Staged 4 Murder Page 9

  “Excuse me, are you Len Beckers? I’m Phee Kimball with Williams Investigations, and I wondered if I could have a moment of your time.” I was smooth, I was calm, and I was professional. I was also nervous as hell.

  “One minute is about all I’ve got. My team is up next. What’s this about?”

  “Miranda Lee.”

  The guy stood perfectly still and looked right at me. “Go on.”

  “I understand you were cast along with her in the Footlighters’ play. We’re asking cast and crew members if they have any idea who might have wanted to kill her.”

  “I already gave my statement to Deputy Bowman.”

  Not about to get the brush off, I raised my voice slightly. “And did you tell Deputy Bowman you used to date Miranda?”

  “Hey, see here. That’s none of your business, or theirs, for that matter.”

  “It is when it comes to motive and murder.”

  I was beginning to feel like the real deal, complete with glib responses. Too bad the palms of my hands were soaked in sweat. I clasped them together and refused to take my gaze off the guy. It was working.

  He seemed rattled and started to edge away from the counter. “Let’s step away from the counter, okay? I don’t need the whole world to listen.”

  We moved farther from the snacks until we were almost by the door.

  “So, what can you tell me, Mr. Beckers?”

  “That I didn’t kill her, for starters. Look, Miranda and I dated for a few months, but that was years ago. It was over between us. What possible reason would I have for murdering her?”

  “Maybe there was still some friction between the two of you. Unresolved issues. That sort of thing.” I was reaching for something. Anything at this point.

  “No unresolved issues. No lingering or malingering issues. It was done when I walked away from her and ended the relationship. I’ll put it plain and simple. Miranda was a pain in the ass. A royal pain, if you know what I mean. Nothing ever pleased that woman. Sure, she was a looker, but that faded fast once she got on my nerves.”

  “Did she get under your nerves recently?”

  “Like I said, I didn’t kill her, if that’s what you’re implying. And as far as getting under anyone’s nerves, try talking to Stanley Krumpmeyer. If she managed to irritate anyone, it was him. Those two held up rehearsals all the time whenever they were on stage together. It became a big joke. Who was going to upstage who? Well, she won. Upstaged us all with her arm dangling over the catwalk and her head poetically tilted back like the final scene in a Greek tragedy. Is there anything else you want from me? I’ve no intentions of holding up the league bowling.”

  “No. That’s fine. I appreciate your time, Mr. Beckers. If we require further information, we’ll be in touch.”

  He started toward the lane and then stopped and turned back. “Miss Kimball, was it? I forgot to ask you. How did you know I’d be here today? On a Sunday. Bowling.”

  I paused in order to give myself a moment to think. “We wouldn’t be a very good investigative firm if we couldn’t locate the people we may need to speak with.”

  “All right then.”

  With that, he was on his way, and I darted out the door so he wouldn’t see how nervous I really was. I couldn’t wait to get home and throw on an old T-shirt and shorts. The last thing I felt like doing was spending another minute in Sun City West. As I drove north on RH Johnson Boulevard, I passed the Stardust Theater on my right. Mom said there was no rehearsal, yet a handful of cars were parked right by the theater entrance.

  If this was a horror movie, someone would be screaming, “Don’t go in there! Turn back!” Like the horror movie heroines, I didn’t listen to my inner voice either. For some inexplicable reason, I decided to see what was going on in the theater and perhaps catch red-handed, whoever was “haunting” the place.

  The foyer was dimly lit but had enough light for me to locate and open the door to the auditorium. The houselights were on but only at the lowest setting. Directly in front of me, on stage, a man was pacing back and forth. Only the houselights illuminated the stage. As far as I could tell, no one else was around. I sunk into the nearest seat and waited to see what the man was going to do. My foot was tapping automatically, and my hands were starting to shake.

  Suddenly, a voice reverberated throughout the empty room. Something about coming to protect the guests from a murderer. It was the classic, “Oh my God, I feel a chill running up and down my spine,” when I realized it was one of the actors who must have snuck in here to practice his lines. Then what about those other cars in the parking lot?

