The Old Deep and Dark (25 page)

“Yes, ma'am, I do. Always have.”

“When I was in college, I read a lot of T. S. Eliot, Mary Oliver, Billy Collins. And for years after I kept finding new poets to love. But lately, I don't seem to ever pick up a poetry book.”

“You should go back to it,” he said, wrapping his fingers around the mug. “We make the mistake, as we live our lives, of moving away from—instead of toward—our inner selves.”

“I suppose.” She noticed a couple of scrapbooks propped against the wall.

Red followed her eyes. “Would you like to see some of the people I've met?” He pulled one free and opened it, pushing it across the table to her.

She scanned the snapshots. “These were all taken here at the theater?”

“They were. Some upstairs. Some down here in my office.”

“I didn't realize this place was such a mecca for famous people. Is that Garrison Keillor?”

“It is.”

There was a photo of one of the best-loved governors of the state, Elmer L. Anderson, and another of the one-time owner of the Minnesota Twins, Carl Pohlad, both standing next to Red wearing big smiles. “Lord, is that Brad Pitt?” She could hardly believe her eyes. Pitt had his arm around Red, like they were old buddies. She flipped through the pages more quickly. Most of the people in the snapshots were strangers, but occasionally she did recognize a well-known face. Dan Rather. Demi Moore. Sting. “Quite a scrapbook,” she said.

“Yup, I'm pretty proud of it. Represents a lot of years of hard work.”

“You've been here how long?”

“On and off since I was fifteen years old. My parents' house wasn't far from here, as the crow flies. My family was always hurting for money, so the kids were expected to find jobs and bring in whatever we could. Since I loved the theater, I stopped in one afternoon to see if I could find something here. I kept coming back until they hired me.”

Jane continued to page through the scrapbook. “A lot of pictures of Kit Deere in various costumes.”

“She was always my favorite,” he said. “Early on, I had what you might call a schoolboy crush on her. In some ways, I guess I still do. Believe me, I'm not alone. She has that effect on men.”

Jane sipped her coffee, finally approaching her main question. “How did you learn about the secret staircase and those two rooms?”

“Well, now, that's kind of an interesting story. Like I said, I had this crush on Kit—I knew her as Kit Haralson back then—when I was young. One summer, when she was appearing in a play at the theater, I decided I was going to meet her or die trying. I went backstage during intermission one night, intent on introducing myself. I found her dressing room by looking through the keyholes. Wasn't hard. The door wasn't even locked. I could see her inside, sitting at this dressing table with a bouquet of red roses, but by the time I got up the nerve to knock and push my way inside, she was gone. I was completely flummoxed. There was no way out of the room except for the door I'd just come in, and yet she'd disappeared. I had to figure out how it happened.”

“When the curtain rose on the next act, was she missing?”

“Oh, no, she was up onstage, beautiful as ever. So I had to ask myself, what the heck was going on? One afternoon a few days later, when the theater was pretty much empty, I went into that dressing room and began searching for a secret exit. Felt like the only explanation to me. I finally discovered the round knob on the edge of the bookcase. If you twist it, the bookcase opens inward. Thankfully, I'd thought to bring a flashlight, so I followed the stairs down and found the rooms. It became pretty clear to me what those rooms were used for, at least during my youth. I have no idea why they were built in the first place. You'd have to ask the architect. Actually, I hadn't thought about those rooms for years, not until we discovered that skeleton in the speakeasy. That got me to thinking. Figured I should check them out, so I went down yesterday and found that trunk with the second skeleton inside.” He drained the coffee in his mug. “And now I hear the cops found another body.”

“A third one?” This was news to Jane.

“It isn't a
him
this time. It's a her.”

Jane's first thought was that she needed to rush upstairs to talk to Cordelia, though she knew the skeleton wasn't going anywhere, and she wasn't quite done with Red yet. There were so many old theater props scattered around the room that she got up to examine them more closely.

