Читать книгу Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical - Karen Cantwell - Страница 8

Past and present collide in a fiery community theater fundraiser when a dedicated insurance agent relives the thrill of his rock band youth.

He practiced hitting the high notes in the shower, where the swirling steam caressed his vocal cords and the loud whoosh of water gave him privacy to belt out his warbling falsetto, without his teenage children complaining that he was “pitchy.” They had picked up that criticism from one of those television talent shows where amateur singers waited, with wide eyes and nervously clenched fists, for the judges to decide if they were on their way to stardom.

Buck Wheeler wasn’t looking for stardom. At least, not now. Back in his early twenties, his band had crisscrossed through the South, playing small towns and clubs, wherever they could corral together enough fans for a road trip that was tantalizingly close to breakeven. He’d pranced in tight pants in front of a microphone, guitar firmly in hand, standing center stage with his drummer and keyboard player as they grinned at their adoring audience.

Their band was good. Everyone said so. Buck still had the newspaper clipping that proclaimed them “the best new rock band of our age,” a treasured bit of hyperbole that was carefully framed to protect it from wrinkling, yellowed just a bit after being proudly displayed for years on his bookshelf before he finally shoved it to the back of a drawer. The band was good. Just not good enough. Not good enough to justify the expense of months on the road. Not good enough to support a wife and new baby.

After the baby was born, he and Margie returned to the county of Foreman where he had grown up, to the job his dad had held for him in the family business. Buck surprised himself by slipping easily into the role of insurance salesman, content to protect people’s homes, cars, and businesses against the everyday accidents and misfortunes that threatened to derail their comfortable lives. He joined community organizations, donated generously to various worthy causes, coached Little League baseball, and was elected to the county Board of Supervisors on a platform of protecting traditional values and the rural way of life.

Older residents of Foreman County still remembered him as the long-haired high school heartthrob whose penetrating high notes once caused tears to run down the cheeks of quivering teenage girls. When local thespians scheduled a summer musical, they pressed him to take the lead part.

At first, he turned them down. He was too old, he said. Too out of shape, with a softening belly and prominent love handles. And his voice tended to squeak out on the high notes. But they insisted. It was for a good cause—a fundraiser to support the 18th century building that began life as a colonial tavern and was now home to a popular dinner theater.

The tavern had been an important gathering spot in its early years, a welcome destination for men who traveled as far as their horses could take them in a day, in search of a warm meal and a spot to spend the night, even if they had to double or triple up on straw-stuffed mattresses. Local legend said that George Washington and the Marquis de Lafayette had plotted battle strategy there during the American Revolution.

Unfortunately, modern roads and fast cars had made the tavern obsolete. Abandoned by its owners, it perched unsteadily for years by the side of the highway and was scheduled for demolition when it was discovered about fifteen years ago by a group of New York actors. They found the warren of tiny rooms and uneven floors charming, and could see beyond the rotten beams, crumbling plaster and leaking roof, envisioning the tavern as the perfect home for a dinner theater. They bought the ramshackle place and began renovations.

The old tavern sucked up money as it was grudgingly transformed to meet modern codes. The more obvious improvements of new paint and plaster, of getting rid of mold and patching the roof, were not enough. The guts of the building needed an overhaul. The antiquated electrical system had to be updated. New air conditioning was needed to make muggy summer nights endurable. Each time the owners felt they finally had finished the updates, a new problem surfaced. Fundraisers became a way of life for the theater managers.

Buck’s insurance agency provided coverage for the building, which made it difficult for him to ignore the continued pleas to participate in the fundraiser. Buck Wheeler was a big deal in the community, they said. A lifelong resident. A member of the Board of Supervisors. A former rock star. His name on the marquee would guarantee a sellout crowd.

Back at home, Buck pulled the old newspaper clipping about his band from the back of his sock drawer. A bittersweet rush of fond memories reminded him of the heady days of his youth, when anything seemed possible. And he said yes.

