Final Call (5 page)

Chapter Eight

Bradley ran his hand through his hair
and sighed.
All of these people had the
right motivation to kill,
he thought.
Faye
McMullen was not a nice lady, and that was putting it mildly.

He looked down at the long sheet of
suspects that had been called into the station that night. Mostly cast and crew
from the play, but there were also a number of employees and friends. Bradley
wanted to question them before word got out on the street about her death and
people started sharing their stories. Once that happened you were never sure
what was real and what
was hearsay
.

Most of the names had a red line
through them, they had been interviewed. There was only one name still waiting,
Carl White, the director.

Glancing at the clock, he saw it was
already after midnight. He closed his eyes for a moment, and rubbed his
temples, trying to ease away a tension headache. He would be very happy when
this night was over.

He lifted his phone to have Dorothy
bring Carl in, when the door burst open and a young man in round horned-rimmed
glasses, a tweed suit, white shirt, argyle vest, and bow tie strode into his
office. Bradley thought he looked like a cross between a grown-up Harry Potter
and the BBC’s version of Sherlock Holmes. Dorothy was following close behind,
trying to catch the intruder.

“May I help you?” he asked.

“I just received a call that my aunt
has been murdered and you ask me if you can help me,” he raged. “Do you know
who I am?”

Bradley looked past him to Dorothy.
“I’ll take this one and I’ll buzz you when I’m ready for the next one.”

“Thanks, Chief,” she said.

Bradley calmly sat back in his chair,
looked at the young man and pressed his hands together. “Actually, I don’t know
who you are,” he said. “Perhaps you can take a seat and tell me.”

He motioned to the chair in front of
his desk.

“Don’t tell me to take a seat,” the
young man said, absently sitting in the chair. “I won’t be told what to do. I’m
in charge now.”

Bradley bit back a grin. “Well, why
don’t you tell me just what you’re in charge of now, Mr...?”

“Rodney, Rodney McMullen and
I’m
in charge of McMullen Industries, of course,” he said.
“I am the heir.”

“Of course, the heir,” Bradley repeated
thoughtfully. “And as such, you had the most to gain with your aunt’s death, making
you the number one suspect, don’t you think?”

Rodney blanched. “What? No! Of course
not,” he stammered. “I need my lawyer.”

Bradley nodded. “Yes, I think you
might,” he said. “Do you want to wait in the outside office while your lawyer
gets here, or would you like to continue our conversation without legal
counsel?”

“I didn’t kill my aunt,” he said. “I
loved my aunt.”

Bradley sent him a look of stark disbelief.

Rodney shrugged. “Okay, I didn’t love
her,” he admitted. “But I didn’t hate her.”

“Are we continuing the interview?”
Bradley asked.

Rodney shook his head. “No, no, I’ll
wait,” he said, getting out of the chair and walking to the door. “But it’s
late and my attorney is not going to be happy about this.”

“Please give your attorney my sincerest
apology for waking him in the middle of the night,” Bradley said.

“I don’t have to apologize to him,” he
said. “I’m in charge now.”

Bradley nodded. “I’ll make a note of
that.”

The door closed and Bradley dropped his
head in his hands. He prayed the attorney got there quickly. He took a deep
breath and pressed the intercom button. “Dorothy, send in Carl White please.”

Almost immediately, Carl came through
the door. His face was flushed and he had beads of perspiration on his forehead
and above his lip. His glance went nervously around the room, before fleetingly
meeting Bradley’s eyes and moving on.

Bradley stood and extended his hand. “Hello,
Mr. White,” he said, once Carl had clasped his hand. “I’m Bradley Alden, Chief
of Police; it’s nice to meet you.”

Carl’s hand was cold and clammy, just
what Bradley expected. If physical signs of guilt were all it took to convict
someone, they could clap the chains on Carl and haul him off to jail
immediately.

“Have a seat,” Bradley offered,
motioning to the chair in front of his desk.

Carl shuffled forward and sat down at
the edge of the chair.

Bradley took a good look at Carl. He
was in his mid to late thirties and of average height, a couple of inches under
six feet. He wasn’t a large man, but his skin was flaccid and seemed to hang
around his face, as if he had lost a lot of weight recently. His complexion was
pasty and his eyes seemed over bright.
Was
Mr. White addicted to drugs?

