THE SOUND OF MURDER (5 page)

CHAPTER 9

“Can you let them know I’ll be a little late?” I asked Candy via cellphone the next morning. “My car caught on fire.”

“Again?”

I have to confess. When Uncle Bob asked if I’d burned down something else, there was a bit of seriousness to his question. This past winter I’d traded in my little green Aspire for a yellow vintage VW Bug. No one had told me it caught on fire at the most inconvenient times. My mechanic said it was probably something to do with fuel escaping into the engine compartment, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He didn’t think it was a life-threatening problem, and I couldn’t afford to have the engine taken apart to confirm his diagnosis, so I kept an eye out for any telltale smoke.

I put my fire extinguisher down on the asphalt of the parking lot I’d pulled into and peered through the stinky black smoke at the engine, which was at the rear of the car. “Nothing looks too melted.” I’d learned to repair most damage by myself, with spare belts I kept on hand and…

“Got your duct tape?” asked Candy.

“Always.” I kept a roll in my duffle bag, so I could wrap any hoses that looked melted. Plus it was great for repairing flip-flops and making strapless bras. “Need to let the engine cool down a bit, but I should be there in about fifteen minutes.”

And I thought that was going to be the low point of my day.

“Hold it. Stop!” Levin shouted from his seat in the audience.

We had just finished my big duet,
“
Sixteen Going on Twenty-One,” where Wolf, a regular customer from the cabaret, tries to convince my character, Teasel, a yet-to-be-deflowered Vaughn Katt Club dancer, that she is old enough to, well, you know. It was our first rehearsal with the orchestra and I was onstage with Timothy, who played Wolf. We were working on sound levels, just standing in place singing. Or in my case, making noises like a barfing cat.

“Ivy,” Levin said. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” I said miserably.

But I did know. Sitting in the audience behind Levin, our director, were the Friends of the Theater. Arnie had invited the group of donors to see what a real technical rehearsal was like. Real technical rehearsals were boring, full of stops and starts as lights and microphones were adjusted. So boring in fact, that a few Friends were sleeping. That didn’t matter. What did matter is that there were more than five of them.

“Let’s take it again from the top,” Levin said.

“Levin,” Keith, the musical director, shouted from the pit, “can we move on? We only have the orchestra until noon.”

Now Levin made a noise like a barfing cat. “O…kay.”

Keith flipped the pages of his score. “So on to ‘Don’t Tell Mother.’” Mary sang this particular song to a group of nuns who had discovered her in a rather immodest dancer costume.

Saved by an overly long rehearsal. I quickly slipped offstage and into my dressing room.

The frustrating thing was, I actually had a nice voice. Not great, but pretty. Kind of like the rest of me. I thought of myself as good-looking but not a striking beauty, except for my legs, which were long and shapely. Whenever I’d been cast in a musical before, it was for my dancing ability—and my legs—not my singing.

“Hon,” said Candy MoonPie’s voice from outside the door. “Can I come in?”

“Of course,” I said. It was her dressing room too, after all.

She came in, dressed in her nun costume, and sat down next to me at the dressing room counter. “Tell me, my child,” she said in a solemn voice, “was it the Old FOTs?”

I nodded. Everyone knew Candy’s name for the Friends of the Theater.

“Is there anything I can do?” asked Candy

“Kill me now?” I was only half-joking. I’d been lucky so far in my fledgling acting career. Decent reviews, good word-of-mouth. And now I was poised to torpedo my own boat. I couldn’t sing in public. More than five people in the audience put me over the edge and my sense of pitch somewhere far, far away.

“Maybe if you concentrate on the times you sounded good? You’ve been great in rehearsal.”

I had been—there were never more than a few people in the audience. I nailed the audition too, since Levin and Keith were the only ones listening. I did so well, in fact, that I really thought I was over my little problem. That’s what I got for being cocky.

“Hey, dolls.” Arnie walked through our open dressing room door flourishing a white plastic contraption that looked a bit like a fancy pair of pliers. “Look what I just got in the mail.” He wore a blue sports coat with brass buttons, presumably for the FOTs, and talked through the unlit cigar that nearly always hung from his mouth.

“Let me guess.” Candy squeezed the handle of the doohickey, which pressed down a lever. “A real big garlic press?”

Arnie shook his head happily. He looked like a bald five-year-old with a new toy.

“A mousetrap?” I asked. That was more of a hint than a real guess. We’d seen a few of the little critters running around in the dressing room area late at night.

“An EZ Cracker!” said Arnie, the words bursting out of him like Bazooka bubbles. “Watch this!” He grabbed a ceramic coffee cup from a shelf (coffee and its accouterments are essential theater tools) and cleared a spot on the dressing room counter. He carefully took an egg from his jacket pocket.

