Deadly Homecoming at Rosemont

by Chappell,Connie

  I shut down the musings of a mind greatly in need of therapy and began scouring the sidewalk in earnest for signs of a leggy, stringy-haired young man hiding lock picks in his pocket. As the search proved futile and a sinking feeling took hold, I heard the door off the parking lot scrape across the sill. I turned to see Wilkey rush in. We met under the clock. Seven minutes till two.

  He gave me an anxious smile with his greeting. His eyes glowed with the wild, cornered look of an injured animal. I wondered if I should let him off the hook when his tension seemed to ease.

  “Sorry,” he said breathlessly. “That lady cop showed up just like you said.”

  “Sergeant Lippincott,” I scoffed. Leave it to her to threaten my synchronized plan.

  “Yeah, she wanted me to look at those keys.”

  So she made a visit to Adam Porter. He probably produced his keys without the necessity of a warrant. “Were they the ones?”

  Nodding, he said, “I hope you didn’t think I wasn’t coming, but that cop held me up.”

  “Oh, no, I knew it’d be something like that,” I lied.

  “I let her have a head start. I couldn’t leave the same time she did. I didn’t want her taking a notion to follow me.”

  He gave his surroundings a cursory glance, and I noticed he exchanged his white undershirt for navy, the better for hiding in shadows, one would think. “We’re okay? It’s not too late?”

  I answered him with a shake of my head. “You got the picks?”

  He verified that by patting a squared-off bulge in his front jeans pocket with his palm. Our eyes locked briefly. He seemed to have aged somehow. If the added years came from maturity or worry, I didn’t know.

  Remembering my assignment, I made a beeline back to the Gatling Street door with Wilkey on my heels. As if on cue, the theater doors opened outward. “Do you know what Barton Reed looks like?”

  “Nah-uh,” floated from over my left shoulder.

  “Well, there he is.”

  “Damn, this is cutting it close.”

  A fidgety Barton cut the corner into the crosswalk. Shooting his cuffs. White shirt. Hand to the knot in his tie. Blood red. Sunglasses plucked from the inner breast pocket of his suit. Navy blue. Nice contrast with his hair. Silver-streaked in the sun.

  Oh, yeah, the threat of thunderstorms passed Havens to the north. Breckenridge Security’s ribbon would be cut under a field of pristinely blue skies. All my worrying for naught.

  From our window to the world, we saw Barton step up to the opposite curb and disappear from our range of vision. We mimicked his steps along the width of the building and awaited his arrival to the lot out back. His BMW silently winked recognition at this man of disguise, and a murderer settled himself inside. This was my first look at him since I knew he was the villain who killed Trey. I found the whole thing troubling.

  We watched the BMW wind through the lot. It didn’t take long to tell Wilkey what I needed him to do. “You go around to the alleyway door and wait for me. I’ll go through the theater, scope out the backstage area, then let you in. You’ll be five steps from the office door that way.”

  “Fine with me. The less time inside the theater, the better. If anybody can see that alley door, don’t let me in.”

  “Don’t worry. I don’t want anyone to see you either.” What we meant, but didn’t say was, we didn’t want anyone able to identify him. Barton pulled into traffic on Kinsman, and I turned to face Wilkey. “You ready to do this?”

  “Sure. What the hell.” His voice scraped over a nervous edge, but I took him at his word.

  We exited into the sweltering heat that was a blanket over Gatling Street.

  Hiding Places

  My heart thudded loudly against my ribs as I crossed the empty theater lobby. I stopped to shag an envelope off a stack of boxes, each labeled concession items. If anyone inquired, I would say I was sent to slide a letter from the mayor under Barton’s door, then hope no one looked too closely. A shadowy invoice showed through its white paper shell.

  The doors to the administration wing swung open noiselessly, and I closed them with equal concern. On the other side of the auditorium wall, everyone was in the throes of rehearsal. The crew in place. The actors on stage. Craig Bittleman’s muffled voice giving direction. City College’s drama teacher, the production’s Number Two man, stepped in for Barton when he was away. This duty would solely fall to him before he knew it. A female assistant read a line from the script. He repeated it, knowing the motivation, with the emphasis properly placed. It seemed odd to hear him speak without any reference to America’s favorite pastime.

