THE SOUND OF MURDER

by Cindy Brown

  “Sorry about transposing those house numbers, chickie.” She led me into a white-carpeted, high-ceilinged living room. “Put you in the wrong place at the wrong time. Poor Charlie.” She shook her head. “I called his daughter as soon as I heard. Thought she should hear the news from someone she knew.”

  “Don’t worry. I just wish there was something I could’ve done,” I said. “You look great. Big date?”

  “Not really.” She sat down on a peach loveseat and crossed her legs, jiggling one foot. “Arnie’s taking me to some charity thing. Asked me to sing a song or two.”

  As a dancer in the show, I had to be at rehearsal tonight. Marge didn’t. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was the Mother Superior, who appeared in just a few scenes (because she was Equity, and they’d already gone over the allotted number of rehearsal hours), or because Arnie was the theater’s producer (and Marge’s boyfriend) and he wanted her at this charity thing.

  “What songs are you going to sing?” I sat across from her in a matching loveseat. The room’s furniture and art were all Southwest pastels—mint greens, soft blues, and peaches. A dark brown cuckoo clock stood out like a lone European tourist amongst the desert landscapes on the walls.

  “‘New York, New York,’ ‘There’s No Business like Show Business,’ and ‘Everything’s Coming up Roses.’”

  I nodded. Marge’s big brassy voice was made for those songs.

  She must have read more on my face because she said, “Listen, kiddo. I know I’m miscast as the Mother Superior, even in this…” she frowned, “this…potato thing.”

  “Potato thing?”

  “You know.” She waved her hands in the air. “Cabaret and The Sound of Music mixed up. Like potatoes.”

  “I think you mean ‘mash-up.’”

  The Sound of Cabaret used the Germanic pre-World War II era settings of both the original musicals, and then combined the plots and characters. In the new show, feisty postulant Mary is sent to teach singing to the dancers at the seedy Vaughn Katt Club. Her secret agenda, of course, is to save their souls and return to the nunnery, but along the way she falls in love with the owner of the club, Captain Vaughn Katt. The captain is like a father to his ragtag troupe of dancers, and a hero: he is actually hiding them—all of them Jews—in plain sight by disguising them as performers. When the Nazis find out, the captain, Mary, and the Jewish dancers escape over the mountains in borrowed nuns’ habits.

  “The Sound of Cabaret,” Marge shook her head. “When Arnie first asked me to do it, I laughed out loud. Thought it was a joke. But he was serious as a heart attack. See, the theater is in a bit of trouble, and—”

  “Cuckoo!” sang the clock.

  “Really, five thirty already?” Diamonds sparkled in the late afternoon sunlight as Marge turned her wrist to look at her watch. “I gotta run, sweetheart. Sorry I didn’t get to give you the ten-cent tour. Just make sure to water the plants. Bernice’s got ’em everywhere, even in the bathroom.”

  “Okay,” I said, following her back down the entry hall.

  “Keys to the house are on the kitchen table.” Marge clicked to the door, where she picked up a gold clutch purse from a small hall table. “Instructions for the burglar alarm are in the drawer underneath the stereo.”

  “Burglar alarm?” I said.

  “And there’s a checklist for all the pool stuff there too.”

  “Yeah. About that—”

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said, turning to face me. “I told Charlie’s daughter you were a PI. You’re hired.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “Okay, let’s take a look at your PI license,” Uncle Bob said. “Oh, that’s right. You don’t have one.” It was Friday around noon, and I had told him the big news about our new case.

  I stood in front of his big metal desk, like a child called before the teacher. “But—”

  “Olive, you are not a private investigator.”

  “I didn’t say I was.”

  “No?”

  “I’m pretty sure I said I worked for a detective.” I was pretty sure.

  Uncle Bob shook his head. “Well, since you got us the case, if we got the case…”

  I held my breath.

  “You can work it.”

  “Woo hoo!” I did a little happy dance on the dirty brown carpet.

