NOT TO BE

PEN & PAINTBRUSH MYSTERIES

BOOK 1

KATHERINE LADNY MITCHELL

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

About the Author

More Titles from Bandersnatch Books

Not to Be

Copyright © 2025 by Katherine Ladny Mitchell

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Penalties for such rank offense may’st include, but not be limited to, being publicly called a pigeon-livered fishmonger and then hoisted with his own petard. Printed in the United States of America.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, brands, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity and are used to advance the fictional narrative. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s dramatic imagination and are not to be construed as real.

For information, address Bandersnatch Books.

P.O. Box 2473

Indian Trail, NC 28079

bandersnatchbooks.com

info@bandersnatchbooks.com

803-610-1223

Library of Congress Control Number: 2025937427

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-958863-27-5

Cover art by Evelyn R. Warnemuende

Book layout by Carolyn Clare Givens

Vellum flower icon Formatted with Vellum

To my sister, Christa,

whom I love abundantly

1

Squinting into the beam of light, Kathy Waters watched the silhouetted figure stagger across the hardwood and clutch his throat. He spluttered a small cloud that swirled with dust specks before it dissolved into darkness beyond the spotlight. Finally, after one last side-step, he leaned perilously forward and collapsed to the floor. The thud echoed through the vaulted room.

Kathy pursed her lips and inhaled audibly through her nose.

How many times will it take for this man to die?!

“That was terrible!” Frank, the director, shouted from the theater seats. He slapped the master script onto the folding table in front of the first row. They’d been rehearsing Hamlet’s death scene for the last twenty-five minutes. And though Chet Cadsley had majored in theater and even toured with a professional Atlanta troupe right after college, the cocky thespian could never execute a realistic death onstage.

Frank put a hairy hand on his hip. “Chet, the only thing more tragic than Hamlet’s death itself is your blasted performance of it! You’re supposed to be poisoned—not hacking up a lung! And loosen up your faint before you break an elbow! The audience isn’t paying for your trip to the hospital.” The exasperated director took a swig of his Diet Dr. Pepper and wiped both chins. “Now, once more, from ‘O, I die . . .’”

The actors onstage groaned as Chet got back to his feet, dusted off his doublet, and stomped back to his place while the squeaky spotlight zigzagged to catch up with him.

Offstage behind the black velvet curtain, Kathy sank slowly onto a metal chair. What she wouldn’t give to be curled up on her couch with a steaming cup of masala chai. Masala chai, Smartwool socks, and my favorite flannel pajamas. She tried in vain to take a deep breath; the corset underneath her ivory Ophelia dress squeezed her sides like a boa constrictor. She huffed.

Dress rehearsals were always stressful. People’s fuses ran short, and tempers flared easily. Everyone felt on edge as they stuffed themselves into uncomfortable costumes, layer-caked their makeup, and realized they had less than twenty-four hours to memorize anything they’d hitherto neglected. And Frank always held the cast hostage until satisfied their performance could justify ticket sales.

Kathy untoggled her white leather purse hanging from the back of her seat and fingered through its contents for her phone. She checked the time and winced: 10:25 p.m. Unless rehearsal wrapped up soon, she’d have to type like a jackhammer to make her 1:00 a.m. deadline. If she didn’t, her Chattanooga Line editor would sentence her to writing obituaries till Christmas. Her stomach tensed involuntarily at the thought.

As Chet’s silhouetted form made its way downstage once more, Kathy smiled ruefully as she remembered her therapist’s advice: “Focus on your interests,” he’d said. “It will relieve your anxiety,” he’d said, “and help you move on.” So, for the last two years, Kathy had been trying to move on; she’d started writing a novel and joined the local theater company. For the first three shows, she’d starred in roles like “Townsperson #4,” “Principal Understudy,” and “Chorus Member.” But in Hamlet, she’d finally reached center stage. Memorizing lines had come easily; she’d always had a knack with words and could recount entire conversations verbatim—an invaluable skill for a journalist. But even the thrill of playing Ophelia could not entirely make her forget, and she always kept her homeopathic anti-anxiety medication close by.

Despite her therapist’s recommendation, the theater was doing little to relieve her stress level at the moment. Built in the 1920s and rescued from demolition in the 1960s, the historic Chattanooga Tivoli Theater had undergone several renovations to preserve its high-ceilinged, heavily-gilt grandeur—and it was due for another renovation soon. Outside, a red and white tower of flashing lights announced the latest theatrical, cinematic, and symphonic offerings. Inside, marble floors, crystal chandeliers, iron candelabras, intricate molding, crimson carpets, and French flourishes on the walls welcomed all show-goers into a whole new world glittering with magic; it was the closest most local folks would get to Versailles.

But life backstage was a different universe entirely, comprised of average stars, gas giants full of hot air, and a couple black holes. Compounding the actors’ frustration was the building’s

HVAC system, which had recently become decidedly bipolar. Turn on the air, and everyone froze; turn up the heat, and everyone sweltered. Due to the late October chilliness, the janitor must have recently adjusted the thermostat, transforming the backstage area into a sauna.

Kathy cringed as a bead of sweat trailed down her spine; hopefully, it wouldn’t stain her delicate organza. She peeled her russet locks from her neck, retrieved an elastic band from her purse, and secured her hair into a messy bun before reaching behind her back in an effort to loosen her laces. Three tries later, she rose from her seat in search of assistance. This corset feels like a straitjacket. I’ll never untie this knot by myself.

Before she reached the green room, however, the stage manager accosted her with clipboard in hand.

“Kathy,” Li Yan asked in a hushed tone, “have you seen the janitor?”

“He was vacuuming the aisles earlier. Why?”

The slender woman pinched her mouth into a frown. “Somebody spilled paint in the men’s dressing room, but no one’s claiming responsibility. It looks like someone got stabbed in there!”

Kathy nodded toward the actors downstage. “If Chet doesn’t nail this final scene, he might be next,” she whispered.

“How many run-throughs are we up to?” Li Yan asked as she wiped her damp forehead with the back of her slim hand.

“Four . . .” THWACK!

The two women craned their necks for Frank’s verdict.

“Again!” The velvet curtains muffled his shout. “Make that five and counting,” Kathy sighed.

Li Yan pressed the clip of her board up and down in rapid succession. “After three months, you’d think he’d be able to die decently by now. This isn’t even his first Shakespearean tragedy!” “Maybe he’s afraid of landing the wrong way,” Kathy whispered. “Didn’t he get a black eye back in Romeo and Juliet?”

Li Yan’s own eyes narrowed to slits. “Not from dying onstage.” She checked her smartwatch. “If this rehearsal isn’t over in twenty minutes, I’m leaving. I have work in the morning—work with benefits.”

At that moment, the music to “If I Were a Rich Man” started blaring from Kathy’s vibrating purse. Her eyebrows jumped to her hairline.

“Turn that thing off!” Li Yan hissed. “They’ll hear you onstage!”

Kathy fumbled through old receipts, emergency tampons, and business cards she’d never referenced before reaching her phone. It was her sister. I’ll call her back, Kathy thought with a frown as she swiped down on her screen. “Sorry! I thought I’d silenced it!”

“Keep it quiet, or keep it in the dressing room.” Li Yan pointed at the guilty gadget with her clipboard before marching off to find the janitor.

Kathy turned again toward the green room door, where she hoped to find some help loosening her corset. Richard, who played the now-dead Polonius, walked up to her shaking his graying head. Kathy cringed; any interaction with Richard usually cost her more time than she cared to spare, for he was a generous man who always gave his opinions free of charge.

“This is so typical of Chet!” Richard grumbled with a raspy voice. The middle-aged Polonius had been fighting a cold all week and wore a towel soaked with menthol rub around his bearded neck. “First, his cosmetic surgery puts the show schedule back a week. Now his elbows drag out dress rehearsal. It’s criminal how Frank puts up with it. If you can’t die with dignity, you shouldn’t be Hamlet, or Laertes, or Claudius, or practically anyone in this play! You should stick to musicals and leave Shakespeare to the adults.” He loosened his damp shirt; it was a wonder his eyes weren’t bright red from his medicinal collar. “And his mother’s almost as bad as he is!” Richard added. “Actually banning so much as a Reese’s cup from backstage for his sake? I bet they’re just making up his allergy as some sort of power play. He wasn’t allergic last year or the year before!”

Kathy’s eyes stung from the menthol fumes wafting from Richard’s unacknowledged reminder to use his voice sparingly. She cleared her throat. “I agree Chet didn’t need the nose job, but it is possible to develop an allergy later in life. My cousin never had a problem with milk until she turned thirty.”

“Ah, thirty,” Richard’s blue eyes looked wistful. “That’s when I played Hamlet! If Chet really knew anything about acting, he’d protect his voice, stop yelling at Frank, and stop drinking all that carbonated water. During the last scene, he sounds more like a smoker with emphysema than a poisoned prince,” Richard’s own voice buzzed. “Distilled water is best. You really gotta wet your whistle if you want to gasp correctly. I should know because I gotta keep my own vocal cords moist this time of year and talk only when absolutely necessary.”

Kathy nodded politely, smiled to herself at the man’s incongruence, and took a small step backward so the pungent vapor rub wouldn’t suffocate her.

“Now, when I played Hamlet back in 2004 . . .” Richard droned on for another two minutes while Kathy glanced downstage and sadly tugged at the laces behind her back. The actors were nearing Chet’s death scene again. Perhaps he’d get it right, and Frank would release the cast.

“. . . and here we are,” Richard continued unabated, “hot, bothered, and up till practically midnight. And to top it all off, Li Yan threatened to start locking the dressing rooms during the run if the petty thefts don’t stop. Can you believe it? Whatever happened to common decency? It’s enough to make me lose my faith in humanity! I know I’m only forty-eight, but I’m really starting to get too old for this. Not as old as Stephen, mind you. That man has the constitution of a horse. But I really should be home in bed—resting my voice!”

THWACK!

The sound of Chet hitting the stage, followed by his rather loud expletive, brought Kathy and Richard from behind the curtain to watch whether the director would accept Chet’s latest death.

Frank shook his head. “Chet, Chet, Chet. We’ve gone over this a million times! You need to loosen up! I’ll show you once more. Then we’re running curtain call.” He lumbered onstage with Diet Dr. Pepper still in hand.

Everyone stepped back to give their director a wide berth. Frank handed his soda to the understudy, brought his heels together, then rolled down onto the hardwood stage like a graceful sea lion. The cast clapped.

“See?” Frank said, propping his head on his elbow. “I’m not asking you to do the impossible. It’s really not that hard.”

“Guess the hardest part for you is getting up,” Chet spat from beneath his chiseled cheekbones.

Frank’s face went habanero red. “You’re lucky the audience finds your pretty face so amusing. But don’t think it’s irreplaceable.” He hoisted himself from the floor and snatched his soda from the understudy on his way offstage. “Now try again!”

“No!” Chet stood akimbo. “I’m not doing this anymore! My elbow’s black and blue already. You want me to wear skater pads under my shirt?”

Frank turned and scrunched his Diet Dr. Pepper can between his meaty fingers. “This scene has been blocked the same way since auditions. I’m not changing my stage directions right before opening night.”

“Then maybe you should use the understudy tomorrow,” Chet threatened as he crossed his well-toned arms. “Let’s see how well he does the death scene, considering he’s never said more than two lines without checking the script!”

The understudy, a skinny blond college student, grew pale under his suit of armor and looked as though he might faint.

Maybe he could be Chet’s stunt double, Kathy thought to herself. “You won’t follow stage directions? Then let me give you directions to the door. There it is!” Frank pointed offstage.

“But if you walk out, I will never cast you in another show with this company!”

Everyone looked at Chet.

“Oh, Frank,” Chet said with a patronizing grin, “You know you can’t open without me. Just change the blocking, and I won’t walk out.”

Everyone gazed at Frank.

The director glanced at his phone and cursed. “Take five, everybody. But I want y’all back onstage no later than 10:39 p.m. to run curtain call.” He grabbed a new can of Diet Dr. Pepper from a cooler in the front row of theater seats and headed toward the lobby, barking at the janitor about a soda stain on his way out.

Chet puffed out his chest, leaped off the stage, and strutted toward Frank’s folding table in front of the orchestra pit. He snatched the master script, flipped through its pages, and hefted himself back onstage.

Kathy swallowed hard as he made a beeline for her. She didn’t mind Chet’s Bambi brown eyes and admirable physique; she just didn’t care for all his drama beyond the curtain. He always sought the spotlight, even offstage, and never cared who he offended as long as he got attention. When the understudy once asked Frank why he let Chet call so many shots, Frank had merely shrugged and said, “Show biz is, after all, a business. And ticket sales speak louder than southern hospitality.”

In other words—Kathy frowned as Chet closed the gap between them—Chet can get away with murder as long as people keep filling the theater.

“Hey, babe!” Chet addressed all females with this title. “Got a pen? Oh, never mind. There’s one on the prop table. By the way, I’m glad to see your dress finally fits. Did Wilma let it out for you?”

Kathy blinked. She couldn’t think of a reply, polite or otherwise.

Thankfully, Chet turned toward the prop table, sparing Kathy the burden of a response. He uncapped the pen and started marking up Frank’s script.

“Chet! What in tarnation are you doing?” Richard rasped. “You can’t change the director’s script! It’s private property.”

“I’m saving Frank the trouble of correcting his stage directions.” He continued editing, then stopped mid-stroke as he studied two narrow papers tucked within the pages. Then he gave a low whistle. “Well, well. What do we have here?”

Kathy glanced toward the theater lobby door Frank had taken. “Chet, seriously. Put the script back. Frank can make his own notes.”

“He’s made some notes, alright. Would you like to see?” He offered the opened script to her.

“No, thanks.” Kathy held up her hands in refusal. She had a keen distaste for smut.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Richard said, his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows meeting over his nose. “Gettin’ all mixed up in other people’s business!”

“Welcome to the South,” Chet sneered. “And if anyone in this theater should be ashamed, it’s Frank.”

“Hey, Chet!” cooed Chandra, the svelte set crew girl, from the backstage door leading to the dressing rooms. “Come ‘ere a sec. I gotta show you something.”

Chet grinned roguishly at the others. “Duty calls.” He tucked the narrow papers into his doublet and tossed the script to Richard. “Put this back for me, will you?” Without waiting for an answer, Chet strode toward the black-clad stagehand and disappeared behind the door.

“Just typical!” Richard fumed, nearly crumpling Frank’s master script.

Fearful he might launch into another tirade against Chet, Kathy took the opportunity to make her own exit. “Excuse me, Richard,” she said. “I need to change. This costume is killing me, and I have to leave as soon as rehearsal ends. I’ve got lots of writing to do tonight.”

“On your novel?”

Kathy smiled wanly. At this point, her “novel” was little more than an outline with a few roughly sketched scenes. “I have an article due for the paper.”

Richard stepped aside and gestured toward the dressing rooms. “I suppose Frank won’t mind if you’re not in costume for curtain call. As for me, I always stay in full costume for the full duration of dress rehearsal. Don’t want to put a jinx on opening night.”

“The only person jinxing the show is Chet,” Kathy said. “Unless he learns how to die onstage without turning Hamlet into a comedy.”

2

Kathy opened the heavy backstage door just in time to see the ladies’ dressing room door shut and Chet pocket the two narrow slips of paper he’d stolen from Frank’s script. Tired, sweaty, and barely breathing, Kathy made a beeline for the ladies’ dressing room, but Chet stood in front of it, baring his bleached smile.

“Hey, babe! Quick question. If I ever wanted to get a story into the paper, do I call you?”

“Um . . .” Kathy tugged at the laces behind her back. “No.” “No?” Unaccustomed to the word, Chet actually stammered.

“W-whaddaya mean, ‘no’?”

“I don’t write the news anymore—at least not front page stuff.” “You work for a newspaper, but you don’t write news?” He raised an eyebrow.

Kathy gazed at the dressing room door a mere four feet away. “Not breaking news. Not for the last two years. I cover community events, city council decisions, and restaurant reviews. No murder. No violence. And certainly no scandal.”

“But I’m sure you could pass info along if needed?”

Kathy attempted to take a deep breath and sighed in resignation. I’m going to die in this corset. “Look, Chet. If you think you have a story, just contact the edi . . .”

“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Chet interrupted as he spotted the company seamstress coming down the hall. “I’ve got to get Wilma to fix this stupid shirt again. She keeps messing up my measurements. She even left a stray pin in my sleeve! I could have punctured something. Hey, babe!” Never one to miss an opportunity to display his granite abs, Chet pulled his shirt up over his head. “This thing’s still too tight! I told you, I’m a forty-two chest. Forty-two. That’s like fifty years younger than you. Got it?”

The white-haired woman caught the flying garment in the air right before it smacked her in the face.

Chet strode past her to the men’s dressing room and shut the door behind him.

Kathy’s blood boiled. How could Chet be so infuriating?

Meanwhile, the seamstress wrung the ivory shirt in her bony hands and muttered to herself like a witch from Macbeth. “Let it out. Take it in. Let it out. Take it in. Know right where I’ll stick my pins next time!” She stuffed the garment into her mule-sized purse and stormed past Kathy toward the backstage exit, no doubt in need of a smoke.

At long last, Kathy made it to the women’s dressing room and kicked off her shoes. Ms. Cadsley, Chet’s mother, sat in a hoop skirt, powdering her nose at the lighted mirror while Chandra, the black-clad stagehand, roosted on the counter amid extra cans of hair spray, makeup boxes, and costumes from last season’s musical. Her handheld screen cast an eerie blue glow on her otherwise attractive face.

Kathy was about to request assistance in untying her laces when Chandra asked, “So what were you and Chet talking about in the hall? He sounded miffed.”

Kathy stripped off her stockings and hurled them into her duffel bag. “He had an issue with his costume and an idea for a newspaper article. Speaking of costumes, could you help me with my . . .”

“Do people still use newspapers?” Chandra interrupted. “People who read still do,” Ms. Cadsley paused her powdering. “Those with limited attention spans can only handle pictures and bullet points on their smartphones.”

Chandra shot the theater matron the same glance that got her kicked out of Catholic school. “At least I know how to use one,” she mumbled. She continued texting.

“Actually, the paper does have an app,” Kathy said. “Subscribers can access stories online and read what’s printed in the hard copy—everything from breaking news to personal ads. Now, could one of you please help me untie my . . .”

“Personal ads?” Ms. Cadsley asked as she glazed her lips with an offensive shade of pink. “Do they give you an employee discount for those?”

Kathy tugged at the strings behind her back and frowned. “No, that’s not my style.”

Ms. Cadsley turned in her seat to face the imprisoned ingenue. “Maybe you should change your style. I’ve yet to see a boyfriend at any cast parties. Or do you prefer a girlfriend?”

Kathy shook her head. “That’s not my style either.”

“I’ve started seeing someone,” Chandra swished her thick, black mane over her shoulder, formed her full red lips into a coy pout, and raised her phone to take a selfie.

“Are you even old enough to date?” Ms. Cadsley asked.

“I’m not a minor, if that’s what you’re asking.” Chandra adjusted the red bra strap peeking from her black shirt’s expansive neckline.

Kathy stepped into her faded jeans and slipped them on underneath her dress as Ms. Cadsley grabbed a mascara wand and added another coat to her tarantula eyes.

“Chet’s been with his girlfriend about two years,” Ms. Cadsley said. “I’m expecting an announcement any day now.”

“Of what?” Chandra ventured, suddenly lifting her eyes from her phone. “Their breakup?”

“No, of their impending arrival.”

Both Kathy’s and Chandra’s mouths hung agape. “Chet’s going to be a father?” Kathy tried to picture Chet changing a diaper and kept coming back with “File not found.”

“No, not officially. But it’s bound to happen sooner or later. Can you imagine? I and my progeny all onstage someday. We Cadsleys have theater in the blood. My grandfather even performed at the Globe.”

“With Shakespeare?” Chandra asked as she returned to her screen.

“No,” Ms. Cadsley frowned. “But if Shakespeare had been alive, I’m sure he would have given him a starring role!”

Kathy tied her shoelaces and attempted to untie the laces behind her back one last time without success. “You’d honestly prefer a baby announcement before a wedding invitation?” she asked Ms. Cadsley.

“Oh, please. I may live in the South, but I’m not that old-fashioned.” Ms. Cadsley turned to the mirror to admire her trim figure (aided by two layers of Spanx) and leaned forward to add another layer of eye shadow.

“Speaking of old-fashioned,” Kathy was starting to feel desperate as another bead of sweat rolled down her spine, “Could one of you please untie me? I’m dying in this thing.”

Ms. Cadsley snapped her eye shadow case shut. “Really, Kathy. If you had just gone on that diet I recommended at the beginning of the show, you wouldn’t be so uncomfortable now.” Kathy pursed her lips. “I don’t need to diet. I need to breathe.” “That’s a matter of opinion. Come here.” Ms. Cadsley raised her hands to free the unfortunate Ophelia when Wilma bustled through the door, clenching a cigarette in her yellowed teeth and Chet’s costume in her hand.

“Have y’all seen any ivory thread? Prince Charming’s got another problem with his shirt—not that I’ve altered it twice or anything.”

Ms. Cadsley rolled her eyes. “Didn’t you check the men’s dressing room?”

“I just came from there,” Wilma blew a smoke stream in the matron’s direction and tapped her cigarette on the nearby trash can. “All their junk’s been kicked to the walls. And there’s a huge stain in the corner.”

“You should’ve heard Frank rail about the waste of the company’s limited funds,” Chandra said, still staring at her phone.

“That man needs to chill, or he’s gonna have a heart attack one day.”

“Would this work?” Kathy handed the seamstress a spool she’d spied next to a red gingham dress from Oklahoma.

“Can’t tell in this light. Hold on a sec.” Wilma perched her thick black-rimmed reading glasses onto her beak of a nose and flipped on the overhead fluorescent lights.

“Ow!” Chandra shielded her eyes with her forearm. “Couldn’t you warn a woman before blinding her?” demanded Ms. Cadsley as she blinked her sight back into being through clumpy eyelashes.

“Maybe if ya weren’t so batty, the lights wouldn’t hurt so much. You never complain about the spotlight when you’re anywhere near it—which is rare.”

Ms. Cadsley darkened a shade under all her powder. “Anyway, this thread’s close enough. Audience won’t be able to tell the difference. But this is the last costume I’m touching for this show—especially for that prima donna who thinks he owns the company. That boy’s more puffed up than the Michelin Man, and he puts the ‘ham’ in Hamlet in more ways than one.”

“And what would a seamstress know about acting?” Ms. Cadsley rose from her seat, her hoop skirt taking up a good sixth of the floor space. “If it wasn’t for my son’s hard work, every show would flop, and this theater company would cease to exist—leaving you with nothing but your arthritis and social security.”

“Pshaw!” Wilma waved aside the comment. “If it wasn’t for all my hard work, every one of you would be standing onstage naked. And when you think of all the talent it takes to get some people to look decent enough for public viewing, I’m the one who oughta get a Tony.”

Kathy pretended to cough to hide her smile.

Ms. Cadsley was about to retort when Li Yan poked her head into the room, black bob swaying. “Frank wants everyone downstage.”

“Now?” Kathy’s eyes widened. But I’m still trapped in my corset!

“Now.” Li Yan gestured toward the hall with her clipboard. “You’ll have to change afterward.” Then she turned to the seamstress. “And try to remember to smoke outside, Wilma. We don’t want a fire back here.”

“I’ll try to remember . . .” Wilma said, “but I probably won’t succeed,” she muttered once Li Yan left the room.

A train of anxious thoughts raced through Kathy’s mind as she tracked back toward the stage, still tugging at her corset strings. Her approaching deadline loomed large and menacing before her, and she’d probably only get about four and a half hours of sleep that night—not ideal for the day of their opening show. She dropped behind the others and hid behind the black velvet curtain for a moment, closed her eyes, and took a couple deep breaths to steady her racing heart rate (like her therapist had advised). It’s just a deadline, Kathy. You always meet your deadlines. And you can take a power nap after work before the show.

Anxiety attack averted, Kathy joined the rest of the cast and sat on the hardwood stage next to Stephen, the senior thespian of the company, now playing the Ghost of King Hamlet/one of the gravediggers. Since male roles always outnumbered male actors, Frank rewarded multiple parts to any guy who showed up at auditions, provided he could make it to rehearsal and project beyond the first row of theater seats. Stephen had been with the company for over fifteen years and still wore his gravedigger makeup and brown burlap peasant costume. He arched a white eyebrow at the sight of Kathy’s anachronistic appearance.

“I know, I know,” she held up her skirts and pointed a sneakered foot. “Pick a century, right?”

“Well-begun is half done,” he quoted with a wrinkled smile.

Frank paced outside the orchestra pit, flipping through his script. Then he popped open another can of Diet Dr. Pepper and downed it in one gulp.

“Is it just me,” Kathy spoke quietly to Stephen, “or does Frank seem unusually nervous about opening night? Are we really that bad?”

Stephen shook his head. “If I’d just re-blocked a scene right before opening night, I’d be nervous too. Totally unprofessional. If Chet falls on his face, it’ll serve both of them right.”

“You ever think about directing yourself?”

Stephen scratched his close-cropped goatee. “I have enough white hair as it is, and I don’t want it falling out like Frank’s. But if he were more firm with the cast, he might not have that problem.”

“Okay, quiet people!” Li Yan shouted from the corner of the stage.

Everyone hushed and awaited the “break a leg” speech Frank always gave at the conclusion of dress rehearsal. Even Chet screwed the cap onto his Perrier bottle and leaned against Claudius’s throne to listen. Frank placed his script on the table, clapped his hands together, and faced the cast. “Tomorrow’s opening night, folks,” he said. “We don’t have time to rehearse curtain call now, and I’ve made some last-minute changes to the final scene. I know call time’s usually at five o’clock, but those in the last act need to meet here by 4:00 p.m. Everyone else be here by 4:30 for curtain call run-through, or you’re fired. Now go home and rest your voices—especially you, Richard.”

“Of course, of course!” Richard coughed. “I’m drinking tumblers of echinacea tea as my wife recommended and sucking on cough drops and using this vapor rub. Once I’m in full voice again, I’ll be happier than a woodpecker in a bubble wrap factory. But if I’m not better by tomorrow morning, there’s always downing raw egg yolks as a last resort . . .”

“Yes, Richard,” Frank interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The very last. Y’all are excused.”

Chet donned his black leather jacket and headed out the backstage door before everyone else.

Free at last! Kathy hoisted herself from the floor and approached Li Yan near the prop table. She was about to ask for help with her laces when Lloyd and Harry walked up. Both young men had performed in the troupe for numerous seasons. Both young men had lost leading roles to Chet. And both young men had secretly eyed upcoming auditions for other Chattanooga theater companies but would never admit it in public.

“I’m telling ya,” Lloyd sniffed with his face’s most prominent feature, “if Frank would have cast me as Hamlet, rehearsal would have ended hours ago.”

“It’s like high school theater with him all over again,” Harry sighed. “At least you get to duke it out with Chet onstage.” He untied his gray Horatio cape, which set off his red hair and ginger beard quite nicely. “I spend the whole play following his majesty around like some stupid lady in waiting.” He glanced at Kathy in her Ophelia costume. “No offense, Kathy.”

“None taken.” Kathy smiled briefly. She felt like a human burrito in her corset.

Lloyd sniffed again. “Y’all have anyone special coming to opening night?”

Not wanting to be rude, Kathy decided to stay long enough to make a polite reply before heading to the dressing room.

“My sister’s coming,” Harry said as he folded his cape over his arm. “She recently moved back to town to work at her friend’s shop. They sell all-natural, organic, herbal-type stuff and have a grand re-opening coming up.”

Kathy’s ears perked up. “She wouldn’t happen to work at Andrea’s Herbals, would she?”

Harry’s eyebrows lifted. “You know the place?”

“I’ve never been, but my sister works there, too. Plus, I’m interviewing the proprietor for an upcoming article soon.”

“Andrea?” Li Yan asked, looking as if she’d swallowed a bug. “Yes . . .” Kathy said. “Do you know her?”

“Unfortunately.”

Kathy waited awkwardly for some elaboration, but none came—not even from the two men who suddenly looked ill at ease in Li Yan’s presence. So she cleared her throat and answered Lloyd’s original question. “My sister’s coming on opening night, too. We’ve been roommates for the last couple years. It’s kinda like when we were young, only now we don’t yell at each other as much, and we split the chores and the bills. And my parents are also planning to fly down for the second weekend. They had a conflict for opening night.”

“My mother always insists on attending all fifteen shows whether I ask her to or not,” Lloyd said as he grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket.

“That’s nice,” Kathy said as she stepped toward the hallway door leading to the dressing rooms.

“Not when she picks apart each and every performance afterward.” Lloyd blew his nose and sniffed again. “But that’s what I get for having a former UTC theater professor as a parent. She’s been critiquing me since elementary school. I think she takes me losing out to Chet show after show even harder than I do. It’s almost enough to drive one to . . .” Lloyd’s voice tailed off as he traced his finger along his rapier hilt.

“To what?” Li Yan asked, looking up from her clipboard. Lloyd shrugged as he placed his prop weapon up on the plastic white table. “I dunno. Cyanide?”

Li Yan smirked. “For you or for Chet?”

“That, my dear, is the question.” He bowed with a flourish to the stage manager and stuffed his hankie back into his pocket.

At that moment, the backstage door opened, and Chet strode in. “Hey! Anyone seen my Perrier?”

When no one answered immediately, Chet huffed and crossed the stage to the wing where the prop table stood. “I know I had an extra bottle stashed here somewhere. Lloyd, did you move it?”

Lloyd’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Of course not! I can’t stand seltzer water.”

Chet rolled his eyes. “If you can’t tell the difference between seltzer and Perrier, then you must really be a redneck.”

Lloyd’s nostrils flared. Then he looked at Li Yan. “For Chet,” he clarified.

Kathy grinned briefly and looked at the ground. “What’s so funny?” Chet demanded.

“Oh, leave her alone, Chet,” Harry said. “No one’s seen it.” “Except the person who took it,” Chet countered.

“Well, none of us took it, then.”

Chet scanned the prop table and the hands of all the cast members standing around it. But with no sight of a green bottle, he finally jammed his hands in his jacket pockets and scowled. “Whoever took it owes me eight bucks.”

“Maybe you’ll find it in the dressing room,” Harry said. “I’ll find Sophie in the dressing room,” Chet muttered.

“What was THAT?!” Harry suddenly stiffened. His eyebrows met over his nose; he looked like he wanted to punch Chet.

Kathy took a step backward; she’d never seen Harry hottempered before, despite the stereotype associated with redheads.

Chet saw the look in Harry’s eyes and, for the first time Kathy had ever observed, actually backed down with a nonchalant shrug. “Nothing.”

Harry walked up to Chet until his ginger beard was within six inches of Chet’s cleft chin. “Keep it that way.”

“Yes, sir,” Chet said sardonically.

With that, Harry stalked out of the wings and headed toward the backstage door, leaving Kathy and the others mystified. What on earth was that about?

Chet merely turned from the group and waited a respectable three seconds to also exit through the backstage door. “Eight bucks!” he shouted before slamming it behind him.

Kathy had several questions, but none were as pressing as the uncomfortable corset against her sternum. She decided to make for the ladies’ dressing room to see if she could get help escaping her costume there. She walked quickly toward the backstage door and nearly careened into Wilma, who was coming through it, sucking a fresh cigarette.

“Whoa there, honey!”

“Sorry, Wilma. I’m trying to get out of here.”

“You and me both! As soon as I find what I’m lookin’ for.” “What are you looking for?” Kathy asked.

Wilma shifted the cigarette from one corner of her mouth to the other. “My special pin cushion. Could’ve sworn it was in the men’s dressing room, but a coon hound couldn’t find a moose in there, it’s so cluttered.”

“Before you go,” Kathy stepped toward the dark corner beside the door, “could you please untie this knot behind my back? I can’t undo it myself.”

“Turn around.” Wilma tugged twice. “Bless your heart! Who tied this?!”

“Ms. Cadsley.”

“Figures.” Wilma donned her glasses. “That woman is too heavy-handed. And her offspring is a Xerox copy!”

Ten seconds later, Kathy’s crinoline cage burst apart. She took a luxuriously deep breath and raised her hands in silent hallelujah.

Wilma pulled her cigarette from her lips and breathed out a sigh of smoke. “Whoever invented those vicious vests obviously never had to wear one. By the way, you may want to tie your shoelaces before going down all them backstage steps.”

“Thank you, Wilma. You’re a saint!” “No problem, honey,” Wilma puffed.

As Kathy stooped to tie a double loop, Alex, Chet’s understudy, walked up to the backstage door with Stephen, apparently discussing allergies. “So you see, that’s the difference between what most people call seasonal allergies and the allergic reactions that can land you in a hospital. We’ve been learning about it in class. Neat, huh?”

“Fascinating,” Stephen said as he stifled a yawn behind his gnarled hand.

“So, has Chet ever actually needed an understudy?” Alex asked.

“Only once,” Stephen said, “when our stage manager gave him a black eye during Romeo and Juliet.”

“Really? Why?”

“I think the onstage romance conflicted with their offstage one.”

“Li Yan and Chet? I never would have guessed. She barely talks to him now.”

“Thankfully,” Stephen continued, “it was the last show of the run. Not as taxing as it could have been for the understudied understudy. I trust you know all your lines?” He raised a white eyebrow.

“Well . . .” Alex’s face flushed, “ . . . all the quotable ones. So, I sincerely wish Chet the best of luck tomorrow. Fingers crossed he doesn’t call out sick or something.”

Stephen cleared his throat. “If you truly wish Chet well, don’t wish him luck; that’ll doom him for sure.”

Alex looked startled. “Come again?”

“Theater tradition. Actors never say, ‘Good luck.’ ‘Break a leg’ is the proper phrase.”

Alex stared at Stephen as if the old man’s warranty had just run out.

“He’s right,” Kathy chimed in after tying her shoe. “Actors can be a superstitious lot.”

“Naturally. We’re all mad here . . .” Stephen looked wistful, no doubt recalling his own theatrical past, when the blond undergrad interrupted.

“Broken legs and last-minute blocking . . . looks like I’ve got my hands full tomorrow night. Not to mention the paper I still need to write.”

Although freed from the corset, Kathy’s gut involuntarily tightened at the thought of her unwritten article.

Stephen opened the backstage door for his younger compatriots. “Whatever happens tomorrow, always remember what Thespis taught.” He closed the door behind him and put a wrinkled hand over his heart. “Act well thy part, for therein all the honor lies.”

“Yeah,” Alex added, “but don’t quit your day job. Good thing I’m pre-med. But I can’t graduate without a fine arts credit.

Doing the show fulfills the requirement.”

“Well, see you gents tomorrow!” Kathy said as she opened the door to the ladies’ dressing room. Now she could trade her Ophelia dress for her navy blue peacoat and go home. She walked past Chandra perched on the makeup counter and strode toward her own little corner where she kept her things. When she went to reach into her purse for her phone to check the time, she noticed one of the pockets lay untoggled. “Did something happen to my purse while I was gone?”

“What did you say?” Chandra lifted her eyes from her glowing screen.

Kathy checked the pocket but found nothing missing. “Oh, never mind.” After morphing back into a twenty-first-century woman, she hung her Ophelia costume on the rack and donned her coat. She was about to grab her scarf next to the lighted mirror when she noticed something on Chandra’s upturned black Keds.

“Chandra?”

“What?” Swipe, swipe.

“Did you eat a burger earlier?”

Chandra put her phone on her lap and looked disgusted. “I don’t eat beef. I’m Hindu.”

She pointed to a golden pendant hanging from a chain about her neck.

To Kathy, it looked like the number thirty in fancy script. “Sorry. I thought you had ketchup on your shoes.”

Chandra leaned over to view her soles and hopped off the counter. “I’ll wipe them off.” She adjusted her bra strap again and headed out the door as Ms. Cadsley entered.

The middle-aged woman held out her phone to Kathy. “How do I get to my calendar on this thing? I just upgraded, and now nothing’s where it should be!”

Kathy sighed. Will I ever get out of here? She pointed the matron to the appropriate icon, grabbed her purse, and pushed open the dressing room door to make her getaway. But she did it so quickly she accidentally rammed into Chet on the other side. The impact knocked both his phone and his Perrier from his hands. The phone clattered on the tile, undamaged in its black case. The bottle wasn’t so lucky; it shattered into a dozen emerald shards.

“Watch it, Ass . . . taire!” Chet altered his statement once he saw Kathy.

“What on earth is going on?!” Ms. Cadsley demanded as she poked her head from the dressing room.

Kathy’s cheeks reddened. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry! I didn’t know you were standing outside the door.”

“Ox,” Ms. Cadsley murmured as she returned to the dressing room.

Kathy placed her purse in the corner. “I’ll, ah . . . go get a broom.”

“Don’t bother.” Chet frowned as he picked up his phone and ran a finger over it to verify there were no cracks. “Here comes Mr. Clean now. Yo, Alonzo!” Chet summoned the janitor coming out of the restroom. “Senorita spilled my agua. Necesito clean-itup-o. Rapido. Comprende?”

Sr. Alonzo Sanchez adjusted his olive green cap and looked at the mess on the floor. “What happened?” he asked in perfect English.

“I’m sorry, Sr. Sanchez,” Kathy said. “I was rushing and accidentally knocked Chet’s bottle on the floor. Can I have that broom?”

“It’s okay, Ms. Kathy.” He pulled a dustpan from his cleaning cart. “I’ll get it.” He bent down, swept up the glass, and straightened again. “Satisfied, Señor?” he asked Chet.

“Not quite.” Chet noisily cleared his throat and spit into Alonzo’s dustpan. “Now I am.”

Kathy’s mouth fell agape like a nutcracker doll. She wanted to grab the dustpan and slap the grin off Chet’s face. But before she could move a muscle, a muffled voice singing, “If I were a rich man . . .” erupted near her hip.

“Fiddler on the Roof?” Chet raised his eyebrows.

“Oh!” Kathy dug into her purse and pulled out her singing phone. “It’s my sister. Um . . . thank you, Sr. Sanchez!”

But the janitor had already turned back to his cleaning cart.

Kathy escaped through the backstage exit. She took deep breaths of the chilly night air to steady her nerves, then raised her phone to her ear. “Liz!” she said more sternly than she actually felt, “How many times have I told you to keep your paint-stained fingers off my ringtone?!”

“I thought Fiddler on the Roof was your favorite musical,” Liz said playfully.

Kathy could never be angry with Liz for long, and over the last two years, she’d come to cherish her sister’s therapeutic sense of humor. She was such an angel to drop everything and switch schools like that . . .

“Anyway,” Liz said, “that song seemed appropriate considering the state of our fridge lately. I guess I’m having mustard for lunch tomorrow.”

A snarky angel, that is. Kathy smirked. “Sorry about the lack of groceries. I’ll swing by the store tomorrow after work. Is that copacetic?”

“Copa—what?”

“A-okay?”

“Fine, fine. I’ll just grab something between classes—and don’t preach to me about the evils of fast food. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

“I’m not your mother,” Kathy said as she strode toward her Toyota Camry parked in the Republic Parking Lot a block from the theater.

“Sometimes I think you forget that,” Liz retorted. “But anyhow, are you coming home soon, or should I go to bed? I pulled an eight-hour shift at work today and took a history midterm afterward. I’d like to sleep before midnight to celebrate.”

“Believe it or not, I’m just leaving the theater. And when I get home, I need to speed-type an article and send it in before 1:00 a.m. Otherwise, I’m stuck writing obits till Christmas.” Kathy shivered.

Liz went silent for a second. “No need to fret. You type like what—a hundred words a minute? By the way, is your topic on burglar alarms this week? Because we should probably get one. I heard another gunshot down the street last night.”

Kathy frowned as she scanned the sidewalk ahead of her for any ne’er-do wells and reached into her white leather purse for her car keys. The city had been growing rapidly, and unfortunately, so had the crime rate in certain sections of town, including the one where she lived. “Technically, installing a home security system is our landlord’s responsibility. But you know he’ll just raise the rent to cover expenses.”

“Fine. Then let’s get our own, and we can take it with us if we move. Since you’ve already done the research, which model would you recommend?”

Kathy cleared her throat. “I . . . haven’t actually done the research yet.”

“What?!”

Kathy held the phone away from her ear. “I thought your article was due tonight!”

“An article is due tonight. My editor didn’t specify which. It’s been a busy week, so I’m writing about the new animal shelter wing instead; it’s the Mayor’s new pet project. Your burglar alarm can wait.”

“Because I’m sure the burglars will. But whatever. I’m going to bed. Your coffee will be on the counter.”

Kathy stuck out her tongue in disgust. “You know I hate coffee.”

“If you’re writing till 1:00 in the morning, you’re gonna need it. I’ll just put a timer on the coffee maker before I brush my teeth. If I put your tea kettle on now, it’ll evaporate by the time you get home. The water inside, that is. Not the kettle itself. Ugh! I’m not talking good.”

“Well,” Kathy corrected. “Well, what?”

“Never mind.” English had never been Liz’s best subject. But she was a genius in art.

“Hey, don’t pick on my grammar. I’m tired,” Liz yawned. “I shouldn’t be accountable for anything I say after ten o’clock. Or really anything I say before then, either.”

Kathy smiled. “Alright, sis. Get some rest.”

“You’re not actually worried about your assignment, are you?” Liz asked gently. “Because if you’re feeling anxious, I could stay up with you, maybe . . .” she yawned again.

Kathy didn’t want Liz losing sleep on her account. “I’ll be fine, really. It should be an easy piece to crank out. I’ll just wax eloquent about fluffy fur balls and the importance of housing hundreds more of them. Who cares if only 35% get adopted?”

Liz’s playful tone returned. “You’re still mad at Grandma’s cat for scratching you in fourth grade, huh?”

Kathy ignored the question. “My article won’t win a Pulitzer, but nor will it be featured on the front page.”

“Way to look on the bright side,” Liz said. “If it sucks, no one will read it anyway.”

Kathy plopped into the driver’s seat, shut her car door, and locked it. “Thanks for your vote of confidence.”

“Just keepin’ things in perspective. Love you!”

“Love you, too.” Kathy turned on her ignition. “Don’t forget to lock up. I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

“Swell,” Liz yawned again. “And may the stoplights be ever in your favor.”

3

Kathy was two strong cups of tea from feeling human as she gripped the steering wheel like a life ring amid a river of Friday morning stop-and-go traffic. The rain splattered on her windshield, adding a London-like backdrop to her murky mood. And the traffic’s caterpillar pace did not improve it. Although Chattanooga’s rush hour was only a blip on the radar compared to the likes of Atlanta, construction smoothing out the downtown exits and the interchange to and from the Georgia capital had been stalling Kathy’s commute for weeks.

True to form, she’d made her 1:00 a.m. deadline, but only with minutes to spare. Then it had taken another hour for Liz’s darn coffee to wear off; she whiled away that hour listing reasons why tea was the superior beverage. At most, she’d only gotten five hours of sleep. A quick look at her reflection in the rearview mirror confirmed her nagging suspicion she’d left something undone: one eye lacked mascara. Her fingers tightened on the steering wheel. I probably have mascara somewhere in my desk, unless . . . did I clean out my desk this week? She honestly couldn’t remember and chose instead to focus on the backside of the muddy pickup truck filling her front windshield until she could take her exit.

Once, there had been no such thing as Chattanooga rush hour, unless you counted the rush of folks stampeding the stores in search of milk and bread whenever snow threatened. Back in the mid-twentieth century, the river valley city was famous for three things: The Chattanooga Choo Choo big band number, the invention of the Moonpie, and—according to the Department of Health, Education and Welfare in 1969—air pollution.

But thirty years later, Chattanooga had reinvented itself as an outdoorsy, family-friendly destination famous for the Tennessee Aquarium, a pedestrian-only Walking Bridge, the Hunter Museum of Art, the Railroad Museum, Ruby Falls (the tallest U.S. underground waterfall), and its propinquity to Rock City (a winding garden path with mountain-top views and statues of gnomes . . . so many gnomes). The once-dirty industrial city had also cleaned up its waterfront (if not quite the color of the water) and added the Riverwalk parks and trails to appeal to out-of-towners. These improvements, along with the arrival of Starbucks, Publix, Volkswagen, Amazon, a weekend farmer’s market, and dozens of new restaurants and boutiques, had transformed Chattanooga into a haven for professionals and hipsters alike. City planners couldn’t build condos fast enough.

At long last, Kathy parked her car in the lot outside the Chattanooga Line office building on Broad Street. It was a stately two-story building made of almond-colored brick with large windows, hardwood floors, and strictly trimmed holly bushes beside its glass double doors. Over the entrance hung a narrow forest-green awning, which was more decorative than functional. Kathy turned in her seat to retrieve her umbrella, but to no avail; she must have left it at home.

Crap!

Rain streamed down her driver-side window, and the last thing she wanted to do was sing in it. After shouldering her purse and psyching herself up for the thirty-meter dash to the Chattanooga Line entrance, Kathy flung her car door open and stepped into an unseen puddle, soaking her black slacks past the ankle.

Crappity crap!

She slammed the car door shut and accidentally caught part of her purse. She jerked her handbag free but at the cost of one of its pocket toggles. She trudged toward the office building like a resigned cat, occasionally shaking excess water from her extremities.

Kathy passed the main newsroom on the ground floor, trailing wet footprints behind her. Before heading up to her cubicle in the Chattanooga Line’s Community News Division/storage area, Kathy gazed at her former world through the round porthole in the door. Tall windows lined the far brick wall, framing brown tree limbs against the moody gray sky. Her heart panged when she saw news writers, copy editors, photographers, and IT staff dance around partitions with rough drafts and layouts in hand. Computers hummed, phones rang, and the smell of coffee beckoned from underneath the door. Her former editor had always kept a modest collection of teas beside the Keurig.

Kathy basked in the warm memory, then looked toward the cold metal stairwell.

The Community News floor on the second level suddenly seemed about as inviting as a doctor’s office. Safe, yes. Sanitary, yes. Dull?

“Yes,” she murmured, her breath fogging up the newsroom window. But in the fog, a vision of the bloody incident two years earlier flashed through her consciousness. She shivered and instinctively stuck her hand into her purse to feel the smooth, comforting plastic of her anxiety medication bottle.

“Kathy, is that you?” a voice called from above. The doctor himself.

Kathy turned from the window and gazed up to the second-floor landing. “Yes, Mr. Newman?”

Her current editor stood akimbo at the top of the stairs and looked like he’d recently finished a glass of sugarless lemonade. “Quit lollygagging and come up here. The press waits for no man.” He always said this when he had trouble finding a story. No news was bad news, so sometimes, it had to be invented.

Kathy plodded up the steps and covered a yawn with her hand. “Late night?” It was an accusation.

“Dress rehearsal.”

“Which explains why your article almost missed its deadline.” He slid Coke bottle glasses higher on his nose and straightened his stiff bow tie. “When I started in this business, well before you were born, my editor wouldn’t print an article unless it was on his desk by 5:00 p.m. on the dot. But now, people just email things minutes before the printers get going. If you ask me, the Internet is the number one contributor to mass laziness in this country—not to mention ignorance.”

Kathy nodded and ignored her buzzing purse; now was not a good time to check a text message. I’m glad I switched it to vibrate, she thought with chagrin as she met her editor on the landing.

“Anyway,” Mr. Newman continued, “I put some story leads on your desk. Heard the circuit judge might be becoming a bachelor again, so it may be timely to write something on how to navigate the divorce process—tips on how to choose a lawyer and so on.” He followed Kathy through the door into the office kitchenette.

Kathy kept boxes of PG Tips, British Blend Tetley, Bigelow Vanilla Chai, and Irish Breakfast teas in the overhead cabinet—all bold, all caffeinated, and all in bulk sizes. At home, she sipped from china tea cups; at work, she used ceramic tankards. She filled her electric tea kettle as her boss listed his other hot topics for the week: healthy Halloween treats to stem childhood obesity, the mayor’s autumnal family traditions, how to burglar-proof your home for the holidays (a recycled topic), and the new lingerie shop opening across from Chattanooga’s oldest gynecologist practice.

She said the appropriate “Yes, sir,” here and there, then zombied to her gray-walled cubicle, plopped onto her swivel chair, and stared at the blank computer screen. Only the click of her kettle announcing the availability of hot water could snap her out of gazing into the void.

At 4:00, Kathy turned off her computer, donned her pea coat, and headed for the door. En route, her phone vibrated madly in her pocket—not a text, but a call. Kathy smiled at the name on the screen and picked it up. “Hey, Liz!”

“Hey, sis! Excited about opening night?”

“Nervous,” Kathy confessed as she trotted down the office steps. “Are you looking forward to seeing the show?”

There was a pause on Liz’s end. “Weeeeell . . . I can’t say I’m looking forward to seeing Shakespeare, per se. He was the bane of my British Lit class last semester. But I am looking forward to seeing you. Mom and Dad can’t wait to see the show next weekend. They’ve already gotten their plane tickets. I’m just glad you’re not walking-talking scenery this time. Boston’s not around the corner, you know. By the way, I read your animal shelter article online this morning—the one on fluffy fur balls. Guess you got it in on time.”

“Barely,” Kathy said as she stepped out from the Chattanooga Line building onto the puddle-laden parking lot. “But since when do you read my articles? I thought you said community news was nothing but boring propaganda.”

“But I thought this particular article was actually interesting,” Liz said, ignoring Kathy’s question. “Inspiring, if you will.”

Kathy slowed her pace; she had lived with her sister long enough to scent a hidden agenda amid flowery speech. Here we go again. “Don’t get too inspired,” she said flatly. “We’re not getting a pet.”

“Why the heck not?” Liz protested. “We’re plenty responsible. And with you at rehearsal all the time, I’ve been a little lonesome.”

“Then get a boyfriend.” Kathy reached her car. “I’m not wasting precious funds on a needy, four-footed shedding machine that’ll meow or howl till the wee hours of the night.”

Another pause. “We could split the pet deposit.”

“We barely afford our own groceries. You want to add another mouth to the equation?”

“Okay, simmer down. I’m only saying I’m glad you handed your article in on time.”

“That’s not all you were saying,” Kathy smirked, “but thanks. I need to wrap this up and head to the theater. Frank said he’d fire anyone who wasn’t onstage by 4:30.”

“Can you fire people who aren’t paid?” Liz asked.

“Money isn’t everything,” Kathy said as she opened her car door.

“Only rich people say that. But if that’s what you really think, can we invest in a rottweiler?”

“Liz . . .” Kathy sighed.

“I don’t mean as a pet! It could earn its keep as a guard dog. This morning, I talked to our neighbor, and her cousin on Snowden Street had a break-in this week.”

“Our neighbor has over fifty cousins who seem to feature in every conversation we have with her. Of course she’s going to know someone who relates to anything we talk about. If you hadn’t been talking about break-ins, she probably wouldn’t have brought it up.” Kathy sat in the driver’s seat. “I’d rather get a home security system anyway. They don’t bark, drool, or get into the trash.”

“Maybe we can get one after you publish your research article. Aren’t ‘home security systems’ the topic of your next assignment?”

“Not yet. I’ll get to that after opening night. I’m covering the mayor’s autumnal traditions this week.”

“You mean like handing out Halloween candy and eating Thanksgiving turkey?”

“Pretty much.”

Liz sighed. “Don’t you ever get tired of writing puff pieces?” Kathy turned on the ignition. “Sometimes,” she admitted.

“But one-third of news writers take anti-anxiety medication. I’m aiming to get off mine.” She gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Okay,” Liz said in a softer tone. “I’ll head to the theater as soon as I get out of my astronomy class.”

“Have fun star-gazing!”

“If only it was that picturesque,” Liz said glumly. “I don’t mind the planets and constellations; it’s all the math they sneak into the works. You must have never taken astronomy.”

“No, I took science for lit majors.”

“I wanted to take that class, but I guess the stars were against me—it was full.”

Kathy smiled. “Never mind. You’re halfway through the semester. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Hope so. Right now, it feels like I’m doing scientific notation to infinity and beyond.”

Kathy paused at the stop sign at the edge of the parking lot. “I should probably hang up now. I’m pulling out of work. See you tonight.”

“Break a leg!”

Although she’d planned to reach the theater before 4:30, Kathy had underestimated how condo construction on Main Street and the chance of flurries forecast for later that evening would affect traffic. The unlucky convergence nearly doubled her commute time (as well as her blood pressure) as thousands of cars bottle-necked onto the highway a quarter mile from her exit.

She glanced at the clock on her dash: 4:24. I’ll never make it to curtain call rehearsal on time. Normally, Kathy prided herself on being a conscientious driver. But her patience had expired, and her punctuality was about to as well. She craned her neck to see if she could spot any police cars, but a white semi filled her entire rear windshield. It’s only a quarter mile . . . She ignored the protesting angel on her shoulder and flipped on her right turn signal. Slowly, she pulled out beside the blue truck in front of her (despite the driver’s emphatic honking) and sped along the shoulder till she reached her exit.

That’s when she saw the flashing lights in her rearview mirror and wished she could crawl into the pothole beneath her Camry.

One hefty ticket later, Kathy parked on the street across from the theater instead of going to her usual lot. She jammed all her spare change into the green parking meter and—after looking both ways—dashed across the road to the front entrance. She skipped up the marble staircase two steps at a time, jumped over Sr. Sanchez’s vacuum cord as he cleaned the crimson rug outside the theater house, then pushed her way through the double doors just in time to see the conclusion of Chet’s death scene onstage.

Chet lay on the floor on his side rather than on his elbows.

Frank glared at Chet from the first row. “Well? Is the new blocking satisfactory?”

“It will do.” Chet sniffed. “Only, understudy—keep your standard out of my way. You almost tripped me. Remember, I cross in front of you now.”

“Sorry about that!” Alex’s cheeks reddened.

“Any other notes, your highness?” Lloyd asked, readjusting his grip on his rapier.

“Yes. Lloyd, stop being a pain in the⁠—”

“Alright, you two,” Frank waved at the rivals. “Save your squabbling for the duel. Everyone, take five and be back onstage to run through curtain call. I want to rehearse it at least twice before heading into makeup.”

Relieved she had not yet been missed, Kathy walked down the carpeted aisle, then pushed open a side door leading backstage. Chet caught up with her behind the curtains.

“Hey Kathy, gotta sec?”

“What do you want?” she asked coolly. She still had not forgiven him for how he’d treated Sr. Sanchez the night before.

“Remember those papers I found in Frank’s script at dress rehearsal?” He glanced quickly over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “I think they might interest the paper, or maybe even the authorities.”

Kathy stiffened. “If you think you’ve stumbled onto something criminal, go to the police.”

Chet’s forearms flexed as he crossed them over his chest. “I thought you writers liked scoops.”

“Like I said before,” Kathy glanced at the wall clock hanging over the backstage door. “I only write community news stories— not the gossip column.”

“But this theater is in our community! Surely, that counts as community news, doesn’t it? Honestly, I’m not sure who to share this with. And you’re the only person in the company I actually respect.”

Despite her general dislike for the man, the serious expression in Chet’s mocha brown eyes, along with what appeared to be an unrehearsed compliment, made Kathy’s heart flutter for a fraction of a second.

“Three minutes till curtain call rehearsal!” Frank’s voice sounded from beyond the stage.

Kathy hoisted her purse higher on her shoulder. “Chet, I have to drop off my stuff. Can we discuss this later?”

Chet looked disappointed. “Just see me after the show.” Kathy nodded and strode toward the ladies’ dressing room.

She set her things on the makeup counter and bent down to take off her shoes.

Li Yan poked her head in the doorway. “Kathy, do you still have the cast money we collected for the director’s gift?”

Kathy paused. “Oh yes! It’s still in my purse. Why are we getting Frank a restaurant gift card for a Memphis location again?” “Because it’s the closest Polynesian Grill to Tunica,

Mississippi. Frank’s mom lives there, and he’s been visiting her more since she started chemo.”

Kathy reached for her other shoe. “I’ll deposit the money tomorrow morning and order the gift card this weekend. We don’t need it until the last show.”

“About that,” Li Yan said as she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, “is there a safer place you could keep your purse for now? Alex swears he’s missing fifty bucks from his wallet since dress rehearsal.”

“What?” Kathy stood. “Last night?”

Li Yan sighed, “I was hoping the last musical would help fund some new backstage security cameras, but Frank said we didn’t sell enough tickets for that. I’ll lock the dressing rooms once the show starts, but they need to be open now while everyone gets into costume.”

“I’ll put the money in the trunk of my car.” Kathy reached for her purse.

“TIME FOR CURTAIN CALL!” Frank’s voice boomed from the backstage hallway.

Kathy frowned. “After curtain call rehearsal, that is.”

“You do that,” Li Yan said as she left the room, leaving Kathy to search for a temporary hiding spot for her purse.

Hmm. I can’t just leave it on the counter. Can I stash it in my makeup kit? Nope. Too big. Behind the hair spray?

“WHERE IS OPHELIA?” Frank called impatiently.

Kathy shoved her purse under a red-checkered gingham dress from last season’s Oklahoma and sped down the hallway in socked feet.

4

As Kathy brushed aside the black velvet curtain, she saw everyone in the cast standing or sitting on the hardwood stage in various phases of hair and makeup.