“Take a good look,” said Red, propping his feet up on an orange crate. “I've got a stellar memory, if I do say so myself. I can probably tell you what production each of those is from.”

In the corner of one of the open metal shelves, she found a box of playbills organized by year.

“Cordelia's friend, Archibald Van Arnam, wanted to take that box, but I wouldn't let him. He's doing research on the theater and he thinks it entitles him to everything in it. I collected those myself, so as far as I'm concerned, they're mine.”

Jane paged through the stack back to 1986. It only took a moment to find the playbill for
Happy Birthday, Wanda June.
“The skeleton you found downstairs,” she said, opening the cover to find the cast list. “His name was Melcer.”

“Stan Melcer?” said Red, frowning. “Sure, I remember him. He was in quite a few productions. Come to think of it, he did go missing during one of them.”

“Happy Birthday, Wanda June.”

“I think that's right,” he said, pressing his fingers to his forehead. “He played a doctor.”

“Dr. Norbert Woodley.” She read down the list. “And…” Her voice trailed off.

“And?” he repeated.

Cordelia had been right. “Kit Deere was in the same production. She played the part of Penelope Ryan.”

“I remember now. The two of them—” He looked up at Jane.

“Yes?”

“Well, I don't like to tell tales out of school. I mean, she was a married woman at the time.”

Jane returned the playbill to the box and then pulled up a chair directly in front of him. “Tell me. Please. It could be important.”

“Well, see, Kit had, shall we say, a reputation. Every now and then she liked to engage in these little private romantic interludes.” Gazing down into his mug, he added, “If I'm going to be completely honest, I'd have to say that I always hoped her eyes would alight on me one day.”

“She was sleeping with Melcer?”

“Yes, I think so. But something happened. She cut it off and it upset him. I remember hearing them argue one night after the final curtain.”

“Do you remember what was said?”

“He told her she'd be sorry if she turned her back on him.”

“Was it a threat?”

“Oh, I don't think so. Just hurt feelings.”

“Did you ever see them argue again?”

“No, not Melcer and Kit. But I did walk in on a heated conversation he was having with that friend of Kit's. The woman who took care of her kids.”

“Beverly Elliot?”

“Yeah, that's the one. I'd never seen her so red-faced and furious before.”

“Do you remember any of the specifics?”

“Sorry. I'm not the kind of guy who listens at doors.”

“How long after that conversation with Beverly did he go missing?”

“Let me think.” He ran a hand down the front of his shirt. “Maybe two weeks.”

“Did anybody report the fact that he was missing?”

“Sure. He wasn't married, but he had a brother. I remember him coming to the theater to see if anyone could shed any light on what had happened to Stan. No one could. It became a police matter, and then I guess I forgot about it. I think we all figured he'd show up sooner or later.”

But he hadn't. Now that Jane had proven that Kit and Beverly had both known two of the three people who'd been murdered and buried inside the theater, the idea that they were coincidences no longer seemed possible. If what her gut was telling her turned out to be true, a multiple murderer had been hovering around the edges—or perhaps had actually been inside—the Deere family for over three decades. Jordan had been his most recent victim. The most important question seemed to be, would there be more?

 

28

“I disgust him,” said Kit, head in her hands, sitting at the island in the kitchen, still trying to process what had happened in that interrogation room. “I think he's done with me.”

Beverly, who was standing in the doorway, gave a contemptuous grunt. “Ray Lawless isn't the only one around here who's disgusted by your behavior.”

“Meaning what?” Kit could feel Beverly's penetrating stare even without looking up.

“Meaning I am, too.”

“I would think the number of men I've slept with could hardly come as news to you,” said Kit.

“No, but this does.” She yanked back a stool and sat down. “You're about to be arrested for murder and all you can think about is that you've disappointed your latest boyfriend.”

“He's not my boyfriend.”

“No, but you want him to be. You have an addiction, Kit. Admit it.”

“There's been a spark between us for years.”

“So what? Who cares?”

“I care.”

