“One hundred miles, mostly uphill.”
Gilley blanched. “My God, why?”
“No idea, but I agree with you. Runners are weird.”
We both fell silent then, lost in our thoughts, and I continued to wind my way in the direction of Chez Cat.
Breaking the silence after an idea struck me, I said, “You know what, Gil?”
“What?”
“Well, I’ve been trying to figure out how we can learn more about Yelena’s angry men, and I think I’ve come up with something clever.”
“Do tell,” Gilley said, turning to look at me expectantly.
“Well, you know how theater people love to gossip, right?”
“I do,” Gilley said.
“I’m wondering if anyone at the theater might’ve overheard some gossip about the identities of some of Yelena’s lovers.”
Gilley’s grin was slow to spread, but it was ear to ear when he finished thinking about my idea. “That is brilliant!” he said. “And we know that Shepherd isn’t asking them about the other men, because he believes he’s got the right man in jail.”
“Exactly,” I said. “It’s bound to be an untapped resource for suspects.”
Gilley pointed to the road ahead. “The theater’s three minutes away. Shall we?”
“You want to go there now?”
“I don’t think we have a moment to spare. If there’s anyone left at the theater who worked on Yelena’s show, they’ll probably be nearly finished putting away the old set and getting ready for the new act, which most definitely would’ve been booked in a hurry.”
“You think there’s a new show there already?”
“If not already, imminently,” Gilley said. “A theater can’t make money off of empty seats, and I’m sure they would’ve booked a new act ASAP.”
“That just seems so . . . cold,” I said.
Gilley lowered his lids, stuck his nose in the air, and adopted a British accent. “It’s the theater, dahling. The show must go on!”
* * *
We arrived at the theater just a few minutes later. I parked down the street, well away from the theater’s entrance.
“We passed, like, six other parking spaces,” Gilley remarked. “Why are we so far away?”
“I don’t want Shepherd to see my car if he decides to come back and take another look at the scene of the crime,” I confessed. “He’ll be miffed at me if he knows we’re sticking our noses into his case again.”
Gilley chuckled. “I love how adorable you are when describing Shepherd’s reaction to us snooping around.” Using his fingers for air quotes, Gilley said, “‘Miffed.’ Ha! He’ll be atomic.”
“You’re not making me feel better . . .”
“Nuclear!”
I glared at him.
“Apocalyptic!” And then he made a popping sound and mimed his head exploding.
“Will you stop!”
Gilley giggled. “I’ll try. But they come so easily to me. Sometimes it’s hard to hold back.”
We got out and put some money in the meter, then headed toward the building. “I hope we can get inside,” I said as we neared the entrance.
“We’ll go around to the back,” Gilley said. “Employees are always knocking on the back door to be let in. Just follow my lead.”
I trailed behind Gilley as he led the way to the back of the building, and we were both surprised to find the backstage door propped open with a chair. Gilley gallantly stepped forward, pulled the door open wide, and bowed. “After you, m’lady.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir,” I said, stepping through the entryway into a darkened corridor. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and I felt, rather than saw, Gilley step in next to me, and then we both paused to get our bearings.
“This way,” Gilley said, stepping over a bundle of electrical cords. I followed after him, lured by the sound of hammering.
We passed no one on our way toward the sound, but we could hear two men chatting away with each other about the Yankees.
As we rounded a cluttered corner of discarded theater odds and ends, I could see that we were entering backstage right, and on the stage were two men in overalls—one guy on a ladder, one on the floor—working to take down Yelena’s backdrop. They stopped abruptly when they spotted us.
“You can’t be back here,” the man on the floor said. His tone was sharp, and it rattled me. I paused on my way toward them.
Gilley, however, was unfazed. Smiling, with the air of authority, he said, “Forgive the interruption, gentlemen, but we’re from the Sharp Group.”
The two men stared blankly at him.
