Later Sunday afternoon, July 13, 1947
Art’s diner was just over the bridge downtown on Water Street. I found a parking spot almost directly in front, since most of the businesses and shops are closed on Sundays.
As we approached the door, Alan and I tipped our hats to two elderly women walking arm in arm down the broad sidewalk, probably on their way home from church. A bell jingled when we entered. We had the place to ourselves, so we hung our hats on a hook near the jukebox and chose a booth by the large plate glass window. The smell of burnt coffee and bacon grease hung heavy in the air, moved about slightly by a rusting ceiling fan hanging down precariously.
Eventually, a tired-looking waitress whose name tag read “Betty” came over with a pot of coffee, a bead of sweat on her brow, her apron stained and worn.
Alan and I turned over our cups, which she filled accordingly before handing us menus.
“Cream, sugar?” she said without emotion or inflection.
“No, we both take it black,” Alan said.
“Fine by me. The last fella in here left his newspaper behind. You want it?”
“Sure,” I said, smiling. She didn’t smile back.
“Right.” She shuffled away, returning after a while with the morning Sentinel. She handed it to me and put two glasses of water on the table. “Here’s the front page, anyway. The evening Journal’s not out yet. Ready to order?”
I glanced at Alan and he nodded. We both ordered the tuna fish sandwich on rye and a slice of cherry pie, made fresh from Door County cherries, according to the menu.
“Anything else?”
“No, thank you, Betty, that will do it,” I said, swatting a fly away with my menu.
She gazed blankly at me, order pad in hand, chewing her gum. “I’m not Betty. My name’s Alane. Betty quit last week, and I lost my name tag. So I wear hers.”
“I see.”
“Alane,” she said. “Not a road, not a street, but Alane, get it?”
“Got it, Alane.”
“Good.” She picked up our menus and walked away, her pencil tucked back behind her ear.
Alan smiled at me as I raised my eyebrows and shook my head. I took a sip of my coffee and opened the newspaper on the table, wiping away a drop of grape jelly the previous customer had spilled on it.
“I didn’t have time to read it this morning, but I saw the headline,” I said. “Below the fold, but still front page.”
“What’s it say?” Alan picked up his cup and blew on it.
I read the headline aloud. “‘Death Comes to Lochwood comes true. Actor Shelby Berkett dies onstage in front of audience in a real-life death scene at the Davidson Theater last night.’ There’s a big picture of Mr. Berkett, too, though it looks a few years old.”
“Jeepers.”
“Yup. It goes on to say the cause of death is being investigated, but circumstances seem unusual. Well, they’re right there.”
“Yeah.”
I glanced again at Shelby Berkett’s face in the paper. “I see someone blacked out some of his teeth with a pencil. Probably the same chap with the grape jelly.”
Alan peered at the picture from the opposite side of the table. “Suits him.”
I laughed.
“He was a nice-looking fellow, though,” Alan said. “Except for that bad hairpiece.”
“True enough. By the way, my aunt thinks you’re pretty dashing.”
He blushed. “She didn’t get a good look at me.”
“Oh, don’t be so modest. My auntie has superb taste in men. It runs in the family,” I said quietly so as not to be overheard by Alane.
“That’s sweet of her, and of you, thanks,” he replied shyly.
Alane brought our sandwiches and pie over and shuffled away once more, her right hand on her lower back as she groaned and moaned.
We ate in silence for a while as I read the rest of the newspaper article to myself. When Alan was finished with his sandwich and had started in on his pie, I set the paper aside.
“How was it?” I said, brushing the persistent fly away again.
“The sandwich? It was okay, a little dry. Yours?”
“The same. You going to eat that pickle?”
Alan smiled. “My pickle is your pickle, Detective.”
I smiled back as I reached over and took it off his plate. When I had finished that, I started on my pie too, as Alane came by with more coffee.
When she had shuffled away again, still groaning, Alan spoke. “So, I’ve been wondering. Why did you want them to investigate the pencil and the journal?”
“Just a hunch. According to what I read at the library, potassium cyanide is an innocent-looking white solid, a crystal similar in texture to sugar.”
“Not a liquid.”
“So, how would the killer transport the poison? It’s lethal, even in small doses.”
“The pill case!”
“Yes, we know it had traces of the cyanide in it.”
“But what does that have to do with the pencil and journal?”
“I was just thinking if I was in the prop room with the clock ticking, what would I do? I’d take the lid off the teapot and set it on the shelf next to it. Maybe I’d pick the teapot up and look into it.”
“Why?”
“To make sure the tea was in it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Yes, and if it was, I would set it back on the shelf and drop in the cyanide crystals.”
“Go on,” Alan said.
“But if the tea was cold or even room temperature at best, the crystals might not dissolve fast enough, so I’d look around for something to stir the tea with. Time is of the essence, and the opening of the teapot is small. I glance about and spot the pencil on the desk.”
“I see, of course. The killer would have stirred it with the pencil.”
“Perhaps. It’s one of my working theories at the moment, anyway.”
“But what about the journal?”
“Still thinking about that.”
“So, who do you think did it?”
