“What notes did you leave here?” I asked abruptly.
“Nothing of any great value. Just a few papers that I intended to read tonight. Warren took the girls to see
Snow White,
and it's incredibly peaceful in the suite. It's difficult to concentrate when both ears are assailed.”
“When did you leave them?” I persisted. “You weren't carrying anything when you arrived this evening.”
“Then I must have put them down yesterday, I suppose. As I said before, they're not terribly important. I've been carrying them around for several days, hoping for an idle moment in which to glance over them. I wish I could remember exactly when I did take them out of my pocket; it would help me remember where I laid them.”
I didn't buy a word of it, but I doubted I was going to win the skirmish. Senators did not prowl around dark theaters to find missing papers. Aides existed for that sort of thing. Aides ran errands, baby-sat, carried briefcases, and covered minor lapses from grace. Suddenly I had it.
“Warren and Cyndi had a torrid affair, right?” I said, hoping he hadn't noticed the flicker of enlightenment that had flashed across my face. “Eunice was against it from the start, and eventually you tried to wrest apart the illfated lovers, right?” He nodded at each of my rhetorical questions, clearly intrigued now that we had started up again. “You insisted they have separate rooms in Hollywood,” I continued. “You even took the room between them. Did your room have an adjoining door to Cyndi's room, by the way? Kids can tiptoe down the
hall on the way to steamy hotel-room trysts, but senators must be more discreet, especially those from conservative districts. In fact, a senator might use his aide to disguise the affair from the beginning. It would be so easy to allow everyone to think the two kids were carrying on likeâlike two kids. The aide could invite the girl to stay in his apartment for the weekend. Some people might cluck and mutter about today's youth, but no one would be scandalized. Then the aide moves out and the senator moves in.”
“What a novel idea,” he said wonderingly. “Is it from a novel?”
“Warren wasn't convincing,” I said. “Those of us who have been around the track, so to speak, know when a young man is not adequately heartbroken after an affair is ended so coldly. His acting skills do not rival his political ambitions.”
“Do you think you can prove any of this?”
“I think I might be able to. Warren may not have minded covering up for the affair, but he might balk at taking a murder rap for you. The police are awfully good at worming the truth out of people, and once they determine that you were the one having an affair with an eighteen-year-old girl, they'll realize you had a good reason to silence her, particularly after her ominous remarks in the taped interview.”
“You're most likely right,” he murmured, nodding.
“It looks quite bad for a senator, especially a married one with small children, to have an affair with a young girl. It was a dreadful error on my part. Warren tried his best to talk me out of it, but I was in one of those midlife crisis periods. Turning forty, married to the perfect wife and helpmate, facing a brilliant future, and lying awake nights wondering if I'd missed something along the way.
Something dangerous, exhilarating, irresponsible, absolutely crazy. I was the solid, reliable college student, and an uninspired but passable law student. I took a position with Patti's father the day after graduation from law school. He trained me so I could return to my district and win the senate seat. It was to be followed by four years as attorney general, the governorship, and then, of course, onward and upward.” He shook his head and sighed. “It was a good game plan, and it might have worked. I had the financial backing and the right connections with powerful people. My family is incredibly photogenic, and I seem to have a certain appeal to both women and upscale neoconservatives. And I threw it all away for a shrewd girl who was a good deal more ambitious than I.”
“You were supporting her all this time, weren't you?”
“At first it was a small loan every now and then, but after a few months she began asking for a little bit on a regular basis. I really didn't mind too much, but I did try to cut off the payments once I'd broken off the affair.”
“Why'd you break it off?” I asked curiously.
“I'd filed for the primary that day, and it finally occurred to me that this was not appropriate behavior for a would-be attorney general. When I pointed this out to Cyndi, she readily agreed to call the whole thing offâas long as I sent money every month. Then, yesterday after the luncheon, as we walked back to the theater, she told me she intended to leave for California within a few days. She wanted fifty thousand dollars. Well, that was impossible.”
“So once the press had been sent out of the theater, you went down to her dressing room to talk to her?”
He looked at me for a long time, his forehead creased
as he considered what amounted to a full-fledged accusation. “Are you saying that she reiterated her demand and I tried to kill her? You must have an awfully low opinion of me, Claire.”
Moi? Simply because I believed he was a coldblooded killer with a political conscience? I clucked sympathetically. “Yes, murder can certainly taint a reputation. But if you took her keys at that time, how did she plan to get into the theater this afternoon to hide?”
