The Wednesday morning sun streamed through the bedroom windows. Cait hadn’t slept well, unable to shake off thoughts about the knife—like a bad dream.
The Bening Estate was her home now, and she would protect it the only way she knew how: using her training as a police officer. She would not become an easy target for the person behind the phone calls and the attempted break-in. She would carry on with her routine but would have her gun and cell phone with her at all times.
She was up and out of the shower by seven. As soon as she got downstairs, the landline rang. Marcus wasn’t around so she picked it up. “Bening Estate.”
Heavy breathing came through the phone.
Cait slammed the receiver down, rubbing her left ear as if his breath had touched it.
She opened the refrigerator to study its contents as Marcus and the Harts walked in the back door. She took the milk out and closed the door. “Marcus, there was another crank call. We may have to change the number, but for now the phone company can set up Call Trace to track down the calls. If you enter star-fifty-seven on the phone, the call is automatically traced, but it only works within the local service area.” She reached for the box of cereal and a bowl.
Marcus ran his finger around the collar of his sports shirt as if it were too tight. “Then what happens?”
“Any information collected is turned over to the police,” Cait said. “Problem is, if the caller uses a phone booth or one of those toss-away phones, the police may not get enough information to take action on. The other option would be to change the number.”
“Did the caller say anything this time?” Jim asked.
“No, just more heavy breathing.” She opened a drawer for a spoon and then pulled out a stool and perched on its edge.
“Why not change the number now?” Jim asked.
“Because it’s the number for the festival reservations.” She looked at Marcus. “I’m hoping whoever’s calling will give up, but you might want to start making a record of all calls. I’d hate to have to change the number during the festival.” She started eating. “The same goes for my cell phone.” She sighed. “To be on the safe side, keep your phones with you and turned on. I’ll tell Ilia and Fumié when they get here. The last thing I want is for any of you to get hurt because of me.”
“You said Royal Tanner used to walk the grounds every evening when he was here,” Jim said. “I’ll do the same. I have a gun, and I won’t hesitate to use it.”
“Jim, you’re retired. That’s expecting a lot . . .”
“Nonsense. I worked many years in the world of art recovery. I’m not a novice at skullduggery business. I know which end of a gun to point.” A grin broke across his face. “Besides, I’ve always had a zest for adventure. That’s why I got into the business I did.”
Cait’s heart swelled with affection for this kind, gentle man. She stood and gave him a hug. “Thank you.”
“I forgot,” Marcus said. “Ray and Jay Stoltz are waiting to get in the Elizabethan theater. I’m surprised Ray’s not pounding on this door.”
“He can rant and rave all he wants. I thought he was coming Thursday. I planned on a walk-through today.”
Marcus dragged his hand through his spiked hair. “Must have changed his mind. I thought I should wait to let them in until you came downstairs.”
“I’ll go while you call the phone service about Call Trace. I could use a little fun with Ray Stoltz.”
“We’ll go with you,” June said, “in case we need to tear you two apart.”
They located Ray leaning against the white plaster and dark-timbered theater. Instead of barking at Cait for keeping him waiting, he bowed, sweeping his hand in front of him in a swashbuckling manner. “Nice to see you again, Cait. Not expecting trouble this weekend, are you?”
Cait smiled at the gesture, so out of character for brawny Ray Stoltz. “Now why would you think that?”
He shrugged and looked down at her from his six-three height. “Just sayin’, but you have to admit trouble follows you.”
Unfortunately, that’s too true. “You’re a day early.”
“I’m a busy man. Two plays running simultaneously this weekend means extra work. Let’s see what needs fixing to keep the actors happy. Happy actors make good performances, something I’m sure you’re interested in. Working with cranky directors isn’t easy either, nor the costume designers, scenic designers, lighting staff—”
“I got the message, Ray.” She disarmed the theater and held the door open. “Let me know if you need anything.”
“I promised Tasha everything would run slick as grease. The same goes for you.” His eyes shifted to June and Jim. “Who are these people?”
June poked a finger at Ray. “Put your glasses on, Ray Stoltz. I can be your worst nightmare, so show a little respect for your elders. Maybe you don’t recognize me when I’m not wearing a wig and layers of gowns at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival.”