Kathy sidled over toward Stephen. With his pale-powdered face and naturally white hair, he already resembled King Hamlet’s ghost, whom he played in Act One before changing into his gravedigger costume for Act Five.

“Alright, folks. You know the drill,” Frank said as he stood downstage with his Diet Dr. Pepper in hand. “After the last scene, you’ll come out in small groups downstage—minor characters first, take your bow, then scoot upstage to form a line. Principal actors come out last: Polonius and Laertes, Claudius and Gertrude, Horatio, Ophelia, and finally, Hamlet. Chet acknowledges the lighting crew—in this case, Sr. Alonzo—and myself. Then you all hold hands like one big happy family and take a final bow together. Got it?”

“Happy family?” Stephen spoke aside to Kathy. “To quote Billie Joe Armstrong, ‘We put the fun in dysfunctional.’”

Kathy smiled. This would be her first time taking a solo bow. “Excuse me, Director Frank?” Alex raised his hand.

“Yes, understudy?”

“Which group do I bow with? I’m a guard and a gravedigger and a herald . . .”

“I don’t care. Just pick one. And don’t bow more than once.”

“Alright. One bow. Wait, does that include the bow at the end?” Ms. Cadsley groaned. “Somebody get me my agent!”

“Your agent retired twenty years ago!” Chet said, throwing back his Perrier.

Frank glanced at his watch. “We don’t have time for this. Just go downstage with the guards right before Polonius and Laertes. Bow once. When you hold hands with everyone else after Chet comes out, bow once more. Don’t overthink it. It’s not calculus; it’s curtain call.”

“I get it now,” Alex said. “But Director Frank?”

“What?!” Frank squeezed his soda can.

“Where exactly is Polonius?”

Frank froze. His eyes scanned the crowd onstage. “Has anyone seen Richard?”

Now everyone scanned the stage. Richard always arrived early, left late, and never missed a rehearsal. But with all the fuss over re-blocking the last scene, no one had noticed his silence—which could only mean his absence. Polonius had no understudy, and though Frank had read the script often enough to recite Richard’s lines in an emergency, there was little hope he could fit into Richard’s costume.

“Li Yan!” the director shouted, already starting to sweat. “Yes, sir?” She left her clipboard on the prop table and walked downstage.

“Search the dressing rooms! Search the lobby! See if you can find Richard. I’ll try him on his cell. And if you can’t find him, call Wilma and tell her to come to the theater immediately with her sewing kit! And Stephen?”

“Yes, my lord?” the white-haired actor acknowledged.

“Take the cast through curtain call while I try to reach Richard!” Frank marched offstage scowling, and slammed the backstage door behind him.

* * *

Once the cast managed to run through curtain call without running into each other, everyone headed to the dressing rooms to get into costume. Frank paced in front of the orchestra pit, redialing Richard’s number with his right hand while clutching successive cans of Diet Dr. Pepper with his left.

Wilma had reluctantly agreed to leave her bowling league early to alter Richard’s costume if he didn’t show up. But traffic conditions had not improved since Kathy’s commute, and the disgruntled seamstress had no idea when she’d actually get to the theater. Meanwhile, Frank sent Li Yan to the storage closet to see if she could find any medieval costumes that might fit if Wilma couldn’t finish the alterations in time. After digging through Victorian dresses, trench coats, poodle skirts, animal costumes, Egyptian headdresses, and cowboy chaps, she returned with a brown monk’s habit. Frank sent her back to try again.

After a quick trip to the ladies’ room, Kathy turned the corner backstage and nearly ran smack into Chet. But he was too busy arguing with his mother to pay her any mind.

“Get off my back, will you! I’m not a kid anymore!”

Kathy cast her eyes downward and sidestepped around the Cadsleys in the narrow hallway. She had no desire to get drawn into a domestic dispute.

“You’ll always be my kid no matter how old you are!” Ms. Cadsley looked like the bride of Frankenstein, with her face white with cold cream and her hair stacked high in hot rollers. “The doctor said if it happens again, it could be far worse. What if someone in the audience eats a Snickers bar and shakes your hand afterward? I’d rather you be safe than sorry.”

Kathy was only ten feet from the dressing room door; her socks could not get her there fast enough.

“If it’ll keep you from getting a hernia, my EpiPen’s in my dressing room. Yeesh!”

Kathy shut the wooden door behind her and leaned against it to take a deep breath. There had been so much drama in the last hour—and the curtain wasn’t even up yet. She quickly took a seat at the lighted makeup counter, poured foundation onto a white triangular sponge, and mechanically dabbed her face. There was only an hour until places. She doubted she’d have time to run lines with the new Polonius before then. Where the heck was Richard?

In her agitation, she knocked over the foundation bottle, sending a creamy waterfall cascading onto her favorite pair of slacks.

“Perfect.” She grabbed a handful of makeup sponges and started blotting.

“Jittery?” Chandra asked from her recumbent position on the far side of the counter.

Kathy jumped; she had not seen the stagehand there earlier and had no idea how Chandra could have seen the makeup spill without looking up from her phone. “It would’ve been nice to rehearse with Frank at least once before performing in front of a thousand people. Memorizing, I can do. But improvising on the spot . . . not my cup of tea.”

Ms. Cadsley entered the dressing room with all the solemnity of Queen Gertrude, but she pouted like an overgrown Shirley Temple when she saw the puddle of foundation on the floor. She reached up to adjust one of her hot rollers and studied her gown hanging near Kathy. “Nothing got on my dress, did it?”

“No,” Kathy sighed. “Only on the floor and my pants.” “Good. About time you tossed those faded things out, anyway. Glad our costumes are alright because it looks like Wilma will be too busy trussing Frank into Richard’s costume to help anyone else tonight. I’ve always thought Richard was too big for his britches, but he’s not half as big as Frank is. I hope Wilma brings an elastic waistband with her.” She snickered and turned sideways to admire her own figure in the mirror.

Kathy chose not to comment. “I’ll go get some paper towels.” In the hallway once again, she was about to head for the restroom when she heard the backstage exit door creak open. She raised her eyebrows as the missing thespian himself poked his salt-and-peppered head into the backstage hallway.

“Richard! Where have you been?” Relief and frustration flowed through Kathy all at once. She didn’t know whether to scold or hug the man in the doorway. “Frank’s been trying to reach you for the last twenty minutes!”

“He has?” Richard took his phone from his pocket. “Twenty-six missed calls! Dang! I turned my phone off to help save my voice for tonight. I presume I missed curtain call, but that’s not a problem. I’ve done curtain call a hundred times. And I’m happy to say that after saving my voice all day, I feel rarin’ to go. Mostly . . .” He coughed into his elbow.

“Richard,” Kathy chided, “where were you? We thought you might not show up tonight, so Frank asked Wilma to let out your costume. He’s getting ready to do your part.”

Richard paled. “I suppose I’d better let him know I’m here, then.” He dashed toward the stage. “No, wait!” He spun around. “I’ll put my costume on first before Wilma can get her hands on it. You let Frank know I’m here! Thanks!”

He ran into the men’s dressing room and banged the door shut.

Kathy blinked. I suppose the paper towels can wait.

She trotted toward the end of the hall, opened the backstage door, and stepped onstage. Frank was trying to wrangle himself into a billowy white Renaissance shirt Li Yan had found in the back of the storage closet, only, it didn’t look so billowy on Frank. He grunted as his arms floundered above his head. The sleeves were so tight he couldn’t bend his elbows. Li Yan tugged at the bottom of the garment and, after some mild profanity, managed to pull it over his front.

Kathy forced her mouth to form a neutral line as she approached her disgruntled director. “Frank, I’ve got good news! Richard’s here!”

“What?!” Frank gasped—whether from surprise or from the suffocating shirt, Kathy couldn’t tell. “Where the HECK has he been?!”

“I think he forgot that call time was changed to four-thirty.” “Inconsiderate swine! Didn’t he get my messages?”

“He said he’d turned off his phone to save his voice for tonight.”

Frank’s already-red face darkened a shade. “If he wasn’t such a longstanding member of the company . . . can he say his lines at least?”

“His voice sounded alright to me.”

“Fine! I’ll have words with him myself. Li Yan, help me out of this! Then tell the cast we’ve only got forty-five minutes till places!”

Her message delivered, Kathy headed for the backstage ladies’ room for some paper towels. She was about to turn the knob to the dressing room when Wilma kicked open the backstage exit door carrying her sewing kit, purse, and a bolt of crimson fabric. “Let it out, take it in! Let it out, take it in! A seamstress’s work is never done. It’s all the bad karma from eating that third piece of cobbler last night. Now I have to fit a beluga into a penguin suit! Kathy, honey, can you hand me that thread I dropped?”

Kathy bent down and picked up the black spool which had rolled near her feet. “Guess what, Wilma? You don’t have to alter anything. Richard got here a few minutes ago, so Frank doesn’t have to wear the Polonius costume.”

Wilma stood motionless for a full three seconds. “You mean to tell me I left right in the middle of my championship bowling game for nothing!? Where the Sam Hill is Frank?”

Kathy gestured toward the door at the end of the hall. “Downstage.”

Wilma dropped her baggage right where she stood and marched toward the theater house, muttering to herself like a witch from Macbeth.

* * *

Despite all the excitement over the prodigal Polonius, Kathy managed to finish her makeup and don her costume with the help of the chain-smoking (and thus pacified) seamstress at the laces. “Thanks, Wilma,” Kathy said as she approved her hourglass contours in the mirror. “I can hardly believe this is the same costume I wore last night. I can actually breathe.”

Li Yan entered the dressing room with clipboard in hand. “Ladies, it’s about ten minutes till places. So make any last-minute adjustments and use the restroom now. There will be no flushing backstage until intermission. We all remember what happened during the final scene in Romeo and Juliet. Totally ruined the mood.”

“And the janitor wonders why we have so many plumbing problems.” Ms. Cadsley rose from the makeup counter and turned sideways to get her enormous hoop-skirted frame out the door.

“And Wilma . . . the cigarette?”

Wilma sighed. “I’ll take it outside ”

Once Ms. Cadsley and the seamstress left the dressing room,

Li Yan turned to Kathy. “Is the gift money safe?”

“Oops!” Kathy grimaced.“I got so distracted with Richard missing I forgot to put the money in my car. I guess I don’t have time to go now, but don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“Please do. I can’t babysit everyone’s stuff back here, and I can’t lock the dressing rooms until everyone’s onstage.”

When Li Yan shut the door, Kathy dug her purse out from underneath the mountain of red plaid gingham to double-check the money. Two hundred bucks still lay in the center of her purse, safe and sound. She fastened the lone toggle and was about to replace the purse under the dress when she got an idea. She grabbed her phone and texted Liz.

5

Liz sat in stop-and-go traffic, harrumphing at each stoplight. Her astronomy professor had kept her class late to detail an upcoming project, and she felt like she was traveling in an asteroid belt of cones and barricades. At this rate, she’d be lucky to find a seat before the curtain opened. Her phone dinged: a text message.

Liz knew texting while driving in Tennessee was illegal. But I’m hardly driving right now, she rationalized. I’m just coasting. Still, she glanced out the car windows for cops, then held her phone below the steering wheel to read Kathy’s text:

“Hey, can you put my purse in your car? I’ll explain later.”

She texted back, “Can’t. Traffic. Hope 2 b there b4 show.”

“The show starts in fifteen minutes!”

Why does she always spell out her numbers? Liz rolled her eyes and punched a thumbs-up emoji.

“Could you pick it up at intermission?”

Liz was about to punch another thumbs-up when the car in front of her stopped suddenly. She slammed on her brakes and let her heart settle back into her rib cage before texting back. “K. Brick a log.”

“What?”

HONK! The driver behind Liz banged on his horn.

Liz mumbled as she shifted her yellow VW Bug into first gear. At the next red light, she corrected her earlier message. “Break a leg.”

“Thanks! By the way, do you have a granola bar or something? I skipped dinner.”

“No. BTW, U no u can use BTW 4 by the way.”

“Yes, but shortcuts ruin good spelling. Love you!”

“Luv U . . .”

HONK!

“2.”

* * *

Liz dashed through the theater lobby doors five minutes before curtain. Ignoring the chandelier and the polished marble, she stuck her ticket out for the attendant to tear and scampered into the house to find a seat. The theater was breathtaking with its intricately carved flourishes on the walls and red carpet, but Liz only had eyes for an empty seat. Thankfully, she spied four in the back corner of the theater and went to claim one when she heard a familiar male voice.

“Hey, Liz!”

Liz spun around and saw Jade, one of her coworkers, waving to her from the fourth row.

“Saved you a seat!”

Liz’s stomach sank like the Titanic. Jade had asked her out every Friday night since her first week at the herb shop. He was nice enough, but somehow, she couldn’t get past his gluten-free, dairy-free, sugar-free lifestyle, his insistence on wearing Birkenstocks in all weathers, and his belief in the herbal healing of all things.

“Thanks!” Liz said as she continued backing toward the corner seats, “But I think I’ll just grab a seat up there.”

That’s when a family of four came through the back doors and claimed them all. Liz silently cursed and slowly turned to face Jade.

He beamed. She cringed.

Kathy owes me big time for this. Liz gritted her teeth and slowly descended toward Jade’s row, staring at the crimson carpet beneath her feet.

With an exaggerated gesture, Jade bowed and pointed to the four empty seats beside him. “My lady!”

Liz took one last look around the theater for any other empty red cushions, sighed, and slid into the row two seats down from Jade to communicate this was NOT a date. Her suitor merely shifted his place to the seat on the far side of Liz.

Liz stared straight ahead. If he tries to put his arm around me, I’ll slug him!

“So, you made it!”

“Yeah, glad to be here.”

“I’m so happy we’re finally doing something outside of work for a change!”

“The alignment of the stars, I guess,” Liz muttered. “And drop the ‘we.’ What are you doing here?”

“I’m seeing a show. With you.” He grinned as if he’d just told the wittiest joke in the solar system.

Liz wished someone would beam her away.

“You excited about your sister playing Ophelia?” he asked as he adjusted the collar of his brown corduroy blazer.

“Thrilled.” Liz checked her phone. Only two minutes till curtain.

“Hey, are you stressed or something?”

“No.”

“You’re scowling. Headache? Don’t worry, I know what to do! First, you gotta close your eyes.”

“I’m not closing my eyes.”

“Oh, come on! Close your eyes and imagine the calming, rhythmic waves of the ocean.”

“No.” Liz crossed her arms defiantly.

“It’s one of the best things to beat a tension headache. Too bad I left my essential oils in the car. But on the other hand, you could be dehydrated. Want a sip from my water bottle?”

“No.”

“I can also do little circular motions on your temples. Here, lean back.”

“If you lay one finger on me . . .”

Before Liz could finish her threat, two women joined their row. “Andrea!” Liz said in surprise as she recognized her boss.

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Oh, hi!” Andrea said as she perched her chic aviator sunglasses atop her head and sat next to Liz. “I didn’t know you were a Shakespeare fan.”

“I’m not. But my sister’s playing Ophelia tonight. I’m here to support her.”

“Good job!” Andrea smiled, removed her olive coat and tucked her leather gloves into her white purse, then gestured to the other woman who sat down in the seat beside her. “Liz, this is Sophia—the new masseuse I told you about who’s also helping with our new product line. Sophia, this is Elizabeth Waters. She started working at the shop last summer.”

Liz shook the slender, freckled hand offered to her. “Nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Sophia said, curling a scarlet lock behind her ear. “I’m here to support my brother, Harry. He plays Horatio, Hamlet’s best friend. I thought I might have to sit beside strangers all night, but then I ran into Andrea a block from the theater and now, here we are!”

Andrea smiled. “We were roommates in college.”

“Hi! I’m Jade,” the not-to-be-overlooked coworker extended his hand over both Liz and Andrea to greet Sophia.

“Sorry, I don’t know where my mind is,” Andrea said. “Jade also works at the shop.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Sophia shook his hand. Then she turned to Liz. “Is this your sister’s first show with the company?”

“More like her fourth. But this is the first time she’s played a character with a name.”

“Shh! The lights are going down,” Andrea said as she bent down to place her purse under the seats.

Jade leaned close to Liz. He smelled of green tea and citrus. “If you need to borrow a program, I have an extra one.”

“I’m good,” Liz lied as she crossed her arms once more. Man, I hate Shakespeare.

6

Despite the backstage drama leading up to curtain, the first half of the show went rather smoothly.

Richard projected his lines and sucked on cough drops between scenes. Chet never broke his broody character, even when offstage. And Kathy had so much fun in the spotlight she forgot about all the fuss that had happened earlier. As the curtain closed for the fifteen-minute intermission, she caught a glimpse of her sister sitting in the fourth row next to a skinny white guy in dreads. Though why she looks like she swallowed a bug, I haven’t the faintest idea. I hope it’s not my acting.

“Kathy!” Li Yan hissed from the wings. “I need to talk to you a sec.”

Kathy walked toward the stage manager at the prop table. “We’ve had another theft!”

“What?!” Kathy’s eyes widened.

The disgruntled stage manager hugged her clipboard to her chest. “It must have happened just before I locked up. John says he can’t find his wallet, and he swears he put it in his pants pocket before getting into his Rosencrantz costume. Have you taken care of Frank’s gift money yet?”

Kathy started toward the backstage door. “I’ll take care of it now.”

“You parked by the main entrance, right?”

“Yes.”

Li Yan shook her head. “You can’t go out front in costume. There are people in the lobby.”

“Then I’ll text my sister and see if she can come around back to pick it up. Are the dressing rooms unlocked?”

“They are,” Li Yan said as she looked at her phone. “You have thirteen minutes.”

Kathy nodded meekly and headed for the dressing room. When she reached her corner of the makeup counter, she froze. Her blouse and slacks sat neatly folded next to her makeup kit. Even her phone lay in its place next to the ten-gallon hat from Oklahoma. But the red-checkered gingham dress—and her purse underneath it—had disappeared. Where is the dress?!

“What’s wrong with you?” Ms. Cadsley asked when Kathy failed to move after several seconds. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Where’s the costume that was lying here?” Kathy pointed, trying to keep her rising anxiety out of her voice.

“What do you want with another costume? You’re already wearing yours.”

“Because I hid my purse inside the dress, and it had all the money for the director’s gift!”

Ms. Cadsley’s eyes widened. “What! Why didn’t you lock it up?”

A litany of unholy words flew through Kathy’s mind, and she was about to share them aloud when she spotted something white and bulgy sitting atop a shelf in the back of the room. She snatched it down and unclasped the top. Oh, please, please, please still be there!

When she saw the roll of bills sitting safely next to her stash of emergency tampons, she sighed with relief. “Thank goodness! It’s all still here!”

“That’s more luck than you deserve.” Ms. Cadsley shook her head. “Now, put that money away. I’m not donating my five dollars again.”

“But why would someone move my purse without taking anything out of it?” Kathy wondered aloud as she retoggled it shut.

“Maybe our little poltergeist got spooked in the act. Who knows?”

Kathy’s phone vibrated in the corner. She read Liz’s text: “Need me 2 get ur purse now?”

“Yes! Come outside to the back of the theater,” she texted back. “I can’t be seen in costume out front.”

Kathy donned her pea coat over her Ophelia dress, slung her purse over her shoulder, and headed out the backstage exit into the cool night air. A sneaky breeze defied the heavy hairspray Kathy had used and tried to wreck her elegant updo. She turned up her coat collar. The historic building’s closest streetlight cast an orange pallor on three people chatting underneath it. As she walked closer, Kathy saw it was Frank, Chet, and a woman she didn’t recognize.

Chet hailed her. “Getting a breath of fresh air?” he called.

“I needed to pass something off to my sister,” Kathy gestured to Liz’s approaching form coming from around the opposite side of the building.

“That’s your sister?” Chet exclaimed, with Liz forty yards away and closing. “But you two don’t look anything alike. She’s so pretty!”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Actually, Kathy,” Frank said after sipping from another can of Diet Dr. Pepper, “If you chopped your hair, you’d look like twins. Maybe we should do Side Show next spring.”

“Nice thought, but I think Liz prefers painting to performing,” Kathy said.

“Are you talking about Liz Waters?” the woman in the olive jacket and boots asked.

Kathy nodded.

“Then you must be Kathy Waters from the Chattanooga Line! I believe you’re doing an article on my business next week.”

“Oh, yes!” Kathy smiled politely, “Then you must be . . .”

“Andrea Keats,” Chet interrupted, “my roommate.”

“Fiancé,” she corrected.

“And also my boss,” Liz said as she walked up. “You didn’t tell me you were dating the lead, Andrea.”

“The spotlight suits him well, I think,” Andrea smiled as she took a step closer to Chet.

“On that, at least, we can agree,” he said.

Frank checked his watch. “Don’t be out here too long, y’all.

Almost time for places again.” He yawned.

“Tired?” Andrea asked.

“Stressed. You know how opening night is. Plus, I stayed up late doing some last-minute changes to the blocking.” Frank glared at Chet. “But the show must go on—even if it kills us.”

“Maybe you need a vacation,” Chet said with an insinuating smile. “How about Vegas? Or Tunica, maybe? I hear it’s nice this time of year.”

Frank stiffened, then pursed his lips together.

“Frank, this is my sister, Liz,” Kathy said in an effort to dispel the obvious tension.

“Nice to meet you. Hope you enjoy the show,” Frank said to Liz. Then he faced his actors. “Places in six minutes. And good to see you again, Andrea.”

“Likewise,” she said as Frank lumbered back to the theater.

“Oh, Kathy. Don’t forget to see me after the show,” Chet said as she and Liz started to walk toward the backstage entrance together.

“About what?” Andrea asked with an arched eyebrow.

“Nothing,” Chet said.

Kathy flushed; she didn’t want to give Andrea the wrong impression about her meeting with Chet. But she also wasn’t sure how to explain about the documents Chet wanted to show her, pass off her purse to her sister, and return backstage in less than four minutes.

Thankfully, Andrea turned back toward the handsome lead. “I think I’ll head back to my seat. It’s windy out here.” She kissed him on the lips, then made a face. “Chet, have you been eating fish?”

“Caviar, actually.”

“Caviar?” Andrea, Liz, and Kathy asked in unison.

Chet grinned at their curiosity. “Looks like I’m finally getting some respect around here. Or maybe Frank just wanted to apologize for his idiotic blocking earlier.”

“Apologize with caviar?” Kathy asked skeptically. “That’s a new marketing angle.”

Chet shrugged. “All I know is when I got to the dressing room after curtain call rehearsal, I found a small plate of crackers and caviar waiting at my corner with a note saying, ‘Break a leg.’ Isn’t that sweet? I was famished, too. But I’m gonna need to find my Perrier before going back onstage. Caviar’s saltier than I remembered.” He tugged at his shirt collar and cleared his throat.

“Good luck in your final act,” Andrea said. “I’ll see you after the show.” She then turned toward Liz. “We might want to find our seats before the lights start dimming.”

“I’ll be there soon. Just gotta do a quick favor for my sister.”

Andrea nodded. “Good to meet you, Kathy. I’ll see you at the shop in a couple days.”

“Sure thing!”

“Just a few scenes more, and we can all go home happy.” Chet grinned.

Once Andrea headed for the front theater entrance, and Kathy and Liz reached the steps leading backstage, Kathy exhaled. “Whew! That was awkward.”

“Not as awkward as the hickey on Chet’s neck,” Liz said matter-of-factly.

“He had a hickey on his neck?”

“Yep. Peeking out from his shirt . . . which is funny because I don’t remember seeing it during the first few acts of the show.

Must’ve happened backstage. Maybe he got it from the same person who gave him the caviar. From what you’ve told me about Frank, I highly doubt it came from him.”

“Me too, but are you sure it wasn’t a bruise on Chet’s neck? How do you know what a hickey looks like, anyway?”

Liz gave her older sister a smug smile. “At this point in my art classes, I know what pretty much everything looks like.”

“Ugh! I don’t want to think about that!” Kathy’s face contorted in disgust. “Anyway, here’s my purse. Could you hold onto it for me till after the show? I had a scare because someone moved it during the first act. Thankfully, Frank’s gift money was still inside.”

“Moved it?” Liz slung the purse strap over her shoulder. “Sounds like Phantom of the Opera or something.”

“I know, right?”

“Why didn’t you just put it in your trunk?”

“Because I had to park on the street outside the front entrance, and Li Yan doesn’t want me to be seen in costume until after the play.”

“Upholding the mystique, eh?”

“We aim to please. By the way, who’s that guy you’re sitting with?”

Liz darkened a shade. “That’s Jade from work—the one who can’t take a hint. And I’m not sitting WITH him—just beside him because there weren’t any other seats available.”

“Oh. Well, how do you like the play?”

“I’m staying awake—which is better than I’d expected. You’re doing great.” Liz gave a thumbs up. “But it’s freezing out here; we should get back inside. I don’t think I have time to take this to your car before intermission ends, though.”

“That’s okay,” Kathy said. “At least it will be safer with you than if it were backstage. I’ll see you after curtain call. Got to get back to my place.”

“Break a leg!”

7

Aside from the fact she only understood about half of what the actors said, Liz had enjoyed the first half of the show. Language arts had never been her strong suit (her teachers reprimanded her for doodling on papers), and Shakespeare had always sounded more like Elvish than English. Still, between the context gleaned from Kathy at home and the Wikipedia summary she’d read last week, Liz had a basic understanding of the plot and could appreciate the drama. She kept her artistic reservations regarding the set to herself, but she knew Kathy would never ask her about the painted backdrops’ historical authenticity.

When Liz returned to the audience, she smiled to see Sophia and Jade sitting next to one another. Maybe Jade would redirect his attentions to Sophia and let Liz watch the rest of the show in peace.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Liz,” Sophia said, starting to rise. “You want your seat back?”

“Oh no, that’s fine.” Liz smiled and motioned for her to sit. “You sure? I don’t want to get in between you guys.”

“Oh please, by all means!” Liz slid into the empty seat between Andrea and Sophia and tucked Kathy’s purse under her chair.

The house lights overhead dimmed twice before returning to their former glow.

“That’s the three-minute warning,” Andrea said. “I’m going to try the restroom again while the line’s not as long. Wanna come with?”

“No, thanks,” said Liz. “I went before I met Kathy outside.” “I’ll come!” Sophia chirped. “My lips could use another coat of balm. The air’s so dry nowadays.”

Both ladies reached under their crimson theater seats for their purses, stood, and side-stepped out into the aisle.

Liz watched them leave with regret; they’d abandoned her once more to Jade’s company. She avoided his gaze, bent over her program, and pretended to be fascinated by an ad for a local hunting store till the lights went dark altogether as Andrea and Sophia scooted back to their seats. Three minutes had never felt so long.

* * *

Offstage right, Kathy rested atop her usual wooden chair as the gravediggers bantered beyond the curtain. Her chair creaked slightly as she leaned back and crossed her ankles. Her final lines delivered, all she had to do was wait for a couple guards to carry her downstage on a pallet for the burial scene—a part she could literally play in her sleep, provided she didn’t lean too far to one side.

Chet, however, seemed ill at ease. Instead of saying his Yorick speech to himself as he always did, he paced back and forth in the wings without so much as an anticipatory glance downstage. Every few steps, he wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve and mumbled mild (and not-so-mild) expletives as he searched for something.

“Chet!” Kathy whispered when he came within a few feet of her. “What are you doing? You should be in your place with Harry.”

“I know, I know,” he hissed. “But my throat feels like I swallowed a sock. Have you seen my Perrier?”

Kathy shook her head. “You check the dressing room?”

“Of course I checked there!” he snapped.

“There’s always the water fountain . . .”

“I don’t drink sewer water. It’ll throw me off. And this stupid costume is smothering me! You think Wilma’s trying to do me in?” he asked with eyes as big as saucers.

Kathy blinked. He actually looks frightened. “Chet, are you okay?” she asked quietly as she rose to her feet.

“I will be when I find my Perrier! If that janitor threw it out just for spite . . .” he stormed off toward the backstage hallway.

Kathy watched him go with clasped hands. Something in Chet’s look—was it desperation?—reminded her of something she had spent the last two years trying to forget. She felt a chill despite the theater’s warmth and hugged herself.

“What’s wrong with Chet?” Chandra asked from behind, materializing from the shadows in her black stagehand outfit. For once, her fingers were phone-less.

Kathy shook her head. “He thinks someone stole his Perrier.”

Chandra licked her full lips. “I’d think he’d want something stronger than that after the argument he had with Frank.”

“What argument?”

“Where the devil is Chet!?” Richard rasped as he poked his head from around the curtain. “There’s only a few lines left before his entrance, and he’s not in his place!”

“What?!” Both women whispered at once. Kathy glanced downstage to make sure the audience hadn’t heard them. Chet NEVER missed an entrance. Not even in rehearsal.

The gravediggers were nearing the end of their exchange. Behind the curtain across the stage, Kathy could see Harry/ Horatio raising his hands in bewilderment. He couldn’t make his entrance without Chet. Hamlet’s skull soliloquy was next—the most famous part of the play!

Kathy grabbed her skirts and dashed backstage. “Have you seen Chet?” she asked Li Yan and Lloyd as she passed the prop table. They responded with blank stares. Without slowing her pace, she headed toward the men’s restroom and knocked. “Chet? You in there?”

No answer.

She ran to the men’s dressing room, threw open the door, and gasped. Makeup kits, duffel bags, trousers, shirts, scripts, and even an overturned wastebasket lay scattered all over the floor. At the center of the chaos stood Chet, feverishly rummaging through an old pile of paint tarps.

“Chet!” Kathy demanded. “What are you doing? You’re on! As in, NOW!”

Chet turned to face Kathy. His hair looked as if he’d weathered a hurricane. His doublet flapped open, totally unbuttoned, and his blotchy face contorted in horror as his glassy eyes struggled to focus. “I can’t find it!” he whimpered.

“Can’t find what?!” Kathy asked. Is he on drugs or something?!

“It!” He raked both hands through his hair and wiped sweat from his forehead.

“Chet, we’ll get your Perrier later! Right now, you need to get onstage. Everyone’s waiting for you! Let’s go!” Kathy practically pushed him out of the dressing room. Twenty steps later, he covered his mouth and ducked into the men’s restroom. Kathy winced as she heard him retching on the other side of the door. Oh dear. Maybe the caviar was bad, Kathy thought to herself. Then she remembered. “Chet! Don’t flush the . . .”

Too late. A thunderous, watery whoosh reverberated down the hall and no doubt made its way to the audience. Kathy clapped her hand to her forehead.

Chet emerged from the restroom, looking more like King Hamlet’s ghost than the troubled prince. Kathy ignored his haggard appearance and practically led him by hand through the hallway door.

“Come on, Chet. You’ll be okay. Show must go on.” “To hell with the show!” Chet moaned. “It’s over!”

As Kathy and Chet reached the backstage curtain, Harry bounded toward them. He looped his arm around Chet’s shoulder and half-walked, half-dragged the reluctant lead downstage where Stephen the gravedigger was calmly ad-libbing about the art of gallows-making.

Kathy stood in the wings and interlaced her fingers behind her back. Chet obviously had a problem, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She wanted to ask Li Yan if she knew whether Chet had ever had a drug problem, but the busy stage manager was bent over the prop table, preparing standards, chalices, and rapiers for the final scene.

After managing to stay atop her pallet for the burial scene, Kathy joined Stephen and Richard to watch the conclusion of the play from behind an offstage curtain. Chet and Lloyd had rehearsed the duel choreography countless times and could have run through the thrusts and parries blindfolded. But tonight, Chet seemed sluggish and sloppy. He nearly tripped over his own feet. She gasped when he suddenly yelped and held his arm—blood showed red between his fingers.

Chet shot Lloyd a bludgeoning look as he recited his line. The two combatants dropped their weapons as practiced, and Chet lunged for Lloyd’s rapier. With a sudden ferocity unseen in any rehearsal, Chet took the foil and jabbed Lloyd in the side. But Lloyd merely feigned pain as he had every other time and continued with the script as if nothing odd had happened. A moment later, Lloyd rolled to the ground and shut his eyes with a faint smile on his lips.

Chet, possibly unnerved by the sight of his own blood, started having difficulty with his lines. With one hand glued to his bicep, he staggered in a circuitous way around the stage, occasionally scratching his neck and coughing.

“Is that part of the new blocking?” Kathy whispered to Stephen.

“I’m not sure.” He shook his snow-white head. “Everyone who came early to rehearse the final scene is currently downstage.”

“If you ask me,” Richard whispered, though nobody had, “This is the best job Chet’s ever done! Normally, he can’t fake a death to save his life.”

“I don’t know,” Kathy said. “He’s never thrown up on opening night before. Something’s off. He’s not himself.”

“Thank goodness for that,” Stephen said. “Though I will admit, he doesn’t usually forget his cue. It’s a darn good thing I studied medieval architecture in college, or I don’t know what I would have said next.”

“Bravo!” Richard said. “Only a true thespian can keep his head when he’s left in the lurch. Oh, look! Chet’s almost done. Do you think he’ll get his faint right this time?”

Downstage, Chet stood in the solitary spotlight. He raised his sound arm shakily toward the heavens. “O, I die, Horatio! The potent poison . . .”

But the tragic hero never finished his sentence. At that very moment, he stumbled over the understudy’s standard and hit the stage head-first. Hard.

Harry hesitated—unsure whether Chet would complete his line or cut the speech short since he was on the ground anyway. Chet’s silence indicated the latter, so Harry continued with his part as the other actors came onstage for the conclusion of the play.

“Dang,” Richard whispered. “That might be the best death I’ve ever seen onstage. But if you ask me, Chet should have used his hands so he could’ve softened his fall.”

“I’m not sure that was choreographed . . . .”

The uncomfortable, tight feeling in Kathy’s stomach grew stronger.

“Oh, look!” Richard pointed. “They’re loading him onto the pallet. Let’s get in places for curtain call.”

The guards lifted Chet onto the same pallet they’d used for Kathy and carried him offstage. Ten seconds later, all the actors gathered in the wings to come onstage for their hard-earned applause. What a night! Despite Chet’s missed entrance, Stephen’s addition to the script, Lloyd’s violent swordplay, and Chet’s abrupt ending, the audience rose to its feet with percussive gratitude.

When it was her turn, Kathy walked downstage, flashed a radiant smile, and curtsied deeply. Then, she joined hands with the rest of the cast. Soon, all the actors had bowed to the audience except for Chet. Everyone waited for the play’s namesake actor to make his appearance, but he didn’t show.

Is he missing his entrance again?

Kathy stole a glance offstage left, then froze. Her stomach clenched. Her breathing stopped. She felt sick.

Chet had not moved from his pallet.

8

Kathy willed herself to turn back to the blissfully ignorant audience and plastered on a smile. Okay, Kathy, she thought between beats of her own mechanical clapping, Breathe. Just breathe. Maybe he’s only unconscious. She fought to keep down her rising dread as well as her lunch when, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Chandra bend over the motionless thespian. The stagehand grabbed Chet by the shoulder and gave him a shake.

No response.

After another fruitless attempt to rouse the listless actor, Chandra whipped out her phone—doubtless to call 911.

Meanwhile, back in the house, the crowd started chanting, “Hamlet! Hamlet!” while the clueless cast stood onstage, unsure what to do in this unscripted scenario. Some grinned as if nothing unusual was happening. Others tried to grab their neighbors’ hands to take the final bow as rehearsed. But no one could miss the fact that the show’s principal actor had failed to appear.

Li Yan ran from the prop table to grasp the offstage pulley ropes and yanked the curtains closed. The bewildered audience paused, then vocalized their disapproval. As soon as the wall of black velvet whooshed in front of her, Kathy, along with everyone else in the cast, high-stepped it offstage toward the fallen star.

Ms. Cadsley threw herself to the floor beside her son, skirts and all. “Oh no, no, no, no, no!” she shrieked. Her tears carved black trails down her thickly-rouged cheeks, making her look like a harlequin doll.

Chet’s swollen face did not stir.

Kathy could feel sweat beading on her own forehead. Inside, her stomach contorted like an Olympic gymnast. She wanted to flee to the restroom before she upchucked in front of everyone, but her feet felt as agile as underground turnips. She was rooted to the stage and could do nothing but stare.

“Alex,” Stephen leaned toward the understudy. “You’re a premed student, right? Is he . . . dead?”

Alex, looking almost as pale as the man on the pallet, knelt and placed his shaky fingers on Chet’s neck. He winced and readjusted his position. “I can’t quite find his . . . oh, there’s his pulse.”

Everyone exhaled.

“It’s faint . . . I think he’s in shock.”

“Shock?!” Ms. Cadsley asked shrilly. “Anaphylactic shock! His peanut allergy! Someone go get his EpiPen quick! It’s got a bright yellow case!”

Li Yan, Richard, Harry, and a couple other cast members dashed toward the men’s dressing room, leaving everyone else watching the pre-cadaverous man lying on the pallet.

Chandra pocketed her phone and announced quietly, “The ambulance is on its way. Should be here in a couple minutes.”

Things started to look fuzzy around the edges of Kathy’s vision. Oh no! I’m going to faint!

Stephen noticed her wavering. “Kathy, why don’t you sit down?”

At the suggestion, her legs automatically folded under her. She descended to the floor, glued her head to her knees, then heard heavy footsteps approaching from behind her.

“Chet Cadsley! What the HECK are you trying to pull?!” It was Frank.

“It’s bad enough to miss an entrance, but to snub an audience chanting your name out of spite?! That’s the most idiotic, unprofessional . . .” The footsteps stopped a mere five feet behind Kathy, and Frank altered his tone. “What’s going on?”

The understudy rose to his feet but failed to give an explanation.

“Excuse me?” A woman asked from near the curtain to Kathy’s right. “Is Chet almost ready to go, or is there a cast party in progress?”

Oh, no. This just keeps getting worse! Kathy lifted her head and saw Andrea—Chet’s fiancée.

Stephen cleared his throat, smoothed his dingy gravedigger shirt, and walked toward the young woman. “I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Andrea adjusted her purse’s shoulder strap and frowned. “What do you mean?”

“He appears to be in shock,” Stephen said. “We’ve already called the paramedics, and an ambulance is on its way.”

“What happened? He was just onstage!” Andrea leaned to the side to look beyond Stephen and covered her mouth with her hand. “But he’s not . . . I mean, he can’t be . . . I . . . I just saw him onstage!” she stammered, lip quivering, eyes starting to brim. She hurried to Chet’s side and dropped to her knees beside the hysterical Ms. Cadsley.

Andrea placed her forehead onto his, traced his swollen lips with her finger, and pleaded softly, “Chet, stay with me! Please don’t leave me!”

Li Yan burst through the backstage doors with Richard in tow. “We can’t find his EpiPen anywhere! The room’s a wreck, and we’ve combed through it twice!” She held up two fingers for emphasis. “Does anyone have any Benadryl or . . .” she stopped when she saw Andrea kneeling beside Chet. Her eyes narrowed until they nearly closed.

Andrea caught Li Yan’s glare. Her own brow furrowed. “Are you sure it’s not in the dressing room?”

Li Yan jutted out her chin in defiance. “I’d bet my life on it.”

“And his?” Andrea challenged.

Li Yan shot Andrea a look that could have frozen a volcano. “Go see for yourself.”

Andrea got to her feet and headed for the backstage door, slamming it behind her.

Chandra came up and tenderly placed a paint-splattered drop cloth over the fallen actor.

“What are you doing?!” Ms. Cadsley nearly screamed. “Don’t cover his face! He’s not dead!”

Chandra held up her phone. “I’m not covering his face. It says online that you should keep people in shock warm.”

“That’s right,” Alex said weakly. “I forgot about that. EMT training doesn’t officially start till next semester . . .” He looked at the clock on the wall. “Where’s that ambulance?”

Stephen stepped forward. “While we’re waiting, does anyone know anywhere besides the dressing room where Chet could have put his EpiPen?”

“Maybe he didn’t bring it with him today,” Frank said, still staring at his principal actor on the pallet. Without his Diet Dr. Pepper, his hands moved aimlessly from his forehead to his waist and back again.

“That’s possible,” Richard piped up. “No one’s had peanut products backstage since day one. He is only allergic to peanuts, right? I mean, he doesn’t happen to be allergic to anything else like, like dogs, or pineapple or . . .”

“Maybe he left his EpiPen at home?” Chandra interrupted.

“But he told me he had it with him backstage!” Ms. Cadsley wailed. “He told me today!”

“She’s right,” Li Yan nodded. “Chet’s a creature of habit. He always uses the same corner of the dressing room, always drinks the same Perrier, and—at least since his peanut episode last summer—always pats his EpiPen before going onstage. He wouldn’t want to jinx his performance.”

“Oh, dang it!” Richard exclaimed, placing both hands on his head. “I didn’t wear my lucky pair of boxers from auditions! The one time I break with tradition and our lead dies onstage! And before the show started, I also moved his . . .”

Sirens pierced the air, cutting Richard’s confession short.

The next several minutes passed like a watercolor carnival before Kathy as she sat immobile on the stage floor. Four paramedics in blue uniforms came in through the emergency exit backstage. The flashing lights pulsed bright red against the black curtains. Everyone stepped aside to give the medics room— everyone except Ms. Cadsley, who had to be pried from her son. EMTs surrounded Chet and began to work, moving him onto a yellow stretcher and heading for the ambulance outside. Ms. Cadsley followed but was unable to fit into the back of the ambulance in her huge green hoop skirts. Andrea returned from the dressing room empty-handed and said she’d drive Ms. Cadsley to the hospital herself.

Kathy had watched everything in detached disbelief—as if she were viewing an over-the-top horror film. She hated every second but couldn’t tear her eyes away. Perhaps this was another one of her nightmares. Finally, a hand on her shoulder brought her back to solidity.

“Kathy! Kathy! Are you okay?” Liz asked.

Kathy slowly turned her unfocused eyes to her sister.

Liz knew that look and quickly opened the front pocket of Kathy’s purse on her shoulder for the bottle of anti-anxiety medication. In two seconds, she’d popped off the white cap and measured out the appropriate dose.

“Swallow this,” she said, dropping to her knees to be eye level with Kathy. She pressed a pill into her sister’s hand.

Kathy reached for it with trembling fingers and scrunched her face like newspaper for the fireplace to get it down without water. Then she shut her eyes and breathed deeply.

“You feeling alright?”

Kathy brushed a damp tendril from her forehead. “I need a drink.”

“Let’s get you home. I’ll drive. You want some chamomile tea?”

“Or something stronger.”

“Chai?”

Ordinarily, Kathy would have cracked a smile at that, but she’d temporarily lost her sense of humor and stared at the door through which Chet had made his final exit.

“What happened?” Liz ventured after a long pause.

“I don’t even know,” Kathy gestured helplessly downstage, practically in tears. “Chet tripped and didn’t get up again.”

“Really? I thought all that was part of the show.”

Kathy shook her head. “Not until tonight. He was acting strangely before he went on, but I didn’t think it was serious . . .”

“Will he be okay?”

Kathy stared at her clasped hands. “They started doing CPR on him as they left. And they couldn’t find his EpiPen.”

“Oh,” Liz murmured. She stood and pulled Kathy up to her feet. “I’m sure the doctors will do all they can. He’ll probably be alright in a day or two. And he’s got an understudy, right?”

Kathy watched Alex close his eyes and rub his temples in circular motions from across the stage. “Technically . . .” she answered.

Harry walked downstage still in his red Horatio cape and turned to address the assembled cast. He cleared his throat. “Well, everyone, I think we should all go home. It’s after 11:00, and there’s nothing more we can do here.”

“I second that,” Stephen said, rising from the folding chair he’d claimed.

“But what about tomorrow?” Lloyd asked, scratching his thigh through his Laertes tights. “Do we still go on with the show or just wait to see how Chet fares first? No offense, Alex.”

Alex shrugged.

“What do you think, Frank?” Stephen asked, folding his arms across his chest.

The silent director sat in a sagging plastic chair offstage. His phone cast an eerie blue glow on his expressionless face.

“If y’all want to know what I think,” Richard declared in the opportune break in conversation, “going on with the show without Chet would be rather risky. I’m sorry, Alex, but you haven’t had enough preparation for this role. Hamlet’s part is dramatic and demanding, and there are so many soliloquies . . . It’s too much for anyone to memorize in one night, except for maybe Kathy. But she obviously can’t be Hamlet. So I’d like to humbly put myself forward as a replacement.”

“What?!” half the cast exclaimed.

“Now, now. Hear me out,” Richard said with his hands raised to chest level. “I’ve played Hamlet before. I’m sure if I reviewed the script a few times, it would all come back to me. And my throat’s significantly better than it was earlier.”

“But who would play Polonius?” Lloyd demanded. “And when was the last time you picked up a rapier?” he added skeptically. Richard brushed aside the comment. “Fencing is just dancing with a sword. I’m sure I could learn the choreography in an hour. Besides, Frank could play Polonius. He almost did tonight, anyway. He knows the lines and the blocking. And this time, we could give Wilma several hours to whip up a new costume.”

Harry put his foot down. “Hamlet and I are supposed to be contemporaries. I don’t want to be rude, Richard, but you’re a bit . . . well . . . mature for the role. And what about Ophelia? Would the audience really believe she fell head over heels for someone old enough to be her father?”

Richard sniffed the air in disdain. “I was only trying to help, y’all. But what else can we do? Alex couldn’t possibly learn the whole part by tomorrow afternoon.”

“Gentlemen,” Stephen stepped in. “Frank cast Alex as Chet’s understudy. Just because we haven’t seen him perform every scene doesn’t mean he can’t play the part.”

“But he doesn’t have enough time to rehearse!” Richard argued.

“He’s been to all the rehearsals, same as you,” Stephen said calmly. “I’m sure if he practiced with Harry a few times, he could make it for a show or two until Chet recovers.”

“What do you think, Alex?” Harry asked. “Could you handle the lead if Chet can’t do the show tomorrow?”

Alex had just broken into a cold sweat. He licked his dry lips and shifted his weight. “I, uh . . . abstain.”

“There, you see!” Richard said. “He’s not up to it. This show’s in a tempest without its star, and we need an experienced captain at the helm. I’m sure Chet will be shipshape in no time.”

“Richard, please!” Harry groaned. “It’s too late for puns.”

“It’s too late for Chet, too,” said a quiet voice from the far corner of the stage.

Everyone looked at Frank. He did not lift his eyes from his phone.

“Come again?” Richard asked.

“I just got a text from Ms. Cadsley. Chet passed away before they reached the hospital. They couldn’t revive him.”

An earthquake rending the stage would have been less shocking. No one moved.

Then Chandra started weeping, clutching her security phone. A tear meandered down Li Yan’s face and dripped onto her clipboard.

“I . . . I . . . I don’t know what to say,” Richard stammered. “I never wanted Chet to . . .” he looked at his feet, unable to commit to the end of the sentence.

Harry stomped off toward the backstage door, kicking a stray paint can out of his way en route. Sophia, who till this time had stood at the edge of the curtain in silence, chased after her red-headed brother. Everyone else stood like statues, unsure of where to look or what to say.

Frank finally rose from his seat and sighed. “Let’s go home. We’re all tired. I’ll text everyone in the morning regarding the show. I have a few calls I need to make.”

“Do you want me to lock the backstage rear entrance on my way out?” Richard offered.

“No. I’ll get that. Isn’t it out of your way?”

“No,” Richard said. “I parked out back.”

“Fine, then. Goodnight, everyone.”

So the cast dispersed, some in silence, some in tears. Liz supported Kathy down the steps by the elbow. Kathy didn’t even bother to change out of her dress. Deep down, everyone knew that without Chet, the show was over.

9

Kathy leaned her head against the cold passenger window of her sister’s VW Bug and watched skeleton tree trunks fly past her. White streetlights flashed by in rhythmic succession. “Dead, dead, dead,” they drummed in her mind. She winced at the irony that Chet’s best performance had also been his last—a brilliant exit with no encore. And he never got to take his final bow.

Kathy closed her weary eyes and visualized the morning headline: “Hamlet Dies—No, Seriously.” At least she wouldn’t have to write it; such topics were reserved for Chattanooga Line ground-floor journalists.

Kathy sniffed and shifted in her seat as Liz took the exit to their neighborhood. Disappointment shrouded her. She felt betrayed, somehow. For the last two years, the theater had been her trusted haven from the real world. Why did real life have to come knocking again so close to home? Especially on opening night! She’d finally reached the spotlight only to have the bulb blow out. In all likelihood, her parents wouldn’t even get to see her perform.

Not that my inconvenience comes anywhere close to Chet’s, she chided herself. Her head hurt. She leaned back on the headrest and shut her eyes.

Liz glanced at her sister as she manned the fuzzy purple steering wheel. “You okay?” she asked.

“Tired,” Kathy said, keeping her eyes shut. “What time is it?”

Liz glanced at the clock on the dash. “A little after eleven.”

Kathy inhaled through her nose and reviewed the events of opening/closing night. The only time Chet actually needs his EpiPen is the one time he doesn’t have it. Figures.

“So, do you think the show will go on tomorrow?” Liz asked at length.

“I doubt it,” Kathy said quietly. “The understudy isn’t ready to carry the lead. Even if he tried, the show would be awkward. But if Richard played Hamlet, it would be even more so. I might have trouble faking chemistry with a man who’s older than Dad.”

“You faked it with Chet,” Liz said as she flipped her left turn signal.

“Yes, but at least he was born in my generation and was easy on the eyes. It’s possible Frank may know another actor in town who could play Hamlet. But a six-week run is an awful lot to commit to at a moment’s notice. My guess is that the show will get canceled, and Mom and Dad won’t get to see it.”

“Considering your lead died onstage, I’m sure they’ll understand.”

Kathy sighed. “I know, I know. I just wanted to give them a performance worth the flight, that’s all. Do you remember the bouquet Mom got me when I played a feather duster in Beauty and the Beast? That thing could have fed a swarm of bees for a year.”

“I’m sure it would have been just as big if you had played the beast.”

Kathy smiled faintly for the first time since curtain call.

A minute later, Liz pulled up to their house. She hopped out of the car and unlocked the front door. Kathy grabbed her purse and trudged up the steps, leaning heavily on the handrail. She unbuttoned her pea coat and hung it on the coat rack, catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror hanging by the door. She looked like she’d been through the Apocalypse. Her hairsprayed ’do stood stiffly in all directions from when she’d run her fingers through it. Her dark eye shadow had smeared down her cheeks, giving her a haggard appearance. I’ll shower in a minute, she promised herself.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Liz said from the kitchen. “Mom texted me after the show and asked how it went.”

“Did you lie?” Kathy asked, still studying her face in the mirror.

“No, I told her you were wonderful—which is technically the truth. Just not all of it.”

“Thanks,” Kathy sighed.

“Anyway, we can fill Mom and Dad in with the ancillary details tomorrow. Don’t want them to worry. By the way, do you have a pen I could borrow? I need to write a check.”

“To whom?” Kathy dug into her purse.

“The Chattanooga City Treasurer.”

Kathy arched an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because I found this in the front pocket of your purse when I gave you your meds,” she held up an indicting yellow traffic ticket. “Who would think it? My very own tea-drinking, straitlaced sister—a traffic violator. Now, that should make a front-page story.”

Kathy slumped into one of the dining room chairs as if carrying her Camry on her back. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said as she placed her purse on the wooden dinner table.

“Consider this my opening night gift to you in lieu of flowers,” Liz said.

“Thanks.” Kathy smiled weakly. “There’s a pen in here somewhere.”

Too tired to be discriminating with her purse’s clutter, Kathy turned the whole thing upside down and dumped its contents onto the table.

Then she froze. Her heart stopped. It can’t be!

“Kathy, do you want chamomile or lemon zinger?” Liz called from the kitchen as the kettle whistled. “I’m assuming you don’t want caffeine, right?”

Kathy tried to reply, but her mouth had gone dry.

“Kathy?” Liz poked her head around the corner and saw her sister staring at the table as if a rattlesnake sat on it. “What’s wrong?”

Kathy licked her lips. “Liz, get your keys. We’re going to the police station.”

“What? Now? Why?”

“I don’t think Chet’s death was an accident.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Kathy pointed to an oblong plastic object lying on the table. “I just found his EpiPen. It was in my purse!”

10

Kathy had read enough murder mysteries to know not to get her fingerprints all over the evidence. After donning a pair of yellow gloves from underneath their kitchen sink filled with dirty dishes, she pinched the corner of the EpiPen and dropped it into a plastic sandwich bag. She’d sort through the mess on the table later.

“I’ve never actually seen an EpiPen up close before. I wonder why they chose icterine for the cap color.”

“Icterine?” Kathy cocked her head. “You mean yellow?”

Liz rolled her eyes. “You do know there are more colors out there than what comes in a classic Crayola box, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Kathy waved aside her sister’s comment. “But we should get this to the police pronto.”

Liz glanced at the clock. “Are you sure this can’t wait till morning?” she asked.

“You want me to get charged for withholding evidence? No way.”

“Fine,” Liz huffed. “But we’re not leaving without our drinks. And you’d better get out of that costume.”

With Liz’s help, Kathy soon got free from her dress and put on a pair of jeans and a faded gray T-shirt. Liz emerged from the kitchen with two travel mugs in hand.

“You do realize I have to be at work at 8:00 a.m.,” she said as she handed a mug to her sister. “Which really means I have to be out the door by 7:40 and wake up even earlier if I want to smell nice.”

“I know,” Kathy sighed. “I’m sorry. But Chet was definitely murdered. And this seems the quickest way to show I didn’t do it.”

“Alright. I’ll drive ya. Who would cook around here if you went to prison? Or pay your half of the rent?”

“Glad to know your love is unconditional,” Kathy said as she placed her mug on a window ledge to don her pea coat.

Kathy grimaced as she placed her purse on her lap. Though she’d done nothing wrong, she felt like a criminal and wanted to both guard and discard her bag at the same time. Her sober, straightforward stare out the windshield belied the torrent of questions swirling inside. Everyone had felt like killing Chet at one point or another, but who would have actually followed through? What was there to be gained by his death? And who hated her enough to frame her for the deed?

Kathy sipped from her travel mug with trembling fingers and almost spewed all over the glove compartment. “Ugh! That’s not chamomile! What is this?”

“If we’re driving in the middle of the night, we need caffeine. So, I put espresso in your chai. Like it?”

“It’s awful!”

“Well, it was worth a shot,” Liz chuckled.

Kathy placed her drink back in its holder and tried to comb her fingers through her hair. Her eyes widened when she realized it was still stiff with hairspray. She quickly flipped down the car visor to look in the mirror. Thick eyeliner lay smudged and streaked around her eyes and her cheeks were garishly red with rouge. Yikes! I look like a hooker!

“Liz, do you have any napkins around here or something?” Kathy asked as she searched through the glove compartment. “I really don’t want to walk into the police station looking like this—especially in the middle of the night.”

Liz stopped at a light. “Check the console. And there’s half a bottle of water in your door’s cup holder.”

“Half a bottle?” Kathy wrinkled her nose. “As in used water?”

“Take it or leave it. It’s your face.”

Kathy found some old Subway napkins, reluctantly poured a tablespoon of liquid from the lightly used water bottle, and addressed her black-tinged face. By the time they arrived at the police station, she almost looked normal.

The station stood like a Cold War sentry guarding the oldest part of town. Its two-story cement block structure looked more imposing than usual in the starless dark of night. In the spring, Kathy might have been cheered by the numerous knockout roses and black-eyed Susans planted along the front steps and around the flag pole. But in October, the roses had shed their blooms, leaving only tired leaves and naked stems to adorn the walkway. Kathy yawned as she and her sister trekked up the cement steps toward the glass double doors.

Then Kathy spied the officer sitting at the front desk and stopped dead in her tracks. Oh no! Not him! She grabbed Liz’s elbow. “I can’t go in.”

Liz pulled away. “What do you mean, you can’t go in? We drove all this way, and it’s freezing out here!” Her words formed small puffs of cloud.

“I can’t go in because that’s the officer who gave me the traffic ticket earlier. I’m already on his bad side. If I turn in murder evidence, he’ll probably arrest me on the spot.”

“It was only a moving violation,” Liz said. “Everyone speeds.”

“I wasn’t speeding,” Kathy said.

“Then what did you do?” Liz rubbed her hands together to warm them.

Kathy curled up the collar of her pea coat. “I drove on the shoulder to get to my exit.”

“That’s not so bad.”

“For a quarter of a mile.”

Liz clapped her hand to her forehead. “Kathy!”

“Can’t you just take it in for me?” Kathy pleaded, holding out the purse to her sister.

“Oh, no!” Liz held up her hands. “I’ve had enough dealings with your purse for one day. Come on. Put on your big girl britches. We’re going inside.”

Kathy’s posture sagged as if the earth’s gravity had doubled. “If they make me stay overnight, could you please call Dad and ask him to bail me out?”

“Kathy,” Liz snapped, “I’m going inside now.” Without looking back, she opened the door and let it shut behind her.

Kathy took a deep breath and grabbed the cold door handle. Inside the reception area, her sneakers screeched against the waxed floor. Flickering fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and black plastic chairs lined two walls. A small ficus tree stood in the corner. Aside from it and the covers of three slightly-worn magazines lying face up on a squarish, black end table, there were no other colors in the room—only shades of black and white.

