next day. A figure in a cape and hat—probably someone early for the Phantom rehearsal—disappeared around the corner at the far end of the hall. I could hear voices coming from the stage—Marv and his crew—but no chatter emanated from the Green Room or smaller dressing rooms. Stella’s door remained closed but no light seeped from under it. I knocked. Nothing.
“Stella?” I called. Still nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. I felt chilled all of a sudden. Why would Stella lock the door? Assuming it was one of those locks where you push in the button to engage the lock, I ducked into my room next door and pulled a wire hanger from the rack.
Not stopping to analyze the sense of urgency that was driving me, I untwisted the hanger and returned to Stella’s door. I poked one end of the stiff wire into the lock and maneuvered it, remembering the time Mom and I had used this trick to open the bathroom door when five-year-old Alice Rose locked herself in and refused to come out. The hanger jammed against part of the mechanism, then slipped. Darn. I wiggled it again, finally feeling it wedge in such a way I could twist it and pop the lock. Success! I turned the knob and the door swung open onto darkness.
The room smelled worse than it had, the musty scent overlaid with an odor that made me think there was a sewer backup. I wrinkled my nose, gagging. Light from the hall crept only halfway into the room, leaving the vanity and chair in near darkness. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I thought I could make out someone sitting in the chair. “Stella?” I whispered. No answer.
My fingers tingled like the blood had been cut off. I slid them up the wall beside me, seeking the light switch. Part of me knew what I would see when I flicked the light on, and I wasn’t ready to face it. My fingers hesitated on the switch plate.
“What are you doing?” said a gruff voice directly behind me.
I stifled a shriek and jumped. The overhead light flared on, illuminating the woman’s body in the chair, the reddish hair draping over the back, and the darker blood pooled on the floor and spattered across the wall and mirror.
Chapter Six
FOR ONE SHATTERING MOMENT WHEN I GLIMPSED the red hair, I thought it was Stella. But a second glance told me it was Audrey Faye with a knifelike implement plunged into her neck.
“Oh my God,” Marv said behind me. “Aunt Nan told me about dry rot and warned me about mice in the dressing rooms, but she never mentioned anything like this.” He bolted from the room and I could hear him being sick in the hall.
I didn’t approach the body. There was nothing I could do for her and I knew the police would be pissed off if I intruded on the crime scene any more than I already had. I backed out of the room, careful not to touch anything, and found Marv leaning against the wall. He dabbed at his mouth with the hem of his tee shirt.
“Audrey Faye is dead,” I told him. I pulled out my cell phone. “We need to call the police.”
He nodded. “I’ll get a bucket and mop.”
Two patrol officers arrived just as Marv finished cleaning up. One of them, a woman about my age, with olive skin and dark hair, went into the room where Audrey’s body slumped on the chair. The other, as luck would have it, was my ex-husband, Hank Parker. With thirty officers on the St. Elizabeth Police Department you’d think the odds would favor me occasionally and a stranger would show up when I dialed 911. But no. He didn’t spot me immediately because I shifted half a step so Marv’s bulk hid me. Hank’s partner emerged after twenty seconds, conferred with Hank, and summoned help via her radio. Hank pulled out his notebook and lumbered toward us.
Two or three inches over six feet tall, Hank had the husky build of an offensive lineman, which is what he was in high school. In the twelve years since graduation, a small pot belly had added to his bulk, straining the buttons of his blue uniform shirt, and his brown hair
“Stella?” I called. Still nothing. I tried the knob. Locked. I felt chilled all of a sudden. Why would Stella lock the door? Assuming it was one of those locks where you push in the button to engage the lock, I ducked into my room next door and pulled a wire hanger from the rack.
Not stopping to analyze the sense of urgency that was driving me, I untwisted the hanger and returned to Stella’s door. I poked one end of the stiff wire into the lock and maneuvered it, remembering the time Mom and I had used this trick to open the bathroom door when five-year-old Alice Rose locked herself in and refused to come out. The hanger jammed against part of the mechanism, then slipped. Darn. I wiggled it again, finally feeling it wedge in such a way I could twist it and pop the lock. Success! I turned the knob and the door swung open onto darkness.
The room smelled worse than it had, the musty scent overlaid with an odor that made me think there was a sewer backup. I wrinkled my nose, gagging. Light from the hall crept only halfway into the room, leaving the vanity and chair in near darkness. As my eyes adjusted to the dimness, I thought I could make out someone sitting in the chair. “Stella?” I whispered. No answer.
My fingers tingled like the blood had been cut off. I slid them up the wall beside me, seeking the light switch. Part of me knew what I would see when I flicked the light on, and I wasn’t ready to face it. My fingers hesitated on the switch plate.
“What are you doing?” said a gruff voice directly behind me.
I stifled a shriek and jumped. The overhead light flared on, illuminating the woman’s body in the chair, the reddish hair draping over the back, and the darker blood pooled on the floor and spattered across the wall and mirror.
Chapter Six
FOR ONE SHATTERING MOMENT WHEN I GLIMPSED the red hair, I thought it was Stella. But a second glance told me it was Audrey Faye with a knifelike implement plunged into her neck.
“Oh my God,” Marv said behind me. “Aunt Nan told me about dry rot and warned me about mice in the dressing rooms, but she never mentioned anything like this.” He bolted from the room and I could hear him being sick in the hall.
I didn’t approach the body. There was nothing I could do for her and I knew the police would be pissed off if I intruded on the crime scene any more than I already had. I backed out of the room, careful not to touch anything, and found Marv leaning against the wall. He dabbed at his mouth with the hem of his tee shirt.
“Audrey Faye is dead,” I told him. I pulled out my cell phone. “We need to call the police.”
He nodded. “I’ll get a bucket and mop.”
Two patrol officers arrived just as Marv finished cleaning up. One of them, a woman about my age, with olive skin and dark hair, went into the room where Audrey’s body slumped on the chair. The other, as luck would have it, was my ex-husband, Hank Parker. With thirty officers on the St. Elizabeth Police Department you’d think the odds would favor me occasionally and a stranger would show up when I dialed 911. But no. He didn’t spot me immediately because I shifted half a step so Marv’s bulk hid me. Hank’s partner emerged after twenty seconds, conferred with Hank, and summoned help via her radio. Hank pulled out his notebook and lumbered toward us.
Two or three inches over six feet tall, Hank had the husky build of an offensive lineman, which is what he was in high school. In the twelve years since graduation, a small pot belly had added to his bulk, straining the buttons of his blue uniform shirt, and his brown hair
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