Never Thwart a Thespian: Volume 8 (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series) (18 page)

Light footsteps echoed down the hallway, and within a few seconds a paint-splashed Chaz came into view. “Hey, Ms. Bess. Just thought you might want to know, Mr. Applegate is waiting for you in the sanctuary. I know you told us not to let anybody in, but he used his own key and all, and although I
would
have tackled him if he was anybody else, he
does
own the building. And if the YBC ever gets itself together again, it’d be great to use this place for another haunted house, so I really didn’t want to tick him off too bad. So that’s why when he asked where you were I said—”

Bess roared something incomprehensible and pushed past him like a fighting bull. Leigh followed, fearing an imminent explosion, but when she and Allison caught up to Bess just inside the old sanctuary, they found her outwardly calm and smiling.

“Gordon, dear,” Bess purred. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“Have you heard about Sonia?” he asked brusquely.

Leigh blinked. She had no idea how Bess could look so collected, when just the sprint across the building and down the stairs had left both her and Allison panting like dogs. As for Gordon, the man looked unrecognizable. His hair was barely combed, his face was pale, his shirt was only tucked partway in his trousers, and she was pretty sure his shoes didn’t match.

“What about her?” Bess asked quickly.

Leigh felt a stab of guilt for not filling in her aunt herself, but they’d hardly had time.

“Somebody struck her on the head outside her office this morning,” Gordon said slowly, his ice blue eyes watching Bess keenly. “I just heard about it on the news. I was… wondering if you were all right.”

Bess digested the information a moment. “I’m perfectly fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

The two continued to stare at each other. “No reason,” he replied.

“How bad is she?” Bess asked.

Gordon shook his head. “All they said was ‘fair condition.’”

“Well, that’s a shame,” Bess said with sincerity, but as she looked around the room, her paled face began to redden all over again. Chaz, Gerardo, and Ned — all covered to various degrees with cream-colored paint — stood clustered at the doorway to the alcove, blatantly eavesdropping.

“Well, now that we have everyone’s attention,” Bess began, “I would like you to explain to me, Gordon, why exactly you planted a spy in our midst?”

Chaz gasped and covered his mouth with his hands. Ned looked confused. Gerardo remained expressionless. Gordon’s eyes flickered with a sudden intensity, but he showed no other signs of alarm. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“You heard what I said,” Bess insisted, planting both hands firmly on her hips. “I know that Gerardo speaks English, I know you bribed the director of the Outreach to recommend him to me, and I know you’ve been secretly meeting with him along the curb outside and God knows where else. I just thought maybe you’d like to fill me in on the rest of it.”

The two locked gazes for another long moment. Everyone else in the room seemed afraid to breathe. Finally, Gordon straightened. He ran long, spindly fingers through his mussed fringe of hair and gave his shoulders a defiant shake. “Your lack of confidence wounds me, Bess,” he said heavily. “You are correct in only one assumption. I have indeed conversed with Gerardo outside of this building. I drove by
my
property, as I often do, and when I saw him outside the door I called him over to ask him, in essence, what the hell he was doing here. I recognized him because I have seen him many times, at my estate. He happens to be one of my gardeners.”

Bess showed no sign of being appeased. “He speaks English!” she accused.

“Well if he does, that’s news to me,” Gordon insisted.

“You spoke to him!” Bess protested.

“In Spanish!” Gordon fired back. “I spent almost three years in Argentina, I should think I can ask my own gardener why he’s moonlighting!”

Leigh felt Allison shrink beside her. Seriously, they should have thought of that. But whether Gordon realized it or not, Gerardo
could
speak English. She was certain of it.

“Seems a bit too much of a coincidence for my tastes,” Bess continued, unrelenting. “Why would an employee of yours go to the Outreach looking for extra work? And who would have recommended him?”

Gordon sighed. “As Gerardo explained to me, work for gardeners is understandably thin over the winter. He’s been on part-time hours at my place for some time now, and my manager was trying to help him out. He’s an excellent worker, as you should well know. He didn’t realize I owned this building until I told him so myself. Are you happy now?”

Bess sniffed. “Marginally. Perhaps.”

“Well, I hope you’re mollified,” Gordon continued with a superior tone, “because we need to talk about this business with the Marconi remains. I’m starting to get calls.”

