THE SOUND OF MURDER (11 page)

CHAPTER 22

“WHAT GOOD IS STRUTTING YOUR STUFF ON THE STAGE?”

Even in the parking lot I could hear Marge singing the familiar tune of “Cabaret.” Everyone could. That woman could belt.

“Come HEAR the organ PLAY.” The song blew my hair back as I opened the stage door. I trotted down the hall.

“Eternal life AWAITS you, FRIEND.” Marge stood in the greenroom, arms wide, inviting the whole world to…“Come to the CABA—nunnery!”

Oops. But no biggie, really. All of us had a hard time not singing the original words to the songs.

Roger, Bitsy, and the other cast members who were in the room clapped. Everyone was relieved that our headliner was ready just in time for opening night.

“You’re in fine form.” I gave her a friendly swat on her behind, which tonight had “Star” embroidered on mauve velour.

“Thanks to you, chickie.” She crossed the room to the table where she’d left her duffel bag. “You know how I said that music transcends words?”

I nodded.

“I feel so good right now, I just had to sing.” She poked me with an elbow. “I noticed your little problem is gone too.”

“Knock on wood.” I looked around for something wooden to knock on and settled for my head. “By the way,” I said. “What was up at your house today? Everything okay?” Around three o’clock a bunch of cars had converged on Marge’s house, including a posse car.

“Oh, that.” She waved my concern away. “Damn burglar alarm. I punched in the wrong numbers and couldn’t find the code. You know how it is.” Unfortunately, I did. I set off Bernice’s alarm the first night I stayed there and had to run around the house looking for the code, which I found in the nick of time. “I canceled the service,” Marge said.

“Was that wise?” said Bitsy, behind us.

“It’s Sunnydale,” said Roger. “Nothing ever happens there.”

“Ivy, join me in a cuppa joe to celebrate our newfound tricks for success?” Marge poured herself a cup of coffee from her thermos.

As she poured more coffee into a Styrofoam cup, I had that knock-on-wood feeling again, like we were tempting fate with our confidence, but said, “Sure.”

Marge handed me the cup full of the steaming liquid. “Cheers,” she said, knocking her cup into mine. I took a big swig—and spit it out. “Aaaaachhh!” I couldn’t help the spitting or the weird noise I made. There was something god-awfully wrong with that coffee.

“What? It’s good coffee. I even put cinnamon in.” Marge took a sip before I could stop her. Her face turned crimson as she struggled to swallow.

“Omigod, is it poisoned?” asked Candy. The question wasn’t as silly as it sounded. Uncle Bob had been poisoned at a theater once.

I sniffed at the coffee. “I don’t think so.”

“It couldn’t be,” said Marge. “I made it myself and put it right in the thermos. It’s just coffee and cinnamon.”

Roger reached for my cup. “May I?”

I handed it over gladly.

He took a small sip. “Ah.” He leaned close to Marge and spoke quietly, which didn’t really matter because the entire roomful of people was straining to hear. “I think you mixed up cinnamon with cayenne.”

Did Bitsy’s eyes gleam?

Marge stared at Roger for a moment, then burst into raucous laughter. “I did!” She slapped Roger on the back. “Cinnamon, cayenne, both start with Cs, both sort of brown. Ha!” she said, loudly.

I wondered if anyone else noticed that her smile did not reach her eyes. Marge was acting.

CHAPTER 23

Phew. We’d done it. I sang on pitch, Marge remembered her lines, and from the sound of the applause, opening night was a success.

We had just finished the all-cast bow that marked the end of curtain call when Arnie walked onstage with an armful of red roses. None of us were surprised when he presented Marge with the flowers, but several mouths dropped open as he got down on one knee, Marge’s included.

“Think he’ll be able to get up again?” Candy whispered to me. I elbowed her, in a nice way.

The audience quieted down. Keith rapped his baton on the top of his music stand, then, his eyes on Arnie, led the orchestra in the tune to “You’re the Cream in My Coffee.”

“You’re the schmear on my bagel,” Arnie sang. The audience laughed appreciatively.

“You’re the love that is true.” His voice wobbled a little with emotion.

