ISOBEL WAS LUCKY she landed on her ass. If she had landed face down, her drawstring purse would have hit the floor and the nicotine bottle would have smashed and drenched her. Even worse, her iPhone would have broken. Ironically, it was her wire bustle that protected her, although it made for a painful landing. Sergeant Pemberthy helped her to her feet while Detective Dillon and another officer pinned Jethro against the wall and cuffed him.
“I’ll take that,” Dillon said, prying a nasty-looking switchblade from Jethro’s trembling hand.
“You okay?” Pemberthy asked Isobel.
She rubbed the back of her thighs under her skirt. “I’ll mend. Even though I knew you guys were behind me on the stairs, when he said that about being together in death…” Her breath caught. “I’m just glad you were backing me up.”
“It’s a good thing we were already on site to pick up Felicity Hamilton when you called. Otherwise we would never have made it in time,” Dillon said as he jerked Jethro away from the wall. “Come on. Let’s go join Auntie in the lobby.”
“What exactly did Roman Fried find?” Isobel asked.
Dillon gave a snide chuckle. “Yeah, your secret source. He called me a few hours ago. He found evidence that Felicity and the board president were in the habit of raising more funds than were budgeted for every show and siphoning money off the top. It’s been going on for years apparently, but she made a few mistakes with this one. When the state funds dried up, some muckety-muck New York producers—”
“The Donnelly Group?”
“I think so. They had seen the show or something and were interested, and they ran their own numbers to see what it would cost to produce. Then Felicity came back to them and gave them something so wildly inflated that they went back and looked at another show of hers they’d put money into—some musical about Starbucks, if you can believe it—and realized she was planning to take them for a ride. They called Fried and asked him to check it out.”
“Why did they call Fried and not the cops?”
“They didn’t have evidence. But I gather he’s something of a dirt-digger, and even if he couldn’t prove it, he could always print something in the paper damaging enough to the theater’s reputation that it would get the Feds interested.”
“I can’t believe the Donnelly Group was ever actually interested in this show,” Isobel said.
“Apparently, they only wanted it if they could get someone else to write the story.”
“You mean the score—the music and lyrics,” Isobel clarified.
Dillon shook his head. “No, apparently they loved the music, but they thought the play part was sappy and didn’t have enough dramatic tension. I gotta say, I thought the whole thing was a snore.”
“That’s a lie!” Jethro bellowed suddenly. “They wanted the book! They hated the music. They wanted my story! They wanted my Sousa!”
“Doesn’t matter now, does it? Come on, big boy.”
The other officer led Jethro up the stairs. Dillon paused next to Isobel.
“You were very impressive. Really kept your cool. Even with me, which is saying something.”
“Thanks,” Isobel said, secretly pleased. “Though my heart hasn’t stopped pounding.”
“You know, if the acting thing doesn’t work out…” He winked. “Send Sergeant Pemberthy the recording of your little encounter with Jethro, but keep it on your phone as backup, please. We’ll be in touch.”
He followed Jethro up the stairs. Isobel handed Pemberthy her drawstring purse.
“The nicotine is in there. I had my gloves on the whole time. Jethro’s prints should be the only ones on the bottle.”
“Dillon’s right. You are a cool customer,” Pemberthy said with admiration. “You got Jethro to say exactly what we needed. Between his recorded confession and the nicotine, we’ve got pretty solid evidence. What put you onto him anyway?”
“The ghost of Robert Livingston. Jethro was the only one who claimed to have seen him in this theater, although Kelly saw him at the old vaudeville house. Ghosts haunt places, not people. If there really is a ghost, he’s still there, playing to an empty house. When I remembered Jethro wrote historical mysteries, I searched them on Amazon and confirmed that Robert Livingston is his fictional detective.”
“How come only Sunil saw him?”
“Jethro knew Sousa’s track by heart. He waited to show himself when he knew Sunil would be alone. I think he must have been hiding out in the stage right bathroom. There’s less room on that side. That’s why most of our entrances and exits are blocked from the left.”
“I still don’t see how you made the connection.”
