“You can't run around accusing her of that,” Luanne protested. “She's the heiress apparent to a powerful political dynasty. She's not going to hire someone to fire a shot at a convertible simply to stir up publicity. She crosses her ankles when she sits down. She knows her linens. Her children wear petticoats and write thank-you notes.”
“Okay, okay, she's not likely to have her photograph on the post office wall. But she is a political animal, perhaps more so than her good-looking, affable, manicured husband. Steve had more dimples than brains. Her father plotted out his career, saw him through an apprenticeship, and then patted his fanny and told him to end up in the White House. Everything was going quite well until Steve lost his mind over an eighteen-year-old beauty queen.”
“You're fantasizing, right?”
“I haven't had anything to eat since five-thirty last night,” I said as my stomach rumbled in unison with the thunder. “Low blood sugar, along with a night of interrogation, always makes me giddy.” I heard the drawer open. Seconds later something landed on my lap. After a moment of fumbling, I discovered it was a cellophane-wrapped Twinkie. “Did a little truck with a tinkling bell just cruise through the lobby?”
“Elevate your blood sugar and continue with this theory.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I said. I polished off the Twinkie, licked my fingers, and then intertwined said fingers under my neck. “We've got hapless Steve Stevenson, destroying his career over a small-town girl. Warren covers for him, but when the affair is ended, the girl digs in her claws and demands money to keep quiet. Steve doesn't mindâuntil she ups the ante to an impossible level. He then feels obliged to silence her.” I sat up and brushed the crumbs off the front of my shirt. “But suppose he wasn't the one who received the ultimatum? What if Cyndi assessed the perspicacity of the potential blackmail victims and realized Patti was the most promising?”
“You're beyond the curative powers of a single Twinkie. We need at least a half-gallon of Häagen-Dazs.”
“This makes senseâsort of,” I protested, licking a sticky lip. “Here's the scenario: Cyndi Jay decides to stage a few harmless pranks to get publicity. She acquires a key from Mac so that she can pull up a pertinent nail, saw the rope of the weight, and write a threatening message on her mirror. None of that works, to her chagrin. Unbeknownst to her, Patti Stevenson is playing the same game.”
“How did Patti convince Mac to do the dirty deed?”
“Power and money, for starters. Now, if I may continue ⦠When the shot is fired, Cyndi does her best to take credit as the victim, but that doesn't work, thus forcing her to pull the final desperate stunt with the space heater. Someone happens by for a chat, and locks the door on his or her way out.”
“Patti wasn't in the theater,” Luanne said heartlessly. “She couldn't have done it.”
“Then she had help. Anyway, if you'll stop interrupting for a minute, I'll finish the story. Cyndi now realizes she has someone in the vise. She calls the hotel
and arranges to meet Patti at the theater.” I stopped. The very obvious became ⦠well, obvious. “Cyndi didn't have her car at the hospital. She went there in the ambulance, and left under her own steam.”
“Fascinating,” breathed the devil's advocate, who was clearly enjoying herself.
“But it is fascinating. Think about itâwho might have picked her up? Steve? No, he and Warren were at the Thurberfest. It's one thing to escape for a few minutes, but it's decidedly another to trot back to the hotel to fetch the car, drive across town to the hospital, drop Cyndi off at the theater, murder her, and then run the car back to the hotel. We're talking serious time-frame problems here.”
The DA had to concede that one. “So it might have been a little awkward to bribe the pony man to cover for an hour. Warren and Steve couldn't have done all that, but Patti might have. You may resume.”
“How really, really gracious,” I said. “Patti's at her leisure long enough to do all of the above, and still be back at the hotel by midafternoon in time for tea. She accommodatingly arranges to pick Cyndi up in the hospital parking lot. They chat, Patti does the bit with the hair-dryer cord, and when Cyndi's s thoroughly unconscious, she turns on the gas, locks the door, and drives back to the hotel to wait for Warren, hubby, and the kids to come home from the Thurberfest and tell her all about the clowns and pony rides. When the Feds decide to blame everything on Cyndi, it's confetti sprinkles on the cupcake.”
“And she did all this to protect Steve's reputation? How very liberated of her. When I was younger, we used to fret about the girl's reputationâespecially if she was seen in certain backseats after midnight.”
“Well, he didn't have enough sense to do it, and she was keen to redecorate the Rose Room and hang the girls' photograph in the Oval Office. She had as much at stake as he did, if not a good deal more. All she had to do was keep him untarnished and dimpling, and White House here we come.”
“That's tenable, if not terribly concrete. If she'd risked everything to protect Steve, who killed him?”
