Antiques Fruitcake (4 page)

“For when the rat poison doesn't do the job.”

Rudder paced for a few moments, then asked, “Is the maintenance room kept locked?”

Leroy shook his head. “Only when I leave for the night. Nothin' worth stealin'.”

“So anyone who might be at the Playhouse, cast and crew for example, would have access to that room during the day?”

The janitor nodded.

“Thanks, Leroy. This is all very helpful.”

Leroy's dull eyes brightened. “Is that all?”

“Just one more question.” The sheriff put some oomph into his next line reading: “Where were
you
between seven forty-five and eight-fifteen tonight?”

The janitor frowned in thought. “Let's see . . . I woulda been backstage to operate the conveyor belt durin' that time and maybe a little before.”

“Conveyor belt?”

Brandy put in, “It's part of the play.” She briefly explained, adding, “The prop fruitcake was on a little table backstage. I wasn't attending it right then. Actors and crew would pass right by it. Before that, it was in my care.”

Rudder nodded, then turned to Leroy. “Which means you had ample opportunity to tamper with the fruitcake.”

Leroy looked startled. “Me and how many others! But why would I? I had no reason to kill Madeline.”

Just a little mouse on the couch, I peeped, “Oh, but you
did,
Leroy. A very
old
reason.”

He swiveled in the chair toward me. “I don't know what you could be referrin' to, Vivian.”

I said, “Sheriff, once upon a time, back when Madeline de Morlaye was Hildegard Gooch, and Leroy had all his hair and the reputation of a recent high-school football hero, the two got married. Then, less than a year later, the bride skipped town with their scant savings, leaving behind a mountain of charge card debt.”

The janitor stared down at his hands.

The sheriff said, “You care to comment on that, Leroy?”

He raised his chin, his eyes wet and glittering with pain and memory. “It's true enough. She left me in a hell of a fix. Lost my business—I had a trophy shop, 'cause I'd been an athlete and people still respected me back then. I wound up losin' my house . . . had to declare bankruptcy. Worked factory jobs awhile, then lately . . . maintenance.”

Rudder nodded. “What sort of reunion did you two have here at the Playhouse?”

“That's what hurt me the most, Sheriff. The way Hildie treated me during this production—like
I
had done
her
wrong. And do you know, at first, she pretended not even to
recognize
me?” He gulped air. “All right, so maybe I did have a reason to want to kill her. But I didn't.
I didn't.
You know why?”

“Why, Leroy?”

“I still love her.”

He began to weep, and Brandy got up and showed him out. Such a good heart, my little girl. But all I felt about Leroy was a sense that he was a very, very good suspect.

Oh, think ill of me if you must! But you have to be tough to be a good detective! Hard-boiled. Merciless. And if Brandy should tell you that I got teary-eyed myself, remind her that such moisture is a side effect of my glaucoma medication.

Next in the chair was Paul. The lighting designer, his anxiety apparent, nonetheless readily agreed to questioning.

To Rudder's inquiry of where he'd been between seven forty-five and eight-fifteen, Paul responded, “No surprises there. I was in the lighting booth in back of the auditorium.”

Brandy discreetly shook her head.

Catching that, Rudder asked Paul, “The
entire
time?”

“Ah . . . no,” Paul corrected. “I guess, come to think of it, I
did
leave the booth for a short while—about a quarter to eight. Vivian asked me to make an adjustment to the stage lights after Madeline complained about them.”

Rudder said, “Would that put you in the vicinity of the prop table?”

He shrugged and grinned nervously. “Well, yes, in order to get to the stage lights scaffolding, I had to walk by it—but so did just about everybody.”

“What about the maintenance room?”

“What about it?”

“Did you go near it this evening?”

“No. Why would I?” He frowned, shifted in the chair. “Look, Sheriff, I had
no
reason to kill Madeline. None at all.”

From the couch the little mouse peeped again: “Paul, dear, perhaps it's best you throw some light on your affair with our leading lady . . . however brief it may have been. Back in the early stages of preparing for our production?”