  I listened intently for a minute or two while the guy went on and on about a note left on the body and “Three Blind Mice.” Clearly, he was rehearsing, but did those lines have anything to do with the other notes and the message on the mirror? Maybe this guy was taking his role a little too serious. Turning an Agatha Christie play into a real murder. I sat there paralyzed. A bizarre combination of fear and morbid curiosity.

  “You go now, Mr. Actor.” It was a lady’s voice in broken English. “Anushka and me go too. Bathroom all clean. We lock doors.”

  The man responded. “Mr. Tilden. Not Mr. Actor. What about Daniel? Is he going to be around for a while?”

  “Daniel go. Drain not run water.”

  “Okay. I’ll be out of here. Thanks for letting me sneak in to practice. And let’s keep this our own secret, all right?”

  “Secret. Yes. Is good play, no?”

  I started to relax. It appeared as if Randolph Tilden Jr. had talked the cleaning staff into letting him inside the theater for a secret one-man rehearsal. Of course, it would be the perfect opportunity for someone to write cryptic messages on mirrors or remove certain costumes from their hangers. I desperately wanted to approach him but couldn’t very well jump out of my seat and start asking questions. After all, I had no right to be in that building either. But if my timing was right, I could bump into him in the parking lot.

  As Randolph exited stage left, I bolted out of my seat and made a beeline for the door to the foyer. Then I exited the same way I got in, careful not to disturb the small shim that had held the door open in the first place. I didn’t think anything unusual about it when I first arrived since people propped doors open all the time.

  By the time Randolph walked out the door, I was already back in my car watching him make his way to his. Behind him, two middle-aged cleaning women were carefully locking the theater door. I waited until the guy was a good twenty feet from his vehicle when I jumped out of mine and waved to him.

  “Excuse me. Did I miss the rehearsal?”

  “What?”

  His expression reminded me of one of those Norman Rockwell paintings where the kid gets caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

  I asked him again. “Did I get here too late for the rehearsal?”

  “Um, no. I mean, no. There was no rehearsal. I got the information wrong myself. I was just leaving.”

  “Phooey. I was hoping I could speak with someone regarding the unfortunate incident that took place in the theater.”

  “Are you referring to Miranda Lee’s murder?”

  By now Randolph had walked a few feet toward me so there was no need to shout on either of our parts.

  “Yes. I’m with Williams Investigations. Sophie Kimball. And you are?”

  “Randolph Tilden Jr. I happen to be in the play.”

  “Then perhaps you won’t mind telling me if you noticed anything unusual between Miss Lee and the other cast members?”

  “Unusual? The woman was . . . how shall I put this . . . she was a first-class B-I-T—”

  “You don’t have to go any further, Mr. Tilden. I can spell. Do you mind elaborating on your perception of Miss Lee?”

  “My perception? It was everyone’s perception. I suggest you speak with the director, Cliff Edwards. He’ll explain how difficult the woman was to work with. And then there’s Stanley Krumpmeyer. Miranda and Stanley were always
having words. Of course, compared to the rows that Miranda and Cliff had, her interactions with Stanley were quite cordial.”

  “I see. Anyone else she had problems with?”

  “The first director. Ellowina Bice. Lovely lady. Tall, elegant presence, forceful and knowledgeable. Knows how to shoot a gun, too. She practices at the Ben Avery Shooting Range on Black Canyon Road every Sunday. I took my nephews there once and ran into her. Anyway, she knew the theater inside and out. Shame she got food poisoning and had to relinquish the position to Mr. Edwards.”

  I hadn’t thought about Ellowina Bice since my mom told me about the food poisoning/possible salmonella.

  “Yes. I heard about that. Does anyone know how she’s doing?”

  “I heard she was discharged from the hospital. I would imagine she’s at home recuperating, or maybe recuperating with her family. Those food-borne illnesses can take months to leave one’s system.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ve heard that, too. Before you head out, Mr. Tilden, can you think of anyone who might have had a motive to kill Miranda Lee?”

