THE SOUND OF MURDER

by Cindy Brown

  “Like Charlie and Marge? I heard you recently gave them viatical settlements.”

  “A viatical settlement? Marge?” Arnie about dropped his cigar.

  “She didn’t tell you? Oh, buddy, I am so sorry.” Carl patted the much shorter Arnie on the shoulder in a gesture so patronizing I wanted to slug him.

  “Does this mean…?” Arnie’s words and his cigar hung mid-air.

  “Yeah,” said Carl. “You’re no longer the beneficiary of Marge’s life insurance policy.” He opened the door and held it for Bitsy. “I am.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Arnie had just left the theater after Carl and Bitsy when Zeb came skidding around the corner. “Ivy!” His eyes were wide. “I need your help.”

  “Okay.” I wondered what could make the normally unflappable kid hyperventilate.

  “My notebook—the one where I write down all the data from my experiments—it’s gone.”

  “Okay.” Still wondering. A missing notebook didn’t seem like such a big deal.

  “And if I don’t get it back—” Zeb gulped back a sob. For the first time, I noticed his pimply young face had old eyes.

  I put my arm on his shoulder. “Zeb? I know this is important, but—”

  “You don’t understand. I haven’t input any of that data yet and I have to do it in order to get the extra credit and I need the extra credit to be eligible for this special summer science program and I need the science program—”

  “Whoa.” I was afraid he would pass out if he didn’t take a breath.

  “I need the science program,” Zeb kept going, “so I can get a scholarship so I can go to college and I need to go to college so I can get out of the house and away from—” He finally stopped and looked at me with those old eyes. Oh. I remembered that one of those eyes had recently been blackened by “someone in gym class.”

  “That’s why you’re at the theater all the time?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” Zeb said. “I want to find my notebook. I think Bitsy took it.”

  “Okay.” I wanted to do more than that, to keep this kid safe, but maybe finding his notebook was a start. “How do you know it’s been stolen?”

  “I keep it in my apron pocket. I always hang up my apron on a hook in the kitchen when I use the bathroom so the apron strings don’t fall in the—”

  “I get it,” I said. “Go on.”

  “My notebook isn’t there. And one of the guys saw Bitsy hanging around the kitchen by where we hang the aprons. He figures she took it for payback.”

  After a short discussion, we decided to search Bitsy’s dressing room. I didn’t think she could have taken the notebook with her. The patent leather clutch she carried was too small.

  “But just me,” I whispered to Zeb as we walked down the hall. “I’m going in alone.” He opened his mouth to protest. “It’s easier to explain one person in the dressing room than two.”

  “I can keep watch.”

  “Okay, but don’t be too obvious. Stay away from the door.”

  “Right. And I’ll cough if I see someone coming.”

  “Great.” We stood in front of Bitsy’s dressing room door. “Now shoo.”

  I slipped into the dressing room. Hairspray still hung in the air—Bitsy must have re-lacquered herself before her date. The room, which used to be Marge’s, was slightly smaller than the one Candy and I occupied, but meant for one person—a star’s dressing room. I flipped on the lights that ringed the mirror. A pink makeup kit, about the size of a tackle box, sat on the edge of the counter that ran underneath the mirror. Not much else on the counter, no makeup or brushes scattered about, no cards or scripts or stolen black science notebooks.

  I popped open the lid. Zeb’s small spiral-bound notebook was right on top. As I grabbed it, the movement caused the kit to shift slightly toward the edge of the counter. I steadied it with a hand underneath so it didn’t fall.

  Huh. There was something taped to the bottom of Bitsy’s makeup kit. I lifted it up so I could see. A 6x9 manila envelope was duct-taped to the underside. I set the kit on the counter, closed it, tipped it up, and carefully peeled the tape away. It’d be easy to put it back on without Bitsy noticing. The envelope wasn’t sealed shut, just closed with the little metal hook thingie. I slid its contents—several pieces of folded copy paper—onto the counter. I unfolded one sheet. Oh. Just a copy of one of our reviews. I started to fold it again when something caught my eye. About halfway down into the review, the critic had written, “As the Mother Superior, Marge Weiss delivers a powerful performance.” In this copy, though, “Marge Weiss” was scratched out and “Elizabeth Bright” written in. Bitsy’s real name. I put that review aside and unfolded another sheet. This one said, “The sold-out crowd was almost certainly there to see Marge Weiss…” Again, Marge’s name was inked out and replaced with Bitsy’s. I quickly unfolded the other pieces of paper. All the same, with Bitsy substituted for Marge in each review.