Behind the front desk with the glass partition, a paunchy, middle-aged policeman in black uniform looked up at them from his office chair. “Yes?” he asked without a smile. “What can I do for you?”

Kathy glanced at her sister. Liz had selected a magazine, taken a seat, and now sat with her ankles crossed as if she were waiting for a hair appointment.

“Well?” the police officer asked with raised eyebrows.

Kathy wasn’t sure where to begin but decided not to mention her earlier driving incident. He didn’t act like he recognized her, anyway. “I’m sorry. I’ve had a long night,” she said.

“That makes two of us,” he grumbled, stacking some papers together neatly, then reaching for a large mug of coffee. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“This evening, I was performing in the Tivoli theater. We’re doing Hamlet, you see, and . . .”

“You selling tickets at this hour? You saw the ‘No Soliciting’ sign on your way in, right?” he gestured toward the door with a pen in his hand.

“Er . . . no.”

“Then you should probably pay more attention to your surroundings,” he said, taking a sip from his steaming cup of joe.

“Oh, that’s not what I meant.” Kathy felt like she’d just misjudged the trajectory of a water fountain. “I meant . . . I mean . . . I’m not selling tickets. To be honest, I’m not really sure whom I should talk to, but basically, our lead actor had some sort of allergic reaction at the theater tonight and died on the way to the hospital.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” he said, not sounding sorry at all.

Kathy curled a stiff lock of long brown hair around her ear and leaned forward on the desk. “The thing is, no one could find his EpiPen in the dressing room where he always kept it. But when I got home, I found it in my purse. I know I didn’t put it there.” Kathy opened her purse and slid the zip-locked piece of evidence under the glass partition.

“Hmm,” the officer said, taking another sip of coffee before reaching for a clipboard. “Please fill out this form with your contact information and the nature of your concern.” The words rolled off his tongue in one breath as if he’d parroted them a thousand times before.

“That’s it?” Kathy asked, taken aback by his lack of urgency. At the Chattanooga Line, journalists pounced on murder stories, at least when they involved someone good-looking or well-known. “Shouldn’t someone look into this now? I’m pretty sure there’s been a murder!”

The officer put down his “Keep Calm and Carry On” mug, placed both hands on the counter, and leaned toward Kathy.

“Ma’am, this is a police station. We’ve dealt with murders before. If you want our help, fill out the form. The victim’s body is probably still at the hospital. I’ll notify the investigators, and they’ll take care of everything.”

Kathy suddenly felt very tired. “Yes, sir.” She took the clipboard and grabbed a pen from a plastic cup that read “Serving our city with a smile.” Talk about false advertising. She sat next to Liz in one of the hard plastic chairs and looked at the form. The badly smudged sheet looked as if it had been copied from a copy a million times over. Her exhausted eyes fought to interpret the fuzzy script.

“This pen isn’t working,” she muttered, scribbling in the margin. She checked her purse but then remembered she’d left her own pens—along with the rest of her clutter—back at home on the table.

“I’ll get you one,” Liz said, rising to retrieve a writing utensil.

She handed it to her sister.

Kathy scribbled in the corner of the form and huffed. “This one doesn’t work either.”

“Here,” said the officer, pushing his own pen under the partition.

“Thanks, Sergeant . . .” Kathy said.

“Brown,” he said, returning his eyes to his own paperwork. “My name is Sergeant Brown.”

“Thanks, Sergeant Brown.” To be on the safe side, Kathy spelled out the details of her story—hiding her purse under a dress, losing it in the dressing room, finding it on the back shelf with the director’s gift money still intact, passing it to her sister during intermission, and discovering the EpiPen after going home. Ten minutes later, she pressed the form under the partition. “Here,” she said. “Is there anything else I need to do?”

The officer accepted the form and put it with the plastic bag holding the EpiPen. “Someone will call you at their earliest convenience,” he said without looking up.

“So, would that be sometime tomorrow morning?” Kathy asked.

His dispassionate eyes met hers. “At their earliest convenience,” he repeated.

Kathy nodded. “Thanks for the pen,” she said, sliding it toward the officer.

“Keep it,” he said. “Write your councilman and ask him to expand the police department budget. Especially the benefits packages.” He swiveled sideways in his office chair and displayed his foot encased by a gray plastic boot.

“What happened?” Kathy asked innocently.

The sergeant frowned. “I pulled over a maniac who was driving on the shoulder. Tripped getting back into the squad car. Now I’m stuck at this desk for the next six weeks.”

Kathy’s insides flip-flopped; she felt like a caught trout. Her cheeks grew warm.

The officer studied her. “Ma’am, you look flushed. Are you alright?”

Kathy took a deep breath. Maybe he doesn’t recognize me. “I’m fine,” she lied. “I think I should just head home now. Thanks!” With that, Kathy turned on her heel and started heading for the door. “C’mon, Liz!”

11

A rooster crowed, startling Kathy from her fitful sleep. Her head jerked up from her damp pillow, but her eyelids refused to budge. The cock-a-doodle-do disoriented her. Despite being located in the historically rural state of Tennessee, Chattanooga did not allow folks within city limits to keep backyard chickens; she’d covered the city council vote on the issue last summer. Then she heard a vibrating sound. Kathy reluctantly opened one eye, grabbed her buzzing phone from the nightstand, and switched its ringtone back to a Chopin nocturne. She made a mental note to switch Liz’s ringtone to Pavarotti as soon as she got the chance. Then she checked her text message.

It was from Frank: “Show canceled. Investigation underway. Please come to theater to make official statement at 4:00. By order of Chattanooga police.”

Kathy reread the text again, then propped herself up on one elbow. So it was official; Chet had been murdered. It hadn’t been a dream. Kathy felt cold and hollow—like an empty teacup. She pulled the covers over her head to ward off the chilly feeling seeping into her soul. It wasn’t particularly pleasant to speculate which of her castmates might be a homicidal lunatic.

At least the police are taking this seriously. And after I give my statement, I can put this whole thing behind me.

She got out of bed feeling groggy, stiff, and generally icky. She sat up slowly, then put a hand to the side of her neck. Great. A crick to boot. Kathy fe, fi, fo, fummed her way to the shower to transform back into a woman. When she returned to her room wearing a fluffy white bathrobe and a matching towel turban, her phone flashed and rattled while Chopin played softly in the background.

It was her editor. Uh oh. “Hello?” Kathy answered with a grimace.

“Kathy! I got a tip from our contact at the hospital that the lead for Hamlet died onstage last night!” He sounded as if he’d won a trip to Bermuda. “That’s the play you were in, right?”

Kathy licked her lips. “Yes, but . . .”

“Fantastic! This is the best scoop we’ve had all year! Put us way ahead of the Chattanooga Standard. We’re the only paper in town with an inside man—or woman, in this case.” Kathy could hear his satisfied smile through the phone.

“But sir,” she protested, “I transferred to the Community News Division because I wanted a break from writing about this sort of thing.”

“Then you starred in Hamlet. Seems like this sort of thing is right up your alley.”

“Yes, but . . . ” Kathy’s voice faltered as a shiver tremored up her spine. “I’m still being treated for anxiety.”

“Fine. Pop a pill and get to work. I want a police statement as soon as you can get one. In the meantime, I also want you to draw up a detailed account of the performance. You can even do a personal point of view if you like. Give it lots of heart. Amazing angle! Something like this only comes around once a decade or so, and I am not passing up this opportunity.”

Kathy sank back onto her bed and wished she could climb back under her comforter. “Can’t you get someone from the first floor to write it?”

“Nope. Already cleared it with the senior editor. He’s thrilled you’re back in the saddle and can’t wait to see the article. Now, no more ‘buts.’ With any luck, we’re the only paper that even knows about this story. I want the article in by 4:00.”

Kathy tilted her head to the wrong angle and nearly lost her absorbent headdress. “I have to give an official statement to the police at 4:00.” She held her towel in place with her hand.

“Very well. 3:00. Recap the event, then gather what info you can and write a follow-up for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday.”

“Since when do you go to church? We’ll pay overtime. You can take an extra day off when this story’s done. Now get to it!” CLICK.

Kathy threw her phone as hard as she could onto her pillow and trudged to the kitchen. No time for pancakes this morning. She put the kettle on, dropped a slice of bread into the toaster, and set her laptop on the dining room table. But before starting her article, she visited the Chattanooga Standard’s website to see if they’d posted any job openings.

* * *

After a morning of rehashing the details of Chet’s unfortunate death for print, Kathy opted to bake sugary things rather than exercise. She needed to focus on something pleasant. Pounding dough with her fist relieved some inner tension, and the cinnamony smell of baking pumpkin date scones did her heart good in a way that cardio just couldn’t. She wasn’t looking forward to returning to the scene of the crime nor to asking Liz for yet another ride. But there was nothing for it; she’d left her car at the theater and had to report by 4:00 p.m. to give her statement.

At 3:20 p.m., Liz dragged herself through the front door from work and was about to hang up her coat when Kathy intercepted her with the request. Liz stood reticent, as if torn between cursing and collapsing. She’d somehow pulled off a morning shift with her eyes half shut, breaking only one aromatherapy candle in the process. Now, when all she wanted in life was an hour in bed snuggled under her Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” covers, Kathy needed to carpool. Again.

In a preemptive move to pacify her sister, Kathy placed a steaming travel mug of strong coffee and a triangular pumpkin date scone still warm from the oven into Liz’s hands. “I put in extra dates,” she said as she handed over the peace offering.

Liz blandly accepted the scone, sampled a corner of it, then grimaced. “These are tougher than normal,” she said, still chewing.

“Sorry. I made them with a little less love this time.”

“Oh.” Liz stared at the orange triangle in her hand as if it were an imposter. Then she took another bite and shrugged. “Still edible.”

“Thanks. Again, you only have to drop me off. I’ll drive myself home.”

“Mm-hmm,” Liz handed her car keys to Kathy. “You drive. I’ll eat. And don’t forget to bring your own car keys. If I have to chauffeur you anywhere else . . .”

“Got ’em,” Kathy patted her bulgy purse. Instead of sorting through her purse’s clutter, she’d swept the entire pile back into its original home and promised herself she’d organize it later. Sometimes, expedience trumps neatness.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Kathy walked through the double doors into the theater lobby. Without the sparkle of a lit chandelier and the eager conversation of an expectant audience, the building seemed soulless. Even the large oriental carpet seemed drab and faded in the tired afternoon light that streamed in through the front windows. Framed Hamlet promotion posters hung behind glass on the wall near the front entrance—probably to be filed somewhere in the theater archives and never viewed again.

A graying officer standing next to the theater house doors greeted her with clipboard in hand. “Which member of the cast or crew are you, ma’am?” he asked in an all-business tone.

“Kathy. Kathy Waters.”

“So you’re the one who made the report,” he said, checking off her name.

“That’s right.”

“Kathy Waters . . . sounds familiar . . . I haven’t given you a ticket recently, have I?”

Kathy reddened. No, it wasn’t you. Aloud, she said, “I write for the Chattanooga Line.”

“That’s it! I’ve read some of your articles. Well, everyone’s waiting in the audience to give their statements. There’ll be some questions about your whereabouts on the night in question, and then we’ll contact you if we need any further information. Please go along inside and sit a few seats down from the next person. We’d prefer you not to converse with your neighbors so we can get authentic accounts from each of you,” he explained. “We’d also like you to turn your phones off.”

“Really?”

“Really. Did you bring your phone?”

Kathy dug in her purse for it and reluctantly switched it off in the officer’s presence.

“Are we allowed to pick up our things from the dressing rooms?” she asked.

“’Fraid not, ma’am. They’ve deemed this whole area a crime scene. So until the captain gets everything he wants, we’re not letting anyone unofficial go backstage. You’ll have to come by later to pick up your stuff.” He held open the door for her.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Kathy walked into the theater house. Lacking the color-filtered lights and costumes, the stage was as magical as an empty shoe box. Several officers wearing white gloves were going over every square foot with flashlights and tweezers. One rifled through a small trash can. Another put the rapiers into a long plastic bag. One officer even combed the aisles with a huge black and brown German Shepherd. Members of the former cast and crew sat sprinkled among the crimson-cushioned seats, registering expressions ranging from anxiety to downright disinterest.

Across the carpeted aisle, Harry shifted his chin from one hand to the other. Beyond him in the same row, Lloyd crossed his legs and made eyes at Li Yan, who sat about six seats from him, writing something on her clipboard. Stephen’s head nodded from time to time from a few rows ahead of Kathy; apparently, he had no guilty conscience. Five feet from him, Richard looked pale and ill at ease. He licked his lips as if about to say something to the older thespian, but then caught the prohibitive glance from the officer pacing the aisle.

Alex seemed a little jittery. He sat in the front row, drummed his thumbs on the armrests, and turned around to check the time on the wall clock. Chandra sat by herself about thirty feet from Kathy with unkempt hair and be-smudged eyeliner. Her bleary eyes betrayed heavy weeping (or drinking) from earlier. Without her phone to distract her from grief, she merely stared at the empty stage in silence.

Behind her, Sr. Alonzo sat with his head bent toward his lap—presumably reading a book. Even Wilma was there, furiously click-clicking her knitting needles like Madame Defarge. The other cast members sat too far away for Kathy to make out their expressions.

The whole atmosphere felt eerie. There had been a murder in that room. On the very stage in front of her. And the worst part was Kathy couldn’t even discuss it with anyone. She felt a little shaky and chose a seat close to the door. Then she untoggled her purse pocket, grabbed her pill bottle, and debated whether she should take any precautionary meds. Eventually, she took a deep breath and dropped the bottle back inside. I’m okay. I’m safe here, surrounded by police.

Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Kathy had a growing sense that she would be sitting in the theater for a while. Without the use of her phone, a book, or the ability to chat with her neighbor, she felt resigned to boredom. She couldn’t even interview anyone for the paper.

Paper . . . paper! I can work on my novel! Computer-less as she was, with paper and pen, she could happily ignore the real world for hours. Kathy opened her purse and plumbed its depths for the tools of her trade. Her hand surfaced with thirteen sheets of folded legal pad paper and the pen from the police station. She crossed her legs, put the papers onto her thigh, and tried to write a sentence. It was rather awkward. Then she felt the sharp pen tip prick her skin through the paper.

Shoot! Punched right through! I just bought these slacks last week! She looked around to find something she could brace her writing against. Seeing nothing, she raised her hand slightly to get the pacing officer’s attention. He strode toward her.

“Excuse me, I’m sorry to be a bother, but could I get a playbill or something to help me write a little better?” She pointed to the hole in her papers and the ink stain on her dark gray slacks.

The officer looked at her skeptically. “I’m not supposed to leave my post, ma’am.”

“I understand. But could I go to the lobby and ask the other officer there for something?”

He hesitated.

“I’ll only be a minute. I won’t leave the building.”

“Alright. Leave your purse on your seat, if you please. And don’t be long.”

“Thank you.” Kathy scooted out of the aisle. Her castmates’ eyes followed her as she headed through the lobby doors.

The officer from earlier looked up at her. “Is there a problem, ma’am?”

“No, but I’m looking for something to brace some papers against. Is there a magazine or something out here I could use?”

“What about this?” He held up his brown clipboard. “I found it backstage, but don’t need it anymore.”

“Perfect! Thanks.” Kathy took it, pushed through the house doors again, and returned to her seat. She flipped through the papers on the clipboard—mostly prop lists—and attached her own legal pad pages to the top of the stack. By the time the officer called her name, she’d filled in all but the last sheet.

12

Captain Reggie Woods eyed the stack of files on the plastic prop table in front of him with the same eagerness he’d shown when refinancing his mortgage for the second time. Instead of hauling twenty-some-odd people to his office at the Chattanooga city precinct, it had seemed more convenient at the time to collect statements at the theater. That was until he realized the soon-to-be-renovated green room doubled as a storage area for janitorial supplies, props that didn’t fit in the prop closet, scenery flats, and old sound equipment. The lobby and hallways felt too exposed for conducting interviews, as they were subject to too many comings and goings. There was nothing like a distracted witness to make getting home in time for the 6:00 news an impossibility. After twenty-eight years of experience, he knew the very presence of a uniform could make the most innocent person stammer and start. The last thing he wanted was a bunch of officers going to and fro, jamming the witness’s flow of thought.

The Captain’s younger colleague, Detective Drew Grafton, did his best to make the space more functional. He stowed cowboy hats, chaps, and hoop skirts onto a luggage cart and rolled it down the hall. Then he carried a papier-mâché haystack out of the way with another officer to squeeze in a plastic folding table and two chairs in front of the old Oklahoma backdrops.

“This is certainly the most colorful room I’ve ever worked in,” Grafton said as he brushed a pink feather from his cobalt blue tie. Captain Woods nodded as he sat in front of a flat with the backside of a cow painted behind him. “Get ready for some colorful characters. Have you looked through everyone’s file?”

“Yes,” Grafton said as he patted the stack of manila folders on the table. “The director still had all their theater resumes and photos from auditions. I also did a quick search through our database to see if anyone had any priors. One person did time over thirty years ago but hasn’t been in any trouble since. Someone else has several outstanding parking tickets in Mississippi, and there’s one person with a history of petty theft but no hits on any recent violent crimes.”

“Alright, then.” Captain Woods sipped his bold coffee. “Who’s first?”

* * *

Both investigators raised their brows when not one but two men walked into their makeshift office. The first, a fellow with sparse hair whose soda-stained button-down shirt stretched near breaking point, claimed the far chair. Close behind him followed a tall man dressed in black with all the cheerfulness of an undertaker.

“I’m Director Frank Wilson,” Sparse Hair said. “I’ve been heading the theater company since 2010. And this is Attorney Sloe, my lawyer.”

“Nice to have you,” Captain Woods nodded toward the tall one.

“I’m sure,” Sloe said.

Grafton cleared his throat, “I’ll get another seat.” He sidled around Director Frank to make it out the office door.

Captain Woods folded his hands on the table. “Mr. Wilson, I hope you understand this is not an interrogation. We’re just trying to get as much information as we can so we can follow up on some leads regarding the death of . . .” he glanced at a report on the table, “. . . Mr. Chet Cadsley.”

“I didn’t do it. I’m not guilty,” Frank said, crossing his beefy arms.

Grafton returned with a wooden milk stool. “Sorry,” he said, placing it in front of Attorney Sloe. “It was the only seat I could find that wasn’t literally nailed down.”

Attorney Sloe slowly lowered his mantis-like frame onto the tiny wooden perch and placed his briefcase on his knees.

“Mr. Wilson,” Woods asked, “what can you tell me about the deceased?”

Frank shifted in his seat. “I didn’t murder him.”

“So you’ve said. But what sort of man was he?”

Frank looked at his lawyer. Sloe nodded.

“He was rather talented. Always sold lots of tickets. Usually played lead.”

“What leads?” Detective Grafton asked, looking up from his notepad.

Frank blinked and looked at the ceiling. “Let’s see, almost every show I’ve directed. He was Gaston in Beauty and the Beast, Sky Masterson in Guys and Dolls, Tony in West Side Story, Mickey in Blood Brothers . . . He also played Curly McLain, Romeo, George Hay, Willy Loman, John Proctor, and, of course, Hamlet.”

“Wasn’t he a bit young to play Willy Loman?” Grafton asked.

Frank frowned. “He insisted he could play any role if he had a decent makeup artist.”

“Any particular reason why you always cast him as the lead?” Woods asked.

Frank sighed. “Like I said, he was a good actor. Always drew a crowd. You may find this hard to believe, but show biz is like any other business: you don’t sell tickets, you don’t make money. You don’t make money, you either close your doors or try to convince rich people they’ll be more cultured if they donate to the arts, even if they never attend a performance. Most people here have another day job. Except for maybe Sr. Alonzo. He’s never mentioned another.”

“Do you have access to the theater accounts?” Grafton asked. Frank sat a little straighter. “Yes . . .” he said slowly. “I’m not the bookkeeper, but if I needed to buy any supplies for a show, I could use the company’s business account.”

“We’d be grateful to get a copy of the theater’s statements. You know, ticket sales and expenses from the last several shows.”

Attorney Sloe cleared his throat.

Captain Woods glanced at the lawyer. “We can always subpoena them if necessary.”

“How would killing the star in the first show of the season profit anyone?” Frank snorted.

“We don’t know. We’re just trying to get some context.”

“I’ll see what I can do about the documents . . .” the director muttered.

“On the night in question, was Chet acting unusual before the show? Did he seem irritable or upset?” Grafton asked.

Frank smiled unpleasantly. “He was the poster boy for irritable and upset, so I guess he was pretty normal for himself before the show. You’d have to ask somebody backstage for more info there.”

“And how did you feel about the deceased personally?” Woods asked.

“How is that relevant?” the attorney asked from his wooden platform.

“People don’t usually kill people they like,” Woods said matter-of-factly. “Though I’ve met some killers who claim to have loved their victims.”

“Not liking Chet doesn’t automatically mean I killed him!” Frank protested.

“Of course not,” Woods said. He sipped his coffee.

“I didn’t murder him,” Frank said with a stubborn jut of his chin.

“Alright.” Woods changed tactics. “At least tell us your whereabouts for the night. Were you in the audience during the show?” “I greeted patrons as I always do when the doors opened— stood at the back of the audience for most of the first act. Then I got a Diet Dr. Pepper and went outside at intermission to get some air. Chet seemed fine then. Afterward, I stood in the back of the house till curtain call. I only went backstage when Chet didn’t take his bow. Chet never missed a bow and usually managed to sneak in a couple extra. So I knew something had to be wrong.”

“Is there anyone who can corroborate these movements?” Grafton asked.

“I don’t know!” Frank huffed. “Probably the ushers at one point or another. Ophelia . . . I mean, Kathy Waters, saw me outside during intermission. I told her and Chet to come back in and get ready for places. She’ll tell you.”

Grafton wrote this all down. “What time was that?”

“Intermission? Around 9:45ish.”

“And do you know any reason why someone might want to kill the deceased?”

Attorney Sloe cleared his throat again, but not before a faint smile flickered at the corners of Frank’s mouth. “All I know is I didn’t do it.”

“And you never saw any suspicious persons hanging about backstage or even near the back entrance?”

Frank practically rolled his eyes. “No, just people in the theater company.”

“You’re sure?” “Quite sure.”

“Thank you, Mr. Wilson,” Captain Woods rose from his seat. “You’ve been most helpful. If you think of anything else, you can reach us at this number.” He handed him a business card.

“Right,” Frank said as he hoisted himself to his feet.

“Oh, and next time you’re in Mississippi, remember to pay the parking meter,” Grafton said as an aside.

Frank’s jaw dropped. “Hey! How do you know about my parking tick⁠—”

Before he could say another word, his lawyer practically pushed him out the door and glared at the detective. “Irrelevant,” he pronounced as he exited the room behind his client.

“So, what do you think about Frank?” Captain Woods asked once Grafton shut the door.

“He obviously cares about ticket sales and isn’t too keen on us looking over them. But I don’t buy that Chet got all his leads simply because of talent. A man in his twenties playing Willy Loman? Willy Loman’s a middle-aged salesman. There were several middle-aged men in the company to choose from. Maybe Chet had something on Frank and leveraged it to get all the plum parts.”

“Community theater blackmail?” Woods raised an eyebrow. “Believe it or not, theater politics can get pretty intense.”

“You speak as though you’ve had experience.” Woods grinned. “Well . . .” Grafton ran a hand through his dark Grecian curls.

“That was many moons before the academy, sir. In high school.”

“How did you have time for theater?” Woods asked. “I thought you were on the cross-country team.”

“And the debate team. And the chess team, not that my father ever showed up to my events.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said the captain. “But with all you had going on, how did you manage to do your homework?”

“Coffee, sir. And sometimes Red Bull.”

Captain Woods shook his head. “Looks like little’s changed in the last ten years. You’re a great investigator, Grafton. But try to remember you’re also human.”

Grafton glanced down at his brown leather shoes. “I have my reminders.”

Realizing he’d hit a nerve, Captain Woods cleared his throat and changed the subject. “So as far as Director Wilson’s concerned, it seems blackmail’s not beyond the realm of possibility, then. And I’d bet my badge there’s something fishy going on in Mississippi. But that’s not our case for now. Who’s next?”

* * *

Unlike the antsy director, Wilma Andrews smiled as she leaned back in her chair, crossed her ankles, and lit a cigarette. “Mind if I smoke?” she asked after she’d already put the thing in her mouth. “What do you young fellers want to know?”

Captain Woods glanced at Grafton. “Ms. Andrews, what can you tell us about what happened last night?”

“Well, yesterday afternoon, I was smack dab in the middle of a bowling tournament when Frank called and ordered me to the theater to alter a costume last minute. Richard hadn’t shown up to curtain call rehearsal, and some thought Frank would have to play his part. Given the difference in girths between those two . . .” She rolled her eyes. “. . . like trying to fit a semi into a Mini Coupe. What do I look like? I Dream of Jeannie?”

“No, ma’am,” Woods said.

“Darn right!” She readjusted a stray wisp of white hair and exhaled a stream of smoke.

Grafton coughed and opened the office door a crack.

“What happened when you got to the theater?” Woods asked. “While I was trying to measure Frank for a new costume—a two-person job, mind you—Richard shows up after all! So I stormed to my car and drove back to the bowling alley. But the thing had ended before I got there. And we lost! Richard owes me big time.”

“Which bowling alley is this?” Grafton asked, holding his pen and notepad ready.

“Chattanooga Lanes.”

“Do you have a number for someone who saw you there?” Grafton asked. “A teammate, perhaps?”

“I can do you one better and give you the number of the manager. I changed his diapers before he could hold a ball.”

“And what did you do afterward?” Woods asked.

“After that, I went home. Heated up some leftover chicken and rice soup, pet the cat, worked on a knitting project while I watched TV, and then went to bed. The first I heard of Chet’s accident was in Frank’s text this morning. At least I thought it was an accident till this summons.” She tossed the remainder of her cigarette into the empty trash can and hunted for a fresh one in her beige purse. Grafton stepped closer to the doorway.

“Ms. Andrews, how did you feel about the deceased?” Wilma lit her new cigarette, inhaled deeply, and looked

Captain Woods straight in the eye. “You really want to know?” she puffed.

“Please.”

“Very well. In my humble opinion, Chet Cadsley was a rude, crude, self-centered brat. That’s coming from over twenty years of being a theater seamstress. I’ve seen ’em come, and I’ve seen ’em go. But that boy had an ego bigger than Lookout Mountain. I don’t condone murder, but just because he was talented and died unexpected-like don’t make him a saint. He insulted everyone—even his own mother! Maybe if she’d given him more hidings when he was younger, he would’ve turned out better. But my biggest issue is that he constantly had me take things in and out for him.”

“In and out?” Woods asked.

“Costume alterations. Incessant, never-ending, never-goodenough alterations! Since he always complained no matter what I did, I finally took to just returning his clothes untouched,” she chuckled. “He never noticed. So you see, I’m not too sorry to see him gone, but I didn’t lay a finger on him.”

“Ms. Andrews, if you don’t mind my asking,” Grafton asked, “why did you continue with the company? Chet starred in most of the shows, didn’t he?”

Wilma puffed. “For better or worse, yes. But he did sell more tickets, which added to my job security. You see, it’s hard for a woman my age to start a new career. I never went to college. But this gig pays fine, and the hours work well, so I can see the grandkids and still have time for bowling. But after eight shows with that prima donna, I’d made up my mind to switch to something less stressful . . . like walking vicious dogs maybe . . .”

A knock sounded on the door. “Detective Grafton?” a young officer poked his freckled face in the doorway. “I think we found something.”

The detective walked out the door and soon returned with a small rag doll of sorts. It wore a white collared shirt and black doublet—the same costume Chet had worn the night before. Dozens of multicolored pins stuck out from its head, chest, and another area that wasn’t very polite.

Grafton held it out with an open hand to avoid getting pricked. “Ms. Andrews, does this belong to you?”

“You found Mr. C.! I was wondering where he’d gotten to!” Wilma reached for it. “I’ve been looking for this pin cushion for days!”

Captain Woods frowned. “It looks like a voodoo doll.”

“Same thing,” Wilma said, waving aside his comment.

“A voodoo doll of Chet?” Grafton ventured cautiously.

Wilma rolled her eyes. “Like I said, I never laid a finger on him. Doesn’t mean I can’t take out my frustration vicariously.”

“Where was this found?” Woods asked Grafton.

“In a corner of the men’s dressing room.”

“Hey! There’s red paint on his back! How’d that get there?” Wilma exclaimed. When no one answered, she looked up from the doll to see both investigators gazing at her intently. “You’re not going to arrest me over my pin cushion, are you? I’m supposed to bowl tomorrow.”

Captain Woods cleared his throat. “We’re not pressing charges at this time. But please stay in town for the next few days so we can follow up if necessary. Thank you for your help. If you think of anything else, please call us.” He handed her the business card.

“Fair enough,” she said, rising to her feet with a slight groan. She tossed her spent cigarette into the trash can before fishing for yet another replacement. “And thanks for finding Mr. C,” she said as she lit her new mouthpiece.

“Before you go,” Grafton said, holding up his phone, “can I take a photo of you with your . . . um, pin cushion? For our files?”

“Sure!” Wilma held it up to her face and flashed a yellowed smile.

Grafton clicked a quick shot and thanked her.

She dropped her pin cushion into her purse and was about to leave the theater office when she spun around in the doorway. “Oh, no! I just had a horrible thought!”

“What’s that?” Both investigators looked at her expectantly.

She took the cigarette out of her mouth and blew a long stream of smoke. “You don’t think Ms. Cadsley will make me alter Chet’s funeral suit, do you?”

13

Five minutes later, a misty-eyed Richard sat before the investigators, unclasping and re-clasping his hands.

His salt and pepper beard had not been trimmed, giving him the overall appearance of a nervous koala.

“Mr. Pratt,” Detective Grafton said, “Can I offer you a bottle of water?”

“No . . . no, sir. I don’t deserve it.” Richard put his hand over his eyes.

Captain Woods sat quietly. “Is there something you would like to tell us, Mr. Pratt?”

“Yes . . . But before I do, y’all must know in advance I’m so very sorry. But that doesn’t change much, does it? The truth is, it’s all my fault! I confess!”

Grafton nearly dropped his pen.

“You confess to the murder of Chet Cadsley?” Captain Woods asked, his eyebrows practically hitting the roots of his close-cut black hair.

“No, not his murder!” Richard said indignantly. “I didn’t kill him! But I may have accidentally contributed to it—or kicked a metaphorical pebble, which caused a metaphorical avalanche, which resulted in an actual death that I didn’t mean to happen at all. I swear I didn’t actually kill him, but I . . . well . . . It was a silly prank. This whole thing is just one big misunderstanding.” Richard cleared his throat. “Actually, is it alright if I do get some water? I’m recovering from a cold.”

Detective Grafton reached into the small red cooler next to the prop table and handed a bottle of water to the indecisive witness. Richard uncapped it and took a long drink before putting it back on the table.

“I think it would be better if you started at the beginning,” Woods said calmly. “I understand you arrived late to rehearsal yesterday.”

“Well, yes and no.” “Yes and no?”

“Technically, I arrived on time. Parked in the Republic Parking lot a block from the theater and hid in the wings until it was time for folks to rehearse curtain call. That’s when I decided to work out my practical joke.”

“Go on.”

“For context, Chet had a real attitude problem. Backstage, he was a right terror. But despite his theater degree, he couldn’t die onstage to save his life. The only reason he got away with playing Romeo a few years back was because he collapsed behind Juliet’s bier—no one saw his goofy form from the audience. But Hamlet has to die downstage, front and center. He’s supposed to sputter and faint like I did when I played Hamlet back in ’04. Back then, I was living in Atlanta, and . . .”

“Mr. Pratt, forgive me for butting in, but what exactly was your practical joke?” Woods asked. He despised chasing rabbit trails and knew the best way to keep things moving was to give the rabbit a short lead.

“Well,” Richard said, reorganizing his thoughts, “I’d been telling Chet that if he wanted to pull off a convincing death by poisoning, he needed to wet his whistle right before going onstage. He never listened. Even called me a few names I’d rather not repeat. So, I decided I’d knock him down a notch or two. While everybody was onstage during curtain call rehearsal, I went into the men’s dressing room and grabbed Chet’s Perrier. I thought I’d hide it for a little while—make him use the water fountain like the rest of us.”

“You stole his sparkling water?” Grafton asked. “Moved it, more like. I didn’t tamper with it, I swear!” “Where did you hide it?” Woods asked.

“At first, I hid it under a red gingham dress from last season. It was lying on the makeup counter in the ladies’ dressing room.” Woods flipped through some papers for the original police report Kathy had filled out at the station. “Was there anything else under the dress?” he asked.

“Actually, there was a purse.”

Woods looked up from the report. “What did it look like?”

“Oh, I don’t know. White, maybe? With an oblong button.”

Grafton exchanged a significant look with the captain. “Did you put anything into it?”

“No. Like I said, I was trying to hide Chet’s Perrier.”

“Did you move the purse to a new location?”

Richard shrugged. “I may have put it on a shelf to get it out of the way. I don’t remember. But I wound up hiding the Perrier under a cowboy hat. I figured it was less likely to get moved than the dress, and I didn’t want the bottle to accidentally break or anything.”

“And you didn’t do anything more with the purse?” Grafton pressed.

“No.” Richard’s bushy eyebrows met over his nose. “Why do you keep talking about a purse? Did someone get robbed again? We’ve been having problems with things disappearing lately. Absolutely unprofessional. It’s amazing how you can work shoulder to shoulder with folks for months only to find out one of them’s a common thief.”

“Or a murderer,” Captain Woods added. “Grafton?” The detective nodded and stepped out of the room.

“Oh! I forgot to mention one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“I’m not proud of this, understand. But in addition to taking the Perrier away, I also left Chet a snack.”

The Captain’s eyebrow arched over his right eye. “What kind of snack?”

“Crackers and caviar. You know, to make him thirsty.”

“And then you hid his Perrier . . . ?”

Richard nodded. “To make him use the water fountain. Like I said, I’m not proud of it. And then, when he went into anaphylactic shock, I got scared. I mean, he’d told everyone he’d developed a peanut allergy over the summer. Though, how one can spend their whole life eating something and then decide to be allergic to it is beyond me. But I didn’t know if he’d had any other allergies. I swear I only knew about the peanut thing. But if he happened to be allergic to fish . . . then I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” Richard squirmed in his seat.

Captain Woods crossed his arms over his chest. “Mr. Pratt, did you disguise the caviar at all? Like, hide it in a cheeseball or something?”

“No. I just opened the can and spooned it onto the plate.”

“So the caviar looked like caviar and nothing else?”

“Yeah,” Richard said. “Just a pile of black blobs next to some Ritz crackers.”

“Then, if the caviar looked like caviar, don’t you think Chet would have avoided eating it if he actually had a fish allergy?”

Richard blinked. Then he exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath for hours. “You’re right! If he knew he was allergic to fish, he would have left the plate untouched! I’m in the clear! Oh, you don’t know what a relief this is. I spent all last night tossing and turning over it. But now I can relax.”

Captain Woods cleared his throat. “There is still the small matter of you stealing Chet’s Perrier and causing intentional discomfort.”

Richard stiffened. “What’s that, then? Non–aggravated assault?”

“Probably not. But right now, I want to clarify what happened in the dressing rooms before the show started. You were backstage when the cast and crew were running through curtain call?”

“Yes,” Richard said.

“Did you see anyone else while you were backstage?”

Richard tapped his bushy chin. “You know, come to think of it, I might have right before the show. Since I had the little kerfuffle about my arrival time, I rushed a bit to put on my makeup. When Li Yan called for places, I headed up the backstage hallway, then realized I’d forgotten to put on my eyeliner. If you don’t wear eyeliner onstage, you might as well not have eyes at all because the audience sure won’t see ‘em. So I turned around to go back to the men’s dressing room and saw someone slipping out the backstage exit . . .”

“Really?” Captain Woods clicked his pen, ready to take notes. “Male or female?”

Richard shrugged. “I only caught a glimpse. If I had to guess, I’d say it was a woman. But she didn’t come out of the ladies’ dressing room because that door was closed and in clear view of the hallway. She had to be coming from the men’s.”

“Did you catch any details? Hair color? Height? Weight? Clothing? Age?”

“Er . . . no. I wanted to get my eyeliner on as soon as possible. I only remember a slender impression of someone slinking through the door. It could’ve just been the stagehand or even a skinny man. Maybe John, or Alex . . . even Lloyd. But definitely not Frank.” He took another swig of his water bottle and coughed into his elbow.

Captain Woods put his pen on the table and took a deep breath; Richard was trying his patience.

“I’m sorry.” Richard folded his hands on his lap. “I know that’s not very specific. But I can definitely say I think I saw someone going out the backstage exit. You gotta believe me.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. Grafton walked in. “We found it, sir. Under the cowboy hat in the ladies’ dressing room.” He held up the green Perrier bottle in a plastic bag. “I’ll give it to forensics.”

“You needn’t bother,” Richard said. “I told y’all I didn’t tamper with it.”

“We like to verify our facts,” Captain Woods said. He sipped the last of his coffee and knew he’d need several more refills before concluding the day’s interviews—especially if the next few witnesses talked as much as Richard.

14

Chandra typically wore black even when she wasn’t working backstage. But today, the color took on a special significance. Her bloodshot eyes testified she’d either been crying or drinking the night before. Both were accurate.

“Miss Lewis?” Captain Woods asked.

“What?” she muttered. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

She sniffed and rubbed an eye.

“Would you please tell us the exact nature of your relationship with the deceased?”

Chandra frowned. “His name was Chet.”

“With Chet, then.”

“We were . . . close.”

Grafton cleared his throat. “Could you elaborate, please?”

Chandra curled an ebony lock behind her ear. “Friends with benefits, I guess. But he was still living with his girlfriend.”

“Did that bother you at all?” Woods asked quietly.

Chandra glared at the Captain. “Yes, if you want to know. But Chet was going to break up with her; there wasn’t anything between them anymore. We were going to find a place together in the spring. But now . . .” her lip quivered, and she hid her face in her hand.

Woods shook his head slightly. He could never understand why some women expected faithfulness from unfaithful men.

Grafton retrieved a bottle of water from the cooler and offered it to the distraught woman. “Would you like a drink?”

“Not unless it’s something strong,” she mumbled. “I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“Miss Lewis,” Woods asked, “where were you during the show last night?”

Chandra rolled her eyes. “Backstage with everyone else.”

“Did you leave at all during the performance?”

“I went to my car during intermission to grab a granola bar. When I came back, I saw Chet and Frank arguing on the street behind the theater.”

“What about?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. “They always argued.”

“Think, Miss Lewis. Can you recall anything they said?”

Chandra looked at the floor for a moment. “I think I heard Chet say something about Frank not having a full deck. Or something like that. Then his girlfriend joined them, and Kathy showed up . . . And I think there was also someone else, but they all left, and I met Chet for a couple minutes before we walked backstage together.”

“How did the de–Chet look at that time?” Grafton asked with his pen ready. “Did he seem nervous or upset?”

“He said his throat hurt, but he was probably just getting a cold. Richard’s had one all week. I didn’t see Chet again till after the show . . . when I called 911.” Chandra wiped the corner of her eye with the back of her hand.

“Did you ever see anyone suspicious hanging around backstage?”

“No. Not anyone who hadn’t been backstage a thousand times before. Show-goers usually stay in their seats or use the lobby restrooms. Backstage is off-limits.”

“Do you know of anyone who may have wanted to do Chet in?”

Chandra’s brown eyes flashed. “Ask Frank.”

* * *

Despite the fact that the theater thermostat was behaving itself for once, Alex Wendlemann sat in front of the prop table, sweating like it was the Fourth of July in Death Valley.

“Would you care for some water?” Grafton offered.

Alex nodded, loosened his white button-down shirt collar, and took a long swig from the plastic bottle.

“We understand you were Chet’s understudy.”

“That’s right.” Alex shifted in his seat. “I was originally cast as a gravedigger and herald. Frank tagged on the understudy role later. No one thought I’d actually have to perform it. I didn’t even bother to learn Chet’s lines.”

“What did you think of Chet Cadsley?”

Alex looked from one investigator to the other as if they’d asked a trick question.

“It’s all right,” Grafton said. “We already know he wasn’t very popular backstage.”

Alex relaxed. “He was rather full of himself. Acted like the theater couldn’t exist without him—and he might have been right. I don’t know how the company will make it without the proceeds from an entire season.”

“When did you join the troupe?” Grafton asked.

“This fall. I needed a fine arts credit and was able to get it by participating in a theatrical performance. At the time, it seemed like the most convenient thing to do.” He heaved a heavy sigh.

“Did Chet ever insult you?”

“Not much, if I stayed out of his way.”

“It says in your file that you’re studying medicine. I understand you were the one who diagnosed Chet’s condition,” Captain Woods said.

Alex reddened. “Sort of. I’m only pre-med. Still have one more year.”

“Have you studied anaphylactic shock, Mr. Wendlemann?” Grafton asked.

Alex swallowed hard. “There was a chapter on it last semester.”

“Are you familiar with the proper treatment of shock?” “Somewhat, but it’s so different when there’s a real person involved. Books make everything seem less . . . serious. I think I was halfway in shock, myself. That’s the first time I’ve seen someone . . . you know.” He took another swig from the water bottle and put it onto the table with trembling fingers. “I’m really sorry. I can’t stop thinking about Chet on the pallet. It was freaky.”

“Death always is,” Woods said, softening his tone. “Thanks for your time, Mr. Wendlemann.”

“You . . . you mean I’m not your prime suspect or anything?” Alex asked. “I thought you’d blame me for what happened, seeing how I had some training but didn’t do more to help.”

“Unless you took Chet’s EpiPen, I don’t see why we’d blame you for anything. Can you tell us anything else which might be pertinent to this case?”

“No. Except for Richard showing up late and Chet missing an entrance . . . ”

“Chet missed an entrance?” Grafton asked.

“Yeah.” Alex looked from the detective to the captain. “Right after intermission. Left me and Stephen ad-libbing for our lives till he finally showed up downstage. That’s the closest I’ve ever come to fainting in public. Till after curtain call, of course.”

“Alright. Should you remember anything else, here’s our card.” Woods handed it across the table to the relieved college student. “And good luck in med school,” he said as the understudy stood to his feet.

Alex frowned. “Thank you, sir. But after last night, I may switch my major to accounting. Numbers are less complicated than people. And I totally bombed my anatomy test last week. Maybe it’s a sign.”

* * *

Lloyd Allen sat straighter in the theater office than he’d ever sat in his adult life. His pointy nose and darting eyes made him look like a regular bird in the hand.

“So, Mr. Allen, how long have you been with the theater company?” Woods asked, grateful for the fresh cup of coffee in his hands.

“For about ten years. No, wait. Twelve. Yes, I’m pretty sure twelve. But I’m confused; I thought what happened to Chet was an accident.”

“We’ve concluded differently after receiving some evidence last night.”

“What evidence?” Lloyd held his voice steady, but Woods noted the throbbing vein on the side of his neck.

“Someone found Chet’s missing EpiPen among their personal belongings.”

“Oh,” Lloyd exhaled.

“Care for any water?” Grafton asked.

“No, thank you . . . on second thought, that would be nice.” He uncapped the bottle and downed its entire contents in one gulp. “So, where were you for most of the show last night?” Captain Woods asked.

“Onstage.” Lloyd’s posture relaxed slightly. “And when it wasn’t my scene, I was with Li Yan in the wings. She can vouch for me.”

“Did you go into the men’s dressing room during the show at all?”

Lloyd shook his head. “Not until intermission. That’s when Li Yan unlocked the rooms; someone keeps walking off with other people’s stuff.”

“Did you see any unfamiliar faces backstage at any point?” Lloyd’s brow furrowed. “No. Sorry.”

“And what was your opinion of the deceased?”

“He was . . .” Lloyd debated with himself silently, “ . . . a good actor.”

“And the two of you got along well?” Grafton prompted. “Well enough,” Lloyd mumbled. A long-nosed Pinocchio would have been more convincing.

Grafton and Woods looked at each other. “Mr. Allen,” Woods said, “we’ve already interviewed most of the cast. You don’t have to sugarcoat things.”

Lloyd took a deep breath. “I won’t deny that I haven’t starred in a show since Chet joined the company. We didn’t sing Kumbaya together, but the chance to perform pro bono for six weeks is a sorry motive for murder.”

“Most murder motives are sorry,” Woods said as he sipped from his steaming mug.

“Well, I didn’t kill him. I might not have played lead, but I still got to be onstage a fair bit. Without Hamlet, there’s no Laertes either.” Lloyd frowned. “Months of rehearsal wasted!”

“Is there anyone in particular who may have wanted to do him in?” Grafton asked.

“Frank and Chet never got along, but murder seems like overkill. If Frank really didn’t want Chet around, he could have stopped casting him. Honestly, if I could have words with the murderer, there’s just one thing I’d want to know.”

“And what is that, Mr. Allen?”

“Why the heck couldn’t he have waited till the last show of the run?!”

* * *

Señor Alonzo Sanchez entered the room holding his green janitor’s cap in his calloused hands. He sat in the chair and looked in the investigators’ eyes. “How can I help, señores?”

“As we’ve told everyone else, Mr. Sanchez, this is not an interrogation. We’re only trying to find out as much as possible so we know how to direct our investigation of Chet Cadsley’s murder.”

Sr. Sanchez nodded.

“Can you give an account of your whereabouts before, during, and after the show last night?”

Sr. Sanchez looked toward the ceiling and wrinkled his white eyebrows together. “I got to the theater around 1:45. I emptied the trash cans in the dressing rooms, spot-checked the backstage restrooms, then the lobby restrooms, and swept the stage. I also checked the house for anything in the aisles, but they were clear. I’d even managed to scrub out the soda stain on the carpet.

“Then I vacuumed the rug in the lobby while the cast practiced the last scene, unboxed the programs and set them out for the ushers, and went to the soundboard to look over the settings. I ate my dinner in the lighting booth and was there for the whole show, working sound and lights. The only time I left was to use the men’s room at intermission. Then I returned and continued running lights until the end of the show. I wondered where Chet was when he didn’t come out for his bow, and soon after that, I heard the ambulance.”

“Can anyone confirm your movements?” Grafton asked, tapping his pen on his notepad.

“Miss Kathy Waters saw me in the lobby right before curtain call. I was the only one in the sound booth during the show, but the fact the lights and sound worked proves I was doing my job.”

“And what was your opinion of the deceased?” Captain Woods asked.

“Machismo on steroids,” he said. “Very rude.”

“Did he ever insult you personally?”

“Several times.”

“So you’re not terribly upset to see him gone?”

“Will I miss his insults? No. But I’m sad he died so young. If he had lived longer, perhaps his life could have changed.”

Captain Woods noticed a gold cross peeking from the janitor’s green shirt.

“How long have you had this job?” Grafton asked.

Sr. Sanchez leaned back in his chair and silently calculated. “Thirty years or so.”

“So you’ve seen a lot of shows in your time.”

He grinned. “Everything by Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, and Gilbert and Sullivan.”

“And before you got this job, what did you do?”

The older man rumpled his cap in his hands. “Time.”

Woods and Grafton exchanged a glance, impressed by his honesty.

“For?” Grafton prompted.

“Assault.” Sr. Sanchez looked tired. “I was young and angry. But I’m a different man now. I don’t see how my past has any bearing on Chet’s death.”

“Did you ever go backstage once the show started?” Grafton asked.

“No. I stayed in the lighting booth until intermission.”

“So you never saw any strangers hanging around backstage at any time?”

Sr. Sanchez shook his head. “Sorry.”

Woods stood. “Well, thank you for being candid, Sr. Sanchez. I respect that. Should you remember anything else that could help, please call this number.” He handed the janitor a business card.

“I’m free to go?” Sr. Sanchez asked, surprised.

“Yes.” The Captain nodded.

“Gracias.” Sr. Sanchez stood to his feet and donned his cap. Once the door closed behind him, Grafton tossed Sr. Sanchez’s file on the desk. “Now there’s a hardened criminal with all the vengeance of Mother Teresa.”

“Tell me about it.” Woods raised his mug to his lips, realized it was empty, and set it down on the table with a thud. “Who’s next?”

15

It took Kathy ten minutes to realize that regardless of whether the police interviewed the cast alphabetically or in the order in which they arrived, she would be the last person to give a statement. One by one, various members of the (former?) theater company disappeared through the lobby doors for ten to twenty minutes at a time before leaving through the front entrance. Now, it was 8:00 pm.

Computer-less, phone-less, and nearly starving, Kathy’s saving grace for the last two hours had been her imagination—and the pen and paper she’d stashed in her purse. Since childhood, Kathy had dreamed of becoming a famous novelist. But seeing that creative writing could sustain only a precious few through grocery bills and utilities, she’d taken the practical route in college and majored in communications with a minor in English literature. Chattanooga Line articles were her bread and butter. But her mystery novel? That was her crème brûlée.

For twelve pages, she’d delved into the supposed suicide of a lonely New York financier. Now her detective, a brilliantbut-under-appreciated English professor, was analyzing the planted note:

“My Dearest Samantha . . .

[Here, she flipped to her second-to-last page.]

“For the last year, I’ve been haunted with memories that give me no peace in daytime nor rest at night. In snuffing out a shining star, I have become a mere shadow of who I’ve been and can never walk in the sun again. I am truly sorry for the pain I know this will bring to the family and can only beg your forgiveness.

“Yours Truly . . .”

“Kathy Waters?”

Kathy started at the officer standing at the end of her aisle. “Looks like it’s finally your turn, ma’am. ’Preciate your patience. Captain Woods and Detective Grafton want to ask a few questions about what happened last night.” He ushered Kathy through the lobby and knocked twice on the wooden door to the theater office.

“Come in,” a man’s voice commanded.

Kathy grabbed the cold door knob with trembling fingers. Come on, Kathy. You’re not in trouble. Just answer their questions and put this whole thing behind you.

The disheveled appearance of the makeshift conference room surprised Kathy. She suppressed a smile when she saw an old Oklahoma background flat leaning against the wall behind the plastic table; the painting of a cow’s backside made an unfortunate frame for the seated captain. But when he stood to his full 6’4” height, any traces of amusement vanished from her thoughts. She felt like a kindergartner in the presence of a star basketball player.

“Hello, I’m Captain Reggie Woods,” the captain said as he offered his hand.

Kathy shook it; it was warm. “Nice to meet you.” She tucked her coat and clipboard under the folding chair before sitting down and setting her purse on her lap.

“I understand we have you to thank for this investigation.” From the frown on the Captain’s face, Kathy wasn’t sure whether he was commending or blaming her. She nodded slowly.

“Let’s start at the beginning. When did you join the company, Miss Waters?”

Good! An easy question. “Two years ago. It was an escape from work.”

“Where do you work?”

“The Chattanooga Line. I used to write hard news stories, but I switched to the community news division to take a step back from the . . .” she licked her dry lips, “. . . harsher realities of life.” And a fat lot of good that did me.

“So you auditioned for Hamlet?” Woods asked.

Kathy shifted in her seat. “Onstage, everything’s only pretend.

At least, that’s how it’s supposed to be . . .”

Just then, a tall, gorgeous man with dark curly hair entered the office. With his fit physique and strong jawline, he looked like he’d just stepped from the cover of GQ Magazine.

“Ms. Waters, this is my colleague, Detective Drew Grafton.”

Kathy met the detective’s striking blue-green eyes and felt thankful he hadn’t asked for her name—she couldn’t remember it. “So you’re the one who found the EpiPen in your purse?” he

asked as he glanced over an open file on the table.

“Yes,” Kathy said slowly. I could go skinny-dipping in those eyes.

“Tell us about it.”

Sea-green, with blue on the edges. Liz would know the exact color, I’m sure . . .

“Ms. Waters?” Captain Woods asked, leaning forward over the table.

“Yes?”

“The EpiPen?”

“Oh, sorry!” Kathy’s cheeks felt warm. “I didn’t notice it in my purse until I got home after the show. I knew I hadn’t put it there, so I wanted to turn it in as quickly as possible.”

“There weren’t any prints on it—not even Chet’s,” Captain Woods said.

“Shoot! That would have been a lucky break. When I took the EpiPen from my purse, I used rubber gloves to avoid smudging any prints just in case.”

The investigators seemed a little too quiet.

“I’m writing a mystery novel,” Kathy qualified—as if that explained anything. “That is, I’ve done some research on crime scenes, and the prevailing wisdom warns against contaminating evidence. I hadn’t touched the EpiPen prior to last night and didn’t want to accidentally incriminate myself. Hence, the gloves.”

The detective studied his notes quietly. “If you knew how to avoid smudging prints, wouldn’t you also know how to wipe them away altogether?”

Kathy tensed. She did not like the direction of that question. “Yes . . . But my sister knows I didn’t discover the EpiPen until I dumped my purse out on the dining room table.”

“She saw you dump out your purse?” Grafton asked.

Kathy’s shoulders sagged. “Actually, now that I think about it, she was in the kitchen. She only walked up afterward when I didn’t answer her question. I was so shocked to see the EpiPen, I couldn’t speak.” Kathy’s heart rate trotted at a quicker clip. That’s strike one against me.

The handsome detective jotted something in his notes.

Kathy swallowed hard. “I know it’s possible I could have wiped the EpiPen, hidden it in my purse, and play-acted my discovery. I didn’t—but I also don’t have a genuine witness to the fact.”

Grafton smiled a half-smile. “I see why you write mysteries, Ms. Waters. You think through details. And I heard you were splendid onstage last night.”

Then that’s strike two against me. I know how to plan AND act distraught in front of an audience. Kathy tugged at her blouse collar. The theater office seemed rather stuffy all at once.

“Would you mind walking us through the events of the evening, starting when you arrived at the theater?” Captain Woods asked.

“Sure.” Kathy decided she didn’t need to mention her traffic ticket as that incident happened prior to her arrival. “I got to the theater around 4:45, saw Sr. Sanchez in the lobby, and watched Chet finish the final scene onstage. Afterward, Chet mentioned he had something he wanted to share with me for the paper, but we needed to get ready for curtain call rehearsal.

“That’s when Li Yan reminded me about the director’s gift. It’s customary to give a gift to the director during the last show of the run. The cast had donated money for a gift card, and I was supposed to buy it. But things were a little hectic this week, and I still had the money in my purse. So I hid it under a costume in the ladies’ dressing room for safekeeping and headed for curtain call rehearsal. Then we couldn’t find Richard at first . . .”

Grafton scribbled furiously on his notepad.

Kathy waited for him to catch up. “Once Richard arrived and I told our seamstress she didn’t need to alter his costume for Frank, it was almost time for places. So I called my sister and asked her to meet me outside the theater during intermission so I could hand her my purse.”

“Why didn’t you put it in your car?” Grafton asked.

Kathy’s polite smile took a downward turn. It seemed an accusatory question. “I barely had time to put on my costume and makeup before getting to my place. Plus, I figured my purse would be safe enough when Li Yan locked the dressing rooms. But at intermission, I nearly panicked when someone moved my purse to a shelf. Thankfully, they hadn’t taken the money.”

“Do you think someone added the EpiPen to your purse at this time?” Grafton asked.

“No, I didn’t see it then. But I felt so relieved about the money I didn’t search for anything else. It could have been hidden underneath all my clutter—I’ve been meaning to organize my purse for some time.”

Woods smiled. “Sounds like my wife’s purse. She’s got a truckload in that thing. And yet she never has trouble finding her Starbucks card or her lipstick—even in the dark.”

Grafton wrote a few more notes, then looked up.

“Anyway,” Kathy continued, “at intermission, I met Frank, Chet, and his girlfriend outside and gave the purse to my sister.”

“How were Frank and Chet at that time?”

Kathy blinked. “How do you mean?”

“Were they upset at all?”

Kathy decided to leave Frank’s “even if it kills us” comment off the record. Surely, he’d used a figure of speech. “They weren’t duking it out, but there was tension between them—which was pretty normal, if I’m honest.”

“So from the beginning of the show till intermission, your purse was backstage in the ladies’ dressing room?” Grafton clarified.

“Yes,” Kathy nodded.

“And from intermission until after the show, your purse was in your sister’s possession?”

“That’s right. But again, I didn’t find the EpiPen until I got home, after Chet . . . um . . .” Kathy’s lip quivered. Why am I having trouble swallowing?

Grafton saw her discomfort, reached into the cooler, and handed a squat water bottle to Kathy. She unscrewed the lid and sipped. “Thanks.”

“Back to Chet,” Woods said, “how did he seem during the show? We heard he missed his entrance.”

“During the gravedigger scene,” Kathy nodded. “He wasn’t in his place and nearly gave everyone a heart attack. I found him rummaging around in the men’s dressing room. He complained he couldn’t find something. At the time, I thought he meant his missing Perrier, so I wasn’t super sympathetic. I practically dragged him through the backstage door. He was not at all his usual confident self.”

“How so?” Woods asked.

“Besides not being in his place on time, he puked in the restroom. I knew it couldn’t have been due to stage fright because the show was almost over. But he’d mentioned eating caviar as a snack earlier, so I chalked the retching up to bad seafood. Again, my primary aim was to get him back onstage. The show must go on and all that jazz.”

