by Gail Lukasik
“Nobody knows what happened to Danielle Moyer. I’ve already looked into that.” But maybe I hadn’t looked hard enough.
“Then what about Ryan dying all of a sudden like that. And that lady who tried to save him, why was she almost killed?”
“I’m leaving that to the police.” It was a big fat lie but I didn’t want Bob to be in danger. I had to convince him to go home.
“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “Rich told me you’ve been asking a lot of questions that are making the actors squirrelly.”
“Go home, Bob. I’m just doing my job. Nothing else. If Alex finds out you’re living in the cabin, he could contact your college and really get you in trouble.”
“Don’t you find it strange that Ryan dies after I hear Nina accuse him of killing Danielle Moyer?” He wasn’t going to let it go.
“There’s no evidence that Ryan was murdered. Just like there’s no evidence Danielle Moyer was murdered. Nobody knows what happened to her.”
“What about the lady who was attacked? What about her?”
I had no good answer for that. “There’s probably no connection between the attack and Ryan’s death. And that lady’s name is Lydia. Go home and enjoy the rest of your summer.”
“You don’t have to look out for me, you know, Leigh. I can take care of myself.” He straightened his shoulders and sucked in his stomach.
“That’s what I tell everyone too. And sometimes I’m wrong.”
“I’m not leaving,” he said belligerently.
Suddenly, voices came from the direction of the trail. Like criminals, we crouched down and waited for the voices to fade away.
“Listen, I’ll make a deal with you,” I whispered, getting up slowly. “I’ll do some more digging into Danielle Moyer’s disappearance, but you have to promise me you’ll go home.”
“Yeah, okay.” He answered too quickly to convince me.
“What do you think you can do hanging around here and living at the cabin? If what you say is true, if someone murdered Ryan, then it’s too dangerous for you to be here. Can’t you see that?”
“I have to prove Alex wrong. He has to take me back so I can graduate.”
I felt sorry for Bob. I doubted Alex would take him back. Through no fault of his own, his future had been jeopardized. “Here’s the deal,” I said. “Once it’s dark, get your stuff from the cabin and go to quad two apartment four, that’s where I’m staying this weekend. I won’t be back until after the party. I’ll leave the door unlocked, but lock it after you get in. Take a shower and get some rest. Okay?”
“Okay,” he agreed reluctantly.
Not persuaded by his feeble okay, I added, “You can’t tell anyone, and I mean anyone, even Rich, that you’re staying at my apartment.”
“He didn’t even know about me crashing at the cabin.”
I looked at him skeptically. “And don’t take the shoreline trail back to the apartment,” I cautioned.
“Duh,” he answered. “What do you take me for, a rookie?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The audience quieted as Nina walked to the edge of the stage still in costume, her emerald green satin dress at odds with her determined, almost frantic expression. She managed a faint smile, then her face settled into that perfect blank canvas that gave nothing away. But sitting front row center, I could see her foot tapping under her long crinoline skirt, as if she were keeping time to polka music. She was nervous.
As she stood there, her smile flickering on and off, her foot tapping away, Alex emerged from the wings pushing a large sheeted easel. By the way he was grinning and practically skipping across the stage, I was sure the BT’s campaign had achieved its goal. I slipped my pen from my bag and clicked it, poised for the news.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, as you may or may not know, the Bayside Theater launched a capital fund-raising campaign last year to rebuild the theater,” Nina began, her strong, steady voice projecting. “I’m pleased to announce that through the generosity of patrons such as yourselves and business and corporate donors, we’ve been able to reach eighty-five percent of our goal.”
A rumbling of disappointment went through the audience. “But wait. There’s more.” Nina stepped back to the sheeted easel. Now she stood on one side of the easel and Alex on the other. “Before his untimely death, Nate Ryan pledged a half-million dollars, putting us within ninety percent of our goal. And the good news is”—she gestured to Alex—“Alex, will you do the honors?”
