TWO

 

       “I’m so freaking nervous.”

Angie stifled a laugh. “Jarvis, I’ve seen you at gory crime scenes. You were so collected and cool I wanted to light a fire.”

“This is different.” He tilted his head at the curtain, the other side of which two hundred people buzzed with conversation.

John Bloom and the town clerk’s six-year old daughter, wearing a pink flannel nightgown and fuzzy pink slippers passed. John raked a hand through his dark curls and flashed Angie a thumbs up. He bent and whispered in her ear. “Would you like to come to my place after the show?”

She was shocked, about to say that, no, of course she didn’t want to do anything like that when John added, “I’ve invited Trynne and Blake, and Tyson and Jarvis too. I have an announcement—no, not an announcement, a wonderful discovery. I want you all to see it.”

“In that case, I’d love to come.”

Tyson’s voice rang out in the theater announcing the start of Act Four. John poised his hand on the ‘bedroom’ doorknob and waited till the buzz of voices in the auditorium died. Angie grabbed Jarvis by the waist and pulled him close. “You’ll be great.” She kissed just under his left ear then nudged him forward. “Break a leg.”

“By the way, you look gorgeous.”

She gazed down at the satin gown Gloria insisted she buy for tonight. The long sleeved dress was a brilliant teal her mother said set off her eyes. Angie had to admit, it made her feel elegant and pretty. Jarvis planted a kiss on her temple, straightened his spine, drew the pillowcase bag from his pocket and stepped on stage. He crossed, almost on tiptoes, to the mantle and picked up the crystal figurine. As the curtain rose, he prepared to drop the statuette in the bag.

John and his little blonde ‘daughter’ entered the living room from the left. John said, “Okay, let’s get your milk and get you back to bed.” As they reached center stage, he spotted Jarvis. He thrust the girl behind him and held her there with both hands. “Who the hell are you?”

Jarvis reached into his pocket and pulled out the gun. He shook it at John, then waved it toward the sofa. “Get over there.”

John, keeping the child behind him, moved in the direction of the couch but stopped half way. “What do you want?”

“Kind of stupid question since I’m loading your stuff in this sack, don’t ’cha think?”

John shoved the girl. “Get behind the sofa. Lay down and stay there.” To Jarvis he said, “Take what you want. Then get out.”

From off stage, Brianna, played by Angie’s friend Trynne McCoy, called, “Roman, can you come here, I’ve fallen.”

John, as though forgetting Jarvis pointed a gun at him, made a step toward the bedroom.

“Stop!” Jarvis shouted.

“My wife has fallen out of her wheelchair. She might be hurt.”

“If she was hurt she woulda said so.”

“I’m going to her. You can shoot me if you want.” John took two steps.

Jarvis ran at him, tossing the bag on the chair as he passed. He came up behind John and clubbed him above the right ear with the butt of the gun. John dropped to his knees then sprang back to his feet, using the momentum to drive a fist up into Jarvis’s chin. Jarvis raised the gun. John head-butted him in the chest. Jarvis lurched backward, but caught himself on the back of a chair. It looked so real Angie almost cheered.

The gun swung downward. It went off.

Something whizzed past her right shoulder. John dropped to the floor. Jarvis looked at him, at his bag, and back at John. Then he sprinted for the door.

Perfect! Angie wanted to applaud. Jarvis played the part to perfection. But why wasn’t John getting up and going to Brianna? He lay on the green print area rug, feet splayed the way he’d fallen, arms clutching his chest. A circle of blood on the rug—and his tan cotton shirt—grew larger each second.

“Drop the curtain!” Angie screamed. She snatched the cell phone from a passing stagehand’s belt and raced onto the stage dialing 9-1-1.

The curtain dropped. Wild applause sounded throughout the theater. Angie plugged one ear with a hand and shouted into the phone. “We’ve had an accident at Prince & Pauper Theater.” She gave the address. “Someone’s been shot.”

She thrust the phone into Jarvis’s hand and knelt beside John. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and the rug beneath.

“Gimme your shirt.”

Jarvis threw off the leather jacket, fumbled with the top shirt button then gave up and wrenched the lapels apart. Buttons popped loose and flew everywhere. He handed the garment to her as he said into the phone, “We have a nurse on the scene.”

