Trick or Deceit (3 page)

Ambiance was one thing, but unsightliness and neglect were something else. She came to a stop, unzipped her arm pocket, and extracted her phone. Let the leash out so Whiskey could snuffle at leisure while she took a couple photos of the overgrowth.

There had been caution tape over the entrance to the newly repaved parking lot the last time she'd been here. Now half the tape was lying on the ground.

She stepped over the tape and walked along the edge of the parking lot, taking photos as she went. Nothing had been done. She'd have to have a little talk with the landscapers.

She'd reached the back of the property and was taking a last photo of the vacant lot when Whiskey yanked on the leash.

“All right. I'm done. Let's get going.”

Whiskey barked and strained at the leash, but in the opposite direction.

“Oh, all right, two more minutes, but if you get burrs all stuck in your coat, don't complain to me when you have to go to the Woofery for grooming.”

She let out the leash again and Whiskey, ignoring her threat, pranced happily into the brush to ferret out unsuspecting small animals or discarded fast-food wrappers.

Sure enough he came back a minute later with something in his mouth. Something huge. A bone. An arm. A human arm.

Liv's eyes widened and her stomach lurched—she froze to the spot as Whiskey lovingly laid the arm at her feet. She swayed even as she realized that it wasn't a real human arm, but a mannequin.

“What the heck?” she said, miffed at herself for being so gullible, and outright angry that someone was using the lot as a dumping ground.

She looked back at the house. Had Barry ended up with extra parts and dumped them rather than disposing of them properly? Or . . .

A much worse thought struck her. Ernie had been pretty angry last night, but surely . . . Ted's words rang in her mind:
Unless Barry defaults . . .

“Heel.” She shortened the leash and walked to the edge of the empty lot. She could see what looked like a clothed torso farther in. And a boot not too far from that. Not a dumping ground for garbage. It looked like the museum might have been looted. She walked along the side of the house, practically pulling a recalcitrant Whiskey with her. No signs of a break-in.

They continued around to the back of the house. And there it was: a shattered window leading to the cellar. It may have been broken before, or more recently—like last night. Either way it needed to be repaired. She climbed the back steps and knocked on the door.

She knew Barry didn't live on the premises, but she also didn't want to surprise any looters or squatters that might be inside.

No one answered, so she turned the knob. The door opened. Damn.

She stepped back, closed it again, and went down the steps. Didn't stop until she was back on the sidewalk out front. No way was she going inside alone. One year of living in Celebration Bay had taught her more about staying safe from lawbreakers than an entire lifetime in Manhattan. Go figure.

She opened her contact list, found Barry's home number.

He answered on the fourth ring.

“Yeah.”

“Barry, this is Liv Montgomery. I'm at your museum. Did you leave any mannequin parts out in the vacant lot?”

“What? Why would I do something like that?”

“I don't know, but on further investigation I noticed a cellar window was broken.”

“Somebody broke in? So help me, if that Ernie Bolton has vandalized my museum— I'll be right over. Stay there.” He hung up.

“Yes, sir,” Liv said to her disconnected phone. “I think we might have woke him up, Whiskey. He sounds kind of cranky. If it's a false alarm, we'll buy him breakfast.”

At the sound of breakfast, Whiskey sat and looked at her expectantly. “Sorry, guy. There's been a little change in plans.”

Barry Lindquist's truck pulled up to the curb five minutes later. He jumped out and began riffling through a huge ring of keys as he hurried toward Liv, who was waiting on the front steps.

Definitely woke him up,
she thought. His chin was covered in red stubble.

“Did you call the cops?”

“Not yet. I thought we should check to see if someone had really broken in. The back door was unlocked.”

“What? No way.” He leapt up to the porch and unlocked the front door.

Liv and Whiskey followed him inside.

The foyer was suitably eerie, especially with the lights off. Even when Barry flicked the lights on, it was still pretty macabre. There was a skeleton clothed in rags sitting in a rocking chair, a knife dripping blood sitting in her lap.

