Murder on the Hoof: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series) (6 page)

“
Your
show?” Myrtle said, stomping toward Lane. “Since when did it become
your
show?”

Let the drama begin, Colleen thought, taking Sparky by the collar and guiding him toward the exit.

Lane sighed dramatically. “What is it now, Myrtle?”

“You said it was your show. Who put you in charge?”

“I don’t believe I said that. But if I did, it was merely a slip of the tongue.”

“A Freudian one,” Myrtle said under her breath.

“Of course, it’s
our
show,” he said, gesturing to the others in the room with irritation. “Now if there’s nothing further, I believe everyone is waiting.”

All eyes fell on Myrtle. Colleen ducked her head, trying her best to be invisible in her retreat.

“Very well,” Myrtle said with a huff, then moved sulkily to the area in front of the fireplace and took her place.

“Okay, everyone, let’s take it from when the horses are loaded off of the ships,” Adam said.

So that’s whose directing the show, Colleen thought. Up until that moment, it had been hard for her to tell. She felt empathy for Nellie’s nephew. He certainly had his hands full with this group.

“Start the storm, Sam,” Adam ordered, and there was a loud rumble of thunder.

Sparky howled and Colleen jumped at the realistic sound effect. Inky leaped from the piano, hitting some of the keys, and took off into another room. Colleen spotted Sam shaking a sheet of metal—the source of the thunder rumble—and smiled wryly. This might not be a bad production after all, she thought.

“Until we’re performing outdoors, try toning down the thunder,” Adam instructed Sam, and the retiree gave the director a salute.

Colleen paused for a moment to watch what would happen next. The actors standing in the makeshift wings began making whooshing and moaning windlike sounds. Sparky wailed.

“Okay, we’ll go,” she whispered to the dog, and moved to leave, not wanting to interfere with the rehearsal.

Suddenly, a high-pitched scream filled the air. They might need to tone that down, she thought as she pulled the curtain back and left the library. But then came the slam of a door and a second scream, the one that made her peek back around the drape in time to see Fawn Harkins race into the room, arms flailing and tears streaming down her cheeks.

“Hold!” Adam yelled, as if anyone needed to be told to stop what they were doing. “Is everything okay?” he asked.

“I—I—I—” Fawn stuttered between sobs.

Lane strode to Fawn and put his hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “Now, Fawn dear, we mustn’t overact. I know we talked about the storm scene being frightening, but this isn’t a horror film. You know,” he said, turning to the group, “this reminds me of when I did a little picture called
Hall of Horrors
back in 1979. We had this scene where—”

“Ri—Ri—Ri—” Fawn stammered.

“Would you shut your big trap,” Myrtle said to Lane. “I think she’s trying to tell us something.”

“Hold on one minute,” he said.

Colleen crossed the room. “I think Myrtle’s right,” she said, approaching the woman, whose cheeks were flushed pink. “Fawn?” she said in a soft voice. “Do you know who I am?”

The young woman stuttered, “Chief—Chief.”

“That’s right. Chief McCabe.” She was relieved the girl seemed aware of her surroundings.

Fawn’s eyes and nose were red from crying. Colleen was struck by the difference in her appearance. The giggly demeanor from yesterday morning was certainly gone now. She wondered if the actress’s emotions always ran to such extremes. No wonder Chip was having a hard time with her. Fawn’s sobbing became choppy and her breathing short.

“Okay, Fawn, listen to me,” she said. “I want you to take a deep breath. Do you think you can do that?”

Fawn sobbed and sucked in short bursts of air. If she didn’t get the girl breathing normally, Colleen was afraid the free-spirited performer would pass out from lack of oxygen.

“How about if we do it together. Does that sound good?”

Fawn nodded.

Colleen gave her a reassuring smile. “Ready?”

Fawn nodded again.

“Good. Now take a deep breath in.…”

Colleen breathed in and was surprised to find the entire cast taking a deep breath with her. This group has obviously spent way too much time together, she thought.

“That’s it. Now hold it … and breathe out,” she coached. Fawn and the rest of those in the room did as instructed. “Feeling better?”

Fawn indicated yes and sniffled.

“Care to tell us what has you so upset?” The young actress’s eyes welled with tears and her breathing quickened. “Remember. Breathe,” Colleen instructed.

