THE SOUND OF MURDER (6 page)

C
HAPTER 11

I strolled into the theater after my day at the lake with Jeremy. My shoulders felt sunburned, my head a bit buzzed from the Kilt Lifter, and my stomach aflutter with the promise of romance. Somehow it all added up to a glorious feeling.

As I walked through the greenroom, I blew a kiss to Arnie, tugged on Candy’s veil, and even smiled at Zeb, who was writing in his black notebook, presumably making notes about a bubbling concoction that sat in front of him. He looked around to see who my smile was aimed at, realized it was him, and preened a bit, stroking the few hairs on his chin. My cellphone rang just as I opened the dressing room door—my uncle’s ringtone.

“And how are you this fine evening?” I plopped down in my chair.

“Someone’s in a good mood,” said Uncle Bob. He sounded like he was in a pretty good mood himself.

“Why yes, I am,” I said. “I just spent the day at the lake.” I put my cellphone on speaker and pulled my makeup case across the counter toward me.

“At the lake?” My uncle was well aware of my water phobia. In fact, he’d been after me to go to counseling for a while.

“I was in the company of a very fit fireman.” And because I had learned to always tell my uncle the truth, I added, “And I didn’t go near the water. Oh! I saw Hank.”

“Out fishing?”

“I think so,” I said carefully, wishing I hadn’t brought up the subject. “We didn’t talk much.” I began putting on my makeup.

“Hank’s a man of few words,” Uncle Bob said.

And a few too many beers. Or something else if Jeremy was right.

“So,” said my uncle, “I’m still knee deep in building materials, but I wanted to see how the investigation was going.”

“Good.” Foundation finished, I moved on to eye makeup. “I had a nice conversation with Charlie’s daughter on Friday.”

My uncle didn’t say anything. I figured he was doing that “wait and get them to say something” ploy, so I kept silent. Finally he said, “And?”

“And I talked to Bernice and made a few other calls over the weekend.” I had made a few other calls. No one had answered, but I did call.

“And?” my uncle said again.

Uh-oh. “And?”

“The neighborhood investigation?”

Phew. Though Uncle Bob and I hadn’t talked since Friday, he’d left me a voicemail asking me to canvas Charlie Small’s neighborhood, just to see if anyone saw anything fishy around the time he died. I had it all planned out.

“Yep,” I said. “Going to do that tomorrow.”

Another silence. Again I waited, though I also took the time to put the finishing touches on my eye makeup.

“Olive,” said my uncle, who did not sound in a good mood any longer. “What’s the first rule of a criminal investigation?”

“Do it as quickly after the incident as possible.”

“And Charlie died when?”

“But this isn’t a criminal investigation.”

“What sort of investigation is it?”

“We’re just trying to make sure that Charlie really did commit suicide.”

“And if he didn’t?’

“Then it was either an accident, or…” I stopped, having dug my own hole.

“Go on.”

“Or foul play, which would mean this is a criminal investigation,” I said, feeling like a seven-year-old who forgot to feed the fish again. “But come on. Who’s going to murder a seventy-eight-year-old by putting him in his car with the engine running?”

“Olive.”

“I was at the theater all weekend. All weekend from morning to late night.” And with Jeremy today, I thought, swallowing a lump of guilt.

A noise on the other end of the line sounded a bit like teeth grinding. “Olive, do you want to be an actor or a detective?”

Aye, there’s the rub. I really did want to be a detective. I also desperately wanted to be an actor, had ever since I was little. I felt like I was in love with two demanding men at the same time.

“Can’t I be both?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Can you?”

I could. I wanted both things so badly that I would find a way. “I can. I’m sorry. I’ll get to it first thing tomorrow. I’ll even get up early.”

Another silence.

“Really. I’ll hit the street by eight o’clock at the latest.”

“I should be in the office tomorrow afternoon,” said Uncle Bob. “Call me then and fill me in.” He hung up without saying goodbye.

CHAPTER 12

My sunburned shoulders now felt hot and tender, my head a bit achy, and my stomach aflutter with something other than romance. There were few people in the world I wanted to please as much as my uncle. I just hadn’t thought things all the way through, both in terms of what I needed to do for this investigation, and what it might mean to be a PI while pursuing an acting career. This not-thinking-things-through was an unfortunate habit of mine, as evidenced by my burned-up apartment.