Alex threw back the sheet and revealed a graph showing that the BT had exceeded their goal by one percent. At the top of the graph was the bold headline: The Nate Ryan Theater. The audience burst into enthusiastic applause, some cheering, others shouting, “Bravo!”
Nina and Alex were beaming, basking in the audience’s adulation, making no effort to quiet the crowd. When the applause finally died down, Nina continued. “By next season, if all goes well, and I’m confident it will, you’ll be sitting in an indoor theater on comfortable seats enjoying state-of-the art stage craft. Seating will increase from five hundred to seven hundred. Patrons like you will experience theater as good as in Chicago, and maybe even as good as in New York.”
Another burst of applause and cheering erupted. Again, Nina waited for the audience to quiet before resuming.
“My heartfelt thanks to all of you who have supported the theater by attending our performances and to those of you who have donated to this campaign. And my very special thanks to Nate Ryan, whose generosity made this possible.” She looked up and threw a kiss toward the rafters.
“Are there any questions?” Alex asked.
I raised my hand. Not waiting to be acknowledged, I said, “Who’s the anonymous donor who put you over the top?”
Alex grinned and gestured toward Nina. “She’s standing right here.”
Nina took a deep bow to the thunderous applause, and then quickly left through the wings. She didn’t even glance at me.
Alex said, “Enjoy your evening and drive safely,” before exiting as well.
How could Nina be the anonymous donor? I pondered as I sat and waited for the audience to shuffle out of the theater before walking over to Serenity House for the party. As far as I knew, Nina didn’t have that kind of money. She made her living doing regional theater, which probably didn’t leave much for a nest egg. And her brief stint in film when she was married to Nate couldn’t have given her that kind of money. Of course, the money could have come from their divorce settlement.
I did the math on the playbook. Her donation was roughly a quarter-million dollars. Would Nate have agreed to such a hefty sum to be rid of Nina? And if the money hadn’t come from the divorce settlement, where had she gotten it? Well, nothing like a celebration party to ask the hard questions.
As I exited the tent, a few theatergoers were milling around the grounds. The sun had set an hour ago, and the colored fairy lights strung overhead cast a festive glow. Instead of heading immediately over to Serenity House, I decided to stop by my apartment and see if Bob was there yet. Since I wasn’t able to convince him to go home, I felt responsible for his safety. Bob had overheard the argument between Nate and Nina and had connected the bloody mannequin with Danielle Moyer’s disappearance. He might be in danger, and he was too young and impulsive to understand that.
When I reached my apartment door, I looked around, making sure I was alone. Then I put the key in the lock and realized as I started to turn the key that the door wasn’t locked.
Slowly I eased the door open, not sure what to expect. The apartment was dark. I flipped on the lights and checked the bedroom and bath. No Bob. Where was he? I plopped down on the bed and called his cell phone. On the first ring, it went to voice mail.
“This is Leigh. I’m at the apartment. It’s after ten-thirty. Where are you? Call me.” I hung up, that queasy feeling back in my stomach.
Uneasily I shut off the lights, closed the front door and left it unlocked.
There was no need to
hurry, since the actors were probably still taking off their makeup and changing into their street clothes. I meandered down the shoreline trail, listening to the melodic rhythm of the bay rushing the shore, back and forth, back and forth, mirroring my thoughts. Should I make a detour to the cabin to see if Bob is there or go on to the party? The avenue of trees darkening, looming over me, their coolness offering little comfort, every sound magnified by the stillness, only added to my apprehension. What if he’s been attacked and is lying unconscious in the cabin, near death like Lydia? I shook my head as if that would dislodge the image.
As I neared the bench marking the path to the Moyer cabin, the trill of my cell phone broke through my speculations. Holding my breath I answered, “How is she?”
“Better than expected,” Joe said. “She’s still in an induced coma, but her vitals are good and the swelling in her brain is going down. Now she just has to make it through the next twenty-four hours.”
“You’re not holding anything back from me, are you, Joe?” I wanted to believe him, yet I was afraid to. Until Lydia was out of the coma, I wasn’t celebrating.