I rolled over and rested my cheek on the cool plastic cushion. “You can be very demanding at times.”
“And how did he get the key to the theater last night? If he wasn't roaming the Thurberfest with the key in his pocket, having taken a quick break to murder Miss Thurberfest incarnate, how'd he end up with it? If he's so all-fired innocent, what's the point in shooting him? I hope you're not going to fall back on the maniac-off-the-street routine after all your whining and complaining about how you don't like that.”
“Patti shot him. She gave him the key and told him to go to the theater and find the papers Cyndi hid. He obediently did as directed, but she must have had second thoughts about his ability to find anything, including the theater, and followed him.”
“Weaker than the third cup of tea on one bag,” Luanne said. “You were doing so well, Claire. I must say this is a letdown.”
“If she didn't follow him,” I mumbled to the cushion, “she followed someone. Mac was here; maybe she came to the theater to pay him for the sniping.”
“Patti may be determined, but she's not demented. Why would she suggest they meet at the theater, especially when her husband was inside searching for a vital packet of evidence. Sorry, dear, it won't play in Peoria. The rain is letting up. Why don't you go home and call
a certain cop to relate all this, as any civic-minded citizen would do.”
“My car's been stolen,” I said, sighing. “I guess I'd better report it. Then you can drive me home, and I will indeed call that man and offer my theory.” I dragged myself up and across the room to the telephone. I called the police station and duly recited make, model, color, and license number. After a moment. I banged down the receiver. “My car wasn't stolen. The officer in charge of the investigation, one Lieutenant Rosen of the CID, had it impounded last night. Some goon towed it away to a fenced yard in the south part of town. The desk sergeant has no idea when it'll be released.”
“He did that?” Luanne said, feigning dismay.
If I hadn't seen the smile, I would have been more impressed with her sympathetic tone. “Yes, he did, and he did it because he was angry with me. He then told the officers at the police station to refuse to give me a ride to the alley or even to my apartment. When it started raining, he must have been overcome with amusement.” I went back to the couch and sat down, muttering under my breath. “He's not going to get away with this,” I added when I could trust my voice.
“I' m not sure you can do anything to a police lieutenant,” Luanne said dubiously.
“I'm not going to go home and tell him my theory,” I said. “I may solve the whole thing and call a press conference in front of the theater. Certain police lieutenants will look rather foolish when a civilian solves the case for them.”
“Oh, Claire,” she said, shaking her head mournfully. “This may be your midlife crisis. Luckily, you can't prove any of your theory, and Patti Stevenson is not
going to admit it to you so that you can show up the local CID.”
I picked up the envelope and studied it. “I might not be able to prove my theory, but I can confirm it. Watch this,” I went to the telephone, ascertained the number of the hotel from directory assistance, and dialed the number. While Luanne made disapproving noises, I briskly asked to be connected to Mrs. Stevenson's suite. The operator said no calls could be put through, but backed off readily when I said I was calling from the Governor's office.
“Mrs. Stevenson,” I said, “this is Claire Malloy. I'm dreadfully sorry to disturb you, but I wanted to express my condolences for the terrible tragedy last night.” Before she could mention the inappropriateness of the hour or the lack of gubernatorial connections, I added, “And I wanted to let you know I found something at the theater that I thought might interest you. I haven't called the police yet, but I suppose I ought to. However, it's of such a personal nature that I hate to involve them.”
“Is this a cruel joke?” she demanded.
“I wish it were. I was napping on the couch in the office and discovered an envelope hidden between the cushions. It has your name written on it, Mrs. Stevenson.”
“Did youâah, open it?”
“No,” I said truthfully, “that would be tampering with evidence, and the police take a dim view of that.”
“Then how do you know it's of a personal nature? My husband often wrote out his itinerary for me and stuck it in an envelope. In fact, he mentioned that he'd lost the next week's schedule.” She stopped, and after a melodramatic moment that would have done Caron proud, said, “That's why he went to the theater last
night, Mrs. Malloy. He was looking for a few insignificant papers that I needed in order to arrange baby-sitting for the girls. My God, if we'd only known ⦔
“It's unfortunate that Warren couldn't have come in his place, but I suppose he was too devastated by Cyndi's death to do more than sit in a dark theater and watch dwarfs sing.”
I was treated to another melodramatic moment while she decided how to field that one. I made a face at Luanne, who was shaking her head and clucking like a brooder hen. I covered the receiver and whispered, “I'm just checking on my theory. If she admits Steve was the one who had the affair, then we're back to first base. If sheâ”
“Yes, Mrs. Malloy,” Patti said carefully, “Warren is very upset about the girl. We all were, of course, but he took it hardest. All the passions of youth, you know, and she was such an intense girl. Are you at the theater now?”