Now, on opening night, Buck peeked through the stage curtains at the sold-out crowd. The theater was in the basement level of the tavern, with the floor steeply pitched so the owners could cram in as many bodies as the fire marshal would allow. There were a lot of familiar faces in the audience. His wife Margie sat in the front row, along with his children Rollie and Kate, who looked bored as they scrolled through their cell phone feeds. Drew Hughes, who owned the local dry cleaner, and Chuckie Dreyfus, who had recently opened his second barbecue restaurant, sat midway back with their wives. Patty Lewiston, the reporter for the county paper, perched at the end of the second row, talking to those around her, no doubt gathering background for her upcoming review.

And then he spotted Alton Humphrey, trying to blend in with the crowd. Alton was an out-of-state developer who had been pressuring some of the locals to sell their land. He wanted to assemble enough acreage to build a mixed-use development of commercial buildings and high-density residential units.

Buck knew his constituents didn’t want that. There was already too much development in the county, sprawling subdivisions of endless streets and fancy cul-de-sacs. His people wanted wide open spaces, with horses grazing in pastures by the side of the road and geese flocking to scattered lakes. Long-term residents weren’t happy with the influx of commuters whose SUVs caused traffic jams on Foreman’s twisted two-lane roads and whose children overwhelmed the local schools.

Alton wanted to bring even more congestion to the county. He and Buck had already had several contentious meetings. Alton said the development would bring more jobs and lower-cost housing. Buck told him it would bring too many people, too much traffic, and too much crime. Buck was sure that most of the supervisors would never support Alton’s rezoning request.

The weak link in Buck’s crusade was Emmet Ralston, who sat beside Alton as they waited for the musical to start. Emmet had lived in Foreman only five years but had already made a name for himself in county circles, being voted to the Board of Supervisors at the last election. He lived in an enormous brick two-story Colonial in a large-lot subdivision and drove one of those gas-guzzling SUVs that clogged Foreman’s narrow roads during morning commutes.

Emmet wanted to bring more growth to the county. He didn’t care about horse farms or flocking geese. He thought Alton’s proposed development was a great idea, something that would bring in convenient shopping, more jobs, and a broader tax base. If some of the scenic parts of the county had to be sacrificed for wider roads and easier city commutes, well, that was the price of progress.

Sallie Minnows sat a few rows in front of the two men. Buck knew that Humphrey had been pressuring Sallie to sell her land. She was a lifelong resident of Foreman whose husband had been killed in a farming accident years ago. Sallie had raised two children all by herself, hiring seasonal workers to help her manage the hundred acres that had been in her husband’s family for generations, selling corn and tomatoes to local groceries and produce stands.

Buck had met with the feisty, freckled grandmother to encourage her not to sell. He told her that the supervisors would never support the rezoning, that he personally was spearheading the effort to keep the county rural. “I know this is what your husband would want,” he told her as they walked through towering rows of corn, “to keep this land intact for you to pass on to your children.”

“Not sure the children are interested,” she said, pulling her long white braid in front of her shoulder. “You know my daughter’s in California, doing some commercials, hoping to make it as an actress. And my son is in Florida, running a charter fishing boat business down in the Keys. I hardly see ‘em. They didn’t even come here last Christmas.”

“They’re young yet,” Buck told her. “Someday they’ll want to come back to their homeplace. And we’re going to help you save it for them.”

She scratched her sunburned nose. “It’s tough to make a living as a farmer. Remember that drought last year? About wiped out my tomato crop. Alton says if I sell, I’ll have plenty of money and time for fun. I could travel. Take one of those around-the-world cruises.” She sighed. “I’m getting too old to manage all this. I can still drive a tractor, but there’s lot of things I’m not so good at anymore.”

Buck shook his head. “Alton’s one of those guys who always thinks they know more about what our county wants than the people who have lived here for years. You know our folks don’t want change. Foreman is a magical place. We want to keep it that way.”

“Maybe.” She spotted a fat groundhog perched on his hind legs, stretching up to rip ears of corn from the sturdy stalks. Intent on his thievery, he didn’t notice Sallie until she was right beside him. She landed a well-placed kick that sent the animal flying high over the rippling corn tassels. “Get out of here, you devil,” she shouted. He landed with a soft thud in a distant furrow.

