THE SOUND OF MURDER (22 page)

CHAPTER 52

“Yo
u were right. Someone was in your house.” I called Marge as soon as I saw the Pet Cam pictures. “I have evidence.”

“Thank God!”

I examined the incriminating photos. Marge must have turned the Pet Cam on when she heard the intruder, setting the camera to take photos every minute.

“You have pink fuzzy slippers, right?” The first photo showed the back of Marge’s slipper-clad feet.

“Yeah.”

The second photo was the real evidence. It looked like it was taken just after Marge opened the garage door. “I’ve got a photo from Lassie’s Pet Cam that shows your feet and someone else’s.” In it, Marge’s slippered feet faced another pair of feet wearing white leather athletic shoes. “Do you know anyone who wears white tennis shoes?”

“Just everyone.”

“Yeah. I was afraid of that.” The photo showed only the front of the white sneaker. I could just see the tip of a gray identifying mark that could have been part of a letter announcing a brand name, or a Nike swoosh, or even a curved stripe.

“How do you know these pictures were taken the night I fell? I could’ve been talking to Bernice or something a few days earlier.”

“Well, these first two photos showed just feet, first yours, and then yours and the attacker’s. The next photo was of the doggie doorbell.”

“Still.”

“The next to last photo was of you, lying down in a pool of blood. And the last picture…” The fuzzy red image looked like a close-up of Marge’s face, taken by a camera smeared with blood. I swallowed the sentimental lump in my throat and patted the very good dog at my feet. “Was Lassie, trying to save you.”

I hung up with Marge, but not before she told me her doctor was checking into the possibility of medication-induced dementia. “So I may not be crazy. And someone did attack me. Ivy, I’d kiss you if I could.”

I still had work to do. I could prove someone was in the house, but who? I thought about the tennis shoes and my list of suspects. Carl definitely had white tennis shoes, the really expensive ones that had set off my radar. Hank (who was still a suspect in my book) wore black shoes with his posse uniform. I tried to think if I’d seen his shoes when he was out of uniform at Trader Joe’s or in the boat at Lake Pleasant. Couldn’t remember. Arnie usually wore dress shoes, but probably had a pair of sneakers in his closet. Bitsy often wore white tennis shoes, but I couldn’t imagine her (or Arnie for that matter) having the strength to put an unconscious person in the car, the way Jeremy had shown me.

Jeremy. My heart actually hurt at the thought of him. Why so much? After all, we weren’t even all that serious yet.

The happy family at the firemen’s tug-of-war flashed into my mind. Was it our potential future I mourned? Maybe. That and the fact that Jeremy might be right. The “screwed-up” world of theater might keep me from having any sort of normal relationship.

I shook my head. No time to mourn lost near-love. I had a murder to solve, and the producer was coming to the show tonight.

A knock and Roger walked in the unlocked front door.

“What the—” I looked at the clock. “Shit.” It was time to go to the theater, I wasn’t ready, and I’d forgotten to call and find a ride who wasn’t Roger. My car was still in the theater parking lot. I waved Roger out of the room. “Just go. I’ll take Marge’s car.”

“Then you’ll have two cars at the theater.” I was about to tell him I’d deal with it when he said, “And I think we should talk.”

He was going to get a talking-to, all right. “I need a minute.” I scooped up Lassie and put him outside the back door. “Pee now,” I said, “walk later.” I ran to the bedroom, threw some clean undies and tights in a duffle bag, grabbed my purse off the dresser, came back, let Lassie in, hoped he’d peed, and said, “I’m ready.”

Roger was looking through the photos on the table. “What are—”

“Pet Cam photos.” I pointed to the clock. “Let’s go.” I didn’t want to spend any more time in Roger’s company than was absolutely necessary.

I followed him out to his borrowed car. “About last night,” he said, “I did that on purpose.” He unlocked the doors remotely.

“No shit, Sherlock. I didn’t think you’d just happened to show up at Marge’s half-naked and unannounced for the first time ever.”

Roger got into the car. “I also sent you the flowers. And told Timothy to French kiss you.”

“Nice. Thanks. The ass-grab too?” I slid into the passenger seat.

“He improvised that.” He started up the car. “Don’t you want to know why I did what I did?”

I stayed silent. I had a pretty good idea.

“It’s not what you think.”

I continued to hold my tongue.

“You know how I’ve been mentoring you? The lessons, the car, this introduction to the producer?”

I stiffened. Here it came, the tit for tat bit.

“If you had ended up in love with that guy, you probably would have thrown away your chance at the big time. Stayed here in Phoenix and had kids or something.” He shook his head as he pulled into the theater parking lot. “I’ve seen it too many times.”

I was about to protest, then stopped. If the relationship with Jeremy had progressed to love, I might have stayed.

“You’ve got to realize something about the theater, Ivy.” Roger turned to look at me. “If you really want to make it, you have to give it everything you’ve got. Don’t let anything—or anyone—stand in your way.”