But right now it was dress rehearsal, and I had to buck up and get into costume. I pulled on my first Teasel outfit, a tarted-up sailor suit with a pleated micro-miniskirt and a low-cut top that tied at the midriff.

I stared at myself in the mirror. The ridiculous and somehow sexy costume flattered me, as long I kept doing my morning sit-ups. But my face…Sixteen years old seemed a stretch. I figured that the distance onstage helped, but just in case, I put extra blush on the apples of my cheeks, hoping for a youthful glow.

Candy opened the door and glanced at me in the mirror. “You got a fever, hon?” She laid a hand on my forehead.

I wiped off the extra blush with a Kleenex. Strike that idea. “Just worried about looking young enough onstage,” I said.

“That’s the magic of theater,” said Candy. “You say you’re sixteen, the audience believes it.”

I noticed that she didn’t actually say anything about me looking young enough.

“I mean look at Liesl in
The
Sound of Music
movie.” Candy whizzed around the dressing room, grabbing her nun costume and veil off a hanger. “She looked twenty-five, but we believed she was sixteen.”

“Actually it sounds like you thought she was twenty-five.”

“Huh.” That stopped her. “Yeah. I guess so.”

Oh well. I decided to believe in the magic of theater and finished getting ready. Once done, I took my place in the greenroom to wait with the rest of the cast and eat the homemade cookies supplied by one of the nun actresses.

“Hey,” Arnie said to me. “What happened to that big smile we saw earlier?”

“She’s worried about looking sixteen,” said Candy.

“Oh, dear,” said Bitsy. She didn’t say anything else, but she did look pointedly at the calorie-laden cookie in my hand. I took a big bite, just for spite and because it was delicious.

“No,” I said, as much to myself as anyone else. “I’m mad at myself. I need to do a neighborhood investigation and I really should have done it earlier.”

“Neighborhood investigation?” said Bitsy.

“Yeah, for that case I’m on. I need to go interview Charlie’s neighbors.”

“I told Amy about Ivy. Got her the job.” Marge poured a cup of coffee from the thermos she always brought.

“Amy?” Arnie said. “Are we talking about Charlie Small?”

“Yeah, I’m investigating his death.” I heard several intakes of breath. A clue? Nah. These were naturally dramatic folks.

“I thought he committed suicide,” Arnie said.

“You knew him?” I said.

“Sure.” Arnie helped himself to a cookie. “He was on our board.”

“And in my karaoke club,” said Bitsy.

“Everybody knew Charlie,” said Marge. “He was a sweetie.”

“So what’s a neighborhood investigation?” said Roger.

“Oh, I interview the neighbors, scout the area for clues, that sort of thing.”

“Do you want to use my spy sunglasses?” asked Arnie. “They look like regular sunglasses, but they have little mirrors inside them so you can see behind you.”

“I’d love to.” I couldn’t figure out how they’d help me interview neighbors, but I did want to try them out.

“You need other spy stuff, you just ask,” said Arnie. “I got everything.”

Before I could even ask why, Marge said, “Him and his gadgets. Nearly cost us our vacation last winter.”

“Airports are so big,” Arnie brushed the cookie crumbs off his hands, “that I take a cane in case my hip starts bugging me. Last time I took the wrong cane.”

“It has a sword hidden inside,” said Marge. “They thought we were pirates.”

The speaker in the greenroom crackled to life: “Places for top of the show.” The nuns scuttled off for their first scene. I did too. I wanted to watch from the wings to see how the show was shaping up—and, I admit, to see if Marge remembered her lines.

The lights came up on Bitsy and three other nuns in a huddle onstage. “It’s a disgrace!” said Bitsy.

“A temptation for our young people,” agreed a tall nun.

“Is the music any good?” asked a short one.

Marge/the Mother Superior entered with the elfin-looking Hailey/Mary.

“What is it you’re discussing?” Marge asked the gaggle of nuns. Phew, first line down. A tune that sounded a lot like
The Sound of Music
’s “Problem Like Maria” began to play, and Bitsy opened her mouth and sang, “How do you solve a problem like a nightclub?”

“Can’t we get the law to shut it down?” sang the tall nun.

Marge/Mother Superior shook her head.

“Who do you send to shutter up a nightclub?” sang the short sister.

Bitsy and the two nuns sang in turn:

“A politician?”