“The personal insurance agency for the theater,” Gilley said, like they should’ve known. He then surprised me by producing a card from the inside of his blazer pocket and extended it out to the man holding the ladder, who made no move to walk toward us to retrieve it.
“You can’t be back here,” the guy repeated.
Gilley swiveled his head to regard me, folded his arms, and rolled his eyes. Turning to the two men again, he said, “As investigators into the pending lawsuit brought by Ms. Galanis’s heirs, we in fact, can be back here.”
They continued to stare blankly at him, but I did notice that their aggressiveness had migrated to surprise and a look of uncertainty.
Gilley pocketed his card and folded his hands in front of him, like he was preparing to give a speech. “Now, a few questions for the two of you,” he said, stepping toward them. I followed. “Were you both here the night Ms. Galanis met her . . . ?”
Gilley’s voice trailed off, and both men appeared confused.
“Death?” the guy on the ladder said.
“Unfortunate end,” Gilley said, adopting a tight smile.
“We were,” said the man on the floor. “We were onstage, behind the main curtain, changing out the backdrop for the second act.”
“And prior to intermission?” Gilley pressed. “Where were you?”
The man on the ladder pointed to just behind where we were standing. “There,” he said. “In the chairs.”
I looked behind me and saw the two cane chairs side by side, with a small table set between them, and on the table was a deck of playing cards. That must’ve been how they passed the time during Yelena’s act.
“Excellent,” said Gil. “And your names are?”
“Gus Webster,” said the first guy; then he pointed to his buddy on the ladder. “And that’s Donny Cass.”
Gilley nodded, then paused before asking them his next question to size the two gentlemen up.
Rather than simply standing there, looking stupid, I decided to assist Gilley with the ruse and dug into my purse for a small notebook that I used to make shopping lists and a pen. After extracting both, I flipped to a fresh page. “Gus Webster and Donny Cass,” I said, scribbling their names in the notebook.
“Gus,” Gilley said, with a nod toward the man. “And Donny.”
They nodded back.
Gilley placed his hands behind his back and began to walk a few paces to and fro—à la Inspector Clouseau—while peppering the men with questions, such as, Did they see or hear anything suspicious the night of the murder? Did they notice anyone who didn’t seem to belong backstage? Did they personally know Ms. Galanis? Did they see anyone come into the theater after the murder to snoop around, perhaps looking for discarded evidence?
The answer to all Gilley’s questions was no, save the last question, which Gus answered, “Just you two and the police.”
“I see,” Gilley said, as if Gus’s statement was telling.
Gilley then pointed toward the direction he and I had come from. “I noticed that the backstage door is propped open with a chair,” he began, and for the first time the men’s demeanor changed. They became noticeably nervous. “Is that a typical practice for you two here at the theater?”
Donny looked at Gus, his eyes wide and somewhat panicked. “The door sticks, and it’s easier for us to get tools an
d supplies out of our trucks if the door’s propped open.”
“Ah,” Gilley said, his tone disapproving. Pursing his lips, he said, “And was that door propped open the night of the . . .”
“Murder?” Donny asked in a squeaky voice.
“Unfortunate incident?” Gilley finished.
Donny backed his way down the ladder, then turned once he’d gotten to the floor, to look meaningfully at Gus.
Gus’s lips flattened into a thin line. “I don’t remember,” he said.
“Of course you don’t,” Gilley said. “But here’s the thing, Gus. If you’re knowingly lying to me right now, and I catch you in it, then I’ll name you as a codefendant in the lawsuit, and you’ll be subject to the same penalties and damages that our agency will be.”
Gus gulped.
Gilley continued. “Your pension, your savings, your retirement, your house, all those things could be in play.”
Gus turned pale.
“Of course, as an employee, I’d like to protect you, Gus. But only if you come clean with me. On the night of the . . .”
“Unfortunate incident,” the two men said in unison.
Gilley smiled sharply at them. “Murder, was that door propped open?”
