three

The noise of the fire alarm was deafening. Francine felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. She looked for Charlotte. When did I last see her? She thought she’d gotten a glimpse of Charlotte’s curly wig at the head table offering desserts to the Town Council members. How long ago was that? She wasn’t there now.

Attendees began launching themselves toward the exit at the back of the room. A bottleneck formed near the downed buffet tables. The frantic unease in the room grew to a fevered pitch. Someone noticed the exit sign at the front of the room and shouted, “Up here!” A small group ran after him toward the exit to the left of the stage.

People screamed as they fled, releasing pent-up emotions.

The two women who’d been holding the unconscious Mary Ruth were losing their grip. Francine saw it coming and grabbed on as well. There was no way they could get her out into the hall and down the stairs until the room cleared. She heaved her friend toward the kitchen. The women were uncertain but didn’t let go. Together, they dragged her to the kitchen in safety. They settled her on a stool by the prep table, her arms and head on the tabletop. Then the women fled.

Francine assessed her friend’s condition and decided she would be all right for the moment. She wanted to find Joy and Charlotte. She cracked open the door to the kitchen and looked out. She wasn’t sure where the fire was, but it couldn’t be close. She didn’t smell smoke, didn’t feel the heat, and saw no sources of flames when she looked out into the room. All she could hear was the pounding of the fire alarm in her ears and the thunder of frantic footsteps on the staircase adjacent to the kitchen wall.

Francine spotted Joy coming down the steps from the stage awkwardly in her long white dress and high heels. Her eyes had a wild look in them. Charlotte was right behind her. They noticed Francine peering out from the kitchen door and hurried toward her. Joy lurched at Francine when she got close and nearly tackled her.

“It’s Camille,” Joy said, shouting to be heard above the alarm. “She’s been stabbed.”

“Where?”

Joy gripped Francine’s shoulder so tightly Francine felt the nails digging in. “I don’t know where!” Joy yelled at her. “Maybe in her back, maybe in her side.”

“No, I mean, where is she?”

“Backstage,” said Charlotte. “She needs your help. Eric’s back there too.”

“Oh my God! Oh my God!” Joy covered her forehead like she was shielding her eyes from something unbearable.

“It’s the dressing room. It’s on the right,” Charlotte said. “Call 911. Neither of us has a phone.”

“I dropped mine somewhere,” Joy said, her hands waving toward an indeterminate place. “I’d taken a few photos during the auction but when Toby started taking off his shirt …” Her voice trailed off.

“We know,” Charlotte said, sounding firm. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sure the Fire Department is on its way, what with that alarm going off,” Francine shouted.

She dashed into the now-vacant banquet room. It now looked like cattle had stampeded through it. Banquet tables were tossed aside, their elegant tablecloths smeared with overturned food. Broken glass from trampled wine goblets and beer glasses littered the floor.

Francine was glad to be wearing sneakers, not heels. She hurried across the floor and up the stairs, threw back the stage curtain, and searched for the dressing room. A table with costume changes laid out in orderly fashion led her to the door. She heard Eric’s shaky voice coming from inside. “Aunt Camille! Please get up! Please don’t leave me!”

She steeled herself, then stepped into the room.

Eric was kneeling on the floor beside his aunt. Tears streamed down his face. His fingers fumbled around her neck trying to find a pulse. He seemed incapable of figuring out how to do it. He looked at Francine as she approached. “I don’t know what to do,” he said.

Camille’s body was twisted away from Francine, Eric’s broad back blocking her view. The closer she got, the more she could see of Camille. Blood puddled on the floor beside her. Francine’s eyes traced it to the source: a knife protruding from her right side under her rib cage. Just as Charlotte said. She wanted to avert her eyes, but her nursing skills wouldn’t let her. Airway, breathing, circulation. The ABCs of emergency situations. She made a second assessment to see what could be done. It was tough to concentrate with the fire alarm screaming at them, but she tried.

Assessing Camille’s airways and breathing was tough to do with Eric in the way. The knife looked like it had deflated a lung. The size of the instrument struck Francine. She was only used to kitchen knives. The hilt on this one made it look like a hunting knife. The wound would be deep. As she studied what she could see, she noticed the grip was unusual. I bet that’s not a normal hunting knife. She forced her thoughts back to saving Camille. There did not seem to be multiple stab wounds. The knife appeared to have been thrust under the rib cage, perhaps aimed for the lung.