  I didn’t like the tension that crept up my neck. I shook it off. Maybe this was just Bitsy’s way of staying inspired, by imagining she was the star. Nothing really wrong in that. Then I unfolded the last sheet of paper. It was a copy of a photo that ran in the Sunday Arizona Republic the week before opening. In the picture, Marge/Mother Superior smiled down at Hailey/Mary, looking kind and wise—even with the word “bitch” scrawled in a heavy hand across her face.

  A coughing fit in the hall—Zeb’s cue that we weren’t alone. I shoved all the papers back into the envelope and re-taped it to the bottom of the kit. More coughing, then footsteps and a man’s voice. “I’m on it. But this is the last one, right? Right?” I put the kit back on the counter. I must have made a noise because the footsteps stopped outside the dressing room door. “Wait, I think someone may be…”

  The dressing room door opened. Roger held his phone to his ear. His eyes flitted over me, his face hard in the bright lights of the dressing room. “Yeah, I did hear something,” he said into his phone. “Gotta go, Debra. Catch you later.” He hung up. “My agent.” He shook his head. “Not happy that I’m retiring. And speaking of which, you need to be retiring for the night too. They’re getting ready to lock up.” Roger now stood near me, too close, as always.

  “Of course.” I thought fast, conscious of the question in Roger’s eyes. “Bitsy said I could borrow some…” I scratched my nose, which was one of my “tells,” but which also gave me an idea. “Calamine lotion.” I itched my arm for good measure as I opened Bitsy’s makeup kit.

  “It’s the water hazards,” said Roger. “The golf course tries to keep the mosquitos down, but they’re pretty persistent.”

  I pulled out a likely looking tube and showed it to him, keeping the label away from him. “Found it.” I’d have to find a way to get the pink tube of lotion back into Bitsy’s kit later. Now I had to figure out how to pick up Zeb’s notebook, which sat on the counter next to the makeup kit.

  “Aaah! Mouse!” I pointed behind Roger. When he turned to see, I slipped Zeb’s notebook into my shorts pocket.

  “Missed it,” he said, turning back to me.

  “Slippery little buggers. Speedy too.” Who knew I’d ever be happy that the theater had mice?

  As we walked into the hall from Bitsy’s dressing room, I caught a glimpse of Zeb, half hidden behind a corner. I nodded slightly toward the parking lot, where I could hand off the notebook. He nodded back, then disappeared.

  “By the way, you sounded great tonight.” Roger smiled at me as he held the stage door open. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you found yourself in New York one day pretty soon.”

  “Yeah.” I smiled back—a bright fake smile. Just like Bitsy’s.

  CHAPTER 37

  Dammit! I reached for the fire extinguisher in the backseat. It wasn’t there.

  I jumped out of my car as flames shot skyward and ran across the pebb
ly shoulder, putting a good safe distance between the car and me. Black smoke billowed from the engine and orange flames engulfed the back of the Bug. Shit. The fire was way worse this time, and I’d forgotten to put my new fire extinguisher in the car.

  Or had I? I could have sworn I put it in the car after buying it. Sirens interrupted my thoughts as a fire truck careened around the corner.

  Once the fire was out, I declined the ride the tow truck driver offered. Marge’s house was just a mile away. The walk would give me time to clear my head and maybe air out my burnt-rubber smelling clothes.

  As I walked, I called Uncle Bob to tell him I wasn’t going to be in the office that day. I decided to play down the event so he didn’t worry. “My car had a little fire. I think it needs more than duct tape this time. Maybe a hose or two.” Or an engine.

  “Olive! Are you trying to burn yourself up?”

  Good thing I’d played it down.

