“You’re sure you didn’t see Jimmy?” I asked Tom, trying to readjust the timeline of Jimmy’s murder in my head.
Tom drank the final sips of his wine. Then he reached over the bar, grabbed an open bottle, and proceeded to refill his glass. He seemed quite at home helping himself to other people’s wine. “No. The basement was empty. I wanted to impress two more potential donors, so I returned outside to look for you. These are theater patrons with high expectations. They’re from Napa, so I knew I needed to give them a bottle of something that would meet their standards while we dissected the performance and discussed their charitable giving.”
There it was again—another blatant insult of Uva.
I considered telling Tom that calling Ashland an up-and-coming growing region wasn’t a marketing strategy. The New York Times had recently declared the Rogue Valley the next Napa. One of the most compelling things about the wine scene was its approachability. Wine lovers could mingle with the winemakers, have a picnic amongst the grapes, and immerse themselves in an intimate experience. Dropping fifty dollars for a tasting didn’t mean that the wine was inherently superior. I appreciated that Uva guests could enjoy rich, earthy varietals at a reasonable price while soaking in our world-class views.
But I wanted to get as much as possible out of Tom regarding his whereabouts the night that Jimmy was killed, so I had to keep him talking.
“Did you see anyone coming or leaving the tasting room?” I asked.
He considered the question for a moment. “The police asked me that too. The only person I saw was Ed. He said there was an issue with one of the set pieces. He couldn’t get a latch to close or something. That’s been the theme of this entire production. Broken props. Broken sets. Missing items. It’s one of the many reasons my aunt isn’t thrilled about how her investment dollars are being spent. To be honest, I’m a bit fuzzy on the details of that night. I’d had a few glasses by then. The crowd was buzzing. The energy was high. I do remember he said something about needing to get his tool kit.”
“Do you know when this was?”
Tom set his glass on the bar. “You have a lot of questions, don’t you? Why are you so concerned about the timeframe of Jimmy’s death?”
I needed to tone it down. I took a slow breath and measured my response. “I was the one who found his body, so I guess I feel responsible somehow.”
That seemed to appease him. I could also ask why he was upset about my questions, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
He gave me a curt nod and picked up his glass again. “I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. Jimmy wouldn’t have done that for you.”
The sommelier interrupted us to check on Tom’s wine preferences.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t keep you. I know you have a party to get to,” I said when the sommelier left. “You mentioned you wanted to ask me something?”
Tom kept one eye on the banquet room. “Yes, what’s the nature of your relationship with Lance?”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“How well do you know him?”
“Very well. He and I have been good friends for years.” Lance was my best friend in fact, but I didn’t think that was the answer Tom was looking for.
“They say it’s not wise to go into business with friends,” Tom interjected.
“We have good boundaries. Lance is a silent partner and like a brother to me.”
Tom shrugged nonchalantly. “It’s your bank account. As I said before, business with family is the worst. I speak from experience. It’s a bad idea to pair money and family. You would be smart to take my advice on this.”
I wasn’t about to reveal Lance’s financial history to Tom, but my body went into protective mode.
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“I’m not sure I made a wise choice in backing the Fair Verona Players. I’m considering pulling my aunt’s financial donation.”
“Really, why?” I wondered if Lance had heard about this.
“Mismanagement, lack of vision, lack of cohesion with the cast and crew.” He gulped more wine. “My aunt and I have been discussing other areas where her investments might see a greater return.”
But that contradicted what he’d said earlier in our conversation about the cast and crew being relieved to have Jimmy gone.
“I thought it was the least I could do to warn you, business owner to business owner. You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, and I would hate to see you get burned with a bad investment, like I have.”
He had quickly slipped into patronizing me, insulting my best friend and speaking to me like a child. I was done with our conversation.
“I need to get back to the bakeshop. Enjoy the birthday celebration.” I stood and gathered my buttercream supplies.
Tom lifted his glass. “Good luck. Like I said, keep your eye on Lance.”
I left Harvey’s and went straight to OSF, walking up the steep hill on Pioneer Street. Elaborate costumes for OSF’s summer lineup were on display in the front windows—hooped Elizabethan gowns hand-stitched with gold thread, darted pantaloons, and shiny velvet hats. A sandwich board in front of the Tudor Guild gift shop advertised an afternoon build-your-own bust of the Bard, complete with materials.
