Final Call (3 page)

Chapter Three

Bradley shoved open the back door of the theater and took
the steps three at time. “Rosie, Stanley, where are you?” he called.

“Over here, Bradley,” Rosie’s quivering voice came from the
seats in the theater.

He pushed through the door from the backstage and saw Rosie
and Stanley surrounded by his officers. He glanced up at the stage and saw the
new coroner and a group of paramedics standing at the edge of the stage and
staring up at the body.

“What’s going on?” Bradley called.

“Forensic Team is about 20 minutes out,” Joe
Kelman
, the new coroner, called back. “We don’t want to
intrude on the crime scene until they have a go at it.”

Bradley nodded. “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

Joe shook his head. “Thanks Chief, but we
ain’t
doing this for you. If this is Faye McMullen swinging
up there, you’re going to have reporters from all over the area swarming here
trying to find out about her murder.”

“She dated Frank Sinatra, you know,” one of the young
paramedics said.

“No she didn’t,” the other countered. “That was just a
rumor. She actually dated James Dean.”

“He was dead when she was a child,” the first countered.

Bradley turned away from the stage and walked over to the
crowd surrounding Stanley and Rosie. The officers moved out of his way. Rosie
was sitting in a chair, a dainty handkerchief pressed to the corner of one
red-rimmed eye. “Oh, Bradley,” she sobbed. “It was so awful.”

Stanley sat next to her, one of her hands clasped in both of
us. “Just calm down, Rosie,” he coaxed. “It’ll be all right.”

“But she’s…she’s dead,” Rosie cried. “How can it be all right?”

Bradley squatted down in the aisle next to Rosie’s chair and
placed his hand on her shoulder. “You’re right,” he said calmly. “It’s not all right.
But I need you to be strong and try to remember everything that happened so we
can find who did this.”

Rosie lifted her face to Bradley’s. “So, you don’t think it
was an accident?”

“Not unless the old witch was riding her broom in the
rafters of the theater and slipped,” Stanley grumbled.

Two of Bradley’s best officers turned away quickly to hide
the smile on their faces.

“Stanley, that’s not nice,” she chided, dropping her
handkerchief in her lap and turning on him. “A woman has been murdered.”

           
Stanley
snorted. “
Tweren’t
twenty minutes ago you was telling
me how she was making everyone’s life a living hell. Now I don’t think anyone
should die an awful death like that, but sometimes folks reap what they sow.”

           
Rosie
shook her head and sniffed. “Stanley, sometimes I don’t know about you.”

           
Stanley
looked at Bradley. “I guess she’ll be able to answer your questions now that
she’s not all slobbery and emotional.”

           
Bradley
nodded, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. He pulled out a
notepad. “Rosie, can I ask you some questions?”

She glared at Stanley, then turned and smiled at Bradley.
“Yes, certainly.
How can I help you?”

“Were you planning on meeting Faye here tonight?” he asked.

She nodded. “Faye was always here, every night,” she said.
“Even if she wasn’t supposed to rehearse, she came to observe the other
actors.”

“Was she the director?”

She shook her head. “No, she...” she paused, “she was trying
to be helpful. She just wanted to get the best out of each of us.”

Bradley looked up from his notepad and stared directly into
Rosie’s eyes. He could tell that she was trying to make things seem better than
they were. “You do realize that when you lie to be nice, it’s still a lie. And
when you lie during a murder investigation, you make it even more difficult for
us to find out what happened.”

She sighed.
“The truth?
The whole truth?”

He nodded.

Rosie closed her eyes, pressed her lips together and nodded.
She took a deep breath, opened her eyes and blurted out, “Faye was a mean,
egotistical, and vain bitch; there were no two ways about it.”

“Well, that was brutally honest,” Stanley muttered.

“Okay,” Bradley said slowly. “Why don’t you tell me why you
formed those opinions?”

“She was always criticizing everyone,” Rosie blurted. “No
one was good enough. No one had her level of talent. No one had her expertise.
No one was worthy to share the stage with her.”

“Was she right?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “She was very good at being an
actress; she was just terrible at being a human being.”

He tapped the edge of his pencil against the pad. “Other
than being a bad human being, do you know of any reason someone would want to
kill her?”

“She was rich,” Stanley interjected. “Someone’s bound to
inherit when she dies.”

Bradley turned his attention to Stanley. “Do you know of a
relative, or anyone who would gain by her death?”

Stanley shook his head. “
Naw
,
don’t have a clue. Just saying it would make sense.”

“Rosie, can you give me a list of all the people who are
part of the performance?” Bradley asked.

“Everyone?
Including the stage crew?”

“Anyone who would have been here at the theater with Faye,”
he said.

When she reached for her purse, he saw her hands tremble.
Well, of course, idiot
, he thought.
She’s just seen a murdered woman up close
and personal. Of course she would be shaken.

“Stanley, take Rosie home. She can put the list together
there and she will probably think more clearly once she’s away from here,” he
said.

“Best idea I’ve heard all night,” Stanley said. “Come on,
Rosie, I’ll take you home. But don’t think I’m going to fuss over you or
nothing. I’ll make you some tea, maybe, but don’t be expecting too much.”

