Lethally Blond (25 page)

After pouring another cup of coffee, I made several calls to contacts I had in the police department to see if there had been any break in the case, but I heard the same word from each source: No definite suspects, no arrests. Though Alex Ottoson initially had been a person of interest, one source acknowledged that he’d produced an alibi that had checked out. I wondered if the news about Harper had started to leak out.

I really wanted to see a good photo of Blythe before I showed up at the theater, but I didn’t want to tip off the theater manager that I was coming by—in case he told her. It suddenly occurred to me that she might have a Web site. I found it under her exact name, but the words
Under Construction
were all that came up on-screen.

Going over my notes, I realized that this would be a good time to try Barish again, since I hadn’t heard back yet. A young woman answered. When I said my name, she hesitated, as if she’d been told to be on the alert for a call from me. She asked me to hold and then came back a minute later announcing that Mr. Barish would be with me shortly. I wondered if she was the same woman I’d seen in the office on Saturday.

The man who picked up the phone a minute later was the nice and friendly Barish, his first comment an apology for not returning my call.

“September is a very busy time for us. We’re coming up on the final, final deadlines for filing all tax returns. What’s going on with the case? I heard the news about Tom and the Ford woman.”

“I have one piece of news. The amount Tom was going to advance the handyman was exactly the amount he withdrew from the bank. So if Deke gave him a few thousand dollars that week, Tom did something else with it.”

“This Deke fellow seems very suspicious to me. I hope the police are taking him seriously as a suspect.”

“I wouldn’t know. Any word on when Tom’s body will be released—so that a funeral can be arranged?”

“They keep promising any day. Was that your urgent question?”

“Well, I was interested in learning when the funeral will be. But I had another question for you. Were you and Tom on speaking terms during the last weeks of his life?”

“I beg your pardon?” he demanded testily.

“I’ve been told that things were strained between the two of you—that Tom didn’t like the way you were dealing with him on money matters.”

“What in the world would make you say that?”

“Tom said as much to people.”

“I was very fond of Tom, but as I told you, he was not my client—his parents were. And it’s—correction, it
was
—my fiduciary duty to make certain, as his parents desired, that Tom’s financial future was protected. That meant saying no to the occasional whim on his part.”

“But—”

“I’m not at liberty to say any more. The Fain family finances are a confidential matter. And they don’t involve you at all. Now, I must get back to my work. Good day.”

As I listened to dead air, I realized that I’d hit a nerve of some kind with Barish. Why was he being so defensive? I wondered. Had Tom stopped speaking to him simply because of the play, or was something else going on? What if Tom had discovered that Barish was guilty of an impropriety with his money? My fingertips suddenly felt icy. I had never once considered Barish a suspect, but maybe I’d been stupid not to look at him that way. Barish had certainly known about the house in Andes.

I would have to find a way to look into the matter, but today there was Blythe to contend with. I glanced at my watch; it was just before noon. Based on the facts that Terry had shared, I figured my best bet was to show up at around four-fifteen. If I was too early, I might arouse suspicions. If I was too late, I might miss her.

So that meant cooling my heels for the next few hours. I made more calls to my sources, perused online sites, drank coffee, left a message for my mother saying I was alive and well, paced around my apartment, and pushed aside thoughts about the freaky state of my love life.

At three-thirty, I finally threw on a trench, grabbed an umbrella, and departed for the Chaps Theatre, figuring that if I saw a cab, I’d grab it, but otherwise I would walk. There was only one word worth using to describe the day, weatherwise: raw. The sky was low and bruised looking with clouds, though at the moment it was spritzing rather than raining, which in some ways was even more annoying. No matter how I positioned my umbrella, water sprayed at my face.

I could tell even before I reached the theater that I was out of luck. No light fell from the windows onto the sidewalk. I tried the door anyway. It was locked. I rapped several times on the glass just in case, but it was totally dark inside, and it was clear no one was there. Damn.