CHAPTER 53

I c
arefully parted the velvet curtains so I could check out the audience pre-show. A man with black glasses and a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard sat at a table in the front row, perusing the program. Had to be the producer. He was the only one sitting by himself, except for—

Really? Yeah, it was him, mirrored sunglasses and all. I hadn’t figured Hank for a musical theater guy. Was he following me again?

I let the curtains fall and went back to the greenroom, where I shook off the producer-and-Hank nerves by taking deep breaths, doing head rolls, and practicing tongue twisters. As I said, “The sixth sick sheik’s sixth sheep’s sick” for the third time, Candy walked in. Normally the very definition of “high energy,” tonight she dragged her feet, a rubber ball that’d lost its bounce. She plopped down onto the old sofa and sat there, still in her scrubs from the care center. “I broke up with Matt.”

I sat down too, and put an arm around her.

She leaned forward, hanging her head. “I really liked him.” Candy, who was notoriously fickle, had broken a relationship record with Matt. This wasn’t just a bit of fun.

“Then why?” I rubbed her back gently.

Raising her head, Candy caught sight of the clock on the wall. “Lordy, is that the time?” We both stood. The sadness slipped off her. “I figured it was time to fish or cut bait. I’m fixin’ to leave town.” Her face brightened like a Christmas bulb. “I’m moving to L.A. I’ve got a friend I can live with, and she’s going to introduce me to her agent. I’m going for it!” She did a little happy dance. Maybe she was the definition of “high energy”
and
“resilient.”

A bunch of eavesdroppers congratulated her. “And when were you going to tell your very good friend Ivy?” I couldn’t believe Candy had made such a big decision in secret.

“I wanted to tell Matt first, and didn’t want you to have to hide anything when you saw him.” Candy shook her head. “Did he tell you we were finally goin’ on a double date? A picnic or somethin’ with Cody and his girlfriend. Would have been fun.” Her face grew serious again. “I
really
liked him. Maybe even…” She trailed off. I thought I knew what she was feeling, that pull between the love of acting and, well, love. Maybe it was good that Jeremy broke up with me.

“Don’t worry, dear,” Bitsy said. “He’s a nice, handsome boy with a good future. Some lucky girl will snap him up.” She patted Candy on the shoulder and walked away.

Candy deflated like a balloon. “How does she do that? Say something sweet as honey that makes you feel like crap?” She slunk back to our dressing room.

I’d had just about enough of Bitsy and her passive-aggressive maliciousness. “So,
Mrs.
Bitsy Bright,” I said loudly enough that a few actors turned around. “I think we need to talk after the show.”

Bitsy coiled into herself, like a rattlesnake about to strike. But I had my big boots on, metaphorically speaking, so I smiled at her and followed Candy into our dressing room.

I told her about my breakup with Jeremy. After a good cry and a couple of MoonPies (she kept a stash for emergencies), we were ready for the show. I tried not to think too much about the producer. Who had seats at a front row table. Who was about to decide the trajectory of my life.

Thanks to Marge’s advice, once I was onstage as Teasel all thoughts of the producer vanished. Maybe I was really becoming an actor. I sang “Sixteen Going on Twenty-One” beautifully, executed the grand jeté in our dance number perfectly, and even managed to kiss Wolf with something that resembled virginal passion. I could almost see the lights of New York.

Then came “Dough, Ray, Me.” All of us dancers sang together with Mary, “Dough, the rent, the bucks I owe…” Except for me. I opened my mouth and out came, “D…OD…one five six eight.” Carl’s license plate number. The Sunnydale street scene flashed into my mind: Carl’s red Ferrari, Roger in running gear, the lady with the schnauzer.

What the hell? My singing memorization trick had never backfired on me before. Teasel the dancer disappeared and Ivy took over as one part of my brain scrabbled around trying to figure out what was going on, while another part recognized that I was onstage in front of an audience (and a producer) and tried to shut the detecting part down. In self-preservation, I stopped singing and just mouthed the words.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice. In fact, during intermission, there was a knock on our dressing room door. Roger stuck his head in. “The producer loves you.” He blew me a little kiss and closed the door. Candy, who had just heard how Roger torpedoed my love life, gave me a “what the hell are you doing?” look. I ignored it, like I ignored the license number jingling away in the back of my mind and the Sunnydale street scene that continued to loop through my consciousness. I had a show to do.

CHAPTER 54

I tried to slow my breathing as I waited in the wings for Act Two to begin. I/Teasel sang the opening line. I
had
to be in character. I took a deep breath, shucked off Ivy, and became Teasel. I put myself in her shoes, in pre-World War II Austria when the Nazis were closing in and Jews were in definite danger.

The music began, the stage lights went to black, and we Vaughn Katt dancers took our places onstage. The lights came up, dimly.

