by Mary Maxwell
“What kind of problems?”
“I suppose you’d call it jealousy,” he answered. “Lacy had a big part in their last production and one of the other women didn’t think she deserved the role.”
“Seriously? It’s community theater, not Broadway.”
He smiled. “That’s what Lacy always said! But I guess some of those community theater people take all that stuff very, very seriously.”
“Do you know who the other woman from the theater was?” I asked.
“No,” he replied. “But she works at that furniture store, the one there by the bowling alley.”
“Portia Pearson’s store?” asked Julia.
“That’s the one,” Ron said. “But Lacy never told me the name, so…maybe it’s Portia. Or it could be someone else.”
Julia looked at me. “Well, if it wasn’t Portia,” she said. “There’s only one other someone else, right?”
CHAPTER 29
It was half past four when I pulled up in front of the building that served as home to The Crescent Creek Community Theater. Julia was delivering the coffee cake to Lacy Orvane’s parents on her way home, and I’d decided to look into the dispute that Ron had mentioned. The front entrance to the building was unlocked, so I stepped into the foyer, made my way down a narrow hall and knocked on the door marked CCCT DIRECTOR.
“Come right in!” a deep voice boomed on the other side. “I don’t bite!”
I opened the door and walked into an office lined with framed posters from the theater’s past productions. The owner of the thunderous voice sat behind a cluttered desk. He was a heavyset elderly gentleman with gray hair, a trimmed beard and a canary yellow pocket square in his crimson sport coat. The name plate on his desk identified him as VERNON G. GARFIELD. A pair of horn-rimmed glasses, attached to a long silver chain that looped around his roly-poly neck, clung to the tip of his nose like a kitten on a tree branch.
“How can I help you?” he said, squinting at me through thick lens speckled with gummy blue splotches.
I noticed a half-eaten slice of toast on a plate along with a jar of boysenberry jam.
“My name’s Kate Reed,” I said. “I was wondering if—”
“Do say the name again,” the man ordered politely.
“Kate Reed,” I said. “From Sky High Pies.”
He clucked his tongue. “Audrey and Darren’s little girl?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said through a strained smile.
Two fleshy hands pulled off the smudged spectacles. “I remember when you played Pine Cone Three in our annual celebration of all things Colorado,” the man said. “Do you remember that, Kate?”
I shook my head. “The memory must be blocked,” I said. “Maybe from stage fright?”
He bellowed a deep laugh. “You? Oh, goodness no! You were a natural, Kate. Do you remember what I told your mom and dad during final dress rehearsal?”
“Not a clue,” I said. “Was it bad?”
“We were standing in the back of the auditorium when you came out with the other pine cones,” Vernon recalled. “I turned to your parents, clasped my hands and said, ‘A star is born! Your daughter will be a huge Broadway success!’”
I clenched my teeth. “How kind. Sounds like you were pretty optimistic, huh?”
“That wasn’t optimism, Kate,” he said. “It was honesty!”
Although I still had a creased Polaroid somewhere that my father took of me that night, I didn’t remember my stage debut as Pine Cone Three. But I did remember Vernon Garfield. He’d been at the helm of the amateur theater for fifty years, long before Nana Reed opened Sky High and two decades before I was born. It had been ages since I saw him, but he looked the same: round face, deep voice, ruddy cheeks, trademark crimson jacket.
“And honesty,” he said, cleaving my remembrance, “is absolutely everything!”
“I agree,” I said. “And I mean that truthfully.”
He roared at my joke before asking what had brought me to his office.
“Questions,” I said. “Just a couple of things that I’d like to know about the group.”
“Crescent Creek Community Theater?”
I nodded.
“Are you thinking of reviving your role as Pine Cone Three?” he asked. “Auditions won’t begin until June.”
It was my turn to laugh. When I finished, I explained that my questions were of a less theatrical nature.
“That’s too bad,” he said. “We’ve never had an alumni come back to play their part in the annual Colorado celebration.”
