From behind her, Annie heard Sam murmur, “Oh, God, I’m going to be sick,” and the sound of running footsteps.
Carla stood just inside the door to the boiler room, her arms folded tightly at the waist, her face a studied blank.
Hugo stared down at the body. “God, if the bastard doesn’t cause trouble one way, he does another. Call the police, someone.”
Eugene sighed and blinked his eyes owlishly. Annie wished he didn’t remind her so forcibly of Teddy Roosevelt, certainly not with the other Teddy so grotesquely dead. She moved so that Eugene wasn’t in her line of vision.
Henny Brawley’s face was pale beneath her makeup, but she stepped forward. Resolutely ignoring the corpse, she took charge. “Max, go upstairs and phone Chief Saulter. Burt, you and Arthur stand guard over the body. And everyone else”—she raised her voice slightly—“move now to the greenroom. We will await the police there.”
Annie wasn’t the least surprised when everyone did exactly as they had been instructed.
It was a dispirited group that waited, nervously avoiding each other’s eyes, talking in disjointed and unconnected phrases.
Annie dispensed coffee from the urn, and Henny passed out the coffee cups and soft drinks. Sam came in, his pudgy face slack and pale, and miserably accepted a soda.
The Hortons bunched together in a far corner, but they might as well have been poles apart for all the comfort they offered each other. Janet ignored T.K.’s questioning looks, and Cindy’s back was turned to her parents.
Carla sat stiffly in a straight chair, her knees tight together, and stared at the door to the hall. Hugo lit an out-sized cigar and ignored all of them. Eugene paced up and down the middle of the room, his hands clasped behind his back.
As Max entered, everyone looked at him expectantly, then lifted their eyes to the ceiling as a siren sounded faintly.
Chief Saulter entered a few minutes later, accompanied by the two patrolmen who constituted his entire force. Saulter’s shirt was rumpled, and Annie knew he must have dressed hurriedly. He glanced around the greenroom appraisingly. “Everybody stay put, please. We’ll be talking to you as soon as possible.” Then he hurried on down the hall. Max moved to Annie’s side and took her hand. She gave his a grateful squeeze.
Arthur and Burt joined them in the greenroom. Voices murmured down the hall. Someone laughed. Flashes from a camera flickered steadily for some minutes. Janet whimpered once, eyes on the door. And they waited.
It was almost midnight when Saulter returned to the greenroom, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. He checked the notes in his hand. “Deceased identified as Shane Petree, forty-two, resident of Broward’s Rock.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Harry, you found his wife yet?”
A muffled reply.
Saulter nodded. “Let me know when you do.” Then he turned back to them. “Murder by gunshot. No weapon found. Deceased shot several times in the face.”
A gasp from Janet. T.K.’s mouth tightened.
For the first time Annie thought about guns and shots—and noise. How had none of them heard a gun go off several times? She opened her mouth. Max gently covered it with his hand. She looked up at him sharply.
“Quiet, sweetie,” he cautioned softly. “Whatever it is, let it go for now.”
She subsided reluctantly.
Chief Saulter completed a slow survey of the waiting faces. “Who wanted to kill him?”
Nobody said a word.
Annie passed the marmalade to Max. “I’d say the chief didn’t make much progress last night.”
Max munched the marmaladed English muffin and waved away a dragonfly, who zoomed up, regrouped, and made another sortie. “On the contrary,” he said indistinctly, “he narrowed his circle of suspects comfortably.” Licking his fingers, he ticked off the names. “You. Me. Henny. Janet. Hugo. Arthur. Eugene. Sam. Burt. T.K. Cindy. And Carla.”
“That’s not narrow,” she objected. “That’s a herd.”
“Look at it this way. He’s cleared Vince Ellis and Ben Tippett. They were playing poker during the critical period. Ben lost forty-nine dollars to Vince. And Father Donaldson had left the theater and was watching TV in his living room with his wife. Also—and this is crucial for those of us on that list—the chief’s proved pretty conclusively that it had to be someone who was at the theater, because Cindy, who claims she perched on the rope platform except when it was time for a scene change, swears absolutely nobody came in or out of the stage door all night except one of us.”