“You really are…My shining star.” Arnie proffered a small jewelry box to his star, whose mouth was still open.

“I want to marry you.”

The audience exploded with applause—and Marge bolted from the stage.

The music halted. The audience stopped clapping. Arnie stayed on one knee for a moment, then slowly slumped back until he sat on the wooden stage. He looked like he’d been hit by an emotional bus.

“Help him up,” I whispered to Timothy/Wolf and I ran offstage after Marge.

For a mature lady, she was pretty fast. I ran through backstage to the greenroom, where I saw the stage door to the parking lot close. I pushed it open in time to see Marge jump into her car.

“Wait!” I yelled, but Marge started up the car and roared out of the parking lot like a teenage boy.

When I got back into the greenroom, Zeb and Roger were helping Arnie into a chair.

“I would have never done it,” Arnie shook his head, his eyes searching the room, “if I wasn’t sure she loved me. I know she loves me. So why do this?” he asked the ceiling. When no answer came, he covered his face in his hands.

“Ivy?” I turned around to see Matt standing next to my brother and Sarah. “I came to pick up Cody and Sarah, but before they left…”

“We wanted to say how good you did.” Cody was dressed in a pressed blue dress shirt that matched his eyes. He held hands with Sarah, who wore a pretty flowered dress, her dark hair curling down around her shoulders.

“Why didn’t she want to marry him?” she asked me in a hushed voice.

“I don’t know,” I replied. Arnie was right. Marge did love him. Why not say yes? Or at least something that wouldn’t have made her refusal so publicly humiliating.

“Hello, baby!” Candy came up and slid an arm around Matt, seemingly oblivious to the sadness that covered the room like a damp sheet. “Why Cody, you look good enough to eat. And this must be the young lady I’ve heard so much about.” She winked at Sarah. “We all going out for a drink tonight to celebrate young love?”

Matt shook his head. “I’m on duty and—”

“C’mon, just a Coke.” Candy wrapped her arms around his neck.

“And Sarah needs to get home. Besides,” Matt looked at Arnie, whose shoulders were shaking, “I don’t think it’s much of a party atmosphere.”

“It is a damn shame,” Candy said. “He wore his lucky alligator shoes and everything.”

“His what?” I said.

“Oh, there’s a good story there.” Candy caught my eye. “But I’ll only tell it over Jack and Coke and chicken wings.”

“Don’t most people have beer and chicken wings?” asked Cody.

“Now, darlin’,” Candy said, “am I most people?”

“Maybe it was because she didn’t love him,” Hailey said.

“Maybe it was because she didn’t think he really loved her,” Timothy said.

“Maybe it was because she doesn’t think he’s really reformed,” Candy said.

“Reformed?” everyone said on cue. Actors, you know.

A bunch of us were crowded into a high-backed booth at Chili’s, a big basket of chicken wings in the middle of the table. Until Candy’s pronouncement, I’d been half-listening to the conversation, too worried about Marge to participate in the banter. But now I paid attention.

“I have it on good authority,” Candy sat back in the booth and sucked on a wing, “that our Arnie is a jailbird.”

“Really?” I didn’t know many (okay, any) jailbirds, but Arnie didn’t seem the type.

“What was he in for? Not using moisturizer?” asked Timothy, who, though he played my love interest, was as gay as the day is long. He was also really hairy.

Candy downed the last of her drink and held her glass up to the light.

“Lands, have you ever seen such a poor empty thing?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Timothy waved a waitress over. He even had hair on his hands. “Another Jack and Coke over here, please.”

I held up my empty glass too. Timothy ignored me. It was worth a try.

“And another amber ale for this lovely lady.” That was Roger. I wished I hadn’t angled for the drink. I felt beholden enough to him as it was. But what the heck, it was free beer.

“So,” said Hailey. “What’s the story, Morning Glory?”

“Well, I guess Arnie used to wrestle alligators down in Florida.”

“What?” I dipped a wing into some ranch dip. “Arnie’s like five foot four or something.”

“Those little guys can be mighty strong,” Candy said. “Wiry, you know.”