I leaned back in the booth. “Kill Shelby Berkett? That’s a good question. Certainly there are several suspects. And like it or not, Henry is moving up the list.”
“Why?” Alan sounded slightly perturbed as he leaned back and folded his arms across his chest.
“Because he would have had access to potassium cyanide because he works in a pharmacy, and if he’d made a copy of the prop room key, he would have had access to the supply room, too.”
“Might have had access to potassium cyanide, is what I believe you said. You don’t know that for sure.”
“It’s a strong possibility, anyway. Though I admit Oliver Crane is still on my list.”
“But Mr. Crane doesn’t have a motive, remember? With Shelby Berkett dead, his play is in serious jeopardy, and he stands to lose a great deal of money. I know he didn’t care for Mr. Berkett much, but it doesn’t make sense he’d kill him.”
I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug. “True. All true. Whereas all the others easily could have poisoned him, with nothing to lose on their end.”
“Right, and they all had access to the prop room and supply room, except for Henry,” Alan said.
“Henry would have had access if he’d copied the key,” I said, irritated. “I just said that.”
“But he wasn’t near that side of the stage. I’m simply stating the facts the way you taught me to do.”
I frowned. “He wasn’t near that side of the stage that we know of, but he could have come across the basement and up the stairs.”
Alan shrugged and frowned. “Maybe.”
“So, what’s your theory, then?”
He uncrossed his arms and picked up his fork once more, pushing the remains of his cherry pie around the plate. “Well, I was just thinking, about the broom and mirror from in the supply room. Well, remember how both the broom and the mirror were sticky?”
“I do. The end of the broom and the back of the mirror.”
“I read once where spirits leave behind sticky substances, something called ecto plasma or something. You know. And ghosts sometimes take small things. Mischievous. Things go missing, a pillbox, a mirror, the putty.”
“And the spirit in question again is Alexander Lippencott, I presume.”
Alan’s cheeks turned rosy. “I mean, it’s a possibility, isn’t it? He had a personal stake in this, seeing he knew Shelby, Jasper, and Jazz back in the day. And doesn’t it make sense he would want to see Shelby dead after what he did?”
I sighed and stared into his eyes. Such strength, such intelligence, such innocence that I hoped he would never lose. “After what Shelby possibly did. Remember, nothing was ever proven.”
“Right, possibly did, then. Still, Lippencott would have known the truth, wouldn’t he? It just makes sense.”
“You seriously think a ghost murdered Shelby Berkett?” I said, finishing the last of my pie. “You’d believe that over Henry Hawthorne?”
Alan looked sheepish. “I don’t know. Not everything has a reasonable explanation. You don’t think it’s possible?”
“I think everything’s a possibility until proven not so.”
“I think so, too. And I think you have a personal grudge against Hank.”
“I’m just stating facts, too. Mr. Hawthorne had motive and opportunity.”
“Possibly had opportunity. I think him running through the basement and up the stairs, unlocking the door and slipping in and out of the prop room unseen is a bit of a long shot.”
“Perhaps, but I think the idea of a ghostly murderer is even more of a long shot, so let’s look at the earthbound suspects more closely for now, okay? All the suspects.”
“Sure, fine by me.”
“Fine. What else you got?” I said.
“My other working theory is they were all in on it together. All the suspects killed him, providing alibis for each other.”
“That’s the theory I thought you were first going to propose, the one you’ve proposed for every case we’ve had since you read about it in that book a few years ago.”
“Well, this time it is more of a possibility, don’t you think, Heath?”
“Yes, it’s more of a possibility, and I admit not out of the question, just yet. But back to that sticky ecto whatever mirror. How did it get in the supply room? And why? And why was it left behind?”
Alan cocked his head. “Maybe Mrs. Holloway left it there and lied about it being stolen.”
“Why would she leave it in the supply room?”
“Maybe she left it behind because someone was coming.”
“Maybe, but she still could have easily taken it along.”
“True, but her costume didn’t have any pockets and the curtain was going up soon.”
“Valid theory. But, Alexander Lippencott notwithstanding, why was the mirror sticky in the first place and why was it in the supply room?”
“Hmmm. I’m not sure. But if Eve is the murderer she may have had something sticky on her hands, and she went in the supply room to find something to clean them off. While she was in there, she checked her makeup using the mirror, then set it on the shelf and forgot it. Maybe she spilled something she had to sweep up, so she got the broom handle sticky.”
“Perhaps.”
“But where would she have gotten the poison?”
I scratched my chin. “I’ve been thinking about that. Eve and Mr. Hawthorne have been friends for some time, I understand.”
“That’s right. They were in the USO together and they did the Canteens during the war.”
“And Eve gets Peter’s pill prescriptions filled at Lempke’s Pharmacy, where Henry works.”
“Sure,” Alan said. “He probably gets her a discount.”
“What if Eve and Henry were in on it together? He gets her the poison, she does the deed.”
“Gee, Heath, I suppose that’s possible. I mean, both she and Hank had motives.”
“Yes. I’m surprised Berkett would have attempted to assault Eve where there was a possibility of him being seen.”
“He probably thought they were out of sight.”