  “You need to stop driving that P.O.S. It’s dangerous.”

  I let him go on so I wouldn’t have to say anything that wasn’t technically true.

  “What does your fireman boyfriend say? Is he happy you’re driving that fire hazard? Doesn’t he think it’s dangerous?”

  “Um…”

  “Let me guess. You haven’t told him about that fire-magnet you drive because you’re afraid he would tell you to stop driving it. Right?”

  Of course Uncle Bob was right, but I decided that silence was a good enough affirmation.

  He blew out a breath. “You promise you’ll have a mechanic look at your car right away?”

  “I promise. Right away.” Especially since it was being towed to a repair shop.

  “Good. So,” he said in a calmer voice. “You said duct tape wouldn’t work?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Duct tape?” he repeated.

  “Yeah.” I wondered where he was going with this.

  “Did you know its real name is duck tape? Like the bird?”

  Aww. He was trying to make me feel better by offering me one of his trivia tidbits. “I did not know that.”

  “Yeah. They came up with the tape during World War II to keep the guys’ ammo cans dry. It did the trick—like ‘water off a duck’s back.’ So, ‘duck tape.’ Nice, huh?”

  I love my uncle.

  I was just beginning to feel better, thanks to my talk with Uncle Bob, a nice walk in the sun, and the sight of a family of quail running in a little line ahead of me. Then I stepped through Marge’s front door. Something was wrong.

  Lassie didn’t greet me. I started to call out to him, then stopped. I wasn’t sure what to do if someone was in the house, but I opted for quiet. I also took my cell out of my bag as I crept silently down the hall. I saw no sign that anything was amiss. But I also didn’t see Lassie.

  Was that a noise from the backyard? I stopped and listened, concentrating hard. Yes. I punched 911 into my cell so I could hit “talk” in a second if need be. I kept going, staying near the wall. No one in the great room, but the noise in the backyard was clearer—splashing? And barking, definitely barking. Oh God, Lassie must have fallen in the pool!

  I threw open the sliding glass door and rushed out. I spotted Lassie running around the perimeter of the pool, yapping. Then I realized there was someone in the pool. Then I realized it was Arnie, swimming laps with his glasses on and his cigar still firmly between his teeth. Then I realized he was naked.

  “Oops!” I heard him say before I turned my back. “Sorry, kid. I like a little swim au natural and got no pool at my house. Didn’t think you’d be home.”

  Lassie ran up to me, panting, then back behind me toward the pool. From all the splashing I gathered Arnie was getting out. “Okay, safe to turn around.”

  I did. Arnie had fastened a big blue towel where his waist would have been. Out of his clothes, you could see Arnie wasn’t fat, just sort of square—his shoulders, waist, and hips were all about the same circumference. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, padding over to me, Lassie jingling at his heels. “Weren’t you going into the office this morning?”

  I nodded, remembering that I had said so at the theater last night.

  Arnie glanced up at a corner of the covered patio, then sat down in a chair, peering at me through water-spattered glasses. “Everything okay?”

  I sat across from him. “My car caught on fire.” Arnie’s eyes grew enormous behind his thick glasses. I waved away his worry. “It’s nothing new. Just a little more serious this time. Are you okay?”

  “You’re thinking about last night? About Marge selling her insurance policy?” Arnie picked up Lassie and sat him in his lap. “You know, I thought my heart was already broken, but…” He petted Lassie with great tenderness. “It’s not about the money. I mean, sure the theater could use it, but…I love that woman.” Arnie’s eyes filled with tears that spilled over. “Damn. Never cried when I was young.” He took off his glasses to wipe his eyes. “It’s an age thing. Now I cry at the drop of a hat. Happens to a lot of us. Like Charlie Small. Cried like a baby after his wife died. Couldn’t even say her name. Poor devil.”

  Maybe Charlie did kill himself. Everyone had said he was miserable. But I didn’t have time to think about it because Arnie’s remark about the theater jogged a memory: Marge on her way to that charity gig right after Charlie’s death. Hadn’t she said something about the theater being in trouble?

  Lassie, settled comfortably on Arnie’s lap, began to snore. Loudly. You wouldn’t believe how loud that dog could snore, like a bear on top of a freight train.

