Murder & Sullivan Read online

  “You thought you were going to be blamed again.”

  “You got it.”

  Fred thanked him and asked him to tell Biggy he was ready for Dolan. He marked Shoals’s chair on his map.

  “Sir?” This time he heard the steps. He looked up at the tall young redhead still in costume as Robin. Six two, maybe six three.

  “Dolan, thanks. I have a couple of questions.” Around them Shoals and the stage crew, most in costume, were pushing the heavy frames back to the brick wall. It was over in moments. Fred waved at the nearest steps. “Take a seat.”

  “Yes, sir.” Dolan folded his long legs and rested his arms on his knees. He sat without fidgeting, like a veteran of long waiting.

  “Tell me again how it was before you went onstage in the second act last night.”

  “Well, sir, Ed and I were back in the corner on those two chairs—” He broke off. “Well, there were two chairs over there.”

  “I saw them. Go on.”

  “We were running over our lines. Especially mine. I was still a little weak.”

  “And then?”

  “And then it was time to go on.”

  “Nothing happened while you were sitting out here?”

  “Just the usual. You know.”

  “Suppose you tell me.”

  “There’s not much to tell. Biggy was on the other side, by the stairs. He laid down an order that you had to stay downstairs if it wasn’t your turn to go on. Made people mad, but he’s tough. The guys were climbing into the pictures. That’s about it.”

  “Anyone come over and talk to you?”

  “No, they could see what we were doing, and they left us alone.”

  “You had a good view of David Putnam from where you were sitting.”

  “Only when we were looking. And we weren’t looking, you know? I didn’t see anything wrong.”

  “What did you see? Did anyone come over your way at all?”

  “Only people picking up props.” His face changed. “Oh … you mean, did I see someone pick up that dagger?”

  “Did you?”

  “No. But I wouldn’t have noticed. There was a crowd around there anyway, talking and laughing, and two of the guys were sword fighting. Biggy came over and broke that up—they were getting kind of raucous, and he likes it quiet backstage, even between acts.”

  “Is that the only time he left the stairs?”

  “Yeah, until we went on.”

  “Anyone need help with the supports?”

  “The what? Oh, yeah. I don’t know. I wasn’t paying much attention to anyone but Ed.”

  “Who came up first, you or Ed?”

  “We came up together when Biggy called. He cracks the whip.”

  “Then you sat in those chairs. Then what?”

  “Then we went on together.”

  “Was Ed out of your sight between the time you came up and the time you went onstage?”

  “No.” For the first time, Steve Dolan looked nervous.

  “You both stayed right there the whole time.”

  “That’s right. What are you doing, collecting alibis?”

  “That’s my job.” Fred smiled at him. “Don’t worry, son, you’re one of the few people who had someone else watching him the whole time we’re concerned about, and you’ve just given him the same alibi.”

  “You mean it happened right then, while we could have seen it?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe while you were onstage, with hundreds of witnesses.”

  “Oh.”

  “Or maybe even before you came up.”

  “Oh, no. David climbed into his frame after we came up. I saw him.” He looked startled.

  “See? You were watching.”

  “I guess. Is that all?”

  “You see anyone else up there with him?” Dolan shook his head. “Then let’s go find Ed.” Fred escorted him to the stage door, where the crowd had thinned out and most of the cast had left. Ed Kleinholtz, the short fellow with the big ears, was waiting, though he’d gone downstairs long enough to change into slacks and a short-sleeved shirt. Without makeup, his baby face made him look almost as young as Dolan, although he had to be in his early thirties.

  “Where do you want me?” Kleinholtz said.

  “Back here is fine,” Fred said, and led him to the steps of the frame nearest to where the chairs had been.

  The conversation he’d had with Dolan repeated itself in substance, if not word for word.

  “Is that normal, to be rehearsing lines like that on opening night?” Fred asked finally.

  “I don’t know what’s normal—I never did any of this before. But the kid was nervous, so I figured why not?”

