THE SOUND OF MURDER (10 page)

CHAPTER 20

“That’s it? That’s all there is to it?” Marge asked the question loudly, presumably to be heard over the kicking and splashing of her water aerobics class, but mostly because she was naturally loud.

“Yep. It’s simple.” I had just regaled her with my periodic table
Oklahoma!
story. “You just have to sing your lines.” I had to talk loudly too, especially since I stood a nice safe distance from the edge of the pool. Though we both thought we needed all the rehearsal we could get before preview tonight, Marge was adamant about not missing her morning workout, so we decided we could talk during her Water Lilies class at Sunnydale Recreation Center, then follow up with a session at her house.

“But that’ll sound weird.”

Marge jogged in the shallow end of the enormous indoor pool. Bitsy worked out next to her, the little skirt on her swimsuit floating up and down with each step.

“It’ll take a little practice, but I really think it’ll work.” The water aerobics instructor had turned up the music, so I had to shout. “You start out by singing the words to a tune you know. Then take away the notes, so you just have the rhythm, then soften that rhythm just a bit. The music will help you remember your lines, and the audience will never know.”

“I’ll give it a try.” She tried to smile. “What have I got to lose?” She swung her arms in wide circles, as did the rest of the class. An aerobicizer wearing a glittery pink cowboy hat splashed water my way, and I jumped back.

“I can’t believe you don’t like the water,” said Marge. “I love it. It’s the only time my boobs point in the right direction.”

I snuck a look at my own boobs, wondering how they’d fair in years to come. They were pretty perky now. So were Bitsy’s, which was weird considering she was probably nearing seventy.

“Ever thought about a little lift?” Bitsy said to Marge.

Ah.

“Nah.” Marge made a big wave with her arms and accidentally splashed Bitsy. Or maybe not so accidentally. “I make the best of what I got, but I’m not doing anything unnatural. This is what I look like. Those who don’t like it can lump it.”

“Noodles!” shouted the instructor, a young woman who looked about fourteen next to all the folks in the pool. Marge grabbed a yellow foam noodle from the side of the pool, swung it under her rear, and sat on it, like a kid in a swing. “Now you, chickie,” she said to me, kicking her legs as she talked. “When exactly do you lose it?”

Bitsy’s head turned slightly in our direction, but I didn’t care. Everyone knew there was a problem. I just wanted to fix it. “When I have to sing in front of anything that remotely resembles an audience.”

Marge began kicking up a storm. “Do you have stage fright any other time?” she asked, not panting or breaking her stride. She really had some lungs on her. “When you’re acting? Or dancing?”

I shook my head. It was one of the mysteries I was trying to solve. I’d been an actor since I was a kid—not in plays necessarily, but I was always pretending to be the Red Queen or Dorothy Gale or Han Solo (I was a big fan of gender-neutral casting). Dancing came naturally too. I didn’t even have to think about it. Once a choreographer showed me the steps, it was as if my legs took over. I mean, it was work, but glorious physical work without any mental or emotional baggage.

“Last push!” shouted the aerobics instructor. “Your choice of aerobic activity for two minutes. Go, ladies!”

I wondered if the instructor actually overlooked the one man in the class, or if her instructions were so ingrained she couldn’t stop herself. I felt a little sorry for the guy, being the odd man out. Then I noticed the ring of swim cap-clad heads around him, the ladylike laughter that surrounded him. He was a small man, neat and hairless, and in pretty good shape. No pecs or anything, but no flabby man-boobs either. He was a good catch in these parts.

“I got an idea for you,” Marge said, powering her way through the last part of the routine, splashing and kicking to beat the band. Beside her, Bitsy trotted daintily like a miniature pony. The pool churned with the efforts of the swimmers, except for the sparkly cowgirl, who just pushed the water around. Maybe she didn’t want to lose her hat.

“Nice job, ladies!” shouted the instructor. “See you tomorrow.”

The little man got out of the pool first, hoisting himself up a ladder near me. Marge and Bitsy both walked over to the pool steps in the far corner, as did most of the women. I wondered why for just a moment, then realized that I wouldn’t want my butt hanging off the ladder for all the world to see, either.

