Death and the Diva: Grave Theatrics, #2

1

Imagine my surprise when I walked out onto the stage and saw that someone had left the spotlight on. The sight hit me like a French dessert, a rolling wave of rich chocolate, melting my brain for just a moment. Every pleasure center I had fired at the sight.

A spotlight…my drug of choice.

I’d thought the theatre was empty. In fact, I’d deliberately timed my arrival to pick up my copy of the script, hoping the place would be empty.

Call me a coward if you want. I wouldn’t blame you for it. But since learning that my arch-nemesis, Patrice Reynolds was directing the play I’d happily agreed to take part in, I’d been struggling with bowing out, exiting stage left, shuffling off to Buffalo.

The spotlight grew closer, and I looked down to discover that my feet were moving toward it. It was as if someone had taken the proverbial stage hook to my middle and was reeling me in.

That someone, of course, was me, MayBell Ferth, thirty-three-year-old professional mourner and sometimes thespian. I’d walked away from a very satisfying career in community theatre because I have a diva allergy. In fact, I was allergic to almost everything having to do with acting, except for the actual performances themselves.

Dealing with massive egos and infighting had sucked the love of theatre right out of me. It had given me angst.

And Patrice Reynolds had been the cause of much of that angst.

Patrice and I had been competing for prime roles since high school when she’d shoved me down a short flight of stairs hoping I’d break something to keep me from getting the coveted lead as Tinkerbell in Peter Pan.

Unfortunately for Patrice, I come from a long line of Ferths with good bones. Even more unfortunately for her, Mrs. Mike, the drama teacher, witnessed the dastardly deed and punished Patrice by giving her the worst role in the play. The crocodile.

It took Patrice all of junior year and most of senior year to recover from the humiliation. To this day, she still jumps and gives a little scream when she hears a ticking clock.

But anyway, that’s ancient history. Except, not really. Patrice still hates the sight of me─I nailed the Tinkerbell role to much acclaim─ and I still shudder at the thought of working with her.

I stopped at the edge of the spotlight and looked around, wondering who’d left the light on and why. Had someone been practicing lines? I hadn’t seen anyone when I came into the building. Patrice’s assistant, Manny, had left my copy of the script behind stage, but he wasn’t there.

It had been an exhausting day, and all I wanted was to go home to my cozy little apartment and spring my adorable little fluffball, Shakespeare, from his kennel. I fully planned to spend my evening snuggling Shakes and eating pizza.

A flicker of movement drew my gaze to the shadows bathing the back of the theatre. I hesitated, glancing that way and seeing nothing. Shaking my head, I gave the spotlight one last adoring glance before spinning on my heel. I needed my furbaby and a glass of red wine more than I needed that spotlight fix.

I headed backstage, my footsteps quick and determined. Having made the decision to go home, I was suddenly anxious to leave.

As I stepped off the stage, I jolted to a stop. A cable swayed above my head as if someone had just bumped it. I stood staring at the swinging cable, listening.

The building was silent.

The click of a switch being thrown cast the stage behind me into darkness.

My heart kicked into panic mode.

There was a swishing sound, and my instincts told me to step back into the heavy, velvet drapes surrounding the stage. Breathing as quietly as I could, given that my heart was pounding out a frantic bass beat, I focused on listening. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked. I thought of Patrice’s reluctant crocodile, and a nervous bark of laughter escaped my lips before I could stop it.

Footsteps exploded in my direction. The curtains attacked me, wrapping me in a smothering embrace. I swung my arms in panic.

My fist hit something fleshy, and I kicked in that direction. Unfortunately, the heavy drapes kept me from doing much more than grazing my assailant. I fought the dusty air, trying to breathe through the panic.

The dust was choking. When I sucked air to scream, I got a mouth full of velvet and some kind of fiber lodged in my throat.

A violent coughing fit added to my troubles.

As my coughing eased, I could hear heavy, wheezing breaths, as if someone else was having trouble breathing through the dust. Suddenly, the curtains relinquished their hold on me. Footsteps pounded rapidly away.

Panting from fear, I tried to cough up the fiber while fighting my way out of my drapery prison. Once clear, I stumbled in the direction of the nearest light switch, smacking my shin on something along the way.

Ouch, ouch, ouch!

Finding the switch, I flipped it. Several lights came on with a thud. I spun to look for my attacker and found something worse.