But that didn’t mean Blythe wouldn’t eventually show—it was still relatively early. I jumped a large puddle just off the curb and dashed diagonally across the street toward the café I’d noticed the other night. After ordering a cappuccino, I positioned myself at a table by a window in the nearly empty room. From this far down the street, I had no view of the door of the theater, but if someone turned on the lobby lights, I’d be able to see the reflected glow on the slick sidewalk.

For the next fifteen minutes, I sipped my drink distractedly and peered outside. Nothing happened. Once I got up and checked outside, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. The waiter shot me an aggravated look when I returned, as if he thought I’d been attempting to skip on the $3 tab or was waiting to do a coke deal in the street. I paid the bill and waited some more.

Minutes later, I glanced up and saw that the sidewalk directly in front of the theater was now gleaming with light. I willed myself to stay calm, but as I punched my arms frenetically through the twisted sleeves of my trench coat, I could tell how anxious I was.

It had started to really rain, and I dashed down the street, not bothering to open my umbrella. When I peered in the glass door of the theater, I saw that the lobby was empty, but I heard the faint sounds of music. I knocked on the glass a few times. No response. I tugged at the door, and to my surprise it opened. Inside, I could hear the music better now—it was some kind of rock, playing from around the back of the theater to the left.

I decided not to announce myself by calling out a hello. That would likely bring someone to the lobby, who would then go back and explain my presence to anyone else who was there. It just seemed smarter to catch Blythe unawares. I snuck over to the double black doors to the actual theater and quietly opened one a crack. The lights were down, except for one floor lamp with a bare bulb standing forlornly on the stage toward the front. A friend had once explained to me that in the theater world there used to be a superstition that if the theater was left totally dark at night, it might become haunted, so a “ghost light” was always left burning on stage to discourage any spirits from taking up residence. It’s a practice that’s followed even now.

Though the bare bulb created only one circle of light, I could see some of the pieces that made up the spare set: two twin beds with pink bedspreads, two desks, a shag area rug. It must be, I realized, where the coeds from hell spent their nights.

I eased the door closed again and decided to follow the music. To the left of the box office was a corridor that seemed to lead to where it was coming from. I made my way past two doors, each marked RESTROOM, and a small kitchen with a light burning. On the countertop were several liters of soda and a few Tupperware tubs with cookies inside, obviously the refreshments for tonight’s intermission. Next door was an office, darkened, and then the corridor veered to the right. This seemed to be the official backstage area. The music was growing louder.

I heard a creak behind me suddenly and spun around.

“Hello?” I called out. The hallway, up to the bend, at least, was empty. “Is there anybody here?”

There was no reply. I waited a moment but heard nothing. I proceeded on.

The first room on my right was a narrow, shabby makeup room. Mirrors lined one of the long walls, and on the counter sat five identical white plastic wig heads. No humans, though. I kept going. I passed a messy storage room filled with props, a vacuum cleaner, period furniture, and large plastic tubs stuffed with what I assumed were costumes and more props, and then finally the room where the music was coming from. It appeared to be a dressing room. More mirrors, odd chairs strewn about, two stained, beige Victorian-style clothing forms without a stitch on, and a radio/CD player. Snow Patrol was singing “Chasing Cars.” But there wasn’t a soul in sight.

As I turned away from the doorway, I heard another noise. Above me. It seemed to be the sound of a chair scraping—and then footsteps—on the second floor. That, apparently, was where people had gathered. I hurriedly retraced my steps along the corridor toward the front of the theater. As I stepped into the lobby, a woman with reddish-brown hair and dressed in a baggy beige sweater and black pants emerged from the doorway on the far side. I started to open my mouth to explain my presence, then realized it was Terry. Crap, I thought.

“So you decided to come after all,” I said, barely able to contain how less than thrilled I was with this development. Terry offered a self-satisfied smile, as if she were the brightest bulb in the box. She didn’t have a hat on today, so I had a closer look at her reddish brown horsehair. It was about the weirdest color I’d ever seen.

