Town In a Lobster Stew (24 page)

“Here you go,” he said, holding it up for her to see.

It was an earpiece with a thin wire that connected it to a small black box with a skinny six-inch antenna. He also held up a small black button about the size of a penny with a clip on the back of it, also attached to a small black box by a thin wire.

“What’s that?” Candy asked, peering at the devices.

Finn displayed it proudly. “It’s an audio bug and receiver. I pieced it together myself with parts I bought at Radio Shack. It’s got a range of about fifty feet or so, so I’ll have to stay close by.”

“Close by?”

“Sure, like in the parking lot maybe. Here.” He leaned forward and attached the small black button to the collar of Candy’s blouse. He slipped the black box in her left front pocket. “It helps if we can get the miniature mic as close to your mouth as possible. It should be concealed, of course. It would’ve helped if you’d worn something like a turtleneck, so we could just hide it under the fold, but we’ll figure it out. We’ll have to hide the transmitter too, but that can go anywhere. And we’ll string the wire inside your clothes.”

He held up the earpiece connected to the black box with the antenna. “I’ll be outside in the car. I can even lie down in the backseat if that would help, so no one will see me—especially your informant. Don’t want to scare them away. Then I just pop this earpiece in, and I can hear everything you say. If you get into trouble, just holler. I’ll be there in two shakes.”

Candy eyed the device skeptically. “You think this’ll work? I’ll be backstage at the Pruitt. Even if I need your help, it would take you a few minutes to get in there from the parking lot if you entered by the back basement door.”

Finn shook his head. “That’s the best part. There’s a stage door the actors and crew use. It opens from the backstage area right into the side parking lot. I can jump out of the car and be there to help you out in less than thirty seconds.”

“But isn’t that door locked?”

Finn grinned. “Sure it is. It’s got a new security keypad on it. I know, because I asked to have it installed. I’m a show producer, you know. I’ve got a little clout around this town.”

Candy smiled with him. “And because you’re the producer, you know the combination to the keypad, don’t you?”

He raised his arms in an exaggerated shrug. “What can I say? I’m good at what I do.” His expression turned serious again as he set the gear on the table and sat back down. “Listen, Candy, this doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Sedley’s death, does it?”

Candy had anticipated the question and had formulated her answer on the drive over. “It might, but I’m just trying to help out a friend. Wilma Mae asked me to do a little digging around.”

He didn’t seem convinced. He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the table. “Look, I’ve been hearing some buzz from the station. They’re saying Mr. Sedley had serious trauma to the head. He probably had a few other broken bones too, and maybe a broken neck. Someone beat him up pretty good. But there’s something else. They’re saying he didn’t die where you found him. They think his body was moved. Somebody probably killed him somewhere else in the house—upstairs maybe, either accidentally or on purpose—and dragged or carried his body down into the basement. At least, that’s what they’ve figured out so far.”

“Do they have any suspects?”

“I don’t know yet. And there’s one more thing—the tarp.”

“The one he was wrapped in?”

“That’s right. They’re saying it’s not Wilma Mae’s—it came from somewhere else.”

“You mean . . . what? The murderer brought it with him?”

Finn shrugged. “Who knows what’s going on? But my point is this: you’re walking into very murky territory here. This is serious business, Candy. I wouldn’t take any chances if I were you. If there’s any indication—anything whatsoever—that you’re in danger, just yell out my name—don’t hesitate—and I’ll be on my way. I don’t want you to get yourself hurt.”

She reached across the table and clapped her hand on his wrist. “Finn, thanks for doing this for me.”

He patted her hand and gave her a guarded smile. “Hey, no problem. It’s the least I can do. You know, I could probably get in trouble for helping you, but what the hell. It’ll be fun. Just like the old days. Besides, Doc would never forgive me if I let something happen to you.”

“Finn Woodbury,” Candy said, her voice suddenly stern, “you are under no circumstances to tell my dad about this. Is that understood?”

He nodded silently, as if chastised.

“This is just between you and me,” she continued. “At least for now. Or unless we find a killer. In that case, I’ll share the credit with you.”

He held out his hand to shake. “It’s a deal.”

Thirty minutes later, she stood at the back basement door of the Pruitt Opera House.

Candy reached out and tentatively turned the door handle. It was unlocked, just as Cinnamon Girl said it would be. She pushed open the door, peered inside, and couldn’t help giving a last look back over her shoulder, just to make sure.

She’d parked the Jeep on the far side of the lot, near the stage door. Finn was crouched down in the backseat, hidden from view. She absently touched the black button mic attached to a bra strap and, with the other hand, tapped the transmitter tucked into her back pocket. The wire snaked around her body inside her blouse. She just hoped the little spy gadget worked the way Finn said it would.

They had tested it out a few times around Finn’s place before they left. Finn had gone upstairs and outside to determine its range. It seemed to work fine.

Still, Candy was nervous. She knew she might be overreacting, creating villains when there were none, but after what had happened the last time, she didn’t want to take any chances. She just hoped she wouldn’t need Finn’s help at all—that whoever this Cinnamon Girl was, she (or he) was legit, and nonthreatening.

Taking a deep breath, she walked inside, letting the door close behind her. She entered a darkened hallway, illuminated by dim off-hours lighting. Still, she could see the way ahead clearly enough. The long hallway was deserted.

Before she took a step forward, she instinctively looked down.