“Do you want me to call Mary and have
her
meet you at your house?” Bradley asked. “She’ll want to know about this.”

“Thank you, Bradley, that would be lovely,” Rosie agreed, as
she rose and allowed Stanley to help her with her coat. “I think Mary could be
helpful, she’s more experienced with these kinds of things.”

“Why don’t you have her come over here first?” Stanley
suggested. “Maybe Faye is still hanging around.”

“Stanley, the Freeport Police Department can handle a murder
investigation without Mary O’Reilly’s help,” Bradley said.

Stanley’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Course you can, Chief,” he
replied. “No one ever said otherwise. Come on, Rosie, let’s get you home.”

Bradley watched them leave the theater, while he rubbed the
back of his neck. Stanley obviously didn’t realize that things had cooled
between him and Mary during the past few weeks. He had no idea what had
happened, but Mary was avoiding him.

He shook his head. Maybe he moved too quickly during the
holidays. She was just recovering from being kidnapped. Suddenly, he decides
it’s the right time to tell her he loves her. Then, before they can even begin
their relationship, he nearly dies and Mary has to rush in and save the day.
Yep, that was enough to turn any sane woman off.

He ought to just give her some space.

The forensic unit entered through the back door and the rest
of the group stepped back and let them do their work. Within forty-five minutes
the body of Faye McMullen had been lowered to the stage and placed on a gurney.

“I’ll get you the results of the autopsy as soon as I get
them,” Joe said, as he followed the gurney across the stage.

“Thanks, Joe,” Bradley replied.

In another ten minutes, the rest of the group had left the
theater, leaving Bradley to close things down and lock up. He had purposely
waited, perhaps the instinctive itch a seasoned law enforcement officer has when
there is something there, just beyond the apparent.

The yellow crime scene tape covered half the stage and
blocked the stairs at stage right. He walked slowly over, standing next to the
orchestra pit adjacent to the stage stairs. An overhead spotlight cast an eerie
glowing circle on the edge of the darkened stage, highlighting the area Faye’s
body had rested.

All of the house lights were now off, so the chairs behind
him disappeared into the shadows. At the back of the room, above the seats, was
a small enclosed balcony that contained the light and sound control booth for
the theater. Pinpoints of green and red glowing lights from the control boards
shone through the Plexiglas windows that encased the balcony.

The theater was silent. Bradley could hear the wind
whistling against the emergency exit door on the side of the auditorium. The
backstage lights were off, only the dim security lights cast their yellowing
pools of light. There was something else here, he was sure of it.

Bradley waited and listened. He kept his eyes on the control
booth, anticipating a shadow or a movement in the darkened booth. A car drove
by, casting a quick moving burst of light through the lobby windows. He stood
motionless.

Then he heard the sound.
A woman’s voice?
A faint cry?
What was it?

He moved away from the stage, along the far aisle, towards the
darkness of the theater. Leaning forward, he strained to hear the sound again.
He could feel the ice on the back of his neck. He knew something was close.

Then he saw the shadow at the back of the theater. He moved
quickly, dashing up the aisle to reach the lobby door before the shadow could
escape.

The spotlight turned off. The theater plunged into
blackness. Bradley froze, reaching for his flashlight before he made another
move.

He fumbled with the switch, his adrenalin pumping. Finally,
a clear beam filled the room. He moved toward the back of the theater again.

CRASH!

The sound came from the stage. He jumped and turned as the
main curtains crashed to the ground. He dashed back down the aisle to the
stage, pushed past the crime scene tape and looked down on the piles of velvet
curtains. A long braided noose lay across the curtains and in the center of the
yards of material was the distinct outline of a woman’s body.

Bradley reached for the holster on the left side of his
belt. He unlatched it and pulled out his combination radio/cell phone. Still
looking down at the imprint, he pressed a speed dial number and waited for a
moment.

“Hello, Mary, it’s Bradley. I think I’m going to need your
help on a case.”

Chapter Four

Mary was pounding on the back door of the theater within
fifteen minutes, stamping her feet against the sub-zero temperatures. Bradley
opened the door quickly and let her in.

“I’m afraid it’s not a whole lot warmer inside,” he said,
moving up the stairs in front of her. “I really appreciate you getting here so
quickly.”

She smiled at him. “Who
ya
gonna
call?”

He laughed and nodded. “Yeah, I think I really am going to
need a
ghostbuster
on this one. Did you know Faye
McMullen?”

“I met
her a
couple of times,” she said,
picturing the thin, pretentious woman in her mind, “mostly at community
functions. And since you mentioned her in the past tense, I have to assume she
is no longer with us.”

“Yeah, Rosie and Stanley found her a couple of hours ago,”
he explained, “hanging about twenty feet up in the air.”

“Oh, wow, not a pleasant way to die,” Mary said. “How’s
Rosie doing?”

Bradley smiled, thinking of Stanley’s vow to not fuss over
Rosie. “I’m sure she is being bullied into sitting down and drinking tea with a
comforter on her lap. It would be great if you could stop by her place and talk
to her.”

