Vamps, Villains and Vaudeville

by Ellen Mansoor Collier

  Finally the victim had a name. “Murder? Derek? He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Eyebrows shot up and a few newshounds crowded around me. “The suspect is your beau? What’s he like? Is he violent? Are you his alibi?”

  “What?” I stepped back, out of their line of fire. “No, I’m not his alibi or his girlfriend. We’re old pals from high school, that’s all.”

  Two reporters in derby hats sidled up to me, probably from the Daily News, the big fish looking down at us Gazette guppies. “How does it feel to see your sweetheart arrested for murder? Ever notice any homicidal tendencies?”

  “Bunk! Derek’s not a killer. And he’s not my beau.”

  A thin guy with curly brown hair thrust his face in mine. “Oh yeah? Did you witness the murder?”

  “Hogwash!” I raised my hands like two stop signs. “Hold your horses, fellas. How do you know he’s guilty? Where’s the proof? I’m sure this is all a big mistake.”

  Pulling my floppy hat over my face, I backed away from the group, took a last look at the poor corpse, and rushed off. I wanted to find a side entrance into the theatre and get past these vultures, so I could figure out what really happened.

  Then it occurred to me: Wasn’t I aspiring to be one of them? Were all news reporters so pushy? Boy, I’d try to use more tact when questioning innocent people, not these interrogation tactics.

  No one noticed me as I slipped into a back door. Inside, the theatre smelled like paint and cigarette smoke. I looked around for a troupe member to question and noticed a young ballerina in a pale pink costume walk down the hallway. “Excuse me...” I began, smiling at her.

  “Who are you?” She frowned and pushed back her light brown hair. “You’re not supposed to be backstage.”

  “I’m a friend of Derek’s,” I said. “What happened? Why’d they arrest him for murder?”

  “It’s horrible, isn’t it?” She lowered her voice. “Don’t you know? Derek replaced Patrick in the show. Patrick was the original Dick Dastardly.”

  “You don’t say.” I drew back as if she’d slapped me. “Frankly, that small part isn’t worth murdering someone over. I’ve known Derek for a long time. He’s not a killer.”

  “Says you. See, Derek was Patrick’s understudy in different productions. They never really got along because Patrick assumed Derek wanted to take over his roles.”

  Her dainty fingers fluttered as she spoke. “You know, the classic case...the understudy becomes the star.”

  Was she pulling my leg? “So why blame Derek? He’s just doing his job.”

  “Apparently he did his job too well. The director talked to Derek about replacing Patrick permanently.” She turned around in a half-circle, practically pirouetting in place, glancing over both shoulders. “When Patrick found out, he was furious. He accused Derek of back-stabbing, and trying to undermine his performance. So when Patrick showed up with stab wounds...well, you can imagine what we thought, that Derek was being quite literal. Too literal.”

  “Stab wounds?” I played dumb, realizing Patrick must have come here after he left the hospital. Who helped him escape, disguising him as a female? “Come on, Derek’s not that stupid or vicious. He wouldn’t resort to killing his so-called rival, even if they do play villains.”

  “Maybe they took their feud too far.” She raised her brows. “They had a big fight in front of the whole crew. Patrick was so upset, he left and ended up missing his act.”

  “You mean last Friday—opening night?”

  She looked surprised, then narrowed her eyes. “How did you know?”

  “I was there Friday night, when Derek filled in for Patrick at the last minute. By the way, I’m with the Gazette.”

  She flung out her hands and scurried away. “Oh, no! You’re a nosy newspaper reporter, trying to dig up dirt!”

  “Applesauce! I’m trying to help Derek. I was only there to review the show.” I followed her, as persistent as the male newshounds. “Say, is your name Viola?”

  Her face colored and she ducked inside a room marked Bella on the door. Her own dressing room?

  “Can’t you read? I’m Bella, the lead ballerina in Swan Lake.” She stretched out her arms like a swan. “I fill in now and then, if they need a fresh act.”

  “Good for you.” I smiled and stuck my foot out when she tried to close the door. “Wait, one last question. Is there anyone in the show named Viola?”

