Untimely Death (8 page)

Aaron had taken it upon himself to use the time to fit Peter Simmonds with his Romeo costume while his friend who played the part of Mercutio sat close by. The others had scattered around the room. One or two, heads down and focused on their phones, were oblivious to what was going on around them, while two others were running lines.

“Hey, Simon, how much longer do we have to hang around here?” an actor called out. “We’re getting hungry.”

“Good question,” said Charlotte. “Let’s find out.”

She picked up her phone and pressed Ray’s number. When he answered, she listened for a moment and then ended the call.

“He said the state officers are on their way to interview them. Should be here soon. So while they’re waiting, why don’t you and I get them some sandwiches and drinks from the canteen,” Charlotte said to Simon. “It’ll help to pass the time, if nothing else. But they mustn’t eat anywhere near my costumes or fabrics. That’s the rule.”

“Good idea,” said Simon. “Let’s do it.”

Just as they entered the main hallway, Simon smiled down at her at the same instant as she lifted her face to him to say something. At that moment, unknown to them, Ray turned the corner in the corridor a few feet behind them. Seeing them, he frowned.

They paused as Charlotte said something to Simon that he didn’t quite catch. He lowered his head toward her in a natural listening gesture and touched her arm. The sun slanting in from high windows bathed them in a soft, warm light.

Ray’s frown turned into a dark scowl as Simon and Charlotte disappeared together into the canteen. He turned around when Phil placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, boss.”

“Yeah, Phil, what is it?”

“The state boys have just arrived.”

“Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

“Everything all right? This getting to you? You sound a little, I don’t know, peeved.”

Ray squared his shoulders and gave Phil what he hoped was a reassuring, steady look.

“No, I’m fine. Let’s go open the door for the Albany team.”

But the image of Charlotte smiling at that director stayed with him, and he didn’t like the way it made him feel. Not one bit.

*

Fletcher Macmillan shook Harvey Jacobs’s hand and left his office. He could hardly believe his luck. This could be the big break he’d been waiting for. His interview with Lauren Richmond at the hospital was the last one she’d given, and now she’d gone and got herself murdered! And
Harvey Jacobs had opened up like he couldn’t believe. If Fletcher played his cards right, this story could be career changing. He’d call the
New York Times
right away, and then head back to the newsroom and start writing.

But first, a late lunch. He’d had nothing since breakfast and was starving. He got in his car and drove into town. At the diner, he ordered a BLT and a chocolate milkshake. While he waited for it, he flipped through his notebook, reviewed his notes, and then called his contact at the
New York Times
. He explained what had happened in Walkers Ridge, how he’d got interviews with the victim and the hotel owner. This story had everything going for it! A young, beautiful victim, stabbed just as she teetered on the brink of stardom. He fingered the menu while he waited for a response, and then a slow smile spread across his face as he made a fist and pulled it toward his body.

“I’m on it,” he said before pressing the red “end call” button. When the waitress appeared with his food, he told her to wrap it up and that he’d take it with him. Who had time for lunch when the
New York Times
was waiting for him, Fletcher Macmillan, its newest stringer from the Hudson Valley, to file his story?

Simon Dyer was exhausted; he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so drained. All that waiting around, trying to keep the actors’ spirits up. And then answering the police officers’ endless questions. They were professional, he’d give them that. But even when you’d done nothing wrong, being interviewed by a trained police officer was still intimidating, even though he didn’t think they suspected him. How could they? He’d been front of house, not even on the stage, in full view of everybody the whole time. Still, they’d taken his fingerprints, along with everyone else’s, so they could “eliminate you from our inquiry.” But his record was bound to show up when the prints were matched, and they might take a second look at him. When they’d finished with him this afternoon, they’d advised him that they might want to speak to him again.

One thing about the police interview bothered him, though. They’d asked if anyone was out of his sight and unaccounted for during the break when Lauren was presumed to have been murdered. Did anyone leave the room?

He’d told them Aaron had gone off on an errand and was gone a little longer than he, Simon, would have expected. He’d hesitated over his response. Not because he felt any particular loyalty to Aaron—he barely knew the kid—he just wasn’t comfortable giving up too much information. But he had to say something. He’d discussed what to do with Charlotte and agreed with her that if the police found out about it later, as they probably would, they’d wonder why he hadn’t mentioned it. Inwardly, he shrugged. Maybe it wouldn’t matter. Either it was important or it wasn’t. If Aaron hadn’t done anything wrong, then he had nothing to worry about.