“Isn’t Cindy a suspect?” Annie demanded.
“Oh, sure. But between Cindy and Carla, it’s pretty clear no strangers came in. And you would have noticed any new faces coming through the auditorium. Ditto Eugene. That leaves only the basement entrance to the boiler room, and that was bolted shut. So,” he pronounced with satisfaction, “you’ve got yourself a locked-room mystery, Annie Laurance.”
“Not in the classic sense. A locked-room mystery is when a victim is found murdered in a locked room and there’s no way anybody could have gotten in or out. Except, of course, there’s always a trick to it. Read Dr. Gideon Fell’s lecture in The Hollow Man. Then you’ll understand.”
Annie realized she had been singularly lacking in tact, when Max shot her a highly offended look.
“But I see your point,” she said quickly, trying to make amends. “Certainly the number of suspects seems to be limited to your list. But isn’t it possible that somebody could have snuck in through a broken window in the basement—”
“And somehow enticed Shane into the boiler room, shot him, and escaped without anybody seeing or hearing him! Oh, fat chance.”
Diverted, she demanded, “That’s what I wanted to ask the chief last night. Why didn’t anyone hear the shots?”
“Maybe the gun had a silencer on it. Maybe the boiler room absorbs noise.” Max reached for another muffin. “And maybe somebody heard it and decided not to be a hero.”
Annie mulled that over. “You mean somebody might have heard and decided to keep quiet?”
“Sure.”
“But if they’d speak up now, it could help the investigation.”
Max reached across the table and patted her with a sticky hand. “My love, not everyone is imbued with your generally helpful attitude toward the authorities. And, of course,” he concluded, “the easiest assumption is that the sound didn’t carry from the boiler room—”
“Why the boiler room?” she puzzled. “And how did the murderer lure Shane there?”
He finished his second muffin, drained his coffee cup, and poured a refill for each of them from her pink porcelain jug. He looked on top of the world, well rested, devilishly handsome, and quite pleased with himself. He did love to be asked questions. Annie complimented herself on her thought-fulness in plying him with questions she could easily answer on her own. She merely liked to think out loud.
Max leaned back and pontificated. “Where was a tryst least likely to be interrupted? The boiler room, of course.” Warming to his theme, he elucidated odiously, “As is obvious to even the meanest intelligence” (Did he think he was Poirot talking to Chief Inspector Japp?), “no one had any business in the boiler room, so where could there be a safer place to plan a murder? As for enticing Shane into the boiler room, that’s easy,” he declared with maddening confidence. “Say it’s one of us—and you’re going to have to give in on that point, sweetie—all the killer had to do was lurk downstairs ’til Shane came out of the greenroom, then give him a wave, and say, ‘Hey, you’ve got a phone call and there’s an extension down this way.’ Hell, Shane wouldn’t know where the phones are. And why should he be suspicious? So, the killer leads him like a lamb into the boiler room, shuts the door, then pulls out the gun, and lets him have it. Simple.”
Annie still resisted the closed-circle theory. “Maybe Shane met somebody in the boiler room, unbolted the door, and let the person in.”
“Who bolted the door shut?”
“The murd
erer,” Annie said triumphantly.
“And how,” Max asked sweetly, “did our murderer exit?”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. An unknown killer would then have had to negotiate the cellar corridor, go up the stairs, and leave through the stage door. Or, more impossibly yet, down the stage steps into the auditorium, up an aisle and out through the front foyer, without having been seen by either Cindy or Carla, who were backstage throughout the rehearsal except for brief trips downstairs, or any of the actors going on and off stage, or Annie and Eugene who spent most of the evening in the front seats.
If it wasn’t a genuine locked-room mystery, it was a close relative. Like the passengers in Death in the Clouds, they knew who the suspects were. It was a chilling thought.
“But that’s pretty dumb on the murderer’s part,” she said tartly.
“Why so?”
“Why do it at a rehearsal? Why not wait until opening night? Then there would be ushers, ticket takers, all kinds of extra people around. Why do it when it’s limited to”—she flipped up her fingers—“twelve people. Ten, not counting you and me.” She tilted her head. “Surely Chief Saulter’s not counting us.”
