was a hundred and fifty feet, he could easily make out the head and the splash of blood on the fire curtain. His legs trembled, and he would have fallen if Curt had not grabbed his arm. "Tommy . . . oh my God, Tommy . . . what happened," he husked out. "Curt, what happened?"
"The fire curtain fell," Curt said, his voice soft but, as always, in control. "Tommy was under it."
"We heard you on the speakers," said Robin. "You called him, didn't you? To the stage?"
"No, no . . . the mike doesn't work. It stopped down there. Oh Jesus, how could this have happened? Tommy . . .”
Curt reached out and took the microphone from Dennis. He flicked a switch, and a red light glowed on the object's base. "It's working now," he said, then put the mike down on a table, reached for the wall phone, and dialed 911.
~ * ~
Dennis, Robin, and Curt waited by the lobby doors for the police and an ambulance to arrive. The guests were packed in the lobby once more, with only Sid and Cissy remaining in the theatre proper. The police got there first, since the station house was only a few blocks away from the complex that housed the Venetian Theatre.
The local police chief introduced himself as Dan Munro. He was a stocky, pockmarked man in his late forties, with a perpetually frowning mouth under a bushy moustache. His gray suit fit him as well as any suit would that had not been tailor-made to his bulky form. He seemed more gruff than necessary, perhaps in an effort not to be intimidated by celebrity. His companion, a young, uniformed patrolman named Davis, stood a deferential yard behind his boss, looking tense.
"Did anybody leave yet?" Munro asked.
"Just a few," Robin said. "We asked people to stay until the police came, but some were just so sick and upset . . .”
"That's okay. We'll catch up with them later. Bill," Munro said, turning to the patrolman, "you stay at the front doors. I don't want anybody else leaving."
"I have a complete list of the guests I can give you," Robin said. "That way we don't have to keep them here."
Munro smiled tightly. "I'm afraid we do have to keep them here, Mrs. Hamilton. At least till the state police come and decide whether to let them go or question them first. They're in charge in a case like this."
"A case," Curt said softly. "But it was an accident."
"I'm sure it was. But they have to make sure of that. Now, if you'll take me to the body . . ."
Dennis led the way through the white-faced mob of celebrities. When he turned to make sure Munro was with him, he noticed that the man's gaze was darting here and there, lighting with recognition on one person, then another. Dennis felt no pleasure in the awe in which Munro involuntarily held his guests and, most likely, himself. He had long since ceased to be titillated by the ardor of fans. Besides, now was hardly the time for vanity.
~ * ~
Sid and Cissy , sitting in the fifth row, turned at the footsteps. Dennis made brief introductions, and Sid led Munro to the stage, where Munro knelt and gingerly pulled back the drop cloth. He cleared his throat, then let the cloth fall back over Tommy's severed head. "You put the cloth on?" he asked Sid.
"Yes."
"Move anything? Touch anything?"
"No. Nothing."
Munro pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. "Let's see the other side. You know how things work back here? The curtains and all?"
"A little, but Curt's the real specialist."
Munro looked down at the house. "Mr. Wynn? Would you come up here with us, please?"
The three men went behind the fire curtain and looked at the torso. "Curtain must be pretty heavy," Munro observed.
Curt nodded. "Heavy enough."
"Where's it drop from?"
"The pin rail. Over here." Curt led the way stage right.
"Anybody touch anything here?" Munro asked.
"No," Sid answered.
"This is the one." Curt pointed to a place on a long, heavy beam that ran the depth of the stage. A series of wooden pins the size of policemen's billies were placed vertically in the beam every twelve
"The fire curtain fell," Curt said, his voice soft but, as always, in control. "Tommy was under it."
"We heard you on the speakers," said Robin. "You called him, didn't you? To the stage?"
"No, no . . . the mike doesn't work. It stopped down there. Oh Jesus, how could this have happened? Tommy . . .”
Curt reached out and took the microphone from Dennis. He flicked a switch, and a red light glowed on the object's base. "It's working now," he said, then put the mike down on a table, reached for the wall phone, and dialed 911.
~ * ~
Dennis, Robin, and Curt waited by the lobby doors for the police and an ambulance to arrive. The guests were packed in the lobby once more, with only Sid and Cissy remaining in the theatre proper. The police got there first, since the station house was only a few blocks away from the complex that housed the Venetian Theatre.
The local police chief introduced himself as Dan Munro. He was a stocky, pockmarked man in his late forties, with a perpetually frowning mouth under a bushy moustache. His gray suit fit him as well as any suit would that had not been tailor-made to his bulky form. He seemed more gruff than necessary, perhaps in an effort not to be intimidated by celebrity. His companion, a young, uniformed patrolman named Davis, stood a deferential yard behind his boss, looking tense.
"Did anybody leave yet?" Munro asked.
"Just a few," Robin said. "We asked people to stay until the police came, but some were just so sick and upset . . .”
"That's okay. We'll catch up with them later. Bill," Munro said, turning to the patrolman, "you stay at the front doors. I don't want anybody else leaving."
"I have a complete list of the guests I can give you," Robin said. "That way we don't have to keep them here."
Munro smiled tightly. "I'm afraid we do have to keep them here, Mrs. Hamilton. At least till the state police come and decide whether to let them go or question them first. They're in charge in a case like this."
"A case," Curt said softly. "But it was an accident."
"I'm sure it was. But they have to make sure of that. Now, if you'll take me to the body . . ."
Dennis led the way through the white-faced mob of celebrities. When he turned to make sure Munro was with him, he noticed that the man's gaze was darting here and there, lighting with recognition on one person, then another. Dennis felt no pleasure in the awe in which Munro involuntarily held his guests and, most likely, himself. He had long since ceased to be titillated by the ardor of fans. Besides, now was hardly the time for vanity.
~ * ~
Sid and Cissy , sitting in the fifth row, turned at the footsteps. Dennis made brief introductions, and Sid led Munro to the stage, where Munro knelt and gingerly pulled back the drop cloth. He cleared his throat, then let the cloth fall back over Tommy's severed head. "You put the cloth on?" he asked Sid.
"Yes."
"Move anything? Touch anything?"
"No. Nothing."
Munro pushed himself to his feet with a sigh. "Let's see the other side. You know how things work back here? The curtains and all?"
"A little, but Curt's the real specialist."
Munro looked down at the house. "Mr. Wynn? Would you come up here with us, please?"
The three men went behind the fire curtain and looked at the torso. "Curtain must be pretty heavy," Munro observed.
Curt nodded. "Heavy enough."
"Where's it drop from?"
"The pin rail. Over here." Curt led the way stage right.
"Anybody touch anything here?" Munro asked.
"No," Sid answered.
"This is the one." Curt pointed to a place on a long, heavy beam that ran the depth of the stage. A series of wooden pins the size of policemen's billies were placed vertically in the beam every twelve
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