  I worked my way toward the front of house, entirely aware of the tap, tap, tap of my shoes on the tile floor. Voices grew clearer. From the number, all three spinsters were on stage for a run-through. There was no yodeling at this juncture.

  I cautiously pulled up to the wide opening to the stage, debating whether to tippy-toe across, which might seem conspicuous if observed, or stride off, envelope in hand, a mayoral mission to complete. Before I decided on the proper course, my nostrils twitched at the faint odor of paint. The smell and, as I listened closely, the whirring of a fan eked out from behind the closed greenroom door on my left. I began to fret, flipping the envelope against my leg. Mr. Bubbly was here. His fondness for lighting up outside the door could capsize my plan while still tied to its moorings. I wondered what Wilkey would do if he encountered the man, just keep going or vainly try to engage him in conversation.

  Adopting an air of casual reserve I didn’t feel, I breezed along the wings, taking in the stage area with a smile for anyone interested. No one was. Distressingly, the painter was nowhere in sight, but his squeaky supply wagon was parked half-hidden in the heavy black folds of the stage curtain. Its back wheels jutted into the main concourse. I knew Mr. Bubbly was not a fan of Barton Reed. He showed very little enthusiasm for anything, with the exception of smoking, and even that seemed to sap his strength. Perhaps seeing Wilkey and me break into Barton’s office would not raise his consciousness level enough to react.

  I tried the handle of Barton’s office door as I hurried past. Predictably, it was locked. I went straight to the alleyway door, softly pushed the panic bar, hearing the mechanism release. I leaned into the door and, with enormous relief, found a red-faced and perspiring Wilkey Summer waiting on the other side.

  He slipped past me.

  “Right here.” I pointed to the door just ten feet away. To quell my own curiosity, I peered behind the exit door. The stool was empty. I flipped the gizmo on the latch as I’d watched Mr. Bubby do, so Gideon and Clay could get inside.

  Hoping against hope, Wilkey tried the handle too, then he pulled a black nylon pouch, a little bigger than a deck of cards, from his pocket and reverently lowered himself to his knees before the door. I circled around to the other side to play lookout. With an ear cocked toward the stage, I watched him.

  He tipped his head to one side and squinted at the lock, all the while unzipping the pouch. He lay it open on the floor. Secured there, under a ribbon of elastic, were half-a-dozen lock picks. I, being a good little girl—well, until today—had never seen these tools of the trade. The set was metal. The cuts along the top were of random depths while the back side of each had been ground to an oval. His fingers drummed over the first two, then pulled out the third. He slipped it into the lock, then went back for another. He began working the picks simultaneously.

  “How does it work?” I asked in a low tone.

  “With the right combination of cuts, a slight rocking motion, and little bit of pressure, the pins inside can be raised, popping the lock.”

  Pausing to listen, I thought I could hear faint scratching and ticking. His attitude quieted. He appeared under control although his forehead beaded with sweat, matting his hair in spots. He appeared all business, intent on the task at hand. I checked the clock on my cell phone. Two-oh-five.

  Applause and laughter drilled my back. I pivoted on the spot, lis
tening for approaching footsteps. It sounded like the scene was over. Would they take a break? When the ripple of conversation died down, they settled back into rehearsal.

  Looking down to the kneeling man, I asked, “How long will this take?”

  “It’s not a quick as you see on TV. Not two seconds, but no more than a minute if I haven’t lost my touch.”

  “Good. I’ll feel better once we’re inside and out of the hall.”

  “No shit,” he agreed.

  I could see him apply the rocking motion he described, then he eased the picks forward. Again I wondered if an expert lock pick might also be skilled at cracking safes. He seemed completely on my side. But still, he’d been sleeping with Gina Frawley. So where did his loyalties lie?

  “Would you be able to break into a safe?” I asked him plainly.

  “If the safe is opened with a key, I’m your man. Most of the big ones aren’t. If it’s a combination,” he said, pursing his lips, “I won’t know the first thing. Are you beginning to think I was in on the theft?” He looked up at me, cockeyed. “Cut me to the quick if you were.” Then he gave me a smirk I couldn’t read. “You picked a hellava time to ask, don’t you think? Smart girl like you, you should’ve done a little checking.”