He trudged across the parking lot at the rear of the hotel, his footsteps crunching on the gravel. The state troopers’ cars and van were gone; just one car bearing the livery of the local police department remained. A pale moon hung in the darkening sky, occasionally obscured by drifting clouds. He paused for a moment to gaze up. Without the light pollution of an urban environment, the night sky seemed deeper and darker here, and the stars showcased so much brighter, like diamonds against a black velvet backdrop. At another time, another place in his life, he might have enjoyed the lightscape above him.
But not here and not now. He knew from his job interview with Harvey Jacobs that this place was isolated, but he hadn’t realized how the isolation would impact him. It wasn’t so bad in the daytime when he was busy and people were about, and it was bound to improve when the season got going, but he was finding the evenings long and lonely.

He set off again. A light coming from Charlotte’s bungalow, diffused behind a closed curtain, gave off a warm, inviting look. He hesitated for a moment, wanting to knock on her door under some vague pretext or other that might get him invited in, but he couldn’t come up with anything that didn’t sound ridiculously stupid, never mind even remotely plausible. She’d lived and worked here at the Jacobs Grand Hotel a long time, someone had told him. He wondered what had brought her here and why she’d stayed so long. Did she have a circle of close friends in town? Or did she keep to herself and that’s the way she liked it? He remembered the feeling of jealousy he’d picked up from the police officer and wondered again what they meant to each other.

He smiled to himself. In a way, he and the police officer had more in common than might at first be apparent. As a theater director, he too dealt in motivation fueled by the complete range of human emotions, some exposed, some carefully hidden. Truth, lies, regret, greed, jealousy, deception, yearning, honesty, and redemption drove the
stories he worked so hard to bring to life. Shakespeare was all about the examined life.

He hadn’t always been a Shakespeare director, nor had he always lived on the East Coast. Back in Colorado, he’d started out in community theater, working his way into bigger and more professional productions until he found himself in New York. Off Broadway, then on. Big stars, big budgets, big dreams, big risks, big rewards. And then came the cocaine years—endless days and nights of snow blindness, bringing people he didn’t want into his life. But they came with the territory and took away what was left of his ambition. And finally came the night when his life, or what was left of it, crashed and burned.

He put the key in the lock and opened the door to his bungalow. It was the same size as Charlotte’s, but where she had made hers a home, his was a temporary place with all the damp, musty charm of a roadside cabin with cheap pine paneling in the off season. Except for his clothes, a few books, and a laptop, there were no personal items. No photos sat on a side table, no artwork graced a wall.

He hung up his coat, switched on the electric heater to try to take some of the dampness away, and sat down. He’d eaten a solitary dinner in the canteen, so there was not even the diversion of having to prepare a meal. He hated television and, except for the occasional documentary or news program, rarely watched it. He thought for a moment and then pulled out the business card he’d
picked up on Charlotte’s desk that afternoon. He looked at his house phone and then stretched out on the sofa.

Not tonight, but one night, and soon, he would call her. A whole summer stretched in front of him, and he should make the most of it. It was time he stopped punishing himself and got on with his life. As the saying goes, life is for the living.

Which reminded him. He’d have to find an actress to replace Lauren. That shouldn’t be too hard. Word that a part was up for grabs even in a place like this spread like wildfire through the New York agents’ offices. He’d place a call in the morning and get that ball rolling. He checked his watch. Not too late for a cup of coffee, so he went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. While he waited for it to boil, he glanced out the window at the lights in Charlotte’s bungalow and wondered what she was doing.

*

“Are you hungry?” Ray asked. “If you are, we could go into town and get something to eat. It’s not that late.”

Charlotte shook her head. “No, I couldn’t eat a thing. How about you? There’s some leftover chicken; I could make you a sandwich.”

“That would be nice. And a cup of coffee to go with it would really hit the spot.”

Ray studied her as she pulled a plastic container out of the fridge and set it on the counter.

“I wish I could talk to you about this case,” he said, “but I’m not supposed to. It’s operational. Sharing information with someone, even someone like you that I trust, could jeopardize the investigation. Or worse. Saw a watertight case thrown out of court once because a detective told his wife something that turned out to be important, and she shared it with her bridge club. And one of the bridge-club ladies shared it with her brother-in-law, who just happened to be the defense attorney. The judge had no choice but to declare a mistrial.” He reached for the cup of coffee Charlotte held out to him. “True story.”