“A monsignor?”

“A clown?”

“Many a time I’ve thought we could save souls there,” sang a chubby nun.

“Many a time
I’ve
thought they’re damned to hell,” Bitsy replied in song.

“It’s so full of sin,” sang the tall nun.

“And lots and lots of men,” sang the short one, with a wistful smile.

“What can we do to break the nightclub’s spell?” sang the chubby one.

All of them chimed in, “Oh, how do you solve a problem like a nightclub?”

“WHAT DO THEY WANT THAT WE HAVE GOT TO SELL?” Right on cue, Marge sang perfectly. Loudly, brashly, but perfectly.

I sang beautifully during my scene too (sure, there was no one in the audience, but still). In fact, the whole dress rehearsal went smoothly, except for one of my changes in the wings, where my dresser somehow guided my arm through the neck hole of my dress.

I was just leaving the theater when Hailey slid up to me. “Walk me to my car?” she said.

“Sure.” I couldn’t imagine why. This part of town was not scary at night. Most people went to
bed around eight.

The cool night was quiet, the silence broken only by a jet far overhead. “You’re house sitting for Marge’s neighbor, right?” Hailey’s pale blonde hair shone silver under the parking lot lights.

I nodded.

“So do you see Marge outside of the theater?”

“Not really.”

Hailey tugged on a lock of her hair, a gesture I recognized from fraught rehearsals.

“I guess I could,” I said. “Why?”

She leaned closer to me. “I think someone should keep an eye on her. I’m really worried about her. I think she’s…not okay.”

Marge had looked as fit as ever.

“You mean her mind? But she did really well tonight.”

Hailey shook her head. “I fed her lines all night. She couldn’t remember anything.”

CHAPTER 13

I knocked on the carved wooden door, the first door in my neighborhood investigation. I was going to be a great detective. I just knew it.

The house was unlike any other I had seen in Sunnydale—stucco and a tile roof, yes, but newer, two-story, and oversized, barely squeezed onto the lot. As I was wondering how the neighbors felt about this monstrosity looming over them, the door opened. The blonde woman who stood there wore yoga pants and a cropped top that showed her pierced belly button. She was beautiful, and way too young to be living in fifty-five-plus Sunnydale. The homeowner’s daughter, maybe? Granddaughter? I decided to figure that out later. Instead I said, “I’m from Duda Detective Ag—”

Slam. Dang Uncle Bob Duda’s pride. I knocked again. The woman opened the door a crack. “Let me explain. I’m Ivy Meadows—”

It’s pretty hard to slam a door that’s open just a few inches, but somehow she managed it.

I took a deep breath and knocked again. No answer, not that I expected one. I took one of Uncle Bob’s business cards out of my messenger bag and wrote my name on it above Uncle Bob’s. I drew an arrow indicating that the card should be turned over. On the back I wrote, “re: Charlie Small’s death.” I stuck my business card in the crack between the door and the frame, and walked down the concrete path that cut through the gravel lawn. The tiny rocks reflected the heat, even on a spring morning. No wonder half of Sunnydale took off for the summer. Their lawns would bake them.

Nobody was home at the next several houses I tried. It was eight thirty on a beautiful spring morning. Most people hadn’t gone north for the summer yet. Where was everyone?

I decided to widen my search. I got in my Bug and drove around until I found the cul-de-sac that backed up against Charlie and Bernice’s cul-de-sac. Though it took several minutes to drive the winding streets, the houses’ backyards on this street faced the ones on Charlie and Bernice’s. Only a gravelly sagebrush-lined wash separated the houses’ yards. Maybe someone over here saw or heard something.

More empty houses. Wait, was that movement? I paused in front of a rambling ranch-style house with a green gravel lawn. A shadow passed by the picture window. Yes!

I strode up the walk, past a brightly painted concrete mule pulling a wagon full of fake flowers. I pressed the doorbell and Beethoven’s Fifth played loudly on chimes. This time I’d skip the introduction to me or my uncle’s detective agency, hoping to get past any slammed doors.

The lady who opened the door had gray hair that was squashed on one side, like she’d been sleeping on it, and enormous sunglasses. I whipped mine off, hoping to make a better impression. I had dressed to impress this morning, in a conservative white blouse and navy polyester skirt.

“Good morning, ma’am. I’m investigating the death of Charlie Small and wondered if I might ask you a few questions.”