“Are you serious?” I asked. “You want me to be the pine cone again?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Would you consider it, Kate? I think it’s kind of genius.”
“Well, I think it’s kind of…” I noticed a photograph on the wall behind his desk: Thomas Green, Daphne Wright and Portia Pearson. “I doubt if I could fit into the costume, Mr. Garfield.”
“Pshaw, Kate! A little nip, a little tuck and it’ll fit like a glove.”
I smiled. “Actually, I did have a couple of questions about costumes and props.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Does your inventory include things like fake mustaches and wigs?”
“Most certainly,” Vernon answered. “We’re not a major theater on the Great White Way, but we have quite an extensive costume archive. Tragically, we lost a few of our older pieces about ten years ago when Seamus Quinn accidentally flushed a pair of tights down the commode and the place flooded. Other than that, we still have costumes and props for every production dating back to the very first show.”
“Wow! That’s really impressive.”
“Thank you, Kate. We strive to make Crescent Creek proud in every way. As I said, it’s not the bright lights of Broadway, but we do our best.”
“And so…” I saw another photograph of Thomas, Lacy and Portia—along with Pinky Newton. “The costumes, props and things? Are they locked up during the off-season or can anyone stroll in and help themselves?”
His nose crinkled. “What do you mean—help themselves?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe at, like, Halloween. Could someone borrow a costume from the storerooms?”
He chuckled. “First of all,” he said, “it’s a storeroom. We’re not a big outfit, Kate. All of our costumes, props, wigs and so forth are kept in a big space in the basement.” He laughed again. “And that explains how Seamus single-handedly destroyed six exquisite ball gowns, a Daddy Warbucks tuxedo and thirty-four pairs of tap shoes.”
“When he plugged up the toilet with the tights?”
Vernon frowned. “Our insurance wouldn’t cover the loss. We had a bake sale to make up the deficit so we could replace a few of the things that were ruined in the flood.” The expression on his face was a perfect blend of sorrow and acceptance. “But, to answer your original question, the storeroom is kept triple locked.”
“And who has keys?”
“Besides me?”
I nodded.
“Well, there’s Deirdre Brandeis. She’s the head of our board. And the building’s janitor has a set.” He paused to lick a splotch of boysenberry jam from one finger. “And, there’s another…” As he exhaled, his cheeks bulged out like two pink balloons. “…there’s one other set, but our costume manager keeps that on her key chain.”
“Do you mind telling me her name?”
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Due to a rather unfortunate and recent event. To be honest, it’s a private matter, Kate. I’m sure you can understand.”
“Of course, Mr. Garfield. I absolutely appreciate discretion.” We locked eyes, comrades in diplomacy. “And what about handlebar mustaches?”
One hand instinctively touched his face. “Why? You think I should shave off my beard and go with just a mustache?”
I smiled. “Oh, not you! I meant, in the theater storeroom.”
Plump fingers smoothed the gray whiskers on his chubby cheeks. “Well, that
’s a relief! My late wife always told me that I look distinguished with a beard. But I know times change as quickly as styles. Since you’re quite a few decades younger than me, I thought—”
“You look absolutely perfect!” I said. “Handsome and debonair and, as your wife said, very, very distinguished!”
“Thank you, Kate. You’re too kind to such an old man as myself.”
“Oh, pshaw!” I said, stealing his phrase. “Age is just a number.”
“True enough,” he chuckled. “Although you weren’t asking about my age. You wanted to know if…” He frowned slightly. “What was that again?”
“Handlebar mustaches,” I said.
His frown deepened. “That is such an odd question, Kate. I normally wouldn’t discuss this since the police are still investigating, but someone came in the other morning and helped themselves to quite a few things in the costume storeroom. All of our mustaches went missing, a gold signet ring, several wigs and jackets, a complete makeup kit with false teeth and artificial noses along with several bolts of fabric and a pair of antique wooden clogs.”
