Who's Kitten Who? (14 page)

“My parents were hippies,” she explained matter-offactly, leaning her broom against the wall and wiping her hands on the front of her T-shirt. “Sometimes it seems like they still are. They’re always listening to these old guys like James Taylor and the Who and Crosby Stills and whoever else. And they listen to
records
! I mean, they’re like the only people in the universe who still own a turntable! Can you imagine?”

I had to smile. Nick was such a fan of classic rock, including the performers whose names Sunny had just rattled off, that I’d grown to appreciate the oldies almost as much as he did. He also owned a few vinyl versions, although in most cases he had the CD as well.

“If you have a couple of minutes,” I said, “I’d like to ask you a few things about the night Simon Wainwright was murdered.”

Sunny’s big brown eyes widened. “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“But you work with the cops.”

“Not exactly. I’m just trying to help a close friend of Simon’s figure out exactly what happened.”

She nodded. “Yeah, I don’t blame people for being upset. The whole thing is pretty creepy. Well, ask away. Anything to break up the monotony of chasing down dust bunnies!”

I sat down on one of the wooden chairs that edged the stage. “I understand you were here at the theater last Friday night, cleaning.”

“Yup.” She dropped into the chair closest to me. “That’s one of the things I like about this job. The fact that I can work weird hours.” Sounding a bit defensive, she added, “See, I’m not your normal cleaning lady. I’m just doing this until I find something more interesting to do with my life.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“What about you?” she asked, studying me. “What do you do when you’re not trying to find murderers?”

“I’m a veterinarian.”

“No way!” Sunny’s face lit up like one of the spotlights up above. “That is, like, the coolest thing ever. How long did you have to go to school for that?”

“Four years. After four years of college, that is.”

“Whoa, that’s a long time. Where’s your office?”

“I don’t have an office. I have a mobile services unit, which is basically a clinic-on-wheels. I travel all over Long Island to treat my patients.”

“Wow! That is beyond cool!” she exclaimed. “Taking care of animals must be so great. Do you absolutely love it?”

“I do. Sunny, what time did you hear Simon and the woman he was arguing with?”

“Do you use the van for regular driving too? I mean, like when you drive to the library or the supermarket or someplace like that?”

“I use the van only for business,” I explained. “I have a little red Volkswagen I use for regular driving.”

“Those are so cute,” she commented. “Hey, what school did you go to? To learn how to be an animal doctor, I mean?”

“The College of Veterinary Medicine at Cornell University. It’s upstate, in Ithaca.”

“Do you need to take a ton of science courses to be a vet?”

“Yes,” I replied as patiently as I could. “Sunny, would you mind telling me exactly where you were when you heard Simon quarreling?”

Instead, she said, “I was never that good at science. In school, I mean. But I love animals. It would be amazing to work with them. I can’t think of a better career.”

“I can’t either.” As frustrated as I was about her reluctance to focus on the important issue at hand, I couldn’t hold it against her. Not when she was clearly interested in the vet biz—and as enthusiastic as I was about the notion of working with animals.

“Do you ever need help?” she asked suddenly. “When you treat animals, I mean.”

Her question gave me pause. Sure, I needed help on occasion. But that didn’t mean I actually had any. Hiring a vet tech seemed far too expensive at this point in my career. So far, I’d managed on my own.

Still, sometimes I had to ask owners to help, usually by restraining their pets. And every once in a while, especially in an emergency, I really could have used a second pair of hands.

Before I had a chance to answer, she said, “Because I could help out. With your practice, I mean. I’m really good with animals. And I’m very reliable. You can even ask the people at Home Maid. They’ll tell you. All my clients love me. I’m always on time, I always get the job done…”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her sincerely. “But for now I’m curious about what you told the police. I believe you said you couldn’t identify the woman you heard arguing but that you’re sure the man was Simon. How can you be so certain?”

“Because I knew Simon’s voice,” she replied matter-of-factly. “I didn’t overlap with the people in the theater company very often, but whenever I did, Simon was one of the few people who bothered to say hello to me. In fact, he’d take the time to chat with me every now and then.”

“Did the two of you talk about anything in particular?”