Much worse.

A chalk-white face stared blankly at me from beneath the curtains I’d gotten tangled in. One foot, long and narrow and encased in a soft ballet flat, stuck out of the drapery.

Too pale blue eyes were wide, radiating terror even after death. Blood slipped down the woman’s temple, tangling in the long, curly golden locks she’d always been so vain about. More blood stained the front of her silk blouse.

One hand protruded from a fold in the heavy, crimson drapes. The fingers were bent, two of the fingernails torn and bloody.

For a long moment, I just stared at the woman, knowing it was too late to call for help. And then I sighed, pulling my cell phone out of my pocket and hitting a button from my recent call list.

Yo, ho, ho, said a deep voice on the other end of the call. What’s up?

Argh, I said, dreading the next words I’d need to speak. I found a dead body. It’s Patrice Reynolds.

My brother sighed, long and loud. Where are you.

Iwasn’t quite sure how to react as I watched the police and crime people swarm all over the scene. As a professional mourner, it could be said that I was used to dead bodies. However, my variety of dead person was generally tidier, without the horror movie ambiance that poor Patrice was currently exhibiting.

Okay, pipsqueak, Argh said condescendingly as he strode in my direction. Tell me how you happened to be the one who found the victim.

Victim? So, you’re saying she was murdered? I asked my brother, determined to get as much information from him as he was going to take from me.

I’m the one asking the questions, he began.

And, I’ll answer them. Every single one, I assured him. "But I think, since I was the unfortunate schmoe who stumbled over the body, I deserve to know what happened. In a way, I’m a victim too."

He snorted. Nice try. What you are, McMayBeth, he told me sarcastically, is a suspect. Now spill.

Come on, you don’t really think I killed her? I straightened my shoulders, plastered an indignant expression on my face, and flavored it with just a tiny bit of offense for good measure. I’d say it was some of my finest work, but that wouldn’t have taken into account my audience.

Argh was a tough sell. The toughest of my siblings and even tougher than the Lieutenant. As a cop, Argh had dealt with liars his entire career. Good liars. Better than I was. The only thing I had in my favor was the fact that he loved me like a brother. Because he was one.

Still, I rarely managed to float a prevarication past him.

He laughed at me. Actually laughed. The laugh even reached his eyes.

The rat.

Try again, Drama Diva. You have a long history with the deceased. By your own admission, you hated her.

I held up a hand. "I didn’t say that. When did I say I hated the victim?" I emphasized the word to remind him that he should never have given away the fact that Patrice was murdered.

Let’s see, Argh responded. In fifth grade, you stomped into the house and threw yourself onto the couch, face down, screaming, and I quote, ‘I hate Patrice Reynolds!’

I glared at him. Nobody should have such perfect recall. A young girl depends on the people around her to have short memories. It’s vital for our emotional health at that age to feel our loved ones aren’t cataloging our mistakes and tantrums. I was in fifth grade. Cut me some slack. At that age, you were still rockin’ a mohawk.

He winced but wasn’t deterred from his mission. In your sophomore year, you threatened to, and I quote again, ‘Wedgie her with her thong until she gasped out her last breath.’

I hated that my lip was sticking out like I was a petulant child, but I seemed unable to control it. I’m pretty sure exigent circumstances would have bought me a pass in a court of law.

Argh shook his head. Sorry McBethBell. If the legal system made a habit of exonerating females for performing death-wedgies on the women their boyfriends slept with behind their backs, your species would cease to exist within a year.

She slept with my boyfriend and then bragged about it, I said, looking for clemency.

Nope. He pulled out his notebook. You are hereby declared a person of interest.

I snorted. There’s no such thing as hereby declaring.

I just invented it. Now, tell me what happened here tonight.

Blowing out a frustrated breath, I slumped. I have no idea what happened. All I did was come in to grab my copy of the script.

He jotted that down. Go on.

I grabbed my script.

Where was it?

I pointed to a table near the exit.

He made a point of looking from the table to the corpse, twenty feet away, and arched a dark brow.

I really wanted to smack him. But, even the exigent circumstance of him being a pain in my behind wouldn’t save me from the Lieutenant if I did. I could hear my father’s disappointed voice in my mind. He’d tell me I must always respect the law. Even when it was my brother. I noticed that the stage spot was on and came to investigate.

