THE SOUND OF MURDER (9 page)

CHAPTER 18

Th
e next day, I went into Duda Detective Agency early so I could tackle my clerical backlog before meeting Cody and Matt. Uncle Bob wasn’t in—had to deal with “a little plumbing issue.” I knew I’d get a lot of work done without him there to distract me, but the office felt cold and gray without him. It
was
a pretty gray office. Uncle Bob had acquired the furniture secondhand from some state government department that was updating their décor, so the office was furnished with a big metal desk, a bookcase, three enormous filing cabinets and a wheelie chair with scratchy stained upholstery—all gray. On a typical day, my uncle’s ubiquitous Hawaiian shirt provided the color in the office, and he supplied the warmth.

I plunked down my to-go cup full of coffee and got to work. I flew through the paperwork my uncle had left me and began typing up notes from my investigation. Soon I didn’t even notice that Uncle Bob was gone. I had a lot of questions: Eight suicides in Sunnydale? What was up with the pastor? His reaction to Charlie’s death seemed less than compassionate. And who was the landscaper Bernice saw that morning?

I dialed Amy. This time I got through right away. “Quick question: do you know if your dad had a landscaper? Or someone who might be blowing leaves at his house?”

“A landscaper?” She sounded puzzled. “You’ve seen Dad’s house. The landscaping is made up of gravel and rocks and a few cacti. He doesn’t even have a palm tree.”

Should have caught that one.

I hung up and began working on my next area of research: Colonel Carl Marks. I found the first piece of info I wanted fairly easily. According to Bureau of Labor Statistics, the annual salary for insurance agents was $63,400. The best-paid ten percent made an average of $116,940, while the lowest-paid ten percent were paid $26,120 on average. Even if Carl was one of the highest-earning agents, Gucci shoes and a Ferrari convertible seemed a stretch.

I was trying to look up his license plate (“trying” was the operative word) when I noticed the clock on my computer: eleven forty-five. Yikes! I grabbed my things, locked up the office and ran down the stairs, out the door, and down the few blocks to my car.

Cody’s group home was about ten minutes away in the somewhat gentrified Coronado neighborhood. The bungalow where he lived had a patchy lawn and a cracked concrete path, but it was tidily kept, with a clean-swept front porch, trimmed oleanders, and even a few rosebushes out front.

I parked in front of the house and had barely gotten the car door open when Cody ran to greet me. He wrapped me in a hug. “Olive-y!” It was his pet name for me, a combination of Olive and Ivy that his friend Stu had come up with. Cody had comb tracks through his damp blonde hair and smelled of soap.

“Hey, mister,” I said. “You smell purty.”

“Just had a shower.”

Stu, a round-faced young man with Down syndrome, ran up behind Cody. “Me too,” he said. “I took a shower too.” He held out his arms, angling for a hug.

“Stu,” said Matt, as he came up the walk. “What have we been talking about?”

Stu hung his head in mock sorrow. “Handshakes, not hugs.”

“Right,” said Matt.

“But Cody—” Stu began.

“Can hug Ivy because she’s his sister.”

“Okay.” Stu stuck out his hand. “Hi Olive-y.”

I shook it. “Good to see you, Stu.”

As Cody, Stu, and their housemates Kerry and Chad clambered into a white minivan, I walked a few steps behind them with Matt. “We’re working on appropriate adult behavior,” Matt said quietly.

“But no hugs?” I said. “C’mon, isn’t that a little over the top?”

“Not so much.” Matt’s eyes smiled behind wire-framed glasses. “You’ll notice Stu only asks good-looking women for hugs.” He clambered into the driver’s seat. “Follow us!” he called out the window. I couldn’t ride in the van, some liability issue or something. “We’re going to lunch.”

I got back into my Bug and followed them, calculating how much cash I had in my wallet. Not much. I hoped we were going somewhere cheap.

After about ten minutes, they pulled into the Costco parking lot. The guys tumbled out of the van as soon as it was parked.

“Costco lunch date!” yelled Stu.

“C’mon, Olive-y,” cried Cody.

As we all walked across the enormous parking lot, Matt said, “We’ve figured out when the samplers are working. Management doesn’t mind if the guys take a little food tour. And today’s tour should be kinda special. It’s one reason I asked Cody to invite you.”

Matt wanted me there? I studied him as he stopped at the entrance to show his Costco card. His brown hair curled over the collar of his blue shirt, which I noticed, with a start, was exactly like the one Cody wore. Duh. Cody adored Matt. I could see him buying a shirt that would make him look just like his hero.

“Okay,” Matt said to the group once we were all inside. “Time to synchronize watches.” The guys all looked at their watches. “I have twelve fifteen,” Matt continued. “Let’s all meet at the deli at twelve forty-five. Alright?”

“Alright!” yelled Stu, who was hopping from foot to foot.

“And remember, no running, anyone.” Matt looked at Stu, who pretended he didn’t see him.

