A Midsummer Night's Scream (10 page)

"The last one, called 'Big Buck,' is, you won't be surprised to learn, a banker. He started out as a pawnbroker and went on to found one of the biggest banks in Chicago, with branches all over the United States and most of Europe. Even a few in Asia."

"They must all be billionaires," Jane said. "You're right. I was sort of surprised that they even let Bunting hang out with them. He's not aroaring success. And even if he's been in many plays and movies, he probably isn't anywhere near their financial league. But they all went to the same private grade and prep school at the same time, and men like that keep in touch, I guess. They've known each other virtually all their lives."

"I'll bet Bunting's appeal is that he's an actor," Jane said. "They can run old black-and-white movies for their great-grandchildren and say, 'I knew him as boy and man, and still get together with him.' "

"While the great-grandchildren snicker," Mel said with a grin.

"Maybe he made good money and was investing it well," Jane commented. "That might explain his friendships with the rest of the old dears."

"I don't think so. I called my mother…"

Jane kept herself from shuddering at the memory of meeting his mother once.

"She's a big fan of old movies," he went on. "She'd actually heard of them and looked them up in some of her reference books. She thinks he got his roles simply because he was the husband of Gloria Bunting. He usually played the silent, stoic husband the heroine doesn't appreciate, and she played the wife who has, or almost has, affairs with other men but always comes back to him, repentant and loving him all the more."

"I can imagine that well," Jane confirmed. "In the few scenes I've watched them rehearse, she
is
the character. He's nothing compared to her. He might have been good-looking, though, when he was younger."

"Maybe so. At least he carries himself well. Very stiff, but with a hint of dignity. Though my personal guess is that he's a big drinker and probably was quite a womanizer in his heyday."

"He's still attracted to young women," Jane said. She went on to explain that he sat down at the first reading next to the girl who plays the slut Denny brings home. And that Bunting was trying to see down her blouse.

"His wife made him sit elsewhere. She must know that he's an old lecher," Jane said.

"Hmm," Mel said. "Maybe there is a sexual connection of a weird sort."

"Between who? Or should that be between whom?"

"You're the grammar maven, not me, Jane. What I meant was that Denny played the son who was marrying the slutty girl and Bunting took it to heart."

"It's a play, not real life," Jane reminded him. "Not if Denny was really having an affair with the girl and Bunting was enraged."

"If so, he probably spends most of his life being enraged. He's an old man and can't compete with good-looking young ones. He must realize that."

Mel nodded. "I know I'm clutching at straws at this point. I'm still waiting for more information about all of these people. When and where they might have met before, whether they worked together, if they're old enemies of Denny's for good reasons. Don't worry. I was just thinking out loud. I've never made an arrest on a wimpy guess at who
could
have done it. I need solid proof.

"And in case you're wondering," he went on, "the slutty girl isn't acting. Everyone who knows her says she's just being her real self. Surly, sexy, and hopes to be the next Britney Spears. No talent. Just sexy. Also, the tough old cop who interviewed her found out that she was a great admirer of Gloria Bunting and said that she thought Ms. Bunting should have dumped her husband when she was young. Joani is a lovethem-and-leave-them type. She wouldn't have murdered Denny for dumping her if they were having an affair. She's always the one to do the dumping. What's more, she told the cop who interviewed her, she'd never date an actor. All of them turn out to be obnoxious and selfish."

"Have you talked to the Buntings' daughter?"

"I have. She said quite frankly that if her mother had divorced him as soon as she, the daughter, was born, her mother could have been a real star in her own right. He held her back from some great offers of roles because there wasn't a role for him in them. Gloria Bunting could, the

daughter says, have rivaled Helen Hayes in her prime. Even now, it's her mother that the grandchildren love. They have no interest in their grandfather at all. Nor does he show them any affection."

"How sad that is."

"Not necessarily. The kids love their grandmother, and so does her daughter. And to my mind, they're all happy enough with that. John Bunting doesn't enter into the relationships, and nobody cares anymore."

"What about the guy who replaced Denny?"

"I don't think he needs an alibi. He was invited by Imry to watch the rehearsal. He didn't know why. Imry offered him Denny's role, which he turned down because it would hurt his, Norman's, reputation to help Imry fill someone else's role. It wasn't until Denny died and Imry contacted him again, saying that Denny had died, that Norman agreed. And even then, Imry hadn't mentioned that Denny had been murdered."

"Another proof of what a jerk Imry is," Jane said.

As she spoke, her cat, Meow, hopped over the fence with a mole in his mouth. Jane leaped up, grabbed a shovel, and forced Meow to drop it, then threw it back over the fence into the vacant lot behind her own house.

Mel and
Jane
had both become used to Max
and
Meow's feline hunting antics. When Jane sat back down, Mel said, "Joani Lang hasn't an alibi, exactly. She claimed she'd gone to a bar to meet a girlfriend who didn't show up. The bartender says she spent the time trying to pick up men. Apparently none of them suited her, or maybe vice versa. The bartender doesn't remember when she left. Or if she left alone or with some guy."

"Who else have you questioned?"

"Jake Stanton. He and his wife had a late dinner with another couple. They went home at ten-thirty and watched a movie. They described it and it was one I've seen. But it's not proof of an alibi — they could have watched it the day before. But I tend to believe them.

"Bill Denk says he just went home and read until he fell asleep. The prop guy, named Tommy Rankin, who has an antiques shop but likes the-

ater, says he doesn't remember where he was, but says he wasn't at the theater that evening for sure. He'd been there earlier to get a fix on what he needed in the way of furniture, flowers on tables, and such. Same with the students who are painting the set. They both went home to study for their classes the next day. And that Chance woman was at a fund-raiser for another project. She and her husband went home around ten."