Angie rolled John onto his back. His eyes were open, his expression puzzled. She pressed the shirt in his wound and leaned on it to staunch the tide of blood.

“She’s doing that,” Jarvis said then told Angie, “They said put pressure on the wound.”

Even though one act of the play remained, the riotous applause in the auditorium continued.

Tyson crouched on John’s other side. “What can I do?” The look on his face said he already knew what to do. Asking was a simple gesture of respect.

“Send the crowd home,” she said. “Tell them there’s been an accident. Then go wait for the EMTs. Bring them in the back way.”

Tyson put a hand on John’s arm. “Don’t worry, everything will be all right.” Then he stood, walked around John’s slippered feet and parted the curtain.

Jarvis was dialing the phone as he turned his back to the commotion, calling authorities, the department where he worked way too many hours. After a muffled conversation, he pocketed the  phone and disappeared into the wings where he gathered the cast and crew together. Ever the professional, he set right to work.

Two sounds in the auditorium, the rustling of coats being donned as folks moved out into the blustery January weather, and the hum of confused voices.

John’s left hand flailed in the air. His fingers closed around her wrist. She brushed damp curls from his forehead with her free hand. “I’m sorry if it hurts, I have to keep the pressure on it until help arrives. Hang on, it won’t be long.”

John let go of her arm. “Doesn’t hurt.” She gazed into the face that a few moments ago was robust and fit. His expression went from puzzled to resigned. As an ER nurse for more than twenty-five years Angie had seen that look dozens of times.

He crooked a finger that implored her to move closer. He mustered a whisper. “Rhapsody. Take care of Rhapsody?”

Angie had no idea who Rhapsody was. A pet snake probably. “Don’t talk like that. You’re going to be all right. Just hang on.”

“Please. She’s my life. Please.”

“Yes. Yes, of course I’ll take care of her.” What else could she say?

Groping fingers clenched the hem of her dress. “Make sure she’s warm.”

“Yes.”

“She needs to be warm. Keys…in my bag.” His eyes closed.

His jaw relaxed, his head tilted to the side, his fist released her dress and thumped on the blood-soaked carpet. Suddenly Angie’s neck wouldn’t support her head. She dropped her chin and released the pressure on the wadded-up shirt. Jarvis’s hand touched her arm, urging her up. A pair of EMTs took her place.

Jarvis walked her several steps away and pulled her into a tight embrace. Her heavy head slumped on his shoulder. He smelled like Polo cologne and gunpowder. His palm drew comforting circles on her back. By the time she felt strong enough to stand on her own, John’s body was being wheeled away. Jarvis dabbed a hanky on her eyes. He pressed it into her palm.

He led her to the front row of the auditorium, to a seat. He gestured for Tyson to come. “I’ve got to get to work. Stay with her.” He kissed the top of her head and disappeared just as the NH State police major crimes unit swarmed in like flies to road kill.

Tyson took hold of her hand, but didn’t mess up things by trying to speak. Together they watched the proceedings, which looked more like a botched dress rehearsal than a police investigation. What was there to investigate? The prop gun had misfired. She’d heard of it happening before. Wasn’t a movie director killed the same way a number of years ago? A dreadful accident, but accidents happened.

She watched them dig something from the wall a foot behind where she’d been standing during the performance. A bullet. It had to be. Wait a minute. Prop guns didn’t fire bullets. Her dismayed brain had trouble processing the information. A real bullet? The officer bagged whatever-it-was and moved away. The other investigators and forensics men were apparently done with their business on stage and moved to other parts of the building. She heard muffled, low-pitched discussions of people out in the lobby.

At some point, Trynne McCoy had slid into the seat on Angie’s left. Trynne’s arm linked through hers and she took hold of Angie’s hand. The circulation had long ago been cut off by Tyson’s grip, but she barely noticed the tingling. Trynne and Angie had been friends for many years, ever since that boring Alton Bay town meeting where they escaped into the hall and ended up learning they had much in common, most especially a love of the outdoors. The pair frequently hiked the mountains of the Lakes Region.

