Page 8 of A Midsummer Night’s Ghost (Murder By Design #8)

EIGHT

“Mary doesn’t even know her lines,” Grandma sniffed, as we entered the auditorium.

Her friend was on stage opposite Clifford Jackson, who was waving his hands dramatically and holding a knife.

“Thisbe!”

His voice was as shaky as his stance. I was a little concerned he was going to drop that knife on his foot.

“I think she’s supposed to be dead in this scene,” I said as I walked with Grandma to the front of the room.

She was completely capable of the hike solo, but I was a hoverer. I couldn’t help myself. I lived in fear of her getting a broken hip.

“She's half-dead anyway,” Grandma said unkindly.

I shot her a look of censure. “That’s harsh.” Though not inaccurate. Mary was slumped over in a chair.

“She’s the one who does her makeup like a funeral home director had his way with her corpse.”

I didn’t know what was going on with Grandma lately, but she was in her feisty phase. It concerned me a little. Wasn’t that a sign of dementia? I made a mental note to do some online research on increased crankiness in seniors.

Glancing behind me repeatedly, I kept expecting James Kwaitkowski to pop up and start shouting, “Demon!” but Ryan wasn’t with me so maybe I would be spared.

Once I had waved to Sara Murphy, who wasn’t particularly chipper today, and deposited Grandma in the front row of the auditorium seating next to her friend, Anne, I went back into the entrance of the senior center.

Given my lack of fashion lately, I had dressed with extra care that morning, leaning into the librarian academic trend. I had on a long plaid skirt, a blouse with a bow, and very smart and modestly sexy Mary Jane platform heels. It was an adorable look, let’s be honest, but the shoes were loud. The click-click of my heels was echoing down the institutional-type hallway to the janitor’s closet. It took me opening three random doors before I found one that was locked, which seemed like a good bet.

I pulled a pin out of my hair and did fast work with the lock. Over the past few months, I’d become something of an expert on picking locks after a hairy incident where I’d been trapped in a hoarder’s dining room and maybe gone a place or two I shouldn’t have on other occasions. Legally speaking.

I didn’t think this would be illegal. No one could say with any certainty that the door had been locked and it was a public place. I could argue I’d thought it was the restroom or the classroom where they taught GED classes to adults a couple of nights a week. I wasn’t really worried about being caught by an instructor, a senior, or the janitorial replacement.

My biggest fear was that somehow Jake had sniffed out that my curiosity was in overdrive after the autopsy report and would magically know I was snooping around and he’d pop up from behind a broom.

I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told him my concerns about James’s death given that he had offered to give me the report and done so quickly, but it was probably because he was solidly in the let-the-police-handle-it camp and I was on the side of nobody-has-time-for that.

I’d done some quick research of antifreeze—let’s hope no one ever looked at my browser history—and it said it could taste sweet, though manufacturers sometimes added chemicals to it to make it taste less desirable, presumably to prevent children from accidentally drinking it.

But mixed with something? It seemed possible that you could ingest a fatal amount if it was in something that would mask any bitterness.

Slipping inside the janitor’s closet, I closed the door but not fully, because if it locked from the inside, I didn’t trust myself not to panic.

It only took me three minutes of running my eyes over the shelves to discover a styrofoam cup resting on a higher shelf, with a straw stuck in it. I undid the bow on my blouse and used the long loose ends to reach up and pull down the cup to take a look at it. I sniffed above the straw. Definitely something sweet.

The liquid dried on the straw was sticky and blue. I rattled the cup. Just liquid. But I suspected given the gas station name on the cup it was originally a slushie that had melted.

It would be an easy way to hide antifreeze in a sugary blue icy drink.

Setting it back, I took a picture of it with my phone and wrinkled my nose. It wasn’t like I could go to the gas station and demand to see video footage of the day James died.

It was a conundrum.

Opening the door and stepping back out into the hallway, I came face to face with James. Only he walked right through me into the closet, muttering to himself.

A shiver rolled over me and I shook like a wet dog.

There was no getting used to that. Ever.

But as I tossed my hair back and tied my bow there was a loud scream from the auditorium, followed by the screech of chairs shifting.

“Call 911! Someone call 911!”

I immediately started running, swiping on my phone to wake it up. I tried to do facial recognition but because I was jogging in heels I was bouncing around too much and it couldn’t recognize my face.

“Dang it!” I almost paused to unlock my phone but then I realized I wouldn’t know what to tell them on the call anyway, so I needed to see what was going on.

There was mass chaos in front of the stage. The screaming was coming from Sara Murphy who was holding the prop knife in her hand and jumping up and down with ear-splitting shrieks. Prop blood was flying off the knife in her hand.

I slowed down, thinking this was part of the production.

But then I realized everyone else was waving their hands, talking loudly, shuffling walkers to get closer to the front.

Anne was on her phone, barking orders to the dispatcher. “I don’t know what happened but there is a man down. I repeat, man down! Send an ambulance now, young lady.”

I half-expected her to add a “do you know who I am?” to the end of that.

“What’s going on?” I asked Grandma, who was just sitting in her seat like there wasn’t a full-blown ruckus occurring all around her.

“Sara Murphy stabbed Clifford.”

“ What ?” My head whipped around and sure enough, Clifford was face down on the floor, blood trickling out from under his chest.

“It’s a prop knife!” Sara screamed, still hopping from one foot to the other. “It’s not supposed to penetrate skin! Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”

“Zip it, girl,” Anne ordered, taking her phone away from her mouth to yell at Sara.

There were several elderly play participants attempting to kneel beside Clifford to render aid, but replacement knees and poor flexibility were deterrents. I flew to Clifford’s side, squatted down, and shook him gently.

