Never Thwart a Thespian: Volume 8 (Leigh Koslow Mystery Series) (29 page)

As if to reinforce the thought, an actor appeared suddenly at the bottom of the basement steps and sprinted up them two at time. “Sorry!” he apologized, brushing past her. “Wardrobe emergency! Making this next entrance is going to be killer—” He rushed on in the direction of the green room, most likely in search of safety pins, and Leigh continued to the bottom of the stairs.

The basement lights were off, but Leigh could see well enough with the light that spilled through the glass door at the bottom of the ramp. She was hastening across the large, open space — wondering why the lights were turned off in the first place and resolving to turn them back on as soon as she reached the other side — when she heard the sound.

A high-pitched lilting sound. Faint and strangely muffled, yet still recognizable.

“I’m called Little Buttercup…”

Leigh froze. She knew that voice.

It was Camille. And she was singing.

Leigh looked immediately toward the closed door to the boiler room. The audience’s laughter rumbled down through the ceiling from the theater overhead, drowning out the lone female voice. But when the audience quieted again, Leigh spun in her tracks. The singing wasn’t coming from the boiler room. It was coming from the old kitchen.

She had practically forgotten the room’s existence, as they had been using the newer kitchen in the annex. But the space next to and underneath the stairs, which had been stripped of all its appliances except for a couple giant WWII-era stoves, had originally been packed with junk like the rest of the basement, and was now as empty and clean as the rest of it.

Why would Camille go in there to sing?

Leigh frowned in confusion. Then again, why did Camille do anything?

She took another wary look around the open basement, then moved toward the kitchen door. “Camille?” she called from outside of it. “Camille!”

The singing continued. Given its current glass-shattering pitch, Leigh doubted the woman could hear her. She threw another paranoid look over her shoulder, then turned the handle and pushed the door in, being careful to stay outside of the opening. “Camille?” she called once more. “Are you all right?”

The singing stopped. “Yes, dear!” came Camille’s familiar voice.

Leigh’s shoulders slumped with relief. She pushed the door open wider, reached one hand through the doorway, and felt along the wall for a light switch. “Why are you singing in here in the dark?” she asked. “We were worried about you!”

“How sweet!” Camille returned, her voice sounding oddly muffled.

Leigh’s fingers found the light switch. She flipped it. Nothing happened.

“Is it intermission yet?” Camille called.

Leigh pulled out her phone and turned on her flashlight app. The stage lights must have blown a circuit. “Not quite,” she answered, shining her light through the doorway. Her view was limited. She could see the island in the center of the room, and the door to the pantry beyond it. “Camille,” she said with frustration, stretching out her arm to shine the light a little farther into the room. “Why are you in there, and where exactly are you?”

In a split second, a hand reached out of the darkness and clamped down on Leigh’s wrist, yanking her forward. Her shoulder pushed the door the rest of the way open and she stumbled inside as her cell phone flew out of her hand and dashed to the floor with a clatter. The hand released her wrist as quickly as it had grabbed it, and Leigh ducked, shuffled away, and threw her hands upward in an instinctual effort to ward off a blow.

None came. The door slammed shut behind her, and the room became pitch dark.

Leigh froze in place for a long moment, afraid to breathe. She wanted, quite badly, to believe that whoever had pulled her into the room was now on the opposite side of the door. But as she held her own breath and listened, she heard what she was hoping not to.

Heavy breathing. Just a few feet away.

Well, hell. Now what?

Leigh crept slowly backward, away from the sound. She could see absolutely nothing. From what she remembered of the layout of the kitchen, she was somewhere between the island and the counter along the wall. If she moved far enough quietly enough, maybe she could put the island between herself and the mystery lungs.

She continued inching backward, listening intently. She had not moved far when a new and even more disturbing sound met her ears.

Someone else was also breathing. And that sound was coming from behind her.

Leigh stole a choice word from Maura’s repertoire and swore internally.
Now
where could she go?

She listened harder. The second set of breathing sounds wasn’t coming from head level. It was coming from somewhere near her feet.

