Samantha Moon: First Eight Novels, Plus One Novella (99 page)

Now as I sat in the parking lot in my minivan, shrinking away from the daylight, I closed my eyes and cleared my mind and cast my thoughts out and directed them toward the theater. Yes, I was getting good at this sort of thing.

Now, as my thoughts moved through the theater, I could see various people working together in small groups or individually. Actors and stage hands and set designers, anyone and everyone needed to put on a show.

So far, no hit. Nothing that made me take notice.

I pushed past the main stage to the backstage. Still nothing. I meandered down a side hallway and into a storage room. Props were everywhere. Rows upon rows of wardrobes hung from racks and hangers. Still nothing. I was about to snap back into my body when something appeared at the back of the theater.

A shadow.

It appeared suddenly from the far wall, scurried up to the ceiling, then down a side wall, then huddled in a dark corner, where it waited. I sensed that it always waited, that it was always afraid.

I shivered. Jesus, what the hell was that thing? I’d seen my fair share of ghosts and spirits, but never a shadow. Never this.

And it came from the mirror hanging from the back wall. No, not the mirror. Behind the mirror. There was a doorway there. A hidden doorway.

I tried to push through the secret door, but I was just too far away. My range is limited, and I was at the far end of it.

I snapped back into my body and, briefly disoriented, gave myself a few moments to get used to seeing through my physical eyes again. The sun was still out, which meant that the next few moments were not going to be very fun. When I had mentally prepared myself, I took a deep breath and threw open my minivan door. I dashed across the parking lot, keeping my head down, leaping over cement parking curbs like a horse at a steeplechase.

When I finally ducked under the marquee and into the blessed shade, I was gasping and clutching my chest and maybe even whimpering a little. The sun was truly not my friend. And that was a damn shame.

When the burning subsided enough for me to think straight, I pushed my way into the theater’s main entrance.

Chapter Twelve

The theater looked much the same as it had in my thoughts, except for the details.

The same crew was on stage, hammering and sawing away on a wooden cut-out of a pink Cadillac. The same group of actors were going over lines off to the left of the stage.

No one noticed me. No one cared. And why should they? They were all busy putting on a stage show about Elvis, and what could be cooler than that?

With murder cases, you always interviewed those closest to the victims, then worked your way out. I would let the police interview any family members, although precious few showed up in my preliminary research. Still, most people tended to open up to an official murder investigation. Not everyone opened up to private eyes.

Go figure.

So as I stood there and surveyed the darkened theater, watching workers carry props and pull cables, actors read and re-read lines, and various stage hands in group meetings, I realized why I was here. Why I had jumped the gun and come here on my own. Against Sherbet’s wishes, no less.

He’s here,
I thought.
The killer is here.

Before me, the stadium seating sloped downward. The Fullerton Playhouse wasn’t huge. I would guess that it could seat maybe one thousand. The seating itself was arranged into four quadrants, with two aisles leading down and aisles on each side. I was standing on a platform near a metal railing. Wheelchair seating, if my guess was correct. Various lights were on throughout the theater, but certainly not all of them, as much of the seating was in shadows.

A quick count netted me twenty-four people. And one of them was the killer. I was sure of it.

How I knew this, I no longer questioned or doubted, and as I stood there scanning the theater, I felt that something was off. And I was pretty sure I knew why.

There was more than one killer.

It takes a certain kind of personality to be an actor, or even hang around the theater. You had to love masks, the ability to pretend to be something other than what you were. Which was a pretty useful trait for a killer, too.

As I stepped forward, a small man appeared out of the shadows to my left. Holding a clipboard and mumbling to himself, he nearly ran into me before looking up. He was exactly an inch taller than me.

I held out one of my business cards. “Hi. My name’s Samantha Moon, and I’m looking into the murder of Brian Meeks.”

He looked at the card and blinked twice. “Are you with the police?”

“
I’m a private investigator.” One of the stipulations with Sherbet was that I was never, ever, to state that I was working with the police. It was a gray area he wanted to avoid. My official employer was the City of Fullerton. In fact, my checks had been issued by the city clerk’s office.

“
Working for whom?”

“
An interested party.”

He finally took my card. “What are they interested in?”

“Finding the killer.” I tried not to be sarcastic, because that never helps. What did he think, the cops wanted to know his favorite picks to win the Oscars? “Can I ask you a few questions about Brian Meeks?”

He looked at my card, looked at me, looked over at the stage. I sensed his hesitation, his pain, and finally his resolve. “Okay, but only for a few minutes. We’re putting on a show in a few days. Opening night. Crazy as Lady Macbeth here.”

“Gotcha. We’ll hurry this along. Did Brian Meeks work here as an actor?”

“
For a few years now.”

“
Did you know him personally?”

“
Not necessarily personally, but professionally. Then again, in the world of theater, personal and professional lines tend to get blurred. We’re all so close.”

“
I bet. Are you an actor?”

“
Director only.”

“
Gotcha. Did you direct anything Brian was in?”

He nodded. “Our last show,
Twelfth Night
. Brian was supposed to be in this new show, but...”

“
He’s been missing.”

The little director rubbed his face. “Right. Missing. Until we heard the news this morning that he was found dead. Murdered.”

“Did Brian have many friends?”