I looked around us at the ruined stage, the up-ended chairs, the curtains the Nazis had spray painted with swastikas. I sang, “The nightclub tonight…lacks the sound of music…” My voice quavered a bit with the fear Teasel felt but was perfectly on pitch. The other dancers joined me in the song, which ended with rousing applause from the audience.

The rest of the scene went great too; Mary, who had run away to the nunnery, returned to the cabaret to proclaim her love for Captain Vaughn Katt, and together they hatched a plan to disguise us dancers in nuns’ habits so we could escape across the Alps unmolested. I snuck a peek at the producer, who smiled as he scribbled in a notebook. My heart soared as I exited into the wings.

While the Captain and Mary sang a love ballad onstage, we dancers had to make a quick costume change for our last two numbers, which we performed already disguised in our habits. The idea was that the Captain and Mary and all of us pretend nuns sang at a festival that offered a slightly easier escape route, while some of the real nuns posed as cabaret dancers to keep the Nazis occupied.

I kicked off my sparkly heels (I shared them with a nun actor who was changing into a cabaret dancer costume) and ran to the place where Lori, my dresser, always waited with my costume in hand, ready to pop the habit over my head, fasten my wimple and veil, and help me slip into sensible nun shoes.

Lori wasn’t there. I looked around frantically. Everyone else was almost ready—it was amazing how quickly you could get changed with help. I not only had no help, I had no costume. The music began for our next number. “Hold!” I stage whispered to anyone who might hear. “Hold!”

No one heard. The rest of the dancers rushed onstage just as Lori ran back to the wings, habit in hand. “I don’t know what happened.” She threw the habit over my head. “I set out your costume just like always, but when I got here it was gone.” The music for the next song began. Dammit, couldn’t they tell they were a nun short?

Lori quickly fastened my veil and wimple. “I never did find your shoes.” The captain began to sing, “Edelweiss belongs to me…” Finally dressed, I flew onstage. Which, I realized as I ran, was really stupid.

This particular song was a strange combination of “Edelweiss” from
The Sound of Music
and “Tomorrow Belongs to Me,” which is sung by Hitler Youth in
Cabaret
. It was supposed to show that we were subtly thumbing our noses at the Nazis, and to bring the audience to tears. Instead there were titters as I ran onstage two lines late, veil flapping and bare feet slapping the stage.

We had just finished the song to modest applause when Bitsy, whose Mother Superior did not do double duty as a cabaret dancer, said, “Teasel, wherever are your shoes? How are you going to climb the Alps in bare feet?” These lines, of course, were not in the play. They were meant to draw attention to my bare feet, which I was sure were Bitsy’s doing.

“Someone stole my shoes.” Not the best bit of improv, but the only words I could think of. They were also a trigger: The Sunnydale street scene took center stage in my mind again. This time, I saw shoes.

Roger’s running shoes.

His white running shoes with a gray swoosh.

“Shoes,” I mumbled again as I stared at Roger.

“To be thus is nothing; But to be safely thus.” The
Macbeth
line he had quoted at the bowling alley—Macbeth speaks it as he plots a second murder in order to make sure his first one brings his promised future.

Omigod. The good-looking captain with the great baritone voice who saved his Jewish dancers was a serial killer.

The music began for our next number, “So long, Gute Nacht.” My mouth was already open, so I sang, “There’s a loud kind of banging from the cymbals on the stage…” Or rather, I tried to sing. Now that I’d slipped out of character, I couldn’t carry a tune. At all. I also couldn’t tear my eyes away from Roger-the-murderer (who studiously ignored me), but out of the corner of my eye I saw Keith wince and pull his baton up. So I was flat. I thought briefly of the producer in the audience. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was figuring out what to do next.

“So long,” I sang (really, horribly flat) as I exited offstage right. Candy waited there for me. “What happened?” she whispered. Everyone must have heard my out-of-tune singing over the PA system.

“Gute Nacht…” sang Bitsy as she walked offstage left.

“I think our Captain is a killer,” I whispered back, keeping my eye on Roger.

“Farewell!” sang the Captain and Mary. They exited stage left, and the lights went to black for a quick scene change.

“Come again?” Candy asked.

“Gotta go.” I hurried onstage for the final number, “Climb Out of the Gutter.” The lights came up to reveal all of us at the foot of the Alps, ready to climb.

All of us except Roger.

“Shit!” I exclaimed in a very un-nun-like fashion. Nice staring at a murderer so he knows you’re onto him, Ivy. I ran offstage left. No Roger in sight. “Call 911,” I yelled to Candy as I ran through the greenroom. I made it out the stage door in time to see Roger start his car. I went to jump in mine, then realized my keys were in my purse in my dressing room. Double shit! I sprinted back inside the theater as fast as my bare feet would allow, grabbed my purse off the dressing room counter, slung it crosswise over my body, and raced to my car. Even so, by the time I zoomed out of the parking lot, Roger’s car was nowhere in sight.

Where would he go? What would I do if I were a killer?

I’d destroy evidence. I headed toward Marge’s house and the Pet Cam photos.