Was that happenstance on the murderer’s part or had the move been practiced? Had it been driven in with force and purpose to puncture the lung? The idea made her squirm.

She steeled herself one more time to the task at hand. She moved to sit next to Camille.

Eric moved out of the way. “Save her,” he pleaded.

The fire alarm went quiet with a final, strangled squawk. I guess that means there wasn’t a fire, Francine thought. Thank heavens.

But her next thought was that the alarm had been a distraction. The dead silence now seemed eerie.

She pushed it from her mind. She focused on Camille. Was she even alive? Now that Francine had a clearer view, she tried to detect movement in Camille’s chest cavity. The movement was slight, but she was still breathing.

“Eric, listen to me.” She tried to keep her voice steady. She needed him to hear confidence and just obey. “This is an emergency. Your aunt needs immediate medical attention. The best thing you can do is find the firemen when they arrive and send the paramedics up here as quickly as you can. Can you do that?” She wanted Eric out of the room. She would do what she could, but having to deal with him at the same time would limit her. “I’ll stay here and try to keep her alive. I was a nurse for over thirty years. One thing I can say for sure, the sooner the paramedics arrive, the more likely she is to survive.”

Whether Eric understood or not, he got up and ran out of the room.

Francine took a deep breath and steadied herself. She turned back to Camille. The woman lay on her right side, the same side the knife protruded from. If the knife punctured only the right lung, her left lung would still be able to function. That was likely what was keeping her alive. Fortunately, being on her right side allowed the left to breathe normally and not have pressure on it.

Pressure! She needed to put pressure on the wound to stem the bleeding. Or try, anyway. She stood and stripped off the white apron Toby had given her at the carving station. The top of the apron was soaked with meat juices, but the bottom was dry. She wrapped it around the wound and pressed.

Camille’s eyes popped open as though the rescue effort hurt, but then they closed again.

Should Camille be conscious? Francine wondered. Her body should be gasping for breath with only one lung operational. While keeping pressure on the wound, she looked for evidence of blows to the head. If she’d been knocked out before being knifed, that would account for the unconsciousness.

Francine couldn’t see anything obvious, but Camille’s thick black hair covered most of her face and neck. Blood dripped from her nose. The only good sign was its bright red color. Oxygen must be getting to her heart.

When will the paramedics get here?

She heard movement outside the door and Police Chief Bart Cannon stepped in. Bart was in his mid-fifties with a shaved head that needed to be shaved again soon. He saw her administering first aid and assessed the situation. “The paramedics are on their way,” he said. His voice was gruff. “They should be here any minute.”

“She’s alive, but if she doesn’t get to the hospital soon, I’m not sure how long she’ll last.”

He didn’t answer, but scouted the room. Francine continued pressing the wound. Not wanting to look at the blood loss, she studied Cannon’s movements. His steps were plodding. He was thick in the midsection. Heavier than a policeman should be, she thought. He ran his hand nervously over his head. She could see that his hairline had receded to the sides and back.

Francine didn’t have a good impression of him. Jonathan said Cannon was more connected to the good ole boys’ network than he was to the current town government. But at the moment, none of that mattered.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

But you were there! She wanted to say. She knew he’d been at one of the front tables. She’d seen him go through the buffet line at some point. But she followed his direction. “I was helping serve dinner. I’m with Mary Ruth’s Catering. There was an accident out front and it took out the lights and the music. We heard a scream from backstage, then someone yelled ‘Fire,’ and the alarm went off. After everyone left, I found Camille in this condition.” Francine deliberately left out Joy, Charlotte, and Eric. She would let them tell the chief their stories.

“You look like you know what you’re doing.”

“I was a nurse for thirty-six years. Retired now.”

He nodded absently. He wasn’t looking at her. He was taking in the room’s contents.

Francine heard the clomping of hurried footsteps on the stage floor. Hopefully the paramedics have arrived.