Woods didn’t smile, so Kathy continued. “Then Chet had trouble with his lines during the fencing match. He’s always bragged about how he can handle a blade and hold a conversation at the same time. But something went wrong during the repartee because Chet’s arm started bleeding. We normally blunt the stage rapiers to prevent injury . . . You should ask Li Yan and Lloyd about it.”

“Any particular reason?” Grafton raised his eyebrows.

Kathy chose to forget the overheard conversation between Chet’s rival and the stage manager. She shrugged. “Li Yan’s in charge of props, and Lloyd used the sword. They’d know the most about what happened, I think.”

“Got that, Grafton?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything else?” Woods asked.

“Yes. The last scene went too well. Until last night, Chet could never perform a convincing death. He had trouble getting to the floor in a non-comical way. But he must have accidentally tripped over Alex’s standard in the new blocking. He hit the ground pretty hard and even missed his last line.”

“Do you think Alex could have tripped him on purpose?” Woods asked.

“I doubt it. I don’t think Alex had any long-term theatrical ambitions.”

“What happened after that?”

“Chet missed curtain call,” Kathy said. “He always tried to steal an extra bow, so when he didn’t take one at all, I knew something was seriously wrong. That’s when we saw him still lying on the pallet. Then the curtain whooshed shut, and backstage chaos broke loose.” Kathy paused to take a steadying breath at the memory. “I don’t handle intense situations very well, so I sat with my head between my knees while Ms. Cadsley cried hysterically. Then the ambulance came, and Frank informed us that Chet died en route to the hospital.”

Kathy studied the front toggle-less pocket of her purse. Her eyes stung. “After that, my sister drove me home, and when I dumped out my purse on the table, I found Chet’s EpiPen. And that’s pretty much how it happened.”

“Tell me something, Miss Waters,” Grafton said after letting Kathy take another sip of water, “What was your opinion of the deceased?”

Kathy squirmed. “My personal opinion?”

“That would be preferable.”

Kathy tried to think of the most diplomatic way to express the truth. “Personally, I kept my distance, but I never wished him dead.”

“Did he ever insult you?”

She considered. “He flirted . . . in his way. And I don’t think he would have turned down an interested party. But I wasn’t, so nothing ever happened.”

“So, in your opinion, is there anyone who may have had a motive for doing away with the deceased?” Grafton asked for the twentieth time that evening.

Half a dozen names popped into Kathy’s head, but she couldn’t bring herself to take any seriously. She cleared her throat and tried to walk the winding path of political correctness. “Most of us didn’t care for Chet, but I honestly can’t believe anyone would have killed him.”

“And yet, Ms. Waters, someone did,” said the captain. A shiver ran up Kathy’s spine. She took another sip of water.

Captain Woods leaned forward on his elbows. “We’re not asking you to convict anybody, Ms. Waters. We just want to follow up some leads. If there’s anything you know that could help, we’d be grateful.”

“I . . .” Kathy hesitated, “I guess I feel a bit uncomfortable accusing people of murder based on things they may have said flippantly. Taken out of context, any passing comment could make a saint look guilty.”

“How is that any different from news reporting?” Grafton asked. “Isn’t your profession based mostly on speculation with a few spun facts thrown in?”

“Grafton!” The captain raised his brows in surprise.

Kathy set her jaw and enunciated her next words carefully. “I don’t write the gossip column, Detective Grafton. And though my editor asked me to cover this particular news story, I normally write up civic events, and I always do my research.” Most of the time . . . She shifted her gaze from the junior investigator to his superior. “Was there anything else you wanted, sir?”

The captain stood. “No, that will be all for now. Should you recall anything that might be helpful, here’s our number.” He handed her the business card.

“Thanks.” Kathy gathered up her things from under her chair and refused to look at Detective Grafton on the way out. Handsome face notwithstanding, his accusatory manner had hit a nerve, and she wanted to get out of that stuffy room as soon as she could.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Captain Woods eyed Grafton. “Detective, what’s gotten into you?” he asked. “Why were you questioning her like that? If she killed Chet, why would she bother bringing this case to our attention in the first place?”

The younger investigator took up a stack of files from the table. “Just because she turns in a piece of evidence doesn’t take her off the list of suspects,” Grafton said. “If we’re doing things by the book, we shouldn’t let a pretty pair of eyes keep us from looking into all our options. Besides, I wanted to see how she’d respond under pressure.”

Captain Woods shook his head. “You know I live by the book too, but sometimes I feel like you cross your t’s and dot your i’s more than what’s necessary. What would Kathy Waters possibly gain from Chet’s death? You think she’s lying?”

“No,” Grafton acknowledged as he straightened the stack. “After seeing how she handled herself, I’m sure she’s telling the truth.”

16

They think I’m lying! Kathy thought angrily as she donned her navy blue pea coat, slung her purse over her shoulder, and strode through the theater lobby feeling like a chastised child. That detective may be eye candy, but he knows nothing about journalism! All writers polish their work! It’s not like I obstruct the real picture—I just give it a little airbrushing and add a frame. Is that so wrong? Despite Kathy’s attempt to write off Grafton’s criticism, she couldn’t ignore its sting as her conscience poked her with memories of all the interviews she’d “polished” and news stories she’d “stretched” to make them more marketable.

Went in like a hero and left like a villain. That’s the last time I do anything for Chattanooga law enforcement. From now on, they can handle this mess on their own!

As she massaged her sore ego, Kathy realized she still had the theater clipboard from earlier in her hand. As she wrestled her yellow manuscript pages out from underneath the clip, she tripped on the oriental rug. All the papers soared toward the paint-chipped ceiling, then descended to the floor like lazy doves.

“You alright, ma’am?” asked the lobby officer.

“I’m fine. Just ruffled.” Kathy hoisted herself to her feet and bent over to collect the yellow and white sheets.

“You don’t have to worry about all that. We’ll get it when we lock up.”

“Thanks, I only want to get my notes.”

“Drive safe.” The officer returned to his post as Kathy retrieved her yellow manuscript papers from the winter wonderland on the floor. Just then, her eye caught an item on a prop list circled in red ink. She squinted at it. Li Yan had highlighted “Laertes’ rapier” and written “Replace” with what looked like a horned smiley face.

Kathy groaned and cursed herself for not sticking to her own principles. Fine! I’ll turn this in, too, so they can’t accuse me of anything. And then they can handle this mess on their own!

She stuffed her own papers back into her purse, then returned to the green room and knocked quietly. The attractive detective opened the door. “Yes?”

Kathy willed herself not to get lost in the man’s eyes this time. “This is probably nothing,” she said as she held out the props list, “But Li Yan jotted down some interesting stage notes. You may want to ask her about them.”

Grafton took the paper, then grasped it with both hands. “Where did you find this?”

“Actually, the officer in the lobby found it. I needed to brace my papers against something, and he gave me a clipboard with the stage manager’s notes still attached.”

“Thank you,” Grafton said with genuine appreciation. Kathy’s heart softened—just a little.

The detective continued. “We’ll look into this. The pathologist’s report said there were unusual slash marks on the victim’s upper torso. Could be related to his death, but they won’t know for sure until they get the lab results back.”

“Really?” Kathy’s ears perked up.

“Yes . . .” Grafton suddenly became wary. “But that’s strictly off the record for now.”

“Don’t worry,” Kathy held up her hands. “I’m only going to write that the investigation is ongoing and the Chattanooga police department has searched the crime scene and interviewed the staff and cast. Thoroughly.”

The corners of Grafton’s mouth creased into a faint smile. “Just doing my duty.”

Kathy tried to maintain her unaffected, business-like tone. “I’ll call in a day or so to get an investigation update for the paper.”

“Hopefully, we’ll have some news for you by then.”

News that one of my former castmates is a murderer? Kathy’s stomach sank. “Can’t wait,” she said as if she’d just scheduled a root canal. She still wished her editor had assigned this story to someone else. Why can’t I go back to covering Girl Scout cookie sales?

“Thank you, Ms. Waters. I’m sure we’ll be in touch.”

Kathy’s heart fluttered slightly at Detective Grafton’s word choice, but she nodded coolly and left without saying goodbye.

Outside the theater, she deeply inhaled the cool night air, then trotted to her car, turned the heat to full blast, and turned off the radio. She needed quiet. She’d given her statement, found another clue, and could totally justify treating herself to a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream when she got home. But unfortunately, recent events had sabotaged her appetite.

Her fingers tightened around the chilly steering wheel as she pulled out of her parking space. She drove the next three miles without paying attention to her speedometer, then became aware of a blaring siren and red and white flashing lights behind her. At first, her heart jumped to her throat. Not another ticket! But she exhaled in relief as an ambulance passed her Camry. It screeched to her right, then headed left into . . .

My neighborhood?

Kathy followed, her journalistic curiosity getting the best of her. She kept about forty feet behind the white truck for three blocks, then slowed to a halt as it switched off its siren and stopped right outside her own house.

Kathy gasped. Oh, no! What’s happened? She parked recklessly in the grass across from her driveway. Adrenaline surged through her veins as she flung open her car door and dashed toward her front steps.

“Hold on, ma’am!” The ambulance driver held out a beefy arm to block her path. “You can’t go in there.”

“But this is my house!” she nearly shrieked. “What’s happened?”

“What’s your name, Miss?”

“Kathy.” She leaned to one side to peer beyond the driver into her front hallway. “Kathy Waters.” One of the paramedics had turned on the hall light. She could see glass shining on the linoleum. “What’s happened?!” she repeated.

“Not quite sure. We got a call from a neighbor saying somebody’s hurt.”

Oh, no . . . Kathy’s gut braced as if for a punch. “Who? Liz?!”

“Who’s Liz, Ma’am?”

Argh! These formalities are taking too long! She could barely hear him over the throb of her own pulse. “Liz is my sister and roommate. Did she have an accident? Is she okay?”

“They’re checking her out now, ma’am.” The paramedics came out of the house to retrieve a stretcher from the back of the ambulance.

A stretcher?! Why the heck do they need a stretcher?! Liz isn’t

. . . she can’t be . . . Kathy couldn’t finish the thought. Her heart threatened to pound its way out of her rib cage. She kept shifting her weight from one foot to the other like an antsy boxer. Tears stung her eyes. This can’t be happening!

“What’s your sister’s full name?” the driver asked, bringing out a notepad from his back pocket.

“Elizabeth Kristiana Waters,” Kathy’s voice quavered. Again, she tried to peer around the driver, but the paramedics blocked her view.

“Does she have any allergies?”

“None that I know of. Is she . . . ?”

“I don’t know about her condition, ma’am. I’m just trying to cover some basic info and be ready for anything. Was your sister taking any medications we ought to know about?”

“No.”

“Can I get your phone number?”

Kathy mechanically rattled off the digits when her neighbor called out, “Miss Kathy! Is that you?”

“I’m here, Ms. Anna!” She faced the driver. “Hold on, I’ll be right back!” Kathy sped past her neighbor’s pansies, mums, and Queen Anne’s lace, then took the front porch steps two at a time. Ms. Anna stood in her doorway, silhouetted against the glow of a warm kitchen. One sniff confirmed that she’d spent her afternoon baking; no diet was safe when that woman baked. But the aroma did little to comfort Kathy right then.

“What’s going on, Ms. Anna? They won’t tell me anything!” Kathy fought to keep her voice steady.

“I made the 911 call,” the older woman confessed, clutching the hem of her apron. “I was in the kitchen when I heard glass break and a door slam. Then this crazy hot rod sped away.”

“Did you catch the license plate?” Kathy asked, looking over the hedge back toward the ambulance.

“Sorry, honey. I saw your front door open and the light off, so I called out to see if y’all were home. No one answered, so I went over and saw Miss Lizzy in the hallway on the floor. When I saw the blood, I called the ambulance and . . . and . . .” Her face turned a light shade of taupe.

Blood?! Kathy felt sick, but she exerted herself to grab a plastic lawn chair for her neighbor. “Would you like to sit down?”

Ms. Anna collapsed into the chair as if she’d just run a marathon. “Thanks, honey.”

“Was there . . .” Kathy swallowed hard, “a lot of blood?”

Ms. Anna studied her extra-supportive cream-colored shoes and nodded.

Kathy ran her fingers through her hair, breathing hard, and looked back to her house. No sign of her sister yet. “Could you see if she was breathing?”

“I don’t know, honey. But I’m gonna pray for her right now.” The weary matriarch clasped her hands, bent her head, and moved her lips wordlessly while Kathy stared at the walkway leading to her house next door. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

When Kathy had first moved to Chattanooga, she’d proudly left both her parents and their religion behind. News writing had shown her the real world. How could she believe in the Big Man Upstairs if he’d let the downstairs get so messy? But desperation makes agnostics of us all.

Keeping her eyes on her own yard for any sign of her sister, Kathy prayed silently. God? If you’re there, please let Liz be alright.

Then she heard small wheels rolling over cement and saw the paramedics carting her sister on a stretcher—without a sheet over her head.

Oh, thank goodness! Kathy exhaled, leaped off Ms. Anna’s front porch, and sprinted toward the ambulance. She saw Liz’s blood-streaked face pass by as the paramedics raised the stretcher three feet higher and wheeled it into the back of the truck.

“She’s going to be okay, right?!” Kathy practically demanded. “I’m her sister!”

The female paramedic placed an oxygen mask on Liz’s face and gently nudged the other paramedic with her foot.

“She’s unconscious,” he said with the bedside manner of an auditor. “Nasty bump on the head, and her vitals aren’t great.” The brunette glared at her insensitive coworker, then added,

“Your sister’s still breathing, and we’ll get her stitched up and comfortable at Parkside Hospital.”

“But she will be okay?” Kathy tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

“We’ll do our best.”

With that assurance, the ambulance doors slammed shut. Fueled by her fear for her sister, Kathy snapped into action, slid into her driver seat, and threw her car into reverse like a NASCAR pro. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as the ambulance switched on its lights and sounded its siren once again. The hospital was only seven minutes away.

Seven minutes is a long time to hold your breath.

17

It took seven minutes to reach the hospital; it took ten more to find a parking spot. Although Chattanooga had installed new digital meters on the major thoroughfares, most meters near the hospital only accepted old-fashioned dimes and quarters. All the pennies in Kathy’s cup holders did her no good. She circled a few blocks before finally heading for the old parking garage she knew would be full on the weekend. Thankfully, she was wrong; in the far corner of the fourth level, she found a hidden spot and barely put her car into park before opening her door.

The chilly night air whipped past Kathy’s flushed cheeks as she bounded from her vehicle. She sped down the steps instead of waiting for the elevator and dashed toward the hospital entrance on the ground floor. After taking her information, copying her driver’s license, and issuing a “Hospital Visitor” name tag bearing Kathy’s photo, the general receptionist directed her to the emergency room waiting area where a CSI rerun blared from a mounted TV. She inquired after her sister but could only confirm that Liz had arrived at the hospital and was now being treated by the doctors. Once she was in a recovery room, Kathy could go see her, but until then, Kathy had to wait.

Kathy grabbed her phone to call her parents, then realized she should probably have a status report before making them worry. With nothing to do but wait for news, she resigned herself to one of the hard plastic chairs and glanced at her waiting room compatriots.

On her right, a middle-aged man sneezed with the resonance of an elephant seal. On her left, a couple stroked their son’s tear-streaked face. Judging from the tread marks on his shirt and the way he held his arm, his parents must have recently removed his training wheels.

Kathy checked her email on her phone, scanned her news feed, and downloaded a new recording app to help with work-related interviews. She even pulled out her manuscript pages from her purse, but she couldn’t write in these conditions—not with the boy crying and the TV blaring.

Kathy stood and went to the front desk again. “Excuse me,” she asked the blasé forty-something chewing gum behind the counter, “Could I please get a status update on my sister?”

“Name?”

“My name?”

The lady smacked her gum. “Patient’s name.”

“Elizabeth Waters.”

Gum Smacker clicked the ancient gray mouse. “Elizabeth Waters is still in the back. No change since the last time you asked.”

“Okay. Thanks.” For nothing.

Kathy turned and scanned the waiting room area. I’ve got to get out of here. I’ll go mad if I keep staring at the clock.

So she left the waiting area and started marching down the white corridor past nurses, doctors, and people lying on hospital beds. She didn’t have a destination, but moving her muscles brought her some peace. At least it did until she overheard a snippet of an elderly couple’s conversation as they hobbled toward the elevator: “. . . he nearly gave me a heart attack! Before we go home, we’re stopping by Home Depot. I won’t rest easy till we get us a burglar alarm.”

Kathy stopped in her tracks as the couple disappeared behind the elevator doors. She felt queasy. I totally sloughed off that home security system article! Maybe if I had written it, I could have purchased one earlier, and Liz wouldn’t be lying on a gurney. This . . . this is partly my fault.

Kathy blinked back tears. She no longer walked. She wandered. Fifteen minutes? Thirty minutes? Time lost relevance. Then, at the end of the great hall, she spied a beacon of hope: a glowing green image of an angel hung suspended about ten feet in the air.

Actually, it was a mermaid hanging from the coffee shop kiosk.

Although she generally preferred china to cardboard, Kathy felt relieved to find tea in any form or container within the hospital walls. She stepped in line behind a man wearing a clerical collar and tried to look occupied with her purse so he wouldn’t talk to her. Interacting with clergy often made her feel like a moral degenerate.

“And-a for you, miss?” the red-bearded barista asked a minute later in a Scottish accent.

Kathy placed her purse on the counter. “Venti chai tea latte with extra chai, a pump of vanilla, and the biggest chocolate chip cookie you’ve got.”

The barista assessed Kathy for a moment or two. “Rrrrrough day?”

Kathy shook her head. “You have no idea.”

“Alright. It’ll be a-comin’ up soon.”

“What do I owe you?” Kathy whipped out her credit card.

“No charge.”

“You don’t take credit cards?” Kathy’s eyes widened.

“No, it’s free. The man at the table paid for your order.”

“He did?” Kathy stared at the clergyman sitting with his back to her.

“Aye. Gave me a twenty and told me to serve you and keep what’s left for a tip. Won’t be as much a tip as I’d thought, but easy come, easy go. I’ll get your cookie.”

As she waited, Kathy debated whether to approach the black-clad Samaritan. I can at least thank him for my drink like an emotionally-adjusted adult. She grabbed her chai and snack and walked to his table. He raised his eyes from a leather-bound book.

“Thanks for buying my drink,” she said, “That was nice.”

“Don’t mention it,” he shrugged. “Nothing comforts like a hot cup of caffeine.” He sipped from his steaming ceramic mug.

At least there we can agree. “What are you drinking?” Kathy asked, suddenly feeling the need for conversation.

He grinned and put down his book. “I usually carry my own British Tetley or Harney & Sons tea. Then I ask for hot water and use the milk and sugar at the condiments bar. But I always tip. No one likes a mooch.”

“You drink Tetley? That’s one of my staples.” He grinned. “Do you use a teapot?”

“Of course.”

“Then we should be friends. I’m Pastor Ron Hollingsworth.” He extended his hand.

Kathy eyed it, then slowly accepted. “Kathy Waters.”

“Would you like a seat, Miss Waters?” he gestured to the wooden chair across from him. She hesitated, but her legs involuntarily folded under her.

“Just for a couple minutes,” she said. “Have you always liked tea?”

“No, but I started drinking in college . . .” Kathy caught herself and qualified, “drinking tea, that is. After I got my own place, I invested in a Royal Albert tea set. But I didn’t start using it regularly until two years ago.” Her hand involuntarily shook as she grabbed her cardboard tower of chai.

Pastor Hollingsworth noticed, but had the decency not to ask further questions. “I’ve been a coffee drinker most of my life,” he said. “But when my wife dragged me to a tearoom ten years ago, I quickly converted. Now, we take tea together with her grandmother’s tea set every evening. Except when I’m here.”

“Your wife? I take it you’re not Catholic, then?”

“Presbyterian Church in America, actually. I only wear the collar when I do hospital visits.” He scratched his neck with a grimace. “Some folks find me more approachable this way.”

“I see . . .” Kathy took a bite from her cookie to fill the awkward silence.

“So, what brings you to Parkside this evening?” he asked. Kathy’s throat tightened. “My sister.”

“What’s her name?”

“Liz. She’s been in the ER for over an hour.” “How is she?”

“I don’t know. Someone broke into our house and attacked her. Still waiting for news.”

“I’m so sorry,” he shook his head. “How are you?”

“Me?” The question surprised Kathy. “I’m okay . . .” she lied.

Is lying to holy people twice as sinful? “I just wish I didn’t feel responsible.” Why the heck did I say that?!

“You feel responsible?” He folded his hands on the table. “Indirectly. Liz is my younger sister, and I’m a . . . I used to be a news writer for the Chattanooga Line. Now, I write up civic events and popular interest stories. The thing is, I had the option to write something on home security systems, but I didn’t. Liz wanted to get one, but I said we should wait. Maybe if I had done the research or gotten one sooner, she wouldn’t be in the hospital.”

“You’re not the one who attacked her . . .”

“No, but I was negligent. I’m the oldest. I should have watched out for her better.”

“Well, if you want some commiseration, I’ve treated my sibling way worse than you have.”

Kathy’s eyebrow imitated the St. Louis Arch.

“Seriously. When I was ten, there was a huge hill behind our house, and I’d ride down it in my Radio Flyer. My dad said my kid brother was too little to go down by himself. But one day, he pestered me to the limit, and I dared him to ride the wagon from the very top.”

“Let me guess. The Radio Flyer flew only too well?”

“Let’s just say he got lots of air—and pavement afterward. He spent the next six weeks with his arm in a cast. Now, a cast in any other season is inconvenient. But a cast in summertime? Cruel and unusual. While I could climb trees, play baseball, and swim, my brother had to sit in a chair with his arm propped up. I felt like a criminal; I’d basically stolen his summer.”

Kathy swirled the chai in her cup. “Do you two still talk?”

Pastor Ron grinned. “Actually, he’s on our church board of elders and did varsity wrestling in high school.”

“How did you get from broken limbs to speaking terms?” “Admitting I was wrong was the first step. It took a while for me to say it out loud. But there’s power in calling something for what it is. You know the saying, ‘the eyes are the windows of the soul’?”

“Yes,” Kathy nodded. “It’s from Shakespeare.”

“Well, there’s another quote that says words are the mirror of heart. Words reveal a person’s inner self. And it’s amazing how honest words can heal a smarting conscience.”

“That’s an interesting perspective,” Kathy said as she rose to her feet, unwilling to reveal any more of her inner self to this total stranger. “It’s been nice talking with you. But I should probably get back to check on my sister. Thanks again for the chai.”

“Don’t mention it. By the way, if you’d ever like to chat again, you’re welcome to visit our church sometime. And I’ll pray for your sister,” he added. He dipped into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, black business card. In white font, it read, “Triune Grace PCA Church, Ronald Hollingsworth, Under-Shepherd.”

Kathy thanked the cleric and dropped the card into her purse out of courtesy. Then she headed down the long, white corridor back to the emergency room waiting area. She’d written up enough grisly crimes in her career to know that tragedy can happen to anyone. She did not expect to be the exception to that rule as her shoes squeaked against the shiny gray floor. But somehow, the idea of a tea-drinking saint praying on her sister’s behalf made her feel a teensy bit better. At least, it can’t make anything worse.

18

By the time Kathy returned to the emergency room waiting area, a smiley new receptionist had replaced Gum Smacker. She’s probably an intern.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” the young woman chirped like a summer camp counselor.

“Yes. I was wondering if I could get an update on my sister, Elizabeth Waters. They admitted her to the ER over an hour ago.”

“Lemme check.” She started typing and clicked on the computer screen. “Looks like they’ve put her in a room on the second floor for observation. Number 207.”

“Thanks!” Kathy breezed down the hall, barely noticing the smell of bleach and hand sanitizer, and pulled out her phone. She didn’t have much to report, but at least she could tell her parents that Liz was not dead or in the ICU.

The phone rang four times before her father picked up. “Hello? Dad?”

“Kathy! How are you?”

Oh no. He’s in happy beagle mode. “You sound awful chipper for 10:30 at night.”

“We just finished playing cards with the Nealls. Your mom beat us again, as she always does. We’re looking forward to seeing you girls next weekend. How did opening night go?”

Kathy faltered. Opening night seemed like a thousand years ago. “We’ve been pretty busy since Friday night.” Understatement of the year. “By the way, are you sitting down?”

“Why?” her dad asked in a suspicious tone. “Did Liz fail her astronomy midterm?”

“No. But . . . Dad, there’s no easy way to say this, but someone broke into our house and . . .”

“What?!” he growled.

Now the Doberman. “Broke into our house.”

“Are you two okay?!”

Kathy’s shoulders slumped. She felt very, very tired. “I’m good, but Liz got a little banged up. She’s in a hospital room now . . .”

“The hospital?!”

Kathy held the phone away from her ear. “Yes, but she’s stable. I haven’t seen her yet, but I’ll call you back after I get to her room and talk to the doctor.”

“We’re taking the next flight out of here.”

Bulldog. “Well, there isn’t much to do just yet . . . Liz could be totally fine. I won’t know anything definite until I see the doctor.” Kathy decided not to mention that her house was a wreck and there were only condiments in the fridge.

“I just checked my phone. There’s a morning flight leaving tomorrow. We could be there by lunchtime.”

“Are you sure? I mean, you already have tickets for next weekend. I wouldn’t want you to make the trip for nothing.”

“Seeing you two is not nothing,” her dad said. “I’m coming if for no other reason than to get a decent night’s rest.”

“On my sofa?”

“You think I’m going to catch any sleep here wondering if you two are alright? And I’m bringing a shotgun.”

“You have a shotgun?”

“I’ll get one on the way down. Everyone in Tennessee owns a gun, right? Actually, I’ll get two so you can keep one by your front door.”

Kathy smiled and was about to make a final protest when she spied Liz’s room number just ahead. A nurse had just come out of it. “Dad, I’ve got to go. Don’t leave home yet. I’ll call you back soon.”

“Keep us posted.”

“Love you!” She hung up just as she reached the nurse. “Hi! My name’s Kathy Waters. They told me my sister’s in this room. May I see her?”

“Oh, good. Your sister is awake now.”

“Wonderful! Can I talk to her?”

“Yes, but Dr. Nathan wants her to rest soon. Oh, there he is now.” The nurse nodded toward a tall man in a white lab coat heading their way from down the hall.

“Are you a family member?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kathy said. “Liz is my sister.”

“I’m Dr. Nathan. Your sister is very lucky. I’ve stitched her up, but she has a concussion. This pamphlet should answer most of your questions about her condition. Her case isn’t especially serious.” The doctor handed Kathy a brochure with a large red font that read, “Concussions: Take Them Seriously.”

“That said,” he continued, “I’m keeping her overnight for observation. If she’s doing alright in the morning, we’ll discharge her. But you’ll need to let her take it easy for a couple days. No driving, reading, or even watching TV until her symptoms improve. And you’ll need to make an appointment with her primary care doctor to remove the stitches.”

“Okay,” Kathy said quickly. “Can I see her now?”

“Yes. But please keep it brief. I would really like her to have as little stimulation as possible right now. You’re welcome to retrieve her in the morning as long as she doesn’t have any problems overnight.”

“Thank you.” Kathy stepped into the white-walled room, took one look at her sister, and felt her eyes moisten. Liz lay in a recumbent position against a couple pillows, wearing a huge bandage on her forehead. She looked a little pale, but otherwise okay.

“Hey, you,” Kathy said with a flat attempt at a smile.

“Hey . . .” Liz said slowly.

“How are you feeling?”

Liz grimaced. “Like throwing up. And I’ve got a heck-uva headache. Asked for morphine. But they only gave me Tylenol. Cheapskates!”

“Doctors are so inconsiderate,” Kathy said as she sat on a green-cushioned chair and pulled it toward the head of the hospital bed. “At least you’ve been sewn back into one piece. How many stitches did they give you?”

“Thirteen.”

Kathy gasped. She put her hand to her mouth.

“I know, right? There goes my modeling career.”

Kathy smiled a half smile, then lowered her voice. “When I saw the paramedics wheel you out, I thought you were . . . um . . .” Her voice quavered, and she couldn’t complete her sentence. “I’m just so glad you’re okay.”

Liz managed a weak grin.

“Do you remember what happened?” Kathy asked.

Liz took a deep breath. “Let’s see . . . I was in bed with a book when I thought I heard you come home. It sounded like you were looking through drawers in the kitchen and trying to be quiet about it. So I yelled that I was awake and you didn’t have to worry about being quiet. That’s when all the movement stopped. Seemed odd, so I headed into the hallway. When I got around the corner, someone hit me on the head. That’s all I remember.” Liz put on a brave face but grasped her hospital blanket with white knuckles.

Kathy put her hand over her younger sister’s. “You’re safe now,” she said with more tranquility than she felt. “They’re keeping you overnight. I’ll call Mom and Dad and let them know you’re alright so they don’t fly out tomorrow.”

“Does Dad want us to move back to Maine?”

“Probably. He offered to guard our doorstep. With a shotgun.” Liz smiled. “Does he even own a shotgun?”

“It’s on his grocery list.”

“But what about you? Will you be okay in the house tonight?” “I’ll be fine,” Kathy lied through her teeth. “Honestly, I’m so exhausted, all I want to do is crash. I’m not up to hosting company at the moment.”

“You know these are our parents, right? They saw your dirty laundry for twenty years. They won’t be offended if things aren’t pris . . . pris . . .”

“Pristine?”

Liz yawned. “Yeah. Like I said, there goes my modeling career . . . .” She leaned back on her pillow and closed her eyes.

“Ooooookay.” Kathy stood. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“You too!” Liz murmured.

Kathy gave her sister’s hand a quick squeeze, then rushed out of the room so Liz wouldn’t see her tears.

* * *

Kathy arrived home to find the police forensics team rolling up the yellow caution tape and packing their equipment into their police van. A young woman in her late twenties wearing blue plastic gloves hailed her with a wave. “Can I help you?”

Kathy rolled down her car window. “Yes, I’m Kathy Waters. I live here.”

“Ah. We’re just wrapping up. You’ll be allowed to enter the premises soon. Maybe ten minutes?”

Kathy inwardly shuddered; she didn’t like to think of her home as a “premises.” But she managed a wan smile. “That’s fine. May I stay in my car, or should I leave?”

“You’re welcome to stay. We have all the samples we need and will get them processed in the lab soon. I’m sorry for the intrusion.”

“Well, I prefer yours to the first one.”

The woman grinned. “We’ll do our best. In the meantime, you may want to consider changing your locks or getting a home security system. May help with your peace of mind.”

Fighting the urge to cry, Kathy forced herself to keep smiling. “Thanks. I’ll think about that.” Probably until the day I die . . . she mused grimly.

Nine minutes later, the forensics team drove away, allowing Kathy to return to her residence/former crime scene. She opened her front door about half past eleven, wondering how she could have aged twenty years in less than twelve hours. Between the accusatory police interview and dealing with her sister’s head injury, Kathy felt utterly spent. It was also not without difficulty and much debate that she’d talked her parents out of bunking over. She’d told them (as well as herself) that she and Liz only needed rest and could visit with them next weekend as previously planned—despite her show’s cancellation. But now, as Kathy surveyed the broken glass in the hallway and the sickening streak of blood on the linoleum, she wouldn’t have minded her father guarding the front stoop after all.

Kathy locked the deadbolt with a quick click.

The irony of being overtired is that sleep often proves elusive—particularly when you remember your bed is only fifteen feet from where an intruder clobbered your sister. After checking each room and closet in the house armed with a kitchen knife,

Kathy tossed and turned in bed for the next hour. It took forever for her to fall asleep in that dark, silent house.

She wasn’t down for long and woke before daylight to find her pillow and covers kicked to the floor. Her chest rose and fell as if she’d tried to outrun her subconsciousness. She shuddered in her damp t-shirt as a vision of fire and blood-stained backpacks faded from sight.

The elementary school bombing was the fateful news story that had sent Kathy spiraling into an anxiety disorder. The story had even made national headlines and nearly destroyed the local housing market; no one wanted to move to a city where a former-teacher-turned-meth-addict had bombed a school assembly. Liz’s attack had stirred up images that Kathy had spent two years in therapy trying to bury: images of parents wailing over their maimed or missing children, of small hands sticking out from under rubble, of fire so hot it scorched her face from across the street.

Kathy brushed aside the hair plastered to her forehead and grabbed her phone from the nightstand—4:32 a.m. She took two deep breaths to steady herself, then stumbled toward the light switch. Her eyes squinted painfully at the subsequent brightness. Where was her anxiety medication?

I bet it’s in my purse . . . hanging near the front door. She groaned and again regretted she hadn’t let her parents fly down. But even if they had, they wouldn’t have arrived till daylight anyway. Until the sun rose to banish all shadows, Kathy mistrusted her own hallway and looked around her bedroom for some means of protection. (She’d already replaced the kitchen knife.)

In the corner of her closet, she found a dusty five-pound barbell and cursed the fact she’d never played softball; a heavy wooden bat would have been more reassuring.

She opened her bedroom door and stepped out into the hall, eyes and ears alert, ready to heave her missile at any movement. She flipped on the hall light.

Nothing.

She tip-toed toward the living room and peered around the corner.

Nothing.

She exhaled. Kathy, you’re being silly. Twenty-four years old and still afraid of the dar⁠—

Kathy tripped and fell to the floor. Out of reflex, she grabbed something to break her descent and caught the pink potted orchid Liz had given her for her birthday. It hit the carpet and scattered black loam three feet in all directions. Kathy raised herself, turned, and picked up the cause of her fall: it was one of Liz’s paintbrushes. Kathy tenderly fingered its white bristles, then hugged her knees and sobbed for the next five minutes.

* * *

When the emotional gale had dwindled to mere sniffles, Kathy wiped her eyes, put the kettle on, and dredged her anti-anxiety medication from the depths of her purse. She took her dose and, with nothing to do until the water boiled, dumped her purse’s contents once again onto the dining room table. Now seemed as good a time as any to sort through the mess; plus, it seemed easier than sorting through her life at the moment.

Kathy started making two piles on the table. Receipt, trash. Lipstick, purse. ASPCA adoption voucher, trash. Pens, purse. Murder mystery notes . . . I’ll stick them back in the legal pad and type them up later. She found an odd solace in the monotonous task. Does hand sanitizer expire? Probably not. Purse. Foundation, purse. Mascara, purse. Non-working penlight. Trash. Tampax pads. Definitely purse. Pastor Ron’s business card . . .

Kathy twirled the black and white card between her fingers and held it over the trash pile. She was about to toss it when a line on the back caught her eye: “. . . the truth will set you free.”

Kathy tapped the card on the tabletop. As a former breaking news writer, she knew how easily one could twist, bend, or bury the truth. And she’d done her fair share of twisting, bending, and burying. But she’d never felt guilty about it before. She frowned as she remembered what the detective with perfect cheekbones had said: “Isn’t your profession based mostly on speculation with a few spun facts thrown in?”

The kettle whistled. Kathy rose and placed the business card between the two piles. Detective Grafton practically accused me of obstruction of justice! She turned the stove top off, poured a little hot water into her teapot, and swirled it around like a mini tornado. If I hadn’t turned in Chet’s EpiPen, no one would’ve suspected murder in the first place. She poured out the water into the sink and threw two teabags into the pot. I need to quit being so darn helpful.

Kathy filled the teapot and grabbed a teacup from her shelf. She would take her tea black this morning to clear her head.

However, since I have to write up the investigation anyway, would it kill me to write the truth—and nothing but the truth— for once?

A raven cawed loudly outside her kitchen window before flying off into the pre-dawn darkness. Kathy slowly sipped from her teacup.

Probably.

19

Once the sun rose to a reasonable height, Kathy drove to the hospital to pick up her sister. A nurse in blue scrubs had wheeled her to the front entrance and helped Liz into Kathy’s passenger seat. Liz looked less pasty than she had earlier and seemed more like her snarky self. After thanking the nurse, she buckled her seat belt and tucked into the cranberry white chocolate chip scone Kathy had brought her for breakfast.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself,” Kathy said after pulling out of the hospital parking lot.

“There’s a certain appeal to getting chauffeured around. Makes me feel like royalty,” Liz said. “And this scone is delicious. When did you have time to make scones? Did you take time off of work to come get me?”

“No,” Kathy said. “It’s Sunday.”

“Really? I could’ve sworn it was Monday. Or Tuesday.”

Kathy nodded. “The doctor said you might feel a bit foggy for a few days. Apparently, that’s pretty normal after a concussion. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Fine!” Liz answered. “Maybe a little tired . . . But give me a book or a paintbrush, and I’ll keep myself entertained.”

“About that . . .” Kathy cleared her throat, bracing for a skirmish. “The doctor clearly stated you should avoid any activities requiring concentration for the next few days. That includes driving, taking classes, working, typing, watching a screen, painting, and . . . reading.”

“What?!” Liz turned in her seat to face Kathy.

“It’s not for forever,” Kathy said quickly. “But we need to take your concussion seriously. That’s what the medical pamphlet said.”

Liz scowled. “Kathy, I didn’t have brain surgery. I’m not even sick! The doc said I needed to relax. Reading’s how I relax!” Liz emphasized “relax” by pounding her fist on her armrest. As an afterthought, she added, “And you’re not the boss of me! Or my mother, neither!”

“I know I’m not,” Kathy said as she patted Liz’s shoulder. “But as your older sister, I want to help you get better. It’s the least I can do after blowing off the home security system article. I’ve now written it and ordered our own burglar alarm. It arrives tomorrow.”

Liz crossed her arms and rebuked the unfairness of the universe. “What the heck am I supposed to do all day if I can’t work, paint, read, or even watch Netflix? Do you honestly think my professor will accept a bump on the head as a valid excuse for skipping class?”

“If you send him a photo of your thirteen stitches, he might.”

“Fine,” Liz grumbled as she stuffed the last bit of scone into her mouth. She sat in silent disdain as Kathy turned onto Broad Street.

“Hey, where are we going?” Liz asked. “Home’s not this way. I remember that much.”

“Frank texted earlier to say we could pick up our personal things from the theater today,” Kathy said as she flipped on her turn signal.

“What things?”

“My makeup case, hair spray, and the flats I bought to go with my costume. If I’d known I was only going to wear them once, I would have bought the ones on sale instead. But I couldn’t pick up anything when I gave my statement because the police wouldn’t let people go backstage.”

“By the way, how did your interrogation go? Did they thank you for bringing in the EpiPen?”

“Ha!” Kathy snorted. “They questioned me like I was their top suspect.”

“Why?” Liz’s brow creased. “Ow! My stitches hurt when I do that.”

Kathy checked her blind spot before making the turn. “The police need a lead for the investigation. And technically, I could have pretended to find the EpiPen at home and wiped it before turning it in.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Liz said. “And that’s not my concussion talking. If you really were a killer, wouldn’t it be safer to keep quiet and let everyone think Chet’s death was an accident? Why raise suspicion?”

Kathy stopped at the light. “Well, someone murdered Chet, but I have a hard time casting anyone in that role. I mean, folks made off-handed threats sometimes, but they weren’t serious. And no one had much to gain from his death. So when the investigators asked me to name potential suspects, I couldn’t honestly accuse anyone. Then the younger detective bullied me by asking why I don’t have a problem accusing people in the paper.”

“Oh,” Liz mused.

“What do you mean ‘Oh’?”

“He does have a point. Isn’t that why most of the big headlines end in question marks?”

Kathy gripped the steering wheel more tightly and honked at an old Cadillac going fifteen miles under the speed limit.

“Are you okay to drive?” Liz asked. “You seem anxious. You need your meds?”

Kathy glared at her.

Liz shrugged. “Just sayin’ . . .”

Kathy drove without a word for the next two blocks. Finally, she softened. “Sorry for being touchy. But between the police and the preacher, I’ve felt like a criminal for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Preacher? What preacher?”

It had been a busy couple nights. “I think he was a hospital chaplain. He bought me a drink at the hospital coffee shop while I waited for your status.”

“That’s nice. No preacher ever gave me anything except an excuse to nap. Or a dirty look when I showed up to church with blue hair back in middle school. Are there any more scones?”

“Check my purse,” Kathy said. “They should be in a plastic bag.”

Liz procured the sweet triangle and took another bite. “By the way,” she said through a mouthful, “I’m sorry you didn’t get to do the show more than once. I thought you did great. At least you can pick up your stuff now and put this awful thing behind you.”

“Well . . . that’s the other thing I forgot to mention . . .”

Liz paused mid-bite. “What?”

“Technically, I’m the official Chattanooga Line correspondent on the investigation. My editor insisted. REALLY insisted.”

Liz dropped her scone. “Which one of us got hit on the head again?! You do remember I had to drive you home on Friday night. You haven’t written anything remotely morbid in almost two years, and now you want to plunge headfirst into an all-out murder investigation? Of someone you knew? Tell me there’s not a conflict of interest here!”

Kathy sighed. “It was not my decision, believe me. But the storm’s already over. I’m just keeping tabs on the cleanup. Which reminds me, I should probably pop in at the police station to see if there are any official updates on the case. It’s basically on the way home.”

“I still don’t see why you should get personally involved. I thought you hated Chet!”

Kathy tapped her thumbs on the steering wheel. “Chet wasn’t a nice person, but he was still a person. Persons matter. Since I was literally at the scene of the crime during the murder, I do have a unique perspective.”

“For what purpose? Another breakdown and higher paper sales?”

“For . . .” Kathy’s reason swam in a nebulous sea of contradictory desires and loyalties. At last, she finished her thought. “. . . for getting to the truth.” That sounded noble enough for now, anyway. “Plus, I’d like to see if I’ve still got the chops to be a news writer. I don’t want to be in the community news division forever.”

“Still doesn’t make any sense,” Liz sighed. “I hope you’ve refilled your prescription. I might need anti-anxiety meds myself, taking care of you. But before you go all Lois Lane on me, can we at least get one thing straight?”

“Okay . . .” Kathy said, keeping her eyes on the road.

“If this investigation puts you in danger, or you start having attacks again, you quit.”

“Quit?” Kathy protested.

“Quit. Quit the story. Quit the paper. Take up quilting. I don’t care. I don’t want to see you like you were two summers ago, okay?”

Kathy slowly nodded. “I think I’ll be fine, really.”

“You think? That’s what people say when they doubt.”

Kathy pulled into a spot on the street behind the theater. “Only fools never doubt,” she said in a British accent as she turned off the ignition. “Camelot.”

“Great,” Liz said, making no move to leave her seat. “Quoting from yet another tragedy. This does not bode well.”

“You can stay in the car,” Kathy said as she unbuckled her seat belt. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Famous last words. Can I have one more scone while I wait?”

“Last one.” Kathy handed the scone to her sister, then crumpled up the plastic bag and dropped it into her purse. “Be back soon.” She shut the car door, locked it, and walked toward the backstage entrance.

Famous last words, indeed.

20

As Kathy approached the backstage theater entrance, she mused not on her castmate’s death, but on the theater company’s. How could the troupe recover after its star’s demise and subsequent financial deficit due to a one-show run? Unused play bills equaled unpaid bills, and Director Frank worried about the budget even when shows ran well. Her steps slowed as she realized this could be the last time she would visit the theater backstage. The catch in her throat surprised her.

At the top of the landing, the backstage door suddenly flew open and narrowly missed her face. Instead of her usual clipboard, Li Yan carried a cardboard box of props loaned from local antique stores. Her eyes flashed angrily when she recognized Kathy. “So it’s you, you lousy snitch!”

Kathy blinked, totally taken aback. “Me?”

“Don’t play innocent, you double-crossing traitor!”

Kathy stared as if the stage manager had gone mad. “Li Yan, what are you talking about?”

“My prop list, you idiot! Had to mention it to the police. Thanks to you, they showed up at my doorstep last night and ruined my date with Lloyd! We lost our reservation to St. John’s and spent a dreary evening at the station getting interrogated and practically charged with murder! They even asked me to stay in town for the next week. Never mind that I spent over a hundred bucks on Hamilton tickets in Atlanta. Non-refundable! I might as well flush them down the toilet.”

Kathy didn’t know what to say. “I . . . never meant . . .”

“To stick your nose in other people’s business?” Li Yan finished. “Well, you did. Now the police think I have motive because I dated Chet several years ago, and the theater will probably close for good. Does the paper give you a commission for writing our bad publicity yourself?”

Kathy stood agape and mute as a gargoyle.

“Well, you can add this to your article. I quit!” Li Yan shoved past the bewildered writer and descended the steps with further cursing.

Kathy blinked back tears, readjusted her purse on her shoulder, and opened the backstage door. Li Yan had never yelled at her before, and her stomach twisted in an uncomfortable knot. Was everyone put out by her recent EpiPen discovery?

Kathy walked woodenly toward the ladies’ dressing room when she caught movement under the door at the end of the hall. Her heart rate accelerated. Who’s in the men’s dressing room?

Kathy tip-toed to the door and nudged it open a crack. To her surprise, she found Chandra—sans phone—searching through a gray duffel bag on the floor. She pocketed something rectangular—perhaps a wallet—into her black jeans, ran her long fingers through her smooth, dark hair, then moved on to another gym bag.

So she’s our thief! Kathy frowned as Chandra bent down to adjust her red-flecked Keds. They still looked like they had ketchup on them.

Then Kathy remembered Chandra saying someone had spilled paint during dress rehearsal. Red paint! Chandra must have been in the men’s dressing room prior to opening night! If she’d purloined cash and electronics, had she also stolen Chet’s EpiPen? If so, she could easily have dropped it into Kathy’s purse in the ladies’ dressing room.

Kathy’s breathing became labored. The back of her neck felt sticky. She thrust her hand into her purse for her anxiety medication but realized she wouldn’t be able to take it without drawing attention to her presence. Breathe, Kathy. She steadied herself by placing a hand on the wall and looked back through the crack.

Inside the dressing room, Chandra idly adjusted her bra strap, unaware of her anxiety-stricken audience. Her jeans were too tight to conceal a weapon, and if it came to blows, Kathy figured she had at least thirty pounds on her. Before she lost her nerve, Kathy reached into her purse, mashed the recording app on her phone, and burst through the door. “Chandra! What are you doing?!”

Chandra whipped around and stood with her hands behind her back. But at the sight of Kathy, she resumed her normal nonchalance. “Nothing.”

Kathy nodded toward the duffel bag. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Actually, it is,” Kathy said, taking a step inside the door. “I’m writing up the murder investigation as the official Chattanooga Line correspondent. With the police,” she added. “And I’ll have you know I’m recording this conversation. If you don’t tell me what you’re doing right now, I’ll tell them you were in the men’s dressing room before Chet’s EpiPen went missing.”

Chandra’s jaw dropped. “How could you possibly know that?” “Your shoes!” Kathy pointed. “That’s red paint, not ketchup. No wonder you couldn’t scrub it off! Someone spilled paint in here during dress rehearsal. Li Yan can verify that, and so could Sr. Sanchez since he probably had to clean it up. Did you take Chet’s EpiPen after taking Alex’s money?”

Chandra’s face turned ashen even without the glare of her smartphone. She licked her ruby lips. “I didn’t take Chet’s EpiPen, just cash, I swear! I loved him.”

“What?” Kathy said in surprise. “He was dating someone else!” “He was planning to break up with her soon. We were supposed to look for a place together as soon as his lease was up. But now . . .” Chandra’s eyes glistened. Her lower lip quivered.

Kathy stood speechless. Chandra was not given to emotional displays—usually just emojis. Surely, she was not acting. And what she said tracked: if the rumors were true, this was not the first time Chet would have betrayed his leading lady to have a fling in the wings. Why would Chandra want to kill Chet just when their romance was getting serious? It didn’t make any sense. A thief she might be, but a murderer? Kathy doubted it.

“But you do admit to stealing Alex’s money,” Kathy said clearly so her recording app could catch her words. “And John’s on opening night?”

“I guess . . . I mean . . .” Chandra cursed. “Look, I don’t have a perfect record. The only reason I worked here was to get some community service out of the way. But I swear I never touched Chet’s EpiPen! It was sitting by his stuff before curtain call rehearsal, same as always.”

Kathy drew closer. “So you’re saying you’re sure you saw Chet’s EpiPen in the men’s dressing room on opening night before the show started?” Kathy asked.

“Yeah. It’s got a bright yellow case. Couldn’t miss it.” “Alright, then.” Kathy spun on her heels, delighted to have found another clue! She was about to leave the room when Chandra called after her.

“Wait! What’s gonna happen with that recording?”

Kathy had almost forgotten about the petty thefts. “It’s an investigation, Chandra. I have to pass along any information I find.”

Chandra’s eyes widened.

“But I believe you about the EpiPen. And if you return the cash you took, there won’t be any need to press charges and accrue any more community service hours.”

Chandra looked like she wanted to throttle Kathy, but instead, she set her jaw and begrudgingly returned the wallet to the duffel bag.

Kathy left quickly, ducked into the women’s dressing room for her things, and rushed outside to avoid any further encounters with her former castmates. So far, these had not been pleasant, and she desperately wanted to go home.

Kathy sped down the backstage exit steps two at a time, trotted to her Camry to get out of the wind, and was about to open her driver’s side door when she stopped cold.

Something was wrong with her car. Liz wasn’t in it.

21

Before officially freaking out, Kathy verified her sister had not merely bent over to tie her shoes or gone to the backseat for a cat nap. But the car sat empty.

Kathy’s eyes darted here and there, but no sign of Liz. She’d have to be crazy to stroll in forty-degree weather without a coat. Then again, she still had a concussion . . . .

Kathy suddenly heard yelling very close. She spun around and saw no one. Then she realized the Tarzan call came from the phone in her purse. Apparently, Liz felt well enough to resume her ringtone-altering ways.

Kathy read the name on the screen and answered it. “Where the heck are you?” she demanded, still cross from her momentary fright. “Why aren’t you in the car?”

“I had to go.”

“Go where?”

Liz huffed. “To the bathroom! Sheesh!”

Kathy frowned. “I passed the bathroom en route to the backstage exit. No one was in it.”

“I’m in the lobby bathroom. Didn’t know if I was allowed backstage, so I went around front. By the way, do you happen to have an extra—ahem—sanitary feminine product I might borrow?”

“I think I have some extra Tampax in my purse. I’ll be there in a sec. Stay put.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Liz mumbled.

Kathy turned off her phone and headed back up the backstage steps. It would be quicker to cut through the theater than to use the front entrance. Warmer, too.

As she passed around the black velvet curtains, she found a lone spotlight illuminating center stage. Darkness shrouded everything else. Kathy walked slowly toward the light.

“Don’t!” a woman’s voice commanded before she’d placed a toe in the beam. “His aura is still there!”

Kathy walked downstage and squinted to find the speaker. Ms. Cadsley, ghostly pale, sat in the second row, eyes fixed on the empty stage.

“Ms. Cadsley?” She looked so small without her huge Queen Gertrude dress.

The woman nodded absently.

Kathy hopped from the stage and walked toward the grim matron. “I’m . . . uh . . . sorry for your loss,” she said lamely. Words always felt impotent in the face of grief. Even as a news writer, she’d never felt comfortable conversing with victims of violent crimes. Ms. Cadsley pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed her eyes, carelessly smearing her mascara. “After his father died, Chet was my one and only. And now he’s . . . he’s . . .” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed.

Kathy didn’t know what to do. Ms. Cadsley already had a handkerchief, so there was no escape in searching for tissues.

She felt neither intimate enough to offer a hug nor distant enough to leave. In the end, she sat quietly next to the bereaved diva and tried not to stare.

“Just think!” Ms. Cadsley blubbered. “I’ll never see him do a box step or recite a monologue ever again! No more cast parties. No grandchildren. And now the police say someone killed him on purpose!”

Kathy’s ears perked up. “I’m writing up the murder investigation for the Chattanooga Line. Do you know anyone who would have wanted to hurt Chet?”

“Of course not!” Ms. Cadsley blew her nose. “Everyone loved him!”

Oh boy. Ms. Cadsley would never be a reliable character witness with regard to her son.

“Chet was the best actor this company ever had!” she continued. “All the girls adored him!”

Kathy waited while the hopelessly biased mother blew her nose again. “Will there be a viewing?”

Ms. Cadsley sniffed, “If you’d like to pay your respects, we’re having a celebration of life service at the Langston Funeral Home this Saturday.”

“Will there be a funeral the day after?”

“No,” she blew her nose again. “Chet always feared getting buried, so I’m having him cremated. I’ve already rearranged my fireplace mantle for the urn. I’m going to put in a showcase light front and center so he feels more at home.”

Kathy didn’t know what to say, so she nodded. The two women silently stared at the stage. Dust specks floated ethereally in and out of the spotlight.

“I should probably get going.” Kathy stood. “I need to get my sister. If there’s anything I can do, please let me know.”

“Actually, there is one thing.” Ms. Cadsley wiped her eyes again. “You said you’re covering the police investigation for the paper?”

“Yes.”

“Then help find the dirtbag who did this and make sure he never steps out of prison. Because if I see him on the street, there might be another murder.”

* * *

Kathy finally made it to the lobby restroom. Liz was still in the stall. “Kathy, is that you?”

“Yes! Sorry!”

“Took you long enough. Did you start reenacting Hamlet for old times’ sake?”

“I ran into Chet’s mother. She’s watching her son’s aura perform on a lifeless stage.”

“Yeesh.” Liz shivered. “Well, can you please hand me the Tampax?”

“Sure thing!” Kathy opened her purse and obliged her sister. “Thanks. You’re a saint.”

“When convenient.” Kathy smiled.

* * *

“So, do you have any theories about whodunit?” Liz asked as she turned up the heat in Kathy’s car. Kathy slowed to a stop as a policeman in an orange vest ushered a line of cars out from the Chattanooga First Baptist church parking lot. She put her car into park; she knew she’d be waiting a while.

“No theories yet. Whoever did this needed backstage access to both Chet’s EpiPen and to my purse. Between the cast and crew’s constant comings and goings, I don’t see how any stranger could have gotten that access without getting noticed.”

“So you’re saying someone in the cast or crew must have done it.”

“So it seems.” Kathy adjusted her rearview mirror and frowned. “But that’s the problem with this case. No one with access seems to have had much motive for murder. Motive for disliking Chet, sure. But to actually kill him? That seems extreme. But Chet didn’t kill himself. So, we’re back at square one. Maybe the police have found something more concrete. Anyway, I should pass along my intel on Chandra. And I could use an update for the paper.”

“I hope so,” Liz said. “This is making my head hurt.”

“That’s right! You shouldn’t be concentrating so hard. You need rest.”

The policeman directing traffic finally beckoned Kathy to pass. She shifted her car into drive.

“Rest, shmrest,” Liz rolled her eyes. “I’m twenty-one years old and have a perfect right to be irresponsible.” She stared at the passing telephone poles. “But out of curiosity, do you have any Tylenol in your purse?”

22

Fifteen minutes later, after waiting in line behind six disgruntled Chattanooga residents, Kathy finally stood across the glass partition from the same grumpy officer who’d cataloged the EpiPen a couple nights earlier. Despite the other citizens begrudgingly filling out their forms in the waiting area, the police station seemed much less dismal than it had in the middle of the night. Officers in black uniforms chatted to one another as they entered and exited through the glass double doors. The ficus tree in the corner added a verdant touch of color to the black-and-white motif. And someone had even straightened the stacks of magazines on the end tables.

“Hello again!” Kathy said to the officer. “Remember me?” “Not really.” He sipped from his steaming mug. “Can I help you?”

She shifted her weight. “I’m the one who turned in the EpiPen a couple nights ago. Could I speak to Captain Woods, please?”

He pushed a clipboard toward her. “Fill out the form. I’ll see if he’s available.”

“Okay,” Kathy said. “Could you also tell him I’m writing up the Chet Cadsley investigation for the Chattanooga Line?” She held up the laminated photo Press ID hanging around her neck. “My name is Kathy Waters.”

“I’ll see if he’s available,” the officer repeated.

Kathy sat next to her sister in a black plastic chair. Liz grabbed a Southern Living magazine and studied the photo of a four-layer spice cake. Kathy was trying to figure out what to write under “Nature of Complaint” when the paunchy officer returned to the front desk. “He’s not available. Church-going man.”

“Oh.” Kathy felt disappointed. “But Detective Grafton’s here.”

Kathy’s face twitched, uncertain whether this news should alter her initial reaction. She clicked her pen in indecision.

The officer shuffled some files together. “Do you want to see him or not?”

Kathy still wasn’t sure, but she did need information for the paper; this seemed the most convenient time to get it. “I will. Through there?” Kathy pointed to the hall on the left.

“Sixth door on the right.”

She rose reluctantly from her seat. “Liz? You coming?”

“I’d rather stare at this cake,” Liz said without lifting her eyes from the page.

“You shouldn’t be reading . . .”

“I’m not reading the recipe! I’m looking at the results! Go have fun with Detector Inspective . . . what’s-his-name.”

Not likely. Kathy grimaced as her sneakers squeaked against the newly-mopped floor, reminding her of all the insecurities she’d felt in middle school gym class—some of which she had not entirely outgrown. That morning, she’d planned to collect her sister from the hospital and her belongings from the theater. She had not dressed for a newspaper interview. For the first time in her life, she regretted not wearing heels. Heels would have been professional. Heels would have been confident. Heels would have gone with her makeup if only she’d worn some.