Hailey and I rolled our eyes at each other. This story sounded like a “Candy special,” a bit of gossip accessorized beyond all recognition.

“Anyway,” Candy said, ignoring our eye roll and smiling at the waitress who dropped off our fresh drinks, “one day this alligator was attacking a little boy. Arnie jumped into the swamp and saved the kid, but he ended up killing the gator.”

“With his bare hands?” asked Timothy. None of us really believed Candy, but it was fun to egg her on.

“Yep,” she said. “Broke its jaw or something.”

“How did that put him in jail?” I sipped my drink and decided that free beer actually tasted better.

“I guess it’s illegal to kill an alligator,” said Candy. “So Arnie went to jail. And I heard he got sued too, by the parents of the boy he saved ’cause the kid still got bit by the gator.”

“That was Arnie’s fault?” asked Hailey.

“No, no, no,” said Timothy. “I’ve heard of that type of stuff happening. That’s why I’ll never rescue anyone.”

“Good to know,” I said. “Remind me never to go hiking with you.”

“Like I hike?” Timothy arched an obviously plucked eyebrow.

“The thing is,” Candy said. “Arnie got the last laugh after all. He had that dead alligator made into shoes. He wears them every opening night.” She sat back in the booth, a satisfied storyteller.

While I was trying to pull up a mental image of Arnie’s shoes, I realized that Roger had been quiet during the whole story. “You ever hear any of this?” I asked.

He rubbed a finger around the rim of his whiskey glass. “I don’t know exactly what happened,” he said slowly. “But, yeah, Arnie was definitely in jail.”

CHAPTER 24

The sun shone on my shoulders, music filled the air, and a bunch of brawny men showed off in front of me. No matter what had happened last night, all was right with the world this afternoon.

“Pull!” The shout rose above the theme from “Rocky,” which blared out of a portable PA system. I sat on the side of a grassy field, sipped my Diet Coke, and admired the men, especially the one whose biceps were as astonishing as his eyelashes. Jeremy caught my eye briefly and grinned as he and his seven teammates, all wearing dark blue Phoenix Fire Department t-shirts, tried to pull their foes over a line drawn in the dirt. I cheered wildly along with the crowd when my team gained ground. Who knew the annual “Guns and Hoses” Police versus Fire tug-of-war was so much fun?

A well-orchestrated tug sent the policemen spilling over the line and tumbling on top of one another like puppies.

“Woo hoo!” I shouted along with dozens of other onlookers as a collective groan arose from the police side of the field. The policemen scrambled to their feet, brushed themselves off, and formed a line to shake the hands of the firefighters, who barely suppressed their glee.

“Third year in a row,” said the young woman next to me. Then to her toddler, “Can you show everyone how to make three?” The boy held three chubby fingers in the air as his daddy ran toward him. His mother smiled in my direction, jiggling the baby she held in her arms. “Who are you here with?”

“Jeremy White.”

“Jeremy? Wow. We’ve been wondering when someone would snag him. He is a
catch
.”

Her husband reached the little group, swooped his giggling son into his sweaty arms and kissed his wife and baby. All truly was right with the world. Except that my heart hurt, just a little. It always did when I saw happy families.

But suddenly I was in the air, picked up like a toddler by a laughing Jeremy. “Did you see their faces?” he asked. “They were so sure they’d win this year they said they’d double their contribution to the United Way if they lost. And they did. Ha!” He hugged me again to his sweaty chest. I didn’t mind.

He stripped off his shirt. Wow. I thought I might faint. The woman with the little boy caught my eye and gave me a “See what I mean?” look. Jeremy grabbed a towel from a duffel bag near me, wiped himself off, and shrugged on a similar but non-sweaty Phoenix Fire Department t-shirt. “I’m starving,” he said. “Let’s get in line before the police eat it all.”

We walked over to the picnic area, where several big barbecues filled the air with the irresistible smell of smoky meat. Jeremy grabbed a couple of paper plates and we got in line. “Hotdog or hamburger?” he asked.

My stomach growled in response.

“I’m having both,” he said.

What the hell. “Me too.” After all, I had a pretty high metabolism. Plus I’d drop in at one of the aerobic classes at the rec center later.