The chief stepped out and hailed them in. There were four paramedics, two men and two women. Eric was with them. The younger of the men wheeled in a cot. The older of the women seemed to be in charge.

“I’m a nurse,” Francine told her. “She has a pulse, but it’s thready. She’s breathing, but not talking. The stab wound looks deep.” She scooted away, and the woman took over, issuing orders to the others. They carried a cot and laid it next to Camille’s body. Francine saw them ready an IV. She was pretty sure Camille would have to be intubated too.

Cannon was quick to get Francine out of the room. He indicated for her to follow him onto the stage. He allowed Eric to remain.

Charlotte was now at the prop table and hunting through it. “I don’t see the knife I had earlier,” she said.

Before Francine could answer, Cannon heard her. “What knife?” he asked.

“A prop,” she said, clearing her throat. “I’m looking for the prop I was playing with earlier.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “I’ll want to hear about that later. Are you with Mary Ruth’s Catering too?” He sounded less than pleased. Francine surmised he recognized Charlotte. She had a bad reputation for meddling in police business.

Charlotte bristled at his attitude. She matched it with one of her own. “Yes, I’m with Mary Ruth’s. Who’s going to be the detective on this case? Jud? Because I’ve got some observations, and I want someone who appreciates my expertise.”

Francine could see Cannon counting to ten before responding. “Detective Judson will be here shortly. I’ll make certain he’s the one to question you. Who else is here?”

Charlotte nodded. “There’s Mary Ruth, Joy, me, Francine, and Toby.”

“I’m surprised you’re still here. Didn’t you hear the fire alarm?”

Francine answered. “Mary Ruth was in no shape to leave with the crowd. She needed a little time to recover.”

“Recover from what?”

Charlotte answered him. “The shock of learning her grandson had become a male stripper.”

Francine thought she detected the corners of Cannon’s mouth turning up into a smile, but if so, he dropped it quickly. “This way,” he ordered.

He led them toward the stairs at the front of the stage. Before they had a chance to step down, the paramedics came out of the backstage room bearing a cot. It held Camille. She was on her back, the IV was attached, and she was being bag-ventilated. She looked to be hanging on to life. The three of them parted to let the hurrying paramedics get past. They whisked her out the back exit, past where the catering tables lay in a heap. Eric trailed closely behind them.

It seemed like the catered event happened hours ago, even though Francine knew it had been less than fifteen minutes.

Detective Brent “Jud” Judson and two police officers entered shortly after the paramedics left.

Charlotte brightened at the sight of the boyishly handsome detective. “Jud! I—”

He held up a hand to stop her talking. “I’m sure you have a lot to tell me,” he said, “but I need for you to wait. Can you do that?”

“Well, sure,” she said, tapping her foot on the floor. “But—”

Jud cut her off. “That’s good.”

“But I—”

“Hold that thought.”

Jud and Cannon stepped away and conferred in low tones. Francine couldn’t hear a thing. Every once in a while Jud would glance over at her.

Jud returned to the two woman as Cannon left via the back exit.

“Where’s he going?” Charlotte asked.

“Outside. We’re interviewing attendees in the parking lot. It’s a traffic jam out there with so many people scrambling to leave. Which is fortunate for us. Saves us from having to assemble them later.”

Jud looked from Francine to Charlotte and back again. “The chief tells me the rest of the catering crew is in the kitchen. True?”

“Five minutes ago it was,” Charlotte blurted out. Francine knew Charlotte was desperate to tell what she knew, so she kept quiet.

“Let’s go see.”

They walked through the kitchen door. Mary Ruth, now conscious, sat on a stool, her back propped up against a stainless steel prep table. Her shirtless grandson, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, sat next to her. They were not talking. Mary Ruth’s hair, which was cut short and cropped close to her face, was damp with perspiration. Francine could see beads of sweat on her forehead. Joy was leaned over a counter tapping on her iPad. She looked to be in reporter mode. Probably sending a story to Channel Six.

Jud got on his radio. “Anyone out there have the witness forms yet?” There was a response but it sounded garbled to Francine. “Ten-four,” Jud answered. “Bring some up.”

“Not the forms,” Charlotte groaned. “I’d rather tell you what I know.”