I said I'd had a bit of car trouble and was indeed stranded at the theater until the storm passed. We agreed it had been quite a storm. I offered to call the police and have them deliver the envelope to the hotel; she stumbled all over herself to say that was too much of a bother over a minor thing, a few sheets of paper with no intrinsic value. She added that she would run right down to the theater herself, becauseâwell, she'd like to have the schedule as a keepsake. I said I'd be more than happy to wait for her, and replaced the receiver with a Cheshire cat smile.
“Good work, Marple-Malloy,” Luanne said without enthusiasm. “You've just arranged to meet the alleged villainess of the plot in a basically deserted building on a dark and stormy morning. If she had no compunction
about killing Cyndi, I doubt she'd evince any concern for your welfare. And if she shot her husbandâwhy, she has a gun. Didn't you ever read any Gothic novels?”
I fluttered my eyelashes and clasped my hands together. “But I just have to go to the attic on the fifth floor to learn the truth about Baron von Nosepick's first wife. Why, whenever the wind blows across the moors, I can hear all those pitiful cries and the pitter-patter of feet around the turret. Every time I gaze in the mirror in her boudoir, I have amber eyes and raven hair. It's so very, very vexing. Whatever can it mean, my old and faithful nursemaid?”
“It means you've lost your mind, Veronica Angelica. You run along to the attic. I'll call Peter and tell him we've arranged to tête-à -tête with a possible murderer.”
“I'll call him,” I said, sighing. “But I hate to wake him up in the middle of a midlife crisis.”
W
hen Patti tapped on the glass door, I let her in the lobby and locked the door. She wore a tailored dress with all the right accessories, and despite the steady dribble of rain, looked fresher than a Junior Leaguer embarking on a charitable mission. Others of us were rumpled, frizzled, dusty, and tired. Accessories were out of the question. Patti studied me for a moment, politely disguising a grimace as a faint smile, and said, “I don't understand why you're here, Claire. There's a sign posted on the door that says the building is sealed until the investigation is completed. Aren't we trespassing?”
“Oh, yes,” I said as I walked across the lobby and started down the corridor, forcing her to follow. I went into the auditorium and up the short flight of steps to the stage. Her heels clattered on the wood floor, and her breathing was audible. The houselights were on, but dimmed enough to keep both of our faces shadowed and the rear areas of the stage murky. I turned around abruptly. “The trespassing was inadvertent. I spent the night at the police station, making a formal statement, and then found myself stranded on the sidewalk.”
“The sidewalk?” she said, bewildered. “But that hardly explains why you're in here.”
“It all began on the sidewalk,” I said with a wry chuckle ( or what I hoped was a wry chuckle, having
always felt the term ought to describe a visitor at a birdfeeder) . “I was trudging toward Thurber Street when I managed to catch a ride with our mutual friend, Arnie. Wasn't that a stroke of luck?”
“I'm glad you didn't have to walk all that way, but I'm afraid I don't know anyone named Arnie.”
“Of course you do, although you may not have heard his name. I'm sure you'd recognize himâshort, black hair, red eyes.”
She gave me the look that probably worked well when one twin accused the other of tie-dying the family cat. “Perhaps I have, if he's one of the myriad of loyal campaign workers. I meet so many people, but I simply can't keep them straight. Steve was very good at remembering names and faces.” She stopped and took a lace-edged handkerchief from her purse to dab her eyes. I leaned forward to look for a weapon, but she snapped the purse closed and stepped back, her expression turning leery. “I do appreciate you taking the time to call me about the schedule. If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a rush. The girls were asleep when I tiptoed out, but they may wake up any moment. The hotel manager is already perturbed about a broken lamp and some crayon scribbles on the wall.”
“Surely Warren can control them,” I said. “He seems quite efficient, even in his hour of grief over his loss of poor, poor Cyndi Jay. He's done a remarkable job of amusing your children all weekend. First the Thurberfest yesterday afternoon, and then the movies last night. You must appreciate the opportunity to be alone so that you can, as the kids say, do your own thing.”
“I suppose all parents enjoy a few minutes of privacy. Now, if I could have the schedule?” Patti came forward, her hand outstretched. She was wearing suede gloves,
which matched her purse, which matched her shoes, which may well have matched her underwear. The woman did accessorize. Although her smile was correct, her eyes glittered in the gloom and her hand shook. “I really must have the schedule, Claire.”