Ray’s brow arched over a wicked smile as he looked down at June. “Oh, yeah. Knew you looked familiar. What I remember most about you and those other actors who retired from being on stage to work behind the curtains is how you loved to boss everyone around.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So what are you doing here at Cait’s festival?”
Cait suppressed a grin. Oh man. They’re on a crash course already.
June slipped her arm through Jim’s. “This is my husband, Jim. We’re here to help Cait with the festival. Since Tasha and I had been friends forever, I thought it would be fun to work at her festival. So you be nice to Cait, or you’ll have me to answer to.”
Jim looked at Cait. “You obviously know this character.”
“Of course,” Cait said. “Ray mistook me for one of his hired hands when we met,” she said as she punched the code on the security panel. “What can we do to help, Ray? Follow you around like minions while you check for shoddy housekeeping?”
“Hey, bro,” a familiar voice said from behind Cait.
Cait turned and saw Jay, Ray’s brother. “Hi, Jay.”
“You ready for the weekend, Cait?”
“Depends on your brother.”
Jay glanced at Ray. “Want me to bring the boxes in from the van?”
“Yeah, go ahead.” Ray raised his eyebrow at Cait. “No surprises like last time, I hope.”
Cait assumed he was referring to a shotgun that was missing from one of the props trunks. She considered telling Ray about the attempted break-in at the house and the phone calls, but wanted to get the walk-through over with first. She shielded her eyes from the sun and looked out over the 250 seats in the outdoor theater, and she prayed that rain had ended for the summer.
She turned to the Harts. “Let’s go in the back.” She ran up the short flight of stairs and onto the stage, pushed the red velvet curtain aside, and entered the green room. The room had been set up with two dark brown leather sofas for the actors, so they could relax and watch the monitor mounted on the wall for their cue to go on stage. Adjacent to the room were the wig and makeup room, costume room, dressing rooms, and props room.
“Bro,” Ray said, “before you get the boxes, go up to the loft and see what shape the gobos and gels are in. The actor who plays Hamlet can be difficult to satisfy. If he doesn’t like a particular design covering the stage floor or the colors splashed across the costumes, I’ll hear about it. Some may have to be replaced.” He turned to June. “If you’re willing to work, check the wig and costume rooms, something you’re most familiar with. A couple of wheels fell off one of the rolling clothes racks at the Blackfriars theater during rehearsal for Tongue of a Bird. It crashed, bringing down costumes and tearing some. Make sure that won’t happen again.”
June raised her eyebrow. “Am I supposed to repair broken wheels?”
Cait bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.
Ray ignored June and looked at Cait. “Come with me.” His cell phone rang.
When Ray stepped away to answer, June winked at Cait. “Ray’s a teddy bear under all that tough exterior,” she said. “I know our Hamlet, Chip Fallon. He can be difficult and is a perfectionist, but I admire him and so did Tasha. He adored her. I’m sure he signed on to play the role as a favor to her. He studied at the American Conservatory Theater in San Francisco, one of the best acting schools in the country. I’ll introduce you when he gets here.”
“I feel useless,” Jim said. “It makes more sense for me to help Marcus with the picnic tables. They’re almost ready to set up in the shade of the old oak trees. You need anything, call.”
Cait followed Ray around the green room while June looked into the costume room. In spite of his sometimes-tempestuous disposition, she liked him. She liked his attention to detail as he examined the fire extinguisher, the first-aid kit, the large whiteboard and accompanying pens, and his concern for the actors’ safety.
“Do you have plenty of bottled water?” he asked.
She pointed to a closet next to the half-sized refrigerator. “In there.”
“Coffee?”
“In the closet.”
Ray kneeled to examine a cord running across the floor when a loud thump came from overhead.
Cait glanced at the stairs to the loft. “Maybe we should check on Jay.”
“He’s a big boy. If he needs help, he’ll holler. Lots of boxes are stored up there. Maybe he tripped over one.”
“I don’t know what all is up there since I’ve only been up a couple of times,” she said. “I donated some of Tasha’s old costumes to the festival. They’re hanging in clothes bags in the loft. It would be nice if they could be used.”
