Murder, Most Sincerely: A Romantic Backstage Mystery

by Nault, Beverly

  But so far, it was just a minor glitch, she reminded herself. No one who shared the stage with animals or children would argue that they were easy to work with. And she’d handled it all just like a seasoned professional despite Dillon’s accusations.

  It would be a relief if he was hired away. He would leave town and she wouldn’t have to deal with him any longer. An unexpected shadow fell across her desk, and assuming he’d returned, her spine stiffened as she prepared to warn him away again. But his wasn’t the profile backlit from the blue light over the props table. This silhouette was a little taller, the broad shoulders more relaxed. Probably a patron who got lost in the dark during the unexpected interruption.

  She lowered her mic away from her mouth, prepared to direct him to the exit, but at that moment, the stage lights washed into the wings, revealing the most sincere, deeply dimpled smile she’d seen since they held a casting call for an Elvis impersonator last summer. White teeth gleamed, and black, curly hair shone. He looked at once awkward, but at the same time as if he belonged exactly where he stood, watching her.

  “You can’t be back here!” she whispered. “The bathrooms are in the courtyard.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not lost. I’d like to help.” He stepped closer to her perch. Something like cloves in his aftershave surrounded her. “I’m a vet.”

  Hand to headset, she listened to Matt talking about the lighting adjustments he was making after the interruption, and stared at the smiling guy’s lips moving.

  “...a vet...” He was articulating as if she didn’t understand. “An animal doctor.”

  “I know what a veterinarian is.” Using her a-stage-manager-is-patient-at-all times voice, she pointed toward the door. “She’s outside being walked, now excuse me.”

  Lucy’s brain was now firing on all cylinders. Used to processing multiple channels of input, this day was taxing even her best resources. From the biological disaster on stage, to the dialog that was quickly approaching the next lighting cue, now this guy shows up. It was like a chess game whose pieces were moving with a mind of their own.

  The vet still hadn’t left, and she waved him away, trying to get the disaster at her fingertips back on track. “I can’t talk right now,” she said, waiting for the dialog cue, “...get ready for lights.”

  He turned and left, and in that moment, an unidentifiable chill crawled up Lucy’s spine.

  Without being able to see every corner of the darkened stage, Lucy could sense a Titanic abnormality, a ripple in the cosmos that resonated throughout every cell in her body. Before she could ask into her headset what had happened, and confirming her hunch, in the very next moment, from deep within the darkened wings on stage left, a voice called out. At first low, then rising higher and louder, its shrillness and urgency set Lucy’s heart on rapid fire.

  “Help! Help! Stop the show! Help!” reverberated around the walls, and ricocheted into the fly loft above them.

  In a flash, Lucy’s head jerked up, the earpieces jostled askew, her heart thumping. “Justin, what happened?” she demanded. A cacophony of sounds answered, the noises so garbled she couldn’t distinguish what anyone was saying.

  Disentangling herself from the headset, she jumped up to peer across the boards. The screams were now so piercing and anguished they impacted the hanging mics, squelching high-pitched feedback throughout the sound system and up into the rafters. The audience murmured and complained as they threw protective hands over their ears.

  Justin stepped from the darkness between the curtain legs and into the light where they could see each other across the stage. “It’s Ambrose! He’s dead!

  Lucy froze, every nerve in her body tingling. “Are…” she gulped. “Are you sure?”

  Justin nodded, headset bouncing. “The Tin Man is…most sincerely dead!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Several hours later, the coroner had left, and the audience had gone home with vouchers for a future performance. Lucy was alone, waiting for the officers to finish taking measurements. She wondered where Dillon had disappeared to as she sat at her podium flipping pages, forcing herself to look over her rigging notes, but the typewritten notes and schematics were a blur. Unable to strike the set or even clean up from the performance until the cause of death was made official, she had sent her crew home with reminders to be back the next morning. She held the last page in the book between her thumb and forefinger. “Show’s Closing Notes,” it was titled.

  Lucy would have to meet with the board members and explain what happened. She knew there must be some sort of protocol for noting the morbid details of losing a cast member during a performance, but nothing in her experience helped her know what was appropriate.

  Detective Azaria’s preliminary declaration that “inadequate safety measures” had probably contributed to the Tin Man’s death resonated through her brain. If that became the official reason Ambrose died, Lucy’s credibility as a manager capable of supervising the intricate rigging and stage movements would be buried along with the part time actor. She shuddered, slamming the book shut.

  “Care for some company?”

  The question startled her, and Lucy lost her grip on the notebook, sending it across the desk, where it slammed into the wall, the metal closures opened, scattering pages everywhere.

  “Sorry, sorry!” The veterinarian knelt next to her, helping to gather errant pages.

  “It’s ok. I needed to reorganize these pages and I’ve always found slamming it against the wall a good start.”

  Her snarky impatience didn’t seem to phase him. “It’s understandable you’re upset.” He held out the marked-up script pages. “I thought you could use a friendly ear.” He watched her flip the papers around, trying to make some order. “My name’s Cade. Cade Winston.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone else was still here. I’m Lucy Lambert.”