But Lady Luck took pity on the under-dressed journalist and manifested herself as a skirted stick figure on the women’s restroom sign two doors before Captain Woods’ office. After stepping aside to let some patrol officers by, Kathy ducked in, dipped into her purse, and found a small brush, half a bottle of foundation, some lipstick, and an old tube of mascara. So glad I didn’t put these things in the trash pile earlier! She also reapplied some deodorant. She couldn’t help the T-shirt and yoga pants, but if she kept her pea coat on, no one would know what lay underneath. Hopefully, the office wouldn’t be too warm.

After fixing herself up, she stood back to view her reflection in the bathroom mirror. She’d twisted her casual ponytail into a more formal bun. Her face, though not gala-worthy, at least looked like she’d tried. Feeling a bit more put together, Kathy left the restroom and rapped on the office door.

“Come in,” a man’s voice beckoned.

Kathy took a deep breath and entered. Four large wooden desks—each in a corner of the room—stood stacked with manila files, screens, office supplies, and spent mugs of coffee. Slate-colored filing cabinets, a crowded bulletin board, and a large whiteboard, now cloudy gray from years of use, occupied three of the four walls. A tiny table in the farthest corner hosted a small coffee maker and mini fridge. Behind the largest desk hung family photos of Captain Woods smiling with his wife and four grown children. Other than this collage and the two desktop computers humming in the background, the only other detail worth mentioning was the framed photo of a young officer hanging next to the door. The plaque underneath it read, “Detective Jason Henson, Rest in Honor.”

“Oh, hi!” Detective Grafton said in surprise as he stood from his desk closest to the door. “The Sergeant said a journalist wanted to see me. I wasn’t expecting . . . you.”

Kathy’s hand tightened on her purse strap. “Well, I am a journalist, Detective Grafton. My editor from the Chattanooga Line wants me to write up the investigation. I’m here to report the facts, not spin them.”

Grafton eyed Kathy as if she were a feral cat who might scratch at any moment. “I’m happy to hear that,” he said slowly, looking somewhat uncomfortable. “And I’m . . . I’m sorry for how I sounded in our first interview at the theater. I get frustrated when people on the sidelines constantly criticize folks in the field. But it’s not fair for me to pin all my gripes against the media on you, especially after all your help with the investigation. Forgive me?”

Kathy’s brows flitted up her forehead; she had not expected an apology. Besides, how could she refuse those ocean-blue eyes anything? “Of course! No problem.” She could already feel herself growing warm underneath her pea coat.

“Alright then. Why don’t you take a seat?” he gestured an open palm to the wooden chair in front of the desk. “And can I take your coat?”

“No, thanks! I’m good,” Kathy said as she quickly descended and placed her purse on her lap—partially to hide her workout pants. She hoped her deodorant would hold out. “I understand Captain Woods is not in today?”

Grafton took his seat. “He and I typically swap Sunday shifts. But we’ve got several specialized teams working on different kinds of crime pretty much around the clock.”

“Oh? Are there other detectives also working the Cadsley case?”

Here, Grafton glanced at the portrait on the wall, then at the stack of files on the corner of his desk. “We’ve been a bit shortstaffed for the past year. Weekends aren’t as free as they used to be.”

“When do you get a day off?”

Grafton frowned. “Technically, today is my day off. I just came into the office after an early service to get caught up on things. Crime never sleeps. And speaking of crime, I assume that’s what brings you to the office today?”

“Yes,” Kathy said. “Before I get to my questions for the paper, I should tell you I saw Chandra in the men’s dressing room. She’s the stagehand and says she saw Chet’s EpiPen by his things right before curtain call rehearsal on opening night. I’m inclined to believe her. And if you like, I can send you a copy of our conversation.”

“You recorded her?” Grafton raised his eyebrows.

“I always record my interviews. It’s company policy.”

“Even this one?”

Kathy’s cheeks felt hot. But instead of unbuttoning her pea coat, she reached into her purse, put her phone face up on the desk, and paused the red recording app. “I’m sorry. I forgot to ask. Informing others they are getting recorded is also company policy.”

Grafton folded his hands together, his forearms flexing. His striking face remained neutral. “Are you always this . . . documented?”

“When my tech is working, I try to be.”

He smiled a side smile. “Me, too.” He nodded toward the corner of the office where a small black camera hung from the ceiling. “Just keeping things on the level. And now that we’ve both got some insurance, I can tell you that I’d like a copy of your conversation with Chandra so I can see if it warrants the captain’s attention.”

“Alright. Can I start recording again so I have something to share with the Line?”

He nodded. She tapped her phone.

“Is there anything official you can tell me about Chet’s murder?”

“Murder is a loaded word,” Grafton said, tapping the tip of his pen on the desk.

Kathy pursed her lips together. “His death, then?”

“I can tell you the cause of death was anaphylactic shock. The deceased’s peanut allergy was no secret. His face, mouth, and tongue were incredibly swollen. Funny thing is, there weren’t any peanuts or peanut products found in his stomach.”

“There weren’t?” Kathy ignored the droplets of sweat forming at the back of her coat collar. “So no one slipped him a Reese’s cup or anything?”

“No. One cast member confessed to hiding his Perrier bottle as a prank . . . .”

“Who did that?!” Kathy cleared her throat. “Sorry to interrupt.” Grafton shrugged. “I shouldn’t name names. But it’s all moot.

The Perrier bottle tested negative for peanut proteins. No one poisoned Chet’s water.”

Kathy considered. “What about the rapier slashes on Chet’s chest? Could there have been peanuts on the blade?”

“That’s what I thought at first, but no. The lab found no traces of peanut proteins either in his wounds or on the rapier. We double-checked. Since the cuts were superficial, we let those responsible go with a warning. I don’t think anyone will press charges.”

Least of all Chet, Kathy thought to herself. “Do you have any idea when Chet was exposed to an allergen, at least?”

Grafton sighed. “That gets tricky. Anaphylaxis can take anywhere from minutes to hours to kick in. But the pathologist estimates he was exposed some time in the early evening, either during the show or just before. In your statement,” he said, flipping through a file, “you mentioned Chet was rummaging around in the men’s dressing room and missed his entrance. About what time was that?”

Kathy thought a second. Who’s interviewing whom here? “The show started at 6:30 pm, went for around two hours, then broke for a fifteen-minute intermission before the last act. I’m guessing I saw Chet about 8:45 or 9:00ish?”

“So he was possibly showing anaphylactic symptoms and searching for his EpiPen when he missed his cue?”

Kathy nodded slowly. “At the time, I honestly thought he was just being a drama queen and belly-aching over his Perrier. I had no idea he was looking for his medication.” Her throat felt dry.

“It appears that way.” Grafton looked up from his notes at her distressed face. “You couldn’t have known.”

Kathy licked her parched lips. Despite the dampness growing underneath her armpits, she shivered.

“Would you like some coffee or water?” Detective Grafton asked.

“I’m more of a tea drinker. But water would be lovely.”

He stood and headed for the mini-fridge in the corner. “We have cans of sweet tea.”

Kathy grimaced. Living in Tennessee had not altered her prejudice against iced tea, sweetened or otherwise. She preferred her tea piping hot, even in the summertime. “Water is great, thanks.”

Grafton procured a plastic water bottle from the fridge and handed it to Kathy. She unscrewed the cap and swallowed gratefully.

“Alright,” Grafton said as he sat back at his desk. “Let’s assume Chet was exposed sometime the hour before you found him backstage. What was he doing around 7:45–8:00?”

“Generally speaking, he was either onstage, backstage, or in the men’s dressing room.”

“What about during intermission?”

“He went outside for a few minutes to talk with his girlfriend and Frank. I was meeting my sister to hand over the director’s gift money.”

“Can you remember anything Chet said during that time?

Anything at all?”

Kathy closed her eyes and envisioned herself standing in the streetlight behind the theater. “He met my sister,” she recalled, “said she was pretty, asked if she liked the show, introduced his girlfriend . . .”

“Did you record that conversation too?”

Kathy opened her eyes. “No, I’ve always had a knack for remembering what people say. Came in very handy during college. I only record people during work-related interviews, so folks can’t accuse us of grossly misquoting them. Anyway, after all that, Chet asked me about our appointment . . .”

“What appointment?” Grafton asked.

“Sorry, I forgot!” Kathy curled a deviant lock behind her ear. “Chet said he’d found something suspicious he wanted me to write up for the paper. Something about a possible scandal. I thought it would be more fitting for the gossip column, but he brought it up more than once. I got so wrapped up in our show’s unexpected conclusion, I forgot all about it until now.”

Grafton drummed his fingers on the wooden desk. “Do you have any idea what he wanted to show you?”

“I think it may have been some dirt on Frank. At dress rehearsal, he took some papers from Frank’s master script and later made some snide remark about Frank trying his luck in Vegas. I wonder . . .” Kathy trailed off.

“Wonder what?”

“Well, this is far-fetched, and Li Yan would know more about the numbers, but she often complained the company seemed short on funds even after a successful run. Hypothetically, if Frank was skimming a bit off the top, could Chet have found out and maybe tried to blackmail him?” Kathy felt a bead of sweat trail down her back underneath her pea coat.

Detective Grafton took a deep breath. “That would certainly be a more substantial motive for the murder than what we’ve got so far—if it could be proven.”

Kathy grinned. “You just said ‘murder.’”

“It slipped out.” He flipped to a clean page in his notes. “Maybe I could follow up that lead . . .” Kathy offered. “As a journalist, of course.”

“Hold up, Ms. Waters,” Grafton raised a warning hand. “Don’t get me wrong, you’ve far exceeded the call of civic duty, and we’re grateful. But tackling suspects is my job. Don’t think you’re above becoming a target just because you flash a press badge. Trying to take on the bad guys without backup is a mistake which can haunt you for the rest of your life.” He glanced briefly at the officer portrait hanging next to the door, then studied the tops of his knuckles.

Kathy knew there was a backstory there, but now was not the time to delve into Grafton’s personal life; she wasn’t sure how much longer she could wear her coat before passing out.

Grafton looked up at the wall clock hanging over Captain Woods’ desk. “Any other questions for the paper?”

Kathy could last for about two more. “Just a couple. When you interviewed the cast, did anyone say they happened to see any strangers backstage?”

“Richard Pratt couldn’t swear to it, but he did say he might have seen someone—possibly female—coming out of the men’s dressing room during curtain call rehearsal before the show.”

“Before the show? He was backstage during curtain call rehearsal?” Kathy’s voice rose. “We all thought he arrived late! Wilma almost altered his costume to fit Frank.”

“According to his statement . . . ” Grafton turned a page, “. . . he waited till everyone went downstage, snuck into the men’s dressing room to grab Chet’s Perrier and hid it in the women’s dressing room under a dress on the counter after moving a white leather purse out of the way. Then he changed his mind and put the bottle under a cowboy hat.”

“So that’s why I found my purse on the shelf with the money still in it. But I can’t believe Richard pretended to arrive late just to play a childish prank.”

Grafton shut the folder. “Do you remember if everyone was onstage during curtain call rehearsal?”

“I think so, except Chandra. After rehearsal, I found her in the women’s dressing room. She’d been in the men’s dressing room before that because she’d seen Chet’s EpiPen by his stuff. Oh! And Frank left the house to call Richard when he failed to show for rehearsal.”

Grafton wrote like the wind to keep up.

“So,” Kathy said as she hazarded unbuttoning her top pea coat button, “as far as the Line is concerned, there’s no need to print a lookout for a tall, nefarious stranger in connection to this case?”

“No. Anything else?”

Only one more question before I melt. “What’s the current status of the investigation?”

“Officially, ongoing.”

“And unofficially?”

“And off the record?”

Kathy paused her phone’s recording button.

“Basically,” Grafton sighed, “we need more sufficient evidence to nail down a probable suspect. No one liked the victim, but anyone could have killed him. We can keep going over statements to see if something doesn’t add up, but I’ve already been through them three times, and the only people with any sort of criminal record are the stagehand and the janitor.”

“Sr. Sanchez?!” Kathy’s jaw dropped so wide she could have swallowed a sugar pumpkin.

“Apparently, he did some time about thirty years ago for assault. It’s all public record. But he hasn’t had so much as a parking ticket since. Unlike others in the company . . .”

“I never would have thought Sr. Sanchez could be capable of a crime. He’s so hard-working and unassuming.”

Detective Grafton shook his head as he stacked his case files. “If I had a dollar for every time someone said that, I’d buy the Titans. Did you happen to ever hear Sr. Sanchez threaten Chet?”

Kathy swallowed hard. “Not directly, but Chet insulted him just like he insulted Frank.”

“And Wilma. And Richard. And Alex. And Lloyd . . . You see? That’s the problem with this case. Plenty of bad feeling, but not enough for probable cause.”

“So what happens now?”

“I’ll run Frank’s financials to see if there’s a money trail somewhere. Could you please send me a copy of your conversation with Chandra?” He grabbed a sheet from his desk and scribbled down an email address.

“Yes,” Kathy said as she stood. Her thin yoga pants stuck to the back of her legs. “And I can check back later for any official developments in the case?”

Grafton nodded as he also stood. “You can email the voice recording here. And the captain and I will follow up the blackmail angle, so there’s no need for you to take any unnecessary risks, understand?”

“I got it. No unnecessary risks.”

“But,” Grafton said with a hint of his flawless smile, “if you do happen to learn anything useful, would you mind passing it along?”

He held out the address to Kathy. Her fingers grazed his in the hand-off, sending a tingle up her arm. “Of course.”

“And your article?”

“‘Death by anaphylactic shock. Investigation ongoing.’”

He nodded approvingly. “Good.”

23

You’re pretty quiet,” Liz commented after Kathy had driven three blocks from the station without a word. “Everything go okay in there?”

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Lots to think about.” Kathy unbuttoned her pea coat and turned on the air as she paused at a stoplight. “How’s your head?”

“Fuzzy. And starving. My stomach, that is.”

Kathy pressed the gas. “You must be getting better if you’ve got an appetite. But if you want lunch, we’ll have to swing by the store. Our fridge is basically a box of air conditioning at this point. I haven’t had time to shop at all.”

“Fine, fine. Does our grocery store sell hot pizza?”

“I was thinking we’d buy actual groceries, but I guess we could order pizza and go shopping tonight. I’m hungry, too. And tired of driving all over town.”

“Sounds good.”

“There is just one other thing I want to do before the day gets much later. I need to call Ms. Cadsley.”

Liz arched an eyebrow, then winced. “Ouch! Dang stitches!” She put her hand to her bandage. “Why do you want to call her?”

“Because Chet wanted to give me something before he died, and she has all his effects.”

“What did he want to give you?”

“I’m not sure. But if it’s what I think it is, it could prove Chet may have been blackmailing Frank, giving my former director a motive for murder.”

“Whoa! That’s deep. Bet the cops are glad to have your help now.”

Kathy shifted in her seat. “I wouldn’t go that far. Detective Grafton made it clear he doesn’t want me taking unnecessary risks or tackling any suspects on my own. But Ms. Cadsley isn’t a suspect; she’s a victim. And technically, I’m still looking into this case on behalf of the Chattanooga Line. I’m just going to ask her a couple questions—hardly risky. Could you find her number in my phone’s contacts and put my phone on speaker? You can prop it up in the cup holder.”

“You need a secretary,” Liz mumbled as she bent down to reach Kathy’s purse. “And probably a lawyer if you step on any more toes in this investigation.” Liz scrolled on Kathy’s phone for a minute, then tapped on the screen. “Okay. It’s dialing.”

Kathy reached over to the dash to turn down the air. “Hello? Whoisit?” a groggy voice slurred after several rings.

Kathy glanced at the time: 11:48. Did she hit the bottle right after I left? “Ms. Cadsley?” she asked.

“What?”

“This is Kathy Waters. Sorry to bother you. I was just at the police station and . . .”

“Have they made any arrests?” Ms. Cadsley sounded more sober.

“No, not yet.”

“Then what good are they?!”

Kathy thought she heard a glass crashing to the floor on the other end of the phone. “I’m really sorry again for your loss. I only wanted to ask you something.”

“What?”

“On opening night, Chet said he wanted to give me something for the paper.”

“You want me to help you with your news article? While I’m in crisis!” Her voice rose to a near shriek.

Kathy responded with the same voice she’d used to convince her neighbor’s ten-year-old to climb down from her roof. “I’m not trying to dig up a story. Finding what Chet wanted to give me could help the investigation. Did you see any unusual documents in his belongings or in his car?”

“How the heck should I know?! I haven’t had time to go through his stuff! With all I’ve got to do for the memorial service . . .” her voice quavered. She blew her nose on the other end of the line, then continued. “If you want to look through his things, you can stop by on Tuesday. I’m busy today. If ever I needed a massage and a facial, it’s now.”

Kathy tried to keep her eyes on the road as she leaned closer to the phone.

“I . . . I really am . . . sorry for your loss. I’ll check back on Tuesday. Thanks!” Kathy hung up mid-wail and let out a long, low whistle. “I never know what to say to grieving people,” she confessed. “Nothing you say makes anything any better. It’s awkward.”

“Death is so inconvenient, especially to the living,” Liz pronounced. Then, spotting a Chick-fil-A, she made wild hand gestures. “Forget pizza! Turn left! Turn left!”

“Liz, they’re closed. It’s Sunday.”

“It is?” Liz looked at Kathy as if she’d just canceled Christmas.

Kathy patted her sister’s knee. “I know. It’s already been one heck of a week.”

24

On Monday morning, Kathy fully expected Andrea Keats to cancel their Chattanooga Line interview regarding her natural health shop’s grand reopening.

Kathy had texted she could reschedule it sometime after Chet’s memorial service. But unlike Chet’s mother, Chet’s former roommate/fiancée responded with remarkable pragmatism: “My heart is broken, but I still need to eat.” Apparently, the grand reopening needed all the publicity it could get.

Due to construction on yet another condo downtown, Kathy had to navigate through unfamiliar one-way streets to get to the shop. She made it to Andrea’s Herbals with only two minutes to spare.

Andrea had decorated her storefront window with potted plants, incense holders, and ceramic sculptures of Buddha. As Kathy stepped from her vehicle, a brisk breeze nearly took her breath away. Her cute black heels did wonders for her posture, but next to nothing for her comfort. She turned up her pea coat collar, drew her nose down into her burgundy silk scarf, and headed for the shop’s entrance, looking for a warm welcome from Liz.

Against Kathy’s better judgment, her sister had driven herself to work less than twenty-four hours after getting discharged from the hospital. Liz insisted she’d recovered from her concussion and threatened to break one of Kathy’s teacups if she kept nagging her to stay home.

Liz saw Kathy through the plate glass window and opened the front door for her. “Where have you been? You’re practically late!” So much for the warm welcome. “Construction. And I got lost.” Liz sighed. “You’d think a girl who can memorize Shakespeare could at least use a navigation app.” Liz tugged a stubborn lock of short brown hair behind her ear. She had removed her bandage that morning and donned a folded red bandana to help hide her stitches in headband fashion.

“Not all of us are visual learners.” Kathy made her way deeper into the shop, where a thousand organic odors ranging from earthy-woodsy to floral-citrus overwhelmed her senses for a second. “Plus, I don’t have any more space on my phone. Which reminds me . . .” Kathy dipped into her purse and confirmed her suspicion. “Shoot! I think I left it in the cup holder when I got home from the grocery store last night.”

“And it was still there this morning? In our neighborhood?” Liz feigned shock.

“Maybe it was too cold for any prowlers last night. Anyway, I need it to record this interview.”

“OK. You get your phone, and I’ll get Andrea. She’s working in the back with Sophia.”

“Wait. Hold this, will you? I’ll be right back.” Kathy handed her purse to her sister, re-buttoned her coat, and braced herself to face the elements. She took her phone from the car cup holder and was about to slip it into her coat pocket when the wind blasted her again. In her effort to shield her face, she raised her hand and accidentally flung her phone into the middle of the street . . . right in front of a passing semi-truck.

Her phone crunched under the wheels and garbled out one last Tarzan call before fizzling into deathly silence. Kathy stood agape as she watched a plastic shard spin for two seconds before resting in peace next to the other pieces of her primary means of communication.

“Kathy, are you coming?” Liz called from the door. “It’s cold out here!”

Kathy whirled around with her hands in the air. “A truck just ran over my phone!”

“What?!”

“Truck! Phone! Crap!” she gestured toward the street. “What am I going to do?”

“Get a new one?”

“No, no, no! I mean about the interview! I’m supposed to record the interview for work! It’s company policy.”

“Don’t you have a backup digital recorder?” Liz asked, shutting the shop door behind her and trying to hug herself warm.

“It broke last month, so I started using my phone. Can I borrow yours?”

“Weeeeeeeeell . . . I’d let you, of course. But it appears I left it at home. I was a little fuzzy getting out the door this morning.”

Kathy bit her tongue to avoid speaking unprofessionally. She popped open her trunk, unzipped her computer bag, and procured a yellow legal pad. “Desperate times . . .”

“Is that lined paper? And a number two pencil? How retro!” Liz rubbed her triceps and started hopping in place to keep her blood flowing.

Another gust of wind ruffled Kathy’s pages, making two fall out. She snatched them up before they, too, ended up as roadkill.

“What are those?” Liz chattered.

“They’re my manuscript notes from when I gave my police statement. I was going to type them up once I finished today’s article.” Kathy stuffed them back into her legal pad. “Now, get me out of this wind before I start cussing! And don’t come outside without your coat.”

* * *

“Kathy Waters! I’m so glad to see you!” Andrea shook Kathy’s hand with both of hers. She wore a mauve sweater dress, a long black-beaded necklace, black leggings, and high black boots. Her ruby-red smile drew attention away from her tired eyes. “Thanks for doing this interview. Any good press is very welcome right now.”

“No problem,” Kathy replied. “You’re sure you’re up for this?

I know with everything else going on . . .”

“I . . .” Andrea looked at the polished wood floor briefly. “I need to stay busy right now. Otherwise, I may drift into unhealthy places.” She blinked back a tear or two, then smiled again.

“Andrea, did you know Kathy’s helping the police look into things?” Liz asked, her cheeks still pink from standing outside without a coat.

“Really?” Andrea brightened.

“That description may be a little generous,” Kathy said. “I’m just writing up the progress of the investigation for the paper.”

“But you’ve been finding clues, too,” Liz persisted.

“In that case . . .” Andrea trailed off as she looked beyond the rows of supplements and candles, “I have something that might interest you. It’s probably nothing, and I’d feel silly mentioning it to the police, but the folks at the hospital gave me Chet’s things. His mother was a little . . . overwhelmed at the time.”

Kathy suspected that was one of the thickest candy coatings to the truth she’d heard in a long time.

“While I was clearing his phone’s voicemail,” Andrea continued, “I found an angry message from someone he knew.”

“Do you still have the phone?” Kathy asked in a low tone.

“Yes. It’s in the shop office.”

“Who was the message from?”

“I think it was from . . .”

Just then, the door opened behind them, and two Neo-hippies entered, stubbornly clinging to summertime in all their tie-dyed glory. “Hey!” the girl in dreads said, “Do you guys carry organic dog shampoo?”

“Yeah,” her bearded comrade added, “our poor pit bull always gets a rash when we use the generic stuff from the pet store.”

Peace, love, and pit bulls. Kathy thought.

“Liz,” Andrea said, “can you show this couple to our natural pet products?”

“You bet,” Liz grinned. “Right this way, folks! Oh, and here,” she swung Kathy’s purse from behind her back and took the strap off her shoulder.

“What are you doing with my . . . ” Andrea stopped as Liz handed the purse back to her sister.

“Don’t worry,” Liz said. “This one’s Kathy’s. Yours still has both toggles, I believe.”

Kathy shot Liz a “you’re-embarrassing-me” look.

Andrea smiled. “You have good taste,” she said to Kathy. “I think Sophia also has a purse like that. And the color contrasts nicely with your pea coat. Instant sophistication. Perfect for a writer.”

“Thanks. At least I look the part.” Kathy dug inside her single-toggled purse for that number two pencil. “I normally record my interviews. But my digital recorder broke last month, and my phone just had an unfortunate accident outside. So until I get a new gadget or two, I’m taking notes the old-fashioned way.”

“I do most of my recipe planning on legal pads. Great medium for creative flow.”

“Wonderful. Is there somewhere we can sit and talk?” “Actually,” Andrea said, fingering her black beads, “would you

like a quick tour of the place? I can walk and talk easily enough.” Kathy downsized her wide smile to a tolerant one. I can’t walk and write easily at all—not while wearing heels and trying to keep pace with a woman who looks like she runs marathons before breakfast. Kathy merely shushed her inner voice and said,

“That would be splendid.”

“Why don’t we head to the back room first? That’s where we make all our products, and you can meet Sophia.” Andrea pivoted on her boots and started walking with purpose. “I’ve always loved natural cosmetics,” she began, “and in college, I realized I could make my own. My friends asked me to make some for them, and marketing spread through word of mouth. I was so busy filling orders, I almost didn’t get my biology degree. Add four years, an MBA, and an awesome lease on this location, and voila! Here we are.

“We make all our products in-house with 100% natural ingredients. We use goat’s milk from a nearby farm for the soap, local beeswax for the candles, and herbs and flowers from our roof garden for bath salts, lotions, face washes, and tea blends. We never use GMOs or pesticides and like to be confident about organic authenticity.”

“That’s great,” Kathy said, awkwardly taking notes while trying to keep in step with the quick-gaited entrepreneur. “Goat’s milk, roof garden, beeswax. By the way, I’ve started exploring alternative medicine for my own health. I recently switched from taking prescription anti-anxiety medication to natural homeopathic remedies.”

“Good for you!” Andrea said. “Why did you make the change?” “I didn’t care for some of the prescription side effects, and my therapist suggested I try other forms of treatment to avoid becoming dependent. Plus, the natural stuff seems to help and isn’t quite as expensive.”

“You should try some of our calming tea blends,” Andrea said as she approached the door marked “Employees Only.” When she opened it, the scent of lavender blazed through Kathy’s nostrils, nearly making her stumble backward. She barely resisted her survival instinct to pinch her nose and run to the nearest window. Instead, she resolutely followed Andrea past a long, stainless steel counter hosting marble mortars and pestles, various scales, brown glass bottles, and plastic containers of mystery potions. In the back of the room, a red-haired woman was bent over a towering pot, stirring up a cyclone.

Double, double, toil and trouble, Kathy thought to herself.

Andrea had either lost her sense of smell entirely or chosen to ignore it for the sake of the interview. “Sophia, I’d like you to meet Kathy Waters. She’s here to write the article for the grand reopening. Kathy—Sophia Winder.”

“Hello!” Sophia smiled as she tucked a loose red hair back into her hairnet. “I’m working on a batch of soap right now: Lavender Nirvana. Tweaking an old recipe. What do you think?” She held out a wooden spoon coated with purple goo.

Kathy felt somewhat lightheaded. “It’ll probably send some people to nirvana,” she said.

Andrea cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should use teaspoons instead of tablespoons next time. Essential oils can be very potent.”

“Sorry. Soap is new territory for me,” Sophia said as she dipped the spoon back into her fragrant brew.

“You should smell some of her massage oils, though,” Andrea said. “Liquid heaven.”

Kathy doubted she’d be able to smell anything but lavender for the rest of the week.

Sophia sighed. “I thought the soap scents were too subtle. I couldn’t tell a lemon bar from an orange one. But I may have overdone it a little this time. Maybe we can market these lavender soaps to old folks who are hard-of-smelling.”

Oh dear . . . Kathy smiled politely.

“Kathy, have you ever come in for a massage?” Andrea changed the subject. “You should schedule one. It’ll make you feel like a goddess.”

Kathy felt sheepish. “I’ve never actually had a massage before.”

“Never?!” Sophia asked as if Kathy had said she’d never used soap.

My turn to change the subject. “No, but could you tell me more about your role in the company?” she asked Sophia.

“I’ll give some context first,” Andrea said. “I thrive in marketing and product development, but I can’t devote much time to new things if I’m maintaining daily operations.”

“I, however, don’t mind the daily stuff,” Sophia said as she stirred. “Andrea and I were roommates in college, and she knew I wanted to move back to Chattanooga to be closer to my brother, Harry.”

“Harry?” Kathy lifted her gaze from her notes. “As in Horatio?”

“That’s right,” Sophia tucked another red hair back under her hair net. “And you were great in the show, by the way! I was amazed how you stayed on that tiny stretcher in your last scene. I would have been scared to death of falling off. But back to my story, Andrea knew I’d gotten certified as a masseuse after college and that I needed a job. So now she gets to be the brains of the business, and I’m the new hands. But my hands are better at massage than soap-making, I think.”

Kathy tried not to agree too quickly.

“Don’t worry, you’ll get the hang of it,” Andrea said. “I’ll spell out the units next time.”

“Hopefully that’ll help. By the way, have you put in this month’s order yet? We’re running low on carrier oils, and I’m hoping we’ll have more massage clients next week. Especially with the new boost in marketing.”

“What’s a carrier oil?” Kathy asked.

“It’s a base oil you add your essential oils to,” Andrea said. “Essential oils are pretty strong and evaporate quickly. So, you mix the essential oil with the carrier oil before you apply it to the skin. That way, it lasts longer and helps prevent irritation.”

Kathy wrote hurriedly. “So an essential oil always needs a carrier oil?”

“For most of our products, yes.”

“What carrier oils do you typically use?” Kathy held her pencil ready.

“Oh, practically any plant oil will do,” Sophia said. “We usually use jojoba, sunflower, and sweet almond oil.”

“Almond?” Kathy paused. “You use carrier oils from nuts?”

“Yep. Each kind has its pros and cons when it comes to shelf life and such. It just depends on what you’re going for in your final product.”

Kathy swallowed hard. “I see. Do you guys ever use . . .” Kathy reconsidered her question mid-sentence and ended with, “. . . plants from your roof garden?”

“As a matter of fact, yes! And I’m really rather proud of it. Most of it’s dormant this time of year, but it looks gorgeous in the spring and summer. Shall we go upstairs?” Andrea asked.

“Nice to meet you, Kathy.” Sophia turned back to her soap-making. “And don’t worry, I’ll set this batch to dry in the back closet and maybe open some windows.”

“Good idea,” Andrea said.

Just then, Liz poked her head into the room then pinched her nose. “Whew! Sophia, that lavender soap could wake the dead!”

“Laugh it up, Liz,” Sophia said good-naturedly. “But if you keep complaining, I might hide a bar in your car.”

“Did you want something, Liz?” Andrea asked.

“Yes, sorry! You know those customers who asked about the organic dog shampoo?”

“Yes?”

“They need you. I swore everything in the shop was natural and organic, but they’re asking me about chemicals and vitamins I’ve never heard of. I told them I’d get the expert.”

The corners of Andrea’s mouth dove south for a second then returned to their all-present-and-correct positions. “Alright. In that case, would you mind showing your sister the roof garden while I help them?”

“Sure!”

“Maybe you should grab your coat first . . .” Kathy hinted.

“Yes, mum,” Liz sighed.

Andrea turned to Kathy. “Sorry. Duty calls. Come meet me in the office when you’re through. Then you can ask me the rest of your questions.”

“Thanks.”

As soon as Andrea left, Liz held her nose and crossed over to Kathy. “My coat’s in the back closet,” she said, sounding like a duck.

“I’ll open a window in a sec,” Sophia promised as she poured her pot’s contents into a rectangular wooden mold. “But it’s not like I’m the only person around here who’s ever botched up a recipe!”

25

Liz sucked in the fresh, crisp air as soon as she stepped outside the shop. “Whew! It’s like a purple skunk sprayed back there! I hope that soap doesn’t make anyone pass out.”

Kathy had to take several deep breaths to flush the lavender from her lungs. “I can always highlight the fact Andrea’s Herbal products are hand-made,” Kathy said. “How’s that for a positive spin?”

“Mud pies are hand-made, too,” Liz said.

Kathy smirked. “Don’t be too hard on Sophia. You remember the time you put salt in the scones instead of sugar?”

Liz chuckled. “Yeah. Even the birds wouldn’t eat them. I just hope she figures out what she’s doing before the grand reopening next week.”

Kathy looked at the kitchen window. Sophia hadn’t opened it yet, but Kathy still drew close to her sister and said quietly, “We were talking about carrier oils before you arrived. Out of curiosity, do you guys ever make products with peanut oil?”

“Peanut oil? Like for massage?”

“Or anything else.”

Liz zipped her forest green jacket to the top of her collar. “I can check, but what are you after? You don’t think someone goofed on a recipe and killed Chet with natural health products, do you?”

“I don’t want to think so, but Sophia and Andrea were both at the show the night Chet died. And Sophia is Harry’s sister; Harry didn’t think too highly of Chet. Maybe there’s something in that connection. And for a woman who recently lost her lover, Andrea seems eager to move on.”

“Don’t let her act fool you. You haven’t seen her on break. She sips wheatgrass smoothies and wears aviator shades like she’s a movie star, but I’m almost positive she’s crying behind them.”

Kathy kicked a large piece of gravel from the base of the steps. “Maybe Sophia used the wrong carrier oil accidentally and gave Chet a massage the day of the show. Maybe neither of them had anything to do with it. But I need all the facts I can get.”

Liz shrugged. “Okay, fine. I’ll check our inventory from the last few months for peanut oil and get a copy of Sophia’s massage schedule from last week.”

“Thanks. I appreciate it.” A breeze ruffled Kathy’s legal pad pages.

“This will be a literal whirlwind tour,” Liz said, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “Let’s go up to the roof garden before we freeze.”

Kathy put her hand on the wooden handrail, climbed the weathered steps carefully in her heels, and when she saw the garden felt a little like Dorothy when she’d stepped into Oz for the first time. Brightly painted ceramic pots of all sizes covered almost every square foot of the level roof. Vines grew over multiple trellises. Other plants spilled from their containers and overflowed the edges of wooden raised beds. It was a wild land set above the world, and Kathy tightened her grip on the handrail to keep from getting dizzy.

“Wow,” she finally remarked when she stepped onto a flagstone paver. “I wasn’t expecting this much color when all the trees are nearly bare. I know the photographer will get pictures of all this, but what’s growing up here? I recognize the roses, the marigolds and—are those mums? Ms. Anna’s aren’t quite blooming yet.”

“Maybe it’s the compost. It’s like horticultural heroin. In the summer, this place is a tropical forest. By the way, did you know that mums are edible?”

“Really?” Kathy looked up from her notes.

“Yeah. The bud’s kind of bitter, but the petals are okay.”

“You’ve tried them?”

“And moving on to this patch,” Liz ignored the question, “we’ve got a lot of traditional stuff. Parsley, sage, rosemary . . .”

“And thyme?” Kathy sang.

“Yes, Garfunkel. Over there, we have some perennials: blackeyed susans, blanket flowers, verbena, and foxglove.”

“Foxglove? Isn’t that poisonous?”

“Not to hummingbirds. They love it.”

Kathy walked toward a lovely white flower. “Is this Queen Anne’s Lace? I think Ms. Anna has some in her yard.”

“Um,” Liz bent over to read a small metal sign posted in the dirt. “It says ‘Conium.’”

“Conium? Where have I seen that before?” Kathy closed her eyes and tapped her temples with her forefingers. “That’s right! On this.” She dipped into her purse and held up her pill bottle.

Liz crossed her arms. “You memorized the ingredients to your anti-anxiety medication?”

“No. I just happen to remember them.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Liz said. “You’re the only person I know who can quote the first five chapters of Alice in Wonderland by heart.”

“Why does Andrea grow conium?” Kathy asked as she put her pill bottle back into her purse.

“I think she uses it for some ultra-natural teething gel or something.”

“Don’t you need to be a pharmacist to sell medication?”

“I think the government views herbal products as supplements instead of medicine. As long as she prints a medical caveat on her labels, she doesn’t need FDA approval.”

“Oh.” Kathy walked to another raised bed. “Are these dandelions? They look like they’re here on purpose.”

Liz put her hands back in her pockets. “Believe it or not, those are edible too. High in calcium and vitamin K. And the leaves aren’t bad in salad, either.”

“Really? I always thought they were nasty weeds people wanted to get rid of.”

“Not Andrea. Once, she sent me up here to tidy up the garden beds. Huge mistake. She almost had a conniption when I uprooted most of the patch. I was lucky I didn’t get fired.”

Kathy grinned. It was nice to see Liz acting more like herself.

“Now, here’s something you might appreciate.” Liz walked to a long, raised bed lining the edge of the roof. “It’s Andrea’s tea garden.”

Kathy took one look at the row of plants and shook her head. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m no gardener, but I know tea. And there’s not one specimen of Camellia sinensis on this roof.”

“Camel-ella what?”

“It’s the tea plant. All tea comes from the leaves of an evergreen bush called Camellia sinensis. How those leaves are processed determines whether they end up as black tea, green tea, or white. Everything else put into hot water technically makes a ‘tisane’—what Americans call ‘herbal tea.’ But true tea always has Camellia sinensis leaves in it.”

A cold gust whipped across the roof garden, making both sisters sink their necks deeper into their coat collars. Kathy adjusted her burgundy scarf over her nose.

“You’re such a snooty tea drinker, you know that?” Liz said in a muffled voice.

“I’m not that snooty,” Kathy countered. “I never raise my pinkie or anything.”

“No, you just have to have a bone china teacup, your Royal Albert teapot—prewarmed with boiling water—your sugar bowl with its tiny tea spoon, and your floral china creamer. Not to mention your ceramic tea bag holder shaped like a rose or the stainless-steel strainer if you’re using loose-leaf tea. And don’t get me started on your tea cosy and your tea timer. In fact, I take it back. You’re not snooty—you’re all-out persnickety!”

Kathy shrugged. “Someone’s got to have standards. We’re only one generation away from barbarism.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “For all the rest of the tisane-drinking laity, we have lemon balm, chamomile, bee balm, echinacea, catnip, nettles, red clover, and three kinds of mint. Andrea dries the plants and makes her own blends. And the crowning achievement of this roof garden is over here.” Liz walked over to a couple of two-by-two-foot wooden boxes resting atop cinder blocks.

“You have beehives?” Kathy asked, her brows rising in wonder. She’d never seen a hive up close before.

“Yep. They’re actually Jade’s, but his landlord got stung while changing a light fixture and evicted the bees from his property. Now Andrea lets them live here. ”

“Poor Jade,” Kathy said. “The girls are always leaving him.”

“Poor Jade, nothing! Ow!” Liz’s hand flew to her stitches.

She continued more gently, “He follows Sophia around like a twitterpated puppy, and she thinks he’s adorable! I wouldn’t be surprised if they get engaged by Christmas. Anyway, if you put your ear on the side of the hive, you can hear the buzzing.”

“They won’t sting me?”

“Not if you go around back. They’re holing up for winter.”

Kathy leaned her ear tentatively to the wooden cube and smiled. Inside, she heard the happy buzzing of contented industry. “This is all going in the article.”

“We sell the honey by the front counter and use the extra beeswax for lip balm and such.”

“I thought Andrea said you used beeswax for candles.” Kathy double-checked her notes.

“We only have two hives, so we get more beeswax from a local orchard for the candles. Since these bees are on site, Andrea’s more comfortable putting their wax into the cosmetics.”

“Cool.”

“It is. So’s the weather. Let’s go back inside before we turn into icicles.”

“Wait a second. What’s going on with this little pollinator?” Kathy leaned over to examine a bee lying on a paver.

Liz walked over to her sister and looked down. “Poor thing. Looks like she bit the dust.”

“Perhaps she strayed too far from home and couldn’t make it back before the cold caught up with her. It’s like a sad metaphor for something.”

“Yeah,” Liz shivered. “Like us. Come on, let’s go. It’s freezing.”

26

When Kathy stepped over a yellow-taped stoop into the office, she found Andrea sitting behind an immaculate desk with a wide-screen computer

and glass containers of staples, paper clips, and pens neatly in a row along the edge. A framed poster of an elegantly tattooed woman in an impossible yoga pose hung on the wall over a shelf hosting aromatherapy candles and a miniature Zen gravel garden. Illuminating globe lights gave the room a homey feel that made you forget there weren’t any windows. And framed photos on the wall chronicled Andrea’s relationship with Chet: smiling in front of a Broadway theater, holding hands at Disneyland, and kissing at a Renaissance Fair decked out in medieval finery.

The camera can hide so much, Kathy thought wryly. Chet actually looks like a pleasant person.

“Did you like the garden?” Andrea asked from her seat. “In the spring, it’s bursting with color. But I wanted our reopening to launch before the Christmas rush.”

“It’s very impressive.” Kathy sat on a wooden chair and placed her legal pad on her lap. “Some flowers are still blooming. Our photographer will make the most of them. You won’t even know it’s autumn.”

Andrea scooted her chair closer to the desk. “Did you have any other questions about the business?”

“I think I have what I need for the article. But before I leave, I wanted to ask about Chet’s phone.”

“Oh, right.” All the light-heartedness drained from Andrea’s face as she opened a drawer. She placed a couple legal pads of her own on the desk and retrieved it. “Here,” she said, scrolling through menu options. “Here’s the message I told you about. It’s from opening night. I’ll put it on speakerphone.”

Kathy leaned forward as the beep sounded.

“Chet, you son of a *****! You’d better return them, or I’ll take you out! You’ll never act onstage again—not mine or anyone else’s! If they aren’t in my hands by the final act, you’ll never even make it to curtain call.” Click.

Despite the lack of windows, Kathy felt as if a frigid wind had blown down her back; it would have accounted for the raised hairs on her neck. “That’s Frank’s voice,” Kathy said at length.

“I know.” Andrea tapped the screen.

“Why haven’t you shared this with the police?” Kathy asked.

“At first, I thought Frank meant he would just take Chet out of the show and tell other directors in the area not to work with him. The idea of those two literally duking it out is ludicrous. But now that there’s a murder investigation . . .” Andrea fidgeted with the phone. “Frank’s always been nice to me, so I didn’t want to sic the police on him unnecessarily. What do you think?”

“I think the police need to hear this as soon as possible. Like you said, it might be nothing, but we should let the authorities sort that out.”

“Do you think it’s nothing?” Andrea asked, looking Kathy in the eye.

Kathy hesitated. “I think it’s worth looking into.”

Andrea’s lip quivered. “I’m sorry,” she said as she grabbed a tissue from a box on her desk and dabbed an eye. “I do want justice for Chet. But the idea that someone I know could have killed him makes me feel . . . violated.”

“If it would be one less thing for you to worry about, I could drop the phone off at the police station for you,” Kathy said without thinking.

“Really?” Andrea blew her nose. “I would hate to impose . . .”

“It’s no problem!” Only after she’d said it did Kathy remember all the traffic detours she’d taken to get to the shop. This act of kindness would probably cost her her lunch break, but she was determined not to sulk—particularly in front of a woman who’d recently lost far more than a meal.

Andrea handed the phone over. Kathy opened her purse and dropped it inside. “I’ll just give this to the officer at the front desk along with your business card. If they have any questions, they’ll contact you.”

“Thanks for your help. By the way, when will the business article be ready?”

“I’ll write it up in time for the Friday morning paper.” Andrea dropped her eyes. “Saturday’s the day of the memorial service. I hate funerals.”

Kathy nodded. She did, too.

“Are you coming?” Andrea asked.

Kathy wasn’t expecting that question. “I . . . I think so,” she stammered. She silently cursed her tendency to over-commit.

“That’s nice. It will mean a lot to his mother to have fellow castmates there.”

RIIIIIINNNNNNGGGG!

Kathy started. It had been ages since she’d heard the classic ring of a landline.

“Excuse me,” Andrea said as she laid her hand on the office phone. “Thanks again for everything.”

“You’re welcome.” Kathy rose. “I’ll see myself out and email you a copy of the article before it goes live.”

Andrea nodded and picked up her phone. “Hello? Andrea’s Herbals.”

Kathy focused so much on trying to make a silent exit that she forgot about the little stoop at the office door. She tripped on it and hit the hardwood with all the grace of an intoxicated prom date. Her purse flew over the shelves into the next aisle, scattering Kathy’s recently organized contents onto the floor. Judging from the subsequent crash, it had collided with something made of glass on the other side. Kathy’s yellow legal pad notes fluttered to the floor, and she discovered that she’d scraped her shin through her new pair of black slacks.

“Callyoubackbye!” Andrea hung up and rushed to Kathy’s side. “Are you alright?! I’m so sorry about that step!”

“Don’t worry. This won’t make the article . . .” Kathy slowly picked herself up, then bent down to gather her lipstick, pens, and hand sanitizer. Her mascara and tampons had rolled under a display shelf.

“Let me help,” Andrea started gathering yellow sheets of paper strewn like autumn leaves amid rows of herbal supplements.

“Kathy! You okay?” Liz bounded up after hearing the incident. Sophia came behind her, still carrying a wooden spoon. “What happened?” Liz asked. “I thought someone fainted from too much lavender in the air!”

“No one appreciates me,” Sophia sighed. “Except Jade. But he’s out sick.”

“I’m fine,” Kathy said, relieved she’d shaved that morning as she lifted up her pant leg to view her shin. Vivid red trickled toward her black-buckled shoe.

“I’ll get the first aid kit.” Andrea returned to her office.

“We can at least pick up your things,” Sophia said as she grabbed a few sheets of paper and a couple runaway pens.

“I’ll get your purse and sweep up whatever fell. Probably just an aromatherapy candle,” Liz said.

“Here you are,” Andrea came back with a plastic white box.

Liz soon handed Kathy her purse and attended to the scrape while the disheveled writer reorganized her legal pad papers.

“Looks like all my article notes are here. I think I’m good. Thanks, Liz.”

“Are these yours?” Sophia asked, holding a pill bottle. “I left my reading glasses in the back.”

“I didn’t know you wore reading glasses,” Liz said to Sophia.

She shrugged. “I only have trouble reading anything under size 12 font.”

Andrea took the bottle from Sophia, nodded, then handed it to Kathy.

“Thanks.” Kathy blushed slightly as she dropped the medication into her purse. Now Andrea probably thinks I’m clumsy and crazy.

“Liz, after what your sister’s been through, she deserves a cup of tea on the house,” Andrea said.

“I really am fine,” Kathy protested.

“I insist. Liz, could you get her something warm and soothing while I call that supplier back? Thanks again for everything, Kathy.”

Liz nodded and escorted her sister to the tea bar near the front of the shop. Kathy followed and eyed a glass canister. “Transcendent Radiance Rooibus? If I drink this, will my face shine like an angel?”

“I didn’t have the heart to tell Andrea you’re a tea snob,” Liz said.

“I like a tisane every now and then.”

“Only when you have a cold. And then, only lemon zinger.

You really should try something new once in a while.”

“Maybe I could be daring for once.”

“You? Daring? Not the first word that comes to mind . . . .”

Kathy pursed her lips. “Fine. I promise to taste whatever you make for me.”

“Really?” Liz cocked an eyebrow.

“I might not drink it, mind you. But I’ll taste it.”

“A convenient condition,” Liz said flatly.

While she started heating the water, Kathy wandered among the shelves, reading the supplement labels. Cod liver oil?

In 64-ounce bottles? And chlorophyll? Why would a human need chlorophyll?

“It’s done!” Liz announced with a brown recycled cup in hand. “This is a green tea ginger nettle blend made in-house. It’s specifically formulated for energy and calming the tummy.”

Kathy sniffed the green liquid. “Is there any sugar in that?”

“You promised.”

“What about honey?”

“Drink.” Liz shoved the cup into Kathy’s hand.

Kathy took an honest mouthful, grimaced, and swallowed to keep from spewing. She shivered. “I feel like I just drank . . . grass. Really spicy grass.”

“You’re lucky Andrea’s back in the office and can’t hear you spurn her peace offering.”

“I know. Maybe I can pick up something else for myself so she knows there’s no hard feelings. What if I got a healthy snack?”

“Uh . . . I don’t think we carry anything you’d like.”

“You make it sound like I never eat vegetables.”

“You eat them, but then you always eat ice cream as a chaser.”

“That’s why I work out—to burn off dessert. What about these?” Kathy asked, pointing to a box of what looked like chocolate chip muffins sitting on the table by the register.

“That’s gluten-free, dairy-free, carob chip bread. Tastes like cardboard.”

Kathy nodded toward a plastic container of pine-green chips on a rack. “What about these wacky chips? Are they for St. Patrick’s Day?”

“Those are kale crisps. Sophia and Jade rave about ’em, but I don’t think they’d go well with tea—at least not the kind you drink.”

Kathy scanned the counter for any other edibles. “Don’t you have anything made with butter or sugar?”

“We have this.” Liz went to a shelf on the back wall and took down a jar of shea butter sugar scrub. “Half-off today!”

“Interesting. Probably shouldn’t put it on a scone, though.” Liz shook her head.

“Alright. I guess I’ll take one of these.” She flipped through a rectangular basket marked “Clearance” and selected a kickboxing workout DVD. “It’s kinda retro to still carry DVDs in an age when most people stream. I wonder if these things will ever make a comeback like vinyl has.”

Liz arched an eyebrow. “How are you even going to watch that?”

Kathy smiled. “The desktop at home still has a DVD player. And I can always take it with us when we visit Mom and Dad. I’m pretty sure they still have an old-school player attached to their TV. This will help me burn off Christmas dinner.”

“You sure you want this one?” Liz held it up skeptically. “Kickboxing?”

“It’ll be a change of pace from my other dance workouts. Variety’s the spice of life. And you say I never try anything new.” Liz put a hand on her hip. “This is still an old-school DVD. And don’t you remember what happened when we tried to be the Rockettes and got our butts kicked by that crazy high-step choreography DVD we found my freshman year?”

“I remember you couldn’t walk the next day,” Kathy said with a grin, “which rather ruined our high school majorette auditions. But I could never twirl a baton anyway.”

“The point is we were both hurtin’ after that. You sure you don’t want a yoga video instead?”

“Liz, we’re only three years apart. Stop treating me like a septuagenarian.”

“A what?”

“Someone in her seventies.”

“Fine. It’s your body. But if you hurt yourself, don’t bellyache to me. I’ve said my piece.” Liz scanned the item. “And don’t forget, I get paid a commission on certain products. You paying credit or debit?”

“Credit,” Kathy said as she grabbed a pen and signed her name on the receipt.

“You heading back to the office?” Liz asked.

“Yes. After I drop something off at the police station.”

“Again?! You know, I’m starting to wonder if you have a crush on that detective you claim to dislike so much.”

“We’ve already set a wedding date.” Kathy plunked her pen on the counter.

“Wow! I made a whole two cents off your DVD. Maybe you can hire me to paint your wedding portrait. Then you can pay me a real commission.”

Kathy put her new DVD into her purse and headed for the shop exit.

“Tell him he has my blessing as long as he keeps you out of trouble,” Liz called after her.

Kathy shook her head as she let the shop door bang shut.

27

At first, Kathy thought she could drop off Chet’s phone at the police station’s front desk and still have time to swing by Chick-fil-A before returning to the Chattanooga Line office. But upon further reflection, she realized she’d better direct the investigators to the correct voice message in person. Neither Captain Woods nor Detective Grafton would recognize Frank’s voice, and Chet had several messages left on his phone. She consoled her rumbling stomach with a granola bar from her purse. It was crumbly from the impact on the shop’s hardwood floor earlier. At least I’ll look more professional than I did the last time I talked with Grafton, Kathy thought as she adjusted her scarf and pulled into the parking lot.

Unfortunately, when Kathy entered the police station, people of various stripes (and some who looked like they should be wearing them) filled most of the waiting room seats. She stepped into line behind someone filing a complaint against a neighbor who had a yappy dog.

“Oh. It’s you again,” the officer greeted her five minutes later. “Here to fill out my form.” She clicked her black heels together. “Don’t worry. I brought my own pen this time.”

A half-smile crinkled the crusty cop’s mouth, then disappeared. He handed her the familiar clipboard.

“So you work both night and day shifts?” she asked as she jotted her contact info.

“’Til they fire me. Being a cop isn’t very popular these days. People seem to think we’re all just as bad as the criminals. Not great for my blood pressure. Hopefully, I can hold out until May.”

“May?”

“When I retire.”

“I see. Do you know if Detective Grafton is in?”

“He and the captain both left an hour ago. Official business.”

“Oh,” Kathy said, surprised that she felt disappointed.

I’ll have to write a novel of a note to explain the significance of this phone.

“But speak of the devil, here they come now.” He gestured toward the hallway.

Kathy turned to see the investigators come through a side door. She waved slightly to catch their attention from across the room and enjoyed watching Grafton’s six-foot frame stride athletically in her direction. He was strength and beauty in motion. “Ms. Waters,” Grafton said, reaching Kathy ahead of the Captain. “Back so soon?”

Kathy nodded. “Chet’s girlfriend wanted me to give you something of his.”

“Why didn’t she stop by herself?”

“Because she’s grieving,” Kathy said, “and busy planning her business’s grand reopening next week. I had an interview with her this morning for the paper and thought I could save her a trip to the station.”

“Ms. Waters! Here with another tip?” Captain Woods asked as he joined Grafton and Kathy with a mug of black coffee in hand.

“Perhaps.” She smiled at the captain.

“Let’s go to the office, shall we?” Grafton led the way back toward the hall. Once inside, Captain Woods sat down at his desk. The most recent copy of the Chattanooga Line rested next to his computer. “Read your article this morning,” he said. “Not bad.”

“Thank you,” Kathy replied as she sat in the offered wooden chair. “Any more developments on Chet’s case?”

“Nothing concrete.” The Captain placed his mug on the desk. “But you’re not here for another interview, are you?”

“Not exactly.” She crossed her legs. “As I was just telling Detective Grafton, I interviewed Andrea Keats for the paper this morning. She was Chet’s girlfriend. She got a hold of Chet’s phone and found a threatening voicemail message I thought you’d want to hear.” Kathy procured the phone from her purse and handed it to Captain Woods. He placed it in the center of his desk and hit the voicemail play button.

A woman’s seductive voice practically oozed through the speaker, “You know, instead of playing with our phones, we could just play with each other. I miss your big . . .”

“Wrong message!” Kathy blurted.

Captain Woods cleared his throat and selected the next one.

The same woman’s voice beckoned, “You know, if you come for dinner, I’ll have dessert ready . . .”

“Nope!” Kathy felt her cheeks grow hot. She didn’t dare look at Detective Grafton.

“How many messages are on this thing?” Captain Woods asked with one eyebrow arched.

“Let me see if I can find it,” Kathy said. She uncrossed her legs, leaned toward the desk, and grabbed the phone. “Andrea played it for me earlier.”

Four propositions later, Kathy found the message she sought and breathed easier at the comforting sound of Frank swearing. Captain Woods leaned forward while the message played,

“. . . you’ll never make it to curtain call.” Click. His eyes met Grafton’s.

“I know it’s not a confession,” Kathy admitted, “but that’s definitely Frank’s voice, and with the specific note of Chet not making it to curtain call . . .” Kathy trailed off.

“Funny you mention Frank,” Grafton said. “We found some interesting money movement—strictly off the record for now,” he qualified.

“No worries,” Kathy held up her hands. “My phone’s busted. I’m not recording this conversation.”

“And you won’t print any of this from memory?” Grafton asked.

Kathy smiled slightly. “Not until it becomes an official development in the investigation as per my assignment.”

Grafton looked to his superior. Captain Woods nodded his permission.

“It looks like Frank’s in debt up to his shining scalp. We subpoenaed his bank this morning.”

“Doesn’t mean he did away with Chet,” Captain Woods interjected, “but I’d say with this message, we certainly have probable cause to bring him in for further questioning. I’d be obliged if you’d keep all this information to yourself till we make an official arrest, Ms. Waters.”

“Yes, sir.” Kathy tucked her feet under her chair and clasped her hands together. She didn’t know which was worse: not knowing who killed Chet at all or thinking her former director was a murderer.

Captain Woods handed the phone to the detective. “Grafton, take this and see if there are any other interesting texts or voicemails we should note.”

Grafton nodded and started scrolling through the phone’s menu.

Captain Woods stood. “Well, if that would be all . . .”

“Actually,” Kathy interjected, “I did have one other question. Were there any traces of peanut oil found on Grafton’s back?”

Captain Woods nearly choked on his coffee. “On whose back?” He asked as he grabbed a napkin.

Kathy’s eyes imitated dinner plates as she realized her slip of the tongue. “I mean, Chet’s! Chet’s back! The back of the deceased!” Oh, why couldn’t she have an auto-correct feature for her mouth?! She could feel her ears throbbing and stole a glance at the detective to see if he looked as mortified as she felt. Grafton’s eyes didn’t stray from the phone in his hands.

“Why on earth would there be peanut oil on Chet’s back?” Woods asked. “Or on anyone else’s, for that matter?”

Kathy pretended she hadn’t embarrassed herself two seconds earlier and forced her voice to sound nonchalant. “At Andrea’s Herbals, they use different oils in their products. I was wondering if Chet could have accidentally gotten a massage with peanut oil on opening night before the show.”

Grafton walked to his desk, flipped through a file, and found the autopsy report.

“Do you know for a fact Chet got a massage on the day of his death?” Woods asked.

“Not yet. But my sister works at the shop and agreed to check the massage schedule for me.”

“Hold on there, Ms. Waters!” Captain Woods said like a father about to tell his child not to dive into shallow water. “I know you’re reporting on this investigation, and I can’t tell you how to do your job. But let me clarify mine. It’s our responsibility to catch criminals, and yours to inform the public when we’ve done so. I don’t want you getting some Nancy Drew complex and putting yourself or others in harm’s way. I prefer to solve one murder at a time.”