“Let’s just get through the next twenty-four, okay? Then we can worry about what comes next.”
“What comes next?” I asked as I reached the bench and sat down. “You mean her recovery.”
“I mean we’ll worry about that when she’s out of the woods. Okay, water woman?”
“Okay,” I answered reluctantly, aware that Joe was protecting me.
“You know you saved her life,” he said. “If you hadn’t found her when you did, she wouldn’t have made it.”
His kind words made me uncomfortable. “The surgeon saved her life. I just happened to show up and find her.”
“You’re lousy at taking compliments, you know that?”
“I’ll work on it. Thanks for the update. If anything happens—” I began.
Joe interrupted. “I know, I know. I’ll call you, no matter what time it is. But nothing’s going to happen. Just watch out for yourself. I don’t need two friends in the hospital.”
“I can take care of myself,” I said, hearing the hollowness in my boast. Joe had the grace not to contradict me.
I flipped my phone shut and sat savoring the lingering afterglow, tingeing the bay fuchsia. Lydia was going to make it. I could hear the cautious confidence in Joe’s voice. But the mystery of her attack remained, like the dark that was now extinguishing threads of twilight into nothingness, all brilliance gone.
I glanced over my shoulder, then at my watch. It was almost eleven. I’ll be quick, I told myself as I jumped up and dashed into the woods, turning on the maglight and hurrying down the rocky narrow path. I had to know if Bob was at the cabin and if he was all right.
When I reached the cabin, I didn’t hesitate, but opened the front door, the maglight guiding me as I went inside. The bedroom where Bob had stowed his sleeping bag was empty, as was the other bedroom. Okay, he’d taken his stuff. So where was he?
In the kitchen, I tripped over something and went flying head first across the floor, somehow managing to hold onto the mag-light. Splayed face first on the floor, I choked on the dust and dirt, pain radiating from my left ankle. I sat up and flashed the maglight on the floor. I’d tripped over a piece of wood. I felt around my ankle cautiously. It wasn’t broken, but it hurt. Swearing, I tossed the slat into a far corner, stood up, and flung open the cabinet door. Bloody Mary was gone.
Once outside I moved the maglight to where the wood door slat had rested. It wasn’t there. No Bob, no Bloody Mary, and my spiffy black linen trousers were ragged at the knees. As I hobbled down the path to the shoreline trail, I was angry and worried.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The party was in full swing when I arrived. Loud music punctuated by laughter drifted from the open windows of the prairie-style house. I grabbed a glass of white wine from the impromptu bar set up in the kitchen before stepping down very gingerly into the massive open living room that was clogged with people. My ankle felt like it was beating to its own rhythm.
Perusing the room for Nina, I took in the frenzied activity among the dancing couples and groups of chattering and laughing people. Matt Burke and Harper Kennedy were locked in a version of dirty dancing. Her slender figure seemed engulfed by Matt’s gyrating body. Another couple I didn’t recognize were also doing their version of dirty dancing, only dirtier. Alex was holding court with the lighting and tech crew, gesturing dramatically. Beside him Barbara Henry nodded her head like a performing myna bird. We’d made eye contact when I entered the room, but she’d immediately looked away as if she hadn’t seen me. It baffled me how she kept her job as PR director.
Trying not to limp, I skirted around the room to avoid the frantic dancing and made my way toward the French doors leading out to the patio, thinking Nina might be outside smoking. Sure enough, she was standing next to Julian, plumes of smoke rising into the night. Both held crystal highball glasses. When she saw me approach, she called out to me, “Leigh,” a broad grin on her nervous face.
Her warm greeting threw me. I’d expected her defenses to be up. Mine were most definitely in full-alert mode.
She was wearing a long, flowing florid peasant dress a la 1960s hippy era, a daisy tucked in her curly dark hair. Julian was playfully dressed in white linen trousers and shirt, a silky teal ascot tied round his neck. They both seemed blurry with drink.