“It may have been,” Gus admitted. And I could see he was well and truly terrified of losing his life’s savings to a fictional lawsuit.
Thinking Gilley might be being unnecessarily cruel, I stepped in. “Thank you for that admission, Gus. It’s an important detail that we can try to mitigate by suggesting that you had no idea that Ms. Galanis could’ve been in danger from one of her lovers, correct?”
Gus shook his head vehemently. “No! I swear. I had no idea the lady had anybody wanting to hurt her.”
“Me either,” Donny was quick to point out.
I nodded and tapped Gilley on the shoulder. “I told you they were perfectly innocent of all liability, Simon.”
Gilley grinned. I could tell he liked the fake name I’d given him. “You are right again, Felicity.”
I smiled too. Felicity was such a pretty name.
“Still!” Gilley said, spinning to pace away from me again. “I’m troubled that they saw no one backstage at the time of the . . .”
“Unfortunate incident?” Donny tried.
“Murder?” Gus said.
“Violent homicide of Ms. Galanis,” Gilley said. “How could someone simply sneak past the two of you if you were backstage during the entire first act?”
The men stared at Gilley, as if dumbstruck.
Gilley pointed behind us. “The corridor coming from the backstage door leads directly to here. If you two were sitting in the wings, waiting to assist with the set change for the second act, how could someone possibly slip past you?”
Donny also pointed to the area behind us. “Through the secret door,” he said. “It’s painted black to keep it hidden. You’d miss it if you didn’t know it was there.”
Both Gilley and I swiveled to look behind us.
“There’s a hidden door back there?” I said, thumbing over my shoulder.
“Yep,” Donny said. “It’s just inside the backstage door. Like I said, you’d miss it if you don’t know it’s there.”
“And where exactly does it lead?” Gilley asked.
“To the dressing rooms and the hallway behind the curtain leading to stage left,” Gus explained.
“Huh,” I said, looking back over my shoulder again. “I totally missed that.”
“If it’s just inside the door, then we definitely would miss it,” Gilley said. “Especially if we were coming in from outside. Remember? Our eyes needed to adjust to the change in light.”
“But it was evening the night of the murder,” I said softly, reminding Gilley of that one crucial detail.
“Which would’ve made the door all the harder to see,” Gilley said, and I had to nod in agreement. He was absolutely right.
“Is that door ever locked?” I asked, just out of curiosity.
Gus nodded. “Sometimes, but never during a show.”
“Is it locked now?” Gilley asked.
Gus turned red. “Uh, I don’t think so.”
Gilley nodded again. “Excellent. Gentlemen, we would like to thank you for your time. Please carry on with your work, and we’ll be in touch should we need any further information from you.”
With that, Gil turned on his heel, grabbed my elbow, and we walked away.
“I take it we’re headed to the hidden backstage door?” I asked.
“Duh,” Gil said, bringing out his phone.
I wondered why until we reached the door, which was indeed hard to see, and Gilley snapped several photos of it with his phone. He then tried the handle, and the door opened freely. With another gallant bow, he said, “Felicity?”
“Thank you, Simon,” I said with a smile and walked through into the pitch dark. “I can’t see a thing in here.”
The area lit up quite suddenly with a bright light when Gilley switched on the flashlight of his phone. Upon locating the light switch to my right, he flicked it, and the hallway was illuminated.
It was a wide hallway, filled with framed playbills from previous shows and more backstage clutter.
We walked down the hallway without speaking, taking in the space, and stopped abruptly at a door with crime-scene tape across it and a placard in the shape of a star at eye level that read MS. GALANIS.
I stood back from the door and looked it up and down, and that was when I realized there were rust-colored droplets on the floor near the door. I stepped back quickly, pointing to them so Gilley could see. He made a face and also stepped back.