“Oh, my goodness! I’m so sorry.”
His head dropped to his chest. “It’s all my fault, Kate. I accept full responsibility because I left the office unattended for about thirty minutes when I ran to the bank. One of the officers called to say there was a discrepancy with the theater’s main account and funds were being diverted to some type of shady off-shore investment scheme.”
“What was that all about?”
He snickered. “Your guess is as good as mine! By the time I got there, they told me it had all been a misunderstanding.”
“Who called you from the bank?”
The old man shrugged. “I don’t believe he gave me a name, but his voice was particularly curious.”
“In what way?”
“Oh, you know. I figured it was the phone connection or something, but his voice was extremely distorted and metallic sounding.”
“Sort of like a mechanical doll?”
Vernon Garfield chuckled. “Well, I couldn’t answer that, Kate, because I’ve never talked to a mechanical doll before.”
I smiled. “Was the money still in your account when you got to the bank?”
A big grin appeared. “Every last penny! And thank goodness for that. We operate on a shoestring budget. And, considering that we’ll have to replace the things stolen the other day, that string’s about to get a little more frayed.”
CHAPTER 30
Zack and I were nestled together under a quilt that Nana Reed had made for my grandfather when one of our phones vibrated on the kitchen counter. We’d met earlier at Viva Taco for a quick dinner before heading to my place for a movie and some snuggle time.
“That’s yours,” he mumbled.
I clicked the remote to stop Sunset Boulevard. “How can you tell?”
He bussed my cheek and shrugged off the quilt. “Mainly because you’re the only person that texts me this late at night.”
I watched his broad shoulders and tapered back as he shuffled across the living room to retrieve the noisemaker.
“Yep,” he exclaimed triumphantly. “It’s your phone; incoming text from Dina Kincaid.”
“Oh, good! Would you please bring that to me?” I rolled into a sitting position. “It might be about the Lacy Orvane case.”
He sat down and held out the phone. “Might be?”
“Okay, probably is,” I said. “Thomas Green from the bank found some—”
The phone rang before I could get to Dina’s text. I wasn’t surprised when her name appeared on the screen.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” I apologized. “She can be pretty insistent.”
Zack grinned. “Sounds like somebody else I know,” he said, flopping against the cushions and pulling the quilt back up to his chin.
“You can keep going if you want.” I pointed at the television. “I’ve seen this one before.”
He shook his head, closed his eyes and smiled. I hurried into the kitchen and answered Dina’s call.
“Well, that took long enough,” she snipped.
“What’s going on?” I asked, ignoring her ill-humored remark and surly tone. After being friends for what seemed like an eternity, I knew Dina’s moods as well as my own. She was tired. It had been a long day. And she’d probably enjoyed another vending machine dinner alone at her desk.
“Thomas Green is full of hot air,” she said.
I thanked her for the appraisal and asked for clarification.
“What more do you need to know?” she said, sounding slightly less surly. “He told me that you advised him not to bring in the alleged evidence he found in Lacy’s desk drawer.”
“The stack of papers he found?”
“Uh-huh.”
I smiled at the edge in her voice. “Time to call it a night, detective? You sound kind of—”
“It was a waste of time, Katie. Thomas Green showed up here earlier, convinced he’d discovered the key to solving our case and demanding to know why we hadn’t arrested Benny Calhoun for Lacy’s murder. Did you look at the pages Green claimed to have found in her desk?”
“Just a little peek. He told me they were notes Benny Calhoun kept about Lacy and her married boyfriend. When he said they were of a threatening nature, I offered to drop them off at the station. And, for the record, I never told him not to turn them over to you. Why would I do that?”
“I know,” she muttered. “Only trying to help, right?”
I took a moment, breathing deeply and hoping that some of the fatigue and irritation swirling in her head would dissolve.
“Katie?”
“I’m still here. I was just giving you a minute.”
“I don’t need a minute,” she rasped. “I need to solve this case.”
