Carried to the Grave and Other Stories Read online

  “Costumes get ripped. It’s inevitable, with all that dancing and running and the quick wardrobe changes. Fixing a torn skirt is easy, but thank goodness they don’t do Cats very often. I still can’t figure out how that girl ripped her costume the way she did.” She gestured to the wall of yarn. “The tail was completely gone. I couldn’t match it. I had to make a new one, then add a new sleeve and insert a piece on the leg so it didn’t look like I’d stuck the hind end of a zebra on a giraffe. We won’t be sending that one back to the rental company.”

  I scrolled through my phone and found the photo. Cropped it so she didn’t have to see everything I’d seen, just the fabric wrapped around Chad Stevenson’s mouth and nose. “Did the original tail look anything like this?”

  Even without the full photo, she knew what she was seeing. “Ohmygod. Where did it come from? Who?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me. Do you recognize these bits and pieces? Does anyone in Cats have a costume with these colors?” I showed her the pictures of Stevenson’s hands, clutching the shocking pink and lime scraps. As if he’d grabbed at something. Or someone.

  “No. Those costumes are pretty fanciful—feathers, fur, eyelash yarn. Not like any cats I’ve ever known, which I guess is the point. But no, nothing like that.”

  Strange, indeed.

  ∞

  Though tourist season wasn’t in full swing yet, the Merc was hopping all afternoon and I didn’t have much chance to mull over Kathy’s comments about the costumes. When we’d locked the door behind the last customer, I spoke to Emily.

  “Promise me you’ll take a few days to think things over. Leaving the company is a big decision. Besides, look at all the orders that came in over the weekend.” I showed her the stack I’d printed out. “I really need your help. You can work as many hours as you want.”

  She caught her lower lip between her teeth. I rubbed my lucky stars, and finally, she agreed.

  “Thanks, Erin,” she said, and picked up her new water bottle. “For believing in me.”

  And as she headed for the back door, I heard her singing softly. “Gray skies are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face.”

  ∞

  You’d think Monday mornings in a tourist town would be quiet. You’d be wrong. Lots of folks stretch the weekend an extra day or two. And it didn’t help that I’d overslept, forgetting Adam wasn’t there to wake me, or that I’d tripped while sidestepping the cats’ faux fur sushi roll and banged up my knee, requiring ice, Band-Aids, and a wardrobe change of my own. I skipped the morning stop at the bakery and got straight to work.

  And breathed a sigh of relief when Emily showed up, right on time.

  It wasn’t until midmorning that I had a chance to take a break in my tiny office, icing my battered knee. The cast list I’d found in Emily’s script lay on my desk. Emily had mentioned some of her cast mates, and I’d met a few. I ran a finger down the names.

  If I remembered right, that costume Kathy had virtually remade belonged to the cat played by Bianca Calderon. She also had a role in Oklahoma!, a show involving a host of twirling skirts. And she was the girl who worked for Wendy in the coffee shop but begged off Saturday morning.

  I limped down the stairs and out the front door, wondering who to quiz first—the brother or the sister?

  The decision was made for me when Kip Taylor emerged from the theater and crossed the street to the bakery.

  “We could reopen tomorrow,” Kip said a few minutes later, “if we ran the show without the green room. Which they won’t let us have back until they finish some forensic doo-dah. Toxicology, I think the detective said. He’s thinking Wednesday, maybe Thursday. Gonna be hard to find a replacement stage manager, especially mid-season. I can fill in for now, but not forever.”

  We were huddled at a mosaic-topped table inside, in the corner. The air was thick with the mingled scents of sugar, bread, and caffeine. Wendy set a triple shot in front of her brother but stayed on her feet, ready to get back to work the moment a customer entered. I’d declined her offer of espresso. My brain was buzzing without any extra help.

  “You still shorthanded?” I asked, and she rolled her eyes. Yes. I laid my purloined copy of the cast and crew list on the table and turned to Kip. “Which means you’re missing actors. These two.” I pointed. “And a third is ready to quit.”