“I don't know,” he said, scratching his chin as he frowned at me. Suddenly the dimples popped back into view. “Maybe I called her at the hospital and suggested it. I told her I'd meet her at one-fifteen with the money, or at least as much as I could put together on a weekend. When she refused my counteroffer, I had to stop her from exposing me. I probably thought I might get away with it.”
I resisted an impulse to pat him on the arm and cluck some more. “I doubt it, Steve. The police would have uncovered the truth about the affair by tomorrow, and then they would have come straight to you.”
“But you're so much more clever than the police. From the moment I met you I thought you'd make a great political aide. Once all this is cleared up, we'll have a quiet dinner somewhere and I'll use all my wiles to persuade you. But first I have to tell you about the keyâ”
He stopped as spotlights came on with a loud snap. We were both blinded, caught in the glare as if we were deer on a dark country road. I tried to shield my eyes with the flashlight as I squinted into the auditorium, but I could see nothing. I heard a popping noise, and turned to see if Steve had heard it too. His hand was on his chest. As I stared, redness spread from beneath his fingers
in a widening pool. He gave me a surprised look. Dimples appeared for a brief moment, then faded into smoothness. He crumpled to the floor of the stage.
I dove for the darkest corner, gulping back a scream as I thudded into the bottom of the staircase. A second pop was followed by a ping from the wall above my head. A third bullet struck the wall a tad lower and a tad closer. The next ruled out any hope of scrambling toward the protection of the greenroom. I realized I was clutching the flashlight and hurled it toward the orchestra pit. It rolled unevenly past Steve's body, with the arrhythmic noise of a faulty shopping cart, and fell into the orchestra pit.
A pink spotlight began to sweep across the stage in a chillingly methodical pattern. Sucking in a deep breath, I crawled up the spiral staircase, wincing at the faint rattle of the loose bolts. The catwalk was high enough to be protected by the short curtain across the top of the proscenium. I didn't have any really good ideas about what to do once I was thirty feet above the stage, but I could see that the stage offered no protection.
The light caught the tip of one shoe as I scampered like a squirrel. As I moved around the spiral, I could almost feel the sting of a bullet in the back. The impact would throw me off the staircase. I probably wouldn't be around to feel myself hit the floor.
When I reached the top, I stayed on all fours and crawled down the catwalk. Perhaps, I thought in an hysterical voice, there would be a similar staircase at the end of the catwalk. I hadn't seen one, of course. Then again, I couldn't go back down and present a lovely target to the killer in the light booth. Who was ⦠not Steve Stevenson, boy wonder of state politics, who no longer suffered from a midlife crisis.
The spotlight moved up the staircase like a luminescent stalker. I scuttled to the end of the catwalk, which simply ended in midair, and lay down as flat as I could. While I waited to be picked off, I closed my eyes and tried to guess who was on the business end of the gun.
“Claire? Where are you?”
It was McWethy. I decided it would be less than wise to answer his question. I burrowed deeper into the metal runway. McWethy, the accomplice. McWethy, the possessor of the keys, the phantom of the playhouse. McWethy, a homey sort who as likely had a gun rack in his pickup and spent weeks every year attempting to kill Rudolph and his antlered friends. A deer caught in a spotlight freezes. Steve had frozen. Now he was dead.
Suddenly the spotlight went out. Red and yellow fireworks filled my vision, then slowly shrank into nothingness. No longer feeling like Bambi, I lifted my head to look down over the edge of the catwalk. I might as well have peered into an ink bottle. Admittedly, it was preferable to being trapped by a spotlight, but it wasn't exactly improving the situation in terms of getting out of the theater in a tidy, intact fashion.
I was considering any potential advantage in creeping back to the top of the staircase when the houselights came on. After a moment wasted trying to figure out what the hell was going on now, I eased forward until I could see the stage below me. Mac stood next to Steve's sprawled, lifeless body. He held a rifle in his hand.
I must have let out a small noise, for he looked up at me with a scowl. “What are you doing up there, woman? You seem to find something irresistible about that place.”
I ducked back so that he couldn't ( easily, anyway) put a bullet between my lovely green eyes. “You won't
get away with it,” I said with amazing coolness, not one degree of it heartfelt. “The police are on their way at this moment.”
“Did
you
call them?” He sounded perplexed rather than alarmed.
