A Deadly Performance, page 11
But while the upbeat song encouraged people to jump up and dance, their moving bodies blocked his view of Lexie. He hoped she wasn’t getting into trouble.
Chapter 12
Lexie threaded her way to the food counter, where a tantalizing fragrance of roasted chicken perfumed the air. Two African American women hustled behind the counter.
Or, rather, one woman scurried. The second stood back, eyes narrowed, arms crossed.
“Can I get you something?” the first woman said. “Soda? Chips?”
“No, actually I’m writing a series of articles about the lifestyles of seniors and wanted to chat with you.”
“I’d be happy to—”
“You can’t do that now.” The other woman stepped forward. “We need to check the temperature of the food.”
She pointed down to a row of foil-covered dishes.
“Why don’t I wait until after you’re finished?” Lexie offered a smile and stepped away.
Turning, she spotted a woman struggling to open a door while juggling an armload of books, toys and kitchen supplies.
Lexie trotted over. “Here, let me.” She swung open the door, then deftly caught a fuzzy ball as it rolled from the woman’s arms.
The woman’s exhausted smile spoke volumes. She dumped her pile onto one of the long tables that lined the room.
“It’s so nice that people are willing to donate to our fundraiser,” she said. “But, whew, trying to sort all of this stuff is a challenge.”
“Would you like some help?”
“Thank you for offering, but we have volunteers coming to help. They should arrive any minute.”
“I’m Lexie Morie.” Lexie held out her hand. “I think I recognize you from last week’s show. You were helping serve.”
“Yeah, I aim to serve. Debbie Marlow.”
Lexie noted the bitterness in Debbie’s tone and made a mental note to try to tease out the cause.
“Why don’t I help you until the others arrive?”
Debbie shrugged and turned toward the pile of stuff. “We’re putting household items over there, costume jewelry there, children’s stuff there, books there and miscellaneous things there.” As she talked, she pointed to the various tables.
Still holding the fuzzy ball, Lexie reached for a stuffed teddy bear and two dolls and turned toward the children’s table.
“Wait!” Debbie removed the ball from Lexie’s hand and squeezed it. It squeaked.
Debbie grinned. “Dog toy. You can add it to the miscellaneous pile.” Her grin faded. “My cockapoo used to love these things.”
“Used to?”
“She died a couple of months ago.” Tears formed in Debbie’s eyes.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. Dogs just don’t live long enough. Are you planning on getting a puppy?”
“Maybe next year, after I’m old enough to qualify for my deceased husband’s social security.”
Seeing the puzzled expression on Lexie’s face, she added, “I was 60 when my husband passed away. He was a statistician, which paid a lot more than my job managing a department of computer geeks. We were always conservative with our money. When he passed, I should have been okay living on just my salary.
“But when I turned 61, the company declared me redundant and laid me off. No one wanted to hire a 61-year-old. Until I turn 65, I have to make do with part time jobs.”
“My gosh, I’ve never thought about what happens to seniors who lose their jobs before they’re eligible for Medicare and social security. I was forced into retirement last week, but at least I’m 65. And, of course, we have income from Nick’s social security and our small investments. I can’t imagine trying to cobble together enough money to survive on my income alone.
“Would you allow me to interview you for a story I’m writing about challenges seniors face?”
Debbie’s eyes widened. She backed away, but bumped into a table. “Oh, no. No no no no. Bob ordered us to not talk to reporters. I said the same to that other guy. I need this job.”
“I could keep you anonymous.”
Debbie gulped and shook her head. “I . . . I just can’t.”
Setting the ball down, she turned and hurried from the room.
Lexie frowned. What the heck was going on around here? Did Bob really control people with an iron hand? That image totally contrasted with Nick’s assessment of Bob as a henpecked incompetent fool.
And what did Debbie mean when she referred to “that other guy?” Was there another reporter poking around, looking for a scoop? Large papers like the one she’d just left should have moved on to bigger stories.
Maybe one of the other workers would know.
She headed toward the rehearsal area. Nick had just finished singing “Rocking Around the Christmas Tree.”
A trio stepped forward to sing a slow version of “Silver Bells.” While they sang, Julie and Eddie waltzed across the floor.
For a moment, Lexie imagined waltzing with Nick. But her two left feet ruined the image.
“Lexie, what are you doing here? I would think murder in a senior center would be beneath you.”
Lexie turned to face Martin Schultz, one-time colleague and now owner of an online-only publication called The Weekly Flyer.
Martin, with his grayish brown hair and eyes, had always looked washed out. Now, at age 60, gray streaks in his hair only amplified the faded look. But time hadn’t diminished his six-foot stature. His face was fuller and she suspected that the tailored navy suit hid the stomach pooch the poor man had battled even in his 30s.
Lexie smiled, pleased to see that he still sported brightly colored ties – a suggestion she’d made oh-so-many years ago. She’d told him the bright ties would distinguish him from the rest of the reporters and could become his signature look. Like Truman Capote’s white suit.
Lexie gave him a quick hug.
“Hey, you,” she said. “It’s been a long time. How are things in the ether?”