  “This is serious, Olive.” My uncle’s voice sounded serious too, but his eyes sparkled at me. I think he was glad he had a protégée.

  Marge had written down Charlie’s daughter’s name and phone number with a note saying I should call her at four thirty Eastern Standard Time. Uncle Bob helped me prep, pulling up the police report on the computer and spending the next twenty minutes going over the case with me. My case.

  Then he said, “Gotta go. I got a lunch meeting with Pat Franko.” The law firm of Franko, Hricko and Maionchi was my uncle’s biggest client. “You think you got it?”

  “Yep,” I replied. “If Amy, Charlie Small’s daughter, wants to hire us, I need to interview her to see why she wants to find out more about her dad’s death, which will almost certainly be ruled suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning. If she’s hiring us because she doesn’t think he would kill himself, I need to find out more about Charlie, why she thinks it isn’t suicide, and why she cares.”

  “Be careful with that last part,” said Uncle Bob. “That’s mostly for us and maybe Charlie’s attorneys. Just want to make sure she’s not giving us the runaround to get some extra cash from the estate.”

  “Got it.”

  My uncle waved goodbye as I moved my stuff over to his desk so I could spread out and prepare for my interview with Amy Small. I liked the idea of having hard copies for posterity, so I had printed out all the info and put it in a manila folder marked “Case #1: Charlie Small.” I took out the police report. I had already read it, but I went over it again carefully.

  I knew most of the facts: At 5:31 a.m. on Wednesday, April 5, Bernice Grete called 911 to report a car running in a neighbor’s garage. Hank Snow of the Sunnydale posse responded at 5:35 and the fire department arrived at 5:37, at which time they gained access to the house via a key box. They determined that a Ford Taurus was idling in the closed-up garage and found Charlie, already dead, in the driver’s seat of the still-running car. There were no signs to suggest anything other than suicide, and it was expected that the postmortem would confirm the cause of death as carbon monoxide poisoning.

  At 1:25 Arizona time, I got out my notebook where I had questions prepared for Amy, who was vice president of sales for a nanotech company in Boston. I dialed her office at precisely four thirty Eastern Standard Time.

  “Hello, Advanced Precision Technologies, can you hold please?” The woman answering the phone spoke rapidly, like she was announcing the legalities at the end of a radio commercial.

  “Actually I was asked to call—”

  “Thank you,” said the rushed woman. After a click, a Muzak version of the Beatles “Let It Be” filled the phone line. Soon I found myself humming along to the catchy tune. Without really thinking about it, I began singing along. “When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary…”

  The receptionist came back on the line and said, “You’re holding for Mary? One moment please.” Another click. “Cracklin’ Rosie” was playing. I knew better than to sing along this time.

  “Hi, this is Mary,” said a weary sounding voice.

  “Actually, I want to speak with Amy—”

  “This is Mary.”

  “Yes, the receptionist made a mis—”

  Another click and a bit more Muzak. I remembered hearing that “Cracklin’ Rosie” was about drinking. I was seriously considering it.

  I looked at the clock. It was now 4:40. After five more minutes, another woman picked up. “This is Amy Small,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

 
“Hi Amy, I’m with Duda Detective Agency, and—”

  Another click. No music this time, just a dial tone.

  Dang. I told Uncle Bob, Bob Duda, that is, he needed another name for his business.

  I dialed again. It was four forty-five.

  “Hello, Advanced Precision Technologies,” said the same receptionist. “Can you hold please?”

  “No!” I said, too late. Muzak.

  I hung up and redialed.

  “Hello, this is—” said the rapid-fire receptionist.

  “I have an appointment with Amy Small,” I blurted out.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Olive Ziegwart.” I knew better than to try Duda Detectives again.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t see that name.”

  “Robert Duda?”

  “You’ll have to call back on Monday and make an appoint—”

  “Ivy Meadows?”