  “What are you saying?” I narrowed my eyes in confusion.

  “You’re not very good at this, Wrenn.”

  “Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?” I played light-hearted stubbornness off his brotherly advice.

  His attention returned to his work. He held his mouth in a certain way as he caressed the picks almost lovingly in his fingers. A hint of a smile crossed his face, and I knew he moved to the next pin.

  “Have I thanked you, Wilkey?”

  “A couple times.”

  “I should thank you again.”

  “Not necessary. But you should know I won’t make a habit of this. In fact, I’m not getting the buzz I used to get. I guess I’ve lost my nerve. And that’s just as well,” he admitted resignedly, dead focused on the lock. “Okay. You’re in.”

  Deftly snatching the picks into the palm of his hand, he twisted the knob. Snagging the pouch from the floor, he sprang to his feet. I stepped in front of him.

  Nearly dizzy with anticipation, I pushed the door open the rest of the way and passed again into the inner sanctum of Barton Reed. I flipped on the overhead lights. A tingling spread through every cell of my body, including my teeth, as if the very act electrified the air around me.

  I knew what this was.

  This was the buzz that had forsaken Wilkey. I have to ask: What is the point of a life of crime if it doesn’t muster up a feeling like this to go along with it?

  “Close the door, Wilkey,” I said, scanning the room from a few feet within. “We have ten to fifteen minutes. No more. Help me look.”

  “Uh, Wrenn?”

  I turned to the man using his shirtsleeve to mop perspiration from his forehead. He stood just inside the doorway.

  “The less time inside the theater, the better,” he said, repeating his words from earlier.

  The meaning dawned. I’d asked him to go way out on a limb, and he had. No real point in him sticking around after his job was done. “Oh, yeah. Sure. I understand,” I said, trying to make it seem like it didn’t matter. I wanted to ease his conscience, but knew it would taunt him anyway. He really was a good man.

  “Those were my terms,” he said, continuing to make his argument.

  “You got it. Go.” I whisked him away with hand motions. “I’ll be fine. You’re right. You shouldn’t be here when Gideon and Clay arrive. What was I thinking? Take off. I’ll find you later and buy you a beer.”

  “Deal,” he said. First, he checked the hallway for signs of activity, then he reached for the doorknob. Barton’s office door met the jamb ever so silently.

  Quite alone, I took in Barton’s office. He was neat to a fault. My eyes immediately focused on a shortened stack of blue-paged scripts. They’d been moved from his desk, where I saw them Friday, to the long table that stood against the alley wall. The box they arrived in must have gone out with the trash. The delivery invoice Barton used to jot down Gina Frawley’s address was in my possession. With that, one thing led to another, and here we were.

  Refocusing on my purpose and the ever-shortening timeframe, I asked myself, What would a neatnik do with Hellfire Harry’s costume? He’d hang it in a closet, especially if he had one. And Barton did, next to the towering bookcase on the back wall.

  “Please, please, please, don’t let him be so anal that he keeps his closet locked, too,” I prayed aloud, wishing I thought to check before Wilkey left the theater.

  Jogging around the corner of the desk, I dropped the envelope that had been my prop there and moved toward the closet. I pulled on the varnished door’s glass knob. The handle turned, but wouldn’t open. I looked at the lock. It took a skeleton key. I had one of those in my desk. Some of City Hall’s doors still locked the old-fashioned way. I grabbed the handle and pulled again. With a scrape, it budged an inch. I pulled harder, and it lurched free. In the humid weather, it either swelled against the frame, or a ghost held it from the other side. The Baxter Opera House spirits that lived in my newspaper story lived now in my mind—and possibly the closet.

  I looked in cautiously. It was big and deep, even carpeted, but supplied no rod. Who builds a closet without a rod? I expected Hellfire Harry’s disguise to be hanging inside a wardrobe bag. A drycleaner’s flimsy plastic might be too obvious, but I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it folded into a suitcase or a storage box. All I saw were three shiny hooks drilled into the back wall and two sturdy wooden hangers hung on one of the hooks. Barton seemed fastidious. No doubt they held his clothes while he traipsed around the streets in Harry’s.