  “Did it work?”

  “Yeah.” Fred waited. “He settled down, and when we went on, he was fine. He’s young—worries too much anyway—and Biggy scares him.”

  “What about Biggy? Did he come back here?”

  “No, only that once when Zach and Tony staged the sword fight. He was too busy protecting us from the chorus.” He grinned up at Fred. “Good thing, too. You can’t hear yourself think around those girls.”

  “And then you went onstage together.”

  “He went first. I was his steward, his ‘former faithful valley-de-sham,’ don’t you know, so I had to follow a step behind him.” He looked Fred in the eye. “Not far enough behind to run up there and stab David Putnam after he went on.”

  “I know. I was in the audience.”

  Kleinholtz relaxed visibly. “That’s all right, then.”

  “Let’s back up a little. From where you were sitting, did you see anyone near Putnam, once he climbed up into that frame?”

  Kleinholtz was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head.

  “No. That doesn’t mean no one was, but I don’t think so.”

  “Anything else I ought to know?”

  “I wish I could help you. I’ve been wracking my brains, but nothing comes.”

  “You’ve already helped.” They stood up, and Fred looked down at him. “Thanks. And tell Dolan not to worry.”

  “Not about you, maybe. Nothing’s going to keep him from worrying about Biggy.”

  Me either, Fred thought as they walked to the stage door together. If you’re right, and no one approached Putnam before you went on, then the man on the spot for the next couple of minutes is Duane Biggy. The ghosts all had their backs to him, Shoals was beyond the curve of the set—with his eyes closed, at that—and the chorus was still downstairs until Biggy called them up. Who could have seen what he did?

  20

  Here’s a how-de-do!

  —YUM-YUM, The Mikado

  Joan put her bare feet up on the sofa and leaned back to check out the funnies between loads of laundry. Sunday, never a day of rest for a minister’s family, was little more so now that she supported herself and attended church only sporadically. This morning she had thrown her sweaty black things in the washer with Andrew’s jeans. Some mothers might tell him to do his own wash, but to her it seemed a fair trade. She was sitting in the relatively cool house, and Andrew was out working in the heat—the whir of their old rotary mower told her that he was keeping his promise to cut the remnants of their small lawn, though the grass had survived the tornado better than the trees and bushes. One day he’d leave home for good. Then he could match his own socks and she could mow her own grass.

  The whirring stopped abruptly. Andrew couldn’t be finished yet, and she didn’t hear the clickety-whir of the mower’s trip back to the garage. Instead, voices, and then the back door banged.

  “Hey, Mom,” Andrew called.

  “I’m in here.”

  “You’ve got company.”

  “Who is it?” She hated to move, but she folded the paper, tucked it between the sofa cushions, and poked around on the floor with her toes for her sandals.

  “Me.”

  “Fred!” Forgetting the sandals, she jumped up. He strolled in from the kitchen as if he’d been doing it all
his life. She felt suddenly grubby in her floppy T-shirt and worn cutoffs next to his crisp summer suit. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over?” I might have carried that basket of wash-and-wear stuff upstairs, for one thing. At least it’s clean.

  “Didn’t know it to tell.” He hugged her as Andrew might have. “How are you?”

  “Recovering.”

  “Oh?” He quirked that eyebrow.

  “I’m not cut out for pit orchestras, especially after a day of lifting weights.”

  He got it. “Those books. I’m sorry. How’s the leg?”

  “It’s all right,” she said, surprised to realize that it was true. “I’m fine, really. Can I feed you?” It was a risky invitation—grocery shopping was something else she generally left for the weekend, and yesterday had been no day for it. Alone, she and Andrew would graze the refrigerator for leftovers.

  “Not today. I just wanted to see you.”

  “Good.” Both ways. “Come sit down. Tell me how it’s going.” She tucked her feet underneath her and patted the sofa cushion. He sat down, stretched his long legs out in front of him, and draped an arm over the back of the sofa, like a teenager working up courage to make a pass, or a husband taking her closeness for granted. She relaxed under it.

