I felt time pressing on me.
Before leaving, I checked the bookshelf. Everything seemed standard—playbills, books on acting technique, and a couple of journals with notes on staging. I leafed through one of Caroline’s journals, feeling like I was spying.
As I went to close it, something slipped from the back cover.
A grainy photo fell to the floor. It was the same photo I’d seen Caroline hand to Sterling. My heart raced.
I bent over and picked it up with the tissue.
I nearly dropped the photo as I got a closer look.
Standing center stage, grinning for the camera with their arms around each other, were: Lance, Richard, a very pregnant woman who looked vaguely familiar, and another woman. A woman I knew. Although she had aged since the photo was taken, there was no mistaking that entitled smile—a twenty-something Nancy Hudson.
What was Caroline doing with a photo of Nancy? Who was the pregnant woman? And why had Caroline given Sterling a copy of the photo at Torte?
Speaking of Torte, Caroline had wanted to talk to me about Mom. What if she didn’t pull through? I might never learn what she wanted to tell me.
The second that thought passed through my brain another one surfaced.
Oh my God, I’m an idiot
.
What if Caroline hadn’t wanted to talk to me about Mom? What if she’d wanted to talk to me about Nancy’s killer?
I needed to find the Professor and Thomas. I wasn’t sure what the photo meant or who it implicated, but I might have proof that Caroline’s accident was related to Nancy’s murder.
Just as I moved toward the door, the handle turned. The door swung open.
A person dressed in black from head to toe with a black ski mask covering his face stopped in mid-stride when he saw me.
I screamed and dropped the photo on the floor.
The masked man, at least I thought it was a man, lunged forward.
I screamed again and backed up toward Caroline’s makeup desk.
He thrust his hand across his neck to silence me, motioning like he’d slice my throat if I screamed again.
I cowered at the edge of the desk, fumbling with my hands behind me to try and feel for anything I could use as a weapon.
My hand landed on Caroline’s cup of toothbrushes. I knocked it over. It crashed on the desk, spilling toothbrushes and startling the masked man.
He bent over and grabbed the photo, then pointed his finger at me, making a slicing motion across his neck again and ran out the door.
My heart beat like crazy in my chest. I stood stunned for a moment, trying to figure out what had just happened. The dramatics of the evening almost made me want to laugh.
The door rattled and there was a scraping sound in the hallway.
I made my way toward the door with shaking knees. I tried turning the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
I yanked and tugged. The door wouldn’t open. Was the masked man holding it from the other side? Should I scream? Or keep quiet?
Opting for the latter, I held still, trying to listen for any movement or sound in the hallway. I could hear faint footsteps, but couldn’t tell which direction they were coming from.
The next thing I knew the dressing room was plunged in darkness. Someone had cut the power.
Now, I was locked alone in Caroline’s dressing room with no way out.
I weighed my options. I could scream for help. I was pretty sure those footsteps had been the masked man leaving—probably shutting off the power. But I didn’t want to risk that he could be waiting for me right outside the door.
How long would it take for the Professor or Thomas to come looking for me? If the power was out in the entire theater, it could take a while.
The masked man could have attacked me, but didn’t. It was more likely that I’d surprised him. He had come for the photo and hadn’t expected to find me in Caroline’s dressing room.
I fumbled in the darkness for anything that might illuminate the room. Why hadn’t I brought my cell phone with me?
Caroline denied smoking, but her throaty voice and the faint smell of cigarettes in the room said otherwise. She had to have a lighter stashed somewhere around here. I felt blindly through the bookshelf and wardrobe without any luck.
Next, I patted down the desk, feeling makeup compacts and lipstick cases. I set the cup that held the toothbrushes back up and began collecting the stray brushes. As I pushed the first one into the cup it hit something. I reached my hand in. Sure enough, hidden at the bottom of the cup was a lighter and pack of cigarettes. Sneaky, Caroline.
I flicked on the lighter. Seeing the flame made me sigh with relief. Not that it would really do me any good, but the total darkness was unsettling.