Paul seemed to be deciding whether to scowl or start crying. “How is that any kind of . . . of murder motive? It ended amicably enough.”

“I hardly think so,” I replied. “After your wife found out about the dalliance, she filed for divorce, didn't she?”

“We'd been having other problems—”

“And you had a problem of your
own,
when Madeline dropped you and set her sights on Miguel. She always was a fickle pickle!”

Paul was shaking his head and there was something almost pleading in his tone and manner now. “Vivian, that affair, and Jenny filing for divorce . . . that was just a speed bump. Maybe you haven't heard, but we're getting back together. But I
am
guilty of one thing.”

The sheriff sat forward. “Yes?”

Brandy sat forward. “Yes?”

And I sat forward. “Yes?”

“I purposely gave that monster unflattering lighting.” He paused. “Want a
real
motive, Sheriff? Ask
Martha
if Madeline didn't find out that our esteemed wardrobe mistress was selling costumes and pocketing the money.”

First I'd heard of this!

Paul was saying, “Madeline read her the Riot Act and threatened to go to the board.”

That
was a motive! And what
is
the Riot Act, anyway?

Rudder asked, “Paul, what makes you privy to this damning information?”

Another shrug. “Madeline told me. Pillow talk, before I got dumped.”

Shortly, when the wardrobe supervisor occupied the suspect chair, mannish Martha snapped, “That's a damn lie!”

She swiveled toward me. “Vivian, I
swear
to you, I've never sold costumes for personal gain. Why would I jeopardize my job at the Playhouse, not to mention my reputation? I
demand
to know who said that!”

Rudder, who had not mentioned Paul, said, “Ah . . . let's just say it's come up.”

“If you're going to assault me with scurrilous rumors, Sheriff, I have a mind not to answer any more of your questions!”

Rudder had painted himself into a corner, so I said indignantly, “Sheriff, you must cease besmirching this woman's good name! You need to lay this foul rumor to rest. A check of the inventory list against the costumes in wardrobe should clear this up, toot-sweet.”

Then to Martha, I asked sweetly, if not tootly, “What do you think of that solution, dear?”

The woman glared at me.

“Well, Martha?” Rudder asked. “Is that our next step? Check the inventory?”

The wardrobe supervisor sighed unhappily. “All right, okay . . . maybe I
did
sell a few old moth-riddled costumes. But all of what I got went back into the costume account—every penny!”

I asked, “Was that
before
or
after
Madeline threatened to go to the board, dear?”

“Well . . . I guess, uh . . . after. But that was an accident of timing.”

“Ah, but timing is everything! Especially in the theater. And murder.”

Martha adjusted her weight in the chair. “Whatever. I didn't kill her. I don't mourn her, but I didn't kill her.”

Rudder said, “No?”

“No. But I . . . I did put that dead rat in her dressing room. There's no law against that, and didn't
that
feel
good
!”

Bad reviews come in all forms.

Rudder asked Martha about the crucial half hour.

She said, “I was in wardrobe, where else?”

“You didn't leave that room?”

“No.”

Brandy interjected, “But I
saw
you backstage.” Martha frowned at her, then said, “Oh. Yeah. Forgot. I did grab a smoke.”

I asked, “Where?”

“Out the stage door.”

“Which took you backstage,” Rudder pressed.

“Well, duh! That's the only way to
get
to the stage door.”

Rudder pressed further: “At what time?”

Martha pursed her lips. “Umm . . . about a quarter to eight?”

Who was she asking?

Looming over her, Rudder demanded, “And how long were you gone from the dressing room?”

“Maybe five minutes, tops. You can ask Clara—she was helping me with the costumes.”

“Who's Clara?” Rudder asked, checking the names on my list.

I said, “Assistant stage manager. High-school student—an intern.”

Rudder's gaze returned to Martha. “Did Clara leave wardrobe during that half hour?”

Martha shook her head. “No. The girl was there when I left for a smoke, and was still there when I got back.”

Rudder turned to Brandy for confirmation or denial.

