have aged a good fifteen years since he’d seen her onstage.
When Biggy introduced Fred and Ketcham, she threw her still-luscious body at Biggy and clung to his neck.
“Who would want to kill David? He was the sweetest, kindest man I knew!” she cried, as if her heart was broken. Maybe it was, for all Fred knew about Putnam’s personal life. He heard gasps. Biggy looked startled, as any man in his shoes might.
“We don’t know—yet,” Fred said. “What can you tell us?”
“Me?” She disentangled herself. “Not a thing. I was down here, waiting for my cue.”
“Ever since your last scene?” She had left the stage with Biggy and the chorus just before the music that brought the portraits to life.
“That’s right. Duane insists on it.” She batted her eyes at Biggy.
“Then how do you know he’s dead?” She looked blank. He asked the others, “Did someone tell you?” Heads shook.
“They said he was hurt,” a man said. “Is it true? Is he dead? Murdered?”
“Yes.” He turned to Rose Maybud. Esther something. “How did you know?”
“Why—I don’t know. When I saw you, I just knew.”
“You’d already been crying.” Her hands rose to her face. He saw her consider another lie. Then her whole body sagged. When she spoke, her voice was flat.
“A little while after Duane and Ellen came to get Liz and Amy—when Duane told us David was hurt—I said I was going to walk down the hall, but I went halfway up the stairs. I heard.”
“Did anyone see you leave?”
“I don’t know.” She turned to the others, her hands out in mute appeal. No one answered. They seemed to shrink away from her.
“What did you hear?”
“I don’t know—I can’t think. It’s so awful!” Her mascara ran again.
“Try,” he said, and waited. She swiped at her destroyed face.
“Someone said something about blinders. Isn’t that silly? That’s all I can remember.”
Fred and Ketcham exchanged a look. It was enough. She was telling the truth, at least about that.
The cast added nothing to what they’d already heard. Several of them had seen David Putnam alive before the second act, but no one admitted to having noticed anything between then and when he fell from his frame. And no one, not even Catherine Turner, who Fred knew could usually find a reason to think ill of almost anybody, suggested a motive.
11
Hark, the hour of ten is sounding!
Hearts with anxious fears are bounding.
—CHORUS, Trial by Jury
Down in the pit, the orchestra was still trapped. Joan had no idea who ordinarily set the elevator in motion. They had all heard Sergeant Ketcham’s request for statements, but there was no way to make one—the wall separating them from the audience was too high to climb over. A few people began to panic; others practiced solo passages, concertos, or finger exercises; more philosophical types settled back to wait it out. At least they no longer had to observe Biggy’s silence.
“Wonder how long it will take them to remember us,” John said.
“They know we’re not going anywhere,” Joan said, but she, too, suspected that no one was thinking much about the orchestra.
“It’s taking forever,” wailed a young second violinist. She stood on tiptoes, stretching, as if that would help her see behind the curtain. “What are they doing up there?”
Trying to figure out who did it, Joan thought. At least they know we’re innocent. Or do they?
“John, when did you first think David was asleep?” she asked softly.
“I dunno. When I saw his head down on his chest.”
“Sure, but when was that?” He shrugged. Joan tried Alex, the one person who had been watching the stage all the way through. Just now she looked half-asleep. “Alex, when did you spot something wrong with David?”
“When the lights came up and the other ghosts stepped down,” Alex answered so promptly that she must have been thinking about it herself. “Before that, they were all so still, and behind a scrim.”
“A what?”
“You know, a see-through curtain. Whether you can see through it depends on the lighting. The light on the portraits was dim—you could see them, but not very well. Besides, I wasn’t paying any attention to them until they had to sing. The scrim goes up during the blackout right before they come alive. Good thing. They don’t have enough volume to carry through it.”
“And then?”
“And then I saw David’s head down. I knew one of the others was primed to sing if he fell asleep again, but I didn’t know where he’d be standing, so I couldn’t cue him. It was a little hairy there for a moment or two.” Not to mention later, Joan thought.
“Did anyone see David’s face during the first part of the act?” she asked them all. Nobody answered. “Think—was his head on his chest before the ghosts walked? Or how about during that long dialogue between Robin and old Adam, at the beginning of the act?” Still nothing.
No wonder. Much of the time they’d been busy with the music, but during the dialogue, Joan, too, had watched the actors who were doing something, not the pictures on the wall. It’s only human nature, she thought. You don’t notice boring things.
“Who cares?” the concertmaster asked. “Leave it to the police. It’s their job.”
“You’re right,” Joan said. “But it’s too bad we won’t be able to tell them for a fact that David was alive after we were all safely locked in this pit.”
They got it.
“Why should they suspect us?” the string bass player objected.
“I didn’t even know him!” cried a flutist.
