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Peter got to the costume room’s door before Sandra did and reached for the handle. He twisted it, pushed, and then twisted the other way and pushed again. “It’s locked.”
“Shine your light on the doorknob.”
Peter did, and she turned the small lock. Then she turned the knob and pushed.
Nothing happened.
“Told you. It’s locked.”
She didn’t see how this was possible. She turned the button the opposite way and pushed. Still nothing. She took the flashlight out of his hand.
“Hey!” he protested.
She scooched down to examine the lock as she turned the knob. From this viewpoint, she could clearly see the latch bolt sliding in and out. The door wasn’t locked. But it wasn’t opening either. Someone must have put something against it on the outside. She stood up straight. “Maybe Bob locked us in.”
“Why would he do that?”
She had no idea. “To protect us, maybe?”
“But wouldn’t he tell us?”
“I would think so, but he was in a hurry to see what that scream was about.” Trouble was, she wanted to see what the scream was about too. She turned the handle, lowered her shoulder, and drove her body into the door. This did nothing to the door and hurt her shoulder.
“Let me try.” Peter pushed her aside with this hip. He tried the same exact maneuver and got the same exact results. Then he stared at the door as if it had offended him. “We’re trapped.”
“He must have locked us in.” She wasn’t sure this was true, but it was more comforting than the alternative.
She tried to act nonchalantly. She didn’t want Peter to know that their current situation was killing her. It wasn’t that she was afraid of the killer, and it wasn’t that she was afraid of being locked in an Irish Spring factory: it was killing her not to know who had screamed and why. There was action on the other side of the door, and she, Sandra the secret sleuth, was missing out. “You’re Mr. Soccer. Can you kick it down?”
His eyes widened with excitement, and her maternal instinct overrode her curiosity. “Don’t kick too hard. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
He backed up a few paces and then stared at the door for so long she wondered if he wasn’t going to try it.
“You don’t have to, you know.”
“No, I will. I want to. I’m just trying to think how to do it. Kicking a door is nothing like kicking a ball. It’s more like karate. And I don’t know karate.”
The kid had a point. “You’re right. Maybe it’s a bad idea.”
“No! I want to do it.” He backed up a few more steps, and then started running toward the door. Just before he reached it, he abruptly turned away and walked back to where he’d started.
“It was a bad idea. I was just brainstorming. You don’t have to do this—”
“Stop saying that,” he growled.
It occurred to her that in his mind, his manhood might be on the line. Again, he started running, and then just before he reached the door, he let out a weird grunt and leapt into the air with one leg outstretched. She braced herself for the contact he would feel, but it never happened. The door flew open just before his foot connected, and he fell to the floor, smashing his bony hip into the threshold. “Ahh!” he cried out, and she rushed to his side.
“Sorry,” Bob said. “Didn’t know you were flying there.”
Peter sat up and pushed his mother away. “I’m fine.”
She helped him up anyway and then looked at Bob. “Did you lock us in?”
He took the flashlight out of her hand and shined it toward a shim of wood lying near the wall. “No. Someone shoved that under the door.” He looked at her. “Whoever the bad guy is here, they’re getting worried about your progress.”
“What progress?” she whispered. “We know less than we did an hour ago.”
“Yes, but they don’t know that.”
After one more glance to make sure Peter was okay after his first failed karate kick, she asked, “Who screamed?”
“Jan.” Bob sounded disappointed.
“Is she okay?”
“Yes. She saw a mouse.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. The theater cat obviously isn’t doing its job.”
“He’s probably cuddled up somewhere trying to stay warm.”
“Where was she?” Peter asked.
“Who? The cat?” Bob said. “I thought it was a boy.”
“No, not the cat. Jan!” Peter was exasperated with Bob, angelic being or not.
“Oh. She was in the kitchen.”
“So then we do know more than we used to,” Peter said thoughtfully.
“Oh yeah? What do we know?” Sandra asked.
“It wasn’t Jan. She was too far away to lock us in here. And we know it wasn’t Matthew. I would’ve been able to smell him through any costume. That dude stinks. I don’t think it was Frank, because he didn’t smell like the soap. And we know it’s not Ethel. So it was either Otis, Billy, or Gloria.”
Not bad for a youngster.
“Or someone who is here without us knowing he’s here.”
Sandra groaned. “Don’t say that. And that’s not possible. Right after Treasure died, Billy went out and walked all the way around the building. And there were no fresh tracks of anyone coming or going. Whoever pushed Treasure had already been here for a while.”
“But someone could have been here before any of us got here,” Bob said. “And how do we know Billy was telling the truth?”
Sandra rolled her eyes. “You’re an angel. Can’t you just flit around the building and peek in all the rooms, make sure there are no stowaways?”
“Good idea. Be right back.” He vanished, leaving them stranded in the dark.
“He took our flashlight.”
“Hang on.” Sandra fished her candle nub and her lighter out of her pockets and tried to light the tired wick.
It wouldn’t take, and her thumb was getting sore from turning the lighter’s wheel.
“Hurry up, Mom. I don’t like this.”
“I know, honey. I’m trying.”
She didn’t even know Bob had returned when he flicked the flashlight on and blinded them both.
“Ah!” Peter cried in surprise.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to leave you stranded. And you were right. There’s no one else here.”
“Give me that.” Sandra snatched the flashlight out of his hand. “What are people going to think if they see a flashlight floating around in midair? They’ll think a ghost pushed Treasure down the stairs.” She didn’t give Bob a chance to answer her. “You saw where everyone is?”
“Yep.”
“And is anyone acting like a criminal?”
“No. Well, Matthew is in the bathroom smoking pot, but we’ll leave him be. So”—he rubbed his hands together—“what’s next? We’ve got things narrowed down to three names, right?”
“Four,” Sandra said. “Just because Frank didn’t smell like the soap doesn’t mean he didn’t wear the costume. This is ridiculous. We need new evidence. We can’t figure this thing out based on the smell of cheap soap.”
“Why was there an open box of soap in the costume room, anyway?” Peter asked.
“There were several open boxes,” Bob said. “Irish Spring repels mice.”
Sandra didn’t know if this was true, but it seemed as good a theory as any. “Bob, you promised to sniff the ladies. So let’s go sniff Jan. Even if she didn’t lock us in here, she’s the one who threw the phone into the forest.”
“But she’s not the one who hid the phone,” Bob said.
“Or maybe she did and then forgot where she put it.” Sandra didn’t know if this was plausible, but she couldn’t think of a theory that wasn’t at least a little goofy.
“Let’s sniff Gloria first,” the angel said. “She’s closer.”