* * *
Once on the ship, we hit the outer edge of a hurricane. The sea tossed the one-hundred-fifty-thousand-ton megaliner like my dad used to toss me in the air.
We rolled from side to side. Water emptied from the upper deck pools and anything left unsecured went flying through the air.
The ship went dark for a few minutes. Those few minutes felt like an eternity, although we trained extensively for evacuation drills.
The night we hit the hurricane, the crashing waves and unstable ship woke me from a deep sleep. That was the first and only time that ever happened. It’s also the only time I can remember feeling true terror.
When the lights went out, Carlos calmed me by singing silly made-up songs about our horrible American cuisine. I’ll never forget him chuckling in the dark, singing in a mixture of Spanish and English. “Your food is so terrible, your mashed potatoes and starchy yams. Come to Spain where food is love—do you like my jam?”
He moved his body sensually while singing about food. It seems silly now, but at the time it was exactly what I needed.
Chefs are notorious for being food snobs. Carlos is no exception. As executive chef he held the power to infuse the menu with favorites from his homeland like tapas with Serrano ham, Spanish cheese and green olives for starters, paella with fresh prawns and chilies, and my favorite dessert, natillas—a cold custard with cinnamon.
There were always a handful of passengers who cruised to sample world-class cuisine. But the masses came for the buffets. Carlos used to become irate when guests would turn down his Spanish-infused cooking for chicken fingers and French fries.
We dreamed of opening our own tapas restaurant when we finally landed somewhere permanent. I’d saved every penny I could. Carlos had too. In our restaurant, Carlos planned to serve fresh, innovative small plates and I’d design Spanish-American pastries and desserts.
That dream died the day I found the letters.
* * *
Ouch.
The flame from the lighter accidentally flicked my other hand while I was caught up in my memories.
I heard voices in the hallway. It sounded like Thomas. I pounded on the inside of the door.
“This way,” he shouted.
I started to yell his name.
“Jules?” Thomas sounded confused. “Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m stuck in here.”
“I see that,” Thomas responded. “There’s a chair wedged on the door. Hang on a sec, let me move it.”
I heard the sound of Thomas shoving the chair out of the way. The sound of the metal chair crashing reverberated down the hallway.
He swung the door open, shining his flashlight directly in my face.
I shielded my eyes from the light with my hand.
“Jules, what are you doing in here?” Thomas lowered the flashlight.
Spots scattered in front of my eyes. I tried to rub them away.
“Jules, are you okay? What’s going on?” Thomas moved closer to me, keeping the flashlight aimed on the floor.
“Can I sit down?”
“Yeah, sure.” Thomas pulled Caroline’s chair away from the desk and shined the light on it. “Sit.”
I sat on the spotlight that Thomas had created with his flashlight. “Okay, I know I shouldn’t have been snooping, but I was supposed to meet Caroline after the show. She wanted to talk to me about Mom.” I took a quick breath. “Well, I thought she wanted to talk to me about Mom, but now I think I was wrong. I think she knows who killed Nancy Hudson.”
Thomas’s face was backlit from the flashlight, but I could tell he was skeptical. Saying the words aloud made me skeptical too.
“Why don’t you slow down and back up a little,” Thomas said, clearing off a corner of the desk and sitting on it. “Start from the beginning.”
I told him about Caroline stopping me at Torte before Nancy died and saying she needed to talk to me. I’d thought initially she wanted to talk about Mom.
Thomas nodded. “Go on. Why are you in Caroline’s dressing room?”
“Caroline’s accident spooked me. It wasn’t an accident though, was it?”
Thomas gave me a look to continue.
I couldn’t stop myself from sounding sheepish. “I figured I could slip away and take a quick look in here. I thought maybe Caroline had something specific about Torte to show me—a receipt or proof that someone had been stealing.”
Thomas cut me off. “You think someone’s been stealing from Torte?”
“No, no, don’t worry about that. It’s a long story; anyway, when I came in here I found a photo of Nancy Hudson from at least twenty years ago. Lance and Richard Lord are both in the photo too, with their arms around her shoulders. And a pregnant woman.”