“See you then,” said Matt. Stu took off like a shot, but to his credit, he was race-walking, not running. Kerry and Chad followed him at a slower pace. Cody stuck with us. We stopped at each sampling station, trying dried cranberries, granola bars, and tasty little crackers. As we sipped chicken soup from paper cups, Cody’s gaze settled on something behind us. He smiled broadly, crumpled up his paper cup, and tossed it toward a wastebasket as he strode toward the meat section. I picked up the paper cup from the floor where it had landed. Cody had ataxia, a lack of coordination resulting from his brain injury, and getting something from his hands to a wastebasket was difficult when he was distracted.

And he did seem to be distracted. Matt and
I caught up with him near a young woman stirring small hotdogs in an electric skillet. She watched her hands as she worked, brow furrowed with concentration, a few ringlets of black hair escaping her paper cap. Focusing on the sausages, she said in a low, slow voice, “These cocktail weenies are all-natural, made from beef with no added hormones.”

The young woman pinched a hotdog with tongs and placed it in a small paper cup. “They’re fully cooked.” She spoke the memorized words in her Lauren Bacall-ish voice. “And perfect for parties.”

Cody picked up the paper cup and ducked his head, peeking at her from under his lashes.

I shot a look at Matt. Cody was not shy around anyone.

The young woman looked up at Cody. “Oh,” she said. “I know you.” A smile spread across her face.

“From the dance,” said Cody.

“Last month,” whispered Matt to me. “The Arc mixer.” ARC was an acronym that had once stood for the Association of Retarded Citizens. Since “retarded” had become a put-down, the group had renamed itself simply “The Arc.”

“You know who you look like?” said the young woman, whose name tag read “Sarah.”

Cody shook his head.

“Brad Pitt,” said Sarah.

“Brad Pitt?” he said to her, then turned to us. “Brad Pitt!” He had a cinematic glow I’d never seen before. Brad Pitt, indeed.

“Do you like movies?” Cody asked Sarah. She looked down at her weenies, studying them intently. Cody shifted from one foot to another, and back again.

“I need to pick up some ice cream.” Matt took my arm and led me toward the freezer section.

“Was Cody asking her out?”

“Yep,” said Matt. “He’s been practicing for a week, mostly on Stu. I finally took all the guys to a matinee a few days ago. It just seemed fair, after Cody had asked them to the movies over and over again.”

“You would have made a good fireman.” After all, “Be Nice” seemed to be part of his mission too.

“Huh?”

“Never mind.”

“It’s great, don’t you think?” said Matt, with a nod toward Cody and Sarah. She was still looking at the hotdogs, but her smile was as wide as the sky. Cody leaned toward her, hands in his pockets. His ears were pink, like they always were when he was nervous.

Matt had pulled my attention back to Cody, where it belonged. This was a big moment in Cody’s life, and I’d been focusing on Matt and firemen instead. I wondered why.

Matt grabbed a jumbo tub of chocolate ice cream from the freezer. “Would you get a tub of vanilla?”

I pulled out a vat of vanilla, its cold carton stinging my bare hands.

“C’mon,” said Matt. “Let’s find a rogue cart so we can put these puppies down.”

“What about Cody?”

“He’ll meet us by the deli.”

I followed him toward the front of the store. “Sarah’s great,” said Matt. “I worked with her a few years ago. She’s out on her own now.”

“Really?”

“Well, it’s supervised housing, but she’s in an apartment with a roommate. I hear she’s a pretty good cook too. Aha!” Matt pointed at a lonely cart down a side aisle. “Score!” When we’d put the ice cream cartons in the cart, he looked at me straight on. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just stuff on my mind.” What was on my mind was Sarah with an apartment. The thought of it felt like a burr in my sock. I didn’t know why.

“Of course. The show opens this weekend, right?”

“She said ‘yes!’” Cody bounded up to us. He caught the tip of his sneaker on the floor, and stumbled into me. He righted himself. “Sarah said yes!”

My cell rang: Jeremy. I took the call, grateful to be distracted from the itchy feeling I got when I thought about Cody and Sarah. “Hi.”

“Can’t talk long, and you may not be so happy when you hear why I’m calling. I can’t make it Friday.”

“But it’s opening night.”

“I know, but one of the guys is in the hospital with a burst appendix. I promise I’ll make the show another night. And we’re still on for Saturday afternoon, right?”

“Right.” I tried not to grumble. I did realize that being available to save lives was more important than opening night at a dinner theater, but still.

After I’d hung up, Cody said, “What’s wrong?”

“The guy I’m dating can’t come to opening night.”

“Oh! Can I come? With Sarah?” Cody turned to Matt. “That would be even better than a movie, right?”

“I only have one ticket, and we’re sold out.” Since Jeremy had planned to come solo, I had just made one reservation for Friday. And truth be told, I was relieved about that.

“Ivy.” Matt pulled me aside. “If it’s okay with you, I can give Sarah my ticket. I have a big paper due next week”—Matt was going for his Masters in social work—“and Candy already told me she doesn’t care when I see the show.” He didn’t pull me aside quite far enough, because Cody said, “Say yes, Olive-y. Say yes.”