Psycho?
Wasn't the Bates Motel in Oregon?
Evidently not anymore.

Spiderwebs draped over the banister of what once must have been a lovely staircase; now its dark wood was dull and dry looking. Liv made a mental note to have Ted check with the fire marshal that the building had passed all safety inspections.

A little late now. The mayor had decided on this contest as a way to raise money for the community center and had convinced the other trustees to go along with it before he'd consulted Liv. Which was fine, but Liv would have rather been consulted during the planning session instead of playing catch-up ever since.

Barry was tromping toward the parlor, so Liv left the entry skeleton and prepared for whatever she might see in the next room.

It was a disaster. What had been set pieces days before were now mere shambles. The upholstery was slashed, and the mannequins dismantled and strewn across the room.

Barry let out a howl. “I'll kill that so-and-so! I swear he'll be sorry he ever messed with me.”

He spun around, nearly knocking Liv over, and disappeared into the next room. The dining room had been a scene right out of classic horror movies and, more recently, the
Beautiful Creatures
movie, with a table that spun around until the diners whirred into blurs. It had been very cleverly staged and mechanized; there were no diners now.

The table at least appeared unharmed; the chairs were overturned, but whatever body parts hadn't been bolted to the seats had been ripped literally limb to limb and were nowhere to be seen. Which meant there might be a lot more mannequin bodies out in the vacant lot.

“I'll call the police. They might be able to find some clues as to who the perpetrator is if we don't touch anything.”

“Oh, I know who did this, all right. That . . . Well, he won't get away with it. If he thinks he'll win by default, that dirty, low-down— Well, he won't. I'll get this place back up and running if it's the last thing I do.”

“Still, I think we should wait outside.” Liv maneuvered Barry onto the front porch while she made the call.

He didn't stop but strode straight across the parking lot.

“Barry, wait!” Liv hurried after him while she waited for the police dispatcher to answer. She gave her information and hung up just as Barry stepped into the vacant lot.

The weeds came nearly to his waist. He leaned over, disappearing for a moment, then reappeared carrying a torso wearing a union army coat. He laid it carefully on the ground and started back in.

“I don't think you—”

Barry waded through the grasses, ignoring her.

An old town car passed down the street and turned right into the parking lot of the old theater that was directly across the street. Henry Gallantine, former child star and director of the current production of the Celebration Bay Players, got out. Seeing Liv and Barry, he waved, then came across the street and over to where Liv stood.

“You two are out early this morning. What's afoot?”

“Someone broke into Barry's museum and vandalized the place,” Liv said.

“Oh, dear. And threw the pieces outside?”

“So it appears.”

“Is it salvageable?”

“I don't know. I've called the police. Not that there's much they'll be able to do.”

“No, not usually with these breaking-and-entering cases.”

“Barry is in shock and angry, but he said he's going to get the museum up and running again.”

“Then he will. You can't keep a good Yankee down. I'll be right back.” Henry trotted off in the direction of the theater. He was still very fit. Insisted he had always done his own stunts and was ready, willing, and able to do them again if his agent called. Which so far hadn't happened.

He went inside the theater and Liv turned back to see Barry bringing out several legs, some still wearing shoes, some bare.

“They're everywhere,” Barry said. He sounded close to tears. “What am I going to do?”

A commotion down the street made Liv turn around. A group of people had just come out of the theater, pushing two platform handcarts.

Leading the troupe was Henry Gallantine, and right behind him was Liv's assistant, Ted Driscoll. There were several other people, who Liv guessed were cast members.

“Yankee ingenuity,” she said. Even though she was nowhere near being considered a local—her best friend BeBe had been here for nearly thirteen years and she was still considered an outsider—Liv's heart swelled with pride at her neighbors.

“The cast of
Little Shop of Horrors
has come to your aid!” Henry announced.

Barry's jaw dropped. “Uh, thanks, Henry.”