Very tentatively, she stretched one foot behind her. Her toe nudged something. Something that responded with an almost inaudible grunt.

She picked another word.

“Leigh, dear,” came Camille’s motherly soprano. “Are you all right?”

Leigh’s head spun. The voice wasn’t coming from the floor. It wasn’t coming from the doorway, either, where the heavy breathing continued. It was coming from another place altogether. And given the fact that it was still muffled, she guessed it was coming from the pantry.

“Yes,” Leigh answered, fully aware of the absurdity of the conversation. “Are you?”

The response came after a beat. “I’ll be fine. It’s almost intermission.” And with that, Camille began to sing again.

Leigh was running out of swear words. She could not move forward; she could not move back. Speaking to Camille at all had given away her position, and with a muffled aria in her ear, she could no longer hear the breathing.

She reached out her arms and felt aimlessly along the counter and island countertops to either side. She had no weapon, and nothing to use as one. She wasn’t likely to find anything either, as the kitchen had been emptied even before Frances sterilized it. She didn’t know whether to be more afraid of a head bashing from the front or an ankle grab from the rear, and was contemplating a swift kick to the latter when a particular low-pitched sound fought its way through Camille’s high-pitched tones to reach her ear.

It was a groan.

Oh, no.

Leigh made a quick decision. She lifted her feet high and stepped over the figure she presumed to be lying on the floor, putting herself on the opposite side from the heavy breather. Or at least, she thought with chagrin, where the heavy breather had been
.
He could have moved anywhere by now. Her eyes weren’t adjusting to the light; there wasn’t any light to adjust to.

Another surge of laughter echoed down through the ceiling, and Leigh gritted her teeth at the irony. Warren, the kids, and a good chunk of her extended family were within feet of her this very minute — for all the good that did any of them. Pushing the thought from her mind, she leaned down and felt for the recumbent figure with a hand. Her fingers made contact first with what felt like a hip, then, as her hand traveled sideways, with a ribcage, and a shoulder. It was a man. A large man.

Her hand began to tremble as she felt for his neck, and a pulse. She found one easily under the open collar — slow, but steady and reasonably strong. Her fingers moved up the curve of his jaw to feel soft waves of short hair, and her suspicions were confirmed.

It was Gerardo.

More laughter, this time even louder. The play seemed to be reaching some kind of crescendo.

Leigh’s hands felt gently around the top of Gerardo’s head, and she found what she feared. A wet, sticky spot. And a large, misshapen lump.

Conked on the head.

She had not been the first person to enter this kitchen in search of Camille.

A sudden flash of light cut through the darkness, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of a siren. Her phone!

Leigh could see the cell phone where it had come to rest just under the counter about six feet away, screen down, edges glowing. She made a mad dive forward over Gerardo’s prone body, but before she even got close, another hand closed down upon the phone, and the light was quenched.

She swore once more, this time out loud. The phone had received a text from Maura.

Had Gerry’s background checks panned out?

The heavy breathing got even heavier — loud enough to be heard over Camille’s continued caterwauling. Leigh scuttled hastily backwards, over Gerardo and to the opposite side of the counter. The siren sounded again, and the dimmest glow shimmered from the area behind the door. Heavy-breath had stuffed her phone in his pocket. He still had not moved. Or spoken a word.

Think, Leigh. Think!

Why was all this happening?

Camille had hidden herself in a closet and started singing once before. She had done it because she, like Lenna, was frightened of the bats. It only stood to reason that, despite the relative cheerfulness of Camille’s voice, she was equally frightened now. When most people got scared, they trembled and/or ran. When Camille got scared, she sang herself to la-la land.

So Camille had encountered something that scared her.
One thing explained.

Gerardo had heard her singing, come in to investigate, and gotten bonked on the head, as per the MO of this accursed building for more than half a century.
Two down.

She herself had followed the sound of Camille’s singing, just like Gerardo, but her head had been mercifully spared. Why?

