A Midsummer Night's Scream jj-15

by Jill Churchill

  "How sad that is."

  "Not necessarily. The kids love their grandmother, and so does her daughter. And to my mind, they're all happy enough with that. John Bunting doesn't enter into the relationships, and nobody cares anymore."

  "What about the guy who replaced Denny?"

  "I don't think he needs an alibi. He was invited by Imry to watch the rehearsal. He didn't know why. Imry offered him Denny's role, which he turned down because it would hurt his, Norman's, reputation to help Imry fill someone else's role. It wasn't until Denny died and Imry contacted him again, saying that Denny had died, that Norman agreed. And even then, Imry hadn't mentioned that Denny had been murdered."

  "Another proof of what a jerk Imry is," Jane said.

  As she spoke, her cat, Meow, hopped over the fence with a mole in his mouth. Jane leaped up, grabbed a shovel, and forced Meow to drop it, then threw it back over the fence into the vacant lot behind her own house.

  Twelve

  Mel and Jane had both become used to Max and Meow's feline hunting antics. When Jane sat back down, Mel said, "Joani Lang hasn't an alibi, exactly. She claimed she'd gone to a bar to meet a girlfriend who didn't show up. The bartender says she spent the time trying to pick up men. Apparently none of them suited her, or maybe vice versa. The bartender doesn't remember when she left. Or if she left alone or with some guy."

  "Who else have you questioned?"

  "Jake Stanton. He and his wife had a late dinner with another couple. They went home at ten-thirty and watched a movie. They described it and it was one I've seen. But it's not proof of an alibi — they could have watched it the day before. But I tend to believe them.

  "Bill Denk says he just went home and read until he fell asleep. The prop guy, named Tommy Rankin, who has an antiques shop but likes the‑

  ater, says he doesn't remember where he was, but says he wasn't at the theater that evening for sure. He'd been there earlier to get a fix on what he needed in the way of furniture, flowers on tables, and such. Same with the students who are painting the set. They both went home to study for their classes the next day. And that Chance woman was at a fund-raiser for another project. She and her husband went home around ten."

  "Who else had keys?" Jane asked.

  "There's a stagehand. Buddy Wilson. He says he wasn't needed until the dress rehearsal and never had reason to use the key and thinks he's lost it anyway. The lighting specialist and his two assistants, who are theater students, won't be needed until Monday evening's rehearsal. They did a preliminary study of the script and stage two weeks ago and checked that the equipment was working.

  "You do understand," Mel went on, "that I wouldn't be talking to you about this except that you and Shelley have spent more time with these people than I have. I'm just letting you know my impressions so you two can confirm or deny them based on what you've seen and heard."

  This was true. Mel had seldom asked Jane and Shelley for advice in earlier crimes when they'd been acquainted with some of the possible perps. That, of course, didn't stop them from sharingwhat they knew. He usually listened and didn't comment. Jane was flattered to be asked.

  "We really only know about Ms. Bunting," she replied. "We've taken her to the needlepoint shop, and a lunch, and back to her hotel. We bought her a gift. Then the next day we took her to the needlepoint lesson. A nosy person asked her some personal questions, which she answered, and then she abruptly changed the subject back to needlepoint."

  "What did she say about herself?"

  Jane replied, "She'd gone shopping for her grandchildren and spilled baby toys out of her bag. The snoop asked if her daughter didn't have to be pretty old to have babies. Which was insulting. It seemed to me to suggest that Ms. Bunting is even older than she is."

  "How old is she?"

  "I really don't know. I'd guess early seventies. Ms. Bunting said she was in her early forties when she got pregnant. So the daughter would be around thirty."

  "When I interviewed her daughter, that was what I would have guessed," Mel confirmed.

  "Anyway, Ms. Bunting replied that it wasn't her daughter who was too old to have babies. It was she herself who had the daughter quite late in her life after three miscarriages when she was young."

  Mel said, "That must have been a hard thing for her. Three in a row."

  Jane was a bit surprised that any man could understand how difficult it might be to face miscarriage after miscarriage. She'd known several women who'd had one or even two and were devastated by it, fearing they were doomed to be childless forever.

  "What did the rest of the people who knew Denny seem to think of him?" Mel asked.

  "Shelley and I didn't like him. And when he bragged about being in a film at Sundance that won awards, one of the men said Denny had only been an extra."

  "Which one said that?"

  "I'm not sure. Shelley might remember. But it could just have been a guess anyway. Denny was very arrogant."

  "What were your impressions of the rest of them? John Bunting, for example?"

  "And old lech with bad breath," Jane replied instantly. "He made a point of sitting really close to Joani the first night," she went on. "She was wearing a really loose top and he was trying to get a good look at her breasts. Joani moved away from him just as Ms. Bunting told him to behave himself. He did know his lines, however. He sort of slurred them, but he had the words right."

  "A heavy drinker?"

  "Possibly. No. Probably. Did his old pals who got together say anything about his drinking?"

  "They led me to believe they were all tanked by the time they left. I can't see how the rest of them are so successful in business if this is their usual alcohol consumption. But it might be Bunting's norm."

