“I would imagine there are quite a few things you don't know. For instance do you know the capital of New Zealand? The name of Hoover's Secretary of State? How to make tofu lasagna? Where have all the flowers gone? Why do fools fall in love?”
“Could you be serious for one minute?”
“I don't want to be serious for one parsec,” she said, laughing coldheartedly at my frustrated tone. “I want to survive the pageant with a smile, then go home and nurse my ankle so that I can again waltz with Mr. Haling, the widower next door who grows fantastic tomatoes and peeps through my window when I undress at night.”
I considered the wisdom of taking my hands off the steering wheel long enough to wrap them around her throat and choke some sense from her. I told her as much, then said, “I care about you and I want to know what's wrong. If necessary, I'll deputize Mr. Haling and we'll cram tomatoes down you until you barf seeds and agree to confess.”
She made an odd noise and looked down at her lap. “I'll tell you in a day or two, Claire. There is a certain complication in my life, and I can't discuss it until the pageant is over and the girls are gone. You'll have to settle for that. Mr. Haling only likes dark-haired, sultry women. He wouldn't give you a vine-ripened tomato if your life depended on it.”
I let it go and told her everything that had happened since I'd visited that morning. “At ten o'clock Cyndi was a victim. By one she was a perpetrator. By two she had moved into
absentia,
and by five into delusional megalomania,”
I concluded. “I once thought she was a sweet, harmless, vacuous girl.”
“We must hope she doesn't float down from the catwalk in the middle of the pageant, her well-manicured finger pointing in accusation. If Mayor Avery saw the news, he's probably trembling in his boxer shorts.”
“Peter has all the available uniformed officers out looking for her. I'm sure they'll find her and stash her away in a nice, safe place until she says something coherent.”
We parked in the alley and went around to the front door of the theater. Luanne went to the office, and I wandered down the corridor to make sure the stage was lit and the flowers still in place. The stage was lit, but in the spotlight I saw Caron and Inez.
“Try to put a little feeling into it this time,” Caron snapped.
“But I don't feel anything,” Inez said. “I mean, why should I scream at you when you haven't actually done anything?”
“Pretend I ran over your cat. Pretend we're on a desert island and I ate the last cookie. This is acting. You're supposed to fake it.”
“You don't drive, so you couldn't have run over my cat. And if we're on a desert island, why do we have cookies? Wouldn't it make more sense if you ate the last coconut?”
I slithered into the auditorium and perched on the arm of a seat.
“Then I ate the last coconut!” Caron said, flapping her hands and scowling like a vulture that had chanced on a chicken.
The seven finalists entered the auditorium. They were subdued, I supposed from prepageant jitters. I pointed at
the stairs that led to the basement. Julianna snorted when she saw the two thespians and marched down the stairs. Dixie shot me a frightened look, then allowed herself to be swept away with the group.
“You ate the last coconut,” Inez said as loudly as she dared.
“Yeah, I did.” Caron put her hands on her hips and sauntered away, then looked back over her shoulder with a sneer and said, “And I don't care. What are you going to do about it, bitch?”
Trembling, Inez raised her arm and pointed a gun at Caron. “I'll kill you, you slut.”
Caron made a face at the low-key avowal, but regained her sneer and took a step toward the back of the stage. “I have no fear of you. You haven't got the nerve to pull the trigger.” She froze for several seconds, then in an aggrieved voice said, “That's the cue, Inez. You're supposed to shoot me now.”
Abruptly the lights around the two went out, leaving them in stark white puddles. “Go on, shoot her,” yelled a voice from the control booth above my head.
Inez's hand shook so wildly I was afraid she'd drop the weapon. She glanced at me for reassurance that it was both appropriate and acceptable to shoot her best friend in the back while being observed by the mother of same.
“Sure, go ahead,” I called amiably.
“Well, okay.” Inez pointed the gun at Caron's back and closed her eyes. She took a breath, then curled her finger around the trigger. The result was a most satisfactory flashing bang. A tendril of smoke curled from the end of the barrel. Caron lurched forward with a screech, staggered around so that she was facing the audience, and fell to her knees with an agonized groan.