  Give him credit for looking stricken. If I was right, he’d be looking far worse pretty soon, and I wouldn’t feel one ounce of guilt.

  “Stevenson’s been badgering those girls, hasn’t he?” I continued. “And not just the twenty-year-olds. That’s why Amanda Swallow left, isn’t it, because Chad Stevenson was pestering her.”

  “No! She never—she didn’t—” It takes a cool cucumber to run a theater company year in, year out, with all the moving parts, all the things that can go wrong. But Kip was flustered now, and his reaction confirmed that Stevenson had been more than a hard-nosed coworker. His sister picked up on it, too.

  “Kip,” Wendy snapped. “You knew that man was harassing the women who work for you and you didn’t do anything about it? You have a responsibility to protect them.”

  “Look. It happens, right? It’s wrong, and we do everything we can to stop it, to prevent it. But I can’t solve a problem if they don’t tell me about it. No one ever said a thing. I just thought we had a couple of actors who couldn’t get things right. That happens, too.”

  He was insistent, and I didn’t want to doubt him. But it’s all too easy to close an eye to things you don’t want to see. You have to be willing, as Adam had been, to look beyond the surface. But with replacements so hard to find, Kip wouldn’t be the first employer to convince himself he didn’t have a problem.

  No wonder Stevenson liked the work. It gave him ready access to ambitious young women who put up with unwanted attention because the season was short. Girls, some of them, afraid to make waves and risk capsizing their plans. One whiff of trouble and it would be their fledgling careers in ruins, not his.

  A shortage of qualified competition meant theater owners looked the other way. And the traveling life made it all easy-peasy. Odds were he’d left a trail of trouble behind him.

  I stood. “Drink up. You’re taking me to the wardrobe room.”

  Inside the theater, I followed Kip through the semi-darkness to the basement.

  “I’m not sure I should let you in,” he said, “though the sheriff didn’t tell me not to.”

  “They’ve already searched down here, right?” But did they know what to look for, a bunch of men, mostly, pawing through full skirts and feather-flocked leotards and cowboy getups.

  “They searched the room. I don’t know how closely they looked at the costumes. I wasn’t here.”

  Dressing areas were separated by gender. In each, makeup stations lined one wall. Huge metal rolling racks held the costumes for this season’s shows, the racks for each show clustered together. The fanciful Cats wardrobe was easy to spot.

  I flipped through the rack, searching for Bianca’s costume. I ran my fingers over the soft faux fur, the spiky nylon feathers, the smooth Spandex. Kathy’s work was impeccable. You’d never know the costume hadn’t been designed this way from the start. You’d never know there’d been another tail, and that it had been wrapped around a man’s face.

  No sign of any new rips or tears. I had half hoped—okay, I had fervently wished—to show that he had attacked Bianca again. That she’d taken revenge, improbable as it might seem, in response to yet another attack.

  But this costume didn’t prove it.

  “Kathy worked a miracle,” Kip said as I returned the costume to the rack. “I can’t remember when we’ve had an actor who was so hard on costumes.”

  “Show me. What did she wear in the other productions?”

  “Costumes are organized by actor, hung in the order they’ll be worn, for quick changes.” He pointed to the rack marked Oklahoma! “She was one of the dancers. We try not to feature the same actors in every show.
”

  Bianca had worn two outfits, a gingham homesteader’s dress and showgirl’s cancan skirt and bodice. The “skimpy skirt” Kathy had mentioned to my mother. I could see where the nylon underskirt beneath the black netting had been torn loose at the waist and ripped all the way to the hem, then neatly repaired.

  “What else? She’s in Brigadoon, right?”

  “It opens next week. We’ve only done a couple of rehearsals in costume. This is hers.” He pulled out a dress with a full skirt that fell to mid-calf, a tartan scarf draped over one shoulder.

  I lifted the skirt, scanning inside for signs of repair. Sure enough. A ripped seam had been repaired with safety pins. A new tear, or had she been afraid to report yet another torn costume?