She’d visited Town Hall several times in the past year or so but always entered by the main door upstairs. The last time she’d been in this hallway, on a stormy night ten months ago, she’d seen wet footprints tracked across the floor—a tip-off she should have paid more attention to. But today there were no footprints of any kind, no sound, no movements—nothing to indicate anyone had been this way recently.

She’d brought a flashlight with her, just in case, in a black canvas shoulder bag she used sometimes for work. She liked it because she could flip the bag back behind her when she didn’t need it, so it stayed out of the way, and it was large enough to carry all the notepads, files, pens, business cards, water bottles, and other work-related items she needed, plus a digital tape recorder, an address book, and her cell phone. Today, it also carried a flashlight.

She pulled out the flashlight and held it low, though she didn’t flick it on yet, and started forward, walking as quietly as possible. She wore tennis shoes, and at times they squeaked on the tiled floor. But she found she could minimize the squeaks by walking on the sides of her feet. Cautiously, and a bit awkwardly, she crept forward and soon reached the end of the corridor.

Just as she’d done on that night ten months ago, she turned right into another long corridor. It too was dimly lit. At the far end, she knew, was a stairwell that led to the upper floor. That’s where she was headed.

She moved more quickly now, not wanting to linger any longer than she had to, passing by the closed doors of a number of offices, many of them leased by the town. Near the end of the hall, on the left, was the town council’s office, reserved for the use of the council chairman and selectmen. Since last November’s election, the office had had a new occupant, Mason Flint, a retired schoolteacher who’d been a selectman and chairman of the finance committee before becoming council chairman. He’d won the position not only because of his experience in local politics, but also because he promised to improve tourism and bring stability to the town. Candy had met him a couple of times. He seemed like a nice fellow, and so far his tenure had been uneventful.

Still, the office also held unwanted memories for Candy, so she hurried past the closed door without stopping.

As she reached the end of the hall, she turned left and pushed through a door to a dark staircase. The last time she’d been here, she’d dashed up these stairs two at a time in near panic, but now she started up them more cautiously, one at a time, peering upward as she went. But the stairwell, like the hallways, was empty.

At the top of the stairs she turned left, pushing through another set of doors, and entered a long hallway with faded red carpeting that ran along the entire right side of the auditorium. It sloped gently downward to her right and eventually led through another door to the backstage area. Candy briefly considered heading along the hall in that direction but decided against it. Instead, she stepped straight across the hall and pulled open another door, which led into the auditorium itself.

The elaborately decorated auditorium of the Pruitt Opera House seated three hundred and fifty people in clothupholstered seats, but tonight it was empty, like the rest of the building. It was a great, oddly hushed space that held its own special memories for her. A few lights had been left on high in the ceiling and under the balcony, which loomed above her on her left. The stage was down to her right. The main house curtain, she noticed, was open.

That’s good
, she thought.
At least it won’t be too dark backstage.

She hesitated before she moved on. She thought of checking the audio device to make sure it was working but realized it made no difference, since she had no earpiece and couldn’t hear Finn. It was only one-way audio.
Well
, she thought,
I’m not in the FBI or anything like that. I don’t have access to the latest high-tech gear. This is just amateur detecting. So
, she told herself,
go ahead and detect. Get on with it.

She turned right and headed down the side aisle, which sloped downward toward the front of the auditorium.

As she walked, she listened, but she could hear nothing except her own soft footsteps and her own breathing. Even the traffic outside on Ocean Avenue and the Coastal Loop was almost inaudible in here. Horace Roberts Pruitt, the grandfather of Cornelius, had built the opera house well, with thick walls and architectural techniques designed to insulate the building against exterior noise.

Candy slowed, her gaze moving back and forth, as she approached the stage. An eight-foot pit area stretched before the first-row seats, and steps led up to the stage itself. She hesitated only briefly before climbing the steps.

Slowly she crossed toward center stage, feeling strangely vulnerable. Hearing an errant creak from the auditorium, she turned on her heels and looked out over the sea of seats, then up toward the balcony, then back to the wings on either side of her, where she saw nothing but shadows among the side curtains.

She turned to face the rear of the stage, where a long, closed curtain hid the backstage area from her view. She took a few tentative steps toward the rear curtain, still looking back and forth, her eyes watching for any sign of movement. “Hello? Anyone here?” she called softly. She paused and listened for a reply but heard nothing.

“Hello?” she called again. “Cinnamon Girl?”

As she reached the rear curtain, she turned to look into the shadows in the right and left wings.

Did something move there?

She saw it then, to her left—a flickering light, briefly, as if signaling to her.

“Hello?” she called a third time, though now her voice was more of a whisper. She took a few steps in that direction.

A light flashed in her eyes. She stopped abruptly.

Just as quickly as it had come, the light disappeared. A low, indistinct voice spoke from the shadows. “Over here.”

“Is that you?”

No response.

Hesitantly, Candy took a few steps toward the shadows of the left wing, where the voice had come from. As she drew closer, the voice spoke again. “Back here.”

This time, she decided it definitely sounded like a woman’s voice.

She let out a breath. She hadn’t realized she’d been holding it in.

Candy reached the wing and peered deeper into the shadows, but she could see nothing. “Where are you?”

“Back here.”

The voice, low and muffled, had come from her right. She thought of flicking on the flashlight she still held but hesitated. She didn’t want to spook Cinnamon Girl, so for the moment she left it off. But she tightened her grip on it, her thumb resting on the switch, ready to flick it on at the first sign of trouble.