“I'll get it for you in a moment,” I said, retreating a few inches. “I thought you wanted to know about our mutual friend, Arnie. He was nice enough to give me a ride to the theater. We even played an abridged version of Twenty Questions.”
“How amusing for you.” She didn't sound envious.
“Our game was called Three Questions, due to lack of funds on my part and a feverish desire to watch âMeet the Press' on his part. He's somewhat of a political buff, our friend Arnie.” Wishing I had Caron's flair for theatrics, I forced myself to stop at the shore of the murkiness. “I was trying to guess who slipped him a few dollars to make the convertible vanish before the police got to it. Whoever bribed the chap made a mistake by paying him in advance, thus allowing him to stop by a bar before the parade, but it worked out. Arnie was supposed to be driving, but he did manage to repossess the car after the parade and abscond for the hinterlands.”
“And you were permitted three questions?” she murmured. “I think I'd prefer three wishes. But this person you insist I know isn't exactly a magic fish, is he?”
“Three wishes,” I repeated pensively. “Attorney general, governor, third star on the left and straight on till Pennsylvania Avenue? Steve might have been able to pull it off, had he not been killed. These days the voters hardly judge the candidates by intelligence, convictions, or the potential for decisive leadership. Dimples and affability seem to be the order of the decade.”
“Steve was very popular with his constituents. He
served them well and had an excellent reputation with his peers at the capitol. The governor was devastated when I told him this morning that Steve had been gunned down by union thugs. He swore he'd demand a federal investigation, and then asked me to complete the tenn.” She paused to dab a few more invisible tears. “I told him I would, despite the pain of the tragedy and the hardship on the family. Staying busy will help me through the grief, I hope, and the girls will be able to stay with their friends at their little nursery school.”
“And you won't have to worry about Steve's peccadillos, will you? Affability sometimes leads to situations that end up in a sticky messâworse than cotton candy on a chin. However, you had things under control until the Miss Thurberfest pageant, when Cyndi decided her swan song would involve a final payoff that would sustain her career move.”
Patti's smile faded. “I think you'll have to discuss the girl's problem with Warren. Steve and I had very little to do with her, beyond listening to Warren talk incessantly about her.”
“That's unfortunate, since you and she had so much in common. Oh, I realize she was a small-town celebrity and you're the scion of a major political dynasty, but both of you were fiercely determined. She pulled her pitiful stunts for publicity, and you unwittingly were playing the exact same game to ensure Steve's victory in the primary.” I shrugged as I tried to read her expression, self-preservation being dear to me. “Arnie admitted everything, I'm afraid. Mac tried to imply he shot at the convertible because Cyndi forced him to, but he'll name names rather than be parboiled in someone else's hot water.”
“The girl's feeble little ploys inspired me. I realized
I could assist my husband's campaign, and, if it fell apart, allow the blame to fall on the girl's back. She was a cold-hearted tramp.”
I heard a rustling near the area of the audio booth, but I kept my eyes on the Senator's widow, who was not smiling as she edged forward. Her fingers were white as she clutched her purse, and her shoulders more squared than a marine's. “Then why did Steve have an affair with her?” I asked.
“Warren had an affair with her.”
“That's what everyone kept saying,” I agreed amiably. “But Steve admitted to me in this precise spot that he was the one who had an affair with Cyndi. He even admitted he killed her when her demands became impossible and she threatened to expose him.”
“He would have admitted to masterminding the Teapot Dome scandal, if you'd accused him of it. He had a whimsical sense of humor, and at times failed to consider the wisdom of speaking on impulse. We had to be quite careful at press conferences; he was inclined to say things that later proved regrettable. Warren and I tutored him nightly, although it was an uphill struggle.” She gazed sharply at the shadows behind me. “Did you hear something? Is someone back there?”
“That's Luanne Bradshaw,” I said. “She went to the prop room to see if she could find a revolver. My daughter had it late yesterday afternoon, but swore she returned it before the police finally permitted us to leave the theater last night. When Caron had it, it was loaded with blanks. Someone used real bullets last night to murder your husband.”
She laughed. “Come now, I'm sure the police searched the theater for weapons all night long. They must have tried the prop room.”
I laughed, although without her conviction. “I suppose you're right, although they did manage to overlook the envelope in the officeâthe one Steve implied was a schedule for the next week of campaigning. We both know you paid Mac to fire a blank at the car and Arnie to steal it afterward to prevent an immediate investigation. As long as you've established a rewarding financial pattern, you might as well pay me for the so-called schedule.”
