Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries) (10 page)

No, Betty thought. They won’t. I can get through this without them. They don’t need more to deal with. The thought of the look on her mother’s face when she told her that she had diabetes… would there be shock? Scorn? Anger? Pity? Betty didn’t want to find out. Clarise was one thing. Her family was another.

But she wouldn’t put it past Clarise for her to tell them without Betty’s permission, if that was what she thought was best.

"Promise me you won’t tell them," Betty said, knowing that Clarise wouldn’t break a promise.

Clarise sighed. "I already did but Betty, is that really what you want?" She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. You should tell them."

Annoyance spiked in Betty. Who did Clarise think she was, to tell Betty what to do? This was her disease, her life, her family on the line. Clarise had no say in it. Not one little bit. She shouldn’t have said anything. Her expression shuttered.

"Listen," Clarise said. "I’ll back off. Just think about it." Betty inclined her head stiffly.

"I brought you some clothes," she said to change the topic. "Bill has them."

"Hallelujah!" Clarise called, raising her arms to the sky and shattering the tension that had built in the room. "Do you have any idea how gross these feel?" She picked at the wrist of the sweatshirt. "They itch."

"Well then" Betty said brightly. "Problem solved. And by the way, I suck as a basketball coach."

Briefly, she related what had happened at the game the previous day. By the time she was done, Clarise was practically falling off the seat she was laughing so hard. "Betty, that’s terrible!"

"I know," she groaned. "Are you sure you don’t have someone else who can cover?"

Clarise shook her head. "Sorry honey, you are stuck. But if it helps at all, at least you did everything wrong at once. After this, it can only get better."

"Great," Betty deadpanned. "I am so looking forward to proving you wrong."

"You’ll be fine," Clarise said. "Just be sure keep your eyes on the players with the ball next time. And once you’ve been with them for a practice, you’ll get to see who plays what and what sort of drills they do. You just need to learn how the team works, that’s all."

That was easy for Clarise to say. She didn’t have an angry mob of parents ready to bring torches and pitchforks to the next game.

A knock came from the door. A guard entered. No time left.

"Be careful if you go to the theater," Clarise said. "There’s still a killer out there."

As if Betty needed to be reminded.

CHAPTER 15

By the time she’d walked from the police station to the theater, Betty’s breath was coming in gasps and her feet hurt. Apparently she needed to go to the gym a little more often. Walking the two miles between locations shouldn’t leave her exhausted. She collapsed on one of the chairs in the lobby.

Thankfully, the smell from yesterday was gone. Just the scent of wood polish and dust remained, as it should be. Yellow crime scene tape crossed the door to Clarise’s office.

There was still an hour before people began showing up for rehearsal.

Whatever would she do in the meantime?

Snoop, she thought. Obviously. Betty promised herself she wouldn’t touch anything in the office. She would just peek in, look around to see if she noticed anything odd, and pop back out again. There was no harm in looking. And she’d know things about Clarise’s office that the police didn’t. She could tell them if something was out of place.

Betty checked to make sure she was alone before swinging her leg over the crime scene tape and hopping into Clarise’s office.

A dark spot still stained the floor. Betty forced down the bile that rose in the back of her throat. The thrill of investigating disappeared.

Jarvis had died here.

She left the office as quickly as she’d entered and headed towards the stage.

Her footsteps echoed.

She clicked the lights on in the auditorium. Her heart slowed down, just a little. She inhaled the familiar scent of dust and polished wood. This. This was home. She had performed her first play here. This room, with its cherubs peeling gold paint and oil paintings dulled by age, was where everything had started for her. It was beautiful in the silence.

The back wall, where most theaters held souvenir and drink sales, was lined instead with shelves and glass cases packed with memorabilia: the county flag, pictures of the original Lofton family, and one copy of every Lofton High yearbook that had ever been published. There was another collection very similar to it in the library, but that collection had gathered dust waiting for people to take an interest in it. Here, the cases were bright. Townspeople would gather after performances, pulling down their yearbooks and talking about the "good old days."

Jarvis had graduated three years before Betty.

She pulled down his yearbook, her eyes filling. She couldn’t remember what he’d been like then—he was too far ahead of her in school for either of them to have noticed each other. Now, she wanted, needed to know what he’d been like. She hadn’t taken the time to find out while he was alive.

Betty wandered down to the first row and plopped into a chair in the corner, sinking down until she was comfortable and her head was barely visible above the back of the seat. She thumbed through the book, looking for him.

There he was. Drama club. Chess club. Mathlete.

God, she thought fondly, he was a geek!

There was his senior photograph. He looked young: cheeks just a little pudgy, glasses far too big for his eyes, and a huge smile. Carefree, like she’d never seen him smile in life. She touched the photo, tracing the contours of his face. The quote below the photograph read, "To Melody, my girl now and always".

Wait. What? She flipped through the pages. Sure enough, Melody Hall, now Melody Biels, smiled up at her, blonde hair perfect even when the rest of the world still had 90’s hair.