Martin grinned, revealing the cheek dimples that he’d always complained made him look like a child.
“Probably better than Planet Earth,” he said.
“Oh, boy, you got that right.”
They’d remained friends after Martin left The Washington Flyer to work for an upstart internet publication. Ether vs Planet Earth had been their joking way of dealing with upheavals in the news industry.
It was also a way of bridging the gap that had formed when Martin declared his undying love and Lexie gently revealed that she was married with two children.
“Are you here investigating the recent murder?” Martin said. “I’m assuming it was murder. Donner won’t talk to me.”
“Join the club. Your best bet would be to talk to the EMTs and the doctor who attended the show.”
“Done and done. I thought I might get some color from the people who work here, but no one will talk to me.”
“I think they’ve been instructed to avoid the media,” Lexie said.
Martin cocked his head. “So why are you here?”
Lexie gestured to the stage, where Kelly was fingering a lively version of “Deck the Halls.”
“Nick performs with the Golden Stars.”
“Really?” He chuckled. “Who’d have thought a geek could sing?”
Lexie let the mild insult slide. She no longer felt guilty that, after Martin’s failed attempt to woo her, he’d quickly found another job. But she wasn’t going to rub salt into the old wound by saying Nick crooned like Frank Sinatra.
After waiting and getting no response from Lexie, Martin said, “Why are you really here? It’s been decades since you covered cops.”
“Please, let’s not use the word decades.”
Martin smiled, but refused to be deflected.
“I’m writing a series of stories for Pamela Hennsing.”
His wide eyes and slight parting of lips made up for the earlier slur. Pamela Hennsing was legendary in the business.
Martin’s eyes narrowed.
“Since when has The Daily allowed reporters to freelance?”
And here it was. Her first revelation to a colleague that she’d retired.
Martin looked even more surprised.
“Wow. I never thought you’d retire.”
“I’m retired from the daily grind. Pamela is allowing me to choose my own stories at my own pace. I can wake when I want and write in my pajamas. When I conduct interviews, I can dress for comfort instead of complying with silly office rules.”
“But . . . don’t you miss the rush of adrenaline when the newsroom is buzzing with a big story?”
“I only retired a week ago. Just taking it one day at a time. How are you going to cover this story if Donner and the staff won’t talk?”
Martin shrugged. “Oh, I’ll find someone who’ll talk. Even if I have to put an ad in the paper asking the killer to contact me.”
“Martin!” She studied his face. Was he serious?
Martin held up both hands. “Just joking.”
His smile disappeared. “Seriously, though, a break in this story could be a lifesaver.”
Lexie cocked her head, but remained silent.
Martin dragged fingers through his mousy hair, leaving trails in the thinning locks.
“Print isn’t the only news organization suffering,” he said. “When I joined The Weekly Flyer, we were the only ones available electronically. But now there are dozens, hundreds of internet sites ‘reporting’ the news for free.”
“But those sites aren’t accurate,” Lexie said.
“People don’t know that.” Martin sighed. “Don’t know or don’t care. That’s why in-depth investigation is so important. It’s the only thing that separates us from the rest.”
“And you do a good job of it. Just please promise you won’t invite the killer to contact you.”
“Okay. I promise I won’t advertise for the killer in the Flyer.” He looked around the room. “Do you know if that lady was here during the murder?”
He was looking at Cindy, the younger of the two women who’d been waitresses at the show.
“Yes. She was one of the waitresses. Her name’s Cindy. The other waitress wouldn’t talk with me. But maybe you’ll be able to entice Cindy into sharing what she saw.”
His eyebrows raised.
“I’m not kidding, Martin. You can be quite charming. Cindy was very friendly at the show.”
“Worth a try.”
They exchanged an awkward hug.
As Martin strode toward Cindy, Lexie bit her lip.
The revelation that The Weekly Flyer was in trouble worried her. That publication had been Martin’s salvation, his way of making a mark on the world. Though he was 60 years old, she knew he’d never consider retiring unless someone forced him.
A major story like finding Marlene’s killer would boost the Flyer’s circulation.
He’d promised to not advertise for the killer. She didn’t believe him.
Well, there was nothing she could do to stop him. She just hoped he stayed safe.
In the meantime, she needed to focus on her own job. She turned back toward the food station.
Now that food was being served, only one lady remained. She welcomed Lexie with a smile and an apology for being unable to talk earlier.
Lexie introduced herself.
“I’m writing a series of stories about the lifestyle of seniors,” she said. “Would you mind if I interviewed you for it?”
The woman grinned. “No one’s ever interviewed me for anything.”
Taking that for assent, Lexie asked for a name and wrote down “Vera Tens.”
“You’re the center’s nutritionist?” Lexie said. “How long have you been doing that?”
“Ever since I retired, let’s see, that would be two years ago. I used to work for the schools. Talk about a challenge! Kids just aren’t interested in healthy eating.
“I much prefer working with seniors. Everyone’s so friendly and I feel like I’m really making a difference.”
She gestured toward a table where volunteers were distributing trays of food.
“For some of those people, this is their only hot meal of the day.”