“Now, careful troupe, treat these somewhat historically accurate figures as if they were your own parents.” The group spread out, and Henry began placing the parts they had already gathered onto one of the handcarts.

One of the actresses hesitated. Unlike the others who were wearing jeans and sweatshirts, she was dressed in a blue fifties prom dress beneath a gray hoodie. They must have gotten her in the middle of a fitting.

She frowned at Henry. “I thought we were going to run through the first act this morning.”

“Yes, indeed. Rehearse away while you work.” Henry made an expansive gesture. “All the world's your stage, Marla Jean. Use it as you will.”

“What if there are wild animals in there?”

“Many hands make light work,” he said, ignoring her concern, and pushing her toward the vacant lot. As they reached the edge of the pavement, he lifted his head and followed her into the weeds.

“I don't know which one of his movies he's channeling, but this is the most energy I've seen out of this group since rehearsals started,” Ted said.

“You're in the play?”

“Guilty as charged.” Her assistant grinned at her. This morning he was wearing a leather jacket and a brown fedora with an orange band and feather.

“You didn't say anything. I know you have a great singing voice.” He'd taught Whiskey to sing every holiday song there was. Unfortunately, Whiskey's idea of singing never passed the yowl stage, as far as Liv was concerned, but it only egged Ted on. And what Whiskey lacked in ability, he made up for with his enthusiasm. “Can you act, too?”

“Need you ask?”

“I guess not.” So far she hadn't seen anything Ted couldn't do.

“I'm just the voice of the narrator. Actually, it's going to be taped for the performances, but I told Henry I would help out when I had the chance. But I draw the line at gathering body parts from a vacant lot. You never know what you might find back there.”

Liv shivered. “Don't.”

“I was thinking skunks and other vermin.”

“Still, eww.”

They stood on the tarmac watching the group while waiting for the police. The carts filled up with body parts—arms, legs, heads—piled on top of each other. One of the young men carried the pantalooned and stockinged legs of a character that Liv couldn't even guess at.
Bluebeard?

Another young man waltzed out with a torso dressed as a pilgrim.

He twirled around and placed her upright on the pile of limbs, then bowed and turned a cheeky grin on the others. “I thought I'd give her a little thrill. God knows those puritans had no fun.”

A police cruiser stopped at the curb and Officer Meese jumped out.

“Heard there was a break-in,” Meese said to Liv and Ted since no one else paid him any mind. “What are these people doing?”

“There was a break-in at the Museum of Yankee Horrors.”

“The contest winner?”

“I'm afraid so,” Liv said. “The whole place has been vandalized, the mannequins were dismantled and thrown out in the grass. Some people from the theater group came over to help gather whatever they could find. Barry's hoping that he'll be able to reconstruct it before the official opening on the weekend.”

“Huh.” Meese looked over the group that had filled the first cart and was working on the second. “Wow.”

“That's almost all of them,” Henry Gallantine announced. “Shall we start returning them to the house?”

“Wait, sir. Please,” said Officer Meese. “Mr. Lindquist? Can you tell me what happened?”

Barry stepped toward the officer. “I'll tell you what—”

A bloodcurdling scream rose from the grasses.

Liv jumped. “Holy moly. What was that?”

Another scream.

Ted chuckled. “Marla Jean Higgins. I'd recognize that scream anywhere. She's been practicing for weeks. She probably saw a mouse.”

A third scream, this time even louder and more bloodcurdling.

“But maybe we should go see.”

Liv and Ted struck off toward the lot, where the rest of the actors were still combing through the grasses.

Henry joined them. “That girl takes her role very seriously. Can't act her way out of a paper bag, but her scream is superb. It's the sole reason she got the part.” He gestured for them to precede him down the path of trampled grass made by the volunteers, then called out, “Marla Jean, very nice, dear, that will do.”

“Girl, ha,” Ted said. “Marla Jean is forty if she's a day. She just acts like a time traveler from a bobby-sox movie. Shall we?” Ted gestured for Liv to follow Henry.