Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell
Did he transfer it to another account?”
“No. He withdrew cash.”
I hung up.
“I am going to kill him!” I screamed.
What stopped me was the laughter from the doorway. The man doing the laughing was of average height, but built like a cement mixer, with broad shoulders and a square face. His hair was deep, dark black. He was wearing a dark suit with the slight sheen of polyester.
I turned on the new arrival.
“Who are you?” I demanded.
“Berto Esparza,” he said, flipping open an ID case. “I’m a private investigator working for the law firm of Graham, Shipkey, Shipkey, and Rubin. I’m looking for Bobby Mossman.”
“I think he’s around here someplace.” I got up and worked my way around the beat-up desk in the tiny room. “If he’s lucky, you’ll find him before I do.”
“He’s the one you’re going to kill?” His dark eyes flashed merrily.
“Well, not in so many words,” I said, suddenly swallowing. “I mean, it’s just an expression.”
“What did he do?”
I brushed back my curly dishwater-blonde hair. “He withdrew all the money in the company account and closed it. It was half our budget. I’ve still got programs and tickets to pay for, plus another ad. And rent’s coming due on this armpit of a space.”
Berto shook his head. “You may want to start looking for another one. Or some more money. I’m here to serve papers on Mr. Mossman.”
“He’s being sued? For what?”
“Can’t say.”
“Probably some sort of fraud,” I snorted.
Berto’s eyes gleamed and he grinned knowingly.
My jaw dropped. “Holy crud, he is doing a Bialystock.”
“Huh?”
“The Producers.” I stumbled over the words.
“Film by Mel Brooks, 1967, starring Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder.” Berto grinned.
I had to admit I was impressed that he got the older version of Mel Brooks’ story about a producer who raises more from investors than he spends and makes a profit when the show closes.
“Most people would be thinking Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick.” That was the newer, musical version. I shook my head to clear it. “I was wondering if Bobby wasn’t getting nice little old ladies to cough up.” I looked at Berto. “But that’s not fraud, is it? They weren’t investors. They were donors. Besides, every penny we had went to the show.”
“That you know of,” said Berto. “Mr. Mossman is probably just this side of legal. Kind of hard to prove criminal intent when your victim gives you the money willingly to put on a play and that’s what you do with it. That’s why I’m also trying to find out if there was any other funny business going on. Which given what I heard coming in, I’d say there was.”
“With a hey nonny-nonny,” I said, getting angry again. “He stole half our budget.”
I pushed past Berto to go outside just in time to hear screaming from the back of the theater. The stage area was a largely unfurnished section surrounded by black curtains. Stage right, behind the curtains, was the only offstage area in the theater. The prop table was squeezed up against the back wall of the tiny alcove under a window we had to keep open because it was summer and the AC was on the fritz again. An open door led to the alley.
Jean Frisch, our leading lady, was in the doorway screaming in full-on terror as she looked outside. Berto gently pulled Jean back onto the stage. Tom, Lee, and Dev Lippman, one of the other actors, looked at us with puzzled faces. Berto already had his cell phone out and was calling the police as he hurried out to the alley.
“There’s a body out there,” Jean sobbed. “With a big, ugly, bloody spot on the back of his head.”
“Maybe somebody just hit him,” Tom said, heading for the door. “We should be out there taking care of him.”
Tom was stopped by Berto’s return. One look at Berto’s face and Tom gasped and turned pale.
“Maybe we could do some first aid,” Dev said.
Berto shook his head. “I’m a former cop. I know a stiff when I see one. Everybody needs to stay right here.”
I gulped. “Do you know whose body it is?”
“Somebody with a blue shirt on and dark gray slacks,” Berto said, obviously watching all of us.
“Bobby,” I whispered, swallowed, gasped, then looked at Berto. “Bobby Mossman was wearing a blue dress shirt and dark gray slacks today.”
Lee’s wail rose above everyone else’s and he sank onto a bar stool on stage.
“I need everyone to stay in this room,” Berto said. He looked at the alley as if he needed to be out there, as well.
Shaking, Jill wandered in from the sidewalk outside the storefront.
“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice panicky. She was a short woman, with spiky dark hair.
“There’s a body in the alley,” Jean said, crying and tossing her long brown hair out of her perfectly shaped face. “We think it’s Bobby.”
“Noooooooo!” Jill wailed. “I was just playing with it!”
“Playing with what?” I asked.
But Jill was too hysterical to answer. She sank into a seat in the first row and hugged herself as she sobbed.
Berto waved me over to the offstage area. “Can you keep everyone here in the theater?”
“Can’t you?” I asked, my voice starting to tremble.
He looked back at the alley. “I’ve got to secure the scene. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve got it together.”
“I suppose,” I whispered. I sure didn’t feel like I had it together. But compared to everyone else, I must have looked like an oasis of calm.
Lee’s sobs were the loudest, even as he began hyperventilating. I’d have questioned it, but Lee was simply not that good an actor. Tom sat on one of the other bar stools doing deep breathing exercises with his eyes closed. Dev sniffled and paced relentlessly while Jean kept mechanically patting Lee on the back.
“Whoa. What’s this?” Berto squatted over something on the black-painted cement floor next to the prop table.
It was the little snub-nose revolver we were using for the big scene when Lee’s character pretends to commit suicide. It had fallen off the prop table. Berto looked up at the open window, then pulled a small flashlight out of his inside jacket pocket and trained it on the small revolver.
“Muy interesante,” he muttered to himself.
I laughed weakly as he looked at the window again.
“That’s not the murder weapon,” I said. “Can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not a real gun. It’s a prop gun. And the whole point of the scene is that it’s not actually loaded.”
“Looks pretty real to me,” Berto said. He moved the light around to the side of the grip. “See that? It’s the gun’s serial number. Why would there be a serial number on a fake gun?”
“But… But… nobody’s stupid enough to—” I stopped.
I know I can be pretty hard on actors. Most of them are decent and reasonably intelligent human beings. But there are a few… how do I put this