Chapter 6

Everyone looked for the drinking glass. That is, the officers and detectives searched while Jake and I waited. At least they’d taken away the body and most of the theatergoers had cleared out. The police had even begun allowing the actors to leave. I hadn’t been permitted to touch anything on the body, but they had allowed me to test the closet for imprints. There was nothing. Cheyenne had definitely been unconscious when she was carried there.

Jake yawned. “This could take all night.”

“You’re right. We should go home. They can contact me later if they find the glass.” I was convinced my attacker had taken it, but even if he hadn’t, I didn’t know what more I could see if I read it again. Maybe looking at the person’s hand as he or she held the glass would tell me if it was a man or a woman.

“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all night.”

“Wait. I need to talk to Erica. I still don’t have any clue about where to keep searching for Rosemary, and with the murder on their hands, finding her isn’t going to be a priority for the police. Didn’t Erica say something about Cheyenne knowing Rosemary and that was how she came to be here?”

“Something like that.” Jake stifled another yawn. “There’s Erica now. While you talk to her, I’ll go tell Shannon we’re leaving.”

“Good idea. I’ll meet you out front.”

I cornered Erica by the door to the women’s dressing room. She’d removed her wig, but the heavy makeup she still wore contrasted sharply with her casual jeans. “Leaving?” she asked.

“Yeah. But I wanted to ask you a question first.”

“Shoot. Though maybe I shouldn’t answer. You brought a lot of trouble down on us tonight.”

“Better now than when the trail was cold. Or when the body started stinking.”

Erica grimaced. “Thanks for that vivid picture. What do you want to know?”

“You said Rosemary was someone Cheyenne knew. How close were they?”

“I heard them talking about Rosemary sleeping on her couch. Maybe she let her stay a few nights. I really don’t know. Rosemary showed up for tryouts, but Cheyenne wasn’t happy when she got the Juliet role.”

“So who’s going to do it now?”

She snorted. “Not me.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in a role being cursed.”

“No use tempting fate. Why don’t you do it? You could investigate us all better that way. You might find out what happened to Rosemary.”

“What’s so important about that play?”

Erica rolled her eyes. “Walsh has a connection on Broadway, an aunt, and every year she and her friends come to visit and to watch one of his plays. Several times in the past they’ve offered actors jobs, and it makes their career. Except they haven’t chosen anyone in the past five years, and Walsh is getting desperate. The chance of being chosen is the only reason most of us still work here.” She laughed at my expression. “What, you didn’t think we stayed for the great working conditions and the excellent directing, did you? Our actors are good, though, far better than this company merits. But if there isn’t a real chance of actors being chosen to star in New York, no one is going to work for Walsh, and his business goes under.”

“So why the new play?”

“He heard it’s a favorite of the aunt.”

“Did anyone else try out for the part beside Rosemary and Cheyenne?”

She shrugged. “You’ll have to ask Paxton. He and Carl held the auditions. Some of the others watched, but I wasn’t there that day. I suggested doing another play, one that used more of us, but no one listens to me.”

“With so few roles, you’d think everyone would fight over the parts.”

“Well, on the whole, we’re a superstitious bunch, and they really haven’t had a lot of luck with this play. If they want a Juliet now, I bet she’ll have to come from the outside.”

“Could you tell me where Cheyenne lived? Maybe her neighbors know something about Rosemary.”

“Maybe. Or Cheyenne’s roommates. Six of them rent a house together.” Erica gave me general directions to Cheyenne’s as she walked me to Walsh’s office to write down the exact address. I was glad for the explanation.

Thankfully, the annoying Walsh wasn’t in the office, though a uniformed policeman on his hands and knees was searching under the couch. “I’ll need these drawers opened,” the detective said, pointing to the desk. “Two are locked.”

“Walsh usually leaves his keys here.” Erica retrieved a set of keys from a cup on the desk and tossed them to the detective, who nodded his thanks. Then she opened a notebook and began copying Cheyenne’s information onto a sticky note. I’d expected her to bring up an employee file on a computer, but apparently Walsh didn’t have one.