  “No....why do you want to know?”

  “I just want to help Derek,” I said, wringing my hands.

  “Then go down to the police station,” she snapped. “Prove he’s innocent. Don’t waste time talking to me.”

  With a bow, she shut the door in my face. Deflated, I poked my nose in a couple of rooms but didn’t see anyone else to question. I tried to stop a stagehand carrying a wooden tree, but he kept going. So I snuck out the side entrance and joined the dwindling group of gawkers, trying to make myself inconspicuous.

  By now, an ambulance had arrived and I watched the coroner examine the victim, studying the strangulation marks on his neck. I moved closer, listening to Mack and several newshawks belt out questions: “Can you pinpoint the time of death? Murder weapon? Was he cut by a knife or razor blades? Did he die instantly or later? Approximate age? Anything else unusual?”

  Normally, I’d jump into the fray, but I already knew too much. So I kept my mouth shut, worried I’d blurt out some private information.

  “Looks like he was strangled with a type of wire,” the medical examiner said. “Perhaps fishing wire or string.” He took off his gloves and touched the victim’s pale neck, sliced with thin red lines. “His neck feels sticky, like some sort of residue.”

  “You mean rosin?” A handsome blond young man spoke up. “We use rosin to make our instrument strings smooth, easier to play.” I made a note to ask him a few questions, wondering if he knew Derek.

  “Yes, that must be it,” the coroner nodded, giving the guy a grateful smile. “Thank you, son. Could be from the strings of a musical instrument, maybe a cello or violin.”

  A violin? With a jolt, I recalled Patrick’s last words to me the night he was stabbed: Viola. What was he trying to tell me—that the guy who stabbed him was a viola player? Perhaps one of the musicians in the orchestra—or someone with access to a string instrument?

  Anxious thoughts swirled as I tried to analyze the situation, glad I’d left the wire I’d pocketed from the alley at home. Even if I turned it over to the cops later, wouldn’t that seem suspicious? I hated to involve Sammy, but I couldn’t hide potential evidence in a murder investigation, could I? Why bother now? The M.E. already figured it out without my help.

  I walked over to the young musician, who stood by the curvy burlesque dancer and magician’s assistant, still in costume. Teary-eyed, they gaped at the victim, arms linked, staring as if in shock. Touched by their reaction, I realized the troupe must be like a close-knit family who’d lost one of their own.

  “Excuse me, are you a violinist?” I asked the young man. “What’s your name?”

  “Mike. Actually I’m a bassist.” He beamed with pride. “My first year as a pro. Just graduated from high school. Needed to make enough money for Julliard...” His voice faded. “But I doubt my parents will let me travel with the troupe now if they hear about this murder.”

  “I’m sorry, but maybe it’s for the best.” I felt for the kid, yet doubted a life on the road provided a safe environment for a budding musician, considering the circumstances. “By the way, has a violinist or viola player joined the orchestra recently? Or anyone who plays a string instrument?”

  “Not officially.” Mike shrugged. “We often have extra people play with us for side gigs—private parties, hotels, nightclubs. The director likes to rotate musicians and actors, mix things up, try out new songs and acts.”

  “Interesting. Sounds like fun.” How did he keep track of everyone, I wondered?

  “Fun? Tell that to the poor folks losing their jobs.”r />
  “Must be tough.” I nodded, considering his words. Was that a possible motive for murder? “Thanks for your help, Mike. Good luck with everything.”

  Stepping back, I watched Nathan busy snapping photos, and observed the crowd of performers, police and potential suspects. Was the real killer here, watching the scene, trying to blend in? In this colorful cast of characters—jugglers, clowns, acrobats, actors, musicians—anyone could be a killer in disguise.

  I felt a tap on my shoulder and looked up to see Agent Burton staring at me, his eyes cold. “Thought I’d find you here.” He waved his hand at the commotion. “Looks like your fella is in a real jam.”

  ******

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My face turned crimson. “Derek may be in a jam, but he’s certainly not my fella. Where’d you get that big idea?”