Charlotte washed her hands, dried them on a clean towel, and began slicing a chicken breast. “Did I ask you about the case? Of course you can’t tell me anything,” she said. “I wouldn’t expect you to.”

“What do you know about this Simon character?” Ray asked.

“Not much. He’s only been here a few weeks. Seems competent enough as a director. The actors respect him. Overheard him warning Brian Prentice about his drinking. Let me see. When was that? Seems like days, weeks ago. Anyway, he told Brian he had to knock the drinking on its head because it’s putting his career in jeopardy and this is probably his last chance to save what’s left of it.”

“Well, he should know about last chances,” said Ray.

“Who should?”

“Well, isn’t this Dyer’s last chance?”

“I don’t know. Is it?”

Ray did not reply. Charlotte finished assembling the sandwich, cut it in half, and handed the plate to Ray. “Do you want to eat at the table or on the couch?”

“How about on the couch? The evening news is about to start. I want to see if there’s anything about our murder.”

Charlotte switched on the television, and an image of Lauren filled the screen behind the newsreader. She put her arm around Rupert, who always sat on the couch with her.

“I guess her family’s been notified,” Ray remarked, “or they wouldn’t be showing her photo like that. At least, I’d hope not.”

The newscaster’s voice filled the room. “We begin our news coverage tonight with the murder of an up-and-coming actress at a Catskills resort. Lauren Richmond, twenty-three, was stabbed to death this morning during a rehearsal of
Romeo and Juliet
at Jacobs Grand Hotel. Details are still sketchy, but we hope to bring you more by the end of the broadcast.” The newsreader continued with the day’s top stories and then introduced the weather specialist.

“I didn’t know they did Shakespeare in the Catskills,” the meteorologist remarked in the folksy bit of banter that the presenters always engaged in. “Well, they can prepare for rain and dropping temperatures. We’ve got some stormy weather coming in over the next forty-eight hours. I’ll tell you all about it after the break.”

Ray took a deep breath. “Well, the news is out there now. There could be television crews here tomorrow.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Charlotte picked up her telephone and dialed Harvey’s extension. When Aaron picked up, she told him to tell his uncle to prepare for media that could be arriving in the morning. He thanked her, and she returned to Ray.

“That was Aaron.”

“So I gathered. He’s a person of interest to the investigation.”

“Why?”

“Because according to one witness, he was out of sight during the time the murder was committed. That makes the Albany boys very curious.”

“You don’t think that he had anything to do with it, do you?”

“Well why not? Apparently he had the opportunity, and you told me yourself he had a motive.”

“What motive?”

“She bullied his cousin to death. He must have hated her.”

“Well, yes, but that doesn’t make him a killer.”

“No, of course it doesn’t. But the detectives will be taking a pretty close look at him.”

Charlotte gave him a sharp look. “And why is that, exactly?”

“Because there’s no one else in the frame at this point. So far, everyone else is accounted for.”

“Was Aaron interviewed today?” she asked.

“Yes, briefly. Why?”

She sat back. “I don’t think he did it,” she said firmly.

“Look, Charlotte, people always say that about someone they know when there’s been a murder. Mind you, they’re usually talking about a family member, but sometimes it’s a neighbor.”

“Is he going to be arrested?”

“Not yet. The detectives have still got a case to build.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to discuss the case with me.”

“I’m not. You didn’t hear any of this from me. This conversation never took place.”

She smiled. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“All what?”

*

In his apartment in the hotel, Harvey Jacobs checked the company e-mail. Since the news broadcast, ten reservations had been booked.

“Aaron,” he called to his nephew. “Do you know anybody who can update the website? We need to get our summer program up there right away. In fact, we’re going to be so busy over the next few days, I’m going to call Nancy and see if she’ll come back to work.” Aaron looked up from the game he was playing on his iPad. He was a little startled by the broad smile on his uncle’s face.

“This is the summer we turn the corner, my boy,” he said. “If I’d known murder could be so good for business, I’d have . . .” He caught himself and let out a low little chuckle.

“Well, never mind. I wonder how much it would cost to give the lobby a bit of a makeover. Freshen things up. Smarten up the place. It’s looking a little tired, don’t you think?”