“Before you ask,” Nina said, her husky voice full of humor, “Nate left me the money in his will. I couldn’t say anything until it was all confirmed. So there. Now you know.”
Another surprise. If my math was right, that meant Nate had left Nina about a quarter-million dollars. You didn’t have to be a genius to conclude that if he’d withdrawn his donation, he’d also change his will.
Julian chuckled. “I think she’s speechless.”
“Though I don’t appreciate your bothering Dr. Sinclair, I hope you’re through snooping around now.”
Instead of rising to the bait, I said, “Nina, could I talk to you for a moment in private?” I glanced at Julian, who was staring at me as if I had something on my face.
“What now?” She flung her cigarette over the patio ledge. Its red tip swirled out over the ravine and down into the woods.
“Do you want me to leave?” Julian asked.
“I’ve got nothing to hide,” she said defiantly.
“It’s about Danielle Moyer.” I saw her dark eyes widen in surprise.
“Nobody knows what happened to her,” Julian said, putting his arm around Nina’s shoulder as if he was protecting her from me.
“That’s not true, is it Nina?” I needed to push her, to show her I wasn’t going to be disarmed by her this time.
“Give us a minute, would you, Julian?” she said, looking up into his face.
Julian took his arm away, shrugged and ambled slowly toward the French doors and into the living room.
“Look,” she said angrily. “I don’t know what you think you know or don’t know, but I have no idea what happened to Danielle Moyer. And I’ve about had it with your ridiculous questions and accusations.” She bumped me as she started to walk away.
“That’s not what you said to Nate the night of the after-party.”
She turned back and hissed in my face, “You weren’t even at that party.”
“Why did you accuse Nate of killing her?”
I watched the play of emotions on her face—shock, fear, anxiety—waiting for her denial. “How did you . . . ?” She stopped talking, but it was too late. She’d confirmed what I already knew. A few people had come out on the patio and were looking out over the ravine.
She leaned close to my ear and whispered, “I can’t talk to you about this here. You understand? Meet me later.”
Was she stalling for time to come up with some plausible story, to figure out how I knew what she’d said? Or was she sincere in wanting to tell me her side of things? I didn’t know. But I wanted to hear what she h
ad to say, and I didn’t want to give her too much time to change her mind. “Hal’s Tap in an hour.”
“I can’t be there so soon. Make it two hours?”
“I’ll be waiting for you.”
Hal’s Tap wasn’t listed in any of the Door County tour books, and unless you’d mistakenly turned down Maple Grove, you’d never find it. It was in the middle of the peninsula, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by woods. The tavern was a local hangout. Hal Pinski, owner and barkeep, had moved to Door County from Chicago in his thirties. Now nearing seventy, he was still an imposing man, with a shock of white hair. He still carried himself like the wrestler he once was.
The only clue that the peeling clapboard building was a bar and not an abandoned farmhouse, which it once was, were the neon beer sign in the window and the assortment of aging pickup trucks and cars parked in the grassy lot out front. The first time I went there, Jake had to vouch for me before Hal would serve me. One night I’d witnessed Hal refuse to serve some rowdy tourists who’d stumbled upon his place, claiming the locals in the bar were having a private meeting. He was probably breaking some law, but since the police frequented the tavern, everyone turned a blind eye.
It was past one in the morning, most of the tables were full, and the jukebox was playing “I Go to Pieces” by Patsy Kline. I went to the bar and was waiting for my white wine when I spotted Nina sitting in the last booth near the restrooms, her back to me.
“I told your friend there to take the back booth,” Hal said as he put the wine glass down on the bar. “Want me to start you a tab?”
In answer I gave him a ten, told him to keep the change and hobbled to the back booth. “I wasn’t sure you’d come,” I said, sliding into the booth.
“I almost didn’t,” Nina answered. On the table were an empty tumbler of what smelled like whiskey, another full one in front of her, and a shredded napkin. Gone were her lighthearted hippy clothes. She wore a black hoodie, white t-shirt and jeans. I waited for her to continue. “Before I say anything, you have to tell me something first.”