The bricks, the outdoor gathering space in front of the theaters, were empty except for a small group waiting for their backstage tour at the Lizzie. OSF provided patrons and the community free entertainment there before each show. Singer-songwriters, dancers, and poets would perform on the small stage for people gathered on the grassy slope and brick benches with picnic baskets and blankets.
Lance sometimes kept Sunday hours, especially during the season. The Bowmer Theater was unlocked, so I checked in with the team prepping for the evening show and went to see if I might find Lance in his office.
I breezed through the theater, passing concessions and massive windows that looked out onto the bricks. I knew the way well.
“Lance, it’s Jules.” I knocked on his office door.
“Come in,” a voice called in return. Lance was seated behind his regal desk surrounded by playbills, awards, accolades, autographed headshots, and giant windows that gave him a bird’s-eye view of the bricks. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? What brings you to the theater, darling?”
“Tom Rudolph.” I curled my lip. “I just left him at Harvey’s, and it took every ounce of control not to punch him in the face.”
Lance motioned to the couch, went to the bar cart, and poured me a glass of water. “Well, well, well. It takes a lot to get our lovely Juliet fired up. You look quite vexed, darling, and I’m here for it.” He offered me the water and sat next to me. “Spill the tea.”
“Tom is throwing you under the bus.”
Lance gasped and threw one hand over his mouth. “What? Moi?”
I relayed our entire conversation word for word. When I finished, Lance leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “This is an intriguing twist, isn’t it?” He reached for a fine-tip Sharpie and doodled on a playbill.
“I don’t get it. Honestly, I have no idea what the man even does, and why is he suddenly throwing shade at you? Do you think he did it?”
“Killed Jimmy?” Lance dropped the pen, stood, and paced in front of the wall of his accolades. “It’s possible, but I don’t see it. The man is a lush. He’s a semi-functional drunk. Is that even a thing?”
I shook my head.
“No, strike that. The only thing I’ve seen Tom do around set is guzzle expensive wine and gossip.”
“What does he do?” I asked. “He mentioned running the family business, which sounds like investing his aunt’s money, but, like, what’s his job?”
“You’re correct that he manages his aunt’s estate.” Lance stopped to straighten a signed headshot from an actor who had gotten their start at OSF and recently won an Oscar. “You’re right that his investment money isn’t even his. It’s his aunt’s. He likes to allow people to believe otherwise. As for what his official role is, I haven’t the foggiest idea.”
“Okay, but isn’t money a huge motivation?” I shifted on the couch. “He mentioned the Fair Verona Players being a bad investment.”
“That’s pure rubbish.” He brushed his hands like he was trying to wipe away the suggestion. “We’ve sold out every show and added Sunday matinees, which sold out within minutes. I have every major OSF donor knocking on my door to hand over cash.”
“None of it makes sense. And if Tom did kill Jimmy, I can’t piece together the money connection. You would think that he would have done anything to keep Jimmy happy after his amazing opening performance, because word of mouth alone was going to sell out seats.”
“On that, I agree.” Lance strummed his fingers on his chin. “I can only surmise that Tom is projecting his financial woes on me. Why? I have no idea, but rest assured, the Fair Verona Players are in the black. Deep in the black. If Tom thinks otherwise, he’s completely delusional.”
“Every time I think I’ve landed on a reasonable theory about who killed Jimmy, I learn something new that upends everything.”
“Don’t stress, Juliet. We’re close. I can feel it, and I do think you uncovered a critical piece of information from our drunken investor.”
“What’s that?”
“Confirmation from another person that Ed was at the scene of the crime right before you found Jimmy. What was he really doing at the tasting room? Why would he leave his tools in the house? That doesn’t make sense. They should be backstage. In fact, that’s a requirement. There’s more to his story.”
“Speaking of that, we never talked about Sophie’s theory that Ed is the person behind the accidents during rehearsals. What do you think about that?”
Lance tapped a prop sword hanging on the far wall with his finger. “That is a question, isn’t it? I can’t say for sure, although Ed is responsible for overseeing trapdoors, props, and so forth onstage. Could we chalk up the strange occurrences on set to coincidence? Yes, without a doubt. Could Ed have tampered with blocking tape, intentionally swapped a prop gun or sword for the real thing? Also yes.”
“How do we find out whether the accidents were really accidents?”
“I’ll ask around—subtly, of course—about Tom’s finances, and in the meantime, I think you should have a chat with Ed.”
“Why would Ed talk to me?” I bit my bottom lip, not liking where this was going.
“I’ll tell him to come see you on my behalf.” Lance flashed a wide grin.