  Arnie chuckled. “Marge used to use earplugs at night.”

  “I’m going to buy some today,” I said. “By the way, what’s that thing on Lassie’s collar?”

  He fingered the small plastic object dangling from Lassie’s neck. “It’s a Pet Cam. You know, a camera for the dog. I bought it for Marge.” Did his eyes flick toward that corner again? “Thought she’d get a kick out of seeing things from Lassie’s point of view.”

  Arnie’s eyes started to glimmer, so I decided to distract him and satisfy my curiosity at the same time. “I heard a story about you the other night,” I said. Arnie waited. I swear his ears stood up a little straighter, like Lassie did when he was waiting for a command. “It was about your shoes.”

  He relaxed. “A tragic tale. Just heartbreaking.” Arnie’s ears waggled as he spoke. “But a great story all the same.” He settled back in his chair and patted Lassie on the head, which woke the dog up and stopped him snoring, thank God. “I’m an impresario, you know.”

  I didn’t know. I didn’t even know what the word meant exactly, but it sounded impressive.

  “I love arts and culture, but I got no talent. I do have a good imagination and a head for business.”

  I’d give him the good imagination bit. Maybe that’s why he thought he was good at business.

  “So I produce and present, help shows get up on their feet. That’s how I met Marge. Produced her one-woman revue called Margelous!”

  Lassie lifted his head and stared at Arnie. “I know, horrible name,” Arnie said to the dog. There was something of the critic about the pug. “Anyway, I was struck dumb with love the moment she opened her mouth and said, ‘You call this a dressing room?’” He stopped, a faraway smile on his face.

  “And your shoes?”

  “Yeah. So,” Arnie sat up a little straighter, “years ago, before I met Marge even, I had this great idea to produce an alligator wrestling show in Florida. Got the idea after running into a guy named Leroy when I stopped to fill up at a service station. He was pumping gas, but said he used to be an alligator wrestler. Still did it for county fairs and church fundraisers.”

  Church fundraisers?

  “Later I was at a friend’s house when I heard on the TV they’d captured this old alligator who’d been terrorizing a neighb
orhood. ‘Sherman,’ they called him.” He leaned toward me. “Seemed like fate, you know? Those two things happening back to back? So I adopted the alligator and set up a show. Started out with just a little tourist trap with a wrestling area, gift shop, and picnic tables, but I had plans for a full-blown amusement park with a roller coaster in the swamp and everything.”

  A swamp roller coaster. I’d ride that.

  “Still think it would have been a great idea. If only Leroy hadn’t been drunk that day. And if someone had remembered to feed the alligator.” Arnie shook his head. “Poor Leroy. Not much left to bury.”

  “Your shoes?” I squeaked, trying not to think about poor Leroy.

  “Yep,” Arnie said. “Sherman shoes.”

  CHAPTER 38

  After seeing Arnie out, I stood in the front foyer, thinking. During our conversation, Arnie’s eyes kept sliding to a particular place on the patio. Was he lying about something? I didn’t think so. The first time he did it was after he asked if I was going into the office. It was a question. No need to lie. The second time was after he talked about buying the Pet Cam.

  “Lassie!” I called. The pug trotted over and gave me a dog smile, pink tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. I checked the thing that hung from his collar, which did indeed say, “Pet Cam.” What else had Arnie said? “I bought it for Marge.” That seemed like the truth too—the gadget was much more likely to be an Arnie purchase. I walked through the house and out the sliding glass door to the patio, Lassie at my heels. I sat in the chair Arnie had recently vacated and looked at the corner of the covered patio, as he had.

  Now I knew why the Pet Cam comment had made Arnie glance up. In the upper corner of the patio, close to the roof and nearly hidden by a light fixture, was a camera.

  At the Costco website, I learned that the home security kit Arnie bought included a camera, motion sensor, dimmer for lights, and a door open/close sensor. I combed through Marge’s house, found each component of the kit, and took them all down. Gave me the heebie-jeebies to think anyone was watching me. Even though that was sorta what I did when I investigated someone. Huh.