“Calls?”

“Yes, calls,” he said shortly. “From people who think this building is a menace to the borough. Those blasted news articles mentioned that I owned it, and now the complaints are rolling in. ‘The building’s cursed. Two murders are enough. Tear it down!’”

“I don’t believe it,” Bess argued. “That’s not what I’m hearing. People are intrigued, but they’re hardly carrying pitchforks and torches!”

“It will only get worse when the news about Sonia Crane gets out.”

“That’s nonsense!” Bess protested. “Nobody outside the Society knows she had anything to do with the theater!”

“I’m telling you, Bess,” Gordon continued, “I won’t stand for owning a public nuisance! If there’s one more
unpleasant
finding in, on, or around this place — or if anybody else associated with it gets hurt, I’ll unload this box of bricks so fast it will make—”

“Oh, poo,” Bess interrupted lightly, both her tone and manner softening as abruptly as if she’d flipped a switch. She took a step closer to him. “You’re just looking for excuses to worry, Gordon. Opening night is tomorrow, we’re right on schedule, and everything will be fine. I
promise.”

Their eyes met once more, and this time Gordon responded with a sly smile. At which point both of them seemed to remember that they were not alone.

Gordon turned sharply and flung a line of rapid Spanish at Gerardo. Gerardo returned a slightly longer speech, then whirled to descend the steps, delivering a solid smack to Chaz’s shoulders as he went. Chaz, who had been looking from one man to the other in confusion, jumped to attention and followed. Ned, who was looking even more confused, did the same.

“He said he’s sorry if his being here caused you any trouble, and he’s going to get back to work,” Gordon translated.

Bess harrumphed.

“Allison,” Leigh said firmly, “we should be going now.”

“But, Mom—”

The child’s plea was interrupted by a sharp rapping on the building’s front door.

“I wonder if that’s the inspector,” Bess said nervously. “Oh, I was hoping they could finish painting the basement first!”

Neither Bess nor Gordon moved, but instead looked expectantly at Leigh.

“We’ll just get that on our way out,” Leigh responded, crossing the room and heading into the vestibule. When she reached the door with no Allison behind her, she began to call for the girl over her shoulder, but the sight of the person she opened the door to snatched the words out of her mouth. She had never seen the man before, but she had seen enough like him to know what he was.

“Hello,” he said pleasantly. “Detective Daniel Stroth of the Allegheny Police. I was wondering if I could speak with Ms. Bess Cogley?”

Bingo.
Stroth, who appeared to be somewhere in his late thirties, was largely unremarkable in both physical appearance and manner. Real detectives, Leigh knew, did not strut around attracting attention like Steve McGarrett on Hawaii 5-0. They preferred to come across as ordinary and nonthreatening. What gave them away was that if you looked at them closely enough, it was obvious they were looking at
you
even closer.

Leigh summoned a pleasant expression. “Yes, of course. I’m her niece, Leigh. Bess is right inside.”

“Ah. I’ve heard of you.” His brown eyes danced with mischief.

“No doubt,” Leigh returned. She gestured to Allison, who now hovered at the inside doorway. “My daughter and I were just leaving.”

The detective gave a nod to them both, then moved around Allison and into the sanctuary. Leigh felt a sudden twinge in her middle. Was the detective following up on the Marconi case, or was he here because of Sonia? Bess had made no secret of her antipathy for the woman. The entire cast had seen it…

“Mom?”

As Allison’s small voice interrupted her thoughts, Leigh’s warning sensors raised another alarm. It was the child’s best “parental schmoozing” tone, and it never boded well.

“No,” Leigh answered preemptively. “I don’t want you spending any more time here today. You shouldn’t be here at all. I’m sure the detective is just covering all the bases where Sonia’s assault is concerned — there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I wasn’t worried about that. I just—”

“There’s nothing more to be done here,” Leigh continued. “I already told you. We’ll all go see opening night together, but the rest of the prop inventory can wait until after the show.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

Leigh studied her daughter warily. “Then what?” She wasn’t fooled. Allison was about to ask for something she desperately wanted and was afraid she wouldn’t get.

“I just wondered if it would be okay if dad took me to the library.”

Leigh’s eyebrows lifted. It was an innocent enough request — coming from someone else’s daughter. “
Which
library?”