It was not bad for an amateur. The voice from the ceiling made a comment to that effect, and we were both waiting for the death rattle when Julianna came up from the basement.
She grabbed my hand. “Mrs. Malloy, you've got to do something. I smell gas down there. We all do,” she said loudly enough to cut off a particularly gut-wrenching groan from centerstage.
Mine, I think, was just as loud.
I
bellowed at Mac, who bellowed back as I dashed down the stairs to the basement. The remaining finalists were huddled in the dressing room doorway; I hoarsely ordered them upstairs and continued to the star-studded door at the end of the hall. With each step the odor of gas grew stronger. The door was locked. I was pounding on it as Mac loped up behind me.
“There's no one in there,” he said, fumbling with his key ring. “The police sealed it yesterday. Maybe they forgot to turn off the goddamn space heater.”
“The seals are broken. Would you hurry?”
I went back to the foot of the stairs and yelled for someone to call for an ambulance. Mac unlocked the door, shoved it open, then stepped back and turned to look at me.
“It's too late for an ambulance,” he said flatly. “Have them call the police.”
He went around the corner and threw open the metal doors that led to the alley. I amended my message to the group in the auditorium, then crept down the hallway, choking on gas acrid enough to have physical shape and color, and looked in the room. Cyndi was once again limp in the chair in front of the table, her head bowed so that her chin rested on her chest. But this time her eyes bulged in surprise and her tongue protruded through
purplish lips. A cord of some sort cut tightly into her neck. I approached until I was close enough to determine it was the cord of her hair dryer, and that she was dead.
I took a tissue and gingerly turned off the gas, hoping I wasn't obliterating fingerprints. Then, my head threatening to explode and my eyes burning like embedded embers, I stumbled out to the alley and kneeled on the gravel. And, yes, lost another meal.
“At least we know how to go through the motions,” Mac said from a shadow. He lit a cigarette and drew deeply on it. “Rather déjà vu-ish, isn't it?”
“A girl is deadâmurdered,” I croaked.
“I have to agree this one's not a suicide,” he said in the same conversational tone. “A logistic impossibility. How the hell did she get into the theater?”
I sat back on the gravel and watched the red tip of the cigarette fly through the air. “She left the hospital around noon, or perhaps twelve-thirty. I would guess she came in a minute or two before I left this afternoon, right after the rehearsal ended. I heard the door bang, but I thought you were either coming or going, and I didn't bother to investigate.”
“You didn't hear me. I was in the prop room. Someone's been snooping around in there, and I was trying to determine what's missing.”
“A rubber knife, a gun, and a Viking helmet,” I said numbly, trying to grasp what had happened in the last minute or so. Gas, the dressing room door locked, the body in the chair, the alley. The admittedly unnerving sensation of déjà vu, which was getting déjà vieux. I was still sitting on the gravel when the alley filled with flashing blue lights, sirens, scratchy radios, and stern men in white coats. Stern men in blue coats followed,
and at last Peter crouched beside me and rubbed my shoulder.
“Can you tell me what happened, Claire?”
I told him what I could, which was little beyond the premise that Cyndi had returned to the theater to hide out until the pageant began at eight o'clock. He went through the doors to the basement. I stood up and coerced my knees into behaving well enough to get me around to the front of the building and to the office.
The seven finalists, in various emotional states ranging from mute shock to copious tears, were there. Caron and Inez hovered in a corner, their expressions leery. As I entered, Luanne pushed herself out of the chair and put her fists on the desktop. “What the hell is going on?”
“Cyndi's dead,” I told them. “And it wasn't an accident or a pseudosuicide attempt that backfired. She was murdered.”
“When?” Luanne demanded. “How?”
“This afternoon. Someone tied a hair-dryer cord around her neck before turning on the gas.”
A uniformed police officer came into the office. “The Lieutenant would prefer that no one discuss the incident until he's had the opportunity to question each of you individually. He wants you to wait in the auditorium.”