Brandy said, “I didn't see Clara backstage, Sheriff.”

Rudder asked, “Martha, then what did you do?”

She shrugged. “Then I left to go watch from the audience.”

Rudder snapped his little notebook shut. “All right, then. You can go.”

Martha stood, said dramatically, “
Thank
you,” a trifle over-the-top for my taste, and left.

The sheriff called for Miguel, who leaned a hand on the interview chair, but did not sit, meeting the law enforcer's gaze head-on.

“I know what questions you've been asking, Sheriff,” the handsome man said, rather belligerently. “So let's make this brief. I
was
backstage, and I
did
have access to the maintenance room . . . because I'm the
stage manager
! That doesn't mean I had a damn thing to do with Madeline's death.”

As Miguel was heading out, Rudder asked his back, “But you
did
have an affair with her.”

Miguel turned, dark eyes flashing. “That's stretching a point. What we're talking about is a one-night stand, which I regret.”

I said, “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen . . . but, Miguel, did Madeline threaten to tell Kimberly about your . . . one-night stand?”

“Yes, she did. But I told Kim myself, before Madeline got to her. End of story.”

And on that decent curtain line, he left.

Finally Kimberly took the chair.

“Miguel advised me not to talk to you,” Kimberly began. She'd been crying, eyes red. “But I . . . I want to.”

“I appreciate that,” Rudder said. “Let's start with who you saw backstage—no matter how briefly—in the half an hour before the play began.”

The attractive blonde understudy thought about that. “Well, I
was
there, of course, with Brandy—we were sitting together, just off the wing. Paul came through on his way to fix some stage lights.... Martha walked by and went out the stage door, lighting up a cigarette.... Leroy was there, getting ready to run the conveyor belt . . . and Miguel came over just to be with me for a while. Then Madeline got into position for her entrance, and Miguel left, then Brandy, and I went over to the prop table and picked up the fruitcake on the platter, then I stood behind Madeline, ready for my first line.”

“What about this high-school girl?” Rudder asked. “Clara?”

Kimberly shook her head. “I didn't see her. Did you, Brandy?”

“No.”

Rudder asked, “What about the bit players playin' factory workers?”

“They were already onstage,” Kimberly answered. “In position for the curtain to rise.”

Rudder paced some more, then came to a stop in front of the seated Kimberly. “So then, after Brandy left you, and after Madeline made her entrance . . . that put you alone with the fruitcake.”

“Yes,” Kimberly said, barely audible. “I'm afraid it did. There's no one who can prove
my
innocence. But I am innocent.”

Rudder said, “You don't deny you knew that your ‘friend' Miguel had an affair with the de Morlaye woman?”

“That was before Miguel and I . . .” Her eyes flashed with indignation. “Is there anything else, Sheriff?”

“No. No, that'll be all. For now.”

When Kimberly had gone, Rudder looked at me, then Brandy, then me again. “Well, ladies, what do you make of our little cast of characters?”

I rose from the couch. “I think . . . I
know
. . . you have the kind of problem, Sheriff, that no detective relishes.”

Brandy, taking Sushi with her, got to her feet as well. She finished my thought, saying: “Too many suspects with means, opportunity, and motive.”

My cell phone rang, the screen identifying Virginia Shoemaker. Word had reached the chair of the Playhouse board of directors of Madeline's untimely demise.

“Vivian,” the woman said, in that archly theatrical way of hers, “I'll come right to the point. In spite of this terrible tragedy, we all agree that we must go forward with the production. The food pantry is depending on our contribution this Christmas. We simply
can't
let the destitute down.”

“No, indeed,” I replied somberly, my acting skills masking my joy. My little masterpiece would go on after all!

Virginia was saying, “I realize we may take
some
criticism. . . .” She trailed off, to make way for validation.

And I gave it to her: “My dear Virginia, there may not be a Santa Claus, but there will be a fruitcake play. It's what Madeline would have wanted. Why, I can hear her now up in that great playhouse in the sky, saying, ‘The show must go on!' ”