He slouched back in the comfortable plastic webbed chair. “On the theory that once innocent, forever innocent? I’m afraid I wouldn’t bank on that.”
“But he knows us.”
Max chuckled at her outrage. “Saulter’d be accused of discrimination if he excluded us on a personal basis. Don’t count us out, Annie.”
“So we’re murder suspects. Again.” She shrugged. “Well, the chief may have to consider us formally, but he knows we’re okay. I’m not worried.” But Max had a faraway, thoughtful look on his face. “Hey, you’re not worried, are you?”
“Huh?”
“About the chief suspecting us?”
“Oh, no. No, I was just thinking about what you said. About the murder occurring at the rehearsal. That’s important, Annie. Don’t you see what the murder accomplished?”
“It’s put twelve people in a fix.”
“The play. It won’t open.”
She hadn’t given a thought to the fate of the play. “Oh, sure. I guess that goes without saying.”
“Do you suppose Shane was killed to keep the play from opening?” he asked slowly.
She looked at him in horror. “That’s too crazy. No one would murder someone just to keep the play off the stage, or to ruin the players’ season.”
“But the sabotage happened. Why? It can’t be separate from the murder.”
“Sure it can,” she disagreed. “The sabotage—that was little stuff. Pranks. All except Freddy. And even so, killing a cat is far short of murder. No. I think it’s coincidence.”
“Coincidence? Oh, come on, Annie.”
“Besides, we don’t even know for sure whether the play will be called off. I mean, Eugene could play Teddy and Burt could do Officer O’Hara and we could make up Sam so that he could be Mr. Witherspoon, too.”
Even as she spoke, a dreadful thought curled in the recesses of her mind. Could this just possibly be what Eugene would have assumed? He’d wanted that role so badly…. But that was too crazy, too. Eugene might want to be Teddy, he might be the world’s very best Teddy, but he wouldn’t kill a man over a role in a play. Would he?
Annie finished the last bite of her strawberry muffin and tapped her fork on her plate. “Motive. That’s what we have to determine. We’re talking in a vacuum until we consider motive.”
He waited, expecting clarification.
“Look at it this way,” she continued urgently. “Did the murder occur last night because it had to occur on Tuesday night? Or was the time incidental and the motive an outpouring of hate that merely reached its crest yesterday?”
He looked blank.
“Max, was he killed because of the play? Or was he killed because he was Shane and somebody hated him?”
“When we know that, we’ll know who killed him,” he said reasonably.
Annie was pouring fresh coffee when the phone rang. She hurried inside to answer it, and Max followed, bringing their plates to the sink.
“Hello.”
“Annie, Burt here.” He sounded very tired. “Saulter’s put the auditorium off-limits for now. I decided to cancel all rehearsals until this weekend at least.”
She couldn’t mask her surprise. “Are you thinking of continuing with the production?”
“My God, we have to have something on the boards next Tuesday night,” he snapped defensively. “I mean, the world can’t come to a stop because Shane got himself murdered. Of course, I’m damn sorry and everything, but what the hell do you think I should do?”
She almost suggested delaying the opening of the season for at least a week, but she understood Burt’s dilemma. A delay in opening would throw off the entire summer schedule.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen.” He was aggrieved. “I’ve alerted the Mousetrap cast to be ready, just in case.”
In case one of the Arsenic principals was arrested?
“If it all shakes out, we’ll have a dress rehearsal next Sunday or Monday. We’re almost ready to go as is. And Eugene will be Teddy, of course.”
Oh, of course. So Eugene would have his role after all. Her spine prickled.
Burt sighed. “So I guess everything’s going as well as could be expected. I told Saulter to go easy on everybody when he talks to them. I don’t want the cast all nervy.”
That would be a shame, all right.
“You’ve talked to the chief?” Annie let it dangle.
“Yeah. He sounded sour as hell. Apparently Sheridan frosted him some way. Guess she was pretty bitchy. I don’t know what she’d said.”