“Of course I will. Rosie is such a dear, I’m sure this is
very upsetting.”

Nodding, he led Mary to the backstage door into the audience.
“They found her on the other side of the stage. The coroner left with her body
about thirty minutes ago. I think she must have been up there for at least twenty-four
hours, but they’ll send me their findings in the morning.”

“So, what happened once they left?”

The breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding released. She
knew him so well.

He explained what had happened while he was alone at the
theater and then opened the door inviting her to follow him. They walked down
the stairs together and Mary touched his arm to stop him.

“Sorry, but if I’m going to be able to see anything, you
have to stay here while I check out the crime scene.”

While working on a case together in Chicago, they had
learned that Bradley’s presence blocked unknown spirits from contacting Mary.
While it was great for Mary not to be bombarded by hundreds of spirits seeking
resolution, it required Bradley to keep his distance until an initial
connection with the spirit was formed.

Mary walked along the front of the stage and watched as
shadows of long-dead actors and actresses slowly appeared and performed their
favorite scenes. Acts from plays that were performed in the 1930s shared the
stage with acts from the following decades. All shared a love and connection
with the old theater.

When she reached stage right, she saw the crime scene tape
lying underneath the crimson stage curtain, saw the rope and, instead of merely
the shape of a woman, saw the ghost of Faye McMullen.

The ghost opened her eyes and stared malevolently at Mary.
“Who the hell are you?” she spat. “This is my scene.
My death
scene.”

“Oh, excuse me,” Mary answered simply. “Allow me to take a
seat so I can better observe your talent.”

She moved back and sat in a seat directly in front of the
specter. The ghost, pacified, lay back on the curtains and continued. Mary
noted that her face was slightly disfigured from lying against the rope and her
head lay in a slight angle, probably from her broken neck.

Throwing her arm back over her head she moaned. “Oh, what a
cold cruel world this is to cut down the life of such a promising, young
ingénue…”

“Excuse me,” Mary interrupted, “but really, young ingénue? I
don’t think so.”

The ghost turned, eyes blazing, and hissed at her. “This is
my scene; I can write it the way I want to!”

“Well, fine, but I think you are pushing the
willing
suspension of disbelief a little too far. You pushed me right out of the
moment.”

The ghost pondered her comment.
“Really?
It pushed you out of the moment?”

Mary nodded. “Yes. I was right there
with you. Feeling it,” she emphasized by patting her heart.
“But
that whole ingénue thing.”

The ghost sighed, deeply, and dropped
her chin. “You’re probably correct,” she agreed. “I’ll rewrite it.”

Smiling, Mary cautiously walked up to
the stage. “So, during the act before this one,” she said. “Do you recall who
the villain is?”

The ghost’s face lit up. “Of course,”
she said. “I know exactly who did it.”

Mary’s heart leapt.
Well, this murder case will be a piece of
cake. “
Do you mind if I bring the Chief of Police over to hear what you’re
going to say?” she asked.

The ghost nodded graciously, “Of
course, the more the merrier.”

Bradley had been standing across the
theater, watching Mary as she conversed with empty space. A few months ago he
would have immediately characterized her as a nut case or a con woman. But, in
the short few months he had known her, Mary had opened up a whole new,
unbelievable world beyond this life to him.

“Oh, Bradley,” she called. “Could you
come over here for a moment please?”

Bradley hurried over to her side and
Mary placed her hand on his. Through some miraculous synergy, when Mary touched
him, he was able to see the same spirits she could see. He looked up on the
stage and saw the spirit of Faye McMullen reclining on the curtains.

“Faye is going to tell us what happens
in the act prior to this one,” Mary explained meaningfully. “She is going to
let us know who the villain is.”

“Well, I’d like that very much,”
Bradley said. “Please, continue.”

Faye stood up and walked over to the
side of the stage, carrying the rope with the noose. She slid her head inside
the loop and slowly started to rise into the air, the rope straightening above
her.

She looked down at the audience, her
arms spread gracefully to the sides, her legs mimicking a ballet dancer on
pointe. “This is my final call,” she said in a stage whisper. “This is my end.
And as I take my final breath, I call out the name of my executioner.”

The rope tightened around her neck and
she moved her arms, pointing to the audience. “Envy,” she choked out.
“Insecurity.
Jealousy.
Ingratitude.
Stupidity.”

Her last words were gasped out, “These
are what killed me.”

She took a deep shuddering breath, her
body
spasmed
for a moment and finally hung limp.

Mary and Bradley stared at her and then
turned to each other. “But…” Mary began.

“What did you think?” Faye’s voice rang
out across the theater.

They turned to the stage. Faye still
hung in the noose, her eyes wide, her face filled with pride. “Made you cry,
didn’t I?” she crowed.

“But you didn’t tell us who murdered
you,” Mary said.

Faye shrugged, sending the rope swaying
gently. “It doesn’t matter who, it only matters why. They were all jealous of
me.”

“It really does matter who,” Bradley
insisted. “We need to catch your murderer.”

“Besides,” Mary added. “It makes the
plot line so much more interesting.”