“The Carnegie,” Allison answered. “I already asked Dad. He was going to work from home all day, but he said he didn’t mind taking me to Oakland and working on his laptop there in the library for a couple hours. If it’s okay with you, that is. I told him I was sure it would be. After all, I’ll be perfectly safe in a library.” She smiled innocently.

Leigh wasn’t buying it. “Why make him drive you all the way into town? Why not use our branch in McCandless?”

Allison’s nose twitched. “Well, I like the main library better. It’s bigger.”

Leigh waited.

Allison sighed. “And they have old copies of the
Post-Gazette
on microfilm.”

Aha!
Leigh thought. “You want to research that first murder, don’t you?”

The girl nodded solemnly. “But I’ll be perfectly safe,” she repeated.

Leigh studied her daughter, carefully contemplating the various risks. A couple hours in the library wouldn’t violate the doctor’s orders, at least. The swelling and redness around Allison’s eye had resolved nicely, and up to now she’d been good about not straining her vision. As for her mind straying where it shouldn’t — Leigh was certain that would happen regardless of where the girl was located. But the most critical point was that every moment Allison spent dwelling on events that happened in the sixties would be a moment she was
not
creating trouble for herself in the here and now.

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the skating rink with the others this afternoon?” Leigh asked, giving the more age-appropriate alternative one last chance. “Lenna will miss you, you know.”

“No, she won’t,” Allison replied. “She’s meeting her friend Megan.”

Leigh gave up. “Okay, then. Fine.”

Allison smiled brilliantly. “Thanks, Mom!”

The girl’s unbridled excitement made Leigh question her decision. But it was too late now. According to her phone, Warren had texted twice since she’d hung up and was already on his way. “Apparently your dad was pretty sure I’d cave, because he’s coming here to pick you up,” she informed Allison, swinging the front door open again. “Until then, we can wait outside in the parking lot.”

It was stupid, she knew. A hundred-year-old collection of bricks and mortar and wood and beams could not logically, in and of itself, conspire to endanger the wellbeing of her only daughter.

But she wasn’t taking any chances.

Chapter 13

Leigh had just sent Allison off with Warren and unlocked the door of the van to drive herself home when her mother’s Taurus rolled up beside her in the parking lot. After catching the look of righteous indignation on Frances’s face, Leigh was seriously tempted to wave and make a run for it, but her sense of daughterly duty won out. That, and the fact that she was pretty sure that she herself wasn’t the object of Frances’ wrath — at least not at the moment. She steeled herself, relocked the van, and dragged her feet over to the Taurus’s driver’s side.

“What’s up Mom?” she asked carefully.

Frances arose from the car in stages, first checking the seat and mirror positions (which most people did only when getting
in
a car), then switching off all applicable dashboard controls, and only then — in a predictable order which Leigh had memorized early in childhood — checking her lipstick, collecting her giant bag, retouching her lipstick, readjusting the mirror, smoothing her skirt or slacks, moving the giant bag to her shoulder, pulling the keys from the ignition, exiting the car, locking the car, then dropping the keys into the giant bag.

“What’s up,” Frances replied, her ears not visibly steaming, but glowing beet red nevertheless, “is that despite my stellar record of a lifetime of church and community service, I have just spent half the morning being subjected to interrogation by a county detective, and all over that miserable Mr. Marconi!”

“I’m sure they know you had nothing to do with it, Mom,” Leigh soothed, feeling sympathetic. “It’s no fun being treated like a suspect. Believe me, I know. But they have to ask the questions.”

Frances’ back went ramrod straight. “
Me,
a suspect? Why they wouldn’t
dare
insinuate such a thing!”

“Um… no?” Leigh said uncertainly.

“Certainly not!” Frances declared. “It’s bad enough that I’m expected to tell tales on our good friends and neighbors who respect decency and deplore moral turpitude! The very idea that one of them could have become unhinged enough to commit murder… Really! It’s an insult to honest citizens everywhere! I told that detective in no uncertain terms that he should be looking for Marconi’s murderer in the gutter, not a church pew. The man dealt in a dirty business, and you know what they say, ‘you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas!’ Except not in any decent household. Any competent wife is perfectly capable of keeping a home free of fleas and other vermin, provided she has the proper—”