Sunny shrugged. “Not really. Just the usual stuff about the weather and how bad traffic’s gotten, that kind of thing. But he was always so
nice,
you know? When you’re a cleaning lady, most people treat you like you’re a bug on the wall. They just pretend they don’t see you.”

That, I knew, was probably true.

“Sunny, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you here on a Friday evening? I know you like working at odd hours, but isn’t that an unusual time to be cleaning? I mean, wouldn’t you rather go out with your friends on the weekend?”

“Like I said, this job gives me a ton of flexibility,” she explained. “That’s the best thing about it. We can pretty much work on our own schedule, once we’ve been assigned certain clients. As long as the clients are okay with it, of course. This Theater One gig is really easy, since this place doesn’t get very dirty.

“Not unless they’re putting on special performances for high school kids, like this morning.” Rolling her eyes, she commented, “If I were you, I’d stay out of the bathrooms until I get a chance to clean in there. But normally, when they’re in rehearsal the way they are now, it only takes me a couple of hours to clean the entire place. So I can sleep late, do a couple of jobs in the afternoon, come here after dinner, and be done by nine. That gives me plenty of time to go out with my friends afterward.”

I suddenly felt very old. For me, nine o’clock was time to think about climbing into bed with a good book—and Nick.

“What about the female members of the cast?” I asked. “How well do you know them?”

“Which ones?” she asked. “There’re a lot of them, and they change all the time, depending on who’s in which show.”

“I was thinking of Aziza Zorn.”

“Ugh.”

That wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. “So you do know Aziza,” I said noncommittally.

“She makes sure
everybody
knows her. Aziza thinks she’s the new Cate Blanchett or something,” Sunny sniffed. “A real drama queen. Not to mention the fact that she always acts like she’s better than everybody else.”

“Would you have recognized her voice?” I asked. “If she was the woman who was arguing with Simon that night?”

Sunny shook her head. “I’m really sorry, but it’s like I told the police. I couldn’t tell whose voice it was. I was in the dressing room next door, for one thing, so I heard them through the wall. There are two dressing rooms, one for men and one for women. I was in the women’s, cleaning the big mirror. Somebody had gotten lipstick all over it. Can you imagine? It’s such a pain to get that stuff off too. And to answer your other question, it was around nine. I wasn’t wearing a watch that night, so I’m afraid I can’t be any more precise than that. But I know I was running late, because my friends were teasing me about it when I finally caught up with them afterward.”

“What about Lacey Croft?” I asked patiently. “How well do you know her?”

“Not much better than I know Aziza,” she replied. “She sure seems a lot nicer, though. She does the costumes for a lot of the shows, so a lot of times she works here late. In fact, sometimes it’s just me and her, both of us working away long after everybody else has gone home.”

“I see,” I said, thinking, So no one would find it unusual if Lacey was here after hours.

“Hey, have the police figured out what the murderer used to kill Simon yet?” Sunny asked eagerly.

“No, not yet.”

“I have a theory of my own, you know,” she announced with pride. “Not that the cops were interested in hearing it. Especially that obnoxious guy who’s named after a bird and is only about as big as one.”

Her characterization of Lieutenant Anthony Falcone made me smile. “I’m interested in your theory,” I told her.

Lowering her voice to a conspiratorial near-whisper, she said, “There’s this really cool place backstage called the props closet. Have you ever been in there?”

I shook my head.

“Well, I have. I go in there to dust every once in a while. It’s where all the props from the show are stored every night after rehearsal. But lots of old props from other shows are in there too. There’s all kinds of great stuff! And my theory is that somebody took something out of that closet and bashed poor Simon in the head with it. Then they put it back, probably pushing it behind a bunch of other old props. For all I know, the killer’s fingerprints are all over it and it’s just sitting there, waiting to be discovered!”

It was an interesting theory—especially since it raised the question of whether or not Simon’s murder had been premeditated. From the first, I’d assumed that Simon had been killed in the heat of the moment, mainly because of where he’d been struck down. An empty theater wasn’t the best place to commit such a heinous crime, since it wasn’t exactly private. People went in and out of Theater One all the time. Simon, for example, who had shown up there even though no rehearsal was scheduled for that night, as well as the mysterious woman who had gotten involved in a shouting match with him. The killer must have been aware that someone could walk in at any time.