“No, I didn't call them. But someone on the sidewalk must have heard the shots and called them. They'll be here in less than a minute.”
“You must have ridden the little yellow bus to school. How could anyone have heard a shot fired all the way in the back of the theater?”
I was tired of logic games. “I told several people where I was going tonight, and I also told them that you were Cyndi's accomplice. I don't know why you killed Steveâmaybe you were in love with the girl and lost your control when you heard him discussing the affairâbut in any case, you won't get away with it.”
“I won't get away with it?
You
won't get away with it. I don't even know what it is, but I damn well know I haven't done anything. Now are you going to stay up there like a turkey buzzard in a dead tree, or shall I come up there and drag you down here?”
“Don't consider it, buddy. I have a gun.”
“Is this rusty thing your so-called gun? This is from the prop room, and it isn't capable of firing anything but blanks of wadded paper. I don't know what you used to shoot the politico, but it wasn't this.”
I risked my future to look down at him. He was holding the rifle, which I'd dropped in panicâbullets always unnerve me. “I'll tell you what,” I called, “I'll stay right here while you call the ambulance and the police. I promise not to move. Okay?”
“You are the oddest damn woman I've ever met,” he
growled. “Yeah, you stay up there in your roost, and I'll call the police from the office. Any messages for them?”
“Ask for Lieutenant Rosen,” I said in a small voice. “And please ask him to hurry.”
J
orgeson had to come up to the catwalk and coax me down as if I were a terrified kitten on a branch. My fingers were raw from having dug into the metal surface, and my knees were scratched and sore. Jorgeson held my elbow until we reached the lovely security of the stage, which was swarming with policemen, paramedics, plainclothed men with cameras and black cases, and one disgruntled medical examiner whose turquoise pajamas showed beneath his trouser cuffs. All of them stopped to stare as Jorgeson escorted me across the stage to a still figure with crossed arms and an exceedingly stony expression.
I opted to take the initiative. “Arrest that man,” I said, pointing at Mac.
Mac shrugged his bony shoulders. “You might prefer to arrest this woman.”
“I might,” Peter said levelly. “However, I suppose we ought to explore the issue before I call the paddy wagon. In that the team would like to begin the homicide investigation, I suggest we continue this in the office.” He instructed Jorgeson in a low voice, conferred with the medical examiner, barked at an unseen person in the light booth, and then brusquely gestured for McWethy and me to follow him off the stage.
Mac unlocked the office door. Peter sat down in the
chair behind the desk, thus leaving me no choice but to sit next to a purported murderer on the couch. Oblivious to my frown, Peter took out a notebook. He arranged a pencil beside it, studied both for a moment, then looked at us and soberly recited the Miranda warning.
Once Mac and I agreed we understood our rights, he said, “This is preliminary, just to give me an idea of what the hell is going on. Both of you will be taken to the station shortly to give formal statements. With luck, some of you may be home by dawn. Others of you may be less fortunate. Mrs. Malloy, why were you in the theater?”
I explained about the rifle and the inexplicable cosmic force. It did little to ease the cold anger in Peter's eyes, but it was the best I could do. I then repeated the crazy conversation with Steve and the subsequent events that resulted in my hiatus on the catwalk.
Peter wrote down several pages of notes, then regarded me for a long while, his mouth almost twitching. He looked at my companion. “And why were you in the theater, Mr. McWethy?”
“Pretty much the same reason,” he said as he lit a cigarette and leaned back. “I thought the prop room was an ideal place to hide a weapon, but when I came back to the theater and saw the girls with the revolver, I realized they'd been prowling around in there. I should have buried the rifle in the pasture out behind my house, but I hate to discard anything that might be useful in the future. Except ex-wives, of course. That's not to say I've buried any of them in the pasture. I'll admit I've considered it.”
“Then you did assist Cyndi in some of her pranks?” Peter continued, ignoring the diversion with a pinched smile.
“Not with any enthusiasm, Lieutenant. It seems Eunice Allingham knows some loudmouthed chippy down at city hall. The chippy told Cyndi about a small exchange of favors with the wiring inspector, the exchange involving cash on my part and a passing report on the inspector's. Hell, this building is ancient; it would have cost a fortune to bring it up to current standards. The inspector was cheaper than at least one of my ex-wives.”