Cast pictures and posters of their past performances filled the office walls. They seemed to be organized by the year, and as I went back in time, I could identify many of the actresses I’d met today. After a few years, only a couple familiar faces cropped up, and after six, no one I knew. I went back further, just to make sure.

Wait. Was that a younger Erica? The woman had long black hair and her face was rounder, but the nose and eyes could be the same. I stepped closer for a better look, squinting my eyes. It was hard to tell in a picture.

Erica came to stand beside me, the sticky note she’d been writing on in her hand. “Is that you?” I asked, pointing.

She laughed and shook her head. “I wish. I was in college then, studying hard. I didn’t join the cast until two years later. Here.” She pointed to a poster where she was lying on the ground and an actor was trying to pull her to her feet. “That was me six years ago.”

It looked like her—the heart-shaped face, short hair, small nose, and large eyes. She’d been younger and those brown eyes held a glint of mischievousness that was missing now, but it was her.

“That was my first real role—out of college, that is.”

“Didn’t the company try to do the Juliet play that year?”

She nodded and pointed to a woman in a picture next to the poster. “That was Chloe, the actress who died—cancer, they say. I didn’t know her well.”

My eyes shifted back to the picture from two years earlier. “So which of these actors were the ones who went missing on the opening night of the play?”

She shook her head. “I really don’t know. Walsh or Seaver might. Anyway, here is Cheyenne’s address.”

“Thanks.” I tucked the sticky note into my pocket.

Erica was still looking at the old picture, a blank expression on her face. I wondered if she was thinking about the girl who resembled her, who perhaps Walsh and Seaver had been trying to replace when they’d hired Erica, or the couple who’d gone missing.

I turned to leave, but her voice stopped me. “Hey. That cute detective—is he seeing anyone?”

The officer going through the desk stopped searching and stared at us, as if awaiting the answer himself. I swallowed hard. “Not that I know of.”

“Good to know.” Turning, she preceded me from the room, her hips moving in an exaggerated swing.

In the hall, I walked resolutely toward the front of the theater. Unfortunately, the only way I knew to go was through the stage, where I found the director, Paxton Seaver, in an armchair watching officers comb the seating area. He looked up when I appeared. “What are they looking for?”

“The murder weapon.”

“And what would that be?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

I shrugged. “Same thing. Ask Detective Martin.”

“I don’t know if Carl is right about us losing business by Cheyenne’s death, but we need to find a new Juliet.”

“Before Walsh’s aunt visits?”

He gave me a tiny grin. “You get around, don’t you?”

“I hear things. Some I just guess. Right now I’m guessing that you and Cheyenne were more than friends.” I recalled too well his reaction at seeing her body in the dressing room.

His eyes dropped to his hands, and several heartbeats passed before he looked up again. “She was furious when I gave Rosemary the role of Juliet, but Rosemary was exactly right for the part—sarcastic, witty, and the chemistry with both male actors was great. Cheyenne is more the good fairy type, you know. The sweet character, the one knights fight over and the evil villain tries to conquer, only to have her hero sweep in and save her at the last minute. She didn’t understand. We fought. Now she’s gone, and I’ll never be able to tell her I’m sorry.”

I wondered if his not choosing Cheyenne had more to do with keeping her in the company than with Rosemary’s talent. “What did Walsh think?”

“He was thrilled to find Rosemary. That only made Cheyenne more upset. She confronted him several times. With both of them gone, he’s not sure what to do now.”

“The play is that important?”

“To Walsh it is.”

That went with what Erica said and brought up an angle I hadn’t considered before. If Walsh had the most to lose by Rosemary’s disappearance and Cheyenne’s death, someone might be trying to destroy him.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You would be perfect for the role.” Seaver stood and took my hands. “Come back on Monday, okay? We’re having new tryouts. I’ll walk you through it. Think of it as saving the theater.”