We both surveyed the floor—we couldn’t help it—and the macabre scene unfolded as even more droplets dotted the wood planks on the floor in a gruesome series of polka dots. I followed their trail and was even more stunned to see that they weren’t limited to the floor but had also stained the doorframe and the opposite wall, and then my gaze landed on the outline of a bloody handprint on the floor just beyond the door—as if Yelena had reached out for help beyond the opening but had died in the effort.
I put a hand up to cover my mouth, realizing for the first time how violent her death had been. “Good Lord,” I whispered when I felt I could speak again.
Gilley’s expression was equally horrified. “She must have been attacked just inside the door,” he said, pointing to the arch of rusty drops.
“What a terrifyingly horrible way to die,” I said.
The more I looked at the scene, the more convinced I was of one thing: Aaron Nassau did not murder Yelena Galanis. This was done by someone who was filled with rage—not heartbreak.
“Should we go in?” Gilley asked me.
“You’re kidding, right?” I said, pointing to the crime-scene tape and the large sticker covering part of the door and the doorframe.
“There’s no way they’d know we were the ones that broke in,” Gilley said. He pointed to the ceiling covering us and the hallway. “No cameras.”
I shook my head. “All Shepherd would have to do is ask Gus or Donny if we broke in, and they’d give us up in a heartbeat.”
“You mean they’d give up Simon and Felicity,” he said. “From the Sharp Insurance Group.” Gilley reached inside his pocket and withdrew the card he’d offered Gus. It was his card from my office. He’d gambled that Gus wouldn’t come forward to take the card from him, and it’d worked.
“Clever,” I said. “However, me thinks Shepherd would tweeze out the truth in a hot second, so no. We are not breaking in. Besides, what would be worth seeing other than more grizzly remnants of the crime scene?”
“Dunno. Which is why I say we should break in.”
“No, Gilley,” I said firmly.
With a sigh, he said, “Fine. But let’s check out the rest of this backstage area.”
I nodded and waved for him to proceed.
We moved away from Yelena’s dressing-room door, then continued down the hallway p
ast several more dressing rooms of various sizes. All were empty of anything but vanity tables and chairs.
At last, we came to the end and a tight corner, around which we could once again hear Gus and Donny, who were hammering away and continuing to talk about the Yankees’ chances of winning a pennant this year.
Gilley peeked his head around the corner, then motioned for me to follow. I kept close to him as we rounded the corner and came into a large backstage left area. We were very much in shadow, so I wasn’t worried that Gilley and I would be seen by Gus or Donny, but we were quiet as mice all the same.
After a cursory look around, I motioned to Gilley that we should head out, and he paused next to a small desk and a short stack of paper.
Let’s go! I mouthed.
He nodded, took up the stack, and we were on our way.
We didn’t speak until we had left the backstage area and Gilley had hit the light switch on his way out.
Once on the sidewalk and headed to the car, I pointed to the sheets of paper. “What’s that?”
“Yelena’s script,” he said.
My brow shot up. “Her script?”
“Yep,” Gilley said, breaking into a crocodile smile as he waved it at me. “And you know what it’s filled with?”
“What?”
Gil bounced his brow. “Clues.”
Chapter 11
“This is a gold mine,” I said, flipping through the pages once we were home again, this time at Chez Cat, sitting at my kitchen island, sipping tea and perusing the script.
“I know, right?” he said. “Neither one of us got to see the second act, so from that standpoint alone, it’s a treasure.”
I read through the lines, which had felt so spontaneous coming from Yelena’s lips, and marveled that she hadn’t sounded rehearsed when she’d delivered all those zingers. It read exactly as it’d sounded, like a monologue—a train of thought, one lover following another through all twelve men.
“I’d really like to know who Lover Number Two is,” I said.
“The legislator?”
“Yes. What we don’t know is if he’s a local rep or a national one.”
“He’d be national. No way would Yelena date someone in the state legislature. And I’d put odds that it’s a senator and not a congressman. She’d be after someone with stature.”
Coached in the Act Page 15