“So tell me about your relationship
with Faye,” Bradley said, clicking on the recorder in front of him.

“Am I a suspect?” Carl whispered.

Bradley leaned forward and looked
directly into his eyes. “Do you think you ought to be?”

Carl shook his head. “No, no, I didn’t
kill Faye,” he said. “But...can I be honest with you?”

Bradley nodded, “Actually, I was hoping
that would be the case.”

Carl’s eyes widened. “Oh, no, I didn’t
mean,” he said. “I mean, damn, I can’t do this.”

He closed his eyes and covered them
with his hands. “I don’t know what I should do.”

“Why don’t you let me ask you a few
questions,” Bradley suggested, “and then we can go from there, okay?”

He sat back in the chair and grabbed on
to either arm of the chair. “Okay, I’m ready.”

“Carl, you can relax, I just want to
ask you some questions,” Bradley said, observing the white-knuckled hold Carl
had on the chair.

Carl smiled tightly. “I’m fine,
really,” he lied. “Go ahead with the questions.”

“What happened after the practice on
Saturday night?”

“Well, Faye called everyone together
and read us all the riot act,” he said. “No one was doing a good enough job for
her.”

“Is it common for Faye to act this
way?”

“Yeah,” Carl said, nodding. “She likes
to think she’s the only one in town with any talent.”

“I heard she threatened both you and...”
he looked at his notes, “Donald
Saxer
. Is that true?”

Taking a deep breath, Carl sat forward
in the chair. “There’s no way Donald killed her. Yeah, she threatened his job,
but there’s no way he would have done it.”

“She threatened his job?”

“She told him she was going in to his
employer and get him canned,” he confessed. “She would have done it too, nasty
bitch.”

“Did she often do this kind of thing?”

Carl sat back again, his hands loosened
their grip. “Yeah, she was always throwing her weight around,” he said. “She
liked to keep people dangling on strings, pulling on them to watch them dance
for her.”

“Why
Donald?”

“Because he laughed at her and her
majesty would not allow anyone to make fun of her.”

“I have to give you credit,” Bradley
said. “I wouldn’t have been able to work with her for so many years, and yet,
you did it year after year, as a volunteer director.”

Carl paused and looked up. “Yeah, I
guess I’m just devoted to the theater,” he said stiffly, his hands tightening
on the chair once again.

“Well, good for you,” he said. “I just
have a couple more questions for you. As I understand it, all of you, the
entire cast, left Faye on the stage and went upstairs. Then what happened?”

Shrugging, Carl seemed to relax again.
“We, uh, we came downstairs and saw the backstage lights were off. I figured
Faye turned them off in disgust, so we all just left,” he said. “I was the last
one out, so I locked up.”

“Is there anyway someone could have
entered the theater once all of you were upstairs?”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Carl said, “if they
knew the security code. We were all talking upstairs, so we wouldn’t have heard
the door opening.”

“Who has access to the backstage
lights?”

“Anyone can turn them off from either backstage
or the lighting booth, they both have a full set of switches,” he said.

“None of you heard Faye calling for
help?”

“Unless you have the speakers on, it’s
nearly impossible to hear the person on stage,” he explained.

“Thanks for your time, Carl,” Bradley
said, standing up and offering Carl his hand once again. “Do you mind if I call
you again, if I have more theater questions?”

Carl shook Bradley’s hand. “No, no
problem.”

Bradley walked him to the door, and as
he opened it, saw Rodney McMullen and a man, Bradley assumed must be the
lawyer, were waiting on the other side.

Carl stopped and stared. “Rodney?” he
asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Getting to the bottom of my aunt’s
murder,” he spat. “What did you have to do with it, White?”

“You know as well as I do that I would
have nothing to gain by Faye’s death,” he said, showing more backbone in that
moment than in all of the time in Bradley’s office.
“So just
back off.”

“Listen, you bastard,” Rodney began.

“Rodney,” his lawyer interrupted
tersely, gazing pointedly at Bradley. “I suggest you discontinue this
conversation immediately.”

Rodney stepped back like a whipped
puppy and turned to his lawyer.
“Of course, Benjamin, how
crass of me to be drawn into a public altercation.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t want you to be
crass
,” Carl said sarcastically.

Bradley decided he wasn’t going to get
any more information from the meeting and stepped forward. “Thanks for your
time, Carl,” he said. “Rodney and...”