  “Were Bianca and Emily close?”

  “Roommates, I think.”

  Criminy. I had to call Detective Bello. After I talked with Emily. Assuming she hadn’t gone missing, too.

  ∞

  I stood outside the Merc, in front of one of the twin display windows, catching my breath. My banged-up knee had not liked me rushing up the theater’s long staircase, across the lobby, and down the street, but it was worth the pain to see Emily at the front counter, ringing up a sale. Smiling brightly, no longer the sad-eyed waif of yesterday. Either she was a good actor, putting on the happy face, or retail is balm for the soul and the happy face was genuine.

  Or had she been acting when she told me she needed to leave, that the murder was too upsetting? Had I misread her? Did the girl who literally sang and whistled while she worked know more than she was telling me? Could she be a killer?

  The customer picked up her bag and headed for the door. I watched as Emily’s shoulders deflated, as the smile drooped, as the sadness returned to her eyes. I held the door for the departing customer and walked in.

  “Erin,” Emily said, making a visible effort to square her shoulders and put on the pleasant retail expression that I always tell my staff is the first rule of business. The gray skies didn’t suddenly clear, and I couldn’t brush away all the clouds. There was still a killer in town.

  But at least I was reasonably sure the killer wasn’t working in my shop.

  “Take a break with me,” I said, pointing out back. “I have news.”

  Her chin quivered. On her way past the kitchen, she snared her new water bottle from behind the counter.

  We use the courtyard for special events, like bridal showers or charity fundraisers. Sometimes, we open the gate in the wooden fence separating our place from Red’s Bar, for larger shindigs. Right now, lunchtime chatter and wisps of ’80s rock drifted over the fence. A delivery truck rumbled down the alley, followed by an acrid belch of diesel.

  “I know what happened,” I said. “Though I don’t think you meant it to turn out the way it did.”

  Emily’s cheeks flushed and her fingers went to her throat, then clutched the neckline of her embroidered peasant blouse. She wasn’t acting now.

  “Cast members leave their water bottles on the high-top table inside the green room. When you come off stage, you can grab yours, catch your breath, wet your whistle. Stevenson didn’t use a water bottle. He drank flavored Pellegrino.” I pictured the cans on the table. “I used to see him walk by the shop on his way to the theater, and he always had one in hand. Never a Coke or a Mountain Dew. He was a creature of habit.” Some habits good, some very bad.

  “I don’t know what you put in the can,” I continued, “but I do know that the state crime lab will figure it out. And the sooner you tell the truth, the better.”

  “It wasn’t—I didn’t—”

  “A man is dead.” I knew I sounded harsh, but I was losing patience. “I know he was a creep. I know he was bothering Bianca, and maybe you, too. I suspect he hounded Amanda Swallow right out of a job. But murder—”

  “He wasn’t supposed to be dead,” she blurted, eyes filling and features twisting. “He was only supposed to fall asleep on the job and get in trouble. We knew Kip wouldn’t fire him. Even if Chad suspected he’d been drugged, he couldn’t have said anything without admitting that he’d been—well, you know. But we wanted him to know what we’d done and leave us alone. That’s why we left the mice.”

  “The mice?”

  “They were part of a running joke. Early on in rehearsals, Braden, one of the other actors, brought in a toy mouse, the kind cats play with.”

  The kind my cats played with.

  “But more realistic,” she continued. “Gray and rubbery. He used it to scare Bianca, because he liked her.”

  Ah, kids.

  “And then—” Her voice broke and I waited while she took a long drink. “It grew from there. We all started bringing in toy mice. Some were bright-colored, some had bells, some feathers. We’d leave them for each other in funny places, like in a tap shoe or the pocket of a costume. Stevenson tried to get in on it, but it was just between the actors. He kinda took the fun out of it, you know?” She glanced at me nervously, needing me to understand. “But when he woke up, he would know we’d done this to him. And he’d stop harassing us.”

  That explained the bright objects clutched in his hands.

  “What did you give him?”