“
Funny you should ask...I was just trying to think who his close friends were. I was thinking of doing some sort of memorial for him. Something either before or after our opening show this weekend...”

“
And?”

“
And I couldn’t think of anyone who had been close to him.”

“
Is that common for an actor?” I asked.

“
Actually, no. We don’t get many loners in this business. Extroverts, yes.”

I skipped the questions of whether or not Brian had any enemies. Whoever had done this to him was doing the same thing to many people. I doubted a personal vendetta had anything to do with his death. I asked, “Had there been any other strange occurrences in this theater?”

“Strange, how?”

“
Has anyone reported seeing anything...odd or unusual?”

“
Not that I can think of. But a theater is a pretty odd place anyway.”

“
How long have you worked here?”

He looked again at the stage. I could see that a few people were waiting for him. “Five years. Worked my way up as a lighting guy out of college.”

“Good for you. Who owns the theater?”

He pointed to a man sitting on a foldout chair on stage. The only man, apparently, not doing anything. “Robert Mason.”

“The actor?”

“
The one-time actor. His soap opera days are over. This is where he spends most of his time.”

“
May I have your name?” I asked.

“
Tad Biggs.”

I nodded and somehow kept a straight face. I said, “May I ask what’s in your back room?”

“Back room?”

“
Yes, the storage room at the far end of the hallway.”

He blinked. Twice. No, three times. “How do you know about the storage room?”

“I’m a heck of an investigator.”

“
That room is strictly off limits.”

“
Why?”

This time he didn’t blink. This time, he just stared at me. “Because Robert Mason says it is. Look, I gotta go. We have a show to put on. I hope you guys catch the sick son of a bitch who did this to Brian.”

I nodded and watched him hurry off. Then I flicked my eyes over to where Robert Mason was sitting in the foldout chair on stage—and gasped when I saw him staring back at me.

He was still as handsome as ever. Older, granted, but one hell of a handsome man. He stared at me some more, then looked away.

I shivered, and exited stage left.

Chapter Thirteen

I was watching them from the parking lot.

Not exactly the best seat in town, granted, but it would have to do. Lately, I seemed to be almost completely intolerant to the sun. Brief sojourns were excruciating, even when I was fully clothed and lathered.

And so, while my son played soccer, I sat alone in my van, huddled in the center of my seat, thankful for the surrounding tinted glass. Of course, from where I sat, I couldn’t see the entire playing field, but beggars can’t be choosers.

It was a crisp late winter day, warm for this time of year, perfect for anyone who wasn’t me. Before me were some bleachers filled with moms and dads and relatives and friends. The mothers all seem to know each other and they laughed and pointed and cupped their hands and shouted encouragement. They shared stories and drinks and sandwiches and chips.

I sat alone and watched them and tried not to feel sorry for myself. Easier said than done.

From where I sat, I couldn’t tell who was winning, so I just watched Anthony as he ran up and down the field, disappearing and reappearing from around poles and bleachers and hedges.

From what I could tell, he had real talent, but what did I know? These days, he almost always scored a goal—sometimes even two or three. He seemed to have the strongest leg—kicking leg, that is—and a real nose for the action; at least, he was always right in the thick of things. Mostly I cringed and winced when I watched him, praying he would be careful. My overprotectiveness wasn’t a surprise, especially when you consider what I went through seven months ago.

Presently, the action was coming toward my end of the field, and I sat forward in my seat. Anthony was leading the charge, elbowing his way through a crowd of kids who clearly didn’t seem as athletic. And now Anthony was mostly free, pursued by opponents on either side. Amazingly, Anthony pulled away from them. Not only running faster than them, but running faster while kicking a soccer ball.

Then he reared back and kicked a laser shot into the far corner of the net, blowing it past the outmatched goalie.

Anthony’s teammates high-fived him. Parents stood and cheered. I shouted and stamped my feet in the minivan. No one heard me cheer, of course. Especially not Anthony.

Still, I cheered alone from inside the minivan, rocking it all the way down to its axles. And when I was done cheering, done clapping, I buried my face in my hands and tried to forget just what a freak I was.

After the game, as parents and grandparents hugged their excited and dirty kids, I saw Anthony coming toward me. Alone, and perhaps dirtiest of all. One of the other mothers saw him and asked him something. He pointed to me sitting in the minivan. She nodded and smiled and waved to me. I waved back. She then gave Anthony a big hug and congratulated him, no doubt on playing a great game. By my count, Anthony had scored three goals. She gave him another hug and set him free.

That should be me hugging him,
I thought.
That should be me walking him off the field.

There was blood along his knees and elbows. The kid had taken a beating scoring those three goals. But he didn’t limp; in fact, he didn’t seem fazed by the injuries at all.

Tough kid.

He flashed me a gap-toothed smile, and my heart swelled with all kinds of love. Now he was running toward me, his cleats clickity-clacking over the asphalt. He looked like an athlete. A natural athlete. His movements fluid and easy, covering the ground effortlessly, cutting through cars and people with precision. On a dime. By the time he reached the minivan he was sprinting. He skidded to a halt and yanked open the door.

“Mom!” he shouted. “I scored three goals today!”

“
Incredible!”

He jumped in and lunged across the console and gave me a big hug. The strength in his arms was real. He nearly tore me out of my seat. “Did you see them?”