  Randolph took a slow deep breath as if preparing to deliver the soliloquy from Hamlet. “In the theater, one comes across all sorts of players. Self-serving, self-aggrandizing, self-centered. Miranda was all of those and more. Still, that’s hardly a motive for murder. Murder rips into the soul. It had to be rage or revenge. Something was smoldering below the surface. Blackmail perhaps? Extortion? Whatever it was, it erupted on that catwalk and most likely had nothing at all to do with the play.”

  I felt as if I had been privy to a theatrical performance without the need to purchase a ticket.

  It took me a good ten seconds or more to respond. “That was quite an in-depth explanation. I appreciate your time, Mr. Tilden. Good luck with the play.”

  “You mean ‘break a leg.’ It’s considered bad luck to wish actors good luck.”

  “Oh. Well then, break a leg.” Or whatever body part you choose. “Again, thank you for your time.”

  He nodded and walked directly to his car. My mother and her friends weren’t all that freaked out when I’d wished them good luck with the play. Then again, none of them were retired theater professors from back east. I honestly didn’t think Randolph had any reason to murder Miranda, but the more I heard about Cliff and Stanley, the more I began to wonder about their motives. Especially when it came to rage.

  In spite of an early morning swim, I still needed to cool off with a shower when I got back from the bowling alley and theater. It was no longer as humid as it had been during the summer, but dry heat was equally miserable. It just evaporated faster on your skin, leaving behind an unwelcome odor.

  No sooner had I toweled off and thrown on a pair of old sweat shorts and a shirt when the phone rang. It didn’t take a clairvoyant to figure out who it was.

  “Don’t hold back. Tell me. What did you find out? Was Len Beckers harboring a grudge or something against Miranda? Was it enough for him to kill her?”

  “Hello, Mom. I thought I said I’d give you a call this week. I’m still dripping wet from getting out of the shower.”

  Apparently, exaggerations didn’t work that well with Harriet Plunkett.

  “No one is dripping wet in Arizona. Even indoor air will dry you in minutes. What did you find out?”

  I proceeded to tell my mother about the two encounters—the one she had orchestrated and the serendipitous one with Randolph Tilden Jr. at the Stardust Theater. Somehow, she didn’t seem surprised by their reactions.

  “Listen closely, Phee. Both of them pointed a finger at Stanley Krumpmeyer. And Randolph used the word ‘rage’ when he referred to the murder. If people can go crazy behind the wheels of their cars and pull out guns at drivers who cut them off or don’t signal, then think what someone might do if they had to deal with Miranda’s actions. Maybe it was theater rage.”

  “Theater rage? There’s no such thing. Besides, Randolph was being overly theatrical. And how would Stanley have known Miranda would be on the catwalk? I’m thinking more along the lines of a premeditated murder.”

  “Like something Len Beckers would do since he had a relationship with her?”

  “Uh-huh. I got the sense he dropped her like a hot potato but wasn’t so distraught that he stomped on it until it was mashed.”

  I couldn’t believe I had used a food analogy. I must have been getting hungry.

  “Baked potato, mashed potato, the thing is, you should talk to Stanley and find out what he has to say. Find out if he has a temper. And do it in public.”

  “I’m working all week, or have you forgotten? It’s not like last time, when I was here on vacation.”

  “You’ll find the time, Phee. You did when Aunt Ina’s master chef was murdered.”

  True. I had helped to expose Chef Roland LeDoux’s killer, but it was more a matter of dumb luck than practiced skill. Not to mention the genuine fear that my aunt would have a nervous breakdown if I didn’t. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll see what your list says about Stanley’s schedule.”

  “Good. And don’t forget to ask your boss about what we discussed earlier.”

  “Hiring them?”

  “Ask about a senior discount.”

  The call lasted another few minutes, and I had to admit, my mother was right. When I put the receiver down, my hair was absolutely dry.

  Chapter 13

  “Your mother really wants to hire us to look into that murder?”

  Nate was leaning against the door frame of my office, coffee cup in hand, grinning. A typical Monday morning.

