Roxanne peeped in at her son, sound asleep, his mouth slightly open. Her sister Susan would be sleeping as well, in her own house.
“I can’t make it right now,” she told Dawes by speaker phone, biting her lip in frustration. “Send me photos?” She printed them as they came in. They showed a body lying on the floor of PTC’s rehearsal hall, the mouth slightly agape, blue eyes open wide. Budgie Torrance wore jeans, a buckled belt, polished shoes, a silk shirt stained with blood. The black handle of a knife protruded just below her left breast, towards the centre, aimed straight for her heart. Her hands were wrapped around the handle.
Her script for Macbeth lay open at her feet. Some lines were highlighted in yellow.
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more.
Roxanne remembered them vaguely from high school.
“There’s a bunch of highlighters,” Dawes told her by phone. “In a box on a table. Her keys, her phone and her wallet are in her pockets. Isn’t she your main suspect?”
“She was. One of two. The other one is the woman who attacked Coop Jenkins and she’s still in the hospital.”
“Looks like this one’s done herself in,” said Dawes. “That book’s the one from some play she’s acting in. The woman who unlocked this place for us knew all about it. Says the bits that are highlighted are about a woman who killed herself. She says this woman was on sleeping pills. Was depressed, but she didn’t show it much. Actor type, right?”
“There’s nothing else? She didn’t write a letter?”
“No. But it has to be suicide.”
“Don’t know about that, Detective Sergeant.” Roxanne peered at a close-up of the body. “It’s another stabbing. We’ve had two other deaths involving knives. And since she died in Winnipeg it’s going to be your case.”
“Yeah,” he reluctantly agreed. “But it’s got to be linked to your first victim. She was married to him, wasn’t she?”
“How did you find her?” asked Roxanne.
Marla Caplan had been dropped off by some friends at the front door of the condo, just before eleven. She’d let herself in. Had her own keys. She’d thought the Torrance woman had gone to bed already but opened the door to make sure she was all right. The bed was empty. Looked like it hadn’t been slept in. She knew that Ms. Torrance was going to drive out to Cullen Village for a Thanksgiving lunch earlier with some people from the theatre, so she’d called one of them, who said Ms. Torrance had dropped her off downtown after 6:30, and she was in good spirits. Marla had gone down to the basement to see if the car was there and it was. There had been those other murders already. So she had phoned the police.
They’d decided to search the theatre. Marla had told them to call some woman called Beck. She came down right away and let them in. Lights had been left on in the rehearsal hall. And there they had found Budgie Torrance.
“Solves both our cases if she did it herself,” said Dawes, still hopeful. “She bumped off her husband and the theatre prof, then had a guilty conscience. Or thought she’d be found out. Buckled under the strain. Ms. Beck says they had to pay the woman who reported her missing to help look after her, she was so stressed out. High-strung lot, these theatre folks, aren’t they?”
“It looks so staged,” Roxanne said, looking at the photographs spread out on her kitchen counter. “Maybe that’s what we’re supposed to think.”
“Yeah, but she still could have done it herself,” he insisted.
The Ident Unit was measuring and photographing. They knew already that there was only one set of fingerprints on the hilt of the knife, Dawes said. Dr. Farooq from the medical examiner’s office was on his way. Rigor hadn’t progressed much. Budgie couldn’t have been dead more than four or five hours. With a bit of luck, the body would still be in place when Roxanne finally got there.
The sheet of paper Roxanne had worked on earlier was tacked to the side of her fridge with a couple of magnets. She looked at it again. Was Dawes right? Was Budgie responsible for both of the deaths? Had she decided enough was enough and chosen to end it all, like Lady Macbeth in the play they were rehearsing? Had she walked over to the theatre, taking a knife with her, opened her script at her chosen place and highlighted the quotation, arranged herself on the floor, then thrust the sharp blade into her heart, making herself look like another Shakespearean heroine she had probably acted several times when she was younger? She did look like Juliet lying in her tomb.