“I did,” said the second violinist who’d been in such a hurry. “I used to sit with his little girl. Do you think they’ll hold that against me?” She looked ready to cry. “He was such a nice man. He always drove me home, and he never once made a pass.”
“Maybe we did see him alive, after all,” said the bassist. “We could all agree on a story.” Alex glared at him, and he wilted. “Just a thought.”
“I was the last one to enter the pit,” Joan said firmly. “And I was talking to a policeman just a few seconds before that. Once they find out I didn’t do it, the rest of you will be in the clear.” It didn’t really follow, but the panicky ones cheered up and went back to grousing. She shook her head.
“One minute they’re afraid the police will come, the next minute they’re mad because they’re not here yet,” she said to John.
“Ain’t it the truth?” He grinned at her, and she caught herself laughing back. This is all wrong, she thought suddenly. H
ow can I be laughing down here when David Putnam is lying up there dead? The laugh, far from stopping, threatened to turn into an uncontrollable giggle.
It’s okay, she told herself. Laugh if that’s what you need to do. She felt her diaphragm relax, and the giggle stopped before it got a good start.
Why did that get to me? It’s not as if I’d never been around sudden death before.
Maybe because you were ready to kill him yourself? asked a little voice in her head.
I wasn’t.
Yes, you were. You were angry at him for throwing Zach to the wind.
I wouldn’t have killed him.
No. But someone did. And you know he wasn’t always the world’s nicest man. Better tell Fred.
What difference does it make? Zach didn’t hear that conversation.
Maybe he did.
She shuddered, not wanting to think of gentle Zach Yoder—or any man she was trusting around her house—as a murderer. Then the image of Liz MacDonald leaning on David’s frame floated into her mind. Liz, who wanted David, and Chris Eads, who wanted Liz. How many of the rest of these people might have had a motive for killing David?
Without warning, the floor lurched. John quickly unplugged the extension cord that supplied all the stand lights on their side of the pit. Others did it for the other side and the back. Joan clung to her viola in the gloom of the pit while the wall above them lengthened. Someone had decided to take them down.
In her heart of hearts she let herself hope that Fred would meet them at the bottom, but when the double doors opened, a tall, slender black man in a light-blue summer suit stood waiting with Duane Biggy. His dark skin glowed in the light from the hallway.
“I’m Detective Chuck Terry,” he said quietly. “I hope we won’t have to keep you here long.”
“It’s already long!” the bassist grumbled.
“I know,” Terry said. “Some of us are going to have a late night. Right now I need to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Come on, people,” Biggy said. “Do your civic duty.” Out of the corner of her eye, Joan saw John heave an exaggerated sigh. She hoped Biggy wouldn’t try to take over the police investigation. Terry didn’t acknowledge the interruption. His eyes scanned the orchestra.
“Let me tell you what we know already.” That got their attention. “David Putnam was alive before the second act began. He climbed into his picture frame and spoke to the man next to him. At some point between then and when he fell to the stage, he was stabbed in the back.”
“When was he killed?” the bassist asked.
“Good question. What can you tell us about that?” Terry returned. The bassist subsided.
“We’ve talked about it,” Alex said. “I was watching the stage, of course. Most of the time, the players weren’t, even those who could see it. But none of us paid any attention to the portraits until they moved. That’s when I saw David’s chin on his chest.”
“I saw it, too,” John said. “At the same time.” He hadn’t been so sure before, Joan thought.
“I thought he had fallen asleep again,” Alex said. “You heard about that?”
The detective nodded. “We heard. Anyone else remember how he looked before that?”
They all shook their heads.
Alex spoke for them. “We wish we could. We want to prove to you that the orchestra couldn’t have been involved. I was the last person in the pit, except for Joan, here,” and she laid her hand on Joan’s shoulder. “And I saw her coming before I went in. Before that, she says she was talking with a police officer, and I was alone in the corridor for a good five minutes. Whatever you think about me and her, you have to let the rest of these people go.”
“That’s true,” Biggy told him. “I went downstairs and sent the pit up as soon as we got the ghosts settled in their frames. No one passed me going down those stairs.”
“Who was that officer, ma’am?” Terry asked Joan, looking into her eyes.
“Fred Lundquist. We were standing at the top of the steps until the last minute, and I lost track of time. I had to run down.”
“Thank you. I’m sure the lieutenant will confirm what you say.”
Joan hadn’t realized she was holding her breath. Terry unfolded a program and looked back and forth from the orchestra to the back cover, on which the members’ names were listed.
“Anybody missing—out sick, maybe?” He kept looking.
“They’re all here,” Alex said.
Apparently satisfied, Terry tucked the folded program into his notebook. He looked again at their faces.
“Any of you know who would have a reason to want Judge Putnam dead?”