“Okay.” Thomas sounded unsure what I was getting at.
“Don’t you see? They both knew Nancy! Everyone has claimed that Nancy was a newcomer with no prior connection to Ashland or the festival, but the photo proves that isn’t true. Both Richard and Lance knew
her
.”
“Where’s this picture?” He scanned the room.
“That’s the crazy thing. I found it hidden over there.” I pointed to the bookshelf. “It was buried in a book. But I need to tell you two things.”
Thomas gave me an expectant look, like, get on with it.
“First, there’s Sterling. That skater kid in the hoodie who’s been hanging around Torte.”
“I don’t think I know him.”
“No, you probably don’t. He’s new to town; well, at least he claims to be. Anyway, I saw him at Torte yesterday. He and Caroline were having a private conversation. At the time I thought it was strange. Why would Caroline be having a hushed conversation with a skater kid?”
“Before you go jumping to conclusions, I can think of a number of reasons. Maybe he wanted a part in an upcoming production, or maybe he just wanted her autograph.” He continued to scan the room.
This serious side of Thomas was annoying.
“Hey, you’re the one who told me to keep my eyes open. Are you even listening?”
“About that—”
I didn’t let him finish. I knew what he was going to say.
“I thought the same thing, at first. But then as Caroline was leaving I saw her give Sterling a copy of the same photo I found here.”
“You’re sure?” He adjusted a playbill on Caroline’s makeup table and held my gaze.
“Positive.”
Thomas pondered what I told him for a moment before prompting me to continue.
“You said there were two strange things?”
“Yes, well, I found the photo and you’ll be very proud of me, I didn’t touch anything. I used a tissue to pick it up. I was on my way to come find you or the Professor, when a guy dressed in black with a black mask burst into the room.”
“Are you jinxed? You’re home for what? Four days. Look at all the drama circling around you!”
“I know, I’m not inviting it, I promise.”
“Listen to me. You’re officially off this case. I’m sorry I ever involved you in this. It’s getting serious. Can you give me a description of this man in black?”
“Thomas!”
“Description.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “I don’t know. He grabbed the photo and took off. He must have locked me in here and then killed the lights. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me. I mean, I’m not sure, but he could have. He didn’t. He just made threatening gestures.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. We have one murder victim and another who took a nasty hit to the head.”
A shiver ran down my spine.
“What about height, build, anything we can go on?”
I thought for a moment. The man in black had to be a man. He was taller than me, but otherwise wore a black baggy, hooded sweatshirt. I couldn’t tell if the sweatshirt made him look fat or if he had a paunch.
There was only one person that I could think of who matched that description. Richard Lord.
Thomas escorted me to my apartment—again. I didn’t like the habit we were making of this.
“Doesn’t this prove Mia’s innocence?” I asked, stopping at the steps leading up to my apartment. A
CLOSED
sign was propped in Elevation’s windows. The storefront sat locked up for the night.
Thomas flipped on the stairwell lights. “Head on up. I want to see you to your door.”
I climbed the stairs. “Mia’s locked up. She can’t have anything to do with Caroline’s attack.”
“First of all, Sherlock, we don’t know Caroline was attacked. It could be a fluke.” Thomas waited behind me while I fumbled for my key and unlocked the door. “But I do agree we have too many questions floating around and too few answers for the moment.
“Hold up.” Thomas stopped me from entering the dark apartment. “Let me check it out first.”
I waited while Thomas flexed the muscles in his forearms and tightened his chest. He surveyed the space. It wasn’t a difficult task. The only two places anyone could hide would be in my tiny closet or in the bathroom. Thomas checked both.
He waved me in. “All clear.”
“What are you going to do about that picture? Are you going to talk to Richard?” I threw my keys on the nearly empty bookshelf next to the door.
“Don’t worry. We’ll take care of it. You’re on the bench, understood?”
“But—” I started to protest.
“No. Jules, this is serious. The Professor is going to have my head if he finds out. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked you. I never thought things would escalate like this. From here on out, you bake. That’s it.”