“Sallie, that was amazing. Never knew you could run that fast.” Buck laughed. “A kicker couldn’t have shot a football through the goalposts any slicker than that.” He peered through the crowded rows. “Guess he’s buzzard bait now.”

“Naw, I caught him wrong. Kicked him in the butt. Probably only knocked him out for a bit. You gotta kick ‘em in the head if you want to kill ‘em. I learned that the hard way when I got attacked a couple of years back by a rabid dog.”

“You killed a rabid dog? By kicking him?”

“Steel-toed boots,” she said, digging her heel into the soft earth, pointing her toe toward the sky. “A woman on her own has to protect herself, any way she can.”

She wore those same steel-toed boots for tonight’s musical, Buck noted. In fact, she wore them everywhere—out in the fields, through tick-infested woods, to the grocery store, to church. Buck had never seen her with any other type of footwear.

Buck sidled away from the stage curtain as the band members moved out front and began to tune their instruments. He lined up with the other singers for the opening number, nervously straightening his costume and tugging at the clump of dark brown hair stuck to his bald head. He felt ridiculous wearing a wig, but the director insisted, and Margie said it made him look incredibly sexy, so he gave in. He just hoped the audience didn’t laugh too loud when they saw it.

The curtain opened as the band started the first number, a rousing medley of rock songs. Buck pranced out onto the tiny stage. As expected, the audience started laughing as soon as they spotted him and his fellow actors in their elaborate makeup and free-flowing hair. But they soon got into the spirit of the performance, clapping their hands and stomping their feet in time to the music.

By the third song, Buck’s nervousness had disappeared. He was at one with the music, transformed into the performer he had always wanted to be. Suddenly he wasn’t a middle-aged insurance agent explaining the dry details of a high-deductible policy. He wasn’t a chubby, bald dad who fought daily with his two prickly teenagers.

He was a rock star, part of the best band of his age, sharing his amazing talent with adoring fans. His skin tingled. Blood coursed wildly through his veins. He put more energy into his dance, snapping his fingers, shaking his shoulders, pointing from the floor to the ceiling. He grabbed the microphone, threw back his head and hit several measures of falsetto notes with ease.

Suddenly his mic went dead.

Nothing to worry about. Equipment malfunctions happened. The important thing was to keep going, keep the audience involved until the sound guys could get out there and fix the problem. He kept singing, projecting from his diaphragm so his words bounced against the back walls.

He noticed that the people in the first few rows were standing, pointing toward the backstage curtains where gray smoke curled out, drifting along the edge of the stage, wrapping around the ankles of the band members. For a moment he thought it was just special effects, dry ice brought in to add drama to their performance. But the band stopped playing and jumped to their feet just as someone shouted, “Fire!”

Then the lights went out.

People screamed as darkness wrapped around them, fumbling their way along the rows of seats toward the narrow aisles, growing more frantic as the smoke thickened. A few flipped on their cell phone lights, but folks still tripped on the steep steps that led up to the exits, falling as those behind them kept pushing forward. Couples tried to stay together, holding hands as they funneled toward the doors, yelling out for their loved ones as colliding bodies forced them apart.

Someone slammed against Buck. He dropped to his knees as desperate actors scrambled over him. Behind him, orange flames ripped through the heavy stage curtains. The intense heat melted his wig tape. The curly brown hair slid off his head. He was no longer a rock star.

But he was still an insurance guy. His job was about keeping people safe. Making sure they were protected against the hazards of life. Against dangerous storms that sent falling trees crashing against their roofs. Against speeding cars that hydroplaned on icy highways. Against fire.

His first thought was for his family. He was relieved to see them near the top of the stairs, close to the exit. Then, fighting his survival instincts, Buck headed toward the backstage dressing area, to make sure everyone else had gotten out. He called out, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs, “Anyone back here?”

“Help,” a voice called. “I’m trapped.”

Buck pushed through the flames. Darlene Hestor stood at the entrance to her dressing room, paralyzed with fear. Buck grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the stage. She screamed as the fire scorched her ankles. “Is anyone else back there?” he asked.

“Judy. I think she’s in the bathroom.”