  “It’s not going,” he said. “What I wouldn’t give for some solid physical evidence. But I’m down to sorting out who had opportunity. With the stage manager guarding the stage the way he was, it almost seems as if nobody could have killed Putnam. By the time I left last night I’d about convinced myself it had to be Biggy himself.” She heard the doubt in his voice.

  “You don’t believe it?”

  “Not really. No apparent motive, for one thing. And it would put him in the position of having to depend on understudies.”

  “I don’t suppose I could sell you on a random act of violence by a stranger or a thief?”

  “Nothing was stolen. And there are easier ways to commit violence than twice stabbing a man on the far side of that stage, even if you can believe that nobody would have noticed a stranger back there.”

  “Okay, scratch the stranger.”

  “With Biggy on the job, you just about have to scratch everyone who wasn’t in the first part of the second act, before the chorus entered. I have a hard time picturing one of the ghosts climbing down and back up again without being noticed, though Eads would be a likely possibility. And no one would have noticed Yoder—they’d all think he was helping, not stabbing. They’re the most likely ghosts.”

  Joan couldn’t imagine Zach doing such a thing. She fought back. “But suppose it happened later. I mean, once Duane was onstage, it could have been anyone.”

  Fred groaned. “Amy Putnam noticed her father slumped over right away,” he argued.

  “Even so. It could have been a bridesmaid on the way in.” Even Catherine, Joan thought. “Or someone who came upstairs as soon as Duane had his back turned.” Dr. Cutts. He should have come up with Ellen Putnam. If they stuck together, that would eliminate both of them, but what if they didn’t? A doctor would certainly know where to aim. So would a nurse, and Liz MacDonald might have been angry at David—a woman scorned, and all that. Joan sighed.

  “Hmm?” That arm reached down and patted hers gently but then retreated to the back of the sofa.

  “Fred, I hate to think that any of them could have killed him.”

  “Somebody did, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “We’ll get him, Joan. It’s not your problem.”

  She looked up at him then. Was he putting her down? But he was staring into space, looking nothing but tired. She liked it that he had come over to relax with her. She remembered a day, years ago, when Ken had called her in midafternoon. When she’d asked what was on his mind, he’d said, “Nothing. I’ve been counseling people all day, and I just wanted to talk to someone normal.” Would it be like that with Fred?

  Whaddya mean, would it? her inner voice asked. It is already.

  You know, she thought back. If …

  If you were married, is that it?

  Well …

  Don’t even think about it.

  All right, I won’t. He’s a friend, that’s all.

  Uh-huh. A friend who drops in as if he lived here. A friend who kissed you the other night as if he meant it. And you liked it, you know you did.

  He was showing off. He’s not really interested in me. He’s not interested in anyone. He’s sour on marriage.

  What would it be like, anyway, being married to a policeman? Interruptions at all hours of the day and night, she was sure. She knew about interruptions—she’d learned long ago not to expect dinner without phone calls. People got sick and died at the least convenient times. Political pressure? She supposed the pressure on Fred could be worse than pressure from a whole congregation and board of trustees, but that would be saying a lot. What social obligations would a cop’s wife have? She had no idea.

  Don’t even think about it, the voice said firmly.

  Fred pulled his arm away from her, clasped his hands above his head, stretched, and yawned. Then he stood up in one smooth movement.

  “Thanks, Joan. I needed that.” He bent down and kissed her cheek. “I’ll see you.” And he left.

  How about that? Joan thought. But her inner voice was silent. So was the dryer, she realized suddenly, and slipped her sandals on to go down to the basement. When she came up, Andrew was in the kitchen, drinking ice water and wiping his sweaty face with the clean dish towel she’d just hung on the handle of the refrigerator door. She hung out a fresh one without comment. Her mother would have called that “crowding the hero bench.”

  “Finished?”