Trynne was tall and slim, a testament to her Danish heritage with pale blue eyes and platinum hair. In the late 70s her family had moved from Amsterdam to Oregon and opened an iris nursery with John Bloom’s parents. Trynne and John grew up together. At one time, they were engaged to be married. Interesting, yet a total coincidence to their starring opposite each other in Checkmate: Love. When Tyson cast them, he had no idea they’d ever met before.

Jarvis and two policemen stepped to center stage. One wore a green and tan State Police uniform. Balding and paunchy, he looked more suited to a job as a pharmacist. He held up the baggie containing the evidence pried from the wall. The other officer whom Angie recognized as Sergeant Wilson of the Alton Bay police department took the bag from him.

Jarvis examined it, a perplexed frown wrinkling his vee-shaped eyebrows. He drew his prop gun from his right hand pocket. The baffled expression deepened.

“Oh my God, is there a bullet in that bag?” Trynne said. The men on stage turned to look at her.

“I guess so,” Angie whispered so her voice wouldn’t carry also. “They dug it out of the wall behind where I was standing.”

“Are you shitting me? It went through John and—” This came from Tyson. “You could’ve been killed.”

As though they were the audience attending the performance, the trio settled back in the seats and watched the exchange between Jarvis and the two cops. Jarvis turned the weapon over in his hand, tilting it one way and the other as though he’d never seen a gun before. The state cop held out his hand. Jarvis laid the gun in it. Suddenly his professional litheness wilted like a plant too long out of water as his confusion became replaced with dread realization: a pure and simple understanding that transmitted to Angie as if it were a solid object. He had killed John Bloom. Misfiring prop gun or not, he’d killed their leading man. And had nearly shot Angie too.

She shivered. Her elbows jostled both Tyson and Trynne, who edged closer. Trynne tipped her head against Angie’s. From her seat, she couldn’t see the hole in the wall where the bullet struck. But the wound was as vivid in her mind as if she stood before it at that very second.

Jarvis nodded. “My keys are in my coat on the chair in the dressing room.”

Sergeant Wilson bagged the gun and left the stage. The state police lieutenant and Jarvis held a whispered conversation, none of which she could hear.

As the small clock on the mantle chimed 3 a.m., four officers moved onto the stage. A bald one shouted, “You can all go home now.”

Tyson and Trynne stood immediately. “You coming?” Trynne asked.

“I’ll wait for Jarvis.”

“Tell him good luck from me.” Her tone suggested he would need it. She kissed Angie’s cheek.

Just then, Jarvis appeared. He held out his hands, then hauled her to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace that confirmed the extent of his concern. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Since I’m involved, I can’t work the case.”

“They’re not accusing you of anything, are they?”

Tyson stepped on the stage and handed down her purse and coat, which Jarvis helped her into.

“I’ll finish locking up,” Tyson said.

“Thanks.”

With strong, confident hands, as though she were the one who’d suffered the grievous accusation, Jarvis guided her out through the front door. Sometime during the last few hours, snow started falling. Huge clumpy flakes blew at them from all directions on a wind that smelled like winter and stormy weather. Clods of snow punched down inside her spiked shoes. The parking lot was slippery under the five-inch cover. She and Jarvis supported each other as they descended the slight grade to his vehicle.

“You realize that if one of us loses their balance, we’re both going down.”

“No place I’d rather fall,” he replied, pulling her closer.

Neither spoke again till he had her buckled in the passenger seat of his Jeep. “We’ll get your car tomorrow.” Besides her Lexus, there were two other cars still in this part of the lot: Tyson’s Bronco and John’s Jeep, the same year and make as Jarvis’s but navy instead of red.

Jarvis started the engine and adjusted the heater knob. Cold air pushed into the cab and he twisted the fan button to lower the blast. Angie busied herself dumping snow from her shoes and wiggling her toes that had fallen asleep in the tight footwear.

“Are you all right?” she asked, leaving the shoes off.

“Why wouldn’t I be? Are you?”

She didn’t answer. He’d already shoved his emotions into the background and settled into protector mode. For once she’d wanted to take care of him.

“I got the idea they suspended you.”