I held back a smile of triumph. “Then Cyndi used that information to coerce you into giving her a key and helping her with her dirty deeds in your theater?”
“Mrs. Malloy,” Peter inserted rather rudely, “if it isn't too much of a bother, I'd like to conduct the inquiry. I am not only a trained detective, but also the head of the Criminal Investigation Department. Unless you've received a mail-order badge, you are a civilian. A civilian who is up to her neck in very hot water, I might add.”
“I arrived at the conclusion before you did.”
“Could that be because you operate without restraint or reason? Without concern for your well-being? Without regard for previous promises to mind your own business and stay out of this?”
I nodded politely. “That seems accurate, Lieutenant Rosen, if not especially conducive to further cooperation from a concerned citizen who was merely assisting the police.”
Mac cackled at this temperate exchange of words. “You two know each other, right?”
Peter slapped down the notebook. “Yes, Mr. McWethy, in one sense, I suppose we do. Let's return to the immediate problem of a dead body on the stage, wild accusations, and the rest of this muddle. You came down
to the theater to pick up the rifle, which you'd left in the prop room. Would you please continue?”
He crossed his legs and looked at me through a cloud of smoke. “I heard voices, and being an inquisitive sort myself, I tiptoed down the corridor to see who all was trespassing in my theater. About halfway to the auditorium, I heard a series of shots. I will admit I stopped for a moment to consider my options, then went on to the doorway in time to see Claire creeping along the catwalk, her fanny swishing like a widemouth bass in an eddy. The lights went out, which again led me to consider various options. After a couple of minutes of nothing happening, I turned on the house lights and went up to the stage to see if I could do anything for the Senator. It was a damn sight too late to do anything except compose a eulogy.”
“He's lying,” I said. “He shot Steve. He tried to lure me down so he could shoot me, but I refused to cooperate.”
“Why would I do that?” Mac gave Peter a manly, aren't-women-something smile. “I figured you boys would realize my involvement with the pranks sooner or later, although it didn't seem as if you were going to find the missing weight. There was something about âThe Purloined Letter' that caught my fancy when I was but a mere lad drinking RC Cola and munching Moon Pies back in Carroll County, USA. An idyllic youth ⦠me and Poe and a dog named Blue.”
“Then you stole the sandbag?” I said, scowling at him.
“In that it belonged to me, I think a more appropriate term might be ârecycled, ' don't you? For the record, that was strictly wacko Miss Thurberfest's idea. She's the one who climbed up to the catwalk, sawed the rope,
pranced around on the stage at a prudent distance from her mark, and ultimately entertained us with the bout of vapors. I told her it was harebrained. I told her that the bit with the nail was overly melodramatic and that I'd be delighted to push her into the orchestra pit whenever she wished. I don't know why the silly girl declined my heart-felt offer.” His eyes narrowed and his voice turned grim. “I also told her not to fool with the space heater, but it was clear she was driving with one headlight by that point. I didn't think to tell her that locking the dressing room door and turning off the light were not conducive to being rescued by the gallant men in blue.”
One of the gallant men gazed stonily across the room. “Did it not occur to you that we were investigating a homicide and you might want to share that significant tidbit with us?”
“Well, now that you mention it, it did occur to me. I was thinking I might wander by the station tomorrow and spill the whole crockpot of beans on your desk. But what I did isn't Al Capone stuff. The girl was weird and her head was crammed with grandiose ideas, but I just did what I was told to do. I didn't hurt anyone or break any laws. I had no reason to kill herâor that politician with the slick lips and manicured fingernails. I wouldn't waste the energy on either of them.”
“The police dislike being called in on false pretenses, and firing at the convertible is worthy of attempted assault, reckless disregard, and whatever else we can find in the books,” Peter said.
Mac blew a stream of smoke toward the desk. “You may get to slap my wrists, Lieutenant, but I don't see myself chopping any cotton at the state penitentiary.”
“You deserve worse,” I said. “You participated in a prank that might have led to a car wreckâat best. Your
role in the incidents in the theater may have been passive, but firing a rifle at a car in the middle of several thousand people is both active and totally idiotic. How did Cyndi persuade you to do it?”
“Now that the girl's dead, we'll allow that to rest in peace.”