“I don’t know a thing about acting.”

“Yes, you do. Every day you act. We all do.” His comment unsettled me, but I couldn’t pinpoint why.

“With any luck, I’ll find Rosemary for you.” I pulled my hands from his and sauntered to the steps leading down from the stage, feeling Seaver’s eyes digging into my back. I hurried up the aisle, through the lobby, and to the front door where Jake was pacing.

“There you are. I was wondering if you’d had another run-in with a man in a mask.”

I laughed. “I think he had enough the first time.”

“So, you up for a late snack?”

“I can’t.”

“What? You turning down food?” Jake brought a hand to his heart and staggered. “Never thought I’d see the day. Though I guess I can’t blame you after what happened tonight. Kind of feeling a bit sick myself.”

“It’s not that.” I could always eat. “It’s Tawnia. She has plans to find where our birth mother’s mother lived. To see if we can contact her. She’s picking me up bright and early before church.”

He gave me a half grin. “How do you feel about that?”

“I do want to know, but now that we have a real lead . . .” I shrugged. “It’s just been so long. I want to know about my roots, especially since Winter and Summer are gone and they don’t have any extended family to speak of, and I’d like to learn more about Kendall. But at the same time, I wonder if I should leave well enough alone.”

He snorted. “Like that will ever happen.”

I punched his arm with a little more force than I’d intended.

“Ow.” He took my hand. “Kidding. Of course you have to follow the lead, or you’ll always wonder. I’ll take a rain check for the food, but let me know how it goes tomorrow.”

“I will.”

I dropped Jake off in front of our stores where he’d left his car. “Call me if your car breaks down on the way home,” he said.

Normally he would have kissed me, and for a moment I wanted him to. I wanted to feel normal, to not have to think of Cheyenne dying or about Rosemary out there somewhere, possibly fatally wounded. I didn’t want to think about a certain detective.

He hesitated, as if he could sense my uncertainty, or as if he, too, wanted something more. Then he smiled and gave me a wave.

I watched him go, torn between calling him back and going home to make myself a nice cup of lemon tea to drink in bed. Rain began falling again, and he hurried to his car, making my decision for me. I pulled back into traffic and began driving for a while without noticing where I was going.

I was heading home. At least that’s what I thought, but ten minutes later as I looked around me, I realized my subconscious had other plans. Fortunately, my subconscious was better at directions than I was and when I stopped to examine the map on my phone, I wasn’t far off the mark.

The section of town I was looking for was filled with small, older houses. Bungalows, really, some in a sad state of disrepair. Flowers in pots lined the porch of one bungalow, and though the contents were long dead, the colorful pots, illuminated by the streetlight, gave character to the house, which I suspected by the light of day might look rather garish.

According to Erica, Cheyenne had lived here with her roommates.

Shannon was going to kill me, especially if I let hints about Cheyenne’s death mess up his investigation. But I wasn’t here for Cheyenne. I simply wanted to know if any of her roommates had information about Rosemary. If she’d been the one hit by the hammer, she could be lying somewhere hurt, if she wasn’t already dead, and if she was out in this cold rain, her prospects would be worse. I couldn’t go home and curl up in my comfortable bed unless I at least tried the only lead I had.

It was late, but these women were presumably single, like me, and that meant ten-thirty was early. They might not even be home yet from their dates or wherever they spent their Saturday nights.

Flipping up my hood and pulling my coat tighter around me, I went up the uneven walk, my flat boots splashing in shallow puddles of rainwater. The smell of rain on the pavement filled my mind with images of clean. I wished it were warm so I could pull off these confining boots and feel the wet pavement on my feet.

On the covered porch sat several wood chairs, one of which was broken. There was also a pair of soaked boots, which I hoped signaled that at least one roommate was home. Ignoring the bell, I knocked on the door in the off chance someone was sleeping; a knock was easier on the nervous system than a doorbell.