I got in line with the aerobicizers as they filed out of the pool area door, held open by the man from the class. As I passed by, the guy winked at me. Not a friendly “hiya” wink, but a slow lascivious one. He mouthed the word, “Tonight?” I was about to give him a piece of my mind when I heard a soft giggle behind me. Phew. I was not the object of his attention. I wanted to look behind me, but couldn’t do so without being obvious. I wished I had Arnie’s spy sunglasses.

I followed the ladies into the locker room, now full of chatting, dripping swimmers. The sparkly cowgirl paused in front of a sink where a sign taped to the mirror said, “No hair dye in sink, especially black dye.” She took off her cowboy hat to reveal suspiciously dark hair.

Marge stopped in front of an unlocked locker and opened it.

“Wow,” I said. “Is Sunnydale so safe you don’t need a lock?”

Bitsy, who was spinning a combination lock, stopped and waited to hear what Marge had to say. Marge paused too. That was out of character. Marge was never at a loss for words.

“I don’t bring anything worth stealing,” Marge finally said, keeping her back to me. She pulled a plastic bag from the locker and sat down on a slatted wooden bench.

“Olive!” said a querulous voice. I looked over to see Fran Bloom, from my neighborhood investigation, dressed in a tracksuit. “Have you found out anything more about Charlie Small?”

At the mention of Charlie’s name, a murmur went up among the locker room ladies and several of them looked at Bitsy. I remembered that Charlie had been in her karaoke club. Maybe they sang duets?

“Well…” I began.

“Oh, sorry, dear. Never mind.” She waved goodbye as she padded off. “I’m sure that’s all supposed to be top secret.”

Uh-oh. She might be right. And I hadn’t been exactly closed-mouthed about the whole thing.

“So.” Marge stripped off her wet suit, plonked it in the plastic bag, and tossed it in the locker. “I have an idea what the problem might be. We can talk through it in the sauna.”

“Sauna? I’m not dressed.” I nodded down at the t-shirt and jeans I’d thrown on that morning. I’d gotten up earlier than usual to meet Marge and was pretty impressed that I’d managed to dress myself in something clean and right-side out.

Marge barked a laugh. “It’s a
sauna
, Ivy. You don’t need clothes.”

“Oh. Um. I’m not really comfortable being naked in front of others.”

“And you’re in the theater? How do you make it through the underwear scene onstage?” One of the dance numbers in
The Sound of Cabaret
took place in the dancers’ dressing room with all of us nearly naked.

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“Because it’s not me. It’s my character.”

Marge smiled. “I can definitely help you. C’mon, let’s sweat this out in the sauna.”

I hesitated.

The very naked Marge walked a few feet and opened a wooden door. “I bet when we come out you’ll be cured.”

That was good enough for me. I stripped quickly and followed Marge into the dark cedary-smelling room. She shut the door, turned up the temperature, and poured a pitcher of water on the rocks. Steam filled the room like a fog. “If we make it really hot we can have the place to ourselves.” Marge laid a towel on a wooden bench and sat down. “So, what do you think about while you’re singing?”

I didn’t have a towel, so I stood instead of parking my bare butt on the bench. “Well, breathing from my diaphragm, and raising my soft palate, and not sliding into the notes and—”

Marge raised a hand. “That’s enough. What do you think about when you’re acting?”

“I’m in character.” I almost added “of course.” What actor worth his salt wouldn’t be in character?

“So you’re thinking your character’s thoughts, right?”

“Right.”

A lady poked her head in. “Heavens!” She waved away the heat and backed out again.

“Works every time.” Marge smiled at me. “Well? Did you figure it out? Your problem, I mean?”

I shook my head, confused. “Roger says—”

“Roger?”

“He’s giving me singing lessons.” Wow, it was hot. I fanned myself with my hand.

“Listen, kiddo. Roger can teach you technique—and it won’t hurt you to learn some—but…Roger’s got a great instrument, but he doesn’t use it like an actor.”

Marge was right about Roger. His rich baritone voice was the type a radio announcer might envy. But his singing was fine instead of great. He hit the right notes, but the music never soared, like it did when Marge sang.

“That’s why he never made it big.” She shook her head.

I’d heard the story. Years ago Roger and Marge were both in an off-off-Broadway musical called
The Improbables
. The show launched Marge’s career, but Roger was replaced when it moved to Broadway.