“Clifford, can you hear me?”

He gave a low moan.

Relieved he was still alive, I added my own, “Oh my God” to the melee.

“Someone help Mary!” a shaky voice yelled out.

I was surprised I heard it over Sara’s incessant screaming.

As I attempted to roll Clifford over, I glanced back toward the stage and saw that Mary had slid off of her chair and was in a puddle on the floor. I couldn’t tell if she was in shock or having a medical emergency. Clifford was her long-time boyfriend so I imagine seeing him stabbed was quite a shock.

“Is the ambulance coming?” I asked Anne.

She gave me a thumbs-up.

Sweating from the effort of trying to tip Clifford, I blew my hair out of my eyes and shouted to Sara, “Shut up and check on Mary!”

Her mouth clapped shut. She stared at me, glassy-eyed. “What?” she asked.

Miraculously, now her voice was a mere whisper. Her cheeks were devoid of all color and she swayed a little, staring down at the knife in her hand.

“There’s blood on my hand,” she managed, right before her eyes rolled back in her head and she fell to the gym floor.

That was helpful. Not.

Understandable, but still not helpful.

I finally got Clifford rolled onto his back and I saw there was a puncture wound in his right flank, blood spreading across his denim button-up shirt. I yanked his shirttail out of his pants and pressed a wad of fabric onto the wound.

“You’re going to be okay, Clifford,” I assured him.

He nodded. “I’ve had worse days,” he said, his voice gravelly.

“I’d hate to see that day.” I glanced toward the door, willing the EMTs to appear as I pressed with all my strength.

“Korea. Two years. Took shrapnel to the privates.”

Oh, Lord. “That is a bad day.”

“Tell Mary not to worry,” he said. “Can’t kill this old bird.”

I nodded so hard my teeth almost rattled. A glance over showed that Mary looked like she was still unconscious.

Sara had come around and was groaning on the floor, Anne waving a knit hat over her face.

Another woman was holding Mary’s hand and praying over her.

Fortunately, the doors slammed open and the cavalry arrived in the form of two young and buff paramedics. For a second, it seemed like they were in slow motion, hair flowing, bags swinging. If a soundtrack started pumping out a party anthem, I wouldn’t have been surprised.

I frantically waved my arms toward them. “Over here!”

“Help has arrived,” I told Clifford.

I wanted to call Jake and tell him we needed the cops too but I didn’t dare release the pressure on Clifford’s wound. Besides, he had just looked over and realized that Mary wasn’t moving.

“Tell them to see what’s wrong with Mary first,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“I don’t think you’re fine. But there are two of them so they can divide and conquer.”

He coughed and waved that off. “Mary first.”

The praying had grown softer from the woman beside Mary.

I suddenly had a very bad feeling.

It seemed to roll over me like a dark shudder, rushing down my spine and oozing around to settle into my gut. I was scared to look over there and instead focused on Clifford’s side. The bleeding had saturated the tail of his shirt but it seemed like it had slowed significantly.

A paramedic dropped to his knees beside me. “What happened?”

“I got stabbed,” Clifford said baldly. “It was an accident. It was supposed to be a prop knife but it sank right in like my gut was butter. How’s my girl?”

The paramedic didn’t respond and instead told me, “You can release that.”

Thank God.

I let go and watched him take over, his gloved hand removing the shirt from the wound.

Clifford was straining to see Mary.

I took up with a rush of lightheadedness, hands trembling. There was blood all over them. Sara was leaning against a chair, still moaning.

“I’m going to throw up,” she said. “I need a bucket.”

“You need a smack upside the head,” Anne told her, plopping down in the chair next to Grandma with a heavy sigh. She picked up her purse and started digging into it.

I was too afraid to glance over at Mary so I sat down on Grandma’s other side. “Do you have a wet wipe?” I asked her.

She also started digging in her purse.

Anne produced a stick of gum and handed it to Sara. “Chew this. You need a jolt of sugar.”

Grandma yanked a packet of wipes out of her purse and ripped one out for me. My stomach was in my throat as I wiped my hands clean.

“I think Mary’s dead,” Anne murmured. “She looks gray.” She gave herself the sign of the cross.

Grandma did the same.

Biting my lip, I steeled my nerves and looked over at Mary. The EMT was giving her chest compressions but it didn’t look good.

That was confirmed when I realized that Mary’s ghost was standing next to her body, looking very confused. Rightly so.

I stood up and walked as close as I could without interfering, still wiping my hands. “Mary?” I said softly, staring down at the floor so no one would question what I was doing.

Her ghost turned sharply in my direction. “Bailey? What’s going on?”

I took a deep breath. “Just close your eyes and go to the light, Mary.” I wasn’t sure if that’s how it worked but I couldn’t stand the idea of her being stuck as a ghost when it was clearly an accident. A heart attack or stroke. I wanted her to find peace.

When I looked up, her ghost was gone.

Relieved, I saw that Clifford was being lifted onto a gurney and he was protesting loudly that he wanted to see Mary.

I felt horrible for him.

“What happened?” I asked Sara, who had managed to drag herself onto a chair.

“I have no idea. I was showing Clifford how I wanted him to really put some oomph into stabbing himself and the knife actually went in.” She clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God.”

She turned and promptly threw up all over the floor.

“It’s a shame the janitor died,” Anne said, prosaically. “This place is a mess.”

I guess when you’re in your eighties, you get really damn practical.

“Do you think this will delay Opening Night?” Grandma asked her.

With that, I decided to stand up and go scrub the hell out of my hands, even though the wipe had gotten most of the blood off.

I kind of wanted to scrub this whole day off.