“Sure. Of course.” I nodded, then turned away to hide the discomfort I felt. That’s when I saw Arnie, strolling behind a cart. What was he doing here? Surely there was a Costco closer to Sunnydale. I waved at him. Was it my imagination, or did he not look happy to see me?

“I’ll meet you guys at the deli,” I said to Cody and Matt, then caught up with Arnie. Ah, I knew why he was unhappy. “Hey.” I pointed at the cigar in his pocket. “Can’t you chew on that in here?”

“Somebody once complained I was smoking it.” He shook his head. “People.”

Arnie’s cart was filled with toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, and other stuff that was probably for the theater. On top of it all was a box labeled “Home Monitoring and Control Kit.” It looked like it had cameras and monitors and all sorts of cool stuff. I waited for Arnie to tell me all about his latest and greatest gadget. But he didn’t.

CHAPTER 19

They weren’t supposed to be there. It was Wednesday night—preview wasn’t until tomorrow. I shut my eyes for just a moment, trying to wish them away. But I couldn’t. When I opened my eyes, all the Old FOTS were still there, sitting at the dining tables in the front of the theater, focused on me.

I’d made it through “Dough Ray Me.” With all of us dancers singing, I was able to sing softly enough that no one could tell if I was off-pitch. But now, Timothy finished his intro into our number and whirled me into our dance break.

This was where I shone. My jetés were high, my pirouettes perfect. My eyes even gazed lovingly into Wolf’s, but my mind had already leapt ahead to sure failure. And then it was time. I opened my mouth:

“I am sixteen going on twenty-one…” Aaaaa, a little wobble there.

“Pure as the driven snow.” I tried to remember the tips Roger had given me at our singing lesson before rehearsal, but they were gone, along with my sense of pitch.

“Unschooled in love, and ignorant of…” Ignorant of the stupid position I had put myself in.

“The lessons I ought to know.” I ought to know better. Why did I think I could do this?

The Old FOTs rustled in their seats and snuck glances at each other. Down in the orchestra pit, Keith tried to magically pull up my pitch with a wave of his baton. I made it through the song, exited stage left, and hid my red face in the darkness of the wings. My musical faux pas was soon forgotten, though, as Marge came onstage and stood there. And stood there.

In this scene, Marge/Mother Superior explained to Bitsy/Sister Angelica why she was sending Mary to the Vaughn Katt Club. She was also supposed to say the first line.

Silence. I looked at Bitsy, who gazed expectantly at Marge, a sweet, nun-type expression on her too-smooth face. “C’mon, Bitsy,” I said in a stage whisper, partly to myself and partly hoping she would hear me. “Help her out.”

It’s an unwritten rule in theater: You don’t let an actor hang himself onstage when there’s an audience. Typically, if you “go up” (forget your lines), your fellow actors help you by giving you a hint that the audience won’t recognize, maybe a question that leads you to your line, or a different version of your line, or even just one of the words from the line—just something to get your brain back on track. Bitsy, though, just waited, like she’d taken a vow of silence.

Candy/Sister Marvela wasn’t supposed to come on until after the song, but she entered stage right. “Thank you for waiting for me,” she said, a Candy-created line that explained the lack of action onstage. “I believe we are going to discuss your decision to send Mary to the nightclub as a singing teacher?”

Brilliant. Candy had just encapsulated the entire scene and given Marge her cue for the song, a refrain of “Problem Like a Nightclub.” The orchestra began playing. I thought I saw a brief scowl flit across Bitsy’s face, maybe because Candy had jumped several of her lines to save Marge. Served Bitsy right.

With a grateful glance at Candy, Marge opened her mouth and sang:

“WHY WOULD I SEND A POSTULANT TO A NIGHTCLUB?”

What Marge lacked in memory, she made up for in volume.

“Why would I have her costumed like a TART?”

Phew. Marge was going to make it through the song.

“I THINK she’ll do some good.”

Her big voice filled the theater.

“If ANYBODY could.”

Marge had star quality. Even when she was miscast, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

“Mary can reach the singing sinners’ HEARTS.”

But what would we do about the play? It’d kill Marge to be replaced, but we couldn’t have her continually forgetting her lines.

“Oh, why would I send a postulant to a NIGHTCLUB?”

She seemed to do just fine with her songs. No memorization problems there.

“Why? ’Cause I trust she’ll do THE WORK OF GOD.” She finished with a flourish.

I had it! I knew how Marge could stay in the play. I bounced on the soles of my feet, waiting for Marge to come offstage.

When she finally did, I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a corner away from everyone. She didn’t exactly resist, but it felt like pulling a wet bag of sand. “Marge, I know how you can remember your lines. I can help you.”

Marge’s eyes flickered with hope. “Really?”

“Really. I know just the trick.”

The bag of sand straightened itself up into a semblance of the old Marge. “Me too,” she said. “I think I can help you too.”

I’d forgotten all about my little singing problem. Some folks might call it denial.

“You wash my back, I’ll wash yours,” said Marge, and we shook to seal the deal.