Ray rose and looked at Cait with compassion in his eyes, something she rarely saw from him. She wasn’t sure how to react. He may not be a teddy bear like June said, but he sure had a soft spot for Tasha.
He turned his back on her, as if embarrassed. “I appreciate you didn’t toss her costumes out. Most of what’s up there are souvenirs from the theater she collected over the years, things that had special meaning to her—a dress form, medieval weapons, pieces of scenery, and an old Singer sewing machine Tasha actually used. Jay’s used it, too, to repair costumes. Damn lucky none of it was burned when some idiot set fire to the theater a few months ago.”
“You must have known Tasha pretty well.”
“Yeah, a long time.”
“I’m going up there,” she said, just as Jay tromped down the stairs.
Jay swiped his dusty hands along the sides of his jeans. “Gobos and gels look okay. Not sure what’s with that box of weapons though. Tape’s been ripped off and the lid partially opened.” He looked at Cait. “Hard to tell if anything’s missing.”
“Hey, don’t look at me,” she said, as a prickling sensation spread across her brow. “I haven’t been messing around up there.”
“Damn!” Ray said. “It’s always something!”
June came out of the wig room. “What’s all the commotion?”
“Tampering in the loft,” Ray said, “that’s what.”
“You don’t know that,” Cait said, thinking he might not be too far off the mark. “Maybe the trunk was moved to avoid someone falling over it.”
Ray looked at his brother. “Was the packing slip still in the box? Use that to see if anything’s missing.”
“No packing slip. I looked,” Jay said.
Packing slip? Cait thought. If the halberd wasn’t from Tasha’s collection of old weapons, where was it from?
Ray drew a handkerchief from a pocket in his jeans and blew his nose. “As usual, we’ll find out what’s missing when it’s needed.” He glanced around the room. “Okay, bring in the boxes from the van.”
June rolled her eyes and slipped back into the wig room.
Cait was left standing alone in the green room, not sure what she should do, when her cell phone rang. She unclipped it from her waist and glanced at the screen. “Sam?” she answered.
“Oh, Cait? You’re okay?”
Samantha Barnet, an ER doctor, never called during the day while she was working. Cait longed for a heart-to-heart talk with her best friend in Ohio. She visualized Sam frowning over her wire-rimmed glasses, which made her look bookish. “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You won’t believe this, but Penny was just here.”
Penny, a reporter for the Columbus Dispatch, was one of their friends. “Is she okay?”
“Yes, but . . . Cait, you know she sometimes writes obits for the paper?”
Cait sat down on one of the sofas. “I remember. She hates it.”
“Right. Uh . . . prepare yourself. She received a call to write an obit about . . . oh, God . . . I can’t even say it.”
“Sam, just tell me.”
“Your obit.”
Cait almost dropped the phone. “What?”
“Someone called in wanting to place an obituary in the paper about your death. Obituaries are only accepted from funeral homes or customers with verification of death. When Penny tried to explain this to the man, he hung up. She was too shaken to call you herself, and came here to see if I’d heard from you recently. What a cruel joke. Any idea who would do such a thing?”
Oh, yeah. “Sam, remember the time I shot a bank robber to save another officer’s life?”
“Of course, a couple of years ago,” Sam said. “You were miserable afterwards.”
“I was. Apparently, someone’s looking to avenge the shooting.” She explained about the attempted break-in, the calls, and the knife with the initials etched on the blade.
“My God, Cait. I’m sorry. Does Shep know?”
“Yes. And we’ve both talked with the detective here.”
“Sorry. Gotta go. I’m being paged,” Sam said. “But there’s something else you should know. When Penny tried calling the phone number back, she noticed the call came from the same area code as yours. It rang and rang but no one answered. Cait! He’s in Livermore! Promise you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” Cait looked over her shoulder as if expecting to see someone with a gun aimed at her back. “Doesn’t surprise me the call came from here. Thanks for letting me know. Now go tend to your patients, Sam. I’ll be in touch soon.”
June walked into the room as Cait finished the call. “The look on your face tells me something happened.”
Cait nodded. “Someone tried to put a nail in my coffin. Literally.”