  “I read your rave review of his performance in Sunday’s paper,” Burton said. “He makes a fine villain, but I wouldn’t call him the next Rudolph Valentino.”

  So he had seen those silly articles, unfortunately. How long would I have to explain away that tripe? “Believe me, I didn’t write those puff pieces. I only wrote the review, but not the gushy part. I’m positive Mrs. Harper planted the stories, along with his flattering bio. How she snuck them past Mr. Thomas, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t say.” He looked skeptical. “Tell me, why would the society editor do that for some low-rent actor?”

  “Beats me. I plan to confront her later.”

  “I’d be interested to hear her side of the story.”

  We watched the squad car driving off with Derek inside, sirens blaring. “Fitting end for a real-life villain,” Burton cracked.

  “Derek may be arrogant, even high-hat, but I assure you, he’s no killer.”

  “You know him better than I do, obviously.” Was that a jab? Burton glanced over at the victim, still sprawled out in the alley. “What have we here?”

  “Meet Jane Doe.” I gestured toward the body, glad for a change of subject, however gruesome. “Looks like our John Doe disguised himself as Jane, maybe to hide from his killer. Too bad his costume didn’t work.”

  “What? She is the same person, the stabbing victim?” He blinked. “Are you sure?”

  “See for yourself. Let’s just say I uncovered the evidence. Don’t ask me how.”

  “I think I can guess.” Burton tried to hide his smile. “So that’s how he slipped out from John Sealy without anyone noticing.”

  “Seems Patrick went in as a John and waltzed out as a Jane. He became a temporary she. Sadly, he wasn’t very successful.”

  “Patrick? Glad the victim has a name.”

  “Patrick Mulligan, a creative jack of all trades.”

  “Any idea what happened?” Burton asked. “Did your reporters dig up any details?”

  “As a matter of fact, I talked to Bella, a ballerina in the theatre.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Turns out Derek and Patrick had a professional rivalry. Patrick was the lead and Derek was his understudy.”

  “This is getting interesting. So your pal Derek does have a motive. No doubt he had the means and opportunity as well.” Burton looked up at the overcast skies as if searching for answers. “Think Derek also stabbed him Friday night?”

  “How could he?” My face felt hot. “As you recall, he performed in the show we saw that night.”

  “Yes, just in time to play the villain.” Burton scowled. “There you go, rushing to his rescue again. How do you know he’s innocent?”

  “Murder isn’t his style.” I placed my hands on my hips, trying not to act upset. “Say, since when do you investigate murders, Agent Burton? Shouldn’t you be on Market Street, busting up bars?”

  Burton seemed so eager to pin the blame on Derek that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him about finding the instrument string in the alley behind the Oasis. I didn’t want to get Sammy involved in this case—if I could help it.

  “I’m just playing devil’s advocate. As a reporter, you need to consider all the angles.”

  “If Derek really did the deed, would he dump off the body here, where they both work?”

  “Good point.” Burton nodded. “My pals in Homicide tell me the victim was probably killed elsewhere and the body moved here later.”

  “Oh yeah?” I gulped. “And how did they figure that out?”

  “Forensics has all sorts of ways to determine the who, what, where, how—and time of death. Lividity for one.”

  “What’s that?” Did I really want to know?

  “I’m no doctor, so bear with me,” he said. “Lividity refers to blood supply in relation to gravity. An M.E. can usually determine if a body’s been moved, or left in any position too long, by dark bruises and skin discoloration. That helps pinpoint the time of death.”

  “Thanks, Dr. Burton.” To me, he sounded exactly like a smug, know-it-all doctor. “Speaking of blood, whatever happened to the knife?”

  “Unfortunately they couldn’t get a clear set of fingerprints.” Burton looked disappointed.

  “That’s too bad,” I replied, secretly relieved. What if Frank or Dino were involved?

  “Forensics also discovered that in addition to blood, the knife handle was covered in a sticky residue.”

  “A residue?” Like rosin, I wondered? “Did the cops ask where the knife was found?”

  “I just told them it was by the body, out in the alley.” Burton shrugged. “I didn’t specify which alley.”