Kathy tensed. How could Liz checking the massage schedule be remotely dangerous? Aloud, she said, “I understand.”

“Good. It’s tough enough being responsible for this one.” He nodded toward Grafton. “If he’s not careful, he’s likely to work himself into an early grave.”

“Sorry, Ms. Waters,” Grafton said, looking up from the autopsy report. “No trace of peanut proteins found on the epidermis except around the mouth.” He returned it to its file.

“Alright,” sighed Kathy. “It was only a theory.”

“Thanks for stopping by,” the captain said.

Kathy took her cue and rose to her feet. “Quick question: since I turned in another piece of evidence, would it be possible to get an update on any arrests for the Chattanooga Line when you do make one?”

Captain Woods chuckled. “You scratch our back, we scratch yours?”

Kathy’s cheeks reddened again.

The captain shrugged. “It’s not our normal policy, but as you have been helpful with this particular investigation, we can give you some notice ahead of the other media outlets. Not much, mind you. Just leave your number with Grafton.”

“Thank you, sir!” Kathy felt relieved; perhaps a phone call would help save her fifteen minutes of future mortification. “As I mentioned earlier, my phone’s broken. But I’ll give you my sister’s number for now.” Kathy grabbed a square piece of paper from her purse and scribbled Liz’s number down; she hoped her cheeks were not as pink as the sticky note she handed to Grafton. She couldn’t even look him full in the face as he opened the door for her.

“Thanks,” she muttered. Perhaps she was letting the feminists down by not opening it herself, but after such an awkward meeting, she wanted to leave as quickly as possible.

“No problem,” Grafton said as he accompanied her down the hall. They walked about twenty steps together when the detective cleared his throat. “You know, they sell camera pen recorders online in case you need to document another interview before getting a new phone.”

Kathy tightened her grasp on her leather purse strap. She did not need another man telling her what to do. “They’re probably beyond my budget,” she said as she quickened her pace.

“Actually, you can get a nice one for just around seventy bucks,” Grafton said, his long legs easily keeping stride with Kathy.

“That’s not horrible. Do the images turn out pixelated?”

“No, they’re pretty decent. Sometimes we use pen recorders in the field.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep it in mind.”

Kathy wondered if the shade of her cheeks betrayed her inner agitation. Why is Grafton following me? What does he want?

Then, before she knew it, he disappeared from her side. Curious, she looked behind her and instantly felt her idiocy quotient jump ten points.

He’d pivoted to walk into the men’s room.

“Was it hot in the investigators’ office?” the officer at the reception desk inquired as Kathy passed him.

She halted. “What do you mean?”

“The heat’s been actin’ up. And you look flushed.” He placed a new form on a clipboard and handed it to an older woman with a cane.

Shoot! I was blushing! Kathy shook her head. “The heat’s working fine, but I just need some air.”

“Don’t get too much, now. It’s flu season, y’know.”

Kathy nodded and strode past all the folks in the waiting room, fixing her eyes on the exit.

28

Kathy didn’t call Ms. Cadsley about swinging by to look for Chet’s mystery documents until late Tuesday afternoon—when the bereaved mother was more likely to be out of bed. She’d called the investigators earlier that morning about Frank’s interrogation but hadn’t reached them. So she left a message with Liz’s phone number and decided she’d call again after seeing Ms. Cadsley.

The only other time Kathy had been to Ms. Cadsley’s apartment was for a Godspell cast party. Luckily, that show only had eight cast members. Otherwise, there wouldn’t have been enough room to stand together and hold their paper plates of Chex Mix and cake. Kathy’s grip on the steering wheel unconsciously tightened as she neared the apartment complex. She had a feeling this meeting would be about as enjoyable as getting a Pap smear. Plus, it had started to rain—a depressed, misty drizzle that painted all the world in gloomy shades of gray. In a subconscious effort to put off her errand, she stopped at a grocery store a few blocks from her destination to buy something—anything—that might distract Ms. Cadsley from her own sorrow.

Kathy wandered aimlessly up and down the colorful aisles, unsure of what she was looking for. Lilies? No. Might remind her of the memorial service. Chocolate? This is hardly a festive occasion. Wine? She’s had enough of that already . . . .

“Kathy? Kathy Waters?” a man’s voice called.

Kathy turned to see a vaguely familiar face smile in her direction from in front of the British cookies in the international foods aisle.

“It’s Pastor Ron Hollingsworth,” he said with a wave. “We met at the hospital. How’s Liz doing?”

“Oh!” Kathy said as the man’s identity finally computed. “I’m sorry! I didn’t recognize you without your collar and vest.”

“I know.” He grinned. “When I wear jeans and a sweatshirt, I’m practically incognito. Even members of my own congregation don’t recognize me.”

Kathy smiled. “Liz is doing better—just some stitches and a concussion. She went back to work yesterday. I’m impressed you remembered her name.”

“Names are my business. As is picking up things for my wife. She loves these digestives. We go through about a box a week. What are you looking for?” He placed his chocolate-laced cookies into his green shopping basket.

Kathy sighed. “I don’t know. What do you get for an acquaintance who’s recently lost a son?”

Pastor Ron’s smile disappeared. “Oh, I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Believe it or not, it looks like murder. He died of an allergic reaction, and I found his EpiPen in my purse. I know I didn’t put it there.”

“Ergo, someone else must have.”

“Yes . . .” Kathy put her hands in her pea coat pockets. “I’m writing up the investigation for the paper and trying to help the police where I can.”

“I’m sure your friend appreciates that.”

“I don’t know. She’s not exactly a friend, and not the appreciative sort. Which is why I’m not quite sure what to get her.”

“Sometimes a potted plant can be nice—it won’t wilt as quickly as a bouquet. And you could always offer to bring a meal or help with errands. But in my experience, grieving folks often just want to be heard as they wrestle with their feelings and memories.”

Kathy passed the handles of the plastic basket she held from one hand to the other. “That’s one thing I’d rather avoid. I don’t want to be heartless, but I honestly never liked her son very much in the first place, so any sort of reminiscing on my part won’t be very encouraging.”

Pastor Ron sighed. “Dealing with death can be draining. But being present for the process can help some people heal.”

Kathy felt weary. “I feel like certain wounds can’t be healed, no matter how long we process them. Take my acquaintance, for example. Even if her son’s murder gets solved, she still won’t get him back. It makes me wonder if I’m wasting my time trying to find any answers.”

“Answers are always easier to live with than questions,” Pastor Ron said. “But there are some questions only God knows the answers to. And he’s not unacquainted with grief—he knows what it’s like to bleed. And to lose a son, for that matter.”

Kathy began to feel a little uncomfortable—as if she were about to undergo an oral exam for a class she’d routinely skipped. It had been years since she’d darkened the doorway of a church, and she didn’t feel up for a theological debate. So, she decided to end the conversation. “Well, I guess I’ll see if they’ve got anything appealing in the floral section.”

Pastor Ron was about to say more, but a hip-hop song Kathy didn’t recognize started playing at close range.

“Whoops! That’s me,” he said, reaching for his phone.

Kathy stood astonished. “I thought preachers only listened to hymns.”

Pastor Ron grinned as he checked the number. “It’s Helen. Would you excuse me?”

“No problem. Nice to run into you again.”

“Likewise.”

* * *

Kathy walked out of the grocery store, protecting her head from the rain with a potted fuchsia orchid. She immediately regretted she hadn’t also purchased an umbrella. Once again, she’d left hers at home. After a soggy walk to her car, a damp ride to the complex, and another spritzy trek to Ms. Cadsley’s third-floor apartment, Kathy looked like she’d swum through the Tennessee River. Her teeth chattered a bit as she rang the doorbell, saw the eye hole go dark for a second, then heard someone unbolt several locks from the other side of the door.

“So you made it,” said Ms. Cadsley, holding a fat glass of something crimson. Her hair looked like it hadn’t been brushed in a couple days, but it was drier than Kathy’s.

Kathy offered the dripping orchid to her hostess; it had lost a petal in the rain. “Thanks again for letting me visit at this difficult time,” she said, parroting what she used to say to victims’ grieving friends and family during news interviews.

Ms. Cadsley wrinkled her nose. “Never cared for dark pink. But since you brought it, go ahead and put it on the table if you can find a spot. Chet’s girlfriend and her mom dropped off his Jeep and all these boxes the other day. I don’t know where I’m gonna put it all.”

Kathy hurried inside, grateful Chet’s mother had turned on the gas fireplace. She stepped gingerly through a maze of Chet’s earthly possessions and found one square foot of unoccupied space on the cherry table. As she was about to place the plant on top of it, Ms. Cadsley suddenly shouted, “Stop! Set that wet thing on a plate, or you’ll ruin the finish!”

Kathy snatched the plant away just before it made contact. “Honestly! Didn’t your mama teach you better?” Ms. Cadsley went to a kitchen cupboard, found a plate, and handed it to Kathy.

Kathy gritted her teeth and determined to be nice; hopefully she could hold out for the next ten minutes. “Is there any sort of order to these boxes?” she asked after depositing the plated orchid on the table.

“I dunno. Dive in and see what you find. What are you looking for again?” She tossed back the remainder of her drink.

“Papers. Hopefully, I’ll know them when I see them.”

“Well, break a leg—and watch your step.”

A phone rang in the back bedroom. Ms. Cadsley cursed. “Honestly, why can’t folks leave me in peace!” She muttered to herself as she left Kathy standing in a sea of cardboard cubes. Kathy chose the box closest to the fireplace, peeled her pea coat from her back, got down on her knees, and started treasure hunting.

After combing through her fourth box, Kathy gazed at all the other boxes cluttering the floor and sighed. She did not want to waste her afternoon sorting through every item Chet had ever owned. Think, Kathy. If you were Chet, where would you put important papers?

She reached behind her to massage her lower back. Chet said he had something for me at the theater. Where’s his theater bag?

Kathy looked around the room and found a pile of adultsized clothing on the couch. She laid some designer jeans and theatrical T-shirts aside, then spied Chet’s makeup case. She bent over the large plastic container and unsnapped the lock. Unfortunately, it only held eyeliner, skin-toned creams, and bronzing shadow of various shades. No secret compartments. No incriminating documents.

She jumped at the sound of Taylor Swift’s muffled voice coming from her hip. That’s right! This isn’t my phone. Kathy pulled Liz’s phone from her pocket. “Hello?”

“Ms. Waters?” It was Detective Grafton.

“Yes! Hi!” Kathy curled a damp lock of hair behind her ear. “Thanks for getting back. Have you made any arrests yet?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Grafton sounded miffed. “Mr. Wilson wasn’t home and didn’t show up for work yesterday. We got a warrant, but it looks like he packed his things pretty quickly. We think he’s left town.”

“Really?” Kathy sank onto the couch as if the stuffing had been knocked from her. Skipping town during a murder investigation was practically an admission of guilt.

“We’ve got police in neighboring states on the lookout for his vehicle, but he’s had quite a head start. Sorry not to have better news.”

Kathy took a deep breath. “It is what it is. Thanks for calling. At least I’ll have something to tell my editor.”

“If we find him, we’ll probably call a press conference.”

“I appreciate that. Hope your afternoon turns out better than your morning.”

“Like you said, it is what it is. Goodbye, Ms. Waters.” He hung up.

Kathy sighed as she ended the call. But before she put the phone away, she consoled herself by selecting a new ringtone for her sister. Let’s see how she likes the musical stylings of Luciano Pavarotti. She grinned impishly, then set the volume to “high.”

“Who was that?” Ms. Cadsley asked from behind Kathy. Kathy started, then pocketed Liz’s phone. “That was a detective from the police station.”

“Do they know who killed my son?” Ms. Cadsley’s eyes opened wide.

“They have one suspect they’re trying to nail down but haven’t arrested anyone yet.”

The middle-aged woman suddenly looked closer to eighty. She crumpled onto a nearby chair and put her hand over her eyes. “They’re never going to catch the creep, are they?”

“It’s only been four days. They’re doing all they can.”

“That’s not good enough!” Ms. Cadsley’s voice rose as she gestured with glass in hand. “Here I am, practically drowning in funeral details while my son’s murderer walks around scotfree!” She cursed the incompetence of the cosmos and started to sniffle.

Kathy spied a roll of paper towels in the kitchen. After hurdling over several boxes for it, she returned and offered a couple sheets to Ms. Cadsley. Then she sat in an empty corner of the couch.

“I mean,” Ms. Cadsley blew her nose, “it’s so unfair! Chet snuffed out in his prime. There were so many dreams he had and things he never got to do.” She attempted to sip from the glass she held, then scowled at its emptiness. “You see that mantle over the fireplace?” She pointed.

Kathy looked at the plastic stones and faux wood shelf. Like the Cadsleys themselves, the fireplace was best appreciated from a distance.

“I had those recessed lights put in over the weekend. But instead of showcasing photos of me and my grandkids, they’ll shine on my son’s ashes. And to think of all the shows we could have performed in together! Couldn’t you see us all in Mame? Or even Fiddler, if he’d had a daughter? Life is such a cruel⁠—”

“What were some of Chet’s favorite shows?” Kathy interrupted. She hoped to point her half-sober hostess in a more positive direction.

Ms. Cadsley blew her nose again. “Chet was practically born onstage. I actually performed the lead in Shakespeare’s Scottish play while he was in utero . . .” she suddenly gasped and put her hand to her mouth. “You don’t think his death is my fault, do you? Did I doom him to a Shakespearean death by playing that part?”

Kathy would have laughed but for the size of Ms. Cadsley’s eyes; they were as large as saucers. “No,” Kathy assured her. “Shakespeare didn’t kill your son. Someone else did.”

Ms. Cadsley exhaled. “That’s a relief. To answer your question, Chet’s favorite musical was Hamilton, but he loved Shakespeare’s plays best. He’d already starred in the comedies, but Hamlet would have been his third Shakespearean tragedy. He had the aforementioned Scottish play under his belt, as well as Romeo and Juliet, where he met his girlfriend. The only reason he didn’t make it on Broadway was because he had a lazy agent.” Kathy cleared her throat. “Chet lived with Harry in New York, right?”

“For a little while. But they didn’t get along, so they parted ways. That was years ago. But you should have seen them in West Side Story in high school. Such a duo! Chet played Tony, Harry played Riff, and his sister played Maria, I believe.”

“Sophia?” Kathy blinked. “I didn’t know she acted.”

“I don’t remember her name—only that she had horrible hair. She’d dyed it black for the part, of course, but you could still see the red peeking through. It’s probably the only performance on record where Maria had green hair. That’s what comes of using over-the-counter hair dye.”

Kathy knit her eyebrows together. Would Sophia have any motive to kill Chet? Kathy couldn’t think of one, but the theater connection seemed too much of a coincidence. “So you’re saying Chet and Sophia used to be castmates?”

“Yes! Haven’t you been listening?” Ms. Cadsley attempted again to sip from her vacant glass and scowled a second time.

Kathy rose from the couch. “Ms. Cadsley, in the interest of finding Chet’s murderer, I need to find what Chet wanted to show me on opening night. I’m pretty sure whatever it was wouldn’t be with these older boxes, and I didn’t see anything in his makeup case.”

“Your point?” Ms. Cadsley frowned.

“Is there any other place—a recent place—where Chet might have stashed important papers?”

Ms. Cadsley leaned her head against her hand. “All the stuff he had on him that night is on the couch in the corner,” she said, pointing with glass in hand. “Like I said, his girlfriend dropped everything by with her mother. So unless he put something in his car . . .” For a third time, she tried to sip from her cup and finally got frustrated enough to set it sharply on the end table next to her chair.

“His car!” Kathy exclaimed, clapping her hands together.

“Don’t do that!” Ms. Cadsley closed her eyes and rubbed her temples with her forefingers.

“Do you have Chet’s car keys?”

Ms. Cadsley continued rubbing her temples. “They’re on the kitchen counter.”

“Where’s his Jeep?”

“I think his girlfriend parked it in the corner of the guest lot so it wouldn’t be in anyone’s way. I guess that’s another thing I need to figure out—how to sell his car. Oh, this is all just too overwhelming!” She put her hand to her forehead and leaned back against her red velvet couch cushion.

Kathy stepped over a couple of boxes en route to the kitchen and grabbed the keys. She plucked up her pea coat from in front of the fireplace and was about to open the front door when someone knocked from the other side.

“Now what?!” Ms. Cadsley said from her chair. “Tell whoever it is to go away. I’m busy.” She grabbed at her glass again.

Kathy squinted through the peephole, then froze with her hand clasping the door handle. Warning bells clanged desperately inside her head.

Director Frank Wilson stood frowning on the other side of the door.

29

When Kathy’s pulse returned, cold fear shot through her veins. If she left Frank outside, he might suspect something and leave before the police could arrive. But if she let him in . . . What do I do?! What do I do?! Indecision flooded her circuits, and she stood like a mannequin at the apartment door.

Frank knocked again, louder.

Kathy broke into a sweat. Her stomach churned.

“Are you going to tell them to go away or what?” demanded Ms. Cadsley from her living room chair.

“It’s Frank,” Kathy whispered.

“Frank?” Ms. Cadsley cocked her head. “Probably here to give his condolences. You can let him in.”

Kathy’s knuckles showed white on the doorknob. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea . . . .”

“Ms. Cadsley? Are you there?” Frank’s muffled voice sounded from the other side of the door.

“Why the heck not? And why are you mumbling? Never mind, I’ll do it! I have to do everything around here!” She rose from her seat and tottered for a moment.

“No, really!” Kathy implored. “Frank’s a suspect!”

Ms. Cadsley looked at Kathy as if she’d accused Frank of being a Martian. “If you honestly think Frank could lay a finger on my son, you’re crazier than I am.” Ms. Cadsley wove her way through the boxes to get the door.

Internally, Kathy warred against her rising sense of unease. Her last meal might escape soon if she couldn’t get a hold of herself.

The door opened, and Frank stepped inside, bearing a huge bouquet of white roses. Given their pristine presentation, the rain must have stopped. “Kathy!” he said in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Kathy’s knees threatened to quit on her. “I was just dropping by. I’m heading out now,” she said with an Emmy-winning smile. But between the boxes and the bouquet, there was no room to walk past her former director in the narrow foyer.

“What can I do for you, Frank?” Ms. Cadsley asked.

“I came by to extend my sympathies.” He handed her the flowers.

Ms. Cadsley shot Kathy a look that said, “I told you so.” Kathy busied herself by buttoning her coat.

Frank continued. “I’m so sorry about what happened. Chet was a talented actor. This city will miss him dearly.”

Ms. Cadsley’s eyes moistened, and she put a hand on his broad shoulder. “Thank you, Frank.”

“I also wanted to apologize in person that I’ll be unable to attend Saturday’s memorial service . . .”

“Celebration of life service,” Ms. Cadsley corrected.

“Yes. Well, I have to go to Tunica. Mother’s not feeling well. I’m on my way there now.”

Kathy’s ears tingled. So that’s where he’s going!

Before she could make her escape and notify the police, Ms. Cadsley flung the flowers on the table. “Don’t lie to me, Frank! Your mother’s healthier than you are! She posted Facebook pictures of herself hiking in the Rockies last week!”

Frank stiffened as Ms. Cadsley put her hands on her bony hips. “After all my son did for the theater, ensuring that you kept your position, the least you could do is pay your respects properly!”

Frank’s skin flushed. “That’s why I came over,” he said.

“Consider them paid in full,” Ms. Cadsley spat. “You can leave now.”

“Before I go,” Frank took another step into the apartment, blocking the exit, “Chet borrowed some of my director’s notes. I’d really like to have them back before I go.”

A shiver went up Kathy’s spine. Ms. Cadsley looked at Kathy with caution in her eyes. Then, the elder thespian whirled toward Frank and gave the performance of her life. “You wanna look for them? Be my guest,” she gestured nonchalantly to the boxes on the floor. “But be out of here in fifteen minutes. I’m going outside for a smoke.” She walked toward the door, slipped on a sky-blue rain jacket, and left the apartment with Kathy close behind her.

Once they made it down the second stairwell, both women exhaled as if expelling anvils from their chests. Ms. Cadsley’s hands visibly trembled. “Oh, Kathy! I’ve never been so scared in my whole life! What if Frank really did do it? That would be awful publicity for the theater company!”

“That’s the least of our worries right now,” Kathy said, looking up the stairs to make sure Frank wasn’t listening. “I’m calling the police. They were looking for Frank earlier.”

“What about me?” Ms. Cadsley asked shrilly, her eyes the size of grapefruit. “What should I do? My car’s on the fritz!”

Kathy scanned the street. “Why don’t you go to that gas station across the street until the police arrive?”

Ms. Cadsley looked doubtfully at her fuzzy white slippers. “The mud will ruin these. Why can’t you drive me?”

“Because I need to check out Chet’s car before Frank does.”

“You’re leaving me?!” Ms. Cadsley’s voice rose near fever pitch.

“Shhh!” Kathy hushed, keeping a wary eye on the stairwell. “I need to see if Chet left Frank’s notes there. They must be important, or Frank wouldn’t have come all this way to get them.”

“Why would Frank still want those? The show’s over! And now I’m left in the cold while a killer’s combing through my apartment!”

Kathy felt close to killing Ms. Cadsley herself. “I don’t know, but you need to get going. You’ll be safe in a public place.”

“Chet wasn’t,” she grumbled, shoving her shaky hands into her jacket pockets. “I could actually use a smoke right now. Gave up cigarettes years ago, but deep down, I’m no quitter!”

As the slipper-shod matron strode to the gas station through the damp grass, Kathy dialed the police station and trotted to the back parking lot.

“Hello?”

“Detective Grafton! Thank goodness you’re there! I just ran into Frank!”

“What! Where?”

“He’s here, at Ms. Cadsley’s apartment! Probably looking for the same thing I am!” Kathy spied Chet’s Jeep under a pine tree in the corner.

“What’s the address?”

Kathy gave it to him.

“Hold on a sec . . . .”

Kathy heard him talk to someone else on what sounded like a police radio.

“We’re sending the closest squad car over. It should be there in five minutes. I’m leaving now. Where are you?”

“In the apartment parking lot. Ms. Cadsley gave me the keys to Chet’s car. Frank’s still in the apartment.”

“And where’s Ms. Cadsley?”

“She’s going to a gas station across the street.”

“Ms. Waters, listen to me very carefully,” Grafton said. “Go to the gas station with her. I want you as far from this thing as possible. You’ll be safer with people around, and we can search Chet’s car after we get Frank in custody.”

“But what if Frank leaves before you get here?”

“We’ll put out an APB. He won’t get far. Now go to the gas station. I’m on my way!” He hung up.

Kathy stood in the parking lot and looked up to the third floor of the apartment building. Ms. Cadsley’s lights back-lit Frank’s bent silhouette; he was probably sifting through a box of Chet’s old soccer uniforms.

Kathy tapped her phone against her chin. Chet’s car is only seventy-five feet away, and Frank’s not leaving any time soon. I’ll just glance inside real quick before going to the gas station. Her mind made up, Kathy pocketed her phone and strode toward Chet’s Jeep.

She didn’t see Frank watching her from the third-floor window.

* * *

Chet’s yellow Jeep sat in the far corner of the parking lot under a leafless tree. Kathy turned up her coat collar and pressed the “unlock” button on Chet’s key fob. A putrid smell met her nostrils when she opened the driver’s side door. Kathy pinched her nose. I didn’t realize Chet was such a slob! Perrier bottles, health bar wrappers, empty protein shake cups, and even the moldy remains of a half-eaten chicken sandwich littered the car floor.

I guess there used to be mayonnaise and tomato on that, Kathy thought as she gingerly reached over the gray-green bread to check the glove compartment. Other than the usual vehicle registration and proof of insurance, there were no other important documents. She’d have to dredge for evidence. With a resigned groan, she swept the top layer of trash aside and chided herself for not carrying a pair of latex gloves in her purse for such occasions. She searched the car interior for anything suspicious, but nothing surfaced.

Sirens sounded in the distance. The police will be here soon. I need to get to the gas station . . . after I check the trunk. Kathy walked toward the back of the car, mentally crossing her fingers.

Surprisingly, the inside of Chet’s trunk was relatively tidy, containing only jumper cables, a Hamlet playbill, a pair of jazz shoes, and a black leather jacket.

The jacket! Kathy felt like turning a cartwheel. Chet wore that jacket to dress rehearsal! She snatched it up and emptied the pockets. The right pocket had a small half-used bottle of cologne and a twenty-dollar bill. The left pocket held dental floss and another personal product she preferred to forget about as soon as possible.

Crap! I thought I almost had something there.

The sirens grew louder. She’d have to jog to get to the gas station before the police arrived.

Kathy tossed Chet’s jacket back into the trunk and was about to slam it shut when she noticed another pocket in the lining. She unzipped it, reached inside, and pulled out two narrow pieces of paper. The first was a colorful brochure for a casino in Tunica, Mississippi. The other, a community theater check for thirty thousand dollars made out to Frank Wilson.

Thirty thousand dollars?! Kathy took a step backward. So that’s why we never had enough money to buy paint rollers. Frank’s been blowing our profits at the slot machines!

Still staring at the brochure and check, Kathy reached up her hand to close the trunk. Then she looked up and gave a small shriek—Frank glowered at her from the front of the car. She hadn’t heard him approach.

“Frank! I didn’t know you were standing there!” She tried to laugh off her terror. “Did you find your stage notes?”

Frank did not smile. “You’re a better actress onstage, Kathy. I believe those belong to me.”

Kathy felt like an injured swimmer spying a shark fin. Don’t freak out! Not now! she told her seasick stomach. Maybe if you can keep him circling till the cops come . . . .

“Is this what all the fuss was about at dress rehearsal?” Kathy asked, flashing her papers and taking a side step to keep the car between her and her former director.

“It’s none of your business,” Frank said. “Now hand those over if you ever want to be on my stage again.”

“After this scandal, will you even have a stage?” Kathy sidled around the far corner of the trunk.

“Bad press is still press. You should know all about that.” He took another two steps in her direction.

“If you want to keep directing, then why do you want to leave town all of a sudden?” She stood on her tiptoes to see Frank’s face over the car roof.

A siren blared about a block away. Frank looked over his shoulder. “Kathy, I’m not playing games. Now hand over those papers, or I’ll . . .”

Her flight reflexes in full gear, Kathy made a mad dash in the direction of the gas station. Frank stood stunned for a moment, then lugged himself after her. At least a hundred and fifty pounds heavier, there was no way he’d catch up. So he resorted to shouting.

“Kathy Waters!” he demanded, sweat forming on his forehead. “Are you crazy?! Come back here with those papers! They’re mine!” he huffed, now thirty-five yards behind her.

At that moment, a squad car squealed its tires into the apartment parking lot. Kathy bent over and put her hands on her knees as she sucked in air. She hadn’t run like that since the time Liz found a copperhead sunning itself on their front steps.

“Chattanooga City Police! Hold it right there!” Two armed policemen rushed from the car and pointed their guns at Frank.

Frank’s eyes widened. “What the . . . ?!”

“Sir, put your hands behind your head!”

“Alright! Alright!” Frank said as he raised his arms. “I wasn’t going to hurt anyone! What’s going on?!”

“Frank Wilson, you’re under arrest for the murder of Chet Cadsley,” an officer said as he went behind Frank’s back and reached for his handcuffs.

Frank’s chins practically hit his collarbone. “Murder?! What are you talking about?”

“You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law . . .”

“I . . . I didn’t kill anyone!” Frank said. “Who said I killed . . . ?”

Frank’s eyes met Kathy’s from over the other officer’s shoulders. Shock, anger, and disbelief shone through them as the policeman finished reading him his rights. Once Frank’s wrists were restrained behind his back, he began to look genuinely afraid.

Kathy felt like a cannonball had just blown through her. Have I just made a huge mistake? She shakily approached the two officers. “Excuse me. I’m a journalist for the Chattanooga Line. May I ask this man a few questions?”

“We’ve got to take him downtown, ma’am. Please move aside.” They started escorting Frank to the squad car.

Kathy trotted to keep up and spoke to her former director.

“Frank, are you saying you did not kill Chet Cadsley?”

Frank shook his head. “No! Why would you even think that? I’m innocent!”

His confession sounded genuine. Kathy paled and felt sick.

At that moment, Detective Grafton arrived in his unmarked police car. He hopped out, saw Kathy, and slammed his door shut. “Why aren’t you at the gas station?” he demanded of her as he walked toward the cops. Without waiting for an answer, he addressed the policemen, “You got him?”

“Yep. We’ll process him at the station.”

“I’ll meet you there.” Grafton headed back to his car.

Kathy tried to intercept him. “Wait! I think there may be a misunderstanding. See, I found these papers in Chet’s car, and I . . .”

“Drop them off at the station. I have a suspect to question.” He avoided her gaze as he opened his driver’s side door.

“But you’re not listening!” Kathy nearly shouted. “I don’t think Frank killed Chet! This is a big mista⁠—”

“Ms. Waters!” Grafton cut her off; his eyes were stormy. He clenched his jaw. “I told you to go to the gas station with Ms. Cadsley.” His voice was level and deadly serious. “For your safety. And you deliberately disregarded me.”

“I know,” Kathy said quickly, “but I needed to get the evidence, and I just thought . . .”

“No, you didn’t!” He pointed a finger at her. “You didn’t think, and you didn’t listen! You put yourself at risk and complicated the arrest of a perpetrator. What if he had used you as a hostage? You ever think of that?”

Kathy felt about five inches tall and spoke accordingly. “No.”

“Well, I did. It’s what I’m trained to do. In your line of work, you question everyone and everything. But in my world, people who don’t listen to authority wind up dead.” A look of pain swept over his features, utterly deflating any rebuttal Kathy could offer. She stared at the papers in her hand and regretted she’d ever laid eyes on them. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have . . . Oh no!” Kathy couldn’t fight her churning stomach any longer. She bolted for the nearest hydrangea bush at the edge of the parking lot and retched in a most unladylike manner behind it.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her coat sleeve and heard Grafton’s car door open, then his approaching footsteps. She uprighted with a faint pretense of dignity and turned slowly to face the detective.

Grafton offered her a napkin and bottle of water with an unreadable face. She took them with trembling hands. “Can you drive yourself home?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“Good.” He looked at his phone. “Why don’t you give me what you found in Chet’s car, and tomorrow, you can give us a statement about what happened here.”

Kathy handed over the brochure and theater check. “Alright. Go home, Ms. Waters.”

“Yes, sir.” Kathy watched Grafton get into his car and speed away. She stared numbly after him for nearly a minute. Then a large drop of rain smacked the top of her head, bringing her back to the cold, gut-wrenching reality that she might have helped send the wrong man to prison. Grafton hates me. Frank’s going to jail for something he didn’t do. And it’s all my fault!

With the dark cloud overhead now pelting her, Kathy walked to her car, not caring how wet she got. After shutting her driver’s side door, she leaned her forehead onto the steering wheel and cried quietly. She felt like a criminal.

30

For once, Kathy didn’t notice the traffic’s slug-like pace or the fact that her right windshield wiper smeared rather than cleared the view before her. Feeling bush-whacked by the last hour’s escapades and nagged by a growing doubt that Chet’s murder would ever be solved, Kathy emerged from her car like a centenarian—tired and craving quiet. The front steps felt steeper than usual as she went to her door and unlocked the new deadbolt she’d installed the evening before.

She flipped on the light, placed her purse on the table, and trudged to her room. There, she tossed her coat with the soiled sleeve onto the large pile of laundry accruing behind her bedroom door and went back into the kitchen. She sighed at the sight of her kitchen sink. A depressing mountain of dirty dishes blocked access to the faucet. She’d never fit the tea kettle under it. She grabbed a hard cider from the fridge instead.

Two long, bubbly sips later, Kathy nearly choked when she saw something gray and furry scamper across the living room carpet and dive under the sofa. What was that?!

Kathy placed her cider on the dining room table and looked around for some sort of cage or weapon. But without so much as a mouse trap, what was she supposed to do? Then she spied her oft-forgotten umbrella in the foyer. I’m finally gonna make use of this thing! She grasped the plastic handle in her right hand like Excalibur, armed to drive the vermin out.

Kathy tiptoed to the living room and opened the back door. Dropping to her hands and knees, she slid the umbrella under the couch and waved it back and forth wildly in hopes that the furry intruder would make a hasty retreat outdoors. Something angry bolted out. But instead of heading for freedom, it doubled back past Kathy, leaped onto the table with outstretched claws, and knocked over her bottle of cider, sending a fizzy cascade onto the hardwood floor. Then it glared at Kathy with yellow eyes, bared its fangs, and hissed.

A cat!? How did a cat get in here? And how am I going to clean up that mess without it attacking me?

The flustered creature flattened its ears and let out a low growl.

Kathy swallowed hard and clutched the umbrella to her chest, uncertain how to proceed. Then she heard the front doorknob turning. Her racing heart stopped for a second. She’d forgotten to bolt the door after her! Is that the murderer?!

“Hello! I’m home.” Liz called from behind a paper bag of groceries. She nudged the door closed with her foot, hung her keys on a hook by the mirror, and lowered her brown bag to the floor. “Kathy, why are you hugging the umbrella?” she asked with a bemused smile.

Kathy pointed at the animal atop the table, innocently licking its paw.

“Oh, you’ve met.” Liz’s smile grew. “Come here, kitty-witty.”

The double-crossing demon purred and rubbed its face against Liz’s chin as she scooped it into her arms. “Are you making Kathy nervous? Dat’s not nice.”

Kathy cleared her throat. “Liz, what is that thing doing in our house?”

“This thing is my new fluffy therapy animal,” Liz said as she rocked her gray bundle from side to side. “The house was too quiet. I kept jumping at every noise outside and figured some feline companionship might help calm me down. Then I found an ASPCA adoption voucher in the trash can. It’s like it was fate.”

“I threw that out for a reason!” Kathy protested.

“But your article on the new humane society wing was so inspiring, I just had to see it.”

Kathy pursed her lips. “Liz, you know how I am with cats.”

“Don’t be a hater. You’re not even allergic!”

“That’s not the point!” Kathy said, now gesturing toward the animal in question with the umbrella tip. “I genuinely don’t like cats. As a species. They’re snobbish, they shed, they require food . . . and I am NOT cleaning out a kitty litter box.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Well, this will be my cat: I’ll vacuum, I’ll feed him, and you won’t have to clean up after him. Any other objections?”

Kathy thought a moment. “We didn’t pay the pet deposit on our lease.”

“I’ll take care of that, too. I just got a bonus for all the extra time I’ve put in for the reopening. Besides, he’ll be good for you, too. Didn’t you quote a doctor who said petting fluffy things lowers blood pressure?” Liz grinned.

Kathy scowled as she wrung the umbrella in her hands. “I’m pretty sure mine is spiking.”

“Maybe dere’s a widdle adjustment period,” Liz said as she touched her nose to the cat’s.

“That’s gross.”

“Face facts, Kathy. You’re running out of excuses.”

Kathy could almost swear the creature gave her a smug smile before Liz placed it back on the floor.

“Alright, widdle Cuddle Bumpkin. Go play!” Liz said as she patted his back.

“You’re naming it ‘Cuddle Bumpkin’?”

“He’s a him. Not an it. Got any better suggestions?” “Lucifer.”

“That’s no name for a cat!” “It worked in Cinderella.”

Liz shook her head. “What about Charcoal? Or Midnight? Or maybe something classy like Lord Wellington or Prince Charles?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something. Now, if you don’t mind”—Kathy walked to the kitchen and opened the fridge—“I need another drink since your cat out of hell spilled my first one.” She picked up another bottle of hard cider and kicked the fridge door shut with far more force than was necessary.

Liz followed her. “Hey, are you okay?”

Kathy struggled with the cider top. “No!” Kathy finally popped it off, only to have the foam drip onto her sleeve. “Perfect,” she muttered as she squeezed her hand under the kitchen faucet to rinse it off. “And while we’re in here, I’d like to bring up the division of chores. Would you mind doing the dishes more often? This is ridiculous! And now we have another thing to clean up after.”

Liz crossed her arms and leaned against the doorway. “Could you please leave Puss out of this and tell me what’s really bothering you?”

Kathy exhaled, deflated. “Everything. This whole investigation.” She took a swig of her cider. Her nose stung.

“Give me a break. If it wasn’t for you, there wouldn’t even be an investigation,” Liz said. “No one would have suspected murder. Now you’re seeking justice and writing front-page news stories again. You should be proud!”

“Well, I’m not.” Kathy sat on the linoleum floor and leaned back against the fridge. “I went to Ms. Cadsley’s place this afternoon.”

“I thought you couldn’t stand that woman.”

“True. But I wanted to find out what Chet had wanted to give me on opening night. He said he’d found some incriminating information, but he died before he could pass it along. So I went to Ms. Cadsley’s to see if I could find the documents among his things.”

“And did you?”

“Eventually, but not in the apartment. I’d gone through a few boxes of Chet’s things when Frank showed up on the doorstep. Detective Grafton had called me earlier saying Frank had left town, and they were looking to bring him in for questioning.”

“That’s awkward.” Liz ran her fingers through her hair, revealing her stitches from under her bangs for a half second.

Kathy grew sullen. “Scary, too, because I knew Frank was looking for the same thing I was after. So there I was, standing between Chet’s half-drunk mother and his possible murderer.”

“What happened?”

“Ms. Cadsley and I got out of the apartment, and I called Detective Grafton to let him know about Frank. Grafton told me to go to the gas station with Ms. Cadsley, but like an idiot, I ignored him.”

“What did you do?” Liz asked.

“I didn’t want Frank to disappear with the evidence, and I had a hunch the papers might be in Chet’s car. Ms. Cadsley had given me the keys, so I thought I could get in and out before the police arrived. But I didn’t know I’d have to go dumpster diving in the bottom of Chet’s Jeep. Eventually, I found a theater check made out to Frank for $30,000 and a Tunica casino brochure.”

Liz let out a low whistle. Kathy took another sip of cider. “And when I closed the trunk, guess who was standing in front of the car?”

“Grafton?”

“Worse.”

“Frank?!” Liz’s eyebrows disappeared behind her bangs entirely. “Ouch!” She covered her brows with her hand to alleviate the soreness from her stitches.

Kathy took another sip of cider and exhaled. “I thought I was going to lose my lunch right there and pass out or something. I’ve never been so scared in my life. But I heard a siren a few blocks away, and that gave me something to tether to. If I could just keep him talking for one more minute, the police would handle everything. So I started asking questions like I was interviewing him—babbling, mostly. Then I made a crazy break for the parking lot entrance.”

“Good thinking.”

“I don’t think I was really thinking at that point. But when the cops rolled in and read the charges to Frank, I’d never seen a man so stunned. I honestly don’t think he could have faked such a reaction. He may be a thief, but he’s not that great of an actor.”

“So you don’t think Frank killed Chet?”

“That’s what he claims, and I’m inclined to believe him. Frank’s no criminal mastermind. He can barely run a theater company without popping a blood vessel. But good luck getting the police to believe that now. He had means, motive, and opportunity. In lieu of other viable suspects, there’s a good chance he could go to jail because of me. I couldn’t live with myself if that happened.” Kathy upended her cider and finished it. “Oh yeah, and Detective Grafton wasn’t too happy about me ignoring his instruction. He gave me a good talking to.”

Liz narrowed her eyes. “Jerk!”

“No,” Kathy shook her head wearily. “He was right. The worst part is, I was so keyed up about everything, I threw up in front of him . . . and he was really nice about it.”

“Oh, Kathy . . .”

“So, I’m going to call my editor and request someone else cover the rest of the investigation,” Kathy said. “I can’t show my face in that police station again. I . . . I’m not ready to write front-page news. I doubt I ever will be.”

“Well, then,” Liz clapped her hands together, “There’s only one thing to be done.”

Kathy raised an eyebrow.

“If you want to help Frank, you’ll just have to catch the real murderer.”

“Ha!” Kathy scoffed. “I tried. And failed.”

“You tried on your own. But now you’ve got me.” Liz put her hands on her hips like Wonder Woman. “So here’s the plan: you take a long, hot shower. I’ll do the dishes, start the coffee pot, put the kettle on, and get my easel with a blank piece of paper. We can map out every detail of the case like they do in the cop shows.”

Kathy stared at her brown ballet flats. Her feet ached as she recalled her hundred-meter dash across the parking lot.

Liz noted Kathy’s uncertainty and quickly intervened, “Did I mention I picked up fresh sushi for dinner?” She bent over and pulled out two small trays of sushi rolls from the brown bag on the floor.

Kathy sighed. Sushi was one of her weaknesses. “Shower and sushi it is.”

31

Twenty minutes later, the Waters sisters sat at the dining room table wielding chopsticks and sipping their stimulants of choice. The nameless cat had retired to the living room couch and curled himself into a gray ball atop one of Kathy’s favorite throw pillows. Kathy knew changing Liz’s mind once she’d made it up was about as easy as rerouting the Tennessee River. She was too worn out to try, anyway.

“So here’s what I’m thinking,” Liz said, pointing with her bamboo utensil toward the large sketch pad on her easel. “First, we list out every person we know who was at the show and see if we can eliminate any suspects.”

“I’m sure the police have already done this.” Kathy dipped a cylinder of rice into a ramekin of spicy mayo.

“But we have something the police don’t have,” Liz said. Kathy paused, mid-bite. “Overactive imaginations?”

“No, a first-person account of the crime from both sides of the curtain!”

Kathy raised her teacup to her lips. “Maybe you should go first. My backstage list of suspects is rather long, and I still have half a sushi roll to go.”

“Okie dokie.” Liz rose from the table and picked up a black marker. She drew a horizontal line halfway across the paper and explained, “This is the dividing line between the stage and the audience. Everyone you list, I’ll put stage-side. Everyone I list, I’ll put in the seats. From where I sat, there was Jade, Sophia, Andrea, and about nine hundred superfluous spectators.” She wrote the names below the stage line, then sketched aisles, seats, curtains, and the orchestra pit.

“You do realize we’re assuming no one else in the audience committed the crime,” Kathy said.

“Just like we’re assuming we won’t get hit by a meteor while we finish our dinner,” Liz countered. “Besides, we know whoever killed Chet needed access backstage to get his EpiPen.”

“You could probably copy the playbill for my side of the list, but here goes.” Kathy cleared her throat. “Li Yan the stage manager, Director Frank, Harry who played Horatio, Alex the understudy, Stephen the ghost/gravedigger, Wilma the seamstress, Ms. Cadsley the diva, Chandra the phone-wielding stagehand, Sr. Sanchez the janitor, Lloyd . . .”

“Hold up, professor!” Liz said as she scribbled Kathy’s names above the line on the sheet. “Anyone else?” she asked.

“John and Tamal. But they only had a few lines and didn’t need to come to most rehearsals. Darius Phillips played King Claudius. But he’s a broker, and no one really knew him that well. Every second he wasn’t onstage, he paced in the wings with his phone to his ear. I doubt he even noticed how annoying Chet was. Plus, he left right after curtain call.”

“Okay.” Liz added the last three names in the upper left corner of the paper and drew a quick sketch of a man in the center. She labeled him “Chet.”

“Now, do any of the people we’ve listed have connections to Chet outside of the theater company?”

“Andrea was his girlfriend.”

Liz switched markers and drew a red line from Andrea’s name in the audience to the center figure and put a few hearts around it.

“Harry was Chet’s childhood buddy and former New York roommate.” Kathy dropped another bit of sushi into her mouth.

“Harry’s also Sophia’s brother,” Liz added as she drew a blue line connecting the siblings’ names and another connecting them to Chet. She added a smiley face and small house around Harry’s name. “These two could be significant. One person in the audience, one person backstage. Could’ve been a team effort.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Kathy sipped her tea.

“Lloyd was Chet’s rival for male lead roles. They definitely didn’t like each other.”

This time, Liz drew an angry red lightning bolt from Lloyd’s name to Chet.

“Then there’s Frank, of course,” Kathy said.

“Blackmail. Still not a bad motive if he actually did it.” Liz drew a dotted black line from Frank to Chet and stepped back to view her work. “Now, looking at this list, is there anyone who’d have something to gain by Chet’s death?”

Kathy grinned. “For want of peace, we all did. But quitting a show is much easier than planning a murder. You can eliminate Frank. He had the most to gain by the loss of a blackmailer, but I really don’t think he did it.”

“We’ll just put a circle around him for future reference. What about the guy who stabbed Chet in the chest? He sounds like a good candidate.”

“Lloyd’s rapier tested negative for peanut proteins. He wounded Chet, but he didn’t kill him. Besides, getting rid of Chet at the beginning of a run doesn’t make sense. If there’s no Hamlet, there’s no Laertes. And it’s not like Lloyd could have taken over the Hamlet role because Chet already had an understudy, even if he was an under-studied understudy. If Lloyd really wanted to get a main role, he could have just spiked Chet’s drink before auditions or something.”

Liz crossed out Lloyd’s name. “What about the stage manager?”

“The rumor is Li Yan and Chet dated during the run of Romeo and Juliet until she found out he was two-timing her.”

“Why didn’t you mention that earlier?”

“Because it was years ago. I don’t think she had a mortal grudge against him; she seems interested in Lloyd.”

“But she knew where everything was backstage and had access to both the EpiPen and your purse.”

Kathy chewed thoughtfully on another mouthful of sushi. “Theater’s one step up from a fraternity. Everyone has access to everybody’s everything.”

“Fine, then.” Liz crossed out Li Yan’s name. “Wilma?”

Kathy smirked. “That woman’s a strange bird, but harmless. Once, I overheard her threatening Chet under her breath, but I think most of us did that at one point or another. Anyway, she left the theater once Richard arrived and didn’t go to the men’s dressing room at all on opening night. And we know from the stagehand that the EpiPen was still in Chet’s dressing room just before the show started, so you can cross Wilma out, too.”

“Wasn’t Richard kind of sketchy coming late to curtain call?”

“Apparently, he was backstage the whole time, hiding Chet’s Perrier as a practical joke. The police tested the Perrier bottle, but there weren’t any peanuts in it either. So we have nothing to pin on Richard except pettiness. Besides, Richard and Chet never competed for the same parts, so he’d have nothing to gain by Chet’s death.”

“Looks like we’re making our way through your list pretty quick,” Liz muttered. “Before I waste my time crossing out everyone else one by one, is there anyone on this sheet who raises even a question mark regarding their innocence?”

“That’s the problem with this whole investigation.” Kathy tossed her chopsticks into the trash can by the corner of the room. “Anyone could have done it, but no one had sufficient reason to. The understudy hadn’t memorized Chet’s lines, so there wasn’t any limelight envy there. Stephen and Chet were two generations removed—hardly rivals of any sort. Chandra was obviously enjoying hooking up with Chet from time to time . . .”

“How do you know that?”

“You remember the smutty voice messages on Chet’s phone I told you about?”

“The ones that made you blush at the station? Yeah.”

“Chandra’s voice. All of them.”

“Ah. Have the police made that connection?”

“I’m not sure. But even if they have, it only strengthens her position. Why would you kill someone you want to sleep with?”

“I guess if he said ‘no’ . . .”

“Chet wouldn’t say ‘no.’” Kathy said. “He’d sleep with anything wearing mascara.”

“Maybe he wasn’t willing to leave Andrea just yet.”

Kathy considered. “Wouldn’t Chet playing the field give Andrea a motive for murder? It’s almost always the girlfriend.”

Liz shook her head. “With the way she’s been working herself to death and wearing fake smiles, I’m pretty sure she’s grieving. Plus, I saw her face while the medics carried Chet out on a stretcher. Those tears were real.”

“Fine,” Kathy sighed. “You can cross her name off, too.”

“That leaves Harry and Sr. Sanchez.”

Kathy shrugged. “Harry’s a bit moody and could possibly have had the brains to do it. But again, I can’t imagine why he would. If he and Chet loved the same woman or Chet left Harry a fortune in his will, I could understand. But the most they spoke to each other was when they delivered their lines onstage. Otherwise, they kept to their own corners.”

“What about Sr. Sanchez?”

“I don’t know . . . .” Kathy rose from the table, went to the kitchen, and put her plate in the sink. “You want any cookies?” she called.

“Kathy, don’t change the subject and let his resemblance to your favorite high school English teacher blind you to the possibility. Some of the nicest people you meet are cold-blooded killers.”

“You read too many murder mysteries.” Kathy returned to her seat with a box of chocolate mint cookies. “But you may have a point. Chet was pretty racist and rude to him. And Detective Grafton said Sr. Sanchez has a record.”

“Really?”

“Yes, but it was from thirty years ago. He’s worked at the theater ever since serving his time. Barring Chet’s insults, I think he generally likes his job. So why jeopardize it?” She opened the box and ripped through the plastic bag of cookies.

“We’re starting to run out of suspects,” Liz grumbled. “Can we assume that whoever took Chet’s EpiPen put it into your purse before you came out to meet me at intermission? It’d be nice if we could make a timeline of events.”

Kathy shook her head. “I didn’t find the EpiPen in my purse until after we got home from the theater. I’m pretty sure I would have noticed it when I looked for the director’s gift money right before taking it out to you.”

“Wait,” Liz held up a hand. “You’re saying the EpiPen was NOT in your purse when you handed it to me at intermission?”

Kathy thought a moment. “I guess not. It would have been hard to miss.”

“Then that means the murderer must have slipped it into your purse after intermission. But after intermission, your purse was . . .”

“ . . . with you. In the audience,” Kathy finished, swallowing hard.

“And I was sitting next to Andrea.”

Kathy pushed the box of cookies aside; she’d suddenly lost her appetite.

32

Kathy and Liz stared at one another. The realization they had a plausible suspect sucked the oxygen from the room. Liz dropped her marker onto the table and

sank into her chair. She took a deep breath. “So you’re saying my boss is a murderer?!”

“Is she the only one who had access to my purse after intermission?” Kathy asked quietly.

Liz nodded. “Your purse sat under my theater seat for the whole show. And the chairs are so creaky, I would have noticed if someone bent down to grab it from the row behind.”

“You don’t remember anyone bumping into you in the lobby or anything?”

“You mean like a pickpocket? No.” Liz sat back in her chair and looked at the ceiling. “However . . . Andrea did bend down to grab her purse before she went to the restroom . . . but her reaction to Chet’s death looked pretty darn genuine. She hasn’t been herself since. And how could she have gotten the EpiPen out of the men’s dressing room without anyone seeing her backstage?”

“I don’t know,” Kathy admitted. “Detective Grafton told me Richard may have seen someone leaving the backstage area before the show started. But Richard couldn’t swear to any details. Could’ve been anyone.”

“That doesn’t exactly sound like proof, does it?” Liz scratched her head with the capped end of her marker. “The whole thing is so ironic. Here, you have an actor who’s supposed to die onstage. And he does so well, no one even notices anything’s wrong till curtain call. That’s taking ‘break a leg’ to a whole new level, don’t you think?”

Kathy stopped mid-sip from her teacup. “What did you say?”

Liz wrapped her fingers around her coffee mug. “I said that the whole thing’s ironic and . . . ”

“After that.”

“Uh . . . that Chet took breaking a leg to a whole new level?” Kathy closed her eyes and massaged her temples.

“Kathy? Are you okay?”

“Don’t talk,” Kathy ordered with her eyes squeezed shut.

Liz watched in silence as Kathy bent forward with her elbows on the table. Her lips moved silently as she mentally rewound the conversation outside the theater during intermission. All at once, she rose to her feet and pointed at her sister. “You were there!” she nearly shouted.

Liz started in her chair, nearly sloshing coffee onto the table. “I was?”

“Yes! Yes!” Kathy practically jumped up and down. Her grin nearly reached her ears. “You heard too! Quick! What did Andrea say to Chet as we were walking back to the theater at intermission?”

“Oh, Kathy, I have no clue. You know I’m a visual learner. I need to see it to remember it.”

“Then let me paint the scene: right before we turned to leave, Andrea kissed Chet on the lips and said, ‘Good luck in your final act!’ Oh, that was clever!”

“I don’t get it,” Liz said flatly.

“Don’t you see?” Kathy trembled with excitement. “No actor says ‘good luck!’ Everyone always says, ‘break a leg!’ Even you know that! And why would it be Chet’s final act anyway? Unless Andrea knew he would never act again.”

Liz swirled her coffee around in her mug. “Isn’t that reading a little too much into things? Anyone can use the wrong phrase.”

“But Andrea has a theater background!” Kathy declared. “I was wondering why she and Frank seemed so chummy during intermission. Why wouldn’t he be with one of his former actresses? And Ms. Cadsley told me Chet met his girlfriend during Romeo and Juliet. She couldn’t have meant Li Yan because she gave him a black eye during that show.”

“Are you sure Andrea’s the right girlfriend? He’s probably had several.”

“Positive. The company performed Romeo and Juliet three years ago, before I joined.”

“Now you mention it, there is a picture of Chet and Andrea dressed in medieval clothes hanging on her wall. I’d assumed they’d gone to a Renaissance Fair or something, but those could have been Romeo and Juliet costumes.”

Kathy bobbed her head. “It all makes sense! All Andrea had to do was apply some peanut-laced lip balm, kiss Chet before the second act, and BAM! That would explain the peanut proteins found on his mouth, but not in his stomach.”

“But why would a woman want to give her fiancé the kiss of death?”

“She wasn’t his fiancée! Chet called her his ‘roommate,’ remember? And have you ever seen her wear a ring?”

Liz frowned. “Well, she wears lots of Celtic ones, but no diamond. I still don’t get why she’d want to kill him, though.”

Kathy downed the rest of her tea in a single gulp. “Maybe Andrea cared more for Chet than he cared for her. Apparently, he’d been seeing Chandra behind her back. Chandra said Chet was planning to break up with Andrea as soon as his lease was over.”

“Chet was going to dump Andrea after living with her for two years?! What a selfish son of a⁠—”

“I know,” Kathy interrupted. “And Andrea’s not stupid. Maybe she got mad enough to kill him.”

“Why not kill Chandra, if she’s so jealous?”

Kathy shrugged. “Maybe she didn’t know who Chet was seeing on the sly or recognize the other woman’s voice on Chet’s phone messages.”

“Alright,” Liz said, setting her coffee mug down. “I grant you Andrea had means and possible motive. But what about opportunity? She was with me in the audience for most of the show, and no one in the cast or crew saw anyone else backstage— except maybe for Richard. He doesn’t sound like he could swear to anything in court. So how did Andrea get Chet’s EpiPen from the men’s dressing room?”

“Actually, everyone said they didn’t see anyone suspicious backstage. But Andrea wasn’t suspicious or unfamiliar to most people in the cast. She’d starred in an earlier show and was the lead actor’s girlfriend. She wouldn’t have stood out, not with everyone going to and fro before the performance. Plus, she would have known the dressing rooms would be empty a quarter till curtain; it’s common practice. All she had to do was wait at the backstage entrance, listen for Li Yan to give the order for places, walk into the men’s dressing room, grab the EpiPen, stuff it in her bra or something, then wait till intermission, kiss Chet, and pretend to be all concerned when he went into shock.”

“Yeah, but she looked really upset when Chet didn’t leave that pallet.”

“She looked it alright. But remember—she played Juliet! She’d had a whole season to practice appearing distraught over her dead lover! Lights, camera, action!”

Liz leaned back in her seat and balanced on two chair legs like she did when she was young. “I still don’t understand something. If Andrea had the EpiPen on her, then how did it end up in your purse?”

“That could have been an accident. And here’s where your observation came in handy. You know how Andrea mistook my purse for hers at the shop, and you pointed out my toggle was missing?”

“Yeah. You gave me the death stare for embarrassing you.”

“Andrea got up to go to the restroom just before the last act, didn’t she?”

Liz nodded.

“What if she reached down to grab her purse and then accidentally grabbed mine under your seat? She probably didn’t notice she had the wrong one until she got to the restroom. I don’t think silver platters come shinier than that. So she snatches the opportunity, places the EpiPen in my purse, and returns to her seat for the final curtain. All she has to do is play the role of bereaved lover and, voila! I’m star suspect.”

Liz exhaled. “You know how there weren’t any prints on the EpiPen? I just remembered Andrea wore brown leather gloves that night. But it’ll take more than a few plausible explanations to convince anyone official.”

“I know,” Kathy sighed as she poured herself another cup of tea. “I don’t think I can show my face in the police station until I have some solid evidence. I was so sure Frank was the murderer, and look where that led.”

“You need proof? Fine. Let’s start with the murder weapon—peanut-laced lip balm or some other equivalent. I did some digging while Andrea was on lunch break and got the info you asked for. Here’s a copy of our inventory from the last three months.” Liz handed Kathy a small stack of papers.

“Sheesh. I didn’t realize your inventory was so huge.” Kathy flipped the corner of the stack between her fingers.

“Yeah. I might have gone further back, but I only had about fifteen minutes before Andrea returned. Blueberry kale smoothies don’t take that long to drink. I didn’t bother copying the massage schedule because Chet wasn’t on it.”