“Are you
that
afraid of being alone?”

“Don't be silly. I won't even dignify that with a response.”

“What then? Are you lining up boyfriends to visit you in prison?”

Kit shut her eyes. “You can be so hateful.”

“Sexual drama is what you live for. Without it, you must not feel like you're alive. Well it's high noon at the O.K. Corral, Katherine. It's time to stop thinking about men and start thinking about how we're going to survive this.”

“That's all I
have
been thinking about.”

“That and Ray Lawless.”

“Maybe we should use your gun. Shoot our way out.”

Beverly's smile was mirthless. “Can't. Took out the pontoon this morning and dumped it in the lake.”

Kit put her head down on the cold granite countertop. “I'm tired, Beverly. This fight—and that's what my life has felt like all these years—has just about done me in.”

“Yeah, well. You'll land on your feet. You always do.”

“Not this time. Everyone thinks I'm a slut, or will once the tabloids get hold of the story.
You
think I'm a slut. So do my children. The point is, juries acquit decent, God-fearing women, but sluts, they get what's coming to them.”

“Kit, look, I … I made a mistake. Came down too hard on you.”

“It's all right. I deserve it. I have a lot to think about. If you don't mind, I'd like a few minutes alone.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Me, too.”

“No,” said Beverly. “I can't leave it like this. Look at me.” She waited until she had Kit's full attention. “I'd do anything for you.”

“Good to know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know you would,” said Kit, squeezing Beverly's hand. “And I appreciate it. It's just … there's nothing to be done. The writing's on the wall, to quote an old saying. All that's left is for DePetro to come and arrest me.”

*   *   *

Jane waited in her father's outer office, making a futile stab at talking football with his paralegal, Norm Toscalia. “So, how about those Vikings, huh?” She glanced through her e-mails, tossing most of them in the trash.

“Yeah, how about them,” he muttered, sitting behind his desk and tapping the keys on his laptop. “I've pretty much given up.”

“On what?”

“The team. The season. The quarterback. The coach. The offensive and defensive lines. The organization. The hot dogs.”

“That doesn't sound good.”

He looked over his shoulder. “You're not a football fan, are you?”

“Well, actually, no.” She saw that she had a text from Avi, one that had been sent less than an hour ago:

I'm home. Stop by my apartment

when you can.

The door to Jane's father's office opened and a woman in a pink and white raincoat emerged. She nodded to Jane on her way out.

“You can go in now,” said Norm, continuing to tap away at his laptop.

“Hope the Vikings improve,” said Jane.

“Oh, yeah. I'm really gonna hold my breath on that one.”

“Hey, honey,” said her father. He got up and walked around his desk to give her a hug. “I'm so glad to see you. If I haven't said it before, I like our new arrangement. Gives me an excuse to see you more often.”

Before she took a seat, she handed him the signed contract he'd had his secretary send over to her house. Noticing a piece of paper on his desktop with the word ‘R.A.M.' typed in the center, she said, “Did you get that today?”

“Yeah. I'll probably have another one tonight. ‘R.A.' It feels like someone is erasing me, letter by letter. Stupid.”

She wasn't sure how seriously to take it. “Look, Dad, maybe this is some sort of warning. Or even a threat.”

“Even if it is, what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Maybe you should come stay at my house.”

“You're going to protect me?”

“Sure. Why not? Mouse has great ears—and big teeth. I've got a security system, you don't.”

“It's a joke, Jane. Just someone trying to rattle me. It's not the first time some idiot's tried that. You can't let things like this get inside your head.”

“Okay, okay.” She knew enough to back away before she got a lecture on boundaries. “So, how did Kit's charm offensive go?”

As he sat back down, he loosened his tie. “It was a disaster. DePetro's caught that woman in so many lies, it's no wonder he thinks she's guilty.” He explained about Jordan calling Kit the morning he was murdered, about Kit leaving the house and driving to the ridge above Bayview Park, putting her less than half a mile from the crime scene.