  “Yep. Next time, don’t hang the sheets out when I’m going to mow, okay?”

  “Sorry. Are they dry?”

  “Just about. You want me to bring them in?”

  “Thanks, Andrew.”

  Joan’s mother also would have been shocked at the idea of hanging out washing on a Sunday. But death had freed her of criticism from her mother or Ken’s parishioners. Annie Jordan’s right, Joan thought. She always says there are advantages and disadvantages to everything. Only sometimes they’re mighty hard to see.

  Helping herself to a glass of cold water, Joan stared out the kitchen window at the bare yard between her house and Henry Putnam’s. Most of Henry’s roses were gone, and this side of his yard had been wiped clean of vegetation. What the tornado hadn’t destroyed, David’s digger had. Out back she knew she still had some day lilies and some irises. No flowers now, but the plants looked sturdy enough. If it rained enough to dampen the soil and cool things off a little, she would try transplanting some over to Henry’s. He wouldn’t be ready to dig when he first came home, but he might welcome any sign that he’d eventually have flowers again. If he came home at all, she reminded herself. And even if he didn’t, it couldn’t hurt. At least she’d see them from the kitchen.

  She began to fold underwear on the kitchen table, leaving the socks for last. While her hands automatically flipped and turned the clothes, her mind wandered back to what Fred had said. Zach Yoder was high on his suspect list. Zach, for whom she’d been leaving her back door unlocked, so that he could help himself to a cool drink or use the toilet while she was away during the day. Zach, with whom she’d fallen into the habit of sharing a cup of coffee before getting dressed for work.

  What if Fred’s right? she wondered. How will I ever act normal around him in the morning?

  21

  Black sheep dwell in every fold

  All that glitters is not gold;

  Storks turn out to be but logs;

  Bulls are but inflated frogs.

  —BUTTERCUP, H.M.S. Pinafore

  As it turned out, Zach was the least of her worries on Monday morning. Having turned off her alarm clock for Sunday, Joan had forgotten to set it for Monday. To make matters worse, Zach had begun his week’s work without his usual racket. And so it was after eight wh
en she dreamed that she was sitting in the bathroom, but that her own personal plumbing was refusing to cooperate. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t urinate. She turned on the faucet in the sink—nothing. Maybe it’s because the door’s open, she thought, but she couldn’t reach the door handle. She was going to have to get up and go over there. But when her feet touched the floor it was soft, much too soft to support her.

  Then she was lying in bed, with the sun streaming in the window. Her mouth felt gummy. She threw back the sheet and padded into the bathroom, hoping she wasn’t going to wet the bed by persuading herself that still another dream was real, but the door closed with a convincing click and the tile floor felt hard and cool against her bare feet. She ran her toes along the edges of the little hexagons and rubbed them against the grout, just to be sure.

  By the time she’d showered and brushed the taste off her teeth, the breeze coming in the window was already muggy. Back in her bedroom, her traitorous alarm clock read 8:27. No time to walk to work today. Hardly time for breakfast.

  She pulled on a navy blue skirt and top and slid into her sandals, glad she could wear them at work. She brushed her hair on her way downstairs and skewered it up off her neck while she walked into the kitchen.

  “You’re late,” Andrew greeted her, his mouth full of toast. “Want some coffee?”

  “Please.” Joan stuck a couple of slices of bread in the toaster and opened the refrigerator for milk and orange juice. “My alarm didn’t go off. I wish you’d called me.”

  “I thought maybe you had the day off.” He passed her a steaming mug.

  “No such luck. We’re having a speaker today. And in the afternoon I’m going to David Putnam’s funeral. I forgot about that until just now. I can’t go like this—I’ll have to come home in between.”

  “You look fine.”

  “For a funeral?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  She looked down at herself. Maybe if her legs weren’t bare … She could stick a pair of panty hose and some pumps into her handbag and change at work. She buttered the toast, feeling only a little less rushed. Andrew was saying something. She tuned in.