Kathy sipped her tea as she perused the inventory. The list was alphabetical, so Kathy quickly went to “P” for peanut. “Passion fruit candle, passion fruit extract, passion fruit green tea, phosphorus, pineapple candle, pineapple herbal tea, potassium,

protein shake . . . no peanut anything. Maybe it’s under ‘O’ for oils.” She flipped a few pages back. “Cod liver oil, fish oil, olive oil . . . no peanut oil.” She let the papers fall to the table and slumped back into her chair. “Seriously! I thought we’d nailed it! Another theory down the drain.”

“Did you check under ‘C’?” Liz asked.

Kathy cocked her head. “‘C’ for peanut oil?”

“No, ‘C’ for carrier oils. Sometimes, if we don’t sell something directly to the public, it may be listed under product ingredients.” Kathy flipped to the ‘C’ section. Her eyes raced across the small print. “Olive oil, sandalwood oil . . . crap! Still no peanut oil!”

Liz leaned over Kathy’s shoulder and pointed to an entry. “What kind of oil is that?”

“I don’t know. It just says ‘oil.’”

“But look at the amounts. See how the other oils are in bulk sizes? Gallons and quarts and such?”

“Yes.”

“But this mystery oil’s only a few ounces. Why would Andrea order so little?”

“Has she been experimenting with anything recently?” Kathy asked.

Liz chuckled. “Lately, Sophia’s been doing the experimenting— with questionable results.”

“You haven’t seen Andrea working on any secret recipes after hours?”

“I don’t think . . . wait. Last week, I did see her in the back. I assumed she was working with Sophia. But now I think of it, that was on Thursday afternoon, and Sophia’s not in on Thursdays.”

Kathy leaned forward in her seat. “Do you have any idea what Andrea was working on?”

Liz scrunched her eyes shut and pantomimed placing invisible objects on the table. “She was hovering over a double boiler with a rubber spatula and had the shea butter out, some beeswax, and a couple containers. The small one was little and brown, so it must have been one of the essential oils.”

“And the other container?”

Liz shook her head. “Sorry. I didn’t read the label. But it was a smallish plastic container.”

“Like one that might hold about eight ounces of mystery oil?”

“Probably exactly.”

Kathy drummed her fingers on the table. “Any chance we could get a hold of that container?”

“Very likely. Trash pickup isn’t until Thursday morning.”

“That’s tomorrow!”

“Then there’s a good chance your evidence could still be in a trashcan from last week.” Liz stood to her feet. “Come on. Get your coat.”

“Why?” Kathy asked. “Where are we going?”

“We’re going to get that container,” Liz said as she marched toward the front door. “Tonight.”

33

The rain had washed away the clouds, leaving a crystal-clear night sky twinkling with stars–at least the brightest ones which weren’t obscured by Chattanooga’s city lights.

“I’m starting to have second thoughts about this,” Kathy said as her sister’s VW Bug rumbled down Main Street. “I feel like Friar Laurence mixing his potion.”

“Who’s Friar Laurence?” Liz asked, her hands grasping her poofy purple steering wheel.

“He’s the guy in Romeo and Juliet who tried to help, but ultimately made everything worse.”

“Look,” Liz reasoned, “you said you couldn’t go back to the police without concrete evidence—or plastic, in this case.”

Kathy wrung her hands together. They felt cold, even with the heat turned to full blast. “I thought we’d just snag the container from a trash can on the curb. I didn’t think we’d be breaking and entering.”

“It’s not breaking and entering if you have a key,” Liz said. “You have a key?”

“Well . . . no,” Liz admitted as she parked in the gravel lot behind Angela’s Herbals. “But I know where Andrea keeps the spare. We’ll go in, look around, and come out. It’ll take five minutes, tops. And we’re not stealing—we’re just taking some of the trash out early.”

During the day, the shop looked like an earthy place to reconnect with one’s spirit. But at night, with the windows dark and the cold ceramic Buddhas staring hollowly from the storefront display, it looked more like a haunt for demons.

Kathy turned up her coat collar even though she hadn’t left the warm car. “Are you sure this can’t wait until morning?” she asked one last time.

Liz unbuckled her seat belt. “Kathy, we’re here now! Besides, they pick up the trash at 6:00 am, and Andrea gets here shortly after. How could I explain looking through a trash can on the street at that hour? One of the reasons I got this job was to avoid working in the mornings so I could attend classes. It’s now or never.”

Kathy pursed her lips. “You’re right. I guess I’ll never feel comfortable trespassing—even if it’s in an effort to pursue justice.”

“We’re not trespassing. I work here!” Liz faced her sister with exasperation written all over her countenance. “Do you want that oil container or not?”

“Yes . . . But if we find what we’re looking for—or if someone finds us—you may want to get a new job.”

“One problem at a time, please.”

The sisters quietly shut their car doors and went to the shop’s kitchen entrance. Liz wound her multi-colored scarf around her nose and trotted up the wooden steps to the roof garden. Kathy waited below and strained her ears to hear any approaching vehicles. Half a minute later, Liz skipped down the steps and

held out a silver key. “See! Easy-peasy.” She stuck it in the doorknob, unlocked the deadbolt, and strode inside.

Kathy remained in the doorway. “Where’s the light switch?” she murmured as she stood in the darkness. She reached out her fingers and felt the cold, stainless steel counter against the wall.

“Over there,” Liz said from inside. “I’ll get it in a . . . Whoa!”

Kathy flinched at the sound of pots and bottles clattering to the floor. “Liz! Liz! Are you okay!?” she called.

Silence.

“Liz!” Kathy nearly yelled.

“Yeah,” Liz groaned from about fifteen feet away. “Just tripped. I hope I didn’t get another concussion.”

Kathy heard her sister shuffle to the corner of the room. “Watch your eyes,” she warned.

Kathy blinked as the overhead lights illuminated the shop’s commercial kitchen. All was tidy except for the brown shards of glass and oil on the floor. A tea kettle, colander, and metal spoon also lay on the hardwood. Spearmint filled the air, making Kathy’s eyes sting. “Only five minutes, eh? Is there a rag around here?”

“Use the one hanging by the stove,” Liz said, her hand to her head. “I’ll get a broom. And maybe some plastic gloves while I’m at it. Don’t want to leave any fingerprints on potential evidence.” Kathy retrieved the rag and started mopping up the oil. “I’m not sure if we’ve technically broken and entered, but we’ve officially entered and broken.”

“Har, har,” said Liz without so much as a smirk.

“Why don’t you look through the trash while I clean this up? I want to get out of here as soon as possible.”

“Good idea.”

“By the way, how much will it cost to replace what we spilled?” Kathy held up a piece of brown glass.

“A bottle of essential oil? About forty dollars.”

Whoa! Kathy inwardly cringed. Hopefully, I won’t need gas till Friday.

“Can you crack a window?” Liz asked. “I feel like I’m drowning in toothpaste.”

“Just a sec.” Kathy rinsed out the rag in the utility sink, swept up the glass, and was about to open the window near the back door when she heard the low crunch of gravel outside. Another car had pulled up. Oh no! They’ll see us! Between her rising anxiety and the aromatic fumes, she thought she might swoon.

“Liz!” she hissed, “hurry up and find that bottle! Somebody’s here!”

“What?!” Liz said from the corner of the room. She bent beside a small pile of plastic containers, pieces of paper, and cardboard packaging. “Should I turn off the light?”

Kathy heard a car door slam about fifty feet away. “Too late! What do we do?!”

Liz turned back to the trash can and dug faster. Kathy backed away from the window toward her sister. A lone figure approached the door carrying a large box.

“Hello?” a woman’s voice called, somewhat muffled by the box. “Could you get the door, please?”

Not knowing what else to do, Kathy reached for the door handle and did as she was asked.

“Thanks,” the woman said as she stepped inside. Then she heaved the box onto the stainless-steel counter and met eyes with Kathy.

“Kathy Waters!” Sophia gasped. “I thought you were Andrea! What on earth are you doing here?”

“I, uh, came in with my sister,” Kathy stammered. It was technically true. “Sorry to scare you.”

“Liz?” Sophia called.

“Hey,” Liz rose from the trash can and tossed her gloves inside it. “Whatcha got in the box?” she asked casually as she approached the counter.

Sophia’s shoulders relaxed. “More decorations for the grand reopening. I bought them earlier and thought I’d drop them by on my way home. But what are you doing here? It’s almost 8:30. I thought you left hours ago.”

Kathy’s insides felt horribly pinched; this was worse than wearing her Ophelia corset.

Liz shrugged. “I came back to look for something that may have gotten thrown out.” She kept her voice remarkably placid— almost bored.

“Oh. Like a ring or something?”

“Something like that,” Liz nodded. “I didn’t want to have to beat the garbage truck in the morning. We were in the area, and I used the spare key from the roof garden. But I tripped over something en route to the light switch and knocked some stuff over. We were just cleaning it up when you came to the door.”

“That explains the spearmint,” Sophia sighed. “I ordered that bottle last week. I wanted to whip up some hand lotion with it.”

“I’d like to pay for it,” Kathy said quickly. She opened her purse.

“You don’t have to do that. Accidents happen.”

“But it wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t come.” Kathy dipped into her purse, hoping she had some cash.

“The register’s locked. But you can leave the money on Andrea’s desk if you want.”

Kathy nodded and left Liz to chat it up with Sophia. I knew this was a bad idea! That’s the last time I let my sister talk me into playing Nancy Drew!

Kathy turned the doorknob to Andrea’s office and flipped on the light switch. She carefully stepped over the wooden stoop and set her purse on the desk to find her last two twenties. After setting the bills atop one of the legal pads, Andrea’s comment from their Chattanooga Line interview flashed through her mind: “I do most of my recipe planning on legal pads. Great medium for creative flow . . .”

Kathy . . . the reasonable side of her warned. She looked toward the office door, then back at the yellow papers.

It won’t take long to take a peek, her inner journalist countered.

You don’t have a warrant!

So? You’re not a policewoman.

If you start snooping, you may have to answer to one . . . .

Compromise: we’ll just take pictures.

Her conscience thus silenced, Kathy started flipping through the legal pad sheets feeling half Lois Lane, half Lex Luthor. It took a minute, but eventually, she found it: a recipe for lip balm written in cursive. The first ingredient: cold-pressed peanut oil.

Score!

Kathy’s heart leaped. She dug into her purse for Liz’s phone and hurriedly took a photo of the paper. Then, spying the picture on the wall with Andrea and Chet in Renaissance garb, she snapped another photo. Maybe this was a good idea after all, Kathy smiled to herself. I have to get these to the police ASAP and get Frank off the hook.

Then Kathy heard the door behind her creak open. She pocketed Liz’s phone and turned around, expecting to see her sister.

But it wasn’t Liz.

Kathy’s blood ran ice cold as she saw Andrea standing in the doorway.

34

A. . . Andrea!” Kathy started, acting like she’d been caught eating ice cream out of someone else’s freezer.

Her stomach tensed. Her pulse quickened. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking.

Andrea blocked the only door to the room, wearing a black coat that nearly touched the back of her calves. “You shouldn’t be in here,” she said as she crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame.

Kathy swallowed hard. Her sushi dinner threatened to make a second appearance. “I shouldn’t?”

“Of course not!” Andrea suddenly smiled. “Liz told me all about the broken bottle. There’s no need to pay for it.”

“Oh . . .” Kathy exhaled. “You’re sure?”

“Do you have any idea how many things Sophia’s broken since she started?” Andrea asked in a confidential tone. “She’s a wonderful masseuse but a little accident-prone.”

“Well, it was our fault,” Kathy said. “Why should you have to pay for someone else’s carelessness?”

Andrea’s face tensed, and Kathy could see the veins on the side of her neck throbbing.

Kathy’s own throat felt dry. Did I say too much?

Finally, Andrea waved Kathy’s comment aside. “It’s too late for money talk. After all the free press you’ve given us and your help with Chet’s investigation, I couldn’t care less about a bit of spilled oil.” Andrea’s lips smiled, but her eyes didn’t.

“Speaking of Chet’s investigation . . .” Kathy fished in an effort to lure Andrea’s attention away from what she’d been photographing moments before.

“Yes?”

“The police arrested someone today.”

“Really?” Andrea’s eyes danced, but her mouth remained neutral.

Kathy continued despite the second warning from her stomach. “I gave Chet’s phone to the police, and they had enough probable cause to bring Frank in. Apparently, he’s been swindling the theater company for years, and Chet might have been trying to blackmail him.”

Andrea walked past Kathy and sat down at her desk. “I’m speechless,” she said at length. “Though I guess that gives Frank a motive for murder. I never did trust him. There was always something shady about that man . . . .” Now, her eyes laughed as her lips frowned.

Kathy’s blood pressure threatened to blow a gasket at how quickly Andrea threw Frank under the bus. She took a breath to steady herself. “It’s unfortunate how many people aren’t what they seem,” she said, fighting to keep her tone as nonchalant as Liz had kept hers.

Andrea shifted her gaze to the desk. “So, is this the end of the investigation?” she asked, straightening the legal pad Kathy had flipped through.

“Could be,” Kathy said. “Frank knew about Chet’s allergy, and anyone can get a hold of peanuts. He had perfect access to the entire backstage area.”

“When will there be a trial?” Andrea asked a little too eagerly. “I’m not sure. But Frank claims he’s innocent.”

“Every criminal claims that.” Andrea shook her head in disgust. “Do the police have any other suspects?”

“Not as far as I know,” Kathy said truthfully.

“Then I guess we’ll have to wait for the system to run its course.”

Kathy nodded slowly as Liz came to the doorway. “Kathy, you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Kathy said, hoping she didn’t sound too relieved. “Nice to talk with you again, Andrea. I’ll keep you updated on the investigation.” She turned toward the door and reached into her pocket for Liz’s phone.

“Thanks. And Kathy,” Andrea said, rising from her desk. “Yes?”

“Here’s your money back.” She held out Kathy’s twenties. Kathy reached for the money, but in her haste, she accidentally dropped the phone on Andrea’s desk. It landed face up, displaying the most recent photo—the framed picture of Andrea and Chet wearing Romeo and Juliet costumes. Kathy snatched it up, hoping with all her fingers metaphorically crossed that Andrea hadn’t noticed the screen.

“Careful!” Liz stepped in. “Until your new one arrives in the mail, that’s the only phone between the two of us.” Liz draped her arm around Kathy and faced her boss with a confidential smile. “You should have seen her as a teenager. She broke so many dishes, Mom forbid her from the sink and put her on permanent vacuum duty.”

“Mm-hmm,” Kathy concurred, hoping her cheeks weren’t flushed.

Andrea’s chuckle sounded forced.

“Come on, sis. Let’s go before we break anything else. And don’t worry, Andrea, I’ll put the spare key back under the big flower pot. See you tomorrow!”

Without waiting for a response, Liz practically pushed Kathy through the office door.

* * *

“Whew!” Liz exhaled once she’d driven a few blocks from the shop. Bright streetlights glided by, reflecting off puddles near the edge of the road. “Glad that’s over! We were like ninjas in there!” “Clumsy ninjas,” Kathy said as she turned in her seat to look out the rear windshield. “Real ninjas wouldn’t have broken into

the kitchen . . .”

“With a key,” Liz interjected.

“With a key,” Kathy continued, “Or busted a bottle of essential oil and managed to get caught by both your coworker and suspicious boss. If we were real ninjas, they’d make us burn our belts and take up Tai Chi.”

“It was still thrilling,” Liz said, determined to be cheerful. “And not wholly unsuccessful.” With one hand on the fuzzy purple steering wheel, she took a napkin from the dash and retrieved a small plastic container from her coat pocket. The label read, “Peanut Oil, Cold-Pressed.”

“How’s that for evidence?” she grinned.

“Good work!” Kathy smiled genuinely for the first time since getting into the car that evening. “This confirms the evidence I found!”

“What evidence?”

Kathy procured Liz’s phone from her pocket. “When I went into Andrea’s office, I saw a legal pad on her desk. I remembered her mentioning that she uses legal pads for creative projects, so I flipped through it. Sure enough, I found a lip balm recipe written in her handwriting. Guess what the first ingredient is?”

“Cold-pressed peanut oil?”

“Bingo.” Kathy held up the screen with the image of a yellow sheet of paper.

“So that proves she made peanut-laced lip balm recently! That could definitely cause an allergic reaction.”

“I also got a shot of the photo with her and Chet wearing Romeo and Juliet costumes to establish her theater background. And I can probably find an old playbill at the theater to confirm her role as Juliet.”

“That’s excellent! Andrea had means, opportunity, and probable motive. Looks like you’ve solved the case!”

Kathy grimaced. “Not exactly. I’d still have to prove Andrea wore that particular lip balm on the night in question. And we have another little problem.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m pretty sure Andrea saw the photo I took when I accidentally dropped your phone on the desk. She knows I’m helping with the investigation and that I obviously suspect her. Why else would I be taking pictures in her office?” Kathy looked over her shoulder again.

“Well,” Liz said at length, “Maybe she didn’t notice. She was busy talking to me, remember?”

“Speaking of . . . speaking, I guess, thanks for rescuing me in there. I’ve never been great at improv. You were super-smooth, though.”

“If you can’t cook up a good lie, sometimes the truth will do,” Liz said with a flick of her hair as she made a right-hand turn. “Anyway, I’ve been working with these people for months, so I felt less intimidated.”

Kathy nodded and turned around in her seat once more. “Why do you keep doing that?” Liz asked.

“There’s an SUV that’s been tailing us for the last four miles.”

Liz frowned and glanced up at the rear-view mirror. “Andrea drives an SUV,” she murmured.

“Is it hers?”

Liz squinted. “Can’t tell. It’s not close enough. These orange streetlights make every car look black.”

As they came to a red light, Liz flipped on her right signal. “What are you doing?” Kathy asked. “That’s not the way to the police station.”

“Just a little experiment.” Liz turned right and drove, pressing the gas pedal a little harder. Kathy looked behind them. Four seconds later, the SUV made the same turn.

Liz’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Okay. Round two.” She flipped on her left signal and turned into an old neighborhood. Again, the SUV followed.

“Okay! I’m getting freaked out!” Liz announced, now checking the rear-view mirror every other moment.

“What should we do?” Kathy asked, looking over her shoulder.

Liz gripped the stick shift and ordered, “Tighten your seat belt.”

Before Kathy could take her next breath, Liz surged ahead like a NASCAR driver. Once her body caught up with the inertia, Kathy turned her head to glance behind. Sure enough, the SUV followed . . . and was catching up.

Kathy tried to text Detective Grafton, but he wasn’t responding. Her head nearly banged into the passenger window as Liz made a wild left turn. She reached up and clung to the assist handle on the ceiling as Liz took corner after corner in dizzying succession. Then they flew around a traffic circle, barely keeping upright.

“Liz,” Kathy moaned, “I think I’m going to hurl!”

“Just a couple more turns, and we’ll be there. Hold on!” Liz put the car in fourth gear.

Kathy closed her eyes tightly and tried not to think about her stomach bouncing around in a pinball machine.

“I can see the station!” Liz shouted. “It’s after this next intersection.”

Kathy opened her eyes and glanced behind her headrest. “Did we shake it?” Liz asked.

“Still there!”

“Then we’re making this light!” She dropped into fifth gear and sped past a 40 mph speed limit sign.

“It’s yellow!” Kathy shouted. “You’ll never make it!”

“Watch me!” Liz barreled down the road. Kathy looked behind her and gasped.

“Liz! Slow down!”

“What?”

“Slow down! There’s a police car behind us!”

“Thank goodness!” Liz said.

“It’s got its lights on.”

“Oh, crap!”

Red, white, and blue lights nearly dazzled the sisters as the cop pulled astride Liz’s car and pointed toward the station on their left. Liz nodded and eased her VW Bug into the parking lot. Kathy slumped in her seat. “This investigation is getting rather expensive,” she said as she grabbed her purse.

“At least we’re getting stopped by a cop and not a homicidal maniac.” Liz leaned over to unlock the glove compartment.

Both sisters heard the police car door open and shut behind them. They cringed as the officer’s footsteps grew louder.

“May I see your license and registration, ma’am?” the stocky, thirty-something policeman said from Liz’s driver-side window. It was not a question.

Liz pulled out the appropriate documents, rolled down her window, and shivered as a whoosh of chilly night air blew into the car. “Here you are, sir. I’m sorry for possibly speeding,” she said lamely.

“Fifty-seven in a forty-five? That’s definitely speeding.”

Liz shivered again.

“Excuse me, sir,” Kathy leaned over the console to make eye contact with the officer. “I’m Kathy Waters—the journalist working with Captain Woods and Detective Grafton on the Cadsley case.”

“Oh, really?” he said, taking a pen from his pocket. “That’s no excuse for disregarding Tennessee traffic laws.”

“If I can explain, we were coming to the station to drop off some new evidence, and this SUV started tailing us. We couldn’t shake it.”

“What SUV?” he asked.

Kathy leaned out her window and looked up and down the deserted street. It might as well have been three in the morning. “We must have lost it,” Kathy muttered with reddening cheeks.

“What evidence was important enough to get a ticket for?” Liz put her head in her hands.

Kathy dug her sister’s phone out of her purse. “I have a photo of an incriminating handwritten document,” she said as she held out the phone to the officer, “a picture of a suspect with the victim and a plastic bottle with the remains of a possible murder weapon.”

“You didn’t touch the bottle, did you?” he asked skeptically.

“No,” Kathy picked up a napkin, curled it around the bottle’s cap, and held it out to the gloved officer. “We were careful.”

He examined the bottle without touching it, then eyed the sisters sternly. “Consider this the biggest traffic warning of your lives. But if I catch you—either of you—speeding like that again, you will pay. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” the sisters murmured like chastised children. “Fine then. I’ll take the bottle inside. But you know this means

I have to write a report now, right?” He retrieved an evidence bag, had Kathy drop the bottle inside, sealed it, and started scribbling on the bag. “You have the captain’s number, I presume?”

“Yes,” Kathy said.

“Send him the photos on your phone. If anyone follows y’all home, dial 911. And don’t drive faster than the numbers on the signs. They’re not speed suggestions.” He handed Liz’s documentation back.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We’re sorry, sir,” Liz said. She took the gear shift with a trembling hand, put it in first, and eased toward the parking lot exit.

“Tea and coffee?” Kathy offered once Liz had rolled up her window.

“I’m thinking something stronger,” Liz said as she flipped her right turn signal.

“Probably not while driving, though.”

“Agreed.” Liz turned out of the station and headed for home.

Neither sister saw the SUV at the gas station across the street flip on its lights and pull out after them.

35

Kathy was one of those sensitive souls who could never rest well without closure. As soon as Liz’s phone had enough bars, she sent her evidence photos

(with a long explanatory text message) to Detective Grafton. After taking a hot bath and watching her current BBC binge series in an effort to emotionally erase the last hour of her life, she checked Liz’s phone for a response—no text from Grafton. She frowned. I wish he’d at least acknowledge my message . . .

Kathy didn’t know if her most recent attempt to pursue justice would absolve her from her dealings with Frank or further alienate her from the attractive detective. There was something beyond Grafton’s perfect cheekbones and pleasing physique that intrigued her. Before bed, she checked Liz’s phone again—still no text from Grafton.

Kathy did not sleep well that night.

On Thursday morning, she dragged herself out of bed, went to the office, tidied some articles, and ordered a pen recorder while fighting the urge to text Grafton again. By lunchtime, she broke down and actually left a voice message inquiring whether he’d received the photos.

At 3:00, he finally texted back: “Could you please swing by the station before 5:30?”

That’s cryptic. Kathy studied the screen. Why would he want me to come in? Maybe they’ve arrested Andrea!

Kathy donned her pea coat and purse and headed for the station. Sergeant Brown greeted her fifteen minutes later with a cool nod from the front desk. “Captain Woods is expecting you.”

“And Detective Grafton?”

“Think so. But a word of warning; they’re a little . . .” He shuffled a stack of files.

Kathy’s smile disappeared. “Upset?”

“You could say that. The theater director got bailed out this morning. He threatened a lawsuit as he left the station.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Mm hmm. Have fun.”

Kathy trudged toward Captain Woods’ door like a juvenile delinquent sent to the Principal’s office. She knocked quietly.

“Come in.”

Looking up from his desk, Captain Woods gestured toward the chair in front of him with an upturned palm. “Sit down, Ms. Waters.”

Kathy obeyed. She wanted to burst into explanations, but on catching Detective Grafton’s ever-so-subtle shake of that strong jaw, she wisely kept mum.

Captain Woods sipped his unadulterated coffee, then looked Kathy in the eye. “Ms. Waters, we’re both busy people. So, I’ll come to the point. I don’t like you getting so involved in this investigation.”

Kathy’s torso braced as if for a punch. “Have I written anything inappropriate?”

“I don’t mind what you’ve written. It’s when you’re not writing that worries me. Reporting on official business is one thing. But sneaking around looking for evidence without a badge or any other officer knowing your whereabouts is another. If we don’t follow protocol— such as having a qualified officer gather evidence—then the defense will just argue we planted it and get anything you produce from your little Nancy Drew missions thrown out of court. I heard you’ve even gotten your own sister mixed up in this. I thought I made it clear at our last meeting that you weren’t to take unnecessary risks.”

Kathy felt hurt by the Nancy Drew jab; she’d always loved those books. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to invalidate any evidence or violate protocol. It’s just my sister remembered a possible lead at work, and we wanted to check it out before it wound up in a garbage truck. We thought we could satisfy our curiosity in a couple minutes. It didn’t seem dangerous at the time, but I see your point of view.”

“My point of view? Are trespassing and reckless driving also just a matter of one’s point of view?” Captain Woods set his mug on the desk and leaned forward to place his face level with Kathy’s. “Let me tell you something, Ms. Waters. You can’t uphold the law by breaking it, understand? That makes you no better than the crook you’re trying to catch.”

Kathy sat as still as a Civil War memorial as the captain eased back into his chair. “Let’s pretend your instincts are right. What if Andrea had tried to kill you last night? It would have taken hours—possibly days—for us to find out. And by that time, she would have gained a huge start. You’re a fine researcher, Ms. Waters, but you’re not a trained investigator. Do you own a firearm? Or even know how to use one?”

“No,” Kathy admitted.

“So what if a criminal does?” He placed the empty mug on the corner of his desk. “From now on, Ms. Waters, I prefer you confine any further interest in this investigation to the page and nothing but the page. Do we understand each other?”

Kathy nodded, her lips cloaking clenched teeth.

“Good. Now that that’s out of the way, I can give you a status update for the paper.”

“Oh, yes,” Kathy said, feeling deflated. She did not relish having to publish her ill-informed escapade with Frank for all Chattanooga to read.

“For the record,” the Captain began once Kathy had her pen and pad ready, “Frank Wilson was arrested yesterday and got out on bail this morning. He is still declaring his innocence. The investigation is ongoing while we continue to evaluate other suspects.”

“Anyone else specifically?”

Captain Woods nodded toward Grafton. “Is your phone off?” Grafton asked.

“I’m still borrowing my sister’s phone. Mine arrives in the mail tomorrow. I’m not recording anything.” She put the device on the desk anyway.

“Off the record, and despite your ill-gotten evidence,” the Captain said, “we are taking another look at Andrea. It must have been a slow night at the lab, because the results came in early. Andrea’s prints were all over the empty bottle.”

“Really?” Kathy brightened.

“Yes, but even if the evidence had been properly processed, it’s all circumstantial,” Grafton said. “There’s no law against making lip balm with cold-pressed peanut oil. She could always say she forgot she was wearing that particular kind when she kissed Chet. We’ve asked the pathologist to double-check if there’s any residue on the lips of the deceased, but unless we can prove Andrea wore this specific lip balm with the intent to harm, our case is about as solid as a bowl of Jell-o.”

“Yep,” Woods agreed. “A bowl of Jell-o that’s been left in the sun too long.”

“So what happens now?” Kathy asked.

“We wait to hear from the pathologist. If there’s a positive correlation to what we found in the bottle, we can bring Andrea in for questioning and see if she contradicts herself in any way. But if she’s as good an actress as you suggest, I doubt we’ll find anything to hold her here.”

“And that’s it?” Kathy hoped she didn’t sound too accusatory. “For now.” Captain Woods rose from his desk. “Again, we appreciate your help. But if you play with rattlesnakes, we can’t

promise you won’t get bit.”

“I understand, sir. Thank you.” Kathy rose slowly from her seat and let herself out of the office.

* * *

Kathy walked down the hallway under a dark cloud. I bend over backward to help find the truth, and they rap my knuckles.

Why should I even bother anymore? Her pace slackened when she neared the restroom. But the Captain has a point—I never should have gotten Liz involved. I should have gone to the herb shop myself when the trash can was safely on the curb.

Bristling at her own regrets, Kathy walked toward the station entrance when Detective Grafton called after her. “Ms. Waters!”

She turned.

“You left your purse.” He trotted to her and held it out.

“Oh. Thanks.” She slipped the strap over her shoulder. “If it wasn’t for this darn thing, I’d probably be working on some cushy local celebrity story right now.” She met his ocean eyes for an instant, then dropped hers to avoid drowning. “By the way, I’m sorry again about what happened with Frank. That’s why I wanted to go to Andrea’s shop last night—to find a real suspect and help set things straight. Despite what you may think, I’m not trying to get myself killed. I’m just trying to get to the bottom of this thing.”

Detective Grafton scratched the back of his neck. “We respect your research. We just don’t want it landing you in the morgue.”

“You think I need babysitting?” Kathy’s voice crescendoed on the last syllable.

“No . . .” Grafton shook his head. “Perhaps a little more experience with how to handle crime and . . .”

“Detective Grafton,” Kathy interrupted, “I used to be the top Chattanooga Line news writer. I often arrived on the scene before paramedics cleaned things up for the photographer. I’ve interviewed victims of robbery, rape, assault, fires, car accidents, flash floods, and tornadoes. I even covered . . .” here her voice

faltered a little, “covered the elementary school bombing a couple years ago. So please,” she raised a hand, “don’t tell me I need more experience.”

Detective Grafton took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I didn’t know you covered the school bombing” He looked down at his shiny black loafers. “Worst day of my career. Some things time won’t mute.”

“I’m not naïve, Detective,” Kathy said in a less prickly voice. “But since this case happened in my backyard, or backstage, rather, I want to help solve it. I feel like we’re so close with the Andrea angle.”

Grafton looked up. “Truth be told, Ms. Waters, without you, we wouldn’t have a case. Everyone would have assumed Chet’s death was an accident. And your theory about Andrea sounds plausible, which is why we’re taking a second look at her. Trouble is, even if we bring her in for questioning, she’ll just deny everything.”

Kathy pulled her purse strap higher on her shoulder. “Can’t we at least get her on an involuntary manslaughter charge? Whether she meant to or not, her lip balm very likely led to Chet’s death.”

“Sorry. Involuntary manslaughter only applies if someone unintentionally kills someone while breaking the law in some way—like hitting a construction worker while speeding. But like the captain said, it’s not illegal to wear homemade lip balm. Plus, the missing EpiPen points to premeditated murder. Other than Richard’s vague recollection backstage and your circumstantial evidence, we can’t tie Andrea to this at all.”

Kathy felt like cursing. Then she thought of something. “What if I recorded Andrea casually discussing what happened on opening night?”

“To what end?”

“To see if she lets something slip. If you get chummy during an interview, people say all sorts of things they’d never want in print. Andrea might not be as guarded with me as she would with an officer. Maybe she’d contradict her official statement in some way and cast reasonable doubt on her bereaved-lover act.”

Grafton took a deep breath. “I don’t know if the Captain would go for that.”

Kathy took it a step further. “What if I recorded Andrea under your supervision? I’m supposed to see her anyway at the memorial service on Saturday afternoon. I’m sure I could catch her by herself at some point. It’s worth a shot, don’t you think?”

Grafton ran a hand through his loose brown curls. “Not the words I would have used, but I’ll talk to the captain and see what he says. If it doesn’t work, we’re no worse off than we are now. Just promise you won’t do any other vigilante investigating until we get back to you. Deal?” He extended his hand.

Kathy considered, then grasped it firmly. A tingling sensation radiated up her arm and startled her for a moment. She dropped his hand like a piping hot teapot.

“One more thing,” Grafton said, oblivious to Kathy’s inner turmoil. “You may want to ask your sister to take a couple days off work till things get settled. If Andrea really is a murderer and suspects what you two were really doing at the shop . . .”

“Liz could be in danger,” Kathy finished, her core muscles involuntarily tensing. “I’ll talk to her,” she promised.

Just then, a muffled man’s voice started singing an aria. Grafton pointed to Kathy’s purse. “Is that . . . opera?”

Kathy reached inside her handbag and quickly silenced her sister’s phone. “Liz always switches the ringtone on my phone, and I thought since I had hers . . . You know what? It doesn’t matter.” Kathy’s ears were throbbing. “Anyway, could you please let me know what Captain Woods says about my idea or call if anything newsworthy happens?”

“Will do. Goodbye, Ms. Waters.”

Kathy watched his lean, strong frame return to the office. Then she walked, red-cheeked, toward the lobby. As she went past the front desk, Sergeant Brown called, “Hey, drive home safe, y’hear!”

Kathy blinked. Had news of the crazy girls running from the phantom SUV spread throughout the police station? Or had he finally remembered giving her the ticket when she’d driven on the shoulder? Good grief, Kathy. He’s probably just being polite. She turned and smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant Brown.”

She left through the station doors and inhaled a crisp breath of air before heading for her Camry. When she reached it, she sat silently for a moment before turning on the ignition. Kathy, Kathy, Kathy. What have you signed up for?

36

6:29 pm.

Kathy looked from her living room clock to her tea magazine for the fourth time that evening. Since she still had Liz’s phone in her possession (and had dutifully switched its ringtone back to Liz’s original setting), she couldn’t relieve her anxiety by texting her sister. Nor did she feel comfortable calling Liz at the shop. She’d simply have to wait for her sister to come home from work and hope Andrea didn’t bump her off before then.

Kathy scowled over the top of her page at the long-haired fur ball scratching at the other arm of the couch. Liz had dubbed the feline “Dorian Gray” because she thought the name sounded distinguished. Kathy had suggested the moniker herself, knowing full well Liz had never read the novel. Even if she had, Liz would never admit the resemblance between her beloved pet and the famous literary character who hid a rotting soul behind his handsome face.

Dorian hopped onto the sofa, commandeered Kathy’s favorite floral throw pillow, and started licking himself with one hind paw in the air. Kathy could never understand how a creature that lay around eighteen hours a day could be so darn flexible; it defied science.

6:32 pm.

Kathy reread the same sentence for the third time before tossing the magazine on the coffee table. Dorian hissed at her for disturbing his grooming. Kathy reached for the periodical and raised it above her head. Dorian looked at her, yawned, then circled himself to face the opposite direction.

With begrudging self-control, Kathy lowered her arm and placed the magazine back on the table. This is why I hate cats.

6:36 pm.

The sound of a key unlocking the deadbolt made Kathy jump. “I’m home!” Liz called as she hung her coat by the front door. Dorian Gray leaped from the couch and attacked Liz with all the passion of a long-lost lover. Kathy could hear his purring from twenty feet away.

“Gee, someone’s glad to see me.” Liz grinned as she scooped up the furry imp and nuzzled him between the ears.

“He’s not the only one,” Kathy said as she got up from her seat.

“What? Am I late or something?”

“No, I was only a little concerned how things would go at work after everything that happened last night.”

“You worry too much,” Liz said. “Everything’s totally under control. No one even brought it up. And guess what? Now that Sophia’s working full-time, Jade’s officially off my case! I heard him ask her out this evening. This calls for ice cream. Want some?” She headed into the kitchen.

“No thanks,” Kathy said. “But speaking of cases, I went to the police station this afternoon. They’re taking another look at Andrea.”

“As they should, thanks to us.” Liz released Dorian onto the floor.

“They weren’t too happy with how we got our evidence.”

Liz found a bowl on the shelf and tapped the cabinet door shut. “We had a key! And the bottle was already in the trash. What’s the big deal?”

“They don’t want us getting into awkward situations with potential murderers.”

Liz opened the silverware drawer. “Look, I had no idea Andrea was going to be in the office that late. But what do they want us to do? Call 911 every time we want to do a little sleuthing? Please. We’re adults.”

“They may be overreacting a bit, but there is one point on which we do agree.”

“And that is . . . ?”

Kathy took a final breath before taking the plunge; she knew it would be icy. “That you should probably take a break from work for a while.”

Liz frowned. “Come again?”

“Listen, if Andrea was following us in the SUV last night, she knows we went to the police with something. And if she’s killed once, what’s to stop her from doing it again? She knows your schedule and could easily slip something in your coffee if she wanted.”

“Kathy!” Liz gestured toward her sister with a steak knife, realized she’d grabbed the wrong utensil, and traded it for a spoon. “You’re sounding paranoid!”

“I’m serious.” Kathy stood up straight to make the most of her height—superior to her sister’s by a whole half-inch.

“Kathy, I interviewed at eight different places before landing a job that would work with my classes. I really don’t want to job hunt again, not with Christmas around the corner. And in the event your theory doesn’t pan out, I’d rather have a job than not. Besides, everyone at the shop is working like crazy to get things ready for the reopening. I can’t take off now. It would be irresponsible.”

“Getting fired is better than getting killed.”

“I’m not quitting my job.” Liz shoved the drawer shut. “How would I explain it on my resume? ‘I thought my former boss might kill me’? I’d never get hired anywhere ever again.”

“I’m not asking you to quit. But can’t you lay low for a couple days until we figure things out with Andrea?”

“No!” Liz opened the freezer door and grabbed a full half-gallon of Blue Bell Mint Chocolate Chip.

“Hey! You don’t even like mint chocolate chip!” Kathy protested.

“I do tonight.” Liz ripped off the plastic lid and started scooping. “I can’t believe you want me out of work just because a couple cops are worried about their liability.”

“I don’t want you out of work, just out of danger. And really, for your own safety, you should probably be off the case.”

Liz stared at Kathy with her green-topped spoon frozen in mid-air. “Off the case?! You wouldn’t even have evidence but for me! A pretty boy says your sister shouldn’t help and now you’re kicking me to the curb?!”

“No,” Kathy ran her fingers through her hair and resisted the urge to pull some of it out. “Maybe it feels that way, and I fully admit I got you mixed up in all this. You’ve honestly been a huge help . . . .” She gritted her teeth as she remembered having this same conversation a few hours earlier with the investigators. “But bottom line, I don’t want you to pay for my theories. I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to you. Not again.”

Liz plopped the mint-green ball into her bowl and pointed to the stitches on her forehead. “Kathy, these have nothing to do with my involvement in the case. Crazy crap can happen to anyone. But you can’t let fear paralyze you for the rest of your life. I still want to live mine.”

Kathy pursed her lips. Liz had a valid point. The month after the school bombing, Kathy could hardly leave the house to check the mailbox without taking medication.

“And I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” Liz continued, “but I’m twenty-one, not twelve. The least you could do is pay me the respect of letting me make my own decisions. I already have two parents. I don’t need three.”

“Then, as your elder sister,” Kathy implored, “I respectfully request you take a couple days off work.”

Liz plunged her spoon into her dessert and looked up defiantly. “Denied.”

“Liz!”

“I’m not losing my job because you’re getting jittery, and that’s the end of it.” She stuffed a spoonful of ice cream in her mouth, grimaced, and headed for the sink to spit it out. Then she marched past Kathy.

“Where are you going?”

“To my room. But not because you told me to!” Liz slammed her door shut.

“You left the ice cream out!” Kathy yelled after her.

Liz stuck her head out the door. “Let it melt! It tastes like mouthwash!”

SLAM!

Kathy carried Liz’s bowl to the sink, slapped the lid on the larger container, and thrust it back into the freezer. She felt like hitting something. Then she remembered her new kickboxing DVD she’d bought from the shop and went to her own room to change into sweatpants.

Like her stainless-steel tea kettle, she needed to let off some steam.

37

Kathy never slept well after a fight. A bed of nails would have been bliss compared to the doubts that poked her sharply in her tossings and turnings. Unlike Liz, the sun had decided to take a personal day on Friday morning; Kathy heard rain splattering against the windows. She tried to move and felt like her appendages had turned into cement. I think I pulled my everything . . . even breathing hurts! Apparently, what was good for the soul was not always good for the body. Perhaps she’d tackled too many hooks, jabs, and roundhouse kicks for a novice kickboxer. She reluctantly emerged from her warm cocoon and limped to the bathroom. She hoped her mind and body would regenerate under a steaming fountain of youth.

When she finally made her way to the kitchen, she found an empty bowl and spoon in the sink—evidence Liz had left unusually early for her morning class. She’d also grabbed her phone, which Kathy had left out on the dining room table. Great. She’s avoiding me. Kathy sighed as she put the kettle on and reached for the oatmeal, even though she had no appetite. As she grabbed the nearly empty gallon of milk, she felt a fuzzy sensation on her calves and jumped. Dorian Gray sat placidly on the linoleum and stared at her with goldenrod eyes. He mewed.

Kathy glanced at his half-filled bowl of kibble in the corner of the kitchen. “Shoo, cat. Liz already fed you.”

Dorian rubbed his silky body against Kathy’s sore shins, warming them. In spite of her mortal grudge against cats in general, she couldn’t help feeling a little comforted by the creature’s unexpected affection.

Then Kathy looked at the milk jug in her hand. “Oh, I know what you’re after.” She smirked, reached for another bowl from the cabinet, and poured. Then, she placed the bowl on the floor next to the kibble. “Just this once. And don’t tell Liz.”

Dorian rubbed his whiskered cheek against Kathy’s legs once more, then bent down to lap up the milk. Kathy removed the whistling kettle from the stove top and heard two quick knocks at her front door. When she opened it, she found a brown package sitting on the front stoop. My new phone and pen recorder! At last!

Despite the gray stratus clouds blanketing the sky, the day was starting to look a little brighter.

* * *

At lunchtime, Kathy tried calling Liz from the Chattanooga Line office. She reached her sister’s voicemail. “Hey, Liz. My new phone arrived this morning. I’m sorry about the argument last night. I know you’re grown up and can make your own choices. But as a personal favor, could you please at least think about being careful at work? Okay. Love you. Bye.”

As an afterthought, she texted Detective Grafton to let him know she had a new phone and he could reach her on her old number instead of Liz’s. She also asked if he’d talked to the captain about her undercover recording idea. She knew getting Andrea to reveal anything incriminating about herself was highly unlikely. But doing nothing felt like defeat.

The sound of her editor’s door opening reminded Kathy she was still at work. “Kathy, come into my office for a minute.”

“Yes, sir.” Kathy picked up a pen and yellow legal pad and left her gray cubicle.

Mr. Newman leaned back in his seventies-era green leather seat and smiled. “You’ve done a fine job covering that actor’s murder this week. Been getting more traction than we did in the last mayoral election, not that the public takes politics seriously anymore.”

“Thank you,” Kathy said as she sat in the rickety wooden chair before the large desk.

The editor cleared his throat. “All the official correspondence with the police is great for the news floor, but I want you to run the story from a more personal angle for the weekend edition.”

Kathy dropped her pen. “You want me to publish my personal opinion of Chet?”

“Oh, no. I mean professionally-personal. I want you to contact Albert Owen.”

“The Albert Owen?” Kathy sat up a little straighter.

“Yep. He’s on the Urban Arts Renewal Board, among several others. And he happens to chair the organization which currently owns the theater.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to reach him. He’s probably been swamped ever since he started running for state senate.”

“Well, see if you can get the story from his side anyway. Something slightly less official and slightly more positive. I guarantee he won’t turn down the free press.”

“Even if it involves murder?”

“Unless the police are charging him with it, I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” Her editor adjusted his bow tie and dismissed her.

* * *

Five minutes later, Kathy held the office phone to her ear and eyed the message she’d scrawled on her legal pad. She always performed better when she had her lines ahead of time and had assumed she’d simply leave her inquiry with Mr. Owen’s secretary. Thus, she felt somewhat flustered when a real live man’s voice answered after only the second ring.

“Hello? This is Albert Owen.”

“Oh, hello there,” Kathy stammered. Stick to your notes, silly.

“This is Kathy Waters from the Chattanooga Line.” “Oh, yes! How can I help you?”

“We wanted to know if you’d care to comment regarding the recent passing of Chet Cadsley, the lead actor in the theater’s recent production of Hamlet.”

The other end of the line was silent for a mere second before Mr. Owen rattled off what sounded like a prepared statement. “We at the Tivoli Theater send our condolences to Mr. Cadsley’s family. His acting career greatly enhanced the artistic excellence of this city, and his legacy will never be forgotten. At the next Urban Arts Renewal board meeting, I’m proposing we dedicate more funds to increase theater security for the benefit of both performers and patrons. I’m also happy to announce we’ve hired a new director to start a fresh season of plays and musicals in the spring.”

“Really?” This was certainly news to Kathy. Has Frank officially resigned? Or has he been fired?

Mr. Owen continued. “The show must go on, as they say. The new director is well-qualified with over thirty years’ experience. Plus, he already has an intimate understanding of the theater company, which we hope will make for a smooth transition.”

Kathy feverishly scribbled down Mr. Owen’s statement. When she came to the end of her quote, she asked, “May we have the new director’s name for the article?”

“Of course. It’s a Mr. Stephen Stratham.”

What?! Kathy’s jaw dropped. I thought Stephen said he had no interest in directing the company . . . .

“Ms. Waters? Are you still there?”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr. Owen. When does Mr. Stratham start his new position?”

“Next Monday. We’ll draw up the contract at the next board meeting—after everyone can pay their respects, that is.”

“I see.”

“Well, if that will be all . . .”

“Just one more question, if I may. Was this decision to hire a new director a long time in the making?”

There was a pregnant pause at the other end of the line. “No. But given certain . . . internal difficulties, it seems in the company’s best interest to get a new face at the forefront. Mr. Stratham seemed most eager to put his name forward.”

I’m sure he did. “Thank you for your time,” Kathy said. “Thank you. And don’t forget to vote this November!” “I won’t. Good afternoon, Mr. Owen.”

Kathy hung up and stared at the blinking cursor on her computer screen. She’d always liked Stephen. Amid a sea of backstage drama, the older thespian was always steady as a lighthouse. He never rocked the boat except to critique Frank’s leadership from time to time. But if he was so disinterested in leading himself, why put his name forward? Had he lied to her earlier? Had he done anything to engineer this fortuitous change of role? Or had he merely capitalized on a lucky opportunity?

What kind of people have I been working with for the last couple years?!

Kathy looked out the window at the gray sky. She looked at her calendar on the gray cubicle walls. She thought of Stephen— before, so black and white—now muddled in a haze of doubt.

I need to get out of here; I can’t think.

With that, she snatched her coat from the back of her swivel chair, grabbed her purse, and headed out the door. She preferred to type her article at home, surrounded by colorful china and floral throw pillows.

38

Rain misted the ground as Kathy headed for home. As she daydreamed of putting her feet up and drinking a bracing cup of Assam, she suddenly remembered she’d given the last of the milk to Liz’s cat! Tea without milk was like life without love, and Kathy could stomach neither.

Thankfully, the grocery store stood less than a mile from home. She found a parking space near the entrance and dashed into a bright, warm world of colorful produce, free samples, and smiling cashiers—quite a contrast to the dreariness outside. She grabbed a plastic basket, headed for the dairy aisle, and also picked up a pint of heavy cream as a peace offering for her coffee-drinking sister.

As she waited in the checkout line, she soon recognized the folks standing ahead of her. “Harry! Sophia! How are you guys?”

The red-headed siblings turned in her direction from the foodstuffs in their cart. “Oh, hello again!” Sophia chirped.

“Kathy?” Harry said. “I didn’t expect to see you anytime soon. Not with the show canceled and the company about to collapse.”

“Actually, I have good news on that front,” Kathy said. “I spoke to Albert Owen this morning, and it looks like the company’s not going anywhere after all! There’s going to be a new season and a new director.”

“That’s wonderful news, isn’t it, Harry?” Sophia said as she put a bag of oranges onto the conveyor belt.

“Who’s the new director?” he asked skeptically.

“Stephen Stratham.”

“Really?” Harry brightened a little. “That’s a relief! I thought they’d close us for good and turn the building into condos. Could you pass me the green beans, Sophie?”

Sophie? For some reason, the name rang a tiny bell in Kathy’s memory. But what was significant about it?

Sophia handed him the frozen package and explained, “Our parents were coming into town for Harry’s show tonight from Nashville, but now that it’s canceled, we’re cooking up a nice dinner to have with them instead. We’re making rosemary roast chicken, green beans, mashed potatoes, and broiled veggies.”

“That’s a feast!” Kathy smiled.

“Yeah. I just hope it’s as easy as the cooking website made out. I’ve never made such a big meal before.”

Kathy remembered Sophia’s lavender soap and hoped she wouldn’t overdo it with the rosemary. Perhaps her parents are hard-of-smelling.

“So, what are you doing with yourself now that your evenings are free?” Harry asked as he reached for a bag of potatoes.

“Just writing more for the paper, mostly.”

“You mean writing up the investigation?” he asked. Kathy nodded.

“Have they caught the killer yet?” Sophia asked.

“No, but the police are following up a few leads.”

“Good luck to ’em,” Harry said. “They’re gonna need it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Kathy asked, her fingers tightening around the handles of her plastic basket.

“Nothing. It’s only that no one really liked Chet, and anyone can get their hands on peanuts. It’s like that Agatha Christie novel where everyone had a hand in the murder.”

“Did you see anything odd—including bags of peanuts—backstage?” Kathy asked cautiously.

“Nothing out of the ordinary.” He shrugged as he placed the last item on the belt. “By the way, are you going to the memorial service this weekend? Ms. Cadsley asked me to give the eulogy.” He sighed. “How does one eulogize Caliban?”

“I suppose you could look on it as a challenge. But Chet was not entirely without his virtues.”

“Such as?”

“Well,” Kathy thought aloud as she frantically searched through her mental files, “he was a hard worker where theater was concerned. He always memorized his lines and never missed a cue . . . till the night he died, that is.”

“And that certainly shouldn’t count against him,” Sophia said. “Dedicated to his craft to the last. That’ll work. Thanks, Kathy.” Harry felt his phone vibrate, reached into his back pocket, and looked at the screen. “Sophie! We’ve got to go! Looks like Mom and Dad are coming early! I haven’t even vacuumed yet! Nice to bump into you, Kathy.”

“And let us know if the police find out anything,” Sophia said before heading out of the store after her brother.

“Will do,” Kathy answered as she placed her two dairy products onto the conveyor belt.

Then she remembered. Sophie! Chet said something about finding Sophie in the dressing room and made Harry really mad . . . .

As the teenage cashier rang up her total, Kathy glanced out the storefront window and instantly tensed. From her vantage point, she could see Harry loading his groceries into the trunk of his Ford Explorer.

A black SUV . . . I forgot Harry had one.

* * *

Kathy drove home in a mental fog much thicker than the one that limited her visibility on the road. Harry drove an SUV and had access to Chet’s EpiPen on the night of the murder. Sophia sat near Kathy’s purse and had access to cold-pressed peanut oil at the herb shop. While she couldn’t think why both siblings would want Chet dead, Kathy couldn’t deny that the pair seemed to have both means and opportunity to commit the crime. Perhaps Liz was right, and Chet’s murder had been a team effort.

But if that’s the case, then how did Sophia manage to get peanut oil on Chet’s lips? She didn’t kiss him. Andrea did!

Then a new thought struck her cold. What if Sophia followed one of Andrea’s lip balm recipes and accidentally used the wrong kind of carrier oil? If Andrea wore the lip balm to the theater, she could have accidentally set off an allergic reaction without even realizing it!

Kathy flipped up her turn signal.

But if that’s true, then how did the EpiPen wind up in my purse? Kathy shook her head as she made the turn. No, no, no. This thing smells like murder. I’d bet my . . .

RING! RING!

Kathy swerved a little when her new phone rang for the first time. She hadn’t changed the ringtone from its factory setting yet. It sounded so foreign. And boring. She suddenly missed Liz intensely and hoped to hear her sister’s voice when she answered it.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Waters?” It was Detective Grafton. “I’ve got some good news.”

Kathy stopped at a stop sign. “Good news would be welcome.”

“I ran your plan by Captain Woods, and he’s willing to try it as long as you’re monitored and we have another officer on the premises.”

“Oh . . . great!” Kathy bit her lip. She hadn’t actually expected the captain to agree.

Grafton continued. “He can’t oversee the operation himself because he has to go out of town. But since the memorial service is public, and you’ve been invited anyway, he said the risk is pretty low, and he’s willing to try it. Under my supervision.”

A truck pulled up behind Kathy’s Camry and blared its horn.

She started.

“Ms. Waters?”

“Yes, sorry. That’s great news!” Kathy crossed the intersection and started feeling a little queasy.

“Good. I won’t keep you. Especially since you’re driving.” Kathy was glad he couldn’t see her blush.

“The service starts at 3:00 tomorrow, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then meet me at the station by 1:00, and we’ll go over details.”

“It’s a date,” Kathy said without thinking. “I mean,” she back-pedaled, “it’s a meeting—with you.”

“And the other officer,” Grafton restated. “Good evening, Ms. Waters.” He hung up.

Kathy reached her house and dropped her forehead to the steering wheel. Why can’t I talk to that guy without sounding like a fool?

39

After three morning classes and a five-hour shift at Andrea’s Herbals, Liz usually zipped home to enjoy her evening trifecta of simple pleasures: pajama pants, a cup of coffee, and a non-academic book. Tonight, however, she ran a couple errands before heading home, lingered at each stop sign, and even took a walk in fifty-degree weather before trudging up the front steps.

Fighting with Kathy was never fair. No matter how blown-out-of-proportion her sister’s arguments seemed, Liz knew they stemmed from Kathy’s concern for her own welfare—hard to get too angry over that. Plus, Kathy’s conclusions weren’t entirely without logic, which only made Liz’s own position worse. She hated to concede, and the initial rush of independence she felt when ignoring Kathy’s call that morning had stagnated into guilt. She knew Kathy easily worried about her, especially after the home intruder incident. And she’d made matters worse by not coming home on time. Now, she owed an apology on top of everything else and would probably have to spend the next hour helping her sister recover from another anxiety attack—one she had caused herself.

Liz sighed. Sometimes, I wish we could be those sisters who only see each other at holidays.

Liz slowly unlocked the door, expecting to find Kathy pale and pacing like a poltergeist. Instead, she found her sister reclining on the couch with her laptop propped up and her back to the front door as if she had not been anxious at all. Liz knew it was dumb, but she felt somewhat insulted. All this time, I’ve been worrying about making her worry, and she looks like she doesn’t have a care in the world! How do you like that?

Kathy turned from her glowing computer screen. “You’re home,” she said.

“In the flesh.” Liz hung her coat in the hallway. “We’re still running around getting things ready for the grand reopening. Andrea must really need the help because she decided not to bump me off this afternoon.”

“For that, I’m grateful.” Kathy swiveled her head back to her computer and resumed typing.

Liz lasted about ten seconds before throwing her hands up in the air. “Dang it, Kathy! I still think you’re wrong, and I’m not quitting my job. But I’m sorry.”

“I know.” Kathy put the computer on the coffee table and turned to face her sister. “I’m sorry, too. I guess I freaked out a little last night.”

“True. But not without some cause.”

Kathy nodded. “There’s coffee in the pot for you, and I picked up more cream.”

Liz headed to the kitchen and called out, “Whatcha working on?”

“Murder mystery.”

“Still think Andrea’s the culprit, then?”

“Actually, I’m working on my murder mystery to distract myself from the real one.” Kathy flashed Liz her yellow legal pad papers. “I’m just typing up my notes, but I think I’ve misplaced a page . . .”

“I forgot you like to mix business and pleasure.” Liz grabbed her steaming mug and flopped down on the chair across from Kathy. Then she cocked her head. “Kathy? Is that a cat by your feet?”

Kathy kept her eyes on her notes, but a smile creased one side of her mouth.

“C’mere, Dorian,” Liz patted her lap. The feline looked up, yawned, and readjusted his position by Kathy.

“Homewrecker,” Liz said with a frown. “My own sister.”

Kathy held up her hands in protest. “I’ve done nothing to deserve his attention. A few days ago, he hated me, remember? Cats are capricious little beasts. You watch.”

“We can only hope.” Liz sipped her coffee and swirled it in her cup. “So . . . how are things going with the real investigation—the one I’m not supposed to be a part of?”

Kathy overlooked the sarcasm. “Detective Grafton called me earlier. I’m supposed to connect with Andrea at the memorial service and see if I can record anything incriminating.”

“You don’t want me to work with her, but you’re going to interview her? Why can’t the police bring her in for questioning?”

Kathy flipped to her next yellow piece of paper. “Lack of probable cause. There’s no law against wearing peanut-laced lip balm. Andrea could always swear the whole thing was an accident. Plus, there’s nothing solid to tie her to the missing EpiPen backstage. We thought she might open up to me since I’ve interviewed her before and won’t be wearing a badge.”

Liz frowned. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t get into any dangerous situations.”

“Says the gal who just worked the last five hours with a potential killer.” Kathy smirked.

“Point taken.” Liz sipped her coffee.

“This interview shouldn’t be too risky,” Kathy said, ignoring her quickening pulse. “I’ll be surrounded by guests, and both Grafton and another officer will be nearby monitoring my every move.”

“Just don’t let this turn into your own funeral. Do you remember what happened at the last memorial service you attended?”