“It’s standard procedure when an officer’s involved in something.”

“What actually happened anyway?”

“Somebody replaced the prop gun with a real gun. My service revolver.”

“I don’t understand.”

He shifted the car in four-wheel drive and backed out of the space. The snow crunched like cellophane under the tires. He leaned forward, squinting through the curtain of white heaving itself against the windshield. The full moon that had shone with pure gold effervescence earlier seemed to have been erased from the sky. Before moving onto Route 28, he answered her question sounding tired and distracted, “I left the jacket—the one I wore in the play—on the chair in the dressing room while we were at dinner. The prop gun was in the right hand pocket. Somebody substituted my service revolver for the prop gun.”

“Where was your gun?”

“At my house. In the top drawer of my dresser.”

“Did the cops go to your house?”

“Yeah. They found the prop gun there, in the same spot where I’d left my gun.” He slapped his palms on the steering wheel.

“How did they get in your house?”

“When I changed into the costume coat, I left my street coat on the back of the chair. My keys were in the pocket. Easy for somebody to take ’em go to my house and get my gun. After rehearsal when I changed back into street clothes, I hung the costume jacket on the chair. They probably switched the guns, then during the play, they took my keys and—”

“Put the prop gun in your drawer,” she finished for him. “You don’t appear on stage till the fourth act, which is well over an hour into the program.”

“Plenty of time to do the deed. I only live five minutes away.” The wheels spun. He let off the gas and then pushed more gently.

“But who?”

“No clue. No frigging clue.”

The vehicle eased onto the road, aimed in the direction of her condo. “Why do you figure John invited us to his place? What do you think he wanted to show us?”

“No idea.”

“Jarvis, I need to go there.”

“It’s late—”

“If you don’t want to go, that’s fine. Take me back to my car and I’ll go on my own.”

“I don’t want you driving in this shit.”

It took a minute to find a place to turn the car around, but soon they were plowing south toward John’s Northeast Nurseries in Alton Village. The snow still drove with blinding force, as though a giant fan pushed it at them.

“Who is this—what’s her name—that John talked about?” he asked.

“Rhapsody. I don’t know what, or who, she is. With my luck she’s some sort of lizard.”

Jarvis laughed then. “Maybe she’s a tall, sexy blonde.”

“Jarvis.”

“Have you considered how we’ll get into his house?”

Angie drew a bundle of keys from her purse and jingled them in the air. He heaved out a long breath. “How did I know? How did I know?”

“I have a question: is there a difference in weight and size between a prop gun and a regular gun?”

“If you’re asking whether I should have noticed the difference, the answer is no. Remember, I brought the prop gun from the office. It’s exactly like our service guns but doesn’t have a firing pin. I keep replaying it in my mind, and maybe in some deep recess, I did notice a slight difference in weight, but I’d walked on stage by then. And thinking only about my lines. The prop gun was in my pocket earlier, I had no reason to think it would be anything other than that when I took it out.”

It made sense. He’d been dreadfully nervous. He wouldn’t think about the heft and size of the gun; he’d be imagining the words he’d say as he pointed the thing at John. Angie didn’t interrupt the long silence as Jarvis concentrated on maneuvering along the icy roadway. When he finally spoke, she wished he hadn’t.

“So, how come you agreed to a perfect stranger’s last wish? He is a stranger, right?”

She couldn’t stop the wedge of anger that formed before her eyes. And she couldn’t stop the word from squeezing between her lips. “You know what? I’m tired of your insinuating something is—was—going on between John and I.”

“Shit, I’m sorry. It slipped out.”

“No it didn’t. You’ve been preparing that speech since we left the theater. And, your apology doesn’t cut it.”

As they passed the fast food joint, Jarvis swung in. The rear wheels slid sideways for several feet before getting traction in the unplowed parking lot. He growled into the speaker box at the all night drive-thru, “Two large coffees: one extra extra, the other just milk.”

Angie wanted to demand he take her back to the theater to retrieve her car. Her fear of driving on treacherous roads kept her lips pressed tight together. She’d made a promise to John and would see it through in spite of Jarvis. Tomorrow she’d deal with him and his jealous streak.