Authors: Jessica Beck
“Buck up,” I whispered.
“I’m trying,” Moose said.
The play was too short to have an
intermission, which was a real blessing.
Given the opportunity, I was certain that over half the audience would
have fled the poor performances.
As it
was, a few brave folks managed to sneak out anyway, and the rustling sounds
behind us threatened to grow into a stampede.
Sandra was off her game; whether because of the murder, or Fred’s
heavy-handed performance I couldn’t say.
The rest of the cast seemed to take their cues from the two leads, and
it just got worse and worse as the evening wore on.
If anything, this show was even worse than
the last one had been, and if you’d asked me before I sat down, I wouldn’t have
said that was even possible.
Finally, the final curtain fell,
and as the audience clapped mildly, I had to wonder if it was more for the end
of the torture than any tribute to the actors or the director.
One actor was notable for her
absence from the stage to collect applause, though.
Sandra Hall, for whatever reason,
was gone.
“Where’s Sandra?” I asked Moose
as I poked his arm.
“What?
Is she gone?
She hasn’t been on stage in ten minutes.
I never noticed that she didn’t show up for the curtain call.
She’s probably too embarrassed, if you ask
me.”
“What if she’s running, Moose?” I
asked.
“Maybe she was waiting until her
role was finished before she took off.”
“We need to get backstage right
now,” Moose said as he stood and moved toward the steps.
Peter Davis was at his post again, but he
looked at ease and relaxed as folks started filing out.
“Peter,” I said, “we need to get
back there.
You’re not going to try to
stop us, are you?”
“No, ma’am,” Peter said with a
toothy grin.
“My job ended when that
final curtain went down.
You can go
anywhere you want to, as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thanks,” I said as Moose and I
brushed past him.
I hunted everywhere
for any sign of Sandra or Marcus, but they were both conspicuous by their
absence.
Fred Hitchings was standing off
to himself, and the man looked positively shell-shocked.
“I had no idea how hard that was going to be
the second time,” Fred said.
“Benny made
it look easier than it was.
I have to
give him credit for that.”
“You did just fine, Fred,” I
said, though it wasn’t anywhere near the truth.
“Have you seen Sandra?”
“She couldn’t wait to get out of
here,” he said.
“I thought she was going
to pull Marcus’s arm right out of its socket.”
“How long ago did they leave?” I
asked.
“Oh, it’s been awhile.”
“We need to call the sheriff,”
Moose said as he pulled me aside.
“Right.”
I snatched my cell phone out of my purse and
grabbed my phone.
“Sheriff Croft?
This is Victoria.
Moose and I are at the theater.
Sandra and Marcus are on the run.”
“I just heard,” the sheriff
said.
“I had a man watching from the
wings, and he just called me.
He should
have been backstage, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.
Don’t worry, Victoria, we’re on it.”
“Do you think one of them is the
killer?” I asked.
“Why else would they run?” the
sheriff asked.
“We’ll take it from
here.
You and your grandfather did good
work, but you should go home.
I’ll have
someone give you a call once we find them.”
“Okay.
Thanks,” I said, and then I hung up.
“What did he say?” Moose asked.
“They’re hot on their trail,” I
said.
“I guess our part is done.”
My grandfather shook his head
sadly.
“It’s kind of anticlimactic,
isn’t it?”
“Just because it doesn’t end in a
big shootout doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t feel good to have this whole thing
resolved.”
“Do we, though?” Moose
asked.
“We still don’t know which one of
them killed Benny.”
“I’ve got a hunch the sheriff
will break them down soon enough once he’s caught up with them,” I said.
“In the meantime, there’s nothing left for us
to do.”
“Let’s go home, then, shall we?”
Moose asked.
Something was nagging at the back
of my mind, though, but I still couldn’t put my finger on it.
“Why don’t you go on ahead?
I think I might hang around a little.”
“I’ll stay with you, Victoria,”
he said.
“I’ve got nothing better to
do.”
I patted his hand.
“You don’t have to babysit me.
I’m sure that Martha would appreciate your
company at home.”
“Greg would like yours just as
much,” he said.
“No, he’s playing poker
tonight.
As soon as he found out that he
was off the hook tonight attending the performance with me, he rounded up a
game.
He won’t be home until midnight.”
“If I leave now, how are you
going to get home?” Moose asked.
Peter, standing nearby, said,
“I’ll be glad to take you home whenever you’re ready, Victoria.”
“See?
It’s all taken care of.
Go on.
I’ll be fine.”
“If you’re sure,” Moose said.
“I’m positive,” I answered.
Moose left, and just about the
entire rest of the audience escaped as well.
It was as though none of them could wait to get away from the place.
I found a seat up front and
pondered the case.
It wasn’t as though I
had any trouble seeing either Sandra or Marcus as killers.
As personal fitness trainers, they each
certainly had the upper body strength to dispatch Benny with ease.
For that matter, so did Fred Hitchings, but
at least he’d stayed around after the play was long over.
I noticed someone standing in the
periphery, and I glanced over to see Peter rocking back and forth in
place.
“You’re ready to go, aren’t you?”