  "I'd guess that's true."

  Suddenly Mel changed the subject. "Since you fed me such a nice breakfast, let me return the favor. Let's go out to a really expensive restaurant tonight."

  "You're on."

  It wasn't to be.

  Mel called her back at noon. "I'm going to have to back out of dinner. The janitor at the theater was found a while ago in the alley behind the same theater."

  "Dead?"

  "Not quite. In a coma. Not expected to survive."

  "Same kind of weapon?"

  "We don't know yet. The hospital is doing X-rays as we speak."

  "I was looking forward to dinner, but I understand. I can occupy myself tonight with writing and needlepointing. Do get back to me when you know more, if you have time."

  When she hung up, she called Shelley and told her about the janitor.

  "Who would want to attack a janitor?" Shelley asked.

  "I have no idea. Mel said he'd call me back when he knew more. Let's go get some good coffee and I'll tell you about the conversation I had with him this morning."

  When they had their coffee and were sitting in a little park across from Starbucks, where no one could overhear them, Jane said, "For almost the first time, he asked what we thought of the rest of the cast."

  "Amazing. What did you tell him?"

  Jane recounted the conversation, including who had alibis and who didn't. Who had keys to the theater. Mel's impressions of the people he'd interviewed.

  "Isn't that interesting. I know he loves you and tolerates me. It surprises me that he was so open about what he knew, let alone that he actually asked for our impressions of the people at the theater."

  "I was astonished, too. We've nearly always had to force our opinions on him."

  Jane took the last sip of her coffee and sighed. "I have to go home and do my two hours of writing and one hour of needlepointing. You know, I'm really enjoying learning how to work on a canvas more than I thought. It has nothing to dowith words or plots. Maybe that's why I like it. It's a different sort of creativity."

  "I know what you mean. It's much more interesting than rating caterers, figuring the taxes, buying groceries, and all the other boring things we're forced to do."

  When Jane was home and at
the computer, after checking the answering machine, which had no messages, she found herself wondering the same thing Shelley had. Why would anyone attack a janitor?

  What do janitors do?

  They clean up places when the people who occupy them aren't there.

  That makes blackmail easy.

  Mel was sure to know this, too.

  She tried to put those thoughts out of her head and went back to her laptop to do her two-hour stint. She looked over her notes once more and made a note about butlers having the same access to private matters as janitors. Then deleted it. Two hours later she'd done another chapter. She was really on a roll today. She liked starting another chapter as soon as she finished one. It made her feel she'd gotten a head start on the next day. So she worked for another half hour. Then called Shelley again.

  "No word from Mel. Want to needlepoint together for a while?"

  "Okay. Here or at your house?"

  "Mine. I want to be here in case Mel calls."

  They sat down at either end of the long sofa in the living room, each having room for their thread containers. Both admired the other 's work so far. Shelley's, however, was done a tiny bit tighter than Jane's. It figured, Jane assumed. Shelley was more intense in almost all matters than Jane was.

  As they settled in to work, Jane explained her theory about janitors. "They work alone, and could get away with learning private things about people."

  "I don't know," Shelley said. "There could be other motives, couldn't there?"

  "Like what?"

  "Maybe he was a gossip. Telling other people how sloppy his other customers were."

  "That's not enough of a motive for attacking him," Jane claimed. "And how would the person who was slandered know about it? Or really care enough?"

  "Okay. But what if he was stealing things?" "Easy. You complain to his supervisor. You don't try to kill him to stop him."

  "Maybe in self-defense, if the janitor was fired

  and tried to attack the person responsible for it."

  "Maybe," Jane said, pickin up the television

  remote and turning on Home and Garden TV. "I

  like my own theory best. But it doesn't matter. It's

  Mel's problem, not ours. Oh, this is my favorite

  show. Designing for the Sexes. I like that Michael guy. And you can always tell whose side he's taking. See? He's explaining, ever so nicely, why the man is wrong this time. But he'll be sure to provide one thing the husband really, really wants in order to pacify him."

  Mel called around nine that evening. "The janitor has been in surgery almost all day, having pieces of bone picked out of his brain. There's a slim chance he may survive."

  "Will he remember what happened?"

  "Probably not. He may not really know anyway. The blow was to the back of his head. Most head injuries, I'm told, cause temporary or permanent amnesia. That's all I know now. I'm interviewing his supervisor in the morning about the janitor's normal schedule."

  "You have thought about blackmail, haven't you?"

  There was a long silence before Mel said curtly, "Of course I have."

  "Sorry to ask. I presumed you had," she said cheerfully. "And don't forget, you owe me a really good dinner."

  Thirteen

  Early Monday, Mel had finally run down the woman in charge of the cleaning staff for the college. She was a surprisingly young Hispanic woman named Rose Havana. She had her dark hair in a neat bun and was dressed in a flattering blue suit.

  "Ms. Havana, I presume that you know that one of your janitors, Sven Turner, has been seriously injured," Mel said.

  "Yes, I know. I'm sorry about it. He's a good worker. Is he expected to live?"