"Who else had keys?" Jane asked.

"There's a stagehand. Buddy Wilson. He says he wasn't needed until the dress rehearsal and never had reason to use the key and thinks he's lost it anyway. The lighting specialist and his two assistants, who are theater students, won't be needed until Monday evening's rehearsal. They did a preliminary study of the script and stage two weeks ago and checked that the equipment was working.

"You do understand," Mel went on, "that I wouldn't be talking to you about this except that you and Shelley have spent more time with these people than I have. I'm just letting you know my impressions so you two can confirm or deny them based on what you've seen and heard."

This was true. Mel had seldom asked Jane and Shelley for advice in earlier crimes when they'd been acquainted with some of the possible perps. That, of course, didn't stop them from sharingwhat they knew. He usually listened and didn't comment. Jane was flattered to be asked.

"We really only know about Ms. Bunting," she replied. "We've taken her to the needlepoint shop, and a lunch, and back to her hotel. We bought her a gift. Then the next day we took her to the needlepoint lesson. A nosy person asked her some personal questions, which she answered, and then she abruptly changed the subject back to needlepoint."

"What did she say about herself?"

Jane replied, "She'd gone shopping for her grandchildren and spilled baby toys out of her bag. The snoop asked if her daughter didn't have to be pretty old to have babies. Which was insulting. It seemed to me to suggest that Ms. Bunting is even older than she is."

"How old is she?"

"I really don't know. I'd guess early seventies. Ms. Bunting said she was in her early forties when she got pregnant. So the daughter would be around thirty."

"When I interviewed her daughter, that was what I would have guessed," Mel confirmed.

"Anyway, Ms. Bunting replied that it wasn't her daughter who was too old to have babies. It was she herself who had the daughter quite late in her life after three miscarriages when she was young."

Mel said, "That must have been a hard thing for her. Three in a row."

Jane was a bit surprised that any man could understand how difficult it might be to face miscarriage after miscarriage. She'd known several women who'd had one or even two and were devastated by it, fearing they were doomed to be childless forever.

"What did the rest of the people who knew Denny seem to think of him?" Mel asked.

"Shelley and I didn't like him. And when he bragged about being in a film at Sundance that won awards, one of the men said Denny had only been an extra."

"Which one said that?"

"I'm not sure. Shelley might remember. But it could just have been a guess anyway. Denny was very arrogant."

"What were your impressions of the rest of them? John Bunting, for example?"

"And old lech with bad breath," Jane replied instantly. "He made a point of sitting really close to Joani the first night," she went on. "She was wearing a really loose top and he was trying to get a good look at her breasts. Joani moved away from him just as Ms. Bunting told him to behave himself. He did know his lines, however. He sort of slurred them, but he had the words right."

"A heavy drinker?"

"Possibly. No. Probably. Did his old pals who got together say anything about his drinking?"

"They led me to believe they were all tanked by the time they left. I can't see how the rest of them are so successful in business if this is their usual alcohol consumption. But it might be Bunting's norm."

"I'd guess that's true."

Suddenly Mel changed the subject. "Since you fed me such a nice breakfast, let me return the favor. Let's go out to a really expensive restaurant tonight."

"You're on."

It wasn't to be.

Mel called her back at noon. "I'm going to have to back out of dinner. The janitor at the theater was found a while ago in the alley behind the same theater."

"Dead?"

"Not quite. In a coma. Not expected to survive."

"Same kind of weapon?"

"We don't know yet. The hospital is doing X-rays as we speak."

"I was looking forward to dinner, but I understand. I can occupy myself tonight with writing and needlepointing. Do get back to me when you know more, if you have time."

When she hung up, she called Shelley and told her about the janitor.

"Who would want to attack a janitor?" Shelley asked.

"I have no idea. Mel said he'd call me back when he knew more. Let's go get some good coffee and I'll tell you about the conversation I had with him this morning."

When they had their coffee and were sitting in a little park across from Starbucks, where no one could overhear them, Jane said, "For almost the first time, he asked what
we
thought of the rest of the cast."

"Amazing. What did you tell him?"

Jane recounted the conversation, including who had alibis and who didn't. Who had keys to the theater. Mel's impressions of the people he'd interviewed.

"Isn't that interesting. I know he loves you and tolerates me. It surprises me that he was so open about what he knew, let alone that he actually asked for our impressions of the people at the theater."

"I was astonished, too. We've nearly always had to force our opinions on him."

Jane took the last sip of her coffee and sighed. "I have to go home and do my two hours of writing and one hour of needlepointing. You know, I'm really enjoying learning how to work on a canvas more than I thought. It has nothing to dowith words or plots. Maybe that's why I like it. It's a different sort of creativity."

"I know what you mean. It's much more interesting than rating caterers, figuring the taxes, buying groceries, and all the other boring things we're forced to do."

When Jane was home and at the computer, after checking the answering machine, which had no messages, she found herself wondering the same thing Shelley had. Why would anyone attack a janitor?

What do janitors do?

They clean up places when the people who occupy them aren't there.

That makes blackmail easy.

Mel was sure to know this, too.

She tried to put those thoughts out of her head and went back to her laptop to do her two-hour stint. She looked over her notes once more and made a note about butlers having the same access to private matters as janitors. Then deleted it. Two hours later she'd done another chapter. She was really on a roll today. She liked starting another chapter as soon as she finished one. It made her feel she'd gotten a head start on the next day. So she worked for another half hour. Then called Shelley again.

"No word from Mel. Want to needlepoint together for a while?"

"Okay. Here or at your house?"

"Mine. I want to be here in case Mel calls."