Lexie pushed aside the well of sympathy. Her years of reporting had necessitated snatching food on the run while rushing off to the next interview. But, having grown up in a boisterous Italian-American family where meals were social occasions, she’d insisted that her children and husband sit down for one meal a day.
The thought of that meal being eaten among virtual strangers made her want to cry.
She forced herself to move on.
“Were you involved with the wonderful meal that was served at last week’s show?”
Vera beamed. “I created the menu, yes. Everyone seemed to enjoy it.”
“I certainly did.” Time to turn the conversation to Marlene. “It’s a shame that Marlene died during such a happy occasion.”
Vera scowled. “That woman ruined everything she touched.”
“Really?”
“Oh, my, yes. Would you believe that she tried to tell me that I shouldn’t serve desserts? Said they were bad for people’s health.” She swept her hand toward a table where several people were eating their dessert before the main course.
“My desserts are low in added sugar and saturated fats. But people gobble them up. The desserts give them something decadent, something to look forward to.
“But Ms. High-and-Mighty didn’t care about people’s feelings. She just wanted to throw her weight around.”
“Must have been hard to do your job when she was around.”
Vera sighed. “I was lucky. We had our one confrontation. When I made it clear that I wasn’t changing the menus, she backed off. As I told my kids, you have to stand up to bullies or they’ll keep coming back.
“I told the others to just walk away whenever Marlene approached.” She shook her head. “That woman was plain evil.”
Unlike the other volunteers and employees, Vera had no trouble discussing Marlene’s demise. But she said that she’d spent all of her time behind the food counter and hadn’t once glanced toward Marlene’s table.
Frustrated, Lexie turned to join the others. She hoped they’d had more luck.
Chapter 13
They couldn’t discuss the case during rehearsal for fear others might overhear. So after rehearsal, Nick and Lexie joined Ben, Flora and Kelly at a nearby restaurant.
“The performers were happy to talk about the murder,” Flora said. “But they didn’t see anyone adding something to Marlene’s coffee. During the show, we were all too focused on our acts.”
“We’d have noticed if a bunch of people had suddenly walked out,” Ben said. “But all I can recall from that day is the waitresses moving about with fixed smiles on their faces.”
“Not true,” Flora said. “People in the audience smiled as we performed. There was one lady actually swaying as we played.”
“Probably had to go to the bathroom,” Ben said.
“Ben!”
He chuckled.
“I tried to engage the audience,” Kelly said. “But I tend to pick out particularly happy looking faces in the crowd. I suspect the others do the same.”
“What about the workers?” Nick said. “Did the waitresses see someone hovering over Marlene’s coffee?”
“No help there,” Lexie said. “Bob put the fear of God into anyone who talks to the press. I can understand him wanting to downplay any blowback on the senior center. But usually someone is willing to talk. People like to see their names in the newspaper.
“But the waitresses not only refused to talk about Marlene’s death, they seemed oddly anxious.”
“I wonder what Bob’s trying to hide,” Nick said.
“Maybe we can figure that out at tomorrow’s funeral.” Kelly reached for the ketchup bottle, then proceeded to dump the red goo all over her fries and cheeseburger. “Most of our suspects will be there. And, given that Marlene wasn’t liked, it shouldn’t be hard to drum up some gossip.”
“Just don’t try to force a conversation,” Lexie said. “You can comment about the turnout for the funeral or about the oddity of the location of her death or even ask how well the person knew Marlene. Think in terms of what you’d normally say at a funeral.”
“And, believe me,” Kelly said, “there will be plenty of people not only willing but anxious to share Marlene horror stories.”
“Bob-Bob wants the Golden Stars’ singers to perform a couple of numbers at the service,” Nick said. “Lexie, you didn’t know Marlene well, so you can do your ‘I’m so innocent’ act.”
Lexie clasped her hands together, holding them above her heart. In a heavy Southern accent, she said, “I didn’t know the de-ah departed, but isn’t it just too, too aww-ful what happened?” She finished with a bat of her eyes.
Ben laughed. “Maybe you could do stand-up comedy for the Golden Stars.”
Lexie chuckled. “Well, you’ve seen my one and only Southern Belle display. But Nick’s right; I can use my ignorance of Marlene to question people.”
“So we have a plan for tomorrow?” Flora said.
Everyone nodded.
“Good. Let’s eat.” Kelly took a huge bite of her hamburger.
The next morning, Nick donned a black suit and tie. Lexie opted for a knee-length black dress and ballet flats.
Nick snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. “Mmmm, I love the Audrey Hepburn look.” He nuzzled her neck.
Lexie guffawed. “I wish. I don’t know how she prevented middle-aged spread. That woman remained attractive her whole life.”
“And so have you.” Nick turned her around and kissed her. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.”
Lexie hugged the love of her life. “I love you so much.”
For a few moments, they basked in each other’s warmth. The grandfather clock in the living room struck the quarter hour.
Lexie reluctantly stepped back.
“I guess we’d better head to the funeral,” she said. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves by arriving late.”
Half an hour later, they pulled into the crowded parking lot, then joined a cue of people entering the funeral home. Lexie recognized a few people from the Golden Stars.