“Goodness me,” she said in a trembling voice. “Am I a suspect?”

“Oh, no.” Nice job, Ivy, scaring an old lady. “I’m just doing a neighborhood investigation, finding out if anyone saw or heard anything that might help us.”

“Well, I’ll certainly tell you what I can,” said the woman, turning away from the door. “I’m Fran Bloom.” She walked toward the back of the house. “I just made some coffee. Come sit and have a cup.” Her voice still quavered. Maybe she was nervous. Maybe she did know something.

I followed Fran into a dark kitchen redolent with the smell of fresh-brewed coffee. She opened a cupboard door and took down two large plastic mugs. Her hands shook as she poured coffee into them.

As she worked in the kitchen, I sat at her table and reviewed what I knew about investigating witnesses. Uncle Bob had counseled me to begin with questions they could answer truthfully, so I could see which direction they looked when they were telling the truth. Then I should ask a question that caused them to use their imagination and watch where their eyes went. Then start in on the real questions. If their eyes drifted to the imagination place, said Uncle Bob, they were usually lying.

“How do you take your coffee?” asked Fran. She set down a silver tray. A dainty creamer and small sugar bowl, both beautifully wrought in silver, looked incongruous beside the white plastic mugs filled with coffee.

“With cream,” I replied. “You?” My first question.

“Oh, I like lots of sugar,” she said. I counted the spoonfuls she sprinkled into her coffee. Three. Good. She was telling the truth. But she was also still wearing her sunglasses, so I couldn’t see her eyes. This was going to be harder than I thought.

“I didn’t get your name, dear,” Fran said.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I decided to use my family name for detecting. “I’m Olive Ziegwart with Duda Detective Agency.”

“Pardon?”

“Du–
da
.” I pulled a business card out of my bag. “It’s a Polish name. It means ‘one who plays the bagpipes badly.’”

“I didn’t know Polish people played the bagpipes.” Fran took the card and peered at it, or so I thought. I couldn’t see her eyes behind those enormous sunglasses. “Your name’s not on here.”

“I’m new with the agency,” I said quickly. “It’s a family business.”

“But your name isn’t ‘one who plays the bagpipes badly’ is it? Didn’t you say Zieg…”

“Wart. Olive Ziegwart.” I really needed to get my own business cards. And lest she ask me what Ziegwart meant (“victory nipple,” my dad always said), I turned the conversation back to my original purpose. “So, Fran,” I said, sipping my coffee. “Mr. Small died early Thursday morning. I’m trying to find out if anyone saw or heard anything out of the ordinary.”

Fran laughed. “I can tell you’re new at detective work. See these?” She pointed with both fingers at the sides of her head. Two tiny hearing aids were tucked inside the whorls of both ears. “I can hardly hear you, much less anything outside the house.”

“Oh,” I said. “And your vision?”

“I have photophobia.”

I was about to tell her that I didn’t like having my picture taken either, but kept my mouth shut for a change.

“That’s why I wear the sunglasses,” said Fran. “It’s another ‘Parkinson’s perk,’ as I like to call them.”

Parkinson’s. Of course, that explained the trembling. She was right. I was really new at this.

“Since the light hurts my eyes, I stay indoors a lot.” Fran sipped from the plastic mug, which I realized was light and unbreakable. I was pretty good at discovering this stuff after the fact.

“But you did know Charlie?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. He was a lovely man. And his wife, Helen, such a lady. We were all so upset when we heard about it.” She shook her head. “And then that business with Pastor Scranton…” Fran’s mouth puckered with distaste. “I think he was grandstanding. Talking openly about denying Charlie a funeral.”

“Because suicide’s a sin?”

“Because he was trying to make a point.” Her voice became strong and clear. I sat up. “Pastor Scranton felt like people were being unduly influenced by the suicides. Wanted to put the fear of God—or hell—in us, I suppose. Imagine, believing that someone would kill himself just because someone else did. Ridiculous!”

“Did you say suicides? Plural?”

“I did,” said Fran, her voice quavering again. She took off her glasses and rubbed her eyes. “If you include Charlie, three people committed suicide in the past two months.”

“Three? That does seem like a lot for one town.”

“Oh no, that was just people in our congregation. In Sunnydale, we’ve had…” She counted on her fingers, her lips moving slightly. “Eight.”