Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries) (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

Driving back from her doctor’s office in Plympton, Betty felt sanity begin to creep back in. It was reassuring to leave behind picket fences and rigid highways for the curving roads and open lawns of Lofton. She let the feeling of "home" wash over her. The sensation was still new even though it had been months since she’s returned from Los Angeles, The sun was shining. With all the windows down and the warmth of a North Carolina spring day tousling her hair, Betty reminded herself that if old people had diabetes that meant she could live to be old with it. She could do this. She’d tackle it like any other problem in her life: face what needed to be done, figure out her next few steps, and start taking them. One step at a time. Just one. Step. At. A. Time. She could do this.

Winding roads and houses gave way to zig zag Main Street, lined with shops and restaurants kept in business by regulars, because tourists hardly ever bothered with Lofton. Residents worked hard to keep the town off the radar of summer travelers. They liked having no traffic to back up the narrow roads. Betty navigated the sharp turns and parked vehicles with the ease of familiarity.

One turn away from the Lofton Community Theater, Betty saw flashing blue lights reflected in a window. She didn’t think much of it. Sometimes Sergeant Wes left his lights on by mistake while he ran in to grab sheet music. Clarise had roped him into playing clarinet for An American in Paris a few years ago, and he hadn’t missed being in the orchestra of a single production since. Betty thought that had more to do with the way Clarise blushed around him than his suddenly reignited passion for classical music.

For the brief instant before she turned the corner, Betty debated parking outside the theater for a few minutes to give Clarise and her crush more time. But the moment she could see the theater, Betty knew the cruiser wasn’t there for a social call. An officer had just started to put up yellow crime scene tape. There were yellow police barriers blocking off the street, and an ambulance was parked behind the police car. A small group of lunchtime walkers had gathered across the street to murmur and gawk. Some of them were on their cell phones, and Betty expected that the crowd would be growing shortly.

The theater door opened and EMTs lifted a stretcher down the stairs. It had a black, zippered body bag.

Betty finished pulling into a parking spot, the sound of Clarise’s answering machine playing over in her mind. "I’m off living… I’m off living…"

Clarise. Screw Diabetes. Clarise was the only person who was supposed to be at the theater that morning. Rehearsal wasn’t until that afternoon. There were no meetings, no press releases, no meetings… Clarise would have been alone.

"Wait!" She called to the EMTs, slamming her door and rushing towards the yellow barriers. "Who is it?" They ignored her. Betty winced at her question as it left her mouth. Really? Could she be any more callous? A person was very obviously dead. No matter who it was, it was a tragedy. But if it was Clarise, then Betty was going to fall apart, right there on the street, They’d have to pick her up in pieces, Humpty Dumpty style. Clarise, who was only 32. Clarise, who’d convinced Betty to follow her dreams and pursue theater. Clarise, who was so beautiful that the women in town had been trying to marry her off for years just to get her out of the dating market. Her best friend. Her sanity. Clarise wasn’t allowed to be dead.

A policeman moved to block her as she started to rush around the barriers, unthinking and uncaring about any reasons they might have to keep her away. If that was Clarise… She needed to know, now. She almost swerved around the policeman and continued on her way, but he spread out his arms to block her progress. Betty met the officer’s eyes, preparing to tell him off for not letting her through. Her face flamed. Bill.

"Miss, you’ll have to wait across the street with the others." He was just as she remembered him. Scruffy beard, laugh lines, and almost six feet of muscle with just a little padding. She couldn’t help but notice that he looked good in a blue uniform, though she’d certainly never inflate his head by telling him that. Handsome men didn’t need to be reminded they were handsome. Besides, she could tell by his expression that he had no idea who she was.

She’d known he was the new Chief of Police. Of course she had. So did everyone in Lofton, because an outsider in such a high position had really gotten the Gossiping Grannies going. But she hadn’t expected to run into him at a crime scene, or for him to not even recognize her. They’d been no more than casual friends, but still. Three years in theater together should at least guarantee some sort bell ringing. It’s not like she’d gone and shaved her head.

Well, if he wasn’t going to recognize her, she certainly wasn’t going to waste time helping him remember. "Is Clarise okay?" Betty asked, trying to keep any trace of panic from her tone. "I was supposed to meet her for lunch half an hour ago, and… and…" She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t ask, "Is she dead?" It seemed too much like a jinx.

"Clarise Birdsong?" Bill asked. Betty nodded. "She’s safe."

Betty sagged with relief. Clarise was safe. She was safe. Safe.

Then who was dead?

Bill paused, his forehead creasing as he looked at her. Betty could practically see his brain trying to place her. She let him work it out. "Betty?"

"Bill?" she returned with a touch of sarcasm. His eyes lit up.

"I thought it was you!" he exclaimed, grinning. "Fancy meeting you here. How’ve you been?"

"Right now?" Betty asked. "Crappy." His face fell a little and Betty sighed. "I’m sorry Bill. I’d love to catch up some other time. But right now  "

Movement on the theater steps drew her attention. The door opened and Clarise came out. She was flanked by two officers. Clarise towered over both of them by almost half a foot. Her normally cheery face was pasty, her light brown skin almost grey. Her green outfit clashed horribly with white sneakers that Betty knew she kept in her office for gym days only. There were brown dots and splotches all over her pants and shirt. Handcuffs glinted around her wrists.

Betty couldn’t believe that Bill had said she was safe. Obviously, something was very, very wrong. She barreled forward. "Clarise!"

She ran right into Bill. He reached out to steady her and reverted back to what Betty was already thinking of as his cop voice. "Sorry Betty, but you’ll still have to wait across the street with the others. She’s safe, we’re just taking her into the station."