Fawn gulped in air, paused dramatically, and declared, “Rich is dead!”

The room gasped.

“Oh dear!” Nellie said, and clutched her heart.

“Rich Bailey?” Colleen asked, turning to Nellie, since Fawn was back to sobbing uncontrollably. Nellie nodded.

“He’s doing our makeup and lighting,” Myrtle added in a worried tone.

“Where is Rich?” Colleen asked Fawn.

Everyone in the room watched Fawn’s arm slowly rise and then her finger point to a pair of glass doors in the hall. Sparky sniffed and scratched at the doors, causing one to creak open slightly and a foot to slide out. Fawn let out another wail and bolted at full speed from the room.

Doc Wales rose and crossed toward the doors. “That’s the elevator, but nobody can use it.”

“You’d better let me,” Colleen said. “Sparky, heel,” she ordered. The dog backed away. She could feel everyone at her back and sense the tension mount as she reached for one of the handles. She slowly opened a door, revealing Rich Bailey slumped at the bottom of what looked more like an enormous dumbwaiter than an elevator. He was limp, like a Raggedy Andy doll, and his head hung down and to the right.

“First Doris and now Rich,” Rita said, shaking her head.

“I wonder why the elevator’s up here,” Doc Wales said.

“Maybe it’s the ghost,” Sam offered.

“This play is cursed,” added another.

This play isn’t cursed, Colleen thought. Someone murdered Rich. She didn’t need a medical examiner’s report to tell her the marks on Rich’s neck had been caused by some type of rope or belt. Just yesterday morning, she had congratulated Rich on his nice makeup work for the training exercise. Now he was dead in the Whalehead Club’s dumbwaiter. Rich was one of the most honorable people she knew in Corolla. Why would someone want him dead?

“What should we do?” Nellie asked.

“Call Sheriff Dorman,” she replied, using the bottom of her shirt to close the door gently, protecting the others from having to see poor Rich in this state. “Nobody touch anything or go anywhere. I’m sure the sheriff will want to talk to each of you.”

The room was still. It was the quietest Colleen had heard the thespians since she had entered the building.

“And,” she added, scanning the worried faces, “someone needs to find Fawn.”

Chapter 5

“Did somebody mention
the Scottish play?” Adam asked in an accusatory tone.

“I think Lane did,” Myrtle said, pointing a finger at the debonair actor.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never do such a thing,” Lane said, genuinely insulted.

“I don’t remember hearing anyone say it,” Nellie said, trying to recall what had been said during the last few weeks of rehearsals.

“Well, someone must have mentioned the Bard’s play,” Rita chimed in from her sewing table.

“Maybe it was you and your peacock feathers,” Sam said to his wife.

“Or you and your whistling,” she retorted.

“Told you they shouldn’t let that black cat come around here,” Lane said.

“Leave poor Inky out of this,” Myrtle told him.

“For the love of God,” Doc Wales interjected. “This is all a bunch of ridiculous superstition. A play doesn’t become cursed because of black cats or whistling or the fact you mention
Mac
—”

“No!” cried the group of thespians before he could finish.

“Quiet!” Bill boomed.

The room fell suddenly silent. In all the years Colleen had known Bill, she had never heard him shout so loudly. Even though she wasn’t feeling particularly friendly toward him, given the Hayley secret he had been keeping from her, she was empathetic. He must be at his wits’ end with this group and their superstitions. It all seemed a bit silly to her, but she remembered how grave her college roommate had been when she had told Colleen about theater superstitions. Peacock feathers should never be brought onstage or used as a costume element, since they represented the “evil eye.” Whistling in the theater was bad luck because, in the early days of theater, a whistle was a stagehand’s way of signaling the lowering of a sandbag and was certain to result in an accident. Three candles onstage meant the person nearest the shortest candle would be the next to marry … or die. And the worst of them all: Uttering the name of Shakespeare’s play
Macbeth
in a rehearsal or theater hall was an invitation to certain disaster. Since the discovery of Rich’s body in the elevator, the actors had been busy blaming one another for violating these traditions and cursing the show.

“Isn’t anyone here the least bit concerned about what happened to Rich?” Bill asked, frowning with disappointment at the entire troupe.

The group members lowered their heads in shame. Nice going, Colleen thought.