“In time,” Jud said. “In time.” Less than a minute later a uniformed officer brought in a stack of forms. Jud passed a couple out to each of them. He made them sit away from each other and gave them pens and brief instructions. “No talking,” he reminded them.

After they started, Jud tapped Francine on the shoulder and indicated he wanted to see her out in the banquet room. She stopped filling out the witness form and followed him.

“I’m sorry to see you’ve witnessed an attempted murder, Mrs. McNamara,” he said, once they were out of earshot.

“Not witnessed,” she said. “Not in the sense that I saw the attack. And please call me Francine.” She appreciated that he held her in respect, but she’d known him since he was a youngster. He’d played football with her sons, especially her youngest son Chad, who was the same age. And Eric Dehoney, she reminded herself. Eric had joined them on the Brownsburg High School team when he was a freshman.

“Noted.” He smiled. “If you didn’t see her being assaulted, then what did you see? The chief said you were giving Camille first aid.”

She skipped the details of Toby bobsledding into the food tables. Charlotte would cover those in excruciating detail when she got her turn. She told of the lights going out, of Joy screaming and of someone yelling, “Fire,” and then the alarm going off. She ended with learning from Joy and Charlotte about Camille needing help, and rushing back to the dressing room to find Camille stabbed in the side.

“Did you see anyone leave the dressing room? Anyone running out the back?” Francine tried to remember how the backstage area was set up. Behind the stage curtain was a dressing room recessed into the right side. Opposite the dressing room was a door that led offstage so performers had an exit that would allow them to leave without disrupting the action onstage. The door also led to a nearby exit that opened onto a stairwell. The steps led to the roof one way and to the first floor the other.

“I didn’t see anyone. Joy or Eric or Charlotte might have.”

“I’ll check with them.” He jotted notes in a writing pad. “What did you observe about the crime scene? I know you were mostly worried about Ms. Ledfelter, but I trust your powers of observation.”

“Because I’ve become a local expert?” She was sorry the way it came out. “That was uncalled for, wasn’t it? I’ve seen too much death the past year.” She tried to remember what the dressing room looked like. It’d been a mess, but had that been a result of the men changing into costumes or the attempted murder? “I remember the knife more than the scene,” she answered. “It seemed long to me, maybe nine inches or so, based on the size of the hilt. That’s the blade and the hilt.”

“How could you tell that?”

“Charlotte picked it up earlier in the day off the prop table. It registered with me because it looked real. I think it must have been.”

“Anything special about the knife?”

“I thought … sorry, this sounds gruesome … but I wondered if this were a premeditated act or if it were just happenstance. I thought for the knife to have punctured her lung, which I think it did, it had to have been stabbed with force and direction.”

“Meaning the person knew what they were doing?”

“I don’t like to think of that, but yes.”

“Anything else?”

She rubbed her finger and her thumb together as she stared off, trying to recall any other details. “The hilt of the knife. It protruded from her side. It seemed worn.”

This time Jud looked up from his notebook. “Worn? Like it had been well used?”

“Hopefully not as a weapon, but yes. I tried to avoid touching it.”

“Distinguishing marks?”

“I can’t pinpoint any, but I have this impression it was military issue.”

“What makes you say that?”

She shook her head. “It just struck me that way. It seems like a blur.”

He grimaced. “I hate to think it would be a vet. Too many stories about vets having psychological issues.”

“Won’t you be able to retrieve it? I’m sure they sent Camille to Hendricks Regional.”

“Sure. But if you remember anything now, that could help us. We won’t have to wait.”

She blew out a breath. “Sorry. It’s just a vague impression I have.”

He stopped writing and paced around the room, pausing by the upended catering tables. He stared at the floor where cherry cobbler filling had been smeared across a wide swath. “Is that blood?” He knelt down for a closer look.

In spite of the circumstances, Francine laughed. “No, it’s cherry cobbler.”

Accepting that for fact, he swiped a finger through it. He lifted it to his nose. “You’re right. It smells like cherry. With a bit of almond in it, I think.”

“Good detection.”

He stood up, wiped his hands, and put his fists on his hips. “I’m just glad to have an explanation for the red footprints on the staircase.”