“Won’t that be obvious?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Lance scowled. “I’ll send him to pick up a pastry order tomorrow. You can take it from there, I trust?”
“I’ll try, but I don’t know him at all.” How was I going to subtly bring up murder without raising Ed’s suspicions? “I doubt that he’s suddenly going to confess his deep dark secrets to me.”
“What does our dear Helen say? ‘Never underestimate the power of pastry.’” He clapped twice. “Excellent. That’s settled, then. Shall we plan to reconnect tomorrow evening? Happy hour at Puck’s?”
“Sure.” I stood up too fast. The familiar feeling of spinning assaulted my body. I sucked air through my nose and forced my feet to stay planted on the floor. “Don’t send Ed to the bakeshop in the afternoon. I’m taking Sterling to a late lunch tomorrow at the Green Goblin to talk about potentially expanding his role. I think it’s time for me to scale back, hand over some responsibilities, and hire more staff.”
“Smart move.” Lance nodded with approval. “It’s about time, and I am one hundred percent in support of that decision.” He rubbed his hands together and gave me a devilish grin. “That also means more time for sleuthing.”
I rolled my eyes. A bad idea.
The room rocked from side to side.
I steadied myself on the arm of the couch.
“The theater is dark tomorrow, so I’ll ask him to pick up a box of pastries for our staff meeting,” Lance said.
He opened the door for me. “Until tomorrow, then. Be careful, Juliet. Jimmy’s killer could be unhinged. We don’t want to poke the beast.”
“You too.” I left him and headed for the Shakespeare stairs that paralleled Lithia Park. It might have been a mistake to take a shortcut, because Richard Lord was lingering on the porch at his decrepit Merry Windsor Hotel.
“Capshaw, are you here to snoop again?” his throaty voice boomed.
He stood with a toothpick between his teeth and a snarl on his lips. As usual, he was wearing outlandish checkered golf shorts. The flowered Hawaiian shirt was a new touch, however.
Richard’s idea of artisanal baking was toasting Pop-Tarts or unwrapping mass-produced muffins. The Merry Windsor was in desperate need of repair, but Richard spent his profits on his golf outfits and his behemoth yellow Hummer.
Recently Richard signed on to be a contestant on a dating reality show—Make a Millionaire Match. It was a dating show for the wealthy. I wasn’t exactly sure how Richard had convinced the producers that he was a millionaire, and I couldn’t imagine the unlucky, unsuspecting women he would be matched with. Then again, I’m a believer in love. Far be it from me to stand in the way of Richard finding his soulmate.
Filming wouldn’t start for another month, but it was all he would talk about to anyone who would listen. He’d gotten a face lift, Botox, spray tan, hair plugs, and an entirely new wardrobe. He’d hired a professional photographer for headshots who followed him around the plaza for an entire week. It was like Richard had his own personal paparazzo as he posed in cowboy attire in front of the Lithia bubblers, making sure to comment about his upcoming stardom and the need for professional headshots to anyone passing by.
Maybe that explained the new shirt. Richard must be gearing up for his debut television appearance.
“You caught me red-handed, Richard.” I held out my palm.
He shook a pudgy finger at my face. “Don’t take an attitude with me, young lady. I’ll have you know that there are going to be producers and photographers for Make a Millionaire Match at the Windsor for the next few weeks. They’re shooting B-roll for my show. I doubt you’re familiar with the industry terms, since you’re not a Hollywood insider like me, but B-roll of me running around Ashland will be cut in between clips of the show, and I’m not going to let you try to get airtime.”
“Trust me, that’s the last thing I would want.” It took every ounce of internal control not to laugh at Richard trying to mansplain B-roll. “You’re in no danger from me. The spotlight is all yours.”
He muttered something under his breath I couldn’t make out. “I know about your agenda, Capshaw. Consider this your warning. Stay away from my property and stay away from the camera crews, or else…”
“Or else what?” I wasn’t going to put up with his intimidation tactics. “The last time I checked, there’s no law against walking on the sidewalk.”
“Nice try.” He broke the toothpick in half and threw it off the porch onto the pavement. “You might fool everyone else in town with your fake kindness, but you don’t fool me. I know you have your sights set on fame and fortune, and I’m here to tell you that you’re not taking mine.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it, Richard. I genuinely hope you find love on the show. I’m convinced your future wife is out there waiting to meet you.” I gave him a half wave and continued walking. There was only one way to deal with Richard Lord—kill him with kindness.