  "He might. The doctors aren't committing themselves yet. He's gone through a long operation and is still unconscious. His vital signs are improving slightly. That's all I know. Could you tell me about him?"

  "Please take a seat. My coffee is ready. Would you like a cup?"

  Mel nodded.

  When she'd poured them both a steaming cup, she sat down behind her desk and said, "I don'tknow him well. I don't think many people do. I know he's good at his job. I frequently follow my staff members on their rounds to check that they're doing what they're supposed to. He is — or was — one of the most efficient."

  "How long had he been employed by the college?"

  She went to a file cabinet and brought back a folder. "He's been here for almost twenty years."

  "Is there anything personal you could tell me about him? Family? Background?"

  "Not really. He was probably the quietest person on my staff. That's why he liked being on the night shift. He didn't have to converse with much of anyone. He was very shy. If somebody on his rounds was working late, he'd call in to alert me that he was shifting the order of cleaning. Most of his work was here at the college. He only recently took on the job at the theater. I'm probably the only person he felt comfortable talking to."

  "Did he call in at any time about the theater?"

  "Yes, he did. A couple of days ago, he said he was at the theater. He'd let himself in and heard two men talking, so he was going back to the college and would do the theater cleanup early the next morning."

  "Do you remember what night that was?"

  "I'm sorry. I don't exactly recall. Maybe last Tuesday or Wednesday. I don't keep records of things like that. Unless I know someone didn't

  show up to do their work, and the department that was neglected reports it."

  She went on, "I guess the only other thing I know about him is that he always liked to get everything cleaned up early on Friday. He once told me he liked spending most of his weekends driving around in his car and visiting small towns."

  Mel already knew that Sven Turner was forty-seven years old, and where he lived. The janitor hadn't been robbed and the information was all on his driver's license. Mel had already left a message for the local cop on that beat about going to Turner's home.

  "Thank you, Ms. Havana. If you think of anything else we should know about Mr. Turner, please let me know." He handed her his card with his office telephone number.

  She, in exchange, gave him hers and said, "Please let me know how he's doing, if you would. And would you get our van back to us? We're shorthanded with Sven gone and need it for what I hope will be a short-term replacement."

  "As soon as it's been checked for fingerprints." As Mel left her office, Police Officer Don Jones rang through on Mel's cell phone.

  "Detective VanDyne, your office gave me your number. I've called on Sven Turner's sister and need your help. Or rather, she does.""I'll be right there. I have the address."

  It was in an old but fairly well-cared-for neighborhood near the college. When Mel arrived, Officer Jones was sitting on the front porch. Mel guessed Jones was probably in his late thirties and wondered why he was still on a routine neighborhood job. He was a tall, slightly overweight man, with a nice smile and very well-shined shoes. His uniform was perfection. Not a wrinkle to be seen.

  Jones had risen hurriedly and opened the front gate. "Let me fill you in. I know Sven slightly. I know his sister better. She's homebound. She lost her lower legs several years ago to diabetes. I check on them from time to time."

  "How's she taking the news?"

  "Badly. She's dependent on him to cook for her. She's a single woman. We'll need Meals on Wheels and someone to clean and shop for her."

  "Can she dress herself, get in the shower and bed by herself?"

  "I'm not sure. You need to talk to her." "Come in with me, then."

  Hilda Turner was in her chair in the living room, which was spotless. Mel guessed this had probably been their parents' home. The wallpaper and carpet spoke of age. There were pictures of family members on side tables. She'd obviously been crying. Apparently Officer Jones had brought her a box of tissues and a wastebasket.

  "I'm Detective VanDyne, Miss Turner. I'm sorry about your brother."

  "Someone from the hospital tol
d me a little bit about what happened to him. But not much. Could you tell me more?"

  "He has broken bones in his skull and they've injured his brain. I don't know how seriously. The bones have been removed. He's still not conscious. I have to be honest with you — he could recover but not be entirely 'there,' if you know what I mean."

  She looked a little confused.

  Mel was forced to be blunt. "He might have permanent brain damage."

  She started crying again, then made a bitter laughing noise. "What a pair we'll make."

  "I'm going to get social services to visit you," Mel said. "They'll take care of you until we know more about your brother's condition."

  She pulled herself together and said with dignity, "I'm not going on welfare."

  "You will need help for at least a while. And it's not charity. It's what you pay taxes for. While I'm here, could I take a look at your brother's room? I don't know very much about him and it might help me find out who did this to him."

  "Nobody but me knew him. He was terribly shy. Yes, you may look in his room if it would be useful." She pointed the way.

  Jane spent Monday morning working on her book. She was enjoying writing this one much more than the first one, because she'd planned ahead instead of sitting down at random intervals and winging it over a long period of years. That technique had caused her an enormous amount of tedious rewriting. There had been times she hadn't even looked or thought about the book for weeks. Then she had to reread it all over again just to remember what she'd already done.

  Of course, that time, she didn't know she needed to turn it into a murder mystery until she'd attended a mystery conference nearby and had the good luck to meet an encouraging successful writer, and an editor who urged her to send in the final draft.