Kathy had spent over two years in therapy trying to forget all the half-sized coffins . . . . She shivered. “This is an entirely different funeral home. I’ll be fine.”

“I hope you’re right, for both our sakes. But do you really think Andrea’s just going to come out and say she murdered her boyfriend? What exactly are you planning to say to her? ‘Excuse me, Andrea, ever seen Fatal Attraction?’”

“You’ve seen Fatal Attraction?” Kathy looked up from her computer.

“Once, at an ’80s party.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll probably ask Andrea if I can borrow some lip balm and go from there.”

“And what are you going to do for two whole hours after that exchange without looking like a stalker? Isn’t the service from 3:00–5:00?”

“I’m a self-appointed guest book attendant. I made a memento photo book with several cast pictures from previous shows. I’m going to ask everyone to write down their nice memories of Chet.”

“Lies, you mean.”

“Mostly,” Kathy said. “But it’ll give me an excuse to talk to everyone without being too suspicious. Which is good since I may have more than one suspect to question.”

“More suspects? I thought we’d eliminated everyone else.” Liz placed her empty mug on the coffee table.

“I thought so, too, until I ran into Harry and Sophia at the grocery store. Sophia mentioned she was cooking dinner, and I wondered if she could have accidentally used the wrong carrier oil in Andrea’s lip balm. She admitted she’s mixed up recipes before.”

“True,” Liz mused, “That would make Chet’s death an accident, then. But it still wouldn’t explain how the EpiPen wound up in your purse.”

“My thoughts, exactly. This case still feels like murder. But Sophia did sit near my purse in the audience, and her brother did have access to the EpiPen backstage. Plus, the day before he died, Chet made some comment about finding Sophie in a dressing room, and it made Harry really angry. When I ran into them at the grocery store, Harry called his sister Sophie! And I heard from Ms. Cadsley that both Harry and Sophia had been in West Side Story together with Chet back in high school.”

Liz cocked her head. “You think Chet made a move on Sophia behind the curtain back in the day?”

“Knowing Chet, I’d say it’s certainly possible.”

“But if that’s true, why kill Chet now?” Liz asked. “I mean, Westside Story would have been years ago. And Sophia’s never struck me as the vindictive type. And she’s been flirting a lot with Jade, so I highly doubt she’s had much headspace to plot revenge against Chet.”

“Okay, but there’s the other incident. When she and Harry left the store today, they got into a black Ford Explorer.”

Liz’s eyes widened. “An SUV? Ugh!” Liz put her head in her hands.

“What?”

“I just remembered! Sophia said her car was in the shop.

She’s had to borrow her brother’s for the last few days.”

“So she could have been following us when we took the empty bottle to the police?”

Liz nodded.

Kathy swallowed hard. “I’m still banking on Andrea as the prime suspect, but Harry and Sophia raise enough question marks to warrant a second look. So does Stephen Stratham.”

“Who?”

Kathy tossed her manuscript notes next to the computer. “He’s the senior thespian in the company and didn’t have high opinions of either Frank or Chet. Today, I found out he’s going to be the new director—despite saying he had no desire for the position earlier. Not a crime in itself, but it seems rather convenient. I want to verify he didn’t do anything to help that decision along.”

“You think Stephen would have murdered Chet and framed Frank to run a theater? In Chattanooga, Tennessee?”

Kathy crossed her ankles on the couch. “I admit, it’s not likely. But while I’m at the service, I might as well look into it.”

Liz rose from her chair and stretched. “Looks like you’ve got tomorrow afternoon all booked. Since Andrea will be at the funeral half the day, do I have your blessing to return to work without feeling like a criminal?”

“I never wanted you to feel like a criminal,” Kathy said as she put her computer back on her lap. “I just didn’t want you getting killed by one.”

Liz shrugged. “The re-opening’s on Sunday. Maybe I’ll make enough in overtime to buy Dorian some Fancy Feast and win him back from you.” She walked toward the cat balled up by Kathy’s feet, and ruffled his fur. He flattened his ears and swatted at her.

40

At six o’clock on Saturday morning, Kathy paced from the living room to the kitchen like a restless panther. Only the palest streak of gray lit the eastern end of the sky. The memorial service started at 3:00, and her police briefing wasn’t until 1:00. She tried to work on her mystery manuscript but couldn’t type more than a paragraph. Even chamomile tea could not quench the nervous energy pulsing through her veins.

Then Kathy spied the kickboxing DVD sitting on the coffee table. Despite vivid memories of stiff, sore muscles after her last workout, Kathy popped it into her desktop’s DVD player, moved the coffee table aside, and started punching invisible assailants. She needed something to distract her from the upcoming debacle that afternoon.

Forty-five minutes later, Liz shuffled into the living room, looking like a female Frankenstein, complete with a jagged line of stitches peeking out and her hair standing in all directions. “You’re up early,” she yawned as she saw her sister stretching on the floor.

“Couldn’t help it,” Kathy said from a child’s pose.

“Nervous?”

Kathy lifted her flushed face. “I really hope I don’t have an anxiety attack at the service. I think I’ve embarrassed myself enough this investigation.”

“Can’t you pop a pill before heading into the fray?” Liz asked as she plodded toward the coffee maker.

“It doesn’t really work like that. But I can always do my breathing exercises and take a pill if I need it later.”

“You should be fine, then,” Liz said. “After all, you’ll be surrounded by people. And if Andrea doesn’t let anything slip, at least you’ll know you tried.” Liz reemerged from the kitchen a few minutes later with coffee in hand. “You sure you still want to go through with this? The police won’t be devastated if you change your mind.”

Kathy hugged her knees. “After all I’ve gotten wrong in this case, it would be nice to get something right for a change. I still feel awful about what happened with Frank.”

“Since the police haven’t arrested you yet, I think they’ve moved on. Maybe you should, too.” Liz sat on the couch and sipped her coffee.

Kathy smiled. “Maybe you should major in psychology.”

“Takes a nut to know one, I guess.” Liz raised her mug to her sister.

Kathy laughed genuinely for the first and last time that day.

* * *

At 11:38, Kathy knocked quietly on the investigators’ office door.

“Come in,” Detective Grafton said. He glanced at his watch when he saw Kathy. “You’re an eager beaver, aren’t you?”

“Not exactly,” she said as she adjusted the burgundy scarf draped over her black pantsuit top—her most professional-looking—and took a seat. “This whole thing’s been plaguing me all morning. I just want it over with.”

Grafton folded his hands together on the desk. “You don’t have to do this if it makes you uncomfortable,” he said quietly. “But if that’s the case, I need to know now.”

“I’m alright,” Kathy waved aside his concern. “I’ve already committed to going to the service. The least I can do is make myself useful.”

“You’re certain?” His striking ocean eyes met hers.

She forgot to breathe. “Yes,” she finally exhaled with more conviction than she felt.

“In that case, I have something for you to sign.” He slid a piece of paper and pen across the desk.

“What’s this?”

“A waiver.”

Kathy looked up, startled.

“It just states that your participation as a civilian consultant in this investigation is wholly voluntary, that you’ve been informed of the possibilities of bodily harm and personal property damage, and you won’t sue the department or state if things get unpleasant—not that I think there’s much chance of that in this case,” Grafton added. “But if you’d feel safer in a bullet-proof vest, we’re happy to provide one.”

Kathy smiled a half-smile. “You’re laughing at me.”

“Not at all,” Grafton said. “But the vest might not complement your outfit very well. You look very nice, by the way.”

Kathy looked up, surprised by the compliment. Grafton cleared his throat and opened a file on his desk. She took the pen, scrawled her name, and hoped she hadn’t signed over her soul.

“Now that that’s out of the way,” Grafton said, procuring the waiver, “we can review the game plan. We’ll have one of our officers playing the on-site security guard. If you have any problems, give him a nod, and he’ll be at your service.”

“Where will you be?” Kathy asked.

“I’ll be parked around the block in a van, monitoring things.”

“So I’m wearing a wire, then?”

Detective Grafton smirked. “Since you’re a journalist, I had something more sleek in mind.” He clicked the pen Kathy’d used to sign the waiver and held it out to her.

She took it and examined its black, metallic surface. “Is this the pen recorder you told me about?”

“Yep.” He grinned as if he’d invented the thing. “It captures audio and video.”

Kathy smiled and held it back out to him. “It’s almost as nice as mine.”

Grafton looked like a magician whose first trick had been revealed by a member of the audience. “You have one, too?”

Kathy reached into her purse and pulled out a smoother, slightly more slender version. “Can’t beat two-day shipping,” she said. She tucked it into her breast pocket. “I also have the recording app on my new phone, so we’re doubly covered. Here’s your pen back.”

The detective held up his hand. “I’d rather you take my old model as well if you don’t mind.”

Kathy looked at him as if he’d offered her a third roller skate. “Isn’t having three recorders a little overkill?”

“Possibly. But mine’s been field-tested and already syncs with my phone and the screens in the van.”

Kathy shrugged and pocketed the police pen next to her own. Good thing these black pens match my top, or I’d look like a total nerd.

“So from 2:00–3:00,” Grafton continued as he held up his notes, “you’ll be in the front lobby with the guest book, correct?”

“I picked it up from the printer this morning.”

“Good. Our undercover security guard will cover the halls and exits. During the ceremony, all guests should be in the meeting room with the casket.”

“Urn.”

Grafton looked up from his papers.

“Ms. Cadsley designed a mantle display for Chet’s ashes. With a spotlight, no less.”

Grafton nodded. “Seems fitting, given his life.”

“And death.” Kathy would have smirked at her own gallows humor had she not felt like she was mounting the proverbial scaffold. She felt a little warm under her suit collar and reached up to loosen her burgundy scarf.

Grafton cleared his throat and returned to his notes. “Alright. Plan to join everyone else for the service at three. See if you can sit near Andrea and strike up a casual conversation before things really get going. Or you can hang around in her vicinity after the proceedings and offer your personal condolences then.”

Kathy clasped her hands on her lap. “What if she doesn’t say anything important? I’d hate to waste everyone’s time.”

“If nothing comes of it, we’re no worse off than we are now,” Grafton said as he realigned the papers on his desk.

Kathy shifted in her seat. “What if she starts to suspect I’m fishing for something?”

“If you feel in any sort of danger, find the security guard. And I’ll be watching and listening to everything you see and say from around the street corner. But if you get in a jam and want intervention, we should probably have a code phrase.”

“You mean like a distress call?” Kathy tried to keep her skepticism out of her tone. I could always light the Bat-Signal if needed.

“In the event something obstructs the video feed, I’ll need a verbal cue that something’s wrong. It could be any word or phrase, but something more conclusive than ‘how are you’ and not so obscure as to arouse suspicion.”

“So unless I could find a reason to say something like, ‘My crab imperial is dry,’ I should probably shoot for something more subtle?”

“That would be preferable.”

Kathy thought a moment. “Maybe it could be something like an excuse to leave. Like, ‘I told my mom I’d call about Thanksgiving plans.’”

“That sounds fine. Afterward, you can meet me back at the station. It’ll look less conspicuous than walking to my van. And that’s pretty much it. Do you have any questions?”

Kathy shook her head. “It sounds simple enough. I only wish I didn’t feel so jittery.”

“That just means you’re normal. Only fools rush in . . .” he stopped mid-quote.

“. . . where angels fear to tread, I know,” Kathy concluded glumly.

Grafton adjusted his shirt collar. “Sorry. I was trying to offer some encouragement.”

“Thanks for trying. After all the mistakes I’ve made thus far, I can hardly call myself an angel.”

Grafton stood. “But neither are you a fool.”

Kathy’s heart thumped at a quicker tempo. Pleased, she rose from her seat, shouldered her purse, and headed for the door.

“Oh! And one more thing,” Detective Grafton said.

“Yes?” Kathy turned to face him.

“Break a leg,” he grinned.

41

The last time Kathy had walked into a funeral home, she’d come out reeling and retching as if she’d boarded a storm-tossed frigate. After years of documenting heavy news stories, her heart simply couldn’t handle the sight of so many half-sized caskets—the aftermath of the elementary school bombing. That was the day her sister had driven her home and insisted she see a therapist, the day she’d resigned from news-writing, and the day she’d vowed she would never again set foot inside a funeral home.

After her meeting with Grafton, she’d gone home and spent the next hour or so running through possible conversations to start with the guests/suspects. She’d also endeavored to make herself a healthy salad for lunch, but found she had no appetite. At 1:57, Kathy finally parked in the Langston Funeral Home lot and took deep breaths to steady her nerves. She’d wanted to arrive closer to 1:45, but had taken a detour to avoid downtown construction traffic and had arrived much later than she’d planned. She dipped into her purse to assure herself her medication was available if needed, but nearly panicked when she discovered the bottle was empty. Oh no! She cursed. Multiple times.

Then she texted Liz: “I’m at the funeral home, but I ran out of meds!”

Ten seconds later, “Want me 2 come get U? Work be slow,” Liz offered.

Just breathe, Kathy, she told herself as she inhaled through her nose and exhaled through her mouth. She reached up to loosen the burgundy scarf at her neck. “I’ll be fine,” she texted at length. “Just wanted you to know my situation.”

“OK. Luv U! Txt if U need me!”

Kathy dropped her phone into her purse and grabbed the memory book from the passenger seat with shaky fingers. She took one more cleansing breath, patted her breast pocket with the pen recorders, then unlocked her door. I guess it’s show time . . . .

* * *

The massive brass chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling nearly blinded Kathy as she entered the funeral home foyer. A tall man with a black suit and Lincoln-like hairline directed her to the meeting hall at the end of the building. Kathy’s black heels click-clacked against the marbled tile and echoed in the empty corridor. Overstuffed wingback chairs in floral upholstery failed to add comfort to the stale atmosphere. Maybe it was because they sat empty at the moment, or the fact they had never furnished a real living room; here, they lined the halls of the dead and always seated strangers.

Kathy felt the bile rising with every footstep, but then she caught sight of the undercover officer in his tan security guard uniform at the end of the hall. His slight nod calmed Kathy’s nerves a bit. She doubted he could outrun an assailant, but his down-to-business air and loaded holster gave her some reassurance. You can do this, Kathy. Just put one foot in front of the other . . . .

“Hey there, Kathy!” a familiar voice greeted from behind her. She turned to see Richard carrying a garden’s worth of flowers stuffed into an enormous glass vase. “Wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” he said, catching up with her. “I’m sorry the occasion isn’t more convivial. Poor Ms. Cadsley. And poor us! As if one tragedy wasn’t enough, we had to cancel the show, lose our director, and never see the fruit of our rehearsals. How’re you holding up?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Kathy said. Better than Chet, at any rate. “But about the show, Richard,” she said in a confidential tone, “I heard you might have seen someone backstage during curtain call rehearsal. Do you remember anything concrete about the person you saw?”

Richard closed his eyes for a moment. “I honestly can’t say. I remember more of a sense of someone than a distinct figure. More like a shadow. I doubt I could recognize him again.”

“Him?” Kathy asked. “I thought you said you saw a woman.”

“Well, it could have been a woman. I only caught a glimpse.”

He shifted the vase in his hands. “But how did you know about that? I thought I only told the police what I saw that day.”

Kathy’s eyes widened for a split second. Have I already blown my cover?!

“But then again,” Richard continued, “I talk so freely, I can’t remember what I’ve said to everyone.”

Kathy exhaled and changed the subject. “That’s quite a collection of flowers you’ve got there.”

“Yes. I didn’t know what Chet’s favorites were or what Ms. Cadsley liked, so I just bought several bouquets and threw them together in this vase. Out of curiosity, do you know who’s giving the eulogy?”

“Harry mentioned he would say a few words.” “Huh. I didn’t know he and Chet were friends.”

“They went to school together and were roommates in New York. He’ll probably focus on some happy times from those days. And speaking of memories,” Kathy said as she held up the photo book and pen, “I thought people could sign this for Ms. Cadsley as a little tribute from the cast.”

“That’s mighty thoughtful of you, Kathy,” Richard shifted the flowers to the crook of his left arm and reached for the book. With some difficulty and a few sloshes of water on the dark green paisley area rug, he managed to scribble something on the front page and handed the book back to Kathy.

“Best wishes?” Kathy raised an eyebrow.

“Under the circumstances,” he said as he readjusted the vase, “I think it’s the most sincere thing I can write. Anyway, I’ll see you in the service and can hopefully drop these flowers off somewhere. My arm’s getting tired.” Richard backed against the

double wooden doors, dropping a bloom or two on the rug in his exit.

Two minutes later, Harry walked up with his sister in tow. Sophia’s long-sleeved navy blue dress looked fabulous against her copper hair.

“Hey, you two!” Kathy greeted. “Did you figure out your speech, Harry?”

“Nothing original, I’m afraid.” He buttoned the jacket of his dark gray suit. “The usual bull about how Chet will never be forgotten and made a difference to our city’s artistic community, etc.”

“Just because he always got the lead and never paid you back rent doesn’t mean you have to be flippant,” Sophia said, pinching a lock of hair that had fallen down with her bangs and returning it to its proper place. “No one deserves to be murdered.”

“That’s Sophie,” Harry smiled. “She can find virtue in a toilet bowl.”

Kathy tensed at the sound of Harry’s pet name for his sister.

Sophia gave him one of those “you-best-behave” looks. “In all seriousness, I feel for Andrea. This really sucks for her.”

“How has she been?” Kathy asked.

“Not great. She’s worked like a dog to get ready for the reopening. It’s like she expects the whole state to show up. But I think the work is mostly a distraction from her loss.”

Harry checked his phone. “Better go get a seat.”

“Before you do, would you guys mind signing this memory book?” Kathy asked, holding it out. “I’m going to give it to Chet’s mom after the reception.”

“I don’t understand why they have receptions at funerals,” Harry said as he took the pen in hand. “Grieving folks don’t feel like eating, and everyone else just stands around wondering what to say.”

“I don’t know,” Kathy considered. “I’m a firm believer in comfort food.”

“Or drink, in Ms. Cadsley’s case.” Harry handed the book to his sister.

“I barely knew Chet, so I think I’ll pass.”

“Barely knew him?” Harry cocked his head. “Have you forgotten West Side Story? Or who took you out for Prom when you were just a freshman? I could’ve killed him for bringing you back so late!”

Sophia’s fair face imitated her hair. “That was a long time ago. And like I said then, nothing happened!”

Kathy kept her smile glued in place. How many suspects are there, again?

“See you at the reception, Kathy.” Sophia rushed through the double doors with Harry, leaving Kathy standing in the hall. West Side Story was the musical adaptation of Romeo and Juliet. Had Chet somehow taken advantage of Sophia in high school? Revenge is a powerful motive for murder, but why wait ten years? And how could Sophia purloin Chet’s EpiPen from backstage unnoticed? Harry seemed so nonchalant about Chet’s death, he could hardly have been an accomplice . . . .

Kathy swallowed hard, feeling less and less certain of the entire undercover operation. By the time I talk to Andrea, my original theory will have more holes in it than a cheese grater!

She wanted to toss the memory book into the trash right then and there and go home. But on catching the security officer’s eye from down the hall, she stood resigned at her post.

After garnering two more signatures for the memory book— one from Chet’s cousin who happened to be in town on business and one from the funeral home cleaning lady who’d seen Chet in a show once—Kathy finally entered the meeting hall. She’d expected to see rows of polished pews facing a raised dais decked with lilies. Instead, she found a darkened room with cushioned chairs arranged in two wide circles around an oval-shaped table lit by a spotlight. On the table stood a glass vase with a single white rose tied with a black ribbon and an ebony urn of Chet’s powdered remains. Several dozen votive candles in red glass globes formed a smaller circle around the sacred table, casting a scarlet glow against the walls. Apart from these and the single overhead light beaming down on the former theater star, the room sat in darkness. Kathy hesitated in the doorway and waited for her eyes to adjust. I thought this was a memorial service, not a seance!

The guests occupied only a quarter of the available seats. Apparently Chet hadn’t had much of a social life outside the theater, or much of a family life, either. Barring the presence of a heavier version of Ms. Cadsley sitting next to Chet’s mother and an older woman with tubes in her nose and a cigarette between her teeth (his grandmother?), Kathy recognized all the other faces. Since Andrea sat clear across the room, Kathy would have to approach her after the service. She tapped the recording app on her phone, stuck it into her purse’s outside pocket, and slid into a seat next to Stephen Stratham, hoping at least one of her three devices would capture her conversation. “I hear congratulations are in order,” she whispered, leaning toward the older man in his black pinstriped suit.

“Congratulations?”

“You’re the new theater director. White hair, stress, everything you’ve always wanted.” Kathy hoped the darkness would cloak her inauthentic grin.

Stephen whispered back, “It looks capitalistic, I admit. But since Frank obviously wasn’t coming back, I didn’t want to leave the company up to a new fool.”

Kathy leaned a little closer. “You didn’t apply any politics to get the position?”

Stephen’s nose twitched. “I put my name forward, if that’s what you mean. No crime in that.”

“No . . .” Kathy let the word hang in the air. Actors hate that.

“The way I see it,” Stephen volleyed back, “the theater company could do with some stability. Plus, with all the attention we’ve been getting with Chet’s unfortunate passing, our shows will probably all sell out next season.”

Kathy sighed. He’s not wrong. Tragedy always draws a crowd. “By the way,” Stephen continued, “do you have any idea if the police have found Chet’s murderer yet? If they released the body for cremation, they must be getting close.”

Before Kathy could reply, Ms. Cadsley rose from her seat wearing a long black dress and more ink around her eyes than a football player. She tapped a hand-held gong with a small wooden mallet.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she began with a slight slur, “Welcome to my son’s celebration of life service. Chet wanted me to thank all y’all for coming.” Ms. Cadsley typically scoffed at Southern colloquialisms, but her less-than-sober state had slowed her speech into a drawl without the dialect’s usual charm.

“Is she drunk?” Stephen whispered. Kathy shrugged and cringed.

“First off,” Ms. Cadsley continued, “y’all are more than just family. You’re friends. Most of y’all.”

“Yep. She’s drunk,” Stephen pronounced, crossing his arms over his chest.

Ms. Cadsley sniffed. “I say most of y’all, because if my son hadn’t died onstage last week, he’d still be dying onstage today— and twice on Sundays.”

Stephen groaned and put one hand to his forehead. Kathy tried in vain to read Andrea’s expressions on the other side of the room. Between the glow of the candles and Andrea’s aviator sunglasses, she couldn’t make out a thing. As Ms. Cadsley continued with her increasingly uncomfortable speech, Kathy surveyed those in the small audience. Shock, disapproval, sadness, and indifference reflected on their faces. But guilt? Where’s the guilt?

Suddenly, Harry stood and approached the oval table in the circle’s center. “Thank you, Ms. Cadsley. We all share your loss, and if I may, I’d like to say a few words about the dearly departed.”

“But I wasn’t finished yet!” the woman protested. “Can someone gimme a drink? It’s so darn hot in here!”

Andrea nodded and escaped through the double doors as Harry escorted the disoriented diva back to her seat. Kathy twisted her purse strap in her hands and wondered if she should follow Andrea. But what possible reason could she invent to leave before the eulogy?

“Before I sit down . . .” Ms. Cadsley said halfway to her seat, “If someone here was responsible for my son’s death,” she pointed to the guests, “you’ll never get away with it! I know a secret investigator who’s helping the police nail you even as we speak. Isn’t that right, Kathy?”

All eyes zeroed in on Kathy.

Kathy’s burgundy scarf suddenly seemed like a noose around her neck. The blood drained from her face. She froze and wondered when the mortician would pry her stone-like body from the seat. She could already see the headline: “Death at Funeral Home.” Her editor would have a field day.

Just then, the meeting room lights flashed brilliantly overhead, banishing all shadows and breaking the room’s deathly silence. Everyone gasped and shielded their eyes from the harsh brightness as an elderly woman’s voice demanded, “Why ’n tarnation is it so dark in here?!”

Kathy recognized that voice. Wilma! She took her first breath since Ms. Cadsley’s indicting comment and turned in her seat to see the seamstress standing by the wooden doors with her gnarled fingers still on the light switch. Her heartbeat returned. Bless that woman! She’s always getting me out of tight spots!

“You can’t see nothing in the dark!” Wilma continued, unperturbed. “I came here to pay my respects, not take a nap!”

Amid the following confusion and protestations of the other guests, Kathy grabbed her purse with shaking hands and lurched through the double doors. She’d narrowly dodged a cannonball, but her ship was sinking fast. It was all she could do to keep upright as she headed for the ladies’ room. She felt very, very seasick.

42

Kathy staggered toward the restroom down the hall and met the security guard’s curious gaze en route.

But she merely shook her head, put one hand on her stomach, and pointed toward the sign for the ladies’ room. He shrugged and proceeded with his round.

Kathy barely made it to the toilet but managed to cover the pen recorders in her breast pocket with her hand. At least Detective Grafton would be spared the visual of her vomiting this time. She’d apologize for the unfortunate sound effects later. Kathy steadied herself against the side of the blue plastic stall and stared at the geometric tile patterns on the floor. Again, she cursed the fact she’d neglected to refill her anxiety medication, but there was nothing she could do but try to remember how to breathe without her shoulders shuddering. Eventually, her heart resumed its normal rhythm, but now she wasn’t sure what to do. No guest of interest would talk to her after Ms. Cadsley’s little speech, with or without the memory book. And she had no desire to return to the memorial service.

I guess there’s nothing to do but give Grafton his recorder and go home.

Kathy was surprised at how disappointed she felt. She’d been so sure about solving this case. But without solid evidence, her theory was worth less than the toilet paper she’d used to wipe her mouth.

Kathy opened the stall door weakly and nearly fainted when she saw Andrea herself holding a glass under the restroom sink. Apparently, she’d stepped into the restroom while Kathy was still getting a hold of herself.

“You feeling alright?”

Kathy hesitated, then remembered Andrea had left the service before Ms. Cadsley had blown her cover. She relaxed a tad. “I needed some . . . air.”

“Me too,” Andrea said as she adjusted her aviator shades to the top of her head. Her eyes looked red. “That’s why I jumped at the chance to get Ms. Cadsley a drink. She’d probably like something stronger, but she’s had enough alcohol for one day, and the funeral home’s coffee maker isn’t working.” Andrea turned off the faucet, put both hands on the sink and took a deep breath. When she raised her head, there were actual tears in her eyes. “I miss Chet too, but I don’t go around acting like a drunken sailor.” Are you acting like a bereaved lover instead? Kathy wondered.

A doubt flickered in her mind. Andrea sure looked convincing . . . Andrea opened her own purse—nearly identical to Kathy’s— and pulled out a tissue. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so annoyed with his mother. Different people grieve in different ways.” She leaned toward the mirror and swabbed at her runny eyeliner.

“How are you dealing with this?” Kathy asked quietly.

For a half-second, Andrea seemed almost amused. But she quickly looked down to toggle her purse pocket. “Keeping busy. The idle brain is the devil’s playground.”

Kathy tensed at the Music Man reference. She remembered the next line well: “Oh, we got trouble! Right here in River City!” It was the same message now pumping through her own veins.

Kathy stole a glance at the exit sign. “I’m glad you’ve had something positive to think about with your business, at least.”

“For now.” Andrea picked up the glass. “I should get back to the service. Ms. Cadsley’s probably dying of thirst. And how would it look if Juliet missed Romeo’s funeral?” She headed for the restroom door.

She’s leaving! Relief flooded through Kathy. But then she remembered her mission—this was her last chance to prove her theory.

“Wait!” Kathy said, shocked when the word left her mouth. Andrea stopped with her hand six inches from the doorknob.

Kathy opened her purse and pretended to rummage around for something. “I think I’m out of lip balm. Do you have any I could borrow? Liz says you make the best.”

“True,” Andrea said as she walked back to the sink, set Ms. Cadsley’s glass next to the faucet, and opened her own purse. She pulled out a small plastic cylinder and handed it to Kathy.

“Is this new?” Kathy asked, hoping Andrea didn’t notice her shaking fingers. “I don’t see your logo on the lid.”

“This kind isn’t on the shelves yet,” Andrea said.

“Anything special in it?” Kathy asked as she spread some on her lips with her forefinger. She hoped she wouldn’t lick it off before the lab could analyze it.

“Not particularly. It’s mostly beeswax.” Andrea accepted the cylinder back from Kathy, dropped it into her purse, and turned back toward the door.

Kathy inhaled deeply and finally asked her million-dollar question. “Out of curiosity, is this the lip balm you were wearing at the show last Friday?”

Andrea stood like a statue with her back to Kathy.

Kathy could feel her neck vein pulse against her burgundy scarf. Her lungs started burning—she’d neglected to breathe.

Then, with a quick flick of the wrist that answered all Kathy’s questions, Andrea reached forward and locked the bathroom door.

43

Andrea turned and regarded Kathy with a disquieting smile. “I wondered when you’d ask me something like that. You can cut the act now, Kathy.”

Kathy stood motionless, her feet cemented to the white bathroom tile. Her eyes followed Andrea as she reached into her purse, donned white plastic gloves, and extended her hand.

“Now give me your phone.”

“M . . . my phone?” Kathy’s voice cracked.

“Yes, your phone,” Andrea repeated. “Why do you want my phone?”

“Because I’d like to keep this interview off the record.” Andrea dipped into her purse again and calmly retrieved a Glock 22.

Kathy tried to swallow but found she couldn’t.

“I knew you were covering the investigation,” Andrea said, “but I had no idea how closely until I caught you in my office and followed you to the police station.” She pointed the hardware toward Kathy’s chest. “Now hand it over.”

Kathy reached into her own purse for her phone and silently screamed, Where the heck is that undercover officer? He’s supposed to protect me! Then her stomach sank to her toes. Oh no! There’s no way he’d follow me into the ladies’ room!

Andrea wrapped her plastic-lined fingers around Kathy’s primary means of communication, then extended her hand again. “And now for your other recorder.”

Kathy’s mouth fell open like the wooden nutcracker doll her mother displayed at Christmastime. How could Andrea possibly know about the pen recorders?

“Don’t try my patience,” Andrea said when Kathy failed to do as she’d asked. “I’m sure the police gave you something official to use.”

Detective Grafton’s words flitted through Kathy’s mind: My recorder’s been field-tested and already syncs with the screens in the van. Kathy reached for her new personal pen recorder and left Grafton’s in her breast pocket, hoping on all the lucky stars in the galaxy that Grafton was calling for backup.

“Cute,” Andrea said as she clicked the sleek black pen. “Now step back.”

Kathy raised her hands and moved backward till she was behind the door to the first restroom stall. Without taking her eyes off Kathy, Andrea tossed both pen recorder and phone into the commode with a splash.

“Now what?” Kathy asked, failing to sound anything but terror-stricken. “You’re going to shoot me in the bathroom?”

“I don’t need to shoot you to silence you,” Andrea said. “I’ve always preferred natural methods to brute force.”

Kathy blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Let me set the stage. In a minute, you’re going to feel so guilty for taking Chet’s life that you’ll take your own in true Ophelia fashion.”

Kathy raised her eyebrows. “I’m going to drown?”

“No, overdose on your medication.”

“But I’m out of anxiety medication! I forgot to refill my prescription!”

“That doesn’t matter. I’ve made some for you.” Andrea reached back into her purse— that cursed purse!—and produced a small medicine bottle with green capsules. “Powdered Conium, compliments of my roof garden. I believe it’s an ingredient in your own medication. I read the pill bottle you dropped at the shop.”

Despite the fact she’d just upchucked a few minutes earlier, Kathy felt a familiar urge to hurl.

“Do you know the other name for Conium?” Andrea asked. Kathy shook her head.

“Poison hemlock.”

Kathy didn’t know much about plants, but poison anything sounded bad.

Andrea clarified. “It’s what the Athenians gave Socrates when he wouldn’t stop asking questions.”

Kathy gulped; she had a history minor.

Detective Grafton! Where are you? Can’t you see I’m in trouble?!

Andrea smiled at Kathy’s distress. “In anywhere from twenty minutes to a couple of hours, you’ll go into paralysis and eventually respiratory failure—basically drowning without water. And don’t think a hospital can help you. There’s no antidote. Western medicine can’t contend with the power of the natural world.”

“But . . . but . . .” Kathy stammered. “No one will believe I killed Chet or committed suicide over him. This is insane!”

“They will when they read this,” Andrea reached once more into her portable Pandora’s box with her gloved hand and unfolded a note written on yellow legal pad paper. “For the last year,” she read aloud, “I have been haunted with memories that give me no peace in daylight nor rest at night. In snuffing out a shining star, I have become a mere shadow and can never walk in the sun again . . . .”

The suicide note from Kathy’s murder mystery, written in her own handwriting while she waited in the theater to give her police statement! Kathy’s blood flowed like ice water; she felt numb and goose-pimply all over. She also found it difficult to form a sentence. “Where did you . . . when did you how?”

“In my own little corner. Quite literally.”

Kathy’s knee ached at the memory of hardwood and flying papers. A page from her manuscript must have fallen under a display case when she’d stumbled over Andrea’s office step.

Crap!

Now Andrea held up her ace. “I even traced your signature from the receipt for that workout DVD you bought. So you see, it’s perfect. A bona fide suicide note, personally signed.”

Crappity crap!

“Besides,” Andrea continued, “everyone saw how disturbed you were when Chet passed out offstage. You couldn’t even stand up straight. Who would blame you for taking the easy way out at his memorial service? You had opportunity and access and could have planted any ‘evidence’ you found.”

Kathy licked her trembling lips. “And my motive?”

“Jealousy. Unrequited love. Repressed sexual tendencies. Take your pick.”

“Is that why you killed him?”

Andrea’s green eyes flashed, but she kept her voice calm. “Chet was a cheat, a liar, and a leech. Believe me, he had it coming.”

Kathy grasped at the first reasonable rebuttal that came into her head. “Liz knows I didn’t plant the evidence! She was with me when I found the EpiPen. This phony suicide won’t fool her for a second!”

“Oh, I know,” Andrea said without concern. “Not unless you call her and confess to everything over the phone. But even if you don’t, I wouldn’t worry about her tattling to the police. Because if you don’t confess to Chet’s murder, she’ll be dead before the service ends.”

Kathy tensed. “What do you mean?”

“Did Liz show you our new tea and coffee bar?”

“Yes.”

“Right now, I have a special brew percolating in my office. I often get feedback from my employees before offering a new flavor to the public.”

“What’s in it?” Kathy asked, not really wanting to know but also hoping to stall long enough for Grafton to help her . . . assuming the last recorder in her breast pocket was still working.

“Digitalis,” Andrea answered. “From foxglove. Eventually, it stops the heart. I’ve got a mind to call Liz and ask for her opinion before her shift ends in about ten minutes. She probably won’t think anything’s wrong till she gets a ‘stomach bug’ late tonight. By then, it’s only a matter of time. Such an unfortunate accident. Easy enough to mistake foxglove leaves for mint.”

Kathy shuddered. “But what about your business? The authorities will shut you down!”

“Sophia can handle all that. I suddenly feel the need to get out of the country for a while. Detox in Switzerland, perhaps. They’ve got loads of herbal remedies out there. And great spas.” Andrea glanced toward the door. “So what will it be? You can call Liz and confess to Chet’s murder, or I call her, and she drinks her last cup of coffee.”

Kathy’s eyes stung. “You can always poison her after I take those pills. Why should I make things easy for you?”

Andrea shrugged. “If you’d rather get shot, I’m happy to oblige. But if you think I’m going to make this quick and painless,” she procured a silencer from her hell in a handbag, “I’ve got terrible aim. I think you’ll find the pills far less messy.”

Compared to getting aerated from multiple angles, the pills did seem slightly more palatable. Kathy swallowed hard; it would have been easier if she’d had any saliva. “You know they’ll be able to trace the gun,” she said feebly.

“Yes. To Chet. He bought this to practice for a cop show audition.” Andrea screwed the silencer to the barrel. “Too bad they hired a woman for the role.”

Kathy could hardly stand on her wobbly knees. The tile beneath her had turned to quicksand, and every mental effort to escape only made her sink faster into suffocating despair.

Andrea chuckled. “The irony is that you’re willing to die just like Ophelia did—except you didn’t even care about the man you’re dying for.”

The irony had occurred to Kathy more than once.

Andrea shook her head. “You’re even willing to sacrifice your sister’s life for your own personal principles. Doesn’t make you much of a heroine, does it? But I suppose the silver lining is Liz will never know how you betrayed her.” She smiled coldly. “And she says you’re over-protective.”

At the mention of her sister, something inside Kathy snapped. Her bloodless fingers unconsciously clenched. Her pale face grew rage-red. Her spaghetti legs suddenly bent, ready to spring. Flight had pivoted; fight now pawed the ground.

“So what’s the verdict?” Andrea demanded with the gun pointed at Kathy’s chest. “Am I calling Liz, or are you? Pills or bullet holes?”

“No,” Kathy whispered.

“Come again?” Andrea frowned.

“I said no!” Kathy’s eyes quivered with emerald flame. “I am not lying for you.”

“Fine, then.” Andrea pointed the gun at Kathy’s thigh. “I’ll just call her on my way to the airport. Any last words for your obituary?”

“Just one phrase,” Kathy said, “and it’s the reason I suspected you in the first place.”

“Really? What phrase is that?” Andrea now aimed at Kathy’s face.

Kathy calculated the distance between herself and the gun. She sidled a little to her right. “When you left Chet at intermission, you said, ‘Good luck in your final act.’ But any Thespian worth her costume knows that the correct saying is ‘break a⁠—’”

At that exact moment, a piercing scream split the air from one of the closed bathroom stalls. Andrea started and accidentally fired, missing Kathy’s head by two inches. Kathy ducked, then took a well-aimed roundhouse kick to Andrea’s outstretched arm. The gun flew from Andrea’s hand and clattered to the tile. Kathy ran to it and kicked the muzzle, sending the weapon under the stalls.

Now unarmed, Andrea spun around and dashed to the door, forgetting she’d locked it earlier. Kathy lunged, dug her nails into Andrea’s shoulders, and threw her to the floor. Andrea landed awkwardly and let out a yelp of pain, but Kathy didn’t care. With nostrils flaring, she gave herself over to the adrenaline blazing through her arteries and pounced on her gasping victim. Andrea screamed in pain and held up her hands to protect her face. Kathy straddled Andrea on the floor as her fists fell into their recently practiced kickboxing routine: left hook, right hook, uppercut, left hook, right hook, uppercut . . .

“Kathy! Kathy!” a voice shouted in the background.

Left hook, right hook, uppercut . . .

“Kathy! Stop! Stop! She’s down!” the voice pleaded.

But nothing could distract Kathy—not even the bathroom door crashing to the floor behind her.

A second later, she noted a thrusting pain under her arms as an officer in tan uniform dragged her to her feet away from Andrea. He spoke, but she didn’t comprehend what he said. She watched in suspended disbelief as a younger man attempted to raise the writhing woman to her feet. She screamed the moment she stood and crumpled back to the ground. Kathy caught the words “broken” and “ambulance.”

Her knuckles stung.

When Kathy saw the redness dripping between her fingers, she gasped in horror. Her arms went limp, her legs involuntarily folded, and sudden exhaustion dragged her down to earth.

From a half-sitting, half-lying position under the restroom sink, Kathy felt a new empathy for Icarus as her own adrenaline-induced exhilaration descended into condemnation.

Then, a new person entered Kathy’s line of vision and held out a glass of water. “Kathy? Can you hear me?”

The sound of her spoken name called her back to herself. “Liz?” Kathy asked, squinting her eyes, then widening them. “You’re . . . you’re here?”

Liz exhaled. “In the flesh. It’s all over.”

“You’re not . . . poisoned?!”

Liz smiled. “Not today.”

“Is she alright?” Detective Grafton asked as he knelt to join the sisters.

“She’s coming back,” Liz said. “Sometimes it takes a while for her to recover from an anxiety attack. She told me she ran out of her medication just before the service. But she’s never ever hit a single person in her whole life! I didn’t even know she could throw a punch!”

Kathy’s cheeks felt wet. She wiped away the unbidden tears. “Did I hurt her badly?” Kathy murmured.

“She’ll live,” Detective Grafton said. “But you did manage to break her leg. Or more precisely, her ankle.”

Kathy let out a short laugh, then covered her face with her blood-stained hands and sobbed.

44

Liz sat on the restroom floor and put her arm around her beleaguered sister.

“I’m so sorry!” Kathy confessed through her sniffles. “I didn’t mean for it to go that far . . . . Is Andrea going to be alright?”

Detective Grafton nodded. “Officer Adams has her in custody. The paramedics will patch her up when they get here. Then we’ll book her. Thanks to you, we now have enough evidence for multiple charges.”

Kathy wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “I didn’t have to hit her so many times . . . .”

“Kathy, it was self-defense!” Liz said. “Andrea pointed a gun at you, remember?”

“I can get official statements from you both later,” Grafton said. “But first things first. Let’s get you out of this restroom. I want the medics to look at you, too.”

Kathy nodded, her lip still quivering. She tried to stand but stumbled like a newborn fawn.

“Easy, there!” Grafton caught Kathy’s elbow and offered her his arm. Kathy didn’t protest. He felt solid and reassuring against her shaky everything. Solid, reassuring . . . and rather sweaty for someone who’d taken forever to come one measly block to her rescue! How long does it take a grown man to walk around the corner?

Detective Grafton led Kathy into the front lobby and sat her down in one of the camel-back loveseats. To a woman who’d narrowly avoided becoming a silent patron of the establishment, the faded floral upholstery looked remarkably cozy now.

“Would you mind getting your sister some ice?” Grafton asked Liz.

Liz frowned and looked at Kathy. “Don’t say anything important without a lawyer.” She kissed the top of Kathy’s bedraggled hair, shot Grafton a warning look, and walked down the hall with glass in hand.

“She’s very protective, isn’t she?” Grafton commented as Liz strode away.

“It’s mutual.” Kathy inhaled through her nose and exhaled with a slight shudder. “When Andrea told me about her plan to poison her . . . ”

“Poison her?”

Kathy’s face fell. Had Grafton’s pen recorder failed to capture that part of her conversation with Andrea? “She said she spiked some coffee with foxglove. It’s percolating in her office. She was going to ask Liz to sample it if I didn’t confess to Chet’s murder.”

“Excuse me,” Grafton said brusquely as he limped about ten feet away and talked hurriedly into his police radio. He returned, looking relieved. “The station is sending the nearest squad car over to pick up that coffee before anyone can touch it.” He plopped down into the nearest wingback chair and exhaled a long breath of his own. “One more disaster averted. And a pretty incriminating piece of evidence to boot.”

Kathy tenderly touched her sore knuckles. “Does the fact you didn’t know about the poison mean the pen recorder stopped working?”

“Oh, no. Everything streamed in fine as far as I watched. But the moment I saw Andrea lock the bathroom door, I left the van and started running over.”

“You did?” Kathy’s eyebrows jumped an inch. “What took you so long?”

Grafton rested his head against the chair. “Some idiot parked too close and blocked me in. I grabbed my police radio to contact Adams, but it kept shorting in and out. So I made a run for it and would have arrived a lot sooner if I hadn’t met a dog on the way.”

Kathy noticed Grafton’s torn pant leg for the first time. “You’re bleeding!” She pointed.

“It was an angry chihuahua,” he grimaced. “But I probably won’t need many stitches. I can wait my turn for the medics.”

Kathy unwrapped her burgundy scarf from around her neck and folded it over and over on the clean side. She handed it to the detective. “Use this.”

“But . . . but I don’t want to ruin it.”

“Don’t worry; it’s already dark red,” Kathy said.

The corner of Grafton’s mouth creased into a side-grin. “Okay,” he said as he accepted the scarf from her hand. “Thanks.”

Kathy smiled wanly. “Maybe I can convince my editor to run a piece on the importance of enforcing city leash laws.”

Grafton winced as he pressed the folded scarf to his wound. “That would be nice.”

“By the way,” Kathy said as she reached into her breast pocket and pulled out Grafton’s pen recorder, “I’m sorry I balked when you first asked me to take this along. It wound up being a saving grace. Andrea tossed my new phone and pen recorder into the toilet. She wouldn’t have talked if she’d known I’d had a third recorder.”

“You’re welcome,” Grafton said as he put the recorder into his jacket pocket. “But I’m sorry things went off the rails back there. This was supposed to be a low-risk operation. If I’d thought for a second Andrea might be armed, I wouldn’t have put you in such a dangerous situation. Andrea had no weapons registered in her name and no prior record.”

“I suppose no one has a record prior to their first murder,” Kathy said with a wan smile. “The gun was actually Chet’s—a legacy from their loving relationship.”

“Indeed,” Grafton said as he leaned his head back against the back of the chair and closed his eyes.

Kathy watched him rest for a minute, enjoying the symmetry of his cheekbones, the definition of his jawline, and the subtle contours of his neck. Then she looked down at her own dirty hands. They felt sore, and she knew the rest of her body would follow. Oh, what I’d give for a steaming hot cup of tea and a bubble bath right now!

Officer Adams came up, tapped Grafton on the shoulder and spoke too softly for Kathy to hear. Grafton looked her way, then back at Adams. The paunchy officer nodded and went back toward the lobby doors.

A fresh feeling of nausea washed over Kathy. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

“Fine. Andrea’s asking for her lawyer. Whoever he or she is will have to do some slick legal gymnastics to keep her off death row.”

Kathy shifted uncomfortably on the loveseat. “What if she files assault charges against me? They wouldn’t be unjustified.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he said with a dismissive wave of the hand. “According to the law, if you or a family member is in imminent physical danger, you’re allowed to use force to protect yourself.”

“I used plenty of force, alright. If you and Officer Adams hadn’t arrived in time, you might have had another murder on your hands. I wish I were joking.”

Grafton regarded her soberly and drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “Your convictions are beyond my jurisdiction, Ms. Waters. But I’m sure Captain Woods would agree that no jury would convict you of anything, especially after seeing the footage you captured and all you’ve done to bring Chet’s murderer to justice. And should there be any technical glitch in the recording, you have a very supportive witness who can testify on your behalf,” he said as Liz came walking up with glass in hand.

“They didn’t have any ice, the cheapskates,” Liz said with a frown. “They said the machine’s broken. But at least this is wet.”

She handed the cup of water to Kathy.

“Thanks.” She took it in both hands and sipped gratefully. “By the way,” Liz said, “if anyone’s hungry, there’s a ton of unclaimed food in the reception hall. Apparently, there was some kerfuffle at Chet’s memorial service, and most everyone left early—including Ms. Cadsley. The only people I saw in there were Harry, Sophia, and an older couple talking over plastic cups of warm ginger ale.”

“The older couple was probably Stephen and Wilma. He’s the new theater director, and she’s the company seamstress. Perhaps she’ll reconsider retirement now that the theater’s under new management. I’m not hungry, though.”

“Fair enough.” Liz flopped onto the empty cushion next to Kathy and crossed her legs.

“There’s one thing I don’t understand, Ms. Waters,” Grafton addressed Liz. “What were you doing in the restroom? Your sister thought you were working at the shop this afternoon.”

Liz studied the top of her black sneaker. “I felt bad about going into work when I knew Kathy was worried,” she said. “So I called Jade, my coworker, and asked him to cover for me.”

Kathy looked at Liz, astonished.

“When Kathy texted me she was at the funeral home and had run out of medication, I got concerned. The last time she set foot in a funeral home, I had to come to the rescue.” Here, she looked at Kathy slyly. “Apparently, some things never change.”

Kathy smiled a tired smile.

“Anyway, I drove over to check on her. But I wasn’t exactly dressed for the occasion.” Liz pointed to her hoodie and jeans. “You should have caught the expression Lurch gave me at the door. He just scowled at me and pointed down the hall. Since I was apparently unfit to be seen, I figured I could wait out the rest of the memorial service in the bathroom.”

“Why there?” Detective Grafton asked.

“Mostly because I didn’t want Andrea to see me when I was supposed to be working my shift. I thought I heard Kathy upchucking in the stall next to me and was about to say something when I heard Andrea come in.”

Kathy blushed at that unfortunate episode. “How did you know it was Andrea?” she asked.

“Because I peeked under the stall and recognized her black boots. And I also heard her greet you. So I hiked my feet onto the toilet seat and tried to be invisible. I’m sorry I didn’t help out sooner, but when she mentioned shooting you, I kinda freaked out and didn’t know what to do. Toilet paper isn’t much use against a gun.” She looked at Kathy with moist eyes and took a quick breath. “So I decided to follow my heart and scream my lungs out.”

“It was the perfect diversion,” Kathy said, placing her hand on Liz’s shoulder. “My brain had turned to mush. It seemed like Andrea had thought of everything.”

“Yeah, but she neglected one thing,” Liz said.

“The power of adrenaline?” Kathy ventured. “Or were you going to say love?”

“Actually, I was going to say she forgot she sold you a kickboxing video. You should never give self-defense instruction to your enemies.” Liz chuckled. “I can’t believe you actually broke her leg! That’s so awesome! I can’t wait to tell Mom and Dad when they visit next week. Their firstborn—a secret ninja warrior.”

“I think I might be sick again,” Kathy said weakly.

“Don’t worry,” Grafton said. “Here come the medics. And by the way,” he said as he hobbled to his feet, “The Chattanooga Police Department will be happy to replace your phone, Ms. Waters, as well as your other pen recorder.”

Kathy looked surprised. “What about the waiver I signed? I thought the police department didn’t claim responsibility for any damaged personal property.”

The detective shrugged. “I expect the captain will let us use our upcoming Christmas bonus to express our thanks in practical terms instead of upgrading our coffee maker this year.” A dimple Kathy had never seen before creased in Grafton’s right cheek.

Kathy grinned broadly as red flashing lights pulled up to the funeral home.

45

You’re staring again,” Liz observed as she looked up from the Scrabble board. It was Friday afternoon in mid-December. Outside, a sleepy sun sent faint golden rays into the Waters sisters’ living room. Kathy gazed out the frosty window with a sad wistfulness in her eyes—a sure sign she’d start playing Norah Jones songs within the hour.

Normally, Liz hated playing Scrabble because Kathy always won by a hundred-point margin. But ever since the debacle at the funeral home, that margin had shrunk considerably. Liz was determined to beat her wordsmith sister at least once before Christmas. “It’s your turn,” she prodded.

“Sorry,” Kathy said as she bent over the board on the coffee table and stirred her steamless tea.

“Might as well pour that out,” Liz said as she pointed at Kathy’s Royal Albert Old Country Roses teacup. “I bet it’s cold by now.”

Kathy sipped and made a face.

“Told ya.”

“I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted.” Kathy put her cup and saucer on the coffee table. Dorian Gray hopped onto her lap and curled himself into a purring ball. She stroked him absentmindedly.

“Kathy, what’s going on?” Liz asked. “You solved a murder, made front-page headlines, and got reinstated as an investigative journalist. Any other woman would be thrilled to her toes and consequently buy a new pair of shoes to celebrate. But you’ve been acting like you got dumped or something. What’s wrong?”

Kathy sighed. “I guess I’m still processing November. It’s not every month I find my house broken into, my sister in the hospital, my director fined for embezzlement, or nearly get my face blown off at a funeral home.”

“Well, when you put it like that . . .”

“And I still haven’t fully wrapped my head around Chet’s murder.”

“What are you talking about? You solved the case!”

“What I mean is,” Kathy said as she rearranged the square tiles on her wooden rack, “solving Chet’s murder felt abstract at first—like solving a math problem. But in the funeral home restroom, I met evil. Real, live, snarly evil. And it’s kinda haunting me.”

“Yeah,” Liz shook her head, “Andrea was pretty much a psychopath. I am so glad I’m working at the donut shop now. It was time to change industries.”

Kathy scratched Dorian behind his ear. “I wasn’t talking about Andrea,” she said quietly.

“You weren’t?”

“No,” Kathy sighed. “I was talking about myself.”

Liz evaluated her sister in earnest. “Kathy, are you feeling alright? Would you like me to schedule another session with your therapist?”

Kathy shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not on the brink of another breakdown. It’s just sobering to realize I’m as capable of murder as Andrea. If Officer Adams hadn’t stopped me when he did, we might be having this conversation through a prison phone.” Kathy laid down her word: PENSIVE.

“I’m sure he and the investigators enjoyed the tin of cranberry white chocolate chip scones you dropped off last week. And that brand new scarf Grafton sent you—I’m pretty sure he paid double what you paid for the original. By the way, have you heard anything more from that Greek god of a detective?”

Kathy lifted her gaze from the Scrabble board. “No. Not that I was expecting him to call or anything. With the murder solved, we have nothing further to discuss. Case closed.”

Liz shook her head. “If I could sculpt half as well as Michelangelo, I’d die to have him model for me in a toga. He could be my muse, and you know how many artists fall for their muses . . .”

“Liz!” Kathy looked startled.

Liz’s lips curled into a naughty grin. “I’m just sayin’ he’s easy on the eyes. Even you couldn’t have missed that, despite your inattention to visual details in general.”

“What I lack in artistic sensibilities, I make up for in literary prowess. You do know it’s your turn to lay down a word, right?”

Liz frowned and fiddled with the wooden tiles in her rack. “Besides,” Kathy continued, “Even if I wanted to cross paths with Grafton again, I doubt he’d want to see me anyway. I was such a mess for most of the investigation.”

“Well, he’s already seen you puke. Twice. It can only get better from there, right?” Liz added EX in front of Kathy’s word to form EXPENSIVE. “But if it doesn’t work out,” she continued, “I might swing by the station myself one of these days with a box of donuts. Policemen love donuts.”

Kathy upset her tea cup. Dorian Gray leaped off her lap. Liz smiled wickedly.

Kathy cleared her throat and added LY to Liz’s word, spelling

EXPENSIVELY.

“Cop out,” Liz said.

“What? You added a prefix! I can add a suffix.”

“I wasn’t talking about the game,” Liz said with a smirk. She looked at the board and groaned. “I have a W and four vowels. Oh, here we go!” She placed her consonant over the last E to spell WE. “On an entirely different subject, are you sure you don’t want to try out for Stephen Stratham’s production of Jekyll & Hyde this spring?”

“No, thank you,” Kathy said. “That show strikes too close to home. And I’d prefer to have less drama in my life for a while. Though, with Chet gone, I guess I could have become the new theater prima donna and driven everyone crazy.” She smiled briefly at the thought. “But in the end,” she said as she laid down her last letter—a B—above another E, “I guess it was just not to be.”

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The main reason I love murder mysteries is that they remind us of a simple truth: no matter how clever the bad guy is, evil cannot hide forever. Unfortunately, this truth can get muddled when detectives excuse evil in their own lives, disrespect the authorities, cover for criminals they sympathize with, or become murderers themselves in the name of vigilante justice.

Pen & Paintbrush Mysteries aim to correct these genre pet peeves of mine while also exploring the fantasy of what my life could have looked like if I had roomed with my artsy sister after college . . .

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As a reader, this is the part I normally skip.

But as a writer, I’m actually stoked to thank the small army of encouraging people who’ve helped me bring this book into being.

First, I’d like to thank my husband/cheerleader/therapist, Jason Mitchell, for believing more in my work than I did and telling me to keep writing even when my rejection letters reached triple digits. He could have strongly hinted that my time might be better spent on the perpetual pile of laundry on the couch or the ranks of dishes forever filing on the kitchen counter. But he never did. Instead, he always affirmed and encouraged my literary bent and acted like my words might actually mean something to people someday. And for this, I am grateful (as well as for his help with said laundry and dishes over the years).

Second, I’d like to thank author and teacher, Dr. Joyce McPherson, whose peaceful presence and gentle words of encouragement over tea time—along with her excellent writing craft book recommendations—have given me much literary instruction and direction over the years.

To Emma Fox, my fellow author and traveling companion on the road to publication, I am so grateful for our friendship! It is a true gift to share both the valleys and mountain tops of writing (and sometimes not-writing) life with another writer.

Many thanks to my mother, Dianna Leigh, for introducing me to whimsical literature and telling me she’s proud of me.

To my father, Pat Ladny, for his never-ceasing support and listening ear.

To my sister, Christa Elizabeth, for her inspiration, honesty, and humor.

To Carrie, Annie Beth, and Rachel of Bandersnatch Books—for a voice. And for everything they did to make sure my writing didn’t fall flat.

And finally, to God, for giving me a love of story, exposure to well-told ones, the opportunity to share mine with the world, and for a growing understanding that He enjoys my wry wordplay.

And many thanks to you who opened this book when there were so many other things you could have done with your time.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Katherine Ladny Mitchell wrote her first literary work—bound with rainbow-colored shoelaces—at age seven. Decades later, she still delights in weaving words together to craft intriguing, uplifting stories.

A graduate of Covenant College with a B.A. in Sociology, Katherine has freelanced for years with narratives and articles in Tea Time Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul, a local health magazine, and a couple anthologies. She’s also authored a handful of books: Dr. Hickerup, Mrs. Trimitup, Don’t Settle for a Fairy Tale, and Not to Be.

When she’s not writing, you can find Katherine practicing her latest tap dance routine in the kitchen, taking tea with her husband, caring for and showing off her 40+ animals on her Tennessee homestead, and parenting her five Mitchell munchkins. She also enjoys fire-breathing and fire poi-twirling on occasion—just to shake things up.

You can follow her writing at Cup & Quill.

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