Or had someone lured her over there, killed her and laid out the body to make it look like suicide? Chosen that quotation to make it appear that she was depressed enough to kill herself? That she’d had enough of life? Used highlighter to disguise the fact that it was not Budgie making those marks? Budgie’s writing was distinctive and samples of it were throughout her script.
Roxanne ran her eyes over the list again. Tamsin Longstaff was tucked away in a hospital bed. She couldn’t be responsible for this. Jem Sinclair was unlikely. He wasn’t a theatre person, and if anyone had killed Budgie, they had access to the theatre and knew Shakespeare’s play. Maxwell Fergusson was a possible suspect. He knew theatre. He’d be familiar with the plays. And he could have met Budgie at the apartment. Used her keys after. That theory assumed Maxwell had managed to get to Winnipeg, which didn’t seem likely but was easily checked. She texted Dawes. Someone should find out if anyone resembling the gallery owner had booked a seat on a plane to Toronto. That left Alison Beck and Madeleine Bissett, and there was little case against either.
She sent two texts, one to her sister saying she’d be dropping Finn off early and the other to Coop Jenkins. She’d have no time to take his truck to his place in the morning and go swap it for the damaged Focus, then go to the carpool and exchange it. That would have to wait. She set her alarm and lay down on her bed, pulled up the duvet and tried to sleep, but tossed and turned instead, running possible scenarios in her head. She was up and showered by 6:00 am. It was still dark when she strapped her sleepy boy, still in his pyjamas, into the cab of the Silverado and drove off. Her sister met her at the door and took Finn into her arms, shaking her head as she did so, and Roxanne headed back to work.
Prairie Theatre Centre was surrounded by police vehicles and tape. The scene in the rehearsal hall was theatrical, but this time the drama was for real. The body lay in the middle of the taped-out floor, brightly lit. Budgie’s open eyes made her look startled—at the sudden pain as the knife entered her body or appalled that someone was killing her? She had not used highlighter anywhere else in her script. The words marked in yellow were clearly meant to be noticed.
Corporal Dave Kovak was over at the apartment. She called him. Marla Caplan had been sent home. Her fingerprints were all over the place. So were Budgie’s. They had found others. One set belonged to the caretaker. Larry had been asked to fix the bathroom door, which kept sticking, on Friday. The cleaner had come that day too, but Larry had still been around after she had gone. Roxanne thought about the paintings on the walls. Gerald’s killer had taken artwork, maybe as souvenirs. If the same person had stabbed Budgie, would another piece be missing?
“It was Alison Beck who opened up the theatre for you?” she asked Detective Sergeant Dawes.
Alison had. She had stayed right through, was still up there in her office. Right now, she was talking to a tall, bony woman and another little fat one who said they both worked here.
Roxanne guessed why Jazz Elliott and Sadie Smith would be ensconced with the acting GM this early. This death would cause huge problems for PTC. Their lead actor was dead, their rehearsal hall a crime scene. She remembered being told that Marla Caplan had placed a call to someone who had driven out to Cullen Village with Budgie the previous day. It was past seven. Margo Wishart might know something about that and she might be awake.
Margo said she was just making some coffee. “What’s up?” She listened while Roxanne told her where she was and how Budgie had died.
“That is awful!” Roxanne could hear her pull out a chair so she could sit. “It looks like suicide?”
“It could be.”
“Strange,” Margo mused. “She was perfectly fine when she left here. She had plans. To sell up and go live in Stratford. Go do a new play at the Tarragon after Macbeth. She’d bought a new car. A Prius. She was going to drive it to Ontario herself, was looking forward to it. Jazz Elliot and Sadie Williams were with her when they left here. It was just after four. They’d be able to tell you if anything happened after they left.”
“You have photos of all of Gerald’s art collection in place on the walls of his apartment?” Margo did. She would send them to Roxanne and Izzy right away, so they could check to see if anything new had been taken.
Jazz and Sadie were still in Alison Beck’s office. Roxanne could hear raised voices as she entered the corridor.