“You been carryin’ eggs around all day?” asked Candy.

Arnie shushed her and set down his new prize. “You watchin’, ladies?” He placed an egg in the cracker, humming as he worked. He squeezed the handle, the eggshell split perfectly in half, and the egg plopped in the coffee cup. “Ta da! A perfectly cracked egg. No shell, no mess! Neat, huh?” Arnie grinned, big ears glowing pink in the dressing room lights.

“Very cool,” I said.

“You ever want to see the latest and greatest gizmo, you just ask me,” said Arnie. “I got ’em all.” He picked up the cup with the egg in it, put the EZ Cracker under his arm, and chucked me on the shoulder. “Gotta go. Do me proud, ladies.” He waved his cigar at us as he left. I got up and closed the dressing room door.

“Wonder what he’s gonna do with that egg?” said Candy. “I didn’t have breakfast.”

“What was that all about?” I asked.

“I think he was tryin’ to cheer you up. Either that or make an omelet.”

Of course. Five days ’til opening and two of his cast members sucked. Poor Arnie.

Another knock on the door. “Hello?” Roger, a.k.a. Captain Vaughn Katt, poked his head in. “You okay, Ivy?”

Wow. Had I really been that bad?

“I’m gonna follow up on that egg,” said Candy. “I could microwave it, you know.” She winked at me in the mirror. I’m sure Roger saw her. I sighed. Candy was always trying to fix me up. She loved double dates. I’d told her about my lunch date with Jeremy and the upcoming picnic, but it must not have sunk in.

Roger, though a nice guy, was not my cup of tea. Too old to begin with (probably in his early sixties) and too…something. He worked out a lot and often walked around the greenroom shirtless, while the older actresses who played nuns batted their eyes at him and he pretended not to notice.

“Just checking in,” he said, sitting down next to me with a fatherly smile. A big lump of self-reproach swelled up in my throat and I swallowed it, along with all of my unkind thoughts. “Seems like there’s something bothering you,” said Roger, watching my eyes in the mirror.

There was more than one thing.

Number One: I couldn’t sing in public.

Number Two: I was way behind on my detective work. Except for the call to Bernice, I hadn’t done anything.

Number Three: I hadn’t figured out what to do about Bernice’s pool.

I picked Number Three. “I’m worried about my house sitting gig.”

“Really?”

“I’m supposed to take care of the pool, and…I have a phobia about water.” This was also true, though again, not the entire truth.

“Easily remedied,” said Roger. “How often do you need to address pool maintenance?”

“Bernice’s instructions said twice a week.”

“Perfect. Twice a week, I’ll take care of your pool chores in exchange for a home-cooked meal.”

“Oh! Well…”

“I’m a horrible cook,” he said, smiling over my head in the mirror. “I’m sure whatever you make will be better than the frozen dinner I usually eat.”

Oh, what the heck. “Great.” I stood to face him and held out my hand to seal the deal.

“Shall we start tomorrow? I could come over during the day.”

“Can’t. I have a—” I was about to say “date” when Roger interrupted.

“Tuesday then.” He took my hand, but instead of shaking it, he kissed it. “Until then,” he said.

Uh-oh.

CHAP
TER 10

The next morning, I sat in the cab of Jeremy’s pickup, trying hard to breathe normally. A careful driver, Jeremy was watching the twisting two-lane road, so he didn’t notice my discomfort. I turned to face the open window, just in case he looked at me. Warm air caressed my skin. Saguaro cactus flashed by, fat with water from the recent spring rains. Brittlebush bloomed yellow and a few hedgehog cactus boasted fuchsia flowers. It was a beautiful spring day. A gorgeous guy sat next to me. And I was going to ruin it all.

As we drove around a curve, a sign said, “Lake Pleasant—five miles.”

“Almost there!” said Jeremy, grinning. He wore a t-shirt from Four Peaks Brewery, a pair of board shorts, and a smile that made my insides turn to goo.

A flash of blue appeared around a curve.

“Yes!” Jeremy said.

There is something about water in the desert. Maybe it’s the unexpectedness of it. Maybe it’s the reflection of blue sky amongst so much dusty brown. Maybe it’s something more primal, the lifesaving oasis. Whatever it is, even I can’t deny the nearly magical effect it has.

But there was no way this was going to work. I was trying. I really was. I had smiled when Jeremy picked me up, Jet Skis in tow behind his truck. I made happy noises when he told me about borrowing them from one of his fireman buddies. And when we arrived at Lake Pleasant, I even jumped out of the truck and waved Jeremy down the boat ramp, so he could back the trailer into the lake.

But then I stopped, my feet glued to dry land.