To Jarvis, Always yours. Love, Melody.

Well. That was interesting.

Voices were coming in from the lobby. The actors were arriving for rehearsal. Betty put the yearbook in her bag. She’d have to show it to Bill later.

The door to the auditorium opened. Actors began arriving in twos and threes. She went to sit on the edge of the stage facing the audience, mindful of her role as replacement director for Clarise.

"Come in," she called. "Everyone have a seat. I have a few things to say before we get started, but I want everyone here before I start so you might as well settle yourselves in for a long wait. I’m sure at least a few people will be running on theater time." That garnered a few weak laughs from the somber crowd.

As the cast trickled in they filled the first few rows. They were more muted than Betty had ever seen in a theater group. Most were wearing some sort of black. Almost everyone seemed to be leaning on each other for support, exchanging hugs and tissues and quiet words of comfort. Except for Melody. She sat right in front, her hands clasped tightly together. Her black dress turned her pale skin translucent. Her eyes were bloodshot. She stared out into space, not saying a word to anyone around her.

Twenty minutes after the hour, Walter was still missing and Betty was tired of waiting. She clapped her hands together, bringing a halt to any quiet conversations.

"Alright," she said. "I’m filling in for Clarise today." She tried to make eye contact with as many members of her audience as she could. "You all already know what happened here yesterday, but just in case someone here has been living under a box, I’m going to come out and say it." Her hands clenched the stage edge, her knuckles turning white. Grief twisted her gut. "Jarvis was murdered yesterday," she forced out. "They’ve arrested Clarise." She held up a hand to forestall the protests that she could see growing on the lips of some of the cast members, "I don’t think Clarise killed him. I know she didn't. No one knows for sure what happened." The almost protestors relaxed. Melody’s expression didn’t change.

"The police might want to question some of you. They’ll be in and out of the theater as they need to be for the investigation. Now," she said, "this is very important. If any of you have any information    anything at all, you need to let someone know. It doesn’t matter how small it seems, if you’ve seen or heard anything out of place, especially if it’s connected to Jarvis, tell someone. If you don’t feel comfortable going to the police, then tell me. I’ll make sure the information is passed along. And I’d suggest arriving to practice in small groups or pairs, just to stay safe. The real killer is still out there somewhere."

She saw some people nodding. Others seemed shell shocked, or had small tears running down their faces.

"Alright," she said, hopping off the stage. "I know this is hard. But, well, this is theater. So buck up and get to work! We’ve got a show to put on in a week. And," she said, smiling, "if Clarise found out that I let you slack off on rehearsals, we would all be in real trouble."

On which note, Walter burst into the auditorium. His blue blazer flapped open. His hair piece bounced.

"My fellow actors!" he proclaimed. "I did it!" The cast and crew stared. "I did it! It was I! I am the one who killed Jarvis! I confess!"

The sound of sirens filtered in through the cracked door and Walter looked towards the door. "The boys in blue!" he yelled, punching the air. "Right on time. How do I look?" He asked dreamily. "Am I ready for my close up?"

Betty heard the sirens stop. There was shouting. Walter ran out of the auditorium towards the racket. Betty followed. She saw Walter pause before the closed doors and button his jacket, pulling it down to smooth the wrinkles. He sniffed and threw open the doors, falling to his knees on the threshold.

"I can’t take it anymore!" He screamed. His face was contorted with angst. Betty saw camera bulbs flashing and moved to stand where she could see out the doors.

Camera crews lined the sidewalk. Two policemen were trying to contain them, stopping reporters with microphones from rushing up the sidewalk to question Walter. They called out questions.

"What did you do?"

"Why did you do it?"

"Can I get an exclusive?"

Walter sobbed, though no tears appeared on his face. "My guilt," sniiiiiff, "consumes me! Jarvis, who only wanted to live in my shadow. My faithful understudy. And now…" he clawed at the ground and screamed towards the sky and, incidentally, the cameras.

Betty rolled her eyes. The man really did belong on a soap opera.

"Now he’s DEAD! AND I KILLED HIM!"

Sergeant Wes stepped up to Walter. He had a sort of glee about him as he did so, and Betty was willing to bet that at least part of that glee was from having a suspect other than Clarice in custody. Looking at him now, Betty could see why Clarise thought he was attractive. He was almost six feet, with tanned skin and a layer of wiry muscle that was apparent just from the way he walked. He wore his jet black hair at shoulder length, though right now it was held back in a ponytail. His face was chiseled, with sharp cheekbones and a square jaw. Sergeant Wes moved with determination as he clicked handcuffs on Walter’s outstretched hands. Camera bulbs flashed.

"Mr. Payone," Wes stated, "you are under arrest for the murder of Jarvis Washburn. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…"

"Oh Jarvis!" Walter cried, drowning out the rest of Wes’s words. "Jarvis! JARVIS!"

And that was that. Walter was away in a cruiser and the press turned their eyes towards the open door like vultures. Their eyes lit up when they saw Betty in the open door. As one, they rushed up the stairs.