“It was something he said to me on the stairs. About how much he wanted me as Jennie all along, and I remembered how he described my first time in the role as uncanny. When rehearsals started, he told me to look up Jennie Sousa online, and I do resemble her quite a bit. When I thought about Chris disappearing and Sunil seeing this crazy ghost, his motive finally clicked. Jethro wanted everyone else out of the way so he and I could do the show together. Speaking of Chris, is he going to be okay?”
“I think so. He was knocked out with chloroform. I wonder why Jethro didn’t kill him.”
“You’d have to ask him, but I think he actually admired his performance. And I don’t think Jethro much cared what happened after tonight. It’s clear he was planning a Liebestod kind of thing.”
Pemberthy frowned. “A what?”
“Tristan and Isolde? An apotheosis in love and death?” Isobel tried again.
“Oh, I see. I think.”
“Anyway, by the end, I think he believed he was Sousa and I was Jennie. He was going to kill me and then himself so we could be together forever.” Isobel shuddered. “And he would have killed Sunil. First Jethro tried to spook him and get him out of the way by dressing as the ghost of Robert Livingston, and then he locked Sunil outside. That’s what made me suddenly remember the noises I heard in the costume shop. The banging wasn’t as loud, but it was a déjà vu moment.”
“Good thing, too,” Pemberthy said. “If Chris had passed out, we might never have found him. But how did you know what Jethro was going to do?”
“I had a hunch he’d go back to nicotine, and I calculated that his best opportunity was to spike Sunil’s glass in the banquet scene. But I managed to distract him long enough for the crew to get the props onstage before Jethro could do it.”
“And Thomas?”
Isobel’s heart twinged. “I blame myself for that. Jethro saw that Delphi had taken off Arden’s bustle during act one that night. I sent Thomas on a wild goose chase looking for it in the wings by the alley door, but of course it wasn’t there, because I’d brought it to you. Jethro must have assumed Thomas removed the bustle because he’d figured out how the nicotine had been delivered, so Jethro lured him outside and killed him. Thomas was the one feeding information to Roman Fried, but the irony is he knew nothing about the poisoned bustle. And he was killed for it anyway.”
“What about all the other stuff? I mean, I get that Jethro was hoping the masking would fall on Arden and kill her, but why did he bother putting a laxative in the coffee, and messing with the music, and sewing the shrimp into the curtains?”
Isobel paused. “I don’t think that was Jethro.”
Sergeant Pemberthy cocked her head to the side. “Then who was it?”
Isobel thought a moment. “I might be wrong about the ghost. Maybe when the company left the old vaudeville house it did move in here. You know, I think it must have been the ghost.” She blinked innocently. “Because I can’t for the life of me think of another explanation.”
“WILL YOU HURRY UP?” Delphi shouted up the stairs. “We’re going to miss our train!”
“I’m coming! Hold your horses!”
A moment later, Isobel came galumphing down with her suitcase. “Okay, I’ve got everything.”
“The boys are already in the cab. Come on.”
They let the front door slam behind them, and Isobel rolled her suitcase down the path.
“Wait!”
Isobel turned to see Talia flying down the sidewalk toward them. “I thought you already left,” Isobel said.
“I’m taking the four o’clock. I just went over to Geoff’s to say good-bye. A real good-bye, as in good-bye and good luck.”
“Ah.”
“Listen, I wanted to thank you for not ratting us out to the cops.”
“There was no point. Felicity would have had to press vandalism charges against you, and considering they’ve shut down her theater and she’s facing prison for fraud, she isn’t in a position to make a fuss. But I don’t think I would have in any case. If ever a show was worth sabotaging, this was it.”
Talia smiled sheepishly. “I’m sorry I thought you had it in for Arden. You were honest about everything the whole time, and we all treated you terribly.”
“Thanks.” Isobel gave Talia a hug. “Maybe we’ll see you in the city. You know, I never said, but you have a beautiful voice.”
“Thanks. So do you!”
The cab driver honked his horn, and Delphi yanked Isobel’s arm. They slammed the trunk shut over Isobel’s suitcase and piled in.
“Train station, please,” Hugh said from the passenger seat.