“Benjamin Middlebury, Esquire,” the
lawyer supplied.

“Mr. Middlebury,” Bradley nodded.
“Please come into my office.”

Chapter Nine

Mary rolled over and looked at the
clock radio on her night stand. It was 12:45. The crash that had awakened her
repeated. She groaned audibly and slid out of bed. Grabbing her robe, she angrily
tied the belt. “What, you can’t do this at a decent hour?” she muttered as she
marched toward the stairs. “Even if you’re dead, there are such things as
manners.”

She stormed down the stairs and nearly
had her head taken off by a flying saucepan, winging its way across her kitchen
to clatter in her dining room.

“What the...?” she asked, turning to
where the object must have originated.

Faye McMullen stood in the middle of
the kitchen, her hands filled with objects from Mary’s cabinets.
Breakable things.

“Oh, no,” Mary cried, “you can’t just
come in here and tear up my house.”

A lovely ceramic mug sailed past her
shoulder. “I’m dead!” Faye screamed. “I’m freaking dead and there is no upside
to it!”

Mary dashed forward and rescued her
favorite teapot from Faye’s grip. “You were expecting an upside?”

Faye exhaled heavily and nodded. “Yes,”
she said.
“At least a huge memorial service at the theater
with all of my friends in attendance.”

Mary walked around the kitchen, closing
the cabinet doors and hiding the other breakables. “Faye, I don’t mean to be so
blunt, but you didn’t have any friends.”

Affronted, Faye looked around the room
for another object to hurl. Mary stood in front of her, blocking the way to her
dishes. “I had friends,” she screamed, trying to dodge around Mary. “I had lots
of friends.”

Mary was glad Faye hadn’t realized she
could walk right through her. “No, you had admirers and you had people who were
afraid of you,” she said. “But, Faye, really, in order to have friends, you
have to be a friend. Were you ever a friend?”

Faye placed her hands on her hips and
scowled at Mary. “Of course I was a friend,” she snapped. “I was a great
friend. I was an amazing friend. I…”

She paused and looked around. “I can be
honest with you, can’t I?”

“Well, you’re dead. I mean, who would I
tell?”

Stopping, she considered Mary’s
comment. “That’s true. I can be totally honest with you because, really, who’d
believe you?” she agreed eagerly. “And most of the people I know think you’re a
couple donuts short of a dozen anyway.”
 

“Thanks, Faye,” Mary replied. “You were
saying?”

“Oh, right. I mean really, how could I
be friends with most of, well, let’s be honest, any of the people who live in Freeport?”
she said, rolling her eyes. “I mean, who lives in Freeport?”

Mary shrugged. “Well, you did.”

Slightly abashed, Faye paused. “Well,
only because the family estate was here,” she explained. “Deep down inside I
was made for the East Coast.”

Mary sat down on a stool near the
kitchen counter. “Okay, we know that you didn’t have friends, because no one
lived up to your standards,” she said. “Do you know how many enemies you had?”

“Women like me always have enemies,”
she purred.

“Women like you?”

“Wealthy, talented, intelligent,
attractive…”

“Humble,” Mary muttered.

“Pardon
moi
?”

“Was anyone, besides yourself of
course, in love with you?”

“You can be a bitch when you want to
be,” Faye said, sliding onto another stool. “I like that in a person.”

Mary couldn’t help herself, she
grinned. “Somehow I thought you might. Seriously, were there any relationships
that had gone sour?
Any unrequited love?”

Shaking her head, Faye paused and
looked at Mary. “Why are you asking me all of these questions? All I want is a
memorial tribute.”

“Well, most people are uncomfortable
coming to a tribute when there’s still a murderer on the loose,” she replied.
“We need to solve your murder first, and then, once the bad guy is caught,
people will want to celebrate.”

Smiling brightly, Faye reasoned, “So,
they do want to have a tribute, they’re just frightened.”

Mary wondered if anyone could really be
as egotistical as Faye seemed to be.

Faye’s smile faded.
“Those
disgusting wimps.
If they truly adored me, they would risk their lives
to show the world how important I was to this entire community.”

Yes.
Yes, someone could be that egotistical,
Mary
thought.

“Perhaps the big theater at the Masonic
Temple was booked, and they’re waiting for a big enough
venue
,”
Mary said.