My phone buzzed with a text, and I glanced at it. “Found glass in dishwasher. No fingerprints. Saving it for you.”

Great. I guess it wouldn’t hurt for me to read the glass again. Simply washing didn’t remove imprints from most objects, perhaps because they were embedded deep within the atoms that weren’t overly disturbed by a little hot water. Many times I’d had to pass up great antiques for my store because of negative imprints I knew I couldn’t remove or stand to be around. I wouldn’t sell such things anyway, though no one would know the difference, at least not consciously. Clothing and other things made of fabric were the exception, as they lost a bit of themselves at every washing, making even strong imprints fade rather quickly—if anyone cared enough about the item to imprint something in the first place, which didn’t happen often.

Though I never saw anything more on subsequent readings, I hadn’t been paying close attention the first time I’d read the glass because I believed the imprints had come from playacting scenes, not real life. They still very well could have—if one believed in coincidence.

I didn’t answer the text. He’d catch up to me eventually. Shannon was like that. Always turning up when I least wanted to see him. Must be his profession.

I heard a brief creaking, and the door opened abruptly with no footsteps to warn me. A woman stood framed by the light. She was tall and model thin, with long golden blonde hair and a figure I suspected hadn’t come naturally. Eyebrows plucked to perfection, makeup artfully applied, and a sleeveless red dress that screamed “Look at me!” In her hand she carried spiked heels.

“Oh,” she said in a low, husky voice. Obviously she’d been expecting someone else. “May I help you?”

“Sorry to disturb you so late. I’m an acquaintance of Cheyenne’s. Is this her apartment?”

“Yes, but she’s not here. She had a performance tonight.” The woman peered around me into the rain, as though looking for someone. “She performs practically every night or is rehearsing. She’s an actress, you know.” She squinted at me and did a double take at my hurt cheek, which I ignored.

“I just came from the theater.”

“You did? Then why would you come here to see Cheyenne?”

Oops. “The play’s over, so I came to ask her about my friend Rosemary. Someone mentioned that she and Cheyenne were friends. Said maybe Rosemary had slept here a time or two.”

“Yep. She did. She was looking for a place to stay, and right about then one of our roommates up and got married, so she took over her contract.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. “Rosemary lives here now?”

She shrugged. “Yeah. Haven’t seen her in a few days, but I don’t keep the same schedule as Rosemary and Cheyenne. I leave for work while they’re still sleeping, and I’m home after they’re gone. Then I’m either asleep by the time they come home or still out if it’s the weekend.”

Not much help there. “Look,” I said. “Here’s the thing. No one has seen Rosemary since at least Thursday. She didn’t show up for Friday rehearsal. Everyone’s worried.”

The blonde’s brow furrowed. “That’s strange. Anyway, Cheyenne might be able to tell you more. She’s the one who knew her.”

What to say to that?

A familiar white Mustang drove up to the curb.

“Look, my date’s here. I’m sorry, but I can’t talk to you anymore, and I can’t let you wait here alone for Cheyenne. You’ll have to come back later. You understand.”

Of course, I understood. I could be some wacko with a secret agenda and a gun in her pocket. “It’s not your date,” I said. “It’s the police.”

She blinked at me. “Are they looking for you?”

“Do I look like I’m running?” What was it about me that people thought I was a criminal? I was even wearing shoes, for crying out loud.

“No need to be rude.”

“I’m sorry. I just need to see Rosemary’s room. She’s missing, and she could be hurt.”

The woman was no longer paying attention to me. Shannon and an Asian detective who had also been at the theater reached the porch, badges in hand. “I’m Detective Martin with the Portland police,” Shannon said. “This is Detective Huang. What has she told you?” He shot me a blistering stare.

“Only that Rosemary is missing,” I said before the blonde could answer. “This is her apartment, by the way, and I’d like to see her room.”

Shannon relaxed. “If you don’t mind,” he said to the blonde, “we’d like to take a look around.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand. What’s going on?”