  “I’m afraid so. Those women are absolutely petrified but are too stubborn to quit the play. It’s the work ethic from their generation.”

  “Hey, that’s my generation, too.”

  “Oops, I—”

  Before Nate could answer, Marshall leaned his head into the office as well. “What am I missing?”

  “My mother is convinced the sheriff’s department isn’t getting anywhere with Miranda’s murder and realizes I can do just so much. So, she thought if she and her book club ladies all chipped in, they could hire this firm to find out the actual cause of death and any pertinent information. Before either of you say anything, I want to make something perfectly clear. This wasn’t my idea. And if you do decide to get involved, don’t say I didn’t warn you first. Working for my mother and her friends is akin to stepping into quicksand. You’ll be gobbled up in no time.”

  Nate didn’t say a word and neither did Marshall. The two of them looked at each other for what seemed like eons. I wasn’t sure if they were going to laugh or run the other way. Finally, they both nodded. Not enthusiastically, but definite nods. Nate walked over to my desk and sat in one of the chairs while Marshall muttered something about needing a cup of coffee and quickly left the room.

  “I don’t have a problem with this, kiddo. And neither does Marshall. But I don’t want to take money from your mother or her friends. Call it pro bono. We can look into it, but your mom will have to sign an official contract. That gives us the legal right to proceed and contact the sheriff’s office.”

  “You, of all people, know what she’s like, Nate. I wasn’t kidding. This could turn out to be a nightmare for you. And it’ll take you away from your other clients.”

  “Nah. I think all she’s looking for is some information, and we can get that without too much trouble. Give her a call and let her know Augusta will be emailing over a contract.”

  “She’ll insist on paying.”

  “Fine. I’ll give her a discount.”

  “By the way, I found out some information that might help you get a profile on Miranda Lee. Actually, it’s more like the local scuttlebutt, but here goes. According to my mother, Miranda was married twice. Her first husband died under suspicious circumstances. One of those ‘off the cruise ship balconies’ or something like that. It happened years ago, before Miranda moved to Sun City West.”

  “Hmm. That’s rather interesting. If indeed it’s the trut
h and not a fabrication.”

  “Oh my gosh, Nate. If it is true, then what if one of the cast or crew members turn out to be a relative of her first husband and finally got the revenge they wanted for his death?”

  “I’d say that was a terrific movie plot, although not altogether out of the question. You said she was married twice. Who was the other lucky fellow?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, my mother doesn’t know and neither do the other ladies. Miranda was using a different last name, but now uses her middle name, Lee, as her last name. What a lot of paperwork. I decided to keep my married name for my daughter’s sake when my husband and I divorced centuries ago. I doubt I’ll be changing it anytime soon.”

  I turned to reach for my cup of coffee and didn’t see Marshall return to the room. I did, however, hear his voice, and I froze.

  “Who’s not changing names?” he asked. “I keep missing everything.”

  “The only thing you missed was the fact you and your boss are taking on a new and challenging cadre of clients.”

  “Great.”

  “And there’s one more thing. At least one of them will want you to do some ghostbusting as well.”

  “Like Dan Aykroyd and Bill Murray?”

  I took a quick gulp of coffee. “You won’t be that lucky. More like Shirley Johnson and Cecilia Flanagan. They’re convinced Miranda’s spirit won’t leave the theater.”

  Nate stood and gave Marshall a pat on the shoulder. “This one’s for you, buddy. Find out all the details. And you thought Mankato was interesting.”

  “Miranda’s spirit?” Marshall asked. “Really? They think she’s haunting the place?”

  I nodded. “Yep, that’s their latest observation. Or should I say ‘speculation’?”

  “I’d better pull up a chair.”

  Marshall stayed in my office long enough for me to bring him up to date on the book club ladies and on the progress of my makeshift investigation. He was pretty certain he’d be able to find out the cause of death and the status of the official investigation. That crisp apple smell lingered in the air when he left the room, and I literally had to force myself to stop daydreaming and focus on my accounting.