“I seem to have misjudged you,” she said appraisingly. “I thought you were just one of these frustrated, busybody spinsters. The ones whose lives are so dreary that they feel obliged to stick their noses into everything in hopes of a vicarious thrill or two. I hadn't noticed this felonious stripe down your back.”
“What can I say? I read the contents of the envelope, and it's a convincingly lurid account of the affair between Cyndi and Steve. She listed motel addresses, dates, possible witnesses, presents he gave her, and the dates she deposited blackmail money in her account. You're not the widow of a politician who sacrificed himself in selfless service to the public; you're the widow of a good-natured philanderer who carried on with an eighteen-year-old girl.” I tilted my head and gave her a perplexed look. “Good-natured, but also a murderer. There's a problem with the portrait, isn't there? If he murdered Cyndi, then his posthumous reputation is tainted, to say the least. If he didn't, then someone else must have. And we still have the very real problem of who murdered him while he was explaining all of this to me.”
“Union thugs killed my husband. As for the girl, we may never find out who realized the world might be a better place without her.” Patti moved forward until she
was less than a yard from me. She looked over my shoulder, then patted her purse. “I did bring some money, just in case you turned out to be an unscrupulous sort who's willing to destroy my dead husband's reputation. How much do you want?”
I gazed out over the rows of seats, rather aggravated with her eagerness to pay me off and toddle away to the state senate. I was trying to decide how best to provoke her when Luanne came out of the darkness, her crutches thudding softly.
She held up a revolver. “I found the weapon in the very back of the prop room, under the Arc de Triomphe, if you can imagine. At least I didn't have to climb the Eiffel Tower to reach it.” She nodded to Patti, then offered the gun to me. “The police must have missed it, but it's most likely the murder weapon.”
Patti's fingernails cut into her purse. “It's not the murder weapon. It's a damn toy. I don't know what you two are trying to pull, but I'm not staying here any longer. Give me the schedule. I'll pay whatever you say, as long as it's reasonable, and we can be done with this nonsense.”
I pointed the gun at her. “Are you sure it's a toy? What if it's loaded with real ammunition?”
“It's a toy. The real gun isâ” She caught herself and shook her head. “A prop is a prop is a prop. You can't kill someone with a prop.”
I looked at Luanne. “She's right. It's not a real gun.”
“Then she didn't use it to shoot her husband?” Luanne said, scowling at me. “Then why on earth did you insist I poke around that filthy little room to find it? I snagged my stocking on a spear for nothing.”
“I'm sorry. It seemed so logical to think she”âI gestured at Patti, who was observing us with a bemused
lookâ“murdered Cyndi yesterday afternoon, then murdered her husband last night when she realized he was likely to implicate her if he continued babbling to me.”
Luanne raised a crutch to point at Patti. “But we already decided she didn't kill Cyndi. She wasn't even in the theater Friday afternoon when the first attempt was made. She couldn't find a baby-sitterâremember? You really must stop making wild accusations, my dear.”
I idly twirled the revolver around my finger as I said, “She didn't have a baby-sitter because Warren was here. In fact, I spotted him trying to sneak out of the auditorium that very afternoon. What's more, one of the contestants heard a male voice down in the dressing room. I'll bet you a case of Twinkies that Warren went to talk to Cyndi.”
Patti's head had swiveled back and forth as she observed this Abbott and Costello routine. She stopped to stare at me. “Why would Warren go down thereâif, as you claim, he hadn't had an affair with the girl?”
If I'd possessed dimples, I would have switched them on. “It's a matter of the old midlife crisis. Warren's too young, but it seems to be epidemic with those of us approaching forty. Steve told me that was the reason he took up with Cyndi. Was that the reason you and Warrenâah, found solace in each other's company when Steve was at Warren's apartment?”
“I fail to see the relevance,” she snapped.
“It escapes me, too,” Luanne contributed, blinking at me.
“Well,” I said, “let's suppose that Cyndi called Patti from the office immediately after the parade and demanded money. Motherhood posed a problem, so Patti sent Warren down to talk to Cyndi. He appraised the
potential of the faked asphyxiation, locked the door, and went back to the auditorium. Everybody wandered away for dinner, but Cyndi was discovered before it was too late to revive her. She again called the hotel, and this time Patti came down to the theater and made sure things went more successfully. She was feeling quite confident until Steve mentioned the damning letter Cyndi hid in the theater. The two came down to search for it. I stumbled into Steve and began asking awkward questions. Patti, who'd been searching the light booth, realized he was about to slip and shot him. She then tried to shoot me.”