“So how’d it go last night?” Jeremy asked.

I gave him a quick rundown as we filed through the line, picking up buns and scooping coleslaw and beans onto our plates. I stuck with the good news. Bad news was out of place on a day like this.

“Sorry I couldn’t be there,” he said, squirting ketchup onto his dog. “When are your folks coming?”

“They probably aren’t.” My parents and I had what you might call a “cool relationship.” Though they lived only a few hours away in the mountain town of Prescott, I usually saw them just once a year, when I drove Cody up there for Christmas.

“Well, it’s nice your brother came with his girlfriend.”

“She’s not his girlfriend.” Whoa, where did that come from?

Jeremy looked at me sideways, but wisely ignored my remark. I did too. Whatever was bugging me, now was not the time to think about it. Now was the time to glory in sun and hotdogs and the possibility of romance with a nice guy with amazing pecs.

I had just managed to settle down on a big blanket on the grass with my full plate and Diet Coke (to make up for the other calories) when a familiar voice behind me said, “Olive?”

I turned and felt something slide off my plate and onto my lap. I looked down. Baked beans. Very pretty on my white shorts.

“Oh shoot. Sorry,” said the guy who had startled me. Detective Pinkstaff, a friend of my uncle’s, probably here to cheer on the police.

I stood up and let the mess slide onto the ground. A couple of nearby firemen burst into laughter. “Hey Jeremy!” one said. “Better hose her down!”

Instead Jeremy stripped off his shirt (again!) and gave it to me. “This should be long enough to cover…” He nodded at my bean-smeared shorts. “I’ll wear the other one.” He grabbed the sweaty one out of his duffle and put it on. I wondered if there was any way I could get him to take off his shirt again. I bet there was, but maybe not now. Especially since Pink seemed to be joining us.

“Detective Pinkstaff,” he said, offering a hand to Jeremy. “But everyone calls me Pink.”

“Hey, Detective!” called one of the neighboring firemen. “You here to arrest us for winning?”

“No, just for drinking an open container in a park.”

The guys looked at their beer.

“Kidding.” Pink turned back to Jeremy, whose beer had stopped halfway to his lips. “We got a permit. Drink away.”

Jeremy indicated a spot on the blanket. “Join us?”

I slipped Jeremy’s XL t-shirt over my head and wished he wasn’t quite so polite. I liked Pink, a lot actually, but I wanted Jeremy for myself. Plus the detective had asked me out once. He was a good twenty years older than me, thought wrinkles were a fashion statement, and smelled like menthol cigarettes. He was also a really sweet guy, so I was a bit uncomfortable flaunting my fabulous-looking date in front of him.

“Can’t stay long,” he said, settling himself on the blanket next to me. “Just wanted to see how Olive was getting on with her first case.”

“A couple of things seem funky—” I began.

“That’s just Jeremy!” said one of the firemen jokers.

“But I can’t put my finger on anything.”

“It was carbon monoxide poisoning, right?” said Pink.

“Yeah.” The firemen had quieted down, probably so they could eavesdrop better. “In his car,” I replied.

“What kind of car?” asked Jeremy.

“A brand new Ford Taurus.”

“No catalytic converter?” he asked.

“Uh…”

“A car that new shoulda had a catalytic converter,” Pink said.

The firemen scooted closer. “See, catalytic converters turn carbon monoxide into carbon dioxide,” said one. “That’s why they’re better for the environment.”

“And why it’s tough to kill yourself with a car that has a catalytic converter,” added the second one.

“But they can be removed,” Jeremy said.

“Some people take ’em off to get better gas mileage.” The first fireman grinned at Pink. “Cheapos. You know, like policemen.”

The detective ignored him. “They’re also a pretty hot ticket in the criminal world. Easy to sell for the platinum they contain. Easy to remove too. Car owners don’t even realize they’re gone half the time.”

“Wait,” I said. “You’re telling me that Charlie could only have committed suicide in this particular car if the catalytic converter had been removed, either by him or by a thief?”

“Yep.” This time the firemen and the policeman were in agreement.

I had some investigating to do.