In the back, Delphi slid closer to Sunil. He put his arm around her, and Isobel noticed that she didn’t object. His brush with death had wrought a subtle change in Delphi’s attitude over the past twenty-four hours. Nothing had happened between them yet as far as Isobel knew, and they might well revert to their old sparring, but she hoped Delphi was finally coming to her senses. At the same time, Isobel realized that once they were home, there was no more putting off the conversation she and Hugh needed to have, and the prospect of where they were headed saddened her.
Isobel’s phone rang. Her spirits lifted when she saw the number.
“Mr. Fried,” she said. The others turned to her with interest.
“Ms. Spice. Well done on your end.”
“I might say the same.”
“Sorry for going AWOL like that, but I didn’t want you caught in the crossfire. There seemed to me a real possibility that Felicity was behind the murders as a way of covering up her fraud. I was able to hightail it back to New York and get the confirmation I was looking for, but I didn’t want to put you in any further danger.”
“Thank you. But of course it was Jethro who killed Arden and Thomas.”
“A very disturbed young man, it seems.”
“Is it true that the Donnellys wanted Felicity to throw out Jethro’s book and keep the score, and not the other way around?”
“Oh yes, I heard it from Irv Donnelly himself. He fell in love with Geoff Brown’s score. Thought it was fantastic. It was what they were most excited about. But when Felicity balked at junking Jethro’s script, Irv started asking colleagues if they thought he should take a chance on a show with a great score, but a crappy book. He happened to ask a friend who’d put money into Baristas. This guy lost money, even though the show was successful, so Irv started asking Felicity some tough questions. She got nervous and decided Irv’s snooping wasn’t worth his backing. She saw a way to disengage from the Donnellys by doing the opposite of what they wanted.”
“How did you get involved?”
“When Irv heard they’d trashed Geoff’s score, he became even more curious. He called me, and I started digging around. I have to confess, I told a little white lie when we met at the Hilton. Thomas didn’t find me; I called him. When you want to know what’s going on at a theater—”
“Always ask the costume shop,” they finished together.
“But what about Donnelly coming to see the show opening night?” Isobel asked. “Felicity seemed to think it was because they were interested.”
“Yes. Irv called and told her he was reconsidering and wanted to see what she’d done with the piece. I was always going to be his date.”
“Why didn’t he come with you?”
“So Delphi could have a seat,” Fried quipped.
Isobel chuckled. “Seriously.”
“The most mundane reason in the world. He got the flu.”
“If the Donnellys didn’t pump money into Sousacal, then who did?”
“Felicity Hamilton. Whatever money she’d saved up from skimming all those years went into the show. She was apparently devoted to Jethro. Somewhat misguidedly, as it turns out.”
“So I was wrong and the two were connected,” Isobel admitted. “I guess sometimes the obvious explanation is the right one.”
“Occam’s razor, my dear.”
“What?”
“Look it up.”
“Train station,” barked the cabbie.
“I have to go,” Isobel said. “But thank you.”
“Oh, you’ve read it? Good! Bye, now.”
He rang off, and Isobel stared at her phone with a confused expression.
“Come on.” Delphi nudged her. “You can fill us in on the train.”
They tumbled out of the cab, pooled their money to pay the driver, and reorganized themselves and their bags. Inside the train station, they scanned the board for their platform.
“Hang on a sec,” Isobel said. She ran over to a newsstand, where the New York Post was prominently displayed between the Times Union and the New York Times. She plunked down her money and grabbed a copy, flipping to Roman Fried’s column.
And so, a respected regional theater is consigned to an untimely demise by a dishonest producer. There’s a shocker. But one good thing came out of this misguided concatenation of history, ego, and strict march tempo: the opportunity to become acquainted with the enterprising talent of one Isobel Spice, who rose above the circumstances to deliver a charming performance of mediocre material. She’s one to keep an eye on.
A shiver of delight ran down Isobel’s spine. She extracted the page and shoved the rest of the paper over the counter.
“Here, you can recycle this.”
“Don’t you want it?” asked the clerk.
“Only page six. I’m going to frame it next to my first Equity contract.”
She waved the newsprint in his face and ran off to join her friends.
# # #
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