  The other odd item was a miniature three-rung ladder. Considering this, I looked up. The ceiling was way up there. Not lowered in the renovation. And it was dark. A light would’ve been a nice touch for a closet this size. Nothing appeared wedged overhead. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he took the clothes home, but I didn’t think so. If he needed to resurrect the old preacher, he’d want them here, near Hellfire’s old haunts.

  Thoroughly disappointed, I stepped out of the closet, leaving the door wide, and moved quickly to the two-drawer lateral file, the only other place large enough to hold a suit of clothes. The cabinet’s top edge had been drilled and filled with a lock, but the drawers glided out with ease. Friday, Barton readily retrieved Gina’s contact information from the top drawer without regard for my presence. It contained file folders and paperwork, but no costume in black. Schematic plans for the theater had been rolled into the bottom drawer. Each was tagged and banded: Electrical, Plumbing, HVAC, Stage, Basement.

  I spun to the oak desk.

  Hello!

  In the kneehole rested his briefcase. Although a suit of clothes would plainly not fit inside, I toddled over eagerly anyway and pushed the oversized leather chair closer so I could sit. Its wheels stubbornly resisted easy movement on the carpet. Seating myself, I lay the soft leather case on the desktop with a sigh. It was bound by two combination locks on either side of the handle. I tried the latches anyway. No luck. Then I chided myself for wasting time when I had so little, and finding the costume was such an imperative.

  I abandoned the briefcase and moved on to desk drawers that opened freely. I guessed they would. The age of the desk represented years of opportunity to lose the key. Constructed with a lap drawer and three down each side, most were empty or contained nothing useful. I yanked open the large drawer on the bottom right. His laptop lay inside. My mind filled with the possibilities this brought: document files, emails, address book with contact info for antiquities collector Ulrich Closson and our missing Gina Frawley. I had to pass it up for now and stay concentrated on the clothes.

  I did take a few seconds to riffle through the papers on his desk, found nothing out of the ordinary, but realized this man had truly settled in. Th
is masterful deception took months of preparation. The investment of time clearly made worthwhile by the value of the Egyptian jewelry and mask. He became infused in the everyday life of Havens. He was an actor, and it goes without saying, he was believable. His intentions seemed so genuine, his ambition aimed toward the success of our play. Ambition is what it takes to be a criminal in the big leagues. I’d have to tell Wilkey.

  “I want Hellfire’s clothes,” I demanded, sinking back into the chair.

  I spun the chair toward the open closet and studied it, then my gaze shifted to the bookcase next door. What had the historical architect said about the trickery employed when the ceiling was lowered? The bookcase rose to the original ceiling, but it met the height of this one as well.

  I remembered.

  The upper shelves were intact and above the new plaster. What a hiding place that would have created if a suspended ceiling had been called for and sectional tiles installed. Just slip a tile up and slide the costume on the shelf. Ingenious, tidy, and out of sight.

  My eyes floated back to the closet. Why no rod? I just couldn’t let go of this. And no shelf either. Really, this was odd. I live in a small home. Storage and hanging space is a treasured commodity. I went over and stood in the doorway. Why hadn’t the workman simply stretched a rod between the two walls? I lifted my left hand to the spot where it would’ve been anchored, running my palm along the wall between the closet and the bookcase. What I felt wasn’t a wall at all, but the framework for the bookcase, only a foot in depth. The empty space behind it extended to the back wall of the closet. This entire area had been constructed as one large alcove, then the bookcase set inside on the left, and the door hinged to the right. The recesses were so dark that this escaped my initial inspection. Stepping inside, I stuck my head between the back of the bookcase and the wall. Resting on end stood a cardboard box.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, I fished it out. Confident it was large enough for the purpose, I darted to the table. Excitement coursed through me. I slipped off the string enclosing the box. The flaps sprang up, so eager to share the cache inside. I folded the flaps back, revealing the dingy white shirt. I pulled it out, feeling my lips curve into a smile. Frantically, I dug through the rest, finding the entire costume, even socks and shoes. I bent closer and ran my finger over two small crusty spots on the jacket. I thought they might be splatters of Trey’s blood, difficult to see on the black fabric, already soiled somewhat to support Hellfire’s grubby character. Completing the ensemble were the wig, beard, a small satchel of makeup items, and the Bible. I gave it all a satisfied look.