Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch (24 page)

“Linda?” I called again.

Nothing.

The door to the costume and prop room was partially closed. Light from within spilled through the slight opening and slashed across the hallway floor.

I went to the door, raised my hand to knock, then pressed my fingers against it. It opened slowly. I stepped inside. The clothing to be worn by the actors and actresses hung from portable metal garment racks with wheels. There were three of them, one for each act.

I sighed. Linda Amsted wasn’t here either. She must not have come to the theater, although I knew she’d planned to attend the dress rehearsal.

I started to leave the costume and prop room, and would have, if something hadn’t caught my eye. Shoes worn by the actors and actresses were neatly lined up beneath the rack of clothing for each act. The woman in charge of the room was a stickler for detail and order, and had had more than one tantrum when someone failed to hang up their costume with the left-hand sleeve facing out. What captured my attention was a white sneaker lying on its side among the other shoes. I crouched and grabbed it with the intention of setting it right with the others. But it was immediately evident that it wouldn’t move because—because there was a foot in it.

I stood and backed away, then slowly, with trepidation, approached the costume rack once again. I was tempted to close my eyes, but forced them to remain open as I wheeled one end of the rack toward the center of the room. By doing so, I was able to see the person whose foot occupied the sneaker. It was Linda Amsted, my friend, the casting director. She was slumped against the wall, the foot I’d grabbed jutting out beneath the rack, her other foot tucked beneath her. I didn’t know which was more shocking—the round circle of blood the color of cardinals oozing from her chest through her white T-shirt, or the macabre scene someone had created. The hat worn by the father in the play was propped on her head, and his pipe hung from her slack mouth. Her eyes were open wide, and for a moment I thought she might be alive and looking at me.

Then, the initial shock wore off and the horror of it sunk in. I spun around and raced from the room, yelling, “Someone help. There’s been a murder.”

This was no playacting.

This murder was real.