“Okay!” Jeremy yelled from the cab of his truck. “Now just wade out and unhook one of the Jet Skis from the trailer.”

I managed to get pretty close, maybe five feet. Then I froze.

“It’s easy,” Jeremy shouted. “You just wade in and…hey, are you hyperventilating?”

I was. I was bent over, hands on my knees. I hoped he couldn’t tell, but then again, he was a trained professional. And a kind one. He hopped out of the truck and ran over to me. “Here.” He handed me a crumpled paper bag. “Breathe into this.”

After I calmed down, Jeremy helped me back into the truck and we found a picnic spot on a deserted stretch of rocky beach. A few minutes later, we were settled on a Mexican blanket a nice safe distance from the water. I could just barely hear the waves lapping against the shore.

I hadn’t said much since my little freak-out. I’d blown it. I was sure I seemed hysterical, maybe reminded Jeremy of some victim. Not exactly how I wanted him to think of me.

Jeremy didn’t seem upset, just plopped down on the blanket next to me. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He smiled back, but didn’t offer any more conversation.

“Do you always carry paper bags with you?” It was the only thing I could think to say.

“Not only am I a firefighter, but I used to be a Boy Scout. I’m always prepared. Paper bags, first aid kits, and,” he sat up and rummaged in the cooler behind us, “beer.”

He handed me a cold bottle of Kilt Lifter ale. My mind presented me with a brief flash of Jeremy’s strong tanned legs in a kilt. I thought about lifting that kilt and smiled.

“Beer makes me happy too,” Jeremy said, popping the top on mine and grabbing a bottle for himself. He settled himself against the cooler. “So you’re scared of water?”

Wow. Way to head right into the issue. He sure wasn’t from my family.

I took a big swig of cold beer and nodded.

“Just big bodies of water?”

I shook my head. “I don’t even like baths.”

“Really?”

“People have drowned in the bathtub, you know,” I said, more sharply than intended.

“I know.” Jeremy’s eyes softened and I realized that he had seen a lot of things I didn’t want to imagine.

“It’s a long story.”

Jeremy eyes, still soft, met mine. “We have all afternoon.”

So I told him. About long ago when we lived in Spokane, Washington. About one winter when I was eleven and didn’t want to take my little brother Cody with me when I went ice-skating with my girlfriends. About ignoring him after my mother insisted he go with us to the park. About the crack of the ice and the sight of Cody’s yellow hair floating beneath the surface of the pond.

“He died?”

“No. He lives in Phoenix now too. In a group home.”

“Oh.” Jeremy was probably familiar enough with bodily functions to understand that the icy cold pond water had kept my brother alive. And that the lack of oxygen had damaged Cody’s brain.

“It’s a nice place.” I said it partly to get the conversation back on a happier note, and partly because the group home was a nice place, a bungalow that housed several guys with cognitive disabilities and was staffed with some really good people, especially Matt, Candy’s boyfriend. Matt had a calm presence, a great sense of humor, and a real love for the guys, like a wise older cousin.

Jeremy put down his beer. “Ivy, I’m so sorry.”

“About Cody?” I said, too quickly, too harshly. I did not want pity for me or my brother.

“That the accident happened.” He put an arm around me.

“Thanks.” Maybe he could understand.

I leaned my head on his shoulder and watched the sun fracture into skittering diamonds on the surface of Lake Pleasant. Jeremy shifted next to me, and I turned my head to see those golden eyes watching me. He bent his head toward mine and…

A stinky spray of water hit us smack in the kissers.

“What the hell!”

Jeremy jumped up. A gray-speckled dog shook itself in front of us, dirty water flying everywhere. I ducked my head into my knees to get my face out of range of the doggy-smelling shower.

The dog, some sort of wiry-haired hound mix, stopped shaking and stared at us, panting, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.

“Good dog,” I said. “Go away now, so I can kiss Jeremy.”

Jeremy laughed and turned to me, so he didn’t see the dog run between his legs until he wound up ass-over-teakettle on the pebbly sand. “Hey!” He stood up, reaching a cautious hand toward the mutt. “What’d you do that for?”

I swear the dog looked like he wanted to reply. Instead, he bumped Jeremy with his nose, wet sandy whiskers trembling.

Putting my empty beer bottle down, I scanned the shoreline. “Where’s his owner?” I didn’t see anything except a small aluminum boat sitting at the edge of the lake, maybe a quarter mile away.

“No collar,” said Jeremy. “Maybe he’s a stray.”

The dog whimpered and bumped him again. “Are you hungry, boy?” Jeremy stood up and stepped toward the cooler when the dog nipped his ankle. “Hey!”