  From the hallway, a low whine arose and Lucy’s heart sunk. “Oh my gosh, I forgot to feed Penny.” Taking the rest of the stack from him, she laid everything on her desk, and hurried to see to the poor animal. “I usually feed her as soon as the performance is over. She must be starving.” The vet had followed her to the dog’s plastic kennel.

  And now I’m going to be turned into the authorities for animal cruelty. Fabulous.

  Lucy blabbered on about how she really did like animals, but the adopted dog’s temperament hadn’t exactly been what they’d hoped for after a few shows and she seemed to be stressing. Opening the crate door, she stepped back to avoid the usual burst into her arms that would prove she hadn’t also killed the dog. But Penny only laid on her cushion, blinking up at them.

  “C’mon, silly.” Lucy knelt down to tug at her collar. “Let’s get you something to eat.” Panicking a little, she hissed. “Penny, heel.” No response except for a lazy eye blink.

  Cade’s gentle hand reached in to pull back the dog’s lip. “Is she always this lethargic?”

  “She’s probably just tired. From, you know, all the excitement.”

  “I’d better have a closer look.”

  ***

  “I can’t be certain until we get the blood work back, but I’m pretty sure she’s been poisoned.” Cade’s call woke Lucy early the next morning. The vet had taken the sick pooch to his office while Lucy waited another hour for the police to finish their crime scene work. She’d hardly slept all night worrying about Ambrose, the dog, and her career.

  “I’ve put her on IV fluids and she’s perking up a bit now, but I want to monitor her for a few more hours.” Cade hesitated. “If you could think of anywhere she could have gotten into some kind of poison, perhaps cleaning supplies, rat poison… it would help me know how to treat her.”

  “She’s been with me ever since I fired the wrangler for spending more time flirting with the cast than taking care of her, and that was three weeks ago.” Lucy wracked her brain. “She’s always in the crate in the theater, and at the apartment she’s usually so tired she sleeps all the time
.”

  “That’s a lot for a healthy dog. Do you know how old she is?”

  “The rescue papers say she’s around three years old.” Lucy yawned. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right, I totally understand,” Cade said. “Perhaps you have a neighbor unfriendly to barking dogs...”

  Lucy’s headache surged into overdrive. “Mrs. Chastain next door is an animal lover, and besides, she’s hard of hearing, I don’t think she’d do something that despicable.”

  “I just wanted to eliminate all the possibilities.” His voice changed from professional to a more friendly timbre. “She’s going to be fine. Why don’t you get some sleep? Call my office this afternoon, and I’ll let you know if she’s ready to come home.”

  Lucy hung up, and fell back into her pillow, but sleep was out of the question. She got up to make coffee, and even though she hadn’t intended to keep a pet, she was grateful the vet was able to save the dog. Penny had grown into a comforting companion, especially after breaking up with Dillon.

  Lucy swirled sweetener and creamer into her coffee, wondering how much this vet bill would be and if the theater budget would cover it. She thought about calling Dillon to find out if he knew anything yet, but her phone rang, and she glanced at caller ID. “Hi, Dad.”

  “Hey Muffin, how did the last performance of your very first show as stage manager go?”

  “We killed ‘em.” Lucy’s attempt to give poor Tin Man’s death a humorous spin only caused her stomach to roil. While she recounted the tragedy, a tiny thought pinged around her brain like a metal orb in a pinball machine. She would yet again have to ask her dad for money, but everything in her resisted admitting defeat.

  “I guess I’ve heard everything now,” her dad said. “Does that mean your stage managing gig isn’t going to work out?” His question sounded almost as if he was gloating. “Maybe you could move back here, I really miss—”

  “Isn’t Monday Bingo night?” Grateful another call buzzed in her ear before he could persist in his mantra, she hurried to shorten their daily chat. Why don’t you play a card for me?”

  Their call over, she hung up, and threw on some clothes, at once anxious to get out of town, at the same time aware of the challenges waiting for her across the desert.

  Her dad’s loneliness never seemed to wane. Unlike the senior groups who attended the Sunday matinees, enjoying themselves and their carefree stage of life, he’d never recovered from her mother’s death. And when Lucy had moved several hours away after high school, instead of growing more independent, he’d only become more needy, calling her once, sometimes twice a day.

  As she walked out the door to her Jeep, she listened to the voicemail. “You can clean up your stage, Miss Lambert. We’ve finished taking all the photos and statement we need,” the detective said. “As I told you last night, the death will most likely be ruled accidental—”

  Lucy jammed the phone off but knew what the rest would be. “… due to negligence.” My negligence they’ll claim. And that will be the last show I’ll ever call. Maybe Dillon was right. I’m in over my head. She knew she should be happy it was an accident, and that someone didn’t want to kill poor Ambrose. So why did this good news feel so bad?

  Not wanting to, but knowing she was going to have to face him sooner or later, she dialed Dillon’s number, glad to hear his voicemail greeting. After the beep, she told him she’d been given the all clear to strike the set. “Sorry if your reel was messed up, I wish more than you do that none of this happened.” That was insensitive, so she quickly added, “May God rest poor Ambrose’s soul,” before she hung up.