“Think about it, Alison. You’ll have to get Maggie Soames to replace her, if this play isn’t going to tank.” Roxanne had heard of the famous Maggie Soames. She was impressed. The door opened and out stomped Jazz Elliot. She stopped when she saw Roxanne walking towards her.
“Good. It’s you.” She poked a finger straight at Roxanne’s chin. “We need to talk.” Sadie Williams loomed behind her. She waved a key card.
“The sewing room,” she said. Roxanne let her walk by and lead the way. Alison Beck came to her door and watched.
“I need to talk to you after,” said Roxanne.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Alison went back into the office and closed the door behind her.
“That’s who you should be arresting,” Jazz muttered as she looked back along the corridor. “For murder. She’s rooting for some local actor to take Budgie’s place. Bet she got rid of her. She’s power mad.”
“The play’s going to go on?” asked Roxanne. Both women froze in place, Jazz with a long woollen scarf half wrapped around her neck, Sadie with a jar of instant coffee in her hand.
“Cancel?”
“Never!”
“Budgie would turn in her grave!” Tears welled up in Jazz Elliot’s eyes. She wasn’t as tough as she liked to pretend she was. “No way she killed herself,” she said and rubbed at her eyes with the end of her scarf. “We were with her yesterday, all afternoon. She was in good form, considering. Dropped us off at my hotel. Said she was going home. Wanted to have an early night.”
Sadie looked towards a costume rack in the far corner of the room. Budgie’s silk nightgown hung at the nearest end, the newly made lace negligee draped over it. “She can’t have done it,” she said. “If she’d really laid herself down in the rehearsal hall to die she’d have dressed for the occasion. She’d have put that on.” She pointed at the lacy confection.
“Could she have got in here?” asked Roxanne.
“’Course she could.” Jazz reasserted herself. “Budgie could open up the whole place. She had an old master key. It was just the outside doors that got rekeyed. Tamsin wouldn’t pay to do the whole building. If she’d wanted her costume, she could have got it.”
“Tell me about yesterday,” said Roxanne. They sat, drinking instant coffee, and talked. Nothing had suggested that Budgie was desperately depressed. She’d eaten, drunk some wine. Loved driving her new car. She’d said she was going to tell Marla to stop sleeping over. She didn’t need her there at night, now that she had the sleeping pills.
Sadie raised mascara-smudged eyes from her mug. It looked like she had wept, too. “That’s another reason why she wouldn’t have offed herself like that. She could have OD’d if she’d wanted to. Why would she use a knife?”
That made some sense. Gerald Blaise had been slashed. Thom Dyck had taken a knife straight to the heart, as had Budgie Torrance. All three deaths involved the use of knives.
“We need to get Tamsin back.” Jazz screwed up her face like a determined beetle. She was still focused on how the production could continue. “She just had a meltdown. Stands to reason, that city cop provoked her. She’ll be fine now she’s had a bit of a rest. We need to get her in here before that bad little Beck bitch causes any more damage. Go ask her where she was last night.” She nodded in the direction of the office that Alison Beck now occupied. Roxanne intended to do just that.
“You’re not going to work today?” she asked before she left.
“Yes, we are!” Jazz replied scornfully. That was partly what they’d been fighting over with Alison Beck. “She said we couldn’t rehearse. The rehearsal hall was off limits. Rubbish, I told her. Nobody’s in the lobby all day. We can do scenes that don’t have Lady Mac in them. There’s tons of those. And meantime, she needs to get the word out. There’s other theatres in this town. Maybe one of them can loan us some space. They’ll help out if they can. Theatres are like that. And if not there’s church halls. There’s a massive ballroom at the hotel.”
“She won’t pay,” said Sadie.
“Too bad. She’ll have to. And she needs to talk to Maggie Soames right away. Get her on a plane. She’s available. I’ve checked already.”
They were interrupted by a knock at the door. A uniformed city cop poked his head around. “Sergeant Calloway,” he said. “You’ve got company.”
“I have?”
“Yeah, Detective Sergeant Jenkins just dropped by. He says he’s got car keys for you.”