Faye brightened. “Why of course, you’re
right,” she trilled.
“How silly of me.
Of course, a bigger venue.
Of course.”

She started to fade away.

“Wait!” Mary called, jumping forward.
“We still need to find the murderer, Faye. The public won’t be satisfied until justice
is done.”

She became more solid. “Well, I can’t
be bothered with that right now.”

“Just give me a name,” Mary pleaded.
“Someone I can start with.
Someone who really hated you.”

She thought for a moment and then her
eyes widened. “Of course, why didn’t I think of it before this? Dan Stevens.
I’m sure he had something to do with it. He’s always hated me. You find Dan
Stevens and you’ll find my killer.”

Faye disappeared. Mary looked around
her kitchen. Pots and pans were strewn across the room. About a dozen dishes
that used to be cups and saucers were now only broken shards scattered across
the floor.

“I don’t think my homeowner’s insurance
will cover this,” she sighed, grabbing a broom and dustpan. “I wonder if they
have a rider for paranormal activity.”

She walked over to the corner of the
kitchen and started sweeping the broken pieces away from the wall.
It’s the middle of the night and I’m
sweeping up my best china because an egotistical ghost is upset she’s dead,
she
thought.
What has happened to my life?

Leaning on the broom, she could feel
the tears burning in her eyes. She was supposed to help spirits with unfinished
business, but was she supposed to let them wreck her whole life? Was she
supposed to sit back and let love pass her by because a ghost has decided to
disappear?

“No! Dammit! No! I don’t have to let
them ruin my life,” she announced aloud. “I don’t have to
lay
down and let them turn me into a doormat.”

With renewed determination, she swiftly
swept the shards into a pile next to the kitchen table and bent over to move
them into the dustpan.

“My, aren’t we Suzie Homemaker, and at one
o’clock in the morning, very impressive,” Mike teased.

Mary jumped up and nearly hit her head
on the edge of the table. “You know what?” she snapped. “I don’t have to put up
with smart-mouthed ghosts or egotistical specters who decide to pop into my
house at all hours of the day or night.”

Mike lifted his hands in front of his
body and stepped back. “Whoa there, Mary,” he said. “I’m just an innocent
bystander. I really shouldn’t be getting both barrels full.”

Mary swept the pieces up. “Well, I’m a
little tired of being manipulated by ghosts. I’m tired of getting up in the
middle of the night. I’m tired of having people think I’m a couple donuts short
of a dozen…”

Mike floated closer. “So, you’re
missing him, aren’t you?”

Mary stopped sweeping, looked up at
Mike and the tears began to flow. She nodded, unable to speak.

“Oh, honey,” he said. “I’m so sorry
you’re sad. But it’s your own fault.”

The tears were quickly replaced by
anger. “What?”

“We ghosts are pushy, self-centered
and, quite frankly, don’t really care what you want,” he said. “And you let us
walk all over you.”

“I do not!” she countered.

“Sure you do. We moan and you get up in
the middle of the night. We throw a fit and you calm us down. We decide not to
show up and you wait for us. You’re letting us drive, Mary. You’ve got to take
charge.”

She shook her head. “How do I take
charge?”

“We’re talking Jeannine here, right?”

Mary nodded.
“Yeah,
for the most part.”

He smiled at her.
“Because,
even though the rest of us annoy you a little, we’re not causing your heart to
break, right?”

She sniffed and wiped the tears off her
face. “Yes, you’re just slightly annoying.”

He laughed and she smiled. “So, don’t
let her drive,” he said.

“What?”

“Go out and find her,” he said. “Don’t
wait for her to come to you. Go to her.”

“But where should I look?”

“You’re the private investigator,
remember?” he said. “Don’t ask me, I was a fireman; I always had people telling
me where to go.”

She really liked the idea. Don’t be the
victim. Be a take-charge P.I. That’s what she did best.

“I like this,” she said. “I really like
this.”

“So, I’m not so annoying?” he asked.

She smiled brightly at him. “Not only
are you not annoying, you are wonderful.”

He winked at her and started fading
away. “Now, go get some sleep, so you can go out and get ‘
em
in the morning.”

“Thanks, Mike,” she said, as he
disappeared.

A few minutes later the kitchen was
tidied up and everything was in its right place. Her hands on her hips, she
viewed the room with satisfaction. “I’m in the driver’s seat now!”