“I'm not going back in there,” Heidi said. The others nodded. The policeman studied them for a moment, no doubt better trained to deal with school children at crosswalks and jaywalkers. “No way,” Heidi added with a sniff. Six more noses sniffed disdainfully. Caron and Inez merely blinked.
While he contemplated how best to handle the impasse, I sat down on the corner of Luanne's desk. “In half an hour the pageant crew will arrive, and not too long afterward an audience of three to four hundred
friends and doting relatives will storm the doors.”
“We'll have to cancel as quickly as we can.” Luanne picked up the telephone receiver, but the policeman came across the room and took it from her hand.
“Lieutenant Rosen says not to let anyone do anything until he gets here, ma'am.”
“But that's absurd. There's been a murder here, today, in this building. A girl is dead. We can't simply go about our business as if nothing unusual has occurred.”
“Lieutenant's orders are not to let anyone do anything until he gets here,” the policeman repeated.
“I'm not going through with this,” Julianna squeaked. “I can't go up on the stage and wink at the judges knowing that Cyndi's ⦔
“Me, neither,” Heidi said. “Chou-Chou has a terribly delicate constitution.”
Bambi shook her head. “I'm trembling too hard to twirl anything. I probably can't even zip my zipper or put on earrings. I want to go home.”
“So do I,” Lisa said. The second Lisa began to cry. The girls crowded around her, sending dark looks at the policeman.
The impasse was escalating into open warfare. I cleared my throat and said, “We have more than an hour before the pageant begins. I'm sure Lieutenant Rosen will allow us time to cancel before everyone arrives. Now all of youâsit!”
They sat. I slumped on one end of the couch and tried to think. I had gotten nowhere when I heard Peter's voice in the lobby. The policeman was not keen to allow me out of the office, but Peter opened the door and crooked a finger at me.
“Mrs. Malloy, I'd like to speak to you,” he said.
I fluttered my fingers at Cerberus and went through
the door. Peter and Jorgeson stood near the concession stand. Neither smiled as I joined them.
I was asked to repeat my story, which I did. “I don't know if I heard Cyndi enter the theater at one,” I added, “but it seems logical. McWethy said he was in the prop room, and the finalists had already left.”
“But you didn't see anyone?” Peter said.
“No, but it's not all that odd. I've been using the east corridor since the office is on that side. All Cyndiâor whoever it wasâhad to do was slip down the west corridor and cut across the front of the auditorium to the basement stairs. I left within minutes of hearing the door, and at that point Mac was the only one in the theater.”
Jorgeson flipped open a notebook. “According to his initial statement, McWethy came in at eight-thirty and left for lunch at one-fifteen or so. He came back at five forty-five to unlock the doors for the finalists and the production people. He then went to the lighting booth to adjust some gels so that he wouldn't have a bunch of flamingos flapping around the stage.” He stopped and reread the last few words, his lips moving silently. “I don't know why he'd have any birds, Lieutenant. There's a yappy little dog swimming in piss in a box in the greenroom, but no birds that I found.”
“Can anybody confirm McWethy's alleged movements?”
“Not really. He said he wandered down the street to check out the festival. He saw a few thousand people, but he doubts anyone could swear he was in any particular place at one time. It's pretty crazy out there, what with the noise, confusion, crowds, and free-flowing beer. It'll be damn hard to confirm an alibi unless he asked somebody the time.”
“How long had Cyndi been dead?” I asked.
Peter flashed his teeth, but the gesture lacked warmth. “Ah, our Miss Marple of Thurber Street is at it again, Jorgeson. If she says one more word no matter how innocent, I want you to take her to the station and hold her as a material witness in a murder investigation.”
“You want I should call around for a warrant?” Jorgeson murmured. “I can think of two or three judges that would sign one, as a personal favor.”
