Murder Takes A Bow - A Betty Crawford Mystery (The Betty Crawford Mysteries) (3 page)

Certainly not Clarise.

"Is it because I’m black?" Clarise sounded hollow. "Is that why they think I would do this?"

"Of course not!" Betty said, startled. She pulled back, and Clarise’s eyes flickered over her face, trying to gauge the truth of Betty’s words. "People in Lofton don’t give a hoot about color. You know that. I’ve never hear a word against you in this town, unless it was that you’re too pretty for your own good. Why, you have half the men at your feet, and some of the women too! Not that you do anything about it," she admonished, relying on humor to lighten the mood. "It wouldn’t kill you to go out on a date now and then, you know. I’m sure you were right. This is just a big misunderstanding. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s all. They’ll see that soon enough. And in the meantime, I’ll go around telling everyone how stupid they are if they think you’re involved. You hear that?" She continued, raising her voice so the crowd across the street could hear her "You’re all stupid if you think Clarise had anything to do with this!"

More color returned to Clarise’s face. Some of the remaining tension ebbed out of her and she relaxed onto Betty. "Thanks."

Bill cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows at Betty pointedly, tapping his watch. She nodded.

"Listen," Betty said, pulling back reluctantly. "I can’t talk long. Is there anything you need me to do until this is cleared up?"

"I can’t ask you to—"

"Yes, you can."

Clarise huffed. "Stubborn brat. What would I do without you?"

"Wither and die," Betty quipped, prompting a laugh from her friend. "What do you need?"

"The girls have a basketball game at four today and I can’t coach."

"Done." Betty knew next to nothing about basketball, but how hard could coaching one game be?

"And the play starts next week. There’s a list of everything that needs to be done and all the props we still need in my planner."

Bill interrupted. "We need to keep everything in the office. But I’ll make sure Betty gets a copy of the list."

"See?" Betty said, squeezing Clarise one more time. "Everything will be taken care of. So don’t you worry. Anything else?" Clarise shook her head as Betty helped her stand. "If you think of something, let me know. Hang in there." Betty hugged her friend one last time before eyeing the murmuring crowd across the street. "Look at it this way," she added dryly, "In jail, you won’t have to worry about anyone calling to ask you what happened."

As Clarise was led to the cruiser, Betty turned to Bill. "I’d like to stay a little while, at least until I get that list from you. I’m on the board of directors for the theater. I should know what’s going on anyhow, so I can let people know if the rehearsal schedule needs to be changed."

Bill held the theater door open for her. "You can wait inside. We have some more statements to take, so it could be a while."

"I’ll wait." And she would. In a way, Betty was almost grateful for the excuse to delay going home. She wasn’t ready to face her parents’ inquiry into her doctor’s appointment, let alone the slew of phone calls that were sure to come in from her neighbors.

The theater was one of those eighty year old buildings you find scattered over the country, left behind in some rich person’s will to "enrich the culture of the town and uplift the common man’s soul." In many towns, these buildings had crumbled into disrepair, the curtains eaten by moths and the stages dusty with disuse. Not Lofton. In Lofton, the theater thrived. It had its quirks, like any old building. It echoed with creaks and the circuit breakers were finicky. The requisite ghost had Box Number Three reserved, the seat was carefully dusted but hadn’t been used by a living soul in memory. Rumor had it that the ghost was Myrtle Lofton, the town’s founder, wanting to keep in touch with how her legacy was faring.

The theater’s beautiful paintings and carvings were dull with age, most of the gilt paint worn away or chipped. But the stage was never, ever dusty. Myrtle had plenty to entertain and inform her. There was always a production or community event in progress, from musicals and plays to the local dance school recital or eighth grade graduation. The building was larger than any government building in town, so every year Lofton residents lined up in the aisles to vote on stage. In the lobby, framed production posters going back to the thirties and a community bulletin board filled the walls. Old wooden chairs stood in nooks and crannies, accompanied by small tables and lantern lamps shedding a clear, steady light from overhead.

It was to one of these nooks that Betty gravitated, plopping down and making herself comfortable. She tuned out the bustle around her. She had a lot to work on.

Tomorrow she’d have to go grocery shopping for food to replace her normal snacks. No more chips and ice cream sandwiches, that’s for sure! And who knew beer was loaded with carbohydrates? Not that she drank a lot, but with barbeque season starting soon she was sure to come across it. She’d have to look into setting up an exercise routine, and learn how to check her blood sugar… there was so much.

If she didn’t manage her diet… well, she remembered from an article she’d read recently that diabetics could go blind from their disease.

So, now she had a goal. Keep her eyesight.

Starting now. No more sugar laden sweets.

There. Her first step was decided.

Now she just had to see it through. With her insatiable sweet tooth, that was sure to be easier said than done.

If I start down that line, I’ll just wind up going in circles and driving myself crazy, Betty thought. There was no use doubting herself before she’d even begun. So, first step decided, she turned back to the reason she was sitting in the theater lobby in the first place.

Someone had killed Jarvis.

She could see the police going in and out of Clarise’s office. Every now and again her nose caught a breeze from their movements, and she smelled what could only be the stench someone leaves when their bowels let go after death. At times, it was all Betty could do to keep from throwing up what little remained in her stomach. But she stayed, determined to follow through with her promise to Clarise.