  “I appreciate it, James.” I gave him a smile, grateful that he didn’t mention Sammy or Buzz or the Oasis. “Did they find out anything else?”

  He nodded, watching my reaction. “I heard that a witness saw two men leaving these premises early this morning. Perhaps the killer wanted to finger Derek or someone else at the theatre?”

  “A witness?” I blanched. Did he mean Sammy and Frank—or was he testing me? “You don’t say. Who’s the witness—and what was he or she doing here that early?”

  “Who knows? It’s all speculation at this point. Better leave the investigation to the experts.”

  “Of course.” I agreed. “Maybe the murder has nothing to do with acting or the theatre. For all we know, Patrick got mixed up in something else.” I let out a sigh. “Such a shame.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find his killer. I think we’re on the right track.” Burton raised his brows. “By the way, Jazz, how’s Sammy doing? I hear he’s back in town. What else are you not telling me?”

  ******

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I froze, staring at Agent Burton in surprise. “What do you mean? I’m not hiding anything from you...”

  “Sure?” Burton said. “For one thing, you’re looking away. Did you realize your left eye twitches when you’re not telling the truth?”

  Was I so transparent, so easy to read? “I’ve never lied to you. Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Not at all. Let me reword that. We’ll call it withholding information.”

  My face flushed, and I tried to ignore his penetrating blue gaze. Maybe he was right about avoiding eye contact. “If I am, it’s for a good reason.”

  “Sammy?”

  I turned around, my face blank. “Guess I’d better head back to work. See you later.”

  Before Burton could stop me, I rushed off, as far away as possible. I found Nathan by his Model T, fiddling with his camera. “Haven’t you taken enough shots? I’m getting the jitters waiting while everyone ogles the dead body.”

  “Hell, no. A fella dressed up as a female winds up dead behind Martini Theatre? The public will eat it up.”

  “You sound like Mack,” I groaned, rolling my eyes.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Mack came up behind us, grinning like a hyena. “This story is gold. I can see it lasting for a week or more, while the police try to apprehend the killer. Was it a lovers’ quarrel? A tale of vengeance? Professional jealousy? Revenge? Cain versus Abel? Or a simple case of mistaken identity?” Mack
rubbed his meaty hands together, his dark eyes gleaming. “The possibilities are endless.”

  Mack reminded me of a late-night radio serial, and just as corny. Still, I wondered why the victim was at the Oasis that night, and why did he return? And why did the killer use violin strings—or was it a viola?—to choke his victim? Was he a musician or was the wire simply a handy tool? Did the killer want to send a message—to Patrick, or someone else?

  Most of all, why in hell did Sammy pick this spot to deposit the victim? He must have wanted to take the heat off himself and the Oasis. Did Amanda give him the idea with her talk of performers? Or did Sammy know more about the murder than he was letting on?

  Burton must have noticed I was impatient to leave, since he walked up, asking, “Need a lift back to the office?”

  Our quarrel was forgotten for now. “Sure. I’ve had enough forensics for one day.” Grateful, I excused myself to Nathan and Mack, who didn’t mind one bit.

  After we got settled in his car, Burton turned to face me. “You never answered my question.”

  “Which one?” I started rambling, though I knew what he meant. “Sammy’s fine. He just came down for a quick visit and plans to leave as soon as possible. I meant to tell you, but he asked me not to say anything to anyone.”

  “I’m not just anyone.” Burton cut me off. “Jazz, tell me why you’re protecting Sammy—not that he needs any protection, especially from you.”

  How to begin? “Remember our pal at Mario’s? Musey stopped by the Oasis later that night, demanding money. Seems he and Johnny Jack still feel cheated after the booze drop got mucked up, so he’s expecting a big pay-off.”

  “Where’s Sammy going to get the cash?” Burton asked.

  “Good question. I’m afraid of what they might do to Sammy if he doesn’t pay up.”

  “Sammy should be doubly afraid. Johnny Jack may be a blowhard, but George Musey doesn’t make threats lightly.”

  “Can you help Sammy?” I pleaded.