“No doubt. But that doesn’t give you a license to be so…” I stopped, wondering which word wouldn’t set her off on another rant. But she beat me to it.
“Sorry,” she said after a moment or two. “I’m just completely exhausted. I didn’t mean to be such a witch.”
“Or the other word?”
She finally laughed. “Right. Or the other word. And I appreciate your help, Katie. I really do. With Trent out of town, things are…well, they’re freaking insane! But enough of that. I wanted to get your take on Thomas Green.”
“My take?”
“Yeah. Do you think he’s a lunatic?”
“Um…”
“I mean, do you think he’s legit? Benny Calhoun moved from the Arroyo Chico address five years ago. In fact, he left Crescent Creek last month and went to Boise.”
“Idaho?”
She released a long, slow breath. “Yes, Katie. Idaho. I had Tyler Armstrong do some checking. Care to guess what he learned?”
“Not really,” I said. “Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Benny Calhoun told Tyler that he hadn’t talked to Lacy in weeks,” she said. “He had no idea she was seeing a married guy. And, best of all, he was in Boise the day that Lacy was poisoned. Want to guess what he was up to?”
I kept quiet.
“Okay, I’ll cut to the chase,” Dina continued. “The day that Lacy died, Benny was in the maternity ward at Saint Alphonsus Regional Medical Center.”
“That’s a pretty great alibi. Little boy or little girl?”
She chuckled softly. “One of each.”
“Okay, so that means—”
“Why do you think Thomas Green was snooping in Lacy’s desk at the bank anyway?”
“Maybe he wasn’t snooping,” I suggested. “Maybe he was in shock. People grieve in different ways.”
Dina scoffed. “By going through someone’s desk?”
“No, no. I mean, maybe he went to sit at her desk after he heard that she’d died. And maybe he was idly opening and closing the top drawer. And maybe that’s when the envelope caught his eye and he instinctively pulled it from the drawer.”
“Were they close?” she asked
. “I mean, close enough that he’d be in shock after he heard the news?”
“Yeah, I think that sounds reasonable. He and Lacy were coworkers for a long time, and they were also involved with the Crescent Creek Community Theater.”
I heard Dina’s fingernails tapping on the desk.
“Why?” I said. “Don’t you believe him?”
“It’s not that. I just…well, Thomas Green seemed so convinced that Benny Calhoun wrote the pages in Lacy’s desk and the note found in her hand when she collapsed. But I stopped at the bank to talk to Nathaniel Craig. He provided us with a sample of Calhoun’s handwriting from his employment file. There’s no way Benny wrote either the note found with Lacy or the documents from her desk.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because my handwriting guru examined all three samples,” Dina said. “And I just heard from her about twenty minutes ago.”
“You have a handwriting guru?”
“That’s just what I call her, Katie,” Dina said. “Harriet’s a graphologist; she’s an expert at analyzing handwriting.”
“And her consensus was…what?”
“Two different people,” Dina answered. “One person wrote the note found with Lacy; someone else wrote the gibberish that Thomas Green claimed he found in the desk drawer.”
I waited for more, but she was tapping her nails on the desk again.
“Detective?”
“Sorry,” she muttered. “I’ve been going too fast today, Katie.”
“Sounds like it. But what was that about Thomas Green?”
“I feel like a complete fool for not thinking of this earlier when he stopped by,” she said. “We searched Lacy’s desk. There’s no way we missed a bunch of papers in the top drawer.” She paused briefly, connecting the new dots. “When did Green tell you that he found the envelope?”
“The day that Lacy was poisoned.”
“The little weasel,” she murmured.
“I can hear it in your voice, Dina. And now you probably hear it in mine.”
She sighed. “You think he’s lying.”
“Don’t you?”
“Well, I wasn’t sure exactly,” she said. “But when I got the call from Harriet just now about the differences in the handwriting, I thought Thomas Green was either trying to play detective or he’s…a loony bird.”