Murder on the Hoof: A Mystery (Colleen McCabe Series) by Kathryn O'Sullivan

heel,” she ordered. The dog backed away. She could feel everyone at her back and sense the tension mount as she reached for one of the handles. She slowly opened a door, revealing Rich Bailey slumped at the bottom of what looked more like an enormous dumbwaiter than an elevator. He was limp, like a Raggedy Andy doll, and his head hung down and to the right.
    “First Doris and now Rich,” Rita said, shaking her head.
    “I wonder why the elevator’s up here,” Doc Wales said.
    “Maybe it’s the ghost,” Sam offered.
    “This play is cursed,” added another.
    This play isn’t cursed, Colleen thought. Someone murdered Rich. She didn’t need a medical examiner’s report to tell her the marks on Rich’s neck had been caused by some type of rope or belt. Just yesterday morning, she had congratulated Rich on his nice makeup work for the training exercise. Now he was dead in the Whalehead Club’s dumbwaiter. Rich was one of the most honorable people she knew in Corolla. Why would someone want him dead?
    “What should we do?” Nellie asked.
    “Call Sheriff Dorman,” she replied, using the bottom of her shirt to close the door gently, protecting the others from having to see poor Rich in this state. “Nobody touch anything or go anywhere. I’m sure the sheriff will want to talk to each of you.”
    The room was still. It was the quietest Colleen had heard the thespians since she had entered the building.
    “And,” she added, scanning the worried faces, “someone needs to find Fawn.”

 
    Chapter 5
     
    “Did somebody mention the Scottish play?” Adam asked in an accusatory tone.
    “I think Lane did,” Myrtle said, pointing a finger at the debonair actor.
    “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never do such a thing,” Lane said, genuinely insulted.
    “I don’t remember hearing anyone say it,” Nellie said, trying to recall what had been said during the last few weeks of rehearsals.
    “Well, someone must have mentioned the Bard’s play,” Rita chimed in from her sewing table.
    “Maybe it was you and your peacock feathers,” Sam said to his wife.
    “Or you and your whistling,” she retorted.
    “Told you they shouldn’t let that black cat come around here,” Lane said.
    “Leave poor Inky out of this,” Myrtle told him.
    “For the love of God,” Doc Wales interjected. “This is all a bunch of ridiculous superstition. A play doesn’t become cursed because of black cats or whistling or the fact you mention Mac —”
    “No!” cried the group of thespians before he could finish.
    “Quiet!” Bill boomed.
    The room fell suddenly silent. In all the years Colleen had known Bill, she had never heard him shout so loudly. Even though she wasn’t feeling particularly friendly toward him, given the Hayley secret he had been keeping from her, she was empathetic. He must be at his wits’ end with this group and their superstitions. It all seemed a bit silly to her, but she remembered how grave her college roommate had been when she had told Colleen about theater superstitions. Peacock feathers should never be brought onstage or used as a costume element, since they represented the “evil eye.” Whistling in the theater was bad luck because, in the early days of theater, a whistle was a stagehand’s way of signaling the lowering of a sandbag and was certain to result in an accident. Three candles onstage meant the person nearest the shortest candle would be the next to marry … or die. And the worst of them all: Uttering the name of Shakespeare’s play Macbeth in a rehearsal or theater hall was an invitation to certain disaster. Since the discovery of Rich’s body in the elevator, the actors had been busy blaming one another for violating these traditions and cursing the show.
    “Isn’t anyone here the least bit concerned about what happened to Rich?” Bill asked, frowning with disappointment at the entire troupe.
    The group members lowered their heads in shame. Nice going, Colleen thought.
    “Uh,