Heavy-breath wasn’t talking. The siren sounded yet again, and Leigh winced. She always answered Maura’s texts. The good news was that her silence would ensure the arrival of the police within a matter of minutes. The bad news was that, deep in a nearby duplex in Avalon, it would also make the detective’s blood pressure skyrocket.

Leigh had to do something besides stand still in the dark with her heart pounding. And she had never been able to sing opera.

Think!

She took a deep breath and tried to clear her mind.
I don’t like coincidences,
Allison had muttered, long before Leigh found the bone in the coal chute. Despite the time lapse, the murders had to be connected. The love triangle — or whatever — that had sparked such violence in 1961 must also have caused someone to murder Andrew Marconi over forty years later. But why? Marconi didn’t want to tear the building down. He only wanted to open a strip club. What threat did he pose?

More laughter from the ceiling. This time, loud guffaws.

Leigh fought to stay focused. This was not about Andrew Marconi, was it? If the murders were connected, it was about the building itself.

Merle and Earl had seen lights in the building at night as long as they had lived across the street. Lights when no one should have been there. People claimed the place was haunted; even vandals bent on destruction were scared away. Rumors of devil worship flew, despite a complete lack of evidence for anything of the sort, except for the placement of the janitor’s body. Laid out on the altar… a sacrifice. A sacrifice to… or
for…
whom?

The building stopped being a church shortly afterward, and was never a church again. It was a meeting hall, a banquet hall, a dance studio. None of those businesses thrived, but they were not plagued with employee concussions, either. Not until Andrew Marconi made public his plans to put a strip club in the building. And then when Sonia Crane announced her plans to tear it down.

Leigh’s teeth clenched with frustration. It made no sense! What made the strip club any more of a threat than the haunted houses? Despite Chaz’s suspicions of foul play, one guy falling off a ladder and one woman passing out in a bathroom had had no effect on the chain of events — the haunted houses proceeded anyway, with their fake chain saws and rubber rats and…

Chaz’s words sprang back into Leigh’s mind, along with a vivid image.

One guy brought in a devil statue and put it up on this platform, and the next morning it was on the ground and smashed to bits…

No devil worship. No strip club.

Not in my building.

Leigh felt suddenly numb.

A little song, a little dance. Parties with meals. Maybe even a few harmless spook shows. Certainly, a nice theater with a friendly proprietor — whatever it took to make that happen was well worth the cost. But no devil worship. And no sexual debauchery.

She’s a good, moral lady.

And by the way, no ice damage, either.

Not in my building.

Leigh’s pulse raced. Camille had stopped singing; Leigh didn’t know when. Occasional laughter continued to drift through the ceiling. The room was black as pitch; heavy breaths still heaved by the door.

She didn’t get it all. Not hardly. But she figured she was close enough. She straightened where she stood and cleared her throat. She tried her best to make her voice sound nonthreatening and pleasant. Then she aimed it at the figure behind the door.

“Ned?”

Chapter 21

“Yes, Ms. Leigh?” he answered quietly, almost meekly.

“Why is Camille in the closet?” she asked gently.

“Cause she wouldn’t stop singing.”

Leigh puzzled for a moment, but gave up. “Would it be okay if I let her out now? It must be pretty cramped in there.”

“I can’t let you do that, Ms. Leigh. Please don’t try.”

Leigh drew in a steadying breath. “All right, I won’t. But why not?”

“She has to stay there till intermission.”

The words came back to Leigh like heat lightning flashing in a distant corner of her brain. Bess spouting off in the sanctuary, while the ushers — and Ned and Chaz — folded the programs.

I do wish the woman would just disappear — at least until intermission!

Leigh let out the breath she’d been holding with a whoosh.

Holy crap.
The Pack was right.

“You did this for Bess?” Leigh asked.

There was no response. Leigh suspected he was nodding.

“Ms. Bess is a good lady,” Ned said after a beat. “She’s going to keep this building a theater. A nice theater. I can work here again for real. And she won’t let nobody tear it down, neither.
Ever.
She said.”