As Darlene headed for the exit, Buck made his way down the hall and pushed open the bathroom door. “Judy, you in here?” he called as he moved from stall to stall. “Judy? Hello? Anybody here?”

The only answer was the crackle of flames. Buck turned back toward the stage, staggering through the thick smoke. He stumbled into some equipment. The drums, maybe? The keyboard stand? Confused, he whirled around, desperate for fresh air. If he kept the flames at his back, he should be able to reach the exit. But the side curtains were now burning, and flames surrounded him. Which way was out?

Dizzy, disoriented, Buck fell flat and army-crawled on his stomach across the stage, all elbows and knees, dodging the flames. A heavy object crashed down beside him. A ceiling beam? The lighting boom? He veered to the side as he pushed his hands out, desperately feeling his way. And then he hit empty space, and he knew he had reached the edge of the stage. He rolled down to the floor and headed for the gap between the smoldering seats. He could do this, work his way up the aisle, get to the exit. He was safe now. All he had to do was stay calm and stay low.

He screamed as something smacked his head. He threw his hands up in a futile attempt to protect himself. What was that? Did the chairs collapse? Part of the wall? The pain was so intense that he froze in place, unable to move. And then it hit him again.

* * * *

Outside, sirens punctured the country stillness as firetrucks raced to the scene. Jagged streaks of flames danced along the roof. Firemen in helmets and yellow jackets jumped from their trucks, positioning ladders to reach the smoking upper floors even as the intense heat caused glass to pop out of the windows.

Alton Humphrey and Emmet Ralston stood near the theater exit, grabbing people’s hands as they emerged from the dense smoke, leading them to safety. Theater patrons wandered through the parking lot, calling out for friends and loved ones lost in the desperate rush from disaster. Margie, who had been sitting on the front row, was one of the last to escape. She clutched her children close, watching the actors race out the door, some in the middle of costume changes, dressing robes wrapped around their underwear. Darlene Hestor ran out, wig askew, one false eyelash hanging low like an escaping centipede.

“Where’s Buck?” Margie called out, grabbing her arm. “Did you see him?”

“He saved my life,” Darlene said. “Pulled me out of the fire. And he went back in for Judy.”

Firefighters donned masks and air tanks to enter the basement theater, threading fire hoses into the narrow aisles. Silver streams of water jabbed through the thick smoke. A fireman carried Sallie Minnows out, her head lolled back, blood spattered down her dress. Her white braid, now gray from smoke, dangled toward the ground. He handed her off to the rescue squad folks, who strapped an oxygen mask over her face, loaded her into their ambulance and took off, siren screaming, for the nearest hospital.

Margie rushed toward the theater entrance and tried to push her way in. “You can’t go in there,” the fireman said.

“My husband’s still inside,” Margie said.

“We’ll look for him, ma’am. But it’s solid flames in there now. You can’t go in.”

Multiple hoses and sheets of water were no match for the dried-out timbers of the centuries-old tavern. Television crews were on site now, filming dramatic shots of the burning roof as it collapsed. Police worked the crowd to figure out if anyone was still inside. By the time the fire was finally extinguished, even the untrained eye could see that the building was a total loss.

Miraculously, there was only one casualty. Buck Wheeler.

Darlene Hestor repeated her story multiple times to television cameras. Each time she told it, she added a few new details. By the time the story was picked up on morning news shows across the nation, Darlene explained that Buck had broken through a locked door to rescue her. He had thrown a heavy coat over her to extinguish the flames that singed her flouncy costume. And he had tossed her across his shoulders to carry her through the fire. Then he had gone back into the flames to search for Judy, who as it turned out, wasn’t in the bathroom after all. She had taken off at the first signs of smoke and was one of the first to escape the flames.

There was no doubt about it. Buck Wheeler was a hero.

Sheriff Gibson and his forensics team searched through the rubble. They determined that the fire started from a short in the HVAC system, which caused sparks to filter down on sheetrock and paint cans stacked in a back room while contractors worked on the renovation. At first, they thought Buck Wheeler died from smoke inhalation, but a closer look showed his head had been smashed in, his jaw shattered. Ceiling debris was scattered around him, but nothing that matched the size and shape of the blunt object that had caused his death. They quickly decided that Buck Wheeler had been murdered.