“Take your time,” Peter
said.
“I promised to give you a ride
home.”
I noticed one of the extras
hovering near him.
She was a cute girl
from the high school, and from the way she looked at Peter, and the way he
glanced back at her, it told me that they were more than just friends.
“You don’t have to hang around here for
me.
I’m sure I can get another ride
home.”
“No, that’s fine.
I promised,” Peter said resolutely.
“I’m more than happy to release
you from it,” I replied.
“It’s okay, Peter.
I can get a ride with someone else,” the girl
said.
“I’d stay longer, but my folks are
expecting me.”
“Tell you what,” I said.
“Peter, go ahead and take the young lady
home.
You can swing by here and pick me
up after you’ve dropped her off.”
I
wasn’t about to suggest that I accompany them.
I had no desire to be a third wheel.
“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind?”
he asked, the hope clear in his voice.
“I’m sure.
There’s no need to hurry back, either.
I’ll be fine.”
“Thanks, Victoria,” he said as he
quickly took the girl’s hand in his and they made their way out.
“I won’t be long.”
Once they were gone, it felt as
though I was the only one left in the theater, at least in the audience.
Getting up, I decided to take a little stroll
backstage to see if what was bothering me might come to mind.
Harvey Springs, the janitor, was
sweeping up in the hallway, and he looked startled to see me standing
there.
“You shouldn’t sneak up on folks
like that, Ma’am.
You nearly gave me a
heart attack.”
“Sorry, Harvey,” I
apologized.
“I just hate to see this all
end.”
I meant the murder investigation
more than the play’s run, but he’d have no way of knowing that.
“It’s always sad whenever one’s
in the books,” he said.
“Even this one.”
He’d said the last bit nearly
under his breath, but I’d still caught it.
“It wasn’t the best thing I’ve ever seen,” I admitted with a smile.
He just laughed as he
shrugged.
“Next year there will be
another one, and we’ll all forget about this soon enough.
Was there anything else you’d be needing,
Ma’am?”
“No, as soon as my ride comes to
pick me up, I’ll be out of your hair,” I said.
“Oh, stay as long as you’d
like.
Just cut the lights off on your
way out.
The front door locks
automatically, so there’s no need to worry about locking up.
I’d offer you a ride myself, but I don’t
think you’d like being perched on the front of my handlebars, not in that fine
dress you’re wearing.”
“You’re riding home in the dark?”
I asked.
“I’ve done it a hundred times
before,” he said, “and with the good Lord willing, I’ve got a few more night
rides still in me.”
“Good night, then,” I said.
Knowing Peter, it was tough to
tell how long he’d be taking his young lady home.
That left me with a little time on my hands,
so I decided to nose around a little while I was by myself and see what I could
see.
Chapter 15
One door was ajar as I walked down
the hallway, so I decided to start there.
It was the prop room, with rows of shelves stacked with the oddest
things.
On one shelf, a crystal ball sat
beside a full suit of armor, while on another, an old fashioned typewriter was
perched next to an astronaut’s helmet.
There was even a row of trophies used for various plays in the past, and
as I neared it, one in particular caught my eye.
If I hadn’t seen so many images of its
cousins so recently, I would have passed right by it without another thought.
Reaching behind a handful of
bowling trophies and a silver cup, I pulled it out and looked at it.
The intricate engravings were there as they
were supposed to be, and the handles were the subtle but unmistakable wings of
a genuine Jasper Award.
Someone had
covered the nameplate for the recipient with an odd kind of tape that must have
come in layers, because the top layer had been removed, and recently, by the
look of it.
Holding the trophy up to the
light, I tried to make out the name that had been written on the tape, but I
couldn’t do it.
There had been a
blackboard in the hallway where rehearsal dates and times had been posted.
Would chalk help raise the letters?
I hurried out with the trophy in my hand,
grabbed the eraser, and flicked the chalk onto the tape.
I couldn’t make out much, but the last three
letters showed up the best.
NGS.
Evidently Fred Hitchings had
awarded himself a Jasper.
Carefully taking one edge of the
remaining tape, I started to peel it up, but when I saw that the letters OTH
were engraved on the plate, I stopped.
Was this Benny Booth’s real
Jasper?
If it was, what had he been
killed with?
I studied the photographs
on the walls of past winners clutching their awards, and sure enough, this was
the real deal.
That’s when I remembered the
pictures that Sheriff Croft had shown me from the crime scene.
Unless I was mistaken, the murder weapon had
simple handles, not the subtle wings that all of the originals sported.
That meant that if Fred stole
Benny’s award and replaced it with a similar looking prop, he was now my most
likely candidate to be the murderer.
How
else would the real award end up in the prop room with Fred’s name on it, and
the fake in the dressing room used as a murder weapon?
Plus, Fred was the only one of our suspects
who had ever admitted to even
being
in the prop room.
He’d claimed that he’d
been locked out of the building after going through the prop room’s back
door.
Had he mentioned that to explain
any of his fingerprints that might turn up in a search of the room, or had he
actually used the back door as a way of getting into Benny’s dressing room from
the outside without anyone realizing what he’d done?