“Yes. And she murdered him to prevent him from attacking other women in the future. Who knows what he actually did to her beyond the groping.”
“It makes sense.”
“It’s all quite interesting. But someone other than Eve Holloway might have left the mirror in the supply room.”
“You mean someone may have indeed stolen it, just as she said? But why?”
“That remains to be seen,” I said. “But whoever stole it might have been trying to frame Eve Holloway. Remember the missing pillbox?”
“Yeah. It presumably fell from the sofa cushions when Mr. Crane and Dick attempted to rouse Mr. Holloway.”
“Given the fact that it had traces of cyanide in it, it’s more likely it was on Holloway all along, and he lied about it being stolen, and about being drunk. If that’s the case, it probably fell out of his pocket accidently. He would have had plenty of time to poison the tea after Jasper and his dog left and then plant the mirror in the supply room.”
“But why the supply room? Wouldn’t it make more sense for him to leave it in the prop room?”
“Thinking logically, yes, but I get the impression Mr. Holloway isn’t always logical. I think it’s possible Peter killed Shelby and then tried to frame his wife, killing two birds with one stone, so to speak.”
“Golly, that’s cold.”
I leaned forward again. “Truly, if that’s what happened. But I’ve been mulling over another possibility.”
Alan raised his brows, his blue eyes sparkling. “Care to share?”
I smiled. “Always, with you. I was just thinking about Shelby Berkett. He was conceited, difficult, probably insecure, troubled, financially strapped, and completely alone. No family, no real friends. Failed plays and shows, middle-aged, and no real prospects.”
“Pretty sad.”
“Yeah. Not even a person to notify in case of emergency except his agent. So, what brought him back here to Milwaukee?”
“The chance to make some money in Mr. Crane’s show,” Alan said.
“Yes. He needed cash desperately, and his East Coast prospects were apparently nil. So, he followed up on that ghostly telegram, perhaps curious as to who really sent it. I’m sure it must have stirred up old, painful memories, and he wanted to find out what all was behind it. Maybe he wanted to see Jazz and Jasper again, too. Make amends, ease his guilt. Perhaps he was also curious to see how Dick had turned out.”
“Only Shelby turned out to be far from paternal once he met Dick, and Jazz and Jasper wanted nothing to do with him.”
“Yes, but on a brighter note, Shelby did meet Eve Holloway. She was kind to him, and Shelby Berkett was an attractive enough man, surely attentive. They spent time together, but she fought back when he tried to carry it too far.”
“Why would she ever be friendly with someone like that in the first place?”
“I’m not sure. I think a big part of it was she felt sorry for him, like she said. But certainly a so-called Broadway star with a chance at a movie role would have his appeal to someone like Eve. And he flattered her and gave her attention. But he wanted more and she didn’t, especially after she found out he wasn’t what he pretended to be.”
“And he wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she hit him.” Alan said. “He was certainly hostile to her at the party.”
“His ego was bruised along with his face, I suspect,” I said. “Faced with Eve’s rejection, the realization that his future is bleak, and the fact that his son was not what he’d hoped, what would a man like that do?”
Alan set his fork back on his plate and stared at me, wide eyed. “Suicide?”
I looked at him over the top of my coffee cup. “It’s possible. His death was theatrical in every sense of the word. It’s all over the papers this morning, just as he would have wanted. To die in front of fans, to go out in glory onstage—what could be better in his opinion?”
“Gee,” Alan said softly. “The death of a star.”
“He could have stolen Eve’s mirror and planted it in the supply room for some as yet unknown reason, in an attempt to frame her as an act of revenge for rejecting him or for fighting back.”
“Jeepers, I could see him doing that.”
“Yes, but there’s a problem.”
“What?”
I set my now-empty cup down on the table. “Again, why was the mirror left in the supply room and not the prop room? Maybe I could see Peter doing that, but Shelby was sharper, more intelligent. Also, he had that movie role to look forward to, so his future wasn’t entirely bleak.”
“That’s if he got the role, if he even really was up for it. And if he was, he had to compete against Hank for it, and Hank is pretty charming and talented.”
I groaned. “Don’t remind me. But there’s one other thing. How would Shelby have gotten the poison into the teapot? He and Henry were about the only two not near the prop room before the show, as you constantly point out.”
“Couldn’t he have dropped it in onstage, when he poured that first cup?”
“That is a possibility. But why would the cyanide be in Peter’s pillbox?”
“Maybe Berkett wanted to frame Peter,” Alan said, “to get back at Eve. So, he stole the pillbox and the mirror, hid the pillbox in the sofa cushions, and tucked the mirror in the supply room to make it look like Peter killed him.”
“Maybe. I’m still puzzled as to why the mirror was in the supply room, though. We need to talk to Jazz about all this. I guess it’s high time we get over to her place. You about ready?”
He pushed his plate away and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “If you’re waiting for me, you’re wasting your time!”
I smiled at him as I called the waitress over for the check, gave her the money, and told her to keep the change. The fly, I noticed, had settled down on the windowsill next to a few of his dead brethren.
We gathered up our hats, Alan downed the last of his coffee, and we headed out the door, the bell jingling once more.