Alton Humphrey was the logical suspect. Everyone knew he and Buck had been at each other’s throats over the rezoning for the proposed development. Sheriff Gibson brought him in for questioning, wanted to lock him up, but Alton quickly called in a high-powered lawyer who got him released. As the investigation progressed, the sheriff realized there was no evidence tying Alton to the murder. No fingerprints. No DNA or trace evidence on Buck. No murder weapon.

Emmet Ralston was also questioned. He and Buck had argued over the future growth of the county. Emmet had openly expressed his frustration that Buck stood in the way of good jobs and a stronger tax base for Foreman County.

But again, there was no evidence. And residents remembered that Alton and Emmet had stood at the exit of the theater, helping others escape the crippling smoke. Surely a murderer wouldn’t have hung around to do that. Without a murder weapon, without any solid evidence, neither could be tied to the crime.

At least they had the decency to stay away from Buck’s funeral. It was held in the old Baptist church that Buck had attended since childhood. Locals mingled with out-of-towners who had heard Buck’s story and wanted to honor him. Tents were set up on the lawn to handle the overflow crowd, with speakers broadcasting the poignant tributes given by Buck’s many friends.

Church ladies fussed for days to cook enough fried chicken, ham biscuits, and casseroles to feed the hungry crowd. They laid out rows of cakes and endless pies, including Buck’s favorite, pecan.

The county paper reprinted that old article about Buck’s rock band being “the best of our age.” Margie dug out recordings of Buck’s early songs to play at the funeral. The tunes were picked up by DJs across the country. Two of them stayed on the top-ten charts for the next month.

The local bank set up college funds for Buck’s children, and donations poured in from around the world.

The tavern was too damaged to be rebuilt. But with the insurance money, community donations, and a six-figure contribution from Alton Humphrey, plans quickly progressed for the new Buck Wheeler Community Center to be erected in its place. The tasteful brick building would house a theater, meeting rooms, and office space.

Buck became a national hero. The rock-star insurance guy. More famous now than he’d ever been when his band was touring the South.

Alton Humphrey went ahead with his development project, easily gaining approval from the Board of Supervisors now that Buck was no longer there to lead the opposition.

* * * *

Sallie Minnows watched the lights of St. Lucia fade away as the cruise ship sailed to its next port.

She was using this cruise as an opportunity to reinvent herself. She had cut off her long braid and dyed her hair a soft brown. Spent some serious hours in the spa trying to undo all those years of damage squinting at the sun. Shopped in the cruise boutiques for new outfits to wear to fancy dinners and shore excursions.

One thing she couldn’t give up was her steel-toed boots. They weren’t the best for travel. In the airport, she’d had to tug at them while bracing herself on the edge of the conveyor belt, so she could put them in that plastic bin and then walk through the metal detector in her sock feet. And they weren’t the easiest things to put back on, either. She couldn’t do it standing up. She had to find a bench to sit on, angling her foot to push her toes as far down as she could, then jamming her heel into the boot.

But they made her feel safe. After all, a woman on her own had to be able to protect herself, any way she could. Nobody would mess with her when she was wearing those steel-toed boots.

She felt bad about Buck Wheeler. But he’d been wrong when he said the folks in Foreman didn’t want change. She was tired of being land-rich and cash-poor, of getting up before dawn to finish her chores before the scorching sun made it too hot to stay outside. She’d done her part, kept the farm going for years after her husband died, raised her children. It was time for something new.

She glanced down at her boots again. They were old. The heels worn and scuffed. At least the bloody stain at the toe had finally darkened to brownish burgundy. She’d tried everything she could think of to get that stain out. Dish soap. Saddle soap. Baking soda. Even bleach. Nothing worked.

They did look a little ratty. Maybe she should get a new pair. Something a little more fashionable. After all, she wasn’t a poor old farm woman anymore. Now that she had sold the homestead to Alton Humphrey, she could buy anything she wanted.