“Only reason he’s made it this far is because of his agent. She’s crazy about him. In fact, I heard…” Marge stopped. “Sorry. Idle gossip. Now,” she said, facing me. “You’re more like me.” She wiped the sweat off her brow. “It’s not necessarily what we got, but how we use it. What Roger’s going to teach you won’t help with your stage fright. Might even make it worse unless you keep this one thing in mind…” She leaned forward on the sauna bench, boobs swinging dangerously close to her knees. “You gotta be in character when you sing.”

“That’s it? I got naked for this?” I’m not sure I said it out loud, but I thought it.

“Music comes in when words aren’t enough,” Marge continued. “It’s like you can’t contain your love or heartbreak or outrage, so it comes out in a song. If you’ve done the technical work ahead of time, all you do once you’re onstage is be your character, and let that emotion pour out of you.”

This was not going to help. Of course I was in character when I was…I sank down on the bench, not caring I had no towel. Marge was right. During my songs, especially in front of an audience, I’d been thinking about singing. I hadn’t been in character. How could I not have recognized that simple fact?

“Hello ladies!” Bitsy came in the door. Steam billowed as Marge poured more water on the rocks. Bitsy stayed anyway. “Did I hear that you two are helping each other with your little problems?”

Marge nodded and snaked an arm toward the temperature control, but I blocked her. I couldn’t take it any hotter.

“That’s so nice of you both.” Bitsy hopped up on one of the slatted benches. “You know, I’ve never had any problem with stage fright, but I have had some experience with ‘senior moments.’ My husband, you know.” She smiled brightly at Marge. “He died of Alzheimer’s.”

CHAPTER 21

After deploying her little stink bomb, Bitsy left the sauna. Marge got up too. “Let’s go.” She looked like she had the wind knocked out of her.

Things did not get better. When she got to her locker and opened the door, it was empty. No swimsuit, no clothes, no nothing.

“Shit, Marge,” I said. “I’m sorry. I feel horrible. I’m the one who made such a big deal of it being unlocked.”

She shook her head and sank back on the bench without saying a word.

“Tell you what, I’ll drive over to your house and get you something to wear.”

“No!” Even Marge realized she’d shouted. “The house is an embarrassment right now,” she said in a much quieter voice. “Maybe I could borrow something from Bernice?”

I drove to Bernice’s, picked up a t-shirt and a stretchy pair of pants, and met Marge back in the locker room. She got dressed, walked with me into the parking lot, grabbed a hide-a-key from under her car’s back bumper, and unlocked her car. “Good thing I keep my wallet in my car.” Marge slid into the driver’s seat. “Listen, I know we talked about a practice session at my house, but I’m not feeling so well. I’d like to rest before preview tonight.”

“Sure.” I waved goodbye and watched her drive slowly, carefully out of the rec center parking lot.

“Cuckoo!”

“That is not what I need to hear right now,” I admonished the clock on Bernice’s wall.

I was worried about Marge and anxious about the show, but there was no way to know if she’d remember her lines or if her sing-in-character advice would help me until we faced an audience. So I decided to tackle another source of anxiety: my lack of progress on Charlie’s case.

What had I learned about Charlie Small? He seemed to be a popular guy, and a busy one, on the theater board and in Bitsy’s karaoke club. He was a Vietnam veteran, a Republican, and a Christian, a strong enough believer that people didn’t think he would take his own life. He was also really depressed after the death of his wife. It wasn’t much to go on.

I had the feeling the answer lay not with Charlie’s life but his death. I found my black notebook on the counter and flipped through it. I knew the basics: carbon monoxide poisoning in his car, no note. My neighborhood investigation hadn’t turned up much of anything except the unusually high number of suicides and the landscaper.

I’d initially thought the idea of a landscaper in this mostly gravel-lawned neighborhood was suspicious, but then I noticed a few around—blowing bougainvillea leaves, trimming orange trees, and pulling the few weeds that managed to survive. Charlie hadn’t hired one, but one of his neighbors could have. I made a note to check on that.

Then there was Carl Marks. I hadn’t seen him or his car since that night outside the theater, but I felt uneasy just thinking about him. Using my laptop, I logged into a database Duda Detectives used to run criminal background checks and typed in his name. Nothing, not even a parking ticket. Next I tried to find out what type of insurance policy he’d sold Charlie. I called my uncle.

“So how do I do this?” I asked, after giving him the rundown.

“To begin with, go to the Medical Information Bureau website and enter Charlie’s information.”

I did. I had to pretend I was Charlie, but I got his file. “Done. Now what?”