"What for?" Betty exclaimed.

But she knew. She knew by the guarded expression on his face, by the handcuffs around Clarise’s wrists. They thought she had done this.

"Betty," Bill said, a hint of warning in his tone. "Please go across the street."

Betty looked at him incredulously, as if to say, Are you crazy? Let me go through or my newly Diabetic ass will go postal! At least, that’s what she meant the glare to convey. Some of her message must have gotten through, because Bill’s eyes widened just a little and he tightened his grip on her reflexively. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Betty knew she’d laugh at the moment in retrospect. He had a badge, a gun, stood half a foot taller and weighed fifty pounds more than her – and all of it was muscle but he startled when she glared. But Bill tried to turn her gently around. "I’m sorry Betty. You can talk to her later."

"Betty?" Clarise called. Her voice sounded thin when it should have been vibrant, and Betty’s heart twisted. Her friend was so pale. "It’s just a misunderstanding. I’ll call you later, okay? It’s alright."

Alright? It was alright? What was part of this situation was alright in any way, shape, or form? Betty’s emotions surged. Her control snapped.

CHAPTER 4

Betty’s couldn’t stop the jumble of emotions spewing out of her. She didn’t want to stop them. Everything from this morning, all the stress and panic and roller coaster of emotions was leaving her in an illogical mess at top volume. It felt wonderful. "It is not all right!" she yelled. "Doctors are thin and it was sunny but you were dead and now you’re being arrested and you’re wearing the wrong shoes!" Dimly, Betty wondered if she sounded a bit mad. "So don’t you dare tell me it’s all right! And you!" She rounded on Bill, pointing a finger upwards into his face. "I won’t go across the street! I’m talking to Clarise, and if you have a problem with that you can kiss my bonny behind! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Bill! Can’t you see she’s in shock? This is Lofton, not the city. We treat people decently here, even if they’re in handcuffs!"

Bill crossed his arms. "Betty," he said, "you need to settle down."

"I will not settle down!" Her voice had risen sharply and her breath came in gasps. In the back of Betty’s mind a little red neon sign flashed a warning. Betty ignored it, her mind spinning. Was that an earthquake? The world seemed to be tilting. Diabetes and death and Clarise in handcuffs… Who was dead? Did she know them? "Who’s DEAD?"

Bill reached out to steady her, speaking calmly and looking in her eyes. "Betty, you need to listen to me. Can you do that?"

Betty nodded, trying to focus on his face. Her eyes kept flicking between him and Clarise, who still stood on the theater steps. The policemen guarding her seemed to be spellbound by Betty’s outburst. "You need you calm down," Bill continued. "I don’t want to have to arrest you for disorderly conduct during the first time I see you in years. Okay?"

The threat of her own arrest cut through some of Betty’s panic. Would he really? She studied his serious expression. Yes. Yes, he would. And, thinking back on her actions, he would probably be completely within his rights to do so.

Bill tightened his grip. "You okay?"

Blood rushed to her cheeks. She closed her eyes, painfully aware of the crowd behind her. She wanted to scratch her back and rid herself of the feeling of their stares. Doubtless, word of her very vocal minor breakdown was already starting to spread.

She straightened her spine and nodded, missing the weight of Bill’s hands the moment he removed them.

Clarise. Betty focused her mind and zeroed in on her friend. She hadn’t been hallucinating. Clarise was under arrest and looking at her with concern. The other woman’s face had a little more color, as though watching Betty break down had somehow helped snap her out of her own shock.

Guilt flooded into Betty. Clarise was the one in trouble, not her. Here she was losing it, and Clarise needed her.

Betty turned to Bill and said calmly. "I’d like to speak with Clarise before you take her into custody". Bill rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. "Are you two related?"

"Not technically. But she doesn’t have any relatives in town, or in North Carolina for that matter. We’re best friends. I’m the closest thing to family she has right now." She lowered her voice, now pleading. "I’m sorry I exploded. It’s been a… long day. I won’t yell, and I won’t take long. Please."

Bill looked at the other officers. "Fine," he said. "But you have to talk to her here. I hear everything you say. And remember, anything she says can be used against her in a court of law. And," he said, holding out his hand. "I’ll need to hold on to your car keys. They’re a weapon, and I’m not taking any chances with either you or my men."

Betty almost protested, but she recognized the set of his jaw. Those were the rules, whether she liked them or not. Frankly, she was lucky to even get that much. "Thanks." She handed over her keys and walked right up the stairs and between the policemen to wrap Clarise in a hug.

"You okay hun?" She asked from Clarise’s shoulder. Clarise shook her head, and Betty tightened her arms. She ignored the pain from the handcuffs digging into ribs. It was a long moment before she pulled back.

"Sit down for a moment," she suggested, glancing at Bill for approval. He didn’t move to stop them, so she and Clarise sank to the theater steps. Clarise leaned into the curve of Betty’s arm around her shoulders.

"What happened?"

"Jarvis," Clarise whispered. "I found Jarvis. He was… I tried to see if he was okay, but…" she shuddered, and Betty tightened her arm. "They think I did it."

"Oh, Honey," Betty said, at a loss for better words. She did know the victim. So did everyone in the theater. Jarvis was a stage hand and sometimes actor in the productions. He was thin and scruffy and slow to smile, but no one was more useful with a needle and thread or a hammer. He could be relied on to be at the theater day or night for any of the odd jobs that needed doing. A pang of grief went through her and tears pricked her eyes. Jarvis was as much a part of the theater as the creaking curtains and tarnished gilt paint on the frescos. Who would ever want him dead?