Then there was the problem of hiding Simon’s body. The killer had stashed it in a trunk. Once again, not a good choice, especially for someone who wanted to keep the crime a secret for at least a little while.

There was another possibility, of course. And that was that the murderer was making a statement by killing Simon inside Theater One. After all, this theater was undoubtedly the most important place in the victim’s life. Within these walls, he was witnessing the musical he had created on paper come to life. It had to have been a thrilling time for him—and his killer had to have known it.

“What did the police say about your theory?” I asked.

“Actually, that bird guy hardly let me say anything,” Sunny said, grimacing. “Aside from answering his stupid questions, that is. When I tried to tell him I had an idea about how the murder went down and where the weapon was, he gave me this little speech about how I should leave the investigation to the pros—like him.”

Been there, done that, I thought. Aloud, I said, “That sounds like something Falcone would say.”

Sunny’s eyes suddenly grew big. “Wanna see it?”

“See what?”

“The props closet. I’m telling you, it’s a really cool place. Maybe you’ll even be able to pick out the murder weapon.”

“Sure. Let’s go.”

My heart was pounding as I followed her into the left wing and through a doorway that led backstage. Not only would this impromptu tour give me a chance to see the props closet. It also afforded me the first opportunity I’d had to get a good look at the crime scene without arousing suspicion.

We walked along a hallway lined with doors, including one marked
WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM
and one marked
MEN’S DRESSING ROOM
. As soon as we passed them, she made a sharp left onto a much shorter corridor. At the end was a closed door.

She flung it open, revealing a closet that measured about four feet by four feet. Three of its walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. A single bulb in the ceiling provided enough dim light to see the amazing assortment of items packed in there. There were trophies, a globe, a silver Viking helmet, and an elaborate crown that could have been worn by King Arthur. The rolled-up flags of several different nations stood in one corner. One shelf was crammed with fake food, including a big bowl of fruit and a rubber fish, as well as empty boxes of Cheerios and other familiar name-brand products. I saw wineglasses, umbrellas, eyeglasses, an old-fashioned radio, a teddy bear, paper fans, guns, busts, a guitar, plastic lizards, a rubber snake, and a stuffed bird that looked really fake up close but probably worked just fine onstage.

“What’s that?” I asked. I pointed to a good-size metal box with a handle that was sitting on the floor, shoved beneath the shelves. It looked more like a piece of electrical equipment than a prop.

“That’s a fog machine,” Sunny explained. “See? It says
Pro Fogger
here on the side. I accidentally flipped the switch once when I was cleaning up in here. A couple of minutes later, all this fog started pouring out of it. Once I figured out what was happening, it was pretty cool.” She laughed. “See, it’s things like that that keep this job interesting.”

The amount of stuff packed in the props closet was mind-boggling. And Sunny was right. Many of the items sitting on the shelves could have been used to commit murder.

“So what do you think?” Sunny asked, holding out both hands to indicate the incredible assortment of items. “Did Miss Scarlet use the lead pipe, the candlestick, or maybe that bust of Socrates over there? Of course, it’s only papier-mâché, so you’d be lucky if you could kill a mosquito with it. But how about this clock? It’s made of brass, I think. You could easily bash somebody’s head in with that. And check out this metal sword. It’s pretty heavy. That’s what I’d use if I wanted to kill somebody.”

I suddenly realized that our impromptu backstage tour presented me with a golden opportunity.

“Sunny,” I said, “could you show me exactly where you were standing when you overheard Simon arguing with a woman?”

“Sure,” she replied brightly. “Follow me.”

We retraced our steps, this time stopping in front of the door marked
WOMEN’S DRESSING ROOM
. As I stepped inside, I saw that it looked just like the ones I’d seen in the movies. A counter lined one wall, and directly above were large mirrors framed with round white lightbulbs. The counter was littered with makeup, hairbrushes, bobby pins, cotton balls, and tissues. Plastic bins sat on a shelf high above, labeled
Beauty Products: Wipes, Etc; Hair Spray/Gels;
and
Wigs, Hats, Q-tips, Fabric Freshener.