“Did anyone pull Charlie’s medical records recently?”

I looked at my screen. “Yeah. It looks like Carl’s company did, about a year ago.”

“That means they probably issued him a sizable policy, since insurance companies don’t usually bother pulling records for policies under 50K.”

“Okay, now how do I find out what type of policy? And who the beneficiary is?”

“Remember how I started this conversation with ‘To begin with?’”

“Uh huh…” I was beginning to wish I was in the office so I could see my uncle’s face. I had the feeling he was grinning.

“That’s all you can find out, at least for now. Then you got some real work to do.”

If I had been in the office, I would’ve considered shooting him with a rubber band.

He continued: “Because the only people who would know more are Charlie’s attorney, his beneficiaries, or his insurance agent.”

“The guy I’m investigating.”

“Right.”

Definitely would have shot him with a rubber band.

Uncle Bob chuckled. “Isn’t it fun being a PI?”

A few hours later, I was in the greenroom enjoying my first free meal: Chicken Marsala with wild rice pilaf and fresh cut green beans. Though it was only preview, the old FOTs and a few invitees would be there, so dinner was being served.

“How’s the chicken?” Roger sat down next to me at the long folding table.

“Wonderful!” In reality, it was a tad dry, but it also wasn’t beans.

Roger took a bite of his London broil and chewed. And chewed.

Zeb appeared, as was his way, and set a plate of coconut prawns in front of me. “This is what you really want to eat.” I bit into one. It was indeed what I wanted to eat, like a tropical vacation for my mouth. “I’ve got a lovely pair of coconuts…” sang Zeb, tweaking imaginary boobs.

“A, does everything have to be about sex?” asked Candy, who sat down next to us with a dish of mac and cheese. “And B, you are way too young to know that song.”

“Arnie taught it to me. And I’m not all about sex. There’s also science—hey! Want to help me test the optimal temperature for maximum enjoyment of mac and cheese?”

“Sure.” Candy shrugged.

Zeb grabbed her plate away. “Okay. Be right back.” He jogged toward the dishwashing area.

“How’s the detecting going?” Candy asked me. I had the sneaking suspicion she was trying to keep my mind off my little singing issue.

After Fran’s remark this morning, I realized I probably shouldn’t blab everything I knew. I was still figuring out how to reply when Zeb set Candy’s new plate of food in front of her. On it were four little piles of macaroni and cheese. “Okay,” he said. “Start with the portion at the top of the plate. Taste it and give me a ranking between one and ten, with ten being the highest.”

Candy took a bite from the top pile. “Ow!” she yelped. “Hot hot hot!” She grabbed my glass of water, downed it, and glared at Zeb. “I think you just burned off all my taste buds.”

“So on a scale of one to ten…” Zeb held a pencil poised above his black notebook.

“OW.”

“I’ll put that down as a ‘one.’”

“Just get me a plate of lukewarm mac and cheese. Now.”

“What approximate temperature do you consider lukewarm?”

“Now.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Marge walked in, looking remarkably better than when I last saw her. “How’d it go today?” she said. “You practice?”

I nodded. It had felt good, concentrating on my character, but since my phobia involved an audience, I had no way of knowing if Marge’s advice would help once I was onstage.

“You’ve been working on the breathing technique I gave you?” asked Roger.

I hesitated. I didn’t really want to tell him I’d had additional help. There was always a bit of tension between Marge and him.

“A half hour until places.” The disembodied stage manager’s voice floated over the PA system and saved me from replying. Instead I wolfed down the last of my chicken, dropped my empty plate at Zeb’s dishwashing station, and headed to my dressing room. All the while I kept my fingers crossed. Whatever happened tonight could determine the fate of two careers.

Marge’s advice worked. Or I heard that it did. I wasn’t really aware of how my voice sounded, or the orchestra, or, thank God, the audience. But after my song, everyone congratulated me—just the way they’d congratulated Marge after her first scene, which went perfectly. I’d stood in the wings and listened. I could just hear the slight rhythm of…what song? I couldn’t place it. Later when I had the chance, I grabbed Marge. “Hey, what song did you use to help you remember? I could just barely hear it and it’s been driving me crazy trying to figure out what it was.”

Marge smiled. “It’s that song from
Cats.
The one Barbra Streisand made famous. You know…” She hummed a bit of the familiar tune.

“Of course,” I said.

The song was “Memory.”