“Cheyenne’s your roommate, right?” When she nodded, he continued. “She’s been murdered.”

The blonde gasped and put her hand to her well-painted lips. “Oh, no. How? Why? Who would do something like that?” She clung to the door for support.

“That’s what we’re trying to find out. The sooner we take a look, the closer we’ll be to figuring out what happened.”

“Don’t forget Rosemary,” I added. “She’s still missing.”

That got the blonde’s attention. “Do you think we’re in danger, that they’re after all of us?”

“Until we know more, we really can’t say.” An impatient note had crept into Shannon’s voice. “We won’t even know for sure what killed Cheyenne until they finish the autopsy.”

The blonde turned a shade paler but still made no move to let us in.

“Look,” Shannon added, “I know this is a surprise, but this is a murder investigation.”

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. Come in.” She opened the door wider, looking past us to the street outside. Her date was apparently late. “There’s no one else home at the moment.” She gulped as though remembering that Cheyenne would never be coming home. “What should I do?”

“Just tell us which room was hers.”

“And Rosemary’s,” I said, removing my winter gloves and stuffing them into my coat pockets.

“Cheyenne shares with Courtney over there.” She waved a french-manicured hand toward a narrow hallway. “First door on your right. Rosemary’s in the end room with Bonnie.”

I headed immediately to Rosemary’s room, but Shannon’s hand reached out to stop me. “I’ll go first.” He glanced at the other detective. “Huang, you start in our victim’s room.”

Well, at least he hadn’t ordered me to come back after his investigation was over. Of course, that didn’t mean he was happy with me. “I can’t believe you came here,” he said when we were alone in Rosemary’s room.

“I’m helping a friend.”

“There’s a murderer loose.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Isn’t the first time.”

Ignoring me, he scanned the room. “Nothing seems out of place.” He pulled on plastic gloves and opened a few of the drawers in the dresser. “Clothes are still here.”

“Closet looks divided in two,” I added. “Half for each roommate. No big gaps.”

“If she really is missing, it’s probably connected with the murder. I’ll need fingerprints before you disturb anything. I have more detectives coming.”

“I can’t read imprints unless I touch things.”

“I need to help process the other room. You’ll have to wait.”

“Can’t he do it alone?”

“He’s not that experienced yet.”

Huang had been around for as long as I’d been consulting with the police, so what did that say about me?

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

He wasn’t. The blonde’s boyfriend, or whoever she was waiting for, hadn’t shown, so I sat with the now-sullen woman in the small living room, waiting for the detectives. I learned her name was Mallory and that she worked as a paralegal at a law firm. I was a bit surprised that she wasn’t a model or a wannabe actress, and I felt a little chastened at my chauvinistic attitude. Just because a woman looked like a model didn’t mean she had aspirations to be one. Some beautiful women actually had sense.

When Mallory arose to check the street once more, I went with her, more out of sheer boredom than anything else. As we emerged onto the porch, a shadow at the corner of the house caught my eye.

“Did you see that?” I asked.

“See what?”

“I thought I saw someone.”

She scanned the street. “There are no new cars out here.”

I leapt from the porch, my leather boots squeaking and making me long to remove them. Around to the side of the house where the space between the houses made me feel almost claustrophobic. Had I really seen anything? Or was it just a shadow?

My gut told me I had seen something, and investigating Rosemary’s disappearance made it my job to find out what. Adrenaline kicked in, overriding the frustration I’d been feeling with my enforced wait. After the attack in the prop room, I was itching for a fight.

The rain was still coming down, though less convincingly. The dead grass beneath my feet felt soggy and unsteady. Rounding the back of the house, I spied a figure dressed in black, standing on a stepladder and doing something to the window.

It was Rosemary’s room.

“Stop!” I shouted, running toward him. This time he wasn’t getting away.

The masked face looked at me, holding oddly still for what seemed like several long seconds. Then he launched himself at me from several rungs up the ladder. My breath fled in one gush as we fell to the ground.