Annie pictured that smooth, arrogant face with the unreadable amber eyes. “No telling.”
He sighed again. “Well, it could be worse. I’ll let you know on rehearsal.”
She hung up and turned as Max settled on the couch. He held out her coffee mug.
She sat down beside him and took the mug. “Burt’s really put out. Very inconsiderate of Shane to get murdered and put a crimp in rehearsals, but, fear not, the players shall survive. Although rehearsals are canceled until Sunday.” She hefted her mug. “The show must go on.”
“Burt is a trifle single-minded,” Max murmured.
Her mind skittered off in several different directions. She didn’t need to hurry to the shop. Ingrid would arrive at ten and open. Why had the murder occurred at rehearsal? She’d bet Sheridan had given Chief Saulter an earful. Sheridan. Annie sat very still. Where was Sheridan when the murder occurred? By God, that was a good question. Maybe she’d finally tired of having a roving Romeo for a husband. Could she have slipped unseen into the theater and pulled it off? Appealing as Annie found that scenario, it wasn’t too likely. If she had, she was a successor to Houdini. So far as Annie knew, Sheridan had never set foot in the theater. But, where was Sheridan when Shane was shot?
She turned to Max and demanded, “What about Sheridan? You know the old saw. Cherchez la femme.” Max was shaking his head. So, okay, that wasn’t quite the original meaning, but, after all, she could take a fresh tack. “Okay, okay. I mean, who does a husband in? His wife. And vice versa. What the hell about Sheridan? She’s a tough cookie.”
“But not invisible,” he replied mildly.
Annie glared.
“Same objection as to the unknown murderer. How could Sheridan have entered and left the basement without being seen?”
“A disguise?” Annie suggested. “Dressed like a man? If you just caught a glimpse, maybe you might think she was Vince or Sam or Eugene.”
“Oh, let’s see,” Max mused. “She’s about five foot two, built decidedly like a woman should be, moves like a woman—”
Annie reviewed them in her mind: Vince, redheaded and a burly six feet tall; Sam, pear-shaped and balding on top with that distinctive fringe of floppy yellow hair; and Eugene, portly with a bearlike chest.
The phone rang.
“I still like Sheridan,” she said stubbornly as she reached for it.
“Hello.”
“Annie, I know the police are off on the wrong foot. It’s going to be up to us—”
A thunderous knock rattled her front door. Annie cupped a hand over her ear and gestured for Max to answer.
“—to ferret out the truth. I have no doubt that we can succeed. However dark it may look—”
Max opened the door. Somehow, Annie wasn’t terribly surprised to see Chief Saulter, his thin face as creased as a bassett hound’s. He looked discomfited, irritated, and upset. And he wasn’t alone. A heavyset man stood behind him.
“—you can count on me and Talleyrand—”
“Henny, I’m sorry, but the chief’s here. I guess he wants to talk to us.”
Max stood back to let them enter, and the bigger man surged past Saulter.
“Although,” and Henny’s tone was clearly irritated, “that circuit solicitor from Beaufort is being extremely uncooperative. Even more difficult than Inspector Piper is at times. I shall prevail, of course,” and the line buzzed.
Hildegarde Withers, no doubt about it.
Annie hung up, turned to face the new arrivals, and took an immediate, visceral dislike to the chief’s companion. A good six inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Saulter, he radiated a take-charge arrogance. He had bulging blue eyes, he was too heavy for his buttoned vest, and cinnamon after-shave emanated from him in a heady wave. His watery blue eyes fastened on her avidly. He reminded her unpleasantly of an osprey spotting an especially succulent catfish. He bounded toward her.
“Good morning,” the stranger boomed. It was a courtroom voice, mellifluous, sonorous, and as contrived as a rock star’s entrance. “Miss Laurance, I presume.”
Annie nodded, but before she could speak, he swept on.
“I am Brice Willard Posey, circuit solicitor, and I’ve decided to assist the chief in his investigations.” His eyes oozed speculation. “So you are the girl in the case.”
Annie bristled.
Saulter, his voice carefully devoid of expression, inserted, “Mr. Posey came over this morning, as soon as he got some calls from the media.”
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