“No one would want to hurt Mr. Putnam! He’s a good man!” The little second broke into tears. She wept on the ample breast of her stand partner, a regular in the symphony’s second violin section. Terry consulted his program again.
“Are you Emily?” he asked. She nodded, snuffling. “How did you know him?”
“I babysit Laura.” Snuffle. Emily’s stand partner offered her a real cloth handkerchief. She blew hard, and met his steady gaze.
“His child?”
“Yes.”
“How would you describe his family?”
“They’re a regular family. Except they had their little girl when the other kids were so old. They spoil her rotten.”
“You think the older kids resent that?”
“They’re as bad as Mr. and Mrs. Putnam. Laura gets away with murder—oh!” She clapped her hand over her own mouth. “I didn’t mean that. She’s just a little kid, you know?”
“Sure. Anybody else?” No one volunteered. Joan thought, I can’t say what I’ve been thinking in front of all these people.
“All right. If something occurs to you later, call the police department. Or me personally, Detective Terry. Thank you.” He looked at them one more time and strode off down the hall.
One by one, the players stood and began picking up the belongings they had brought into the pit. Joan, who had left her case in the dressing room as ordered, tucked her viola under her arm. Biggy blocked the doorway.
“We all greatly regret this terrible event,” he said. “But the police have assured us that by tomorrow night there will be no problem in using the stage again. Understudies will sing both Sir Roderick and Mad Margaret, of course. Your call is at the usual time.”
Something in Joan squirmed, but it made sense. This was not a group of old friends, but people who had come together for a specific purpose. David’s family and friends would mourn him.
And do I count myself as one of them?
Unable to answer her own question and intent only on going home, she was limping up the stairs with her head down when she bumped into Fred at the top. She managed to hang onto her viola case, but the music flew out of her hand. They both knelt to pick it up.
“I’m sorry,” he said into her ear. “You all right?”
“Oh, Fred, it’s awful.”
“That, too. Doesn’t look as if I can see you home, after all.” But he settled his big frame on the top step. Joan sat down beside him, glad to have a moment alone with him.
“I know. Do you have to interview everybody?”
“Not alone. Ketcham’s here, and Terry.”
“I just met him.”
“That’s right, you would have. I haven’t talked to him since then.” His eyebrows invited her to respond.
“You will. You’re my alibi. He didn’t learn much from us, except that I think Alex and Duane Biggy pretty well cleared the orchestra.”
“Good.”
“Fred, there’s something I think I should have told him.”
“Go on.”
“I feel silly.” He waited. “Liz MacDonald had a crush on David. I gathered that when I first met her, and it was obvious during rehearsal breaks. She’d hang around and talk to him while he was getting into his frame.”
“How did he respond?”
“Hardly at all. But Chris Ea
ds—the man in the frame next to his—wasn’t happy about it. I heard them fighting.”
“Eads and Putnam?”
“No, Chris and Liz. They’re divorced, but Chris wants her back, and he talks as if it’s all David’s fault.”
“Thanks. We’ll look into it.”
“And Fred, there’s something else, only I don’t quite know how to say it.” She stopped, and he put his arm around her shoulder.
“Just say it.”
“It’s probably not important, but it left a bad taste in my mouth. After David fell asleep in rehearsal, Virgil Shoals—he’s in charge of building the sets—chewed Zach Yoder out for doing something wrong that made David fall asleep while he was leaning on Zach’s supports. David stood up for Zach and said it was all his own fault. But last night, downstairs, he took it all back.”
“What did he say?”
“That Virgil shouldn’t let shoddy execution make him look bad. He said, ‘You can’t let him get away with it. It will ruin your reputation.’ ”
“That’s it?”
“It doesn’t sound like much. But a man who says one thing to your face and another behind your back like that probably has lots of enemies.” Or ought to.
“Hmmm.” He looked thoughtful. “Anything else?”
“Not now.”
“You keep your eyes and ears open.” He stood up, dusted off the seat of his trousers, and offered her a hand. “I’ve got to go talk with the family.”
12
All must sip the cup of sorrow—
I to-day and thou to-morrow.
—MADRIGAL, The Mikado
Before facing the Putnams, Fred went back to the stage. The body still lay where it had fallen—the coroner was on his way. Someone had turned off most of the lights. The stage was noticeably cooler without them.
He took Ketcham with him to the dressing room where the Putnam family was waiting. The heat rose with them; the air conditioning wasn’t strong enough to cool the upstairs. Officer Root opened the door.
“They’ve been very quiet,” she murmured to Fred as she left the room.
Surrounded by her children, Ellen Putnam appeared calm. She was perspiring—no wonder, sitting in an overstuffed chair in her gloomy black costume. Her older daughter, a small-boned blonde dressed as a bridesmaid, was weeping openly. Both of them had cleaned off the greasepaint. Fred was relieved to see faces that looked normal, if grieving.
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