THE SOUND OF MURDER (15 page)

CHAPTER 34

Larry Blossom lived on the same street as Charlie, Bernice, and Marge. I strolled over the next morning, past a Realtor pounding a “For Sale” sign into Charlie’s gravel front yard. Guess things moved quickly around here.

I walked up to the house and rang the bell. A man opened the door.

Oh no.

“You look an awful lot like a nun who was around here the other day,” said the slow-talker from Monday.

“That was me.” I handed him my uncle’s business card. “I’m Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detectives. I’m looking into the death of Charlie Small.” Larry had been out of town on the days surrounding Charlie’s death, so I didn’t meet him during the neighborhood investigation.

The gray-haired gent looked me up and down. “And the nun outfit?” The pause plus the four-word sentence took about a minute. At least it felt like it did.

“I was undercover.”

He laughed. “I’ll say you were. Come on in.” He stepped back into the dark cool interior.

I stepped just over the threshold, hoping that staying near the door would signal the fact that I was in a hurry. The foyer smelled not unpleasantly like pipe tobacco. “I only have a minute, but I wanted to ask you a quick question.” Please let it be a quick answer. Please. “You bought Charlie’s car, correct?”

“I sure did. Some people might think it’s strange, buying a dead man’s car, but—”

“Do you know if—”

“
But
,” Larry gave me a look that said interrupting was rude, “I liked Charlie. I liked his car. I didn’t see an issue.”

I decided to get right to the point. “Do you know if the car has a catalytic converter?”

“Well…” Larry took a pipe out of his front shirt pocket, searched around in another pocket, pulled out some tobacco, and began filling his pipe. Being direct didn’t seem to have saved me any time. “You’re supposed to have one, you know. Greenhouse gasses or something.”

He pulled out a book of matches from a pants pocket, discovered it was empty, and patted his pockets until he found another matchbook. I thought I might scream.

“But here’s the thing.” Larry lit his pipe. “You do get better gas mileage without one. And not buying so much gas is good for the environment too.” He waved out the match and put it in an ashtray on a nearby credenza. I was afraid I might grow moss. “Still, I don’t think I would have taken it off. May even get a new one. Car makes a lot of noise without it. Like a bad muffler.”

“Did Charlie take off the catalytic converter himself?”

“Think he had someone help him.” He puffed thoughtfully. “Maybe whoever told him he’d save on gas.”

“Any idea who that was?” A long shot, sure, but what the heck.

Larry thought. And thought. I waited. Uncle Bob would have been proud.

“You know,” he said, “I think he said it was someone from the theater. He was on the board, you know.”

I nodded. “Thank you.” I turned to go.

“I heard you saw Marge,” Larry said. “She doin’ okay?”

“Okay,” I said. “Not great, but okay.” I had my hand on the doorknob when I thought of something. “I know you found Marge that morning, but did you see or hear anything before her accident? Maybe earlier?”

“Nope,” Larry said. “Just a landscaper.”

CHAPTER 35

I called Marge as soon as I left Larry’s. “Do you have a landscaper?”

“A what?”

“A landscaper?”

“Who is this?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s Ivy.”

“Who?”

“Ivy Meadows. I’m taking care of your—”

“Is this some sort of joke?” Marge slammed the phone down.

I hung up, hoping this was not a sign of things to come, and still wondering about the landscaper. I’d ask Arnie. Maybe he would know.

But when I got to the theater that night, I was distracted by a near-barf. I had just sat down at the greenroom table with a plate of mac and cheese, when…

“Oh! My!” Bitsy gagged, slammed down her iced tea glass, and ran from the room.

“She better not have the flu,” Timothy said, pulling some hand sanitizer from a pocket. He slathered it on his hairy hands, then offered it to me. “Want some?”