  “Chloral hydrate. It’s an old remedy for sleep and anxiety. My mother takes it and I brought a bottle with me. She’s got a prescription—I don’t. But I only gave him a couple of doses. Two or three teaspoons, max.”

  As she talked, I Googled the stuff on my phone. “Enough to knock him out and make him feel sick afterward.”

  She nodded. She looked miserable.

  “Who else knew what you were going to do? Your roommate, Bianca?”

  “He was awful to her. Me, he teased. Touched my back and made comments about my breasts—they do stand out in some of those costumes. But he attacked her. More than once. How far he went, I’m not sure, but she was determined to get him back. It—it was her idea.”

  “And you think she took it a step further. Took the old tail from her costume and wrapped it around his nose and throat, suffocating him while he slept.”

  “She couldn’t have. She was on stage. I didn’t even know she’d kept the tail.” She shuddered. “Weird souvenir.”

  I tried to picture the Act I choreography but I didn’t know Cats well enough. I’d never been in it, and too much had happened since Friday night. Didn’t matter; I believed her.

  From the bakery next door came the yeasty scent of bread fresh from the oven. That reminded me that Wendy was missing two employees.

  “Did Stevenson bother boys, too? Ohh. You said Braden liked Bianca. Are they dating?” They’d worked side by side in the theater and at Le Panier. Dating among the cast might present a few problems, but it didn’t create the same risks as dating among camp counselors, and a rule against it would have been nearly impossible to enforce. “But wouldn’t he have been on stage, too?”

  “He was a chorus cat,” Emily said. “He could have disappeared for a minute or two, easy.”

  An actor on stage left could have slipped behind the curtain and snuck into the green room. Found Stevenson passed out, done the deed, and slipped back into position, barely missing a beat. These kids were triple threats—actors, singers, and dancers. Fancy footwork was their hallmark.

  “Did Detective Bello ask if you’d seen anyone leave the stage?” Shortly before her own exit.

  “Yes. And I didn’t lie. I didn’t see him go. But—” She broke off, wagging her hands in dread. “I was center stage, singing. Braden could have set off fireworks in the back row and I wouldn’t have had a clue.”

  ∞

  I sent Emily inside to grab my bag and tell Tracy we were leaving. I pulled my phone from my apron pocket.

  “Ms. Murphy,” Detective Bello said after I identified myself and told him I had information. “Imagine my surprise.”

  Did I mention that Bello and I got off on the wrong foot when he first came to Jewel Bay? I’ve tried to put that behind me. He hasn’t bothered.


  “Detective, we don’t have time to play cat and mouse.” Poor choice of words, I know, but I swear, they just popped out. “And I don’t have time to give you all the details. I know you’re waiting on forensics before you release the green room and give the theater the okay to reopen. Tell the crime scene people and the ME to look for chloral hydrate.” Assuming it was detectable in chemical analysis or on autopsy. I didn’t know and I didn’t have time to ask Google. “Forget the water bottles. You’re after the flavored Pellegrino cans from the table inside the door. That was Stevenson’s drink, and that’s where the drug was.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Send someone to the theater to secure the wardrobe room. You’re going to want to take a close look at several of the costumes, but we don’t have time to get specific right now. Then meet me at the theater dorm. The actors you’re looking for are Bianca Calderon and Braden something.”

  “This better not be some wild-goose chase, Ms. Murphy.”

  “I promise you, Detective. We’ve got very human prey.”

  ∞

  With Emily in the passenger seat, I zipped up Back to Front, then zigged and zagged out of the village. Wound my way past the small, older homes clustered at the top of the hill and through a newer residential district to the dorm where the theater’s summer hires bunk.

  Emily’s hands trembled as she unlocked the dormitory’s front door. The smell of microwave popcorn hit my nose. A bass rhythm thumped in the distance.

  “Upstairs,” she said. “Second floor, second room on the right.”

  The room with the open door. Where one bed had been stripped, half the drawers emptied, and one side of the small closet cleaned out, except for one last cardboard box.