  ***

  The only other vehicle in the theater lot was the rented moving truck parked in the loading dock. It should have been filled with the rented sets and props, everything returned last night. Another unexpected cost to her already blown show budget.

  She unlocked the stage entrance door, and flicked on the working lights, bracing herself for a long workday. The first to arrive, she went straight to her desk for the show binder she’d left in disarray. Just the fact that the vet had startled her proved she was not cut out for what she thought was her dream gig.

  Stuffing back a sob, she scrubbed at her face, and headed for her stool to spend a few minutes sorting the mess so she was ready to take inventory of the tear down. While the show was dismantled, she needed to account for every piece as it was removed. Her meticulous list was somewhere in that jumble of paperwork.

  But her desk and the podium next to it were bare, wiped clean. The sound technician had disconnected and removed the headset, the monitor was unplugged and covered with a dust cloth. No notebook rested where she remembered leaving it. Frantically searching around the desk, in the alcove where actors stood for offstage voiceovers, she wondered if someone had taken pity and removed it to try and sort it out for her, but a quick walk around the shop, and she knew it was nowhere in there either.

  As a last resort, she searched her locker, and was pulling out gum wrappers and empty water bottles as her crew began to arrive, expecting to get to work dismantling the set pieces. Every note, number, receipt and thought about the show had been written down or stuffed into that notebook’s pages, and she felt helpless and naked without it.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Where do you want us to start?” Justin slid on work gloves as Lucy opened and closed all the empty lockers, skimming the interiors for the binder. “Lose a contact?”

  “No…hey you didn’t see my show book did you?” Metal clanged against metal.

  “You had it last night when we left.” They climbed the ramp to the backstage cargo door. “If you had it all on a laptop like everyone else in this century.” The giant access door squealed and squawked on its tracks as Justin shouldered it open.

  “I’d love to have the luxury of a new computer. Have an extra grand or two for me?”

  “Down girl.”

  “Sorry, I’m just worried about poor Ambrose.”

  “You can borrow my computer any time. Any word from the detective about what,” he ran a finger across his neck, “killed him?”

  “Blunt force trauma to the head. They’re blaming faulty rigging. You were back there, were they goofing around? You know how those two were always punching each other—”

  “Of course they were. Actors can never behave. Were they killing each other? That I don’t know, but I hope not. Couldn’t see anything going on behind that curtain leg.”

  Lucy’s only hope left was if any cast member saw how Ambrose took the blow. But they were all supposed to be offstage during that crucial scene change. “Dang it.”

  “It’s like you want someone to have killed him,” Justin said. “Morbid much?”

  “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want him dead. I don’t want anyone dead. But don’t you get it? If no one did kill him, then my safety measures were at fault, including all my crew. And that includes you as well.”

  Justin threw up his hands, and backed up a step. “Hey, don’t try to pin this on me, I was minding my own business, hooked up to the headset. And checking the rigging every show was your job, you made that very clear during tech week. I quote, ‘no one plays with or touches the fly apparatus except me—’”

  “I know. You’re right. It’s all me. I feel terrible. Someone’s dead and all I can think about is my job and who can I blame besides myself.”

  “These things happen. That’s why they’re called accidents.” His oversized glove patted her shoulder. “Now let’s get this show put away, I’m sick of looking at it.”

  “Why don’t you get started packing the hand carried props? I’ll figure out how to track the inventory without the master list. You know how picky they are at the rental house. And Justin?”

  “What?” He shifted an empty box off a pile.

  “Thanks for listening to my rant.”

  “No worries.” He opened the lid, set it next to the table, and started putting props inside. “Hey, we could film the pr
ocess while we take everything off. When it goes into the truck we record it to prove what we’re sending back. And while we load, we recreate our own new master list. Dillon’s video camera is probably still in the lighting booth.” He thumbed up the hallway. “I’ll go fetch it if you think he won’t mind.”

  “Yeah, that might work.” Lucy nodded. “I’ll ask.” Gathering her resolve before calling Dillon, Justin’s idea had given her another thought. “Can you go into the shop and tell everyone to please wait another ten minutes. There’s something I want to check before we touch anything.”

  She passed the ghost light, a bare bulb standing down stage center, always lit when the rest of the lights were dark. Gabbing a stepladder, she climbed up, held her phone in as many different angles as she could manage from her precarious position, taking pictures of the still bloody rigging blamed for Ambrose’s death. She snapped photos from every position possible, her stomach queasy. She was used to handling stage blood, but this was the real thing. Its metallic smell was just about to affect her in the worst way. She climbed down gulping in air trying to clear her spinning head.

  While she checked over her pictures, scrolling through, she wondered how in the world the rigging carrying the mock hot air balloon could have swung down. Unless someone purposely lowered it, there was really no way it could have caused Ambrose harm. The crew member responsible for flying the piece would have been working the rails further up the wing toward Justin, or the sequence of curtain opening and closing would have been off. It just didn’t make sense.

  Something else had to be the cause of death.

  When she was satisfied she had enough pictures, she gave Justin and crew the go-ahead to get their tools out and begin dismantling, but to wait before taking anything out to the truck.