His pencil stopped moving over his pad. Both brows lifted, and his lips twitched. You stood under the spotlight, didn’t you?

I really hate you, I told him.

He chuckled with glee. I notice the light is off now. Did you turn it off?

No.

He stared at me.

I didn’t. It just went off.

It just went off? By itself?

I shrugged. Maybe the guy I heard running away turned it off.

Argh stilled, his expression slowly transforming to one of sheer disbelief, and then he dropped his head and sighed. MayBell, I swear…

What’s going on? a familiar voice said from across the room. I knew that voice. I hadn’t heard it for a while. A long while.

When Argh and I both turned to Eddie Deitz, he jolted to a stop, his hands lifting to protect himself from the Hell our mutual glares promised.

2

I …uh…hey, May. He laughed nervously. That rhymed, didn’t it?

Argh and I glared at the way-too-good-looking man standing three yards away, his hands still up as if to fend off an attack. How’s it going?

Argh lifted a dark brown brow. How’s it going? Are you brain-damaged? Why haven’t you called my sister for an entire month?

I groaned, wishing I could slip beneath the floor and disappear into a puddle. "Argh, is that really the first question we want to ask Mr. Deitz right now?"

Argh never shifted his gaze from the handsome traitor across the room. It is.

No. It isn’t, I disagreed.

Okay, then how about this? Do you have a death wish showing up right now? Argh asked Deitz. Did you think you could just waltz right back into May’s life like you didn’t dump her on her backside after she saved you from a murder charge?

I wilted downward, wondering what my chances for turning into that puddle were.

I…huh? Deitz said, frowning. Murder charge? I was never a serious suspect.

Weren’t you? my brother asked. Maybe you’d like to accompany me to the station so we can talk about it. I’m pretty sure the Lieutenant would love to chat with you for a while. There’s probably a cell there with your name on it.

To his credit, Deitz didn’t pale or run for his life. But I did hear him swallow kind of loudly.

I shook my head, envying Ant-Man for his ability to shrink from view. What are you doing here, Deitz?

His gaze slid to me, changing, warming. Hey, May… he stopped, sighed, and shook his head. Sorry, I’m not usually such a dufus.

Aren’t you? Argh asked.

I touched my brother’s arm. Can you give us a minute, please?

Nope, Argh said, crossing his arms over his chest.

Argh, I warned.

He shook his head.

Just one minute. Sixty short seconds.

He looked into my eyes, and I let him see the hurt in my gaze. I allowed tears to swim in my eyes and my lip to quiver with pain.

It only took a minute. I saw the exact moment he softened. He squeezed my shoulder and strode past Deitz, close enough to bump him aside as he passed with a glower.

Deitz lifted his hands and stepped back. Then, he turned a cautious smile to me. Wow, he’s intense.

The smile died when he saw my expression.

I stepped closer, poking an angry finger into Deitz’s breastbone. "You dare to show up now? After almost four weeks of silence? And why did you show up here? Are you following me?"

Yeah, the quivering lip and tears had been fake. Argh should have known that, but I was glad he hadn’t.

Deitz rubbed the spot on his chest that my finger had been abusing. First of all, he said, gently taking my finger into his warm, lightly calloused hand to stop the abuse. I’m not following you. I didn’t even know you were here. I came to pick up my client.

My stomach clenched at his warm touch, and I jerked my finger out of his grip. What client?

I’ll tell you, Eddie said, stepping closer. He looked down at me, his forest green gaze dark with emotion. But first, let me explain about not calling you.

I shook my head, backing away from him. Nope, I said, channeling Argh. I’m not interested in your excuses. Just tell me who your client is.

Yeah, Argh said, handing me a plastic cup filled with water. I’d like to know who that is too.

Thanks, I told him, taking a drink of the cool liquid. It felt like heaven on my dry throat. There’s nobody here except the victim and me, I said. According to you, I’m not the reason you’re here. So were you here to see the victim? My tone brimmed with accusation.

I can’t tell you that… Eddie started to say.

Argh bristled, stepping close with a threatening look. You can, and you will, Deitz.

If you’d just let me finish, Eddie said. I can’t tell you if I came to see the victim because I don’t know who the victim is.

Argh and I shared a Do you believe this guy? look. Just a step up from a dual eye roll. We both turned to him and crossed our arms, looking like the community theatre version of Men in Black…minus the black. And the sunglasses. Okay, we looked nothing