“Uh, Chief?” Chip said, sticking his head into the room.

“What is it?” She hoped he had found his girlfriend, the runaway actress.

“I’ve got Fawn outside. But she won’t come in.”

“For crying out loud,” Bill said, now at the end of his patience. “Tell her to stay put. I’ll be out in a minute.”

“Okay, but…”

“Is there something else?” Colleen asked.

Chip stole a look at Bill. The others in the room were now staring at the young firefighter with curiosity.

“With all due respect, Sheriff, Fawn would prefer speaking with the chief.”

Colleen glanced at Bill. She knew how much he hated her involvement in his cases.

“You mind speaking to Fawn with me?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she said, and moved with him toward the exit. Chip scratched the back of his neck and shuffled his feet. “Something wrong?” she asked.

Chip looked at Bill over her shoulder, then approached. “Fawn wants to speak with just you,” he whispered in her ear.

“Why?”

It wasn’t like Colleen knew the young woman all that well. In fact, this morning’s breathing exercise with the rest of the actors was the most interaction she had had with the girl.

“She says you have a good aura,” he said, blushing slightly at having to tell his boss about her aura.

“I’m sure Bill’s aura is fine,” she replied, resisting the urge to roll her eyes.

“That may be so, but Fawn believes in that mystical stuff. She doesn’t want to speak to anyone else. I can’t change her mind.”

Bill was going to hate this. She patted Chip on the shoulder and turned to Bill.

“What is it?” he asked, not having heard the whispered conversation.

“Fawn wants to speak with just me. Apparently, I have a good aura.”

He stared at her a beat. “Are you serious?”

She shrugged.

“For Pete’s sake,” he said, and ran his hands through his hair.

Colleen lowered her voice. “Fawn’s a bit … emotional. We might not get anything out of her if you push it.”

Bill glanced over at Chip, weighing his options. “Fine,” he said. “But I want you to tell me everything she says. No secrets.”

Resisting the urge to say something smart about keeping secrets, she followed Chip from the room. Bill could question the rest of the actors on his own.

She trailed Chip down the hall and passed the carved wooden staircase. She noted the swooping nature-inspired architectural features and found it disquieting that Rich had been murdered in such an ugly way in such a gorgeous house. She was thankful that her EMTs and Rodney Warren, Bill’s steadfast deputy, had arrived swiftly and sans sirens. They had been able to photograph and document evidence and remove the body before the park began to see visitors. She was relieved that the transfer of Rich’s body had been done with quiet dignity and not under the glare of the local media or the watchful eyes of curious sightseers with video-recording cell phones. They walked out the front door to the porch, where Fawn sat nervously swaying in one of the rockers that lined the sound-facing veranda.

“Chief McCabe’s here,” Chip said, kneeling next to Fawn and grabbing the rocker to stop it from moving.

She gazed into his eyes, caressed his cheek, and then rubbed her nose on his. “Thanks, Chipmunk.”

Chip’s cheeks flushed red. “Not in front of my boss,” he whispered.

Colleen suppressed a chuckle. The guys at the station would have a field day if they knew about Fawn’s nickname for him.

“Why don’t you tell the chief what you saw when you found Rich,” he said, prompting her.

“I don’t want to think about that,” Fawn said, and moped.

Colleen sat in a rocker next to the frightened actress. “You said you’d speak with me. I’m here.”

Fawn cocked her head and studied her a moment. “May I hug you?”

Chip groaned, mortified.

In all her years of helping people, nobody had ever asked to hug her. “Okay,” she said, uncertain how she could say no to this unusual request.

Fawn gently wrapped her arms around Colleen in a hug that barely touched her skin. Colleen wondered what strange ritual she was being subjected to and awkwardly patted the girl’s back. She had done a lot of things in service to others, but this had to be the most bizarre. Several seconds passed and then Fawn sat back. Colleen tugged at her shirt, unsure of what to do next.

“You have a nice aura,” Fawn said. “Pink. By nature, you’re loving and giving. The way you calmed me down earlier proves how sensitive you are to the needs of others.”

“Yes, well … thank you,” Colleen said, trying to maintain a poker face. Under normal circumstances, she would have found it difficult not to laugh at her aura assessment, but she needed to find out everything Fawn knew in order to catch the person who had murdered Rich.