I was formulating a response to their adolescent remarks when Luanne hobbled across the lobby. “What am I supposed to do about the pageant, Peter? I've got seven semihysterical girls moaning in the office, and not one of them is the least bit interested in becoming the new Miss Thurberfest. We've got to get the word out immediately that the pageant is canceled.”
“That'll take the heat off someone's burner,” I said. “Cyndi announced on the news that she was going to expose the maniac who's been trying to kill her. I still think she and an accomplice staged some of those pranks for the publicity. She didn't stage the final one. No one, not even a delusional beauty queen, can strangle herself with an electrical cord.”
Luanne poked me with the tip of her crutch. “So the murderer had to silence her before the pageant. Isn't that rather obvious?”
“What about her accomplice? Wouldn't he be equally panicked when Cyndi announced she was going to make startling revelations at the pageant?”
“It's the same person,” Luanne said. She stopped for a moment to think it over, then said, “Are you saying Cyndi had both an accomplice and someone trying to kill her?”
Peter glowered. “How many people do you have in the cast of this fantastical conspiracy? What about the
eighteen girls in the preliminary? Do you want us to bring in the thousands of people on the street for questioning? What about those who stayed home and therefore have no alibi?”
I was denying mental malfeasance when Steve Stevenson, his wife, and the twins entered the lobby. Patti held the twins' hands in a tight grip, and they looked properly subdued after the earlier scolding. Little blue eyes were alertly casing the joint, but little pink tongues were restrained by angelic smiles.
Steve held out his hand to Peter. “I'm sorry I missed you this afternoon, Lieutenant Rosen. The primary's less than a month away and personal contact makes a world of difference in the final tally.”
Peter shook the proffered hand. “We came by to discuss the shooting incident during the parade, but you've no doubt already heard that the bullet was a blank.”
“Patti told me what you said. I'm shocked that Cyndi would take that kind of crazy risk simply to get publicity,” he said with a sad smile. “I feel in some way responsible for her actions; I suggested her name to the film commission, which led to the trip and her grandiose scheme of becoming a Hollywood starlet. I hope you won't deal too harshly with her, Lieutenant.”
“She must be stopped, however,” Patti said. “Even though the bullet was a blank, it could have done some damage had it hit someone. And this nonsense with the gas heater in the dressing roomâthat could have resulted in a serious tragedy.”
“Ah, well, it has,” Peter murmured.
While he told them what had transpired in the last forty-five minutes, I went back to Luanne and said, “So do we postpone the pageant?”
“We have no choice, Claire. Even if the police allowed
us to use the facility, the girls certainly aren't going to participate. If you and I were the only contestants, we'd both end up as runners-ups.” She rubbed at the black shadows beneath her eyes. “I feel dreadful about Cyndi. She shouldn't have returned to the theater, but that doesn't mean she deserved what happened to her. She was young and pretty, and now she's dead.”
“Which is why we can't let the murderer get away with it,” I said in a low, cold voice. Jorgeson's shoulders twitched as he moved away with great nonchalance to study the popcorn machine.
Luanne gave me a piercing look. “We? Why don't you say that a little louder so that Peter can hear you? You know how delighted he is when he thinks you're meddling in a police investigation.”
“Who's meddling? I simply think we ought to assist the police, who have no idea of the identity of the murderer. It's not necessarily a maniac off the street. It could be someone in this building.”
“Someone in this building?” she echoed incredulously.
“It's a better theory than the maniac one. Every one of us had some free time this afternoon, you know. Warren and Steve took the twins to the street festival, and Steve has admitted he was wandering around shaking hands. Warren could have slipped the pony man a few bucks to keep the girls occupied. Patti was alone in the hotel room. Mac says he left the theater for lunch and didn't return until time for the pageant, but he doesn't have a solid alibi. Eunice drove away in her Cadillac three hours ago; maybe she deduced the location of Cyndi's hideout and came here to plead the case for the Big One. One of the finalists could have gotten hold of a key. I went home and took a nap.” I took a deep breath
and forged ahead. “You had your telephone unplugged. You could have come back to the theater and bumped into Cyndi.”