you do already?”
“What makes you think I was to blame?” Below, parallel arrows of vehicles shot past.
“I was kidding. What happened?”
Angie gave a rundown of the day’s events. All Jarvis did was laugh. “You didn’t know that was why they called you?”
“Well, no.”
“Honey, why would they call you when they could’ve found a licensed substitute teacher at half the price?”
“He said he needed my expertise.”
“Exactly my point.”
Damn. Why was she so gullible? “He did ask Tyson too, you know.” So anxious was she to dispel feelings of guilt, she neglected to mention how many times Randy steered the conversation away from Tyson’s possible participation. “That’s why we had the disagreement. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not working on Gwen’s murder.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m not!”
SIX
From the school parking lot Tuesday morning, Angie phoned Tyson to see how things were going, but he didn’t answer. This was nothing unusual since the lady’s man tended to party late and turn off his phone. So she dropped the cell phone in her handbag and headed inside, butterflies crowding her insides.
She bypassed Randy’s office and beelined for the auditorium. The auditorium, otherwise known as an arena, looked a little dingy but all right. The green room was a different story. Everything was upside-down. Yes, the cops had been here. Again? Why?
She set a couple of things back in their places then gave up and went to her office, which remained locked. Was it possible Randy didn’t have a key to it? Wouldn’t the police break in—or would they wait for Angie to bring her key? She’d have to ask Jarvis. Angie dropped her jacket on the arm of the couch.
There was a note on the desk from Kiana.
Mrs. Deacon, We need the pants for Bobbie Jo’s costume. Have a test this a.m., can’t leave. Could you go to Thrifty Lady on Bond St. and get it from Cilla? TX Kee
Most of the costumes were regular street clothes: jeans and tees, but several flashbacks required special outfits. So, Angie followed the GPS directions to Bond Street. The Thrifty Lady was the middle shop in a strip mall set back from the street. A tall woman with reddish-blonde hair, and wearing a brightly flowered skirt was just turning a key in the front door. She pocketed the key, then noticed Angie approaching. “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice so soft Angie struggled to hear, “the shop is closed today. A dear friend died over the weekend.” She adjusted an enormous canvas bag on her forearm. “I came to pick up a few things. Sorry if this is an inconvenience.”
“Was your friend Gwen Forest?”
The woman, who must be Cilla, nodded. She removed a pair of large-lensed sunglasses. The pale blue eyes were red rimmed. “She was my best friend.”
“I was sorry to hear what happened.” Angie introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit.
“Oh, you’re the woman they called in to find out who killed Gwen.”
Angie shook her head, hard. Who was spreading this rumor? “I was brought in to help with the production. That’s all.”
Cilla nodded slowly, as if Angie might be lying and somehow standing in for the real Angelina Deacon who would lift them all from this nightmare. Cilla drew the key from her pocket and pushed it into the lock. “Come on in, I’ll get what you need. My name’s Cilla Philmore.”
Cilla laid her belongings on the counter, then went about collecting the appropriate items. Angie followed her around the shop. Apparently, the place didn’t only sell clothing. A shelf of new looking books sat beside a rack of brand new shoes. Inventory must come from more than just walk-in donations.
A wall of small paintings graced a back corner. As Cilla selected the slacks Kiana requested, Angie examined a few of them. Unless she missed her guess, this picture of a NE winter scene, most likely Mount Okemo in Vermonthad been done by artist Theodore Clement.
“What makes you think I was to blame?” Below, parallel arrows of vehicles shot past.
“I was kidding. What happened?”
Angie gave a rundown of the day’s events. All Jarvis did was laugh. “You didn’t know that was why they called you?”
“Well, no.”
“Honey, why would they call you when they could’ve found a licensed substitute teacher at half the price?”
“He said he needed my expertise.”
“Exactly my point.”
Damn. Why was she so gullible? “He did ask Tyson too, you know.” So anxious was she to dispel feelings of guilt, she neglected to mention how many times Randy steered the conversation away from Tyson’s possible participation. “That’s why we had the disagreement. I told him in no uncertain terms that I was not working on Gwen’s murder.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“I’m not!”
SIX
From the school parking lot Tuesday morning, Angie phoned Tyson to see how things were going, but he didn’t answer. This was nothing unusual since the lady’s man tended to party late and turn off his phone. So she dropped the cell phone in her handbag and headed inside, butterflies crowding her insides.
She bypassed Randy’s office and beelined for the auditorium. The auditorium, otherwise known as an arena, looked a little dingy but all right. The green room was a different story. Everything was upside-down. Yes, the cops had been here. Again? Why?
She set a couple of things back in their places then gave up and went to her office, which remained locked. Was it possible Randy didn’t have a key to it? Wouldn’t the police break in—or would they wait for Angie to bring her key? She’d have to ask Jarvis. Angie dropped her jacket on the arm of the couch.
There was a note on the desk from Kiana.
Mrs. Deacon, We need the pants for Bobbie Jo’s costume. Have a test this a.m., can’t leave. Could you go to Thrifty Lady on Bond St. and get it from Cilla? TX Kee
Most of the costumes were regular street clothes: jeans and tees, but several flashbacks required special outfits. So, Angie followed the GPS directions to Bond Street. The Thrifty Lady was the middle shop in a strip mall set back from the street. A tall woman with reddish-blonde hair, and wearing a brightly flowered skirt was just turning a key in the front door. She pocketed the key, then noticed Angie approaching. “I’m sorry,” she said in a voice so soft Angie struggled to hear, “the shop is closed today. A dear friend died over the weekend.” She adjusted an enormous canvas bag on her forearm. “I came to pick up a few things. Sorry if this is an inconvenience.”
“Was your friend Gwen Forest?”
The woman, who must be Cilla, nodded. She removed a pair of large-lensed sunglasses. The pale blue eyes were red rimmed. “She was my best friend.”
“I was sorry to hear what happened.” Angie introduced herself and explained the reason for her visit.
“Oh, you’re the woman they called in to find out who killed Gwen.”
Angie shook her head, hard. Who was spreading this rumor? “I was brought in to help with the production. That’s all.”
Cilla nodded slowly, as if Angie might be lying and somehow standing in for the real Angelina Deacon who would lift them all from this nightmare. Cilla drew the key from her pocket and pushed it into the lock. “Come on in, I’ll get what you need. My name’s Cilla Philmore.”
Cilla laid her belongings on the counter, then went about collecting the appropriate items. Angie followed her around the shop. Apparently, the place didn’t only sell clothing. A shelf of new looking books sat beside a rack of brand new shoes. Inventory must come from more than just walk-in donations.
A wall of small paintings graced a back corner. As Cilla selected the slacks Kiana requested, Angie examined a few of them. Unless she missed her guess, this picture of a NE winter scene, most likely Mount Okemo in Vermonthad been done by artist Theodore Clement.
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