Peter picked up the pencil and rolled it between his fingers. “Let me see if I've got this,” he at last said, flashing his teeth at me. “Senator Stevenson had an affair with Cyndi Jay, and used his aide to cover it up. It ended by mutual consent and a monthly payment. When she upped her demand, the Senator murdered her. He felt such minimal remorse that he amiably admitted it all to Mrs. Malloy, blaming it on a pesky midlife crisis. Someone in the light booth also heard the confession, and turned on the spotlights in order to shoot the two of you. Mrs. Malloy has explained her presence with her usual candor and charm. Mr. McWethy has explained his participation in the conspiracy and his presence in the theater. I have an accomplice, who will face a plethora of minor charges, if not some time in a restrictive environment. I also have a trespassing meddler. The question is: Do I have a murderer?”
“He did it,” I said.
“I still think you did it,” Mac murmured. He sent a haze of smoke into my face and gave me a crooked smile. “Maybe Cyndi wasn't the only broad who was willing to do anything to attract attention.”
“Jorgeson would have noticed a weapon on the catwalk,” I said, trying not to cough.
“What do you think I did with the weaponâswallow it? You do overestimate my talents.”
Peter's pencil broke with a loud snap. “Quiet, both of you. One of the uniforms will take you to the police
station so that you may each give a formal statement concerning every single thing you've done in the last three days. I want to know everything you've had to eat or drink, I want to know when you brushed your teeth, and I want to know the precise color of the pajamas you wore to bed each night. It will occupy you for many, many hours. The investigation of the scene will occupy me for a similar time, so perhaps we will meet again at dawn.” He started for the door.
“I need to do something about Caron,” I said meekly.
He told me I could use the telephone and stalked out of the office. While Mac watched me with an amused look, I dialed my house and listened to the busy signal. Without maternal control, Caron would talk until she heard my footstep outside her bedroom door. Which might occur in twelve hours. I called Luanne's house and allowed the telephone to ring until it became obvious she wasn't hobbling across the room to answer it.
Peter would have to send someone to my apartment, I decided as a nasty tendril of pain shot across my temples. Still under Mac's smirky scrutiny, I went into the bathroom and checked the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Someone in the theater's illustrious past had experienced a headache, but the label on the bottle was spotted and brown. The lone tablet in the bottle was equally spotted and brown.
Wondering if Luanne had stashed a bottle of aspirin in the desk, I sat down in the chair and tugged at the drawers. They did not budge.
“Do you have a key for these?” I asked Mac.
“I did, but I gave it to the Bradshaw woman last week. She wanted a place to keep the files and things, although I doubt anyone would be really desperate to get the invoice from the florist or the girls' dossiers.”
“Oh,” I said brightly. “It's not important. My head'll explode at some time in the next few hours, but we can hope it happens with my usual candor and charm.”
A shiny-faced policeman who should have been at a high school prom came into the office and told us we were going to the station. As we went across the lobby, Peter came up the corridor. I told him about the small problem of reaching Caron, and he agreed to send someone over to transport her to Inez's house for the duration. Although his voice was mild, I could tell he was still angry.
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I shouldn't have come here tonight, but I wanted to make sure my theory was right before I told you about it. I was going to call you the second I got home.”
“Is there anything else you've forgotten to mention?”
I toyed with the idea of mentioning Luanne's behavior, even though it had nothing to do with the crimes. I glanced at his face and decided he did not want to hear any jumprope rhymes, no matter how quaint and winsome they were. “No, nothing. Has someone gone to the hotel to tell Patti what happened?”
“I'm going now. You and I can discuss certain things later, but I need to wake Mrs. Stevenson to inform her that her children no longer have a father and she no longer has a husband. This is not an intriguing game, Claire; it's ugly and painful and real. A nineteen-year-old girl was murdered this afternoon, and a promising young politician tonight. You're damn lucky to be alive.”
On that cheery note he left the lobby. Our pimply policeman ordered us to follow him to his car. It would have been impressive had his voice not cracked, but I nodded and did as I was told. As we drove down Thurber
Street, now deserted and lined with litter, I rehashed the noticeably peculiar conversation with Steve. He had, as Peter put it, amiably admitted everything. The covert affair. The blackmail demand. The first attempt to kill Cyndi by simply locking the door and hoping for the worst. When the worst didn't happen, a call to the hospital with an invitation for a quiet little conversation. Murder. Remorse, but accompanied by dimples and a shrug. Had he actually admitted anything, or had he enjoyed my theory because he knew it was wrong? All wrong. Politicians and stagnant pond water were equally transparent.