The dog ran a few feet toward the boat, then stopped and looked back at us. When we didn’t move, he ran back. It looked like he was going for my ankle this time, but I jumped up before he could get me.

“Ha!” I said. “I’m smarter than you, dog.”

The dog tilted his head, looked back at the boat, and then at me again. I reassessed his intelligence. He seemed pretty smart, like those animal heroes in the movies.

“Want to take a walk?” I said to Jeremy, gesturing toward the boat.

“Nah.” He brushed the sand off his shorts. “But I’ll race you!” He took off like a shot. The dog caught up and then passed him, zooming up ahead. I, no runner, took off at a decent trot, and enjoyed the view from behind, if you know what I mean. Jeremy turned around once, jogging backward to make sure I was following. I could see him smile. I waved and kept trotting, hoping he didn’t prefer athletic women.

The dog got to the boat first and clambered in. Jeremy approached, then turned, and waved his arms at me. “Call 911!”

Wow, it really was like those animal hero movies. I grabbed my cellphone out of my back pocket and dialed. Nothing. I looked at the signal strength.

“No reception!” I shouted.

I couldn’t be sure Jeremy heard me, because he had disappeared into the boat, which was grounded on the rocky beach. I ran the rest of the way.

“Couldn’t call,” I panted, when I was near enough that he could hear me. I stood a few feet from the bow of the boat and a safe distance from the lake.

“It’s okay,” said Jeremy, kneeling in the boat. “I think he’s coming around.”

“He” was a guy in his sixties with a mustache, closed eyes, and a sunburnt face that looked a little familiar. He wore jeans and a Western shirt and lay in the bottom of the boat amidst fishing gear, bags of Cheetos, and Coke and Budweiser cans. The dog, also in the boat, seemed satisfied that help had arrived and busied himself trying to open a pack of Twinkies.

An alarm sounded faintly in my mind, caused by something more than the water or even the unconscious man. “Is he asleep?” I whispered.

“No need to whisper. We want him to wake up. Sir,” Jeremy addressed the man in the boat in a loud voice. “Can you hear me?”

The man just breathed noisily.

My mental alarm chimed louder. “Can’t we just let him sleep it off?”

“Not out here,” said Jeremy. “Between sun exposure and dehydration, he could be in trouble. Sir?” he said again, loudly.

The man’s eyes twitched open. They were silvery gray and matched his mustache.

“Hank!” I said.

Hank blinked a few times at me, his bloodshot eyes trying to focus.

Though my alarm was ringing full blast, I put on a friendly face. “It’s Olive. I didn’t recognize you out of uniform.”

Hank didn’t look like he recognized me at all. “He knows my uncle,” I said to Jeremy, loud enough so Hank could hear too.

The mutt came over and licked his face. Hank shook his head and sat up.

“That’s a good dog you have there, sir,” said Jeremy. “He came and told us you were in trouble.”

Hank patted the mutt on its wiry head. “Yeah,” he said slowly.

“You okay?” I said.

He looked around. “Must have fallen asleep.”

“Do you have any water with you?” asked Jeremy.

Hank gestured behind him. “Whole lake full.”

“Drinking water, sir?” Jeremy asked. I was beginning to get an idea of what he dealt with on a regular basis.

Hank fumbled around the bottom of the boat and came up with an old-fashioned metal canteen.

“Why don’t you sip some water slowly,” said Jeremy.

Hank took a long drink from the canteen instead. “I’m fine,” he said. “Must’ve run aground when I fell asleep.”

“Sir…”

Hank reached for a Vietnam Vet cap that lay in a puddle of water in the bottom of the boat. He tugged it on and leveled a stare at Jeremy. “Now if you’ll get out of my boat, I’ll be off.”

This was Uncle Bob’s friend?

“Sure thing.” Jeremy climbed out of the boat. “Just making sure everything’s okay.” He held his hands up—no foul. “Your dog seemed worried.”

Hank looked at the mutt for a long second. “He’s a good dog.” Hank got out of the boat, pushed it back into the lake and jumped in. He jerked the cord to the outboard motor and it roared to life. The dog ran to the bow and stood facing front, like a canine figurehead. Without looking at us again, Hank took off, the wake foaming white behind him.

The alarm in my head quieted as I watched Hank’s boat grow smaller and smaller. Something bothered me about him, something more than just his incredible rudeness. “I know you’re used to dealing with things like that,” I said to Jeremy, “but didn’t that seem a bit weird?”

“Did you say you didn’t recognize him out of uniform?” Jeremy’s eyes kept track of the boat as it got smaller and smaller.

“Yeah, he’s on the Sunnydale posse.”

“Then yeah, it does seem weird,” Jeremy said. “’Cause I could swear he was high.”