  A pause. “Yes, Amy had you down for four thirty.” Of course. Marge only knew me as Ivy. “Unfortunately, Ms. Small had another phone appointment at four forty-five. She’s on the line with them now.”

  “I’ll wait.” My first stab at detecting was not going well.

  After another five minutes, the Muzak was interrupted with, “Hi, this is Amy.”

  “Hi, Amy, this is Olive. I mean, I—”

  “Hold on. From Doodoo Detectives?”

  “Yes.”

  I heard a sigh and could just tell she was getting ready to hang up. “Dud-a!” I practically shouted into the phone. “Duda Detective Agency. It’s a Polish name that means one who plays the bagpipes badly.”

  “Is that supposed to make me think you’re not a crank?”

  “I’m not a crank, I’m a private investigator.” Yeah, I was exaggerating again, but this was an extenuating circumstance. “I’m Ivy, the one Marge recommended?”

  Silence.

  “Hello?”

  There was a noise I couldn’t identify muffled by a hand or something over the mouthpiece of the phone.

  “Ms. Small?”

  I heard the sound clearly then. It was weeping. Oh.

  Until that moment I hadn’t really thought of Charlie Small as a real person, just my breakout detective job. I felt my face flush with shame.

  “Ms. Small? I’m so sorry about your father.”

  “Thank you,” she said, snuffling. “I’m sorry. It just hit me again. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about him?” I asked as gently as I could.

  From Amy, who wept off and on throughout the interview, I learned that Charlie Small was seventy-eight years old. He’d been married to his wife, Helen (“his bride,” he always called her) for nearly fifty years until she died of lung cancer last fall. He’d been a loving father who sacrificed his dream of owning his own business in order to send Amy to MIT. He’d worked as an accountant with a midsized firm in Omaha until he retired at sixty-five and moved with Helen to Sunnydale.

  “I only saw him once since Mom’s funeral,” said Amy quietly, all done with crying for now. “Just once. I was so busy with work and…” She trailed off.

  “I’m sure he understood. I’m sure he was proud of the job you’re doing.” I don’t know why I said those things, but I did feel sure, somehow.

  “I hope so.”

  “And why…” I took a deep breath. “Why do you want us to look into his death?”

  “My father would never kill himself.”

  I waited. I’d learned from Uncle Bob not to fill the silences. He taught me that the best information came from letting other people talk. This aspect of detecting did not come naturally to me.

  “My father was a strong Christian. He believed that only God had the right to end a life. And now his pastor is threatening to not perform the memorial service because he doubts my dad’s faith.” Amy’s voice grew hard as she imitated the pompous-sounding pastor. “He said that he ‘rejected the lordship of Jesus Christ by taking his life into his own hands rather than submitting to God’s will.’ But my dad didn’t. He wouldn’t. He believed in releasing all his troubles to God.” Amy began crying again. “My father’s faith was the most important thing in his life, even more than my mom and me. Did you know his Bible was found on the seat next to him?”

  “No, I didn’t.” That seemed like the type of thing you might want to read right before dying, but I didn’t say anything. Instead I flipped through the police report to see if they mentioned the Bible.

  “I should have been there for him,” Amy said. “I should have watched over him. None of this would have happened if I’d taken care of him.”

  I stopped flipping. Those words, Amy’s words, struck my chest and lay heavy in my heart.

  That night after rehearsal, I stood outside Bernice’s house and stared at the pool, its black water sliced by a jagged silver shard of moonlight.

  “I should have been there for him, I should have watched over him. None of this would have happened if I’d taken care of him.” Amy’s words beat at my ribcage, matching the hammering of my heart. It wasn’t just sympathy. I knew exactly how she felt.

  CHAPTER 8

  An unusual silence filled the theater. No music played. All action onstage had stopped. Marge, in full nun regalia, stood in the middle of the stage looking worried, her mouth a tight line, eyebrows drawn nearly together. Mary, the Captain, and all of us Vaughn Katt Club dancers were gathered around her in a half circle. We all looked worried too.