“After I talked to you, I decided I was stupid to wait around for Blythe to bring the money to me,” she announced. “I knew she might never show. So I decided to come here, just like you. And guess what? I got the check.” She tapped her big brown shoulder bag for emphasis.

“So Blythe is here now?” I exclaimed.

“She’s upstairs. But she’s not staying long, so if you want to see her, I’d hurry.”

“Where exactly is she?” I asked, starting to move.

“In the office on the second floor. You just follow the hallway and take the first set of stairs up, and there’s a door at the top. You go through into a little hallway, and then there’s another door to the office.”

“You didn’t tell her I called, did you?”

“No, I
said
I wouldn’t, didn’t I?” she proclaimed petulantly. She turned away and crossed the lobby, heading toward the exit.

“Is Blythe alone?” I called out to her back.

“No, one of the other theater geeks is with her.”

Good. I certainly didn’t relish the idea of being alone with her in the theater.

I made my way through the door Terry had come through and followed the hallway. This passageway was narrower than the one on the other side of the theater, though it eventually widened nearer the stage. I peeked through a curtain to the stage, lit eerily by the bare bulb. That was where Tom had performed, I realized, dreaming of one day being a star.

To my right was a set of stairs—just one flight with a landing at the top—that was clearly the one Terry had referred to. There was no light at the top, but there was enough light from the hallway for me to see my way up. I climbed the stairs, my ears pricked. From where I was now, I could no longer hear the music, and the theater was totally hushed.

The door to the left at the top was black metal, scuffed and dirty, with a bolt beneath the handle that had been drawn. Odd to have a bolt on this side, I thought. What were they keeping up here, anyway—Mr. Rochester’s first wife? I put my ear to the door and listened. There were no sounds of conversation or activity, but then Terry had said I needed to go down a hallway before I reached the office. I paused for a moment, thinking. Something was gnawing at my mind again, but it felt totally unformed.

I reached for the handle and yanked, and after pulling open the door, I automatically lifted my foot to take a step forward. As I peered ahead, I saw that rather than a hallway, I was looking at a wall of cottony grayness, lit from below. In a second that seemed to last forever, I realized that the space I was stepping into was only air.

My mind yelled for me to pull back, but it was too late. I pitched forward, scrabbling with my hands for something to grab hold of. As my left leg slipped off into nothingness, my right hand found something hard and metallic above me to grasp. A half second later, my right leg followed the left into the abyss below. And then I was dangling.

My brain seemed to split in two. Part of it thrashed in complete terror and confusion over what was happening to me. The other observed it all calmly, as if I were watching a documentary called
Girl Falling off Edge
. I realized that I had stepped through a doorway that opened onto a space high above the stage. I had grabbed a metal chain across the doorway and was now hanging by my right hand. If I let go, I would fall and possibly die. At the very least, I would break my neck.

Straining, I reached with my left arm upward as high as I could and managed to grasp the metal chain with that hand, too. I was suspended now like someone holding on to a trapeze, facing the doorway, with a grid of black stage lights just off to my left. The chain, I could see, had been strung across the door as a final but pathetic barrier. The real protection against someone falling, the bolt on the door, should never have been undone.

“Help!” I screamed. “Help me!” I tried to maneuver my right leg back up onto the landing, but I was hanging so low that it was impossible. I steeled myself to take a look below. My stomach turned over at the sight of the stage floor and the ghost light below. The drop was easily fifteen feet.

“Help, help!” I screamed again. As my body dragged on the chain, the links cut painfully into my palms, and my arms started to ache. I didn’t know how much longer I could hold on. Suddenly, I heard the sound of footsteps. Someone was coming up the stairs to the landing. The person was moving slowly, like someone old and tired—or someone deliberately taking her time. Please, I begged in my mind, don’t let it be her.

But it was. As the footsteps reached the landing, I craned my neck back and saw Terry looming above me, a snicker on her face. But it wasn’t Terry, of course, under that hideous wig. It was Blythe.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I should have told you to watch that first step. It’s a killer, isn’t it?”