Clarise was no murderer. She wouldn’t kill a mouse, let alone a human being. She got upset when she smacked a mosquito for goodness sake! But even if she were capable of killing, what possible reason would she have to kill Jarvis? The man ran the technical aspects of every show almost single handedly. He knew how to pull the curtains back so they didn’t stick, and how to do the lighting so that the electricity didn’t short out halfway through. He was the understudy for the lead, and could be counted on to know the lines and blocking by heart on even just one night’s notice.

Clarise needed him for the theater.

Well, Clarise wouldn’t kill Jarvis, but someone else had. And with Clarise in jail in the killer’s place, they could be anywhere except safely behind bars. They could be in the theater right now.

Betty’s pulse began to race, and she looked around at the other people in the lobby for the first time. She’d read enough murder mysteries to know that murderers often liked to see the impact of their work on other people. They got a sick pleasure out of watching people suffer, and a thrill from watching the police from close quarters. The killer was probably here.

Melody Biels stood in a corner, wrapped in the arms of her husband Lawrence. Melody was a few years older than Betty but still the prettiest girl in town, a blonde with legs that Barbie would envy, because hers were real. She looked like a movie star from the forties, with gentle curves, a laughing mouth, and an ever so slightly wicked twinkle that never seemed to leave her eye. Melody was a hopeless flirt, though she hardly ever meant anything by it, and one of the best actresses in town. She almost always played the romantic lead in the plays. Betty really didn’t think she was the murdering type. But then again, she hadn’t thought that anyone in town was the murdering type. Melody was leaning into her husband, crying.

Betty knew for a fact that Melody had flirted with Jarvis. Her husband, Lawrence, the town's money bags, was definitely the jealous type. Lawrence was a portly, middle aged man with hair that was starting to thin and grey and a salt and pepper beard he kept closely cropped. He always dressed in the best quality suits, and today was no exception. The only wrinkles in his Armani were from where his wife’s leaning rumpled it. Lawrence was braced against the wall, his face expressionless as he rubbed Melody’s back. What kind of man could have a face that was expressionless at the scene of a murder while holding his much younger sobbing wife?

Betty could hear Walter Payone’s voice drifting in through open the front door. Through the open door, she saw him pacing back in forth in front of the entrance, his toupée flopping with each stride. His tight plaid jacket, jeans and black horn rimmed glasses might have looked like an attempt at stylish retro on a younger, thinner person. On a man in his late forties with a rather prominent beer belly, it looked utterly ridiculous.

"This is it!" Walter yelled into his cell phone. His face was blotched with red from overexcitement and his pacing. "Someone murdered my understudy. It’s perfect! You get Elsie on the phone right now. She’s got to get down here with a camera crew. I’ll give her a show worthy of the Enquirer! … I know she has other clients, but she’s my agent! Get her out of that meeting and put her on the phone so she can do her goddamned job! I’ve been calling her all day!"

What a scumbag. Walter might be a pitiful excuse of an ex sitcom star, but this was low even for him. Anger was a comforting fizz, straightening Betty’s spine and giving her a little boost of energy.

She’d been in L.A. long enough to know that down and out actors had done crazier things than murder to get press attention. And Walter was right. It was the perfect setup for a national crew to pick up on. His agent would be an idot not to follow up on it. That gave him plenty of motive.

Andy Hayler stood in a corner talking with Bill, who gestured over to where Betty was sitting. Andy nodded and walked over, a clipboard in his hand. Andy was Jarvis’ best friend— a beefy delivery truck driver who, despite his stature, was known for a polite disposition. Today he was wearing jeans and a rumpled red t shirt. It looked like he’d thrown on the first thing he’d touched, not even taking the time to brush his blonde hair, which was sticking up in every direction. He ran his fingers through his hair as he approached her, explaining that part of his appearance. Betty narrowed her eyes. He and Jarvis could have had a fight, and knowing Jarvis, he would’ve lost miserably. Jarvis had been a thin, wiry type. It would only take one blow from Andy to knock him out completely.

As he got closer, Betty noticed that Andy’s eyes were red, his movements jerky. He looked shell shocked.

"Miss Crawford," he said, holding out the clipboard. "I have packages for you."

She scanned the papers. Some of the props she’d ordered last week had arrived. "You okay, Andy?" She winced. Of course he wasn’t okay. Looking back on her morning thus far, Betty came to the conclusion that she just shouldn’t bother to open her mouth.

He shook his head. "I just want to go home and get drunk. They called me over… well… I thought it was because I was late delivering these. But they wanted someone to identify…" Andy’s shoulders slumped. "To see Jarvis like that… Well, I expect I’ll be drunk a long time."

Betty nodded and handed him the clipboard. "Get some rest," she said, before watching him trudge away.

"Finally!" came Walter’s voice. "Elsie, have I got a scoop for you!"

That was it. If no one else was going to shut Walter up, then she would. After all, she did have some authority here. Betty marched over to the door and stepped onto the front steps of the theater, stopping him mid pace. "Walter, if you don’t stop yammering about what Jarvis’ death will do for your crappy career I’ll pull you from the play."

"Hold on Elsie." Walter held the cell phone to his heart. All that pacing had caused beads of sweat to form on his forehead, his self tanning lotion running down his face in streaks. "Now Betty, Betty, you don’t mean that," he whined.

Betty snorted. "Don’t I? A man was killed, Walter. If you can’t show some respect, at least try for common decency."