  Truth be told, we were supposed to look that way. After all, we’d just found out that the Nazis had realized we dancers were Jewish. But the real reason behind all of the creased brows was Marge’s lines, or rather, the lack of them.

  “Marge?” called Levin, our director, from the house. “Can we try this again?” His voice sounded tight. Mine would too, if my star performer couldn’t remember her lines less than a week before opening.

  To make it worse, a new show like The Sound of Cabaret was a big gamble for the theater, which typically produced crowd-pleasers aimed at Sunnydale’s retirees. “Arizona’s Ethel Merman” was the main reason the show was selling.

  She nodded at Levin.

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s start with the Captain’s line.”

  Roger/Captain Vaughn Katt, a broad-shouldered guy with a full head of steel gray hair, nodded at Levin, then turned to Marge/Mother Superior. “We’ve got to get them out of here!”

  “Could we hide them at the convent?” said Hailey, the petite blonde playing Mary.

  The Captain shook his head. “First place they’d look.”

  “Besides,” I said, “we don’t look like we belong anywhere near a church.”

  Silence.

  I silently willed Marge to remember her line.

  Still silence.

  I tried ESP.

  No dice.

  Finally from the wings, we heard a loud whisper. “That’s it! We’ll disguise you as nuns!”

  “That’s it!” Marge said to us dancers. “We’ll disguise you as nuns!” A pause.

  “But you have to promise me one thing,” Bitsy whispered from where she watched in the wings. As Marge’s understudy, she knew all her lines.

  Marge shook her head slightly and glanced toward the sound of Bitsy’s voice.

  “But you have to promise me one thing,” Bitsy said louder.

  “But you have to promise me one thing,” Marge said. On cue, the rehearsal pianist started playing behind her. All Marge’s worry wrinkles fell away and she continued, “You’ll change your ways. Once you put on the habit, you’ll have to respect the idea behind it.”

  “But we’re Jewish!” said another Vaughn Katt dancer. “If we were willing to convert, don’t you think we’d have done it by now?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” said
Marge, the piano building behind her. That was one long intro. “I mean no more dancing in cabarets. I mean clean up your life. I mean…” The familiar tune from The Sound of Music swelled as Marge opened her mouth and sang the new words in her gigantic Ethel Merman voice, “CLIMB…OUT OF THE GUTTER…”

  She had it now. The rest of the song poured out of her. One by one, we sank to our knees beside her, as choreographed. She launched into the final refrain: “CLIMB out of the gutter, wipe off your blush, Nazis are behind you. You’ll make it…IF YOU…RUSH!”

  She delivered the last line with enormous gusto. If the theater had timbers, they would have shook. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bitsy offstage, shaking her head. I wondered if she didn’t like the lyric change or Marge’s rendition, which was more madam than Mother. Or maybe just the fact that our headliner couldn’t get through a scene without help.

  We broke for lunch right afterward. As I opened the door to the greenroom, something whizzed past my head.

  “Flying monkey alert!” yelled Zeb. A dishwasher who was always hanging out at the theater, Zeb was barely sixteen years old and the biggest science geek I’d ever met. He retrieved the small plastic monkey that had just missed my head and jotted something down in a small black notebook. “I’m finding out how far each monkey can go depending on how far I stretch the rubber band that launches them.”

  He had a green tinge below one eye.

  “Where’d you get the shiner?” I asked.

  “On the ropes in gym class. Some guy kicked me.”

  “Probably because Zeb shot him with a monkey,” Candy whispered.

  “I’ve never worked in a theater where the kitchen help fraternized with the talent,” Bitsy said loudly, looking directly at Zeb.

  “I’ve never worked in a theater where old ladies carried around spare underwear,” said Candy.

  Bitsy pursed her lip in a pout. Not sure if she was miffed because Candy mentioned her unmentionables or because she called her “old.”