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Authors: Mary Daheim
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Nat, Destiny, Fuzzy, and Jim. Rita was slumped in one of the café chairs, sobbing hysterically while Reverend Poole tried to console her. As Milo and Dustin moved into the circle, the sheriff motioned for Vida and me to stay back. Vida didn’t look as if she was willing to cooperate, but I grabbed her coat sleeve.
“Just wait. I have an awful feeling about this,” I murmured.
Milo also asked the others to move away from the center of the stage. Through the curtains I could hear the audience’s voices rise to a crescendo. Visions of Alpine theatergoers storming the stage like French peasants attacking the Bastille flitted through my mind’s eye.
But reality came crashing down like a sandbag let loose from the flies. Peering around Vida, who was now holding Roger in a fierce embrace, I saw Hans Berenger still lying on the stage. A small pool of blood oozed over the boards. Hans hadn’t moved an inch since Nat had fired his gun.
“Damn!” I said under my breath, and crossed myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a body. But this time I steeled myself and put distance between Hans’s inert form and my emotions. I’d sworn that after having Tom die in my arms there was almost nothing that could ever wound me again.
“Okay.” Milo rose from his kneeling position. “You’re right,” he said to Dustin. “Berenger’s dead.”
The confirmation of what the others must have already suspected elicited more sobs and groans. The sheriff and his deputy conferred in voices so low that only the deceased could have heard them.
“Listen up,” Milo said after he and Dustin apparently had plotted their next moves. “An ambulance is on the way, along with a couple of our other deputies. Dr. Sung should be here any minute.”
“Where’s Doc Dewey?” Fuzzy asked with no sign of his southern drawl.
Milo shrugged. “Out of town, I guess. Ms. Parsons told Dustin that Doc and his wife are—were—coming to the final performance.” He glanced down at the body. “It looks like Doc will miss it.”
“Ohmigod!” Destiny shrieked. “How could this happen to me?”
Rita’s head jerked up, her face a blotchy tearstained mass. “You callous bitch!
How could this happen to Hans?
”
Another voice was heard from: “How could this happen in my theater?” Thyra Rasmussen was moving slowly toward the stage. “Don’t tell me those bullets were real?”
Destiny whirled around, green eyes snapping with fury. “They weren’t, you meddling old bat! Do you think I’m crazy?”
Thyra didn’t give an inch. “I think you’re careless. And stupid. I’m sorry I ever permitted you to use my facility.”
It was hard to know who to root for. But Milo intervened.
“Come on, let’s calm down. I want this stage cleared as of now. The immediate backstage area, too. This is all a crime scene.” He looked at Spence, who was holding on to Dodo and scratching the dog behind the ears. “Hey, Fleetwood, go out into the auditorium and ask everybody to leave their names and phone numbers. Then they can go home. I’ll have Sam Heppner help you with the list when he gets here.”
Spence handed the dog over to his owner. Dodo seemed like the only cast or crew member who was unaffected by the tragedy. When Jim took the dog, his hands were trembling; Spence looked pale, despite what I’d always guessed was an artificial tan.
Four feet away from where I stood, Milo was speaking with Thyra. “You should go home, too, Mrs. Rasmussen. We could be in for a long night.”
“Nonsense!” Thyra snapped. “This is my theater and I’m not leaving. Harold and Gladys can wait outside or wherever they want, but I intend to remain here with the rest of this sorry little bunch.”
The sheriff didn’t argue. “Okay, let’s have you all move . . .” He glanced around, then pointed to Destiny. “Where’s a good place?”
Destiny looked blank before finally gesturing in the direction of heavy double doors behind the stage. “The
“Just wait. I have an awful feeling about this,” I murmured.
Milo also asked the others to move away from the center of the stage. Through the curtains I could hear the audience’s voices rise to a crescendo. Visions of Alpine theatergoers storming the stage like French peasants attacking the Bastille flitted through my mind’s eye.
But reality came crashing down like a sandbag let loose from the flies. Peering around Vida, who was now holding Roger in a fierce embrace, I saw Hans Berenger still lying on the stage. A small pool of blood oozed over the boards. Hans hadn’t moved an inch since Nat had fired his gun.
“Damn!” I said under my breath, and crossed myself. It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a body. But this time I steeled myself and put distance between Hans’s inert form and my emotions. I’d sworn that after having Tom die in my arms there was almost nothing that could ever wound me again.
“Okay.” Milo rose from his kneeling position. “You’re right,” he said to Dustin. “Berenger’s dead.”
The confirmation of what the others must have already suspected elicited more sobs and groans. The sheriff and his deputy conferred in voices so low that only the deceased could have heard them.
“Listen up,” Milo said after he and Dustin apparently had plotted their next moves. “An ambulance is on the way, along with a couple of our other deputies. Dr. Sung should be here any minute.”
“Where’s Doc Dewey?” Fuzzy asked with no sign of his southern drawl.
Milo shrugged. “Out of town, I guess. Ms. Parsons told Dustin that Doc and his wife are—were—coming to the final performance.” He glanced down at the body. “It looks like Doc will miss it.”
“Ohmigod!” Destiny shrieked. “How could this happen to me?”
Rita’s head jerked up, her face a blotchy tearstained mass. “You callous bitch!
How could this happen to Hans?
”
Another voice was heard from: “How could this happen in my theater?” Thyra Rasmussen was moving slowly toward the stage. “Don’t tell me those bullets were real?”
Destiny whirled around, green eyes snapping with fury. “They weren’t, you meddling old bat! Do you think I’m crazy?”
Thyra didn’t give an inch. “I think you’re careless. And stupid. I’m sorry I ever permitted you to use my facility.”
It was hard to know who to root for. But Milo intervened.
“Come on, let’s calm down. I want this stage cleared as of now. The immediate backstage area, too. This is all a crime scene.” He looked at Spence, who was holding on to Dodo and scratching the dog behind the ears. “Hey, Fleetwood, go out into the auditorium and ask everybody to leave their names and phone numbers. Then they can go home. I’ll have Sam Heppner help you with the list when he gets here.”
Spence handed the dog over to his owner. Dodo seemed like the only cast or crew member who was unaffected by the tragedy. When Jim took the dog, his hands were trembling; Spence looked pale, despite what I’d always guessed was an artificial tan.
Four feet away from where I stood, Milo was speaking with Thyra. “You should go home, too, Mrs. Rasmussen. We could be in for a long night.”
“Nonsense!” Thyra snapped. “This is my theater and I’m not leaving. Harold and Gladys can wait outside or wherever they want, but I intend to remain here with the rest of this sorry little bunch.”
The sheriff didn’t argue. “Okay, let’s have you all move . . .” He glanced around, then pointed to Destiny. “Where’s a good place?”
Destiny looked blank before finally gesturing in the direction of heavy double doors behind the stage. “The
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