Instead I picked up the glass, sniffed at the cloudy tea and nearly gagged too. I got up and strode back to the kitchen with the glass. The head cook, a silent woman whose hairnet was so tight she always had little triangles on her forehead after dinner, looked up at me, then quickly down at the pot of soup she was stirring. Zeb saw me and stepped behind the industrial-sized dishwasher.

“Come out, Zeb,” I said. “We have to talk. Now.”

He shambled out from his hiding spot. The kitchen staff stopped chattering.

“This glass of Bitsy’s…” I held it aloft and waited.

“It was an accident.” Zeb looked at the floor.

“I didn’t see anything,” said the cook, unbidden.

“I must have used the glass I did my science experiment in,” Zeb said. “I was testing the enzyme activity of blended liver.”

“A liver smoothie!” said one of the prep cooks.

I didn’t say anything, just held the glass up high.

“Really.” Zeb produced his black notebook from his kitchen apron pocket and showed it to me. “See, right here it says—”

“Zeb.” I put down the stinking glass. “I believe you used this glass for a science experiment. I do not believe that using it for Bitsy’s iced tea was an accident.”

The rest of the kitchen staff floated away but stayed within earshot.

“I don’t like ‘Bitchy.’” Zeb thrust out his chin. The few hairs there stood straight out in defiance.

I waited. I didn’t like Bitsy either, but apart from the Alzheimer’s remark, which could have been innocent, I couldn’t put my finger on why.

“She’s a nympho.”

That wasn’t the reason. “If that ain’t the pot calling the kettle black.” I had picked up a few of Candy’s southernisms. Sometimes they just fit the bill.

“No, really. She hit on me.” Zeb shuddered. I did too, but not because I believed Zeb. According to him, everyone from the cashier at Trader Joe’s to his math teacher was hot for him. No, it was the image—fictional or not—of almost-seventy-year-old Bitsy with sixteen-year-old Zeb that made me squirm. “She’s after Arnie too, if you hadn’t noticed. Can’t decide if she wants a young buck or an old goat.”

“You make that up yourself?” I asked.

“I am not your average dishwasher,” he said with pride.

If that ain’t the truth.

I
watched Bitsy that night. Zeb was right. Anytime Arnie came into the greenroom, Bitsy ended up next to him, laughing at his corny jokes, touching his arm, listening to him with an annoyingly coy tilt of her head.

On my way out of the theater after that night’s show, I saw her waiting by the stage door, dolled up in a figure-hugging red suit, high heels, and a tiny black patent leather clutch. I heard Arnie in the hall behind me, humming a little around his ever-present cigar. I let him pass, then dropped back around the corner so I could spy on them.

Arnie turned the corner. “Yowza.” He whistled in admiration. “I love a woman in red.”

“Thank you,” said Bitsy, with that stupid head tilt. “I have a date.”

I watched Arnie to see if he looked jealous. I suspected Bitsy was looking for the same thing. I didn’t see it. What I did see was the stage door open to reveal Bitsy’s date.

Colonel Carl Marks.

“Carl!” Arnie smiled and thrust out a hand at the colonel, who wore well-cut slacks and an open-necked shirt under a sports coat. Arizona formal wear.

“So you two know each other,” Bitsy said.

“Everyone knows the colonel here,” Arnie said. I was beginning to think that was true.

“Colonel,” I said, stepping around the corner. “Just the man I wanted to talk to.” Carl’s and Bitsy’s smiles dimmed perceptibly. “Seems to me I’ve seen your car around an awful lot.”

“Checking out my ‘hot rod,’ are you?” Carl said to me. He gave Bitsy a lascivious smile.

I shook my head in mock confusion.

“And I could have sworn you were married.”

“I am.” Carl stared past me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bitsy’s face redden, but I kept my gaze on the colonel. He popped a piece of gum in his mouth, then shifted his eyes to my face. “This is a business meeting.” Ah. A lie.

“But you’re retired.”

The colonel smiled directly at me, lying again. “I still do some work for my friends.” His gum chewing amped up.

“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

A
rnie 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.