Page 25 of Script Swap (The Last Picks #11)

Maybe not. But I couldn’t quite bring myself to point out that there were, apparently, a lot of people owed money by The Foxworthy. And there were the people on the board of directors. There were people who had money tied up in the theater. And money made people do crazy things.

“I can’t help thinking it has something to do with Kyson’s death,” I said. “It seems like too much of a coincidence: Kyson is murdered, and he has those photos of your father—”

“Those photos don’t mean anything,” Fox said. “They’re photos. Who knows why Kyson had them? Maybe he took them by accident; you know how that can happen when people press the wrong button on their phone.”

Again, I kept my mouth shut. Older people, maybe. But not someone Kyson’s age, who had practically grown up with a phone in their hand.

Instead, I said, “I just have a hard time thinking it’s not all tied together.

And it all started when Kyson said, ‘I know what you did.’ Someone swapped his script.

And Kyson figured it out. I’m starting to think your father had an idea who it was.

Or the killer, whoever they were, was afraid he’d figure it out. ”

“There you go,” Fox said, waving a hand. “The photos mean nothing.”

That seemed like a large—and counterintuitive—leap, but all I said was “Do you mind if I look around?”

Fox made a noise that probably qualified as assent as they took out their phone and dropped into a chair.

I did a quick check of the desk first: it was a sleek, modern piece of glass and chrome. The desktop was clear, and it had only two drawers. The top one held an organizer tray with paperclips, rubber bands, pens and pencils, sticky notes, even a pad of stationery that said TF at the top.

There was also an envelope full of cash—and I mean full , like, the flap wouldn’t close.

“Fox,” I said.

Their head came up, and I beckoned them around the desk.

When Fox saw the envelope, they said some words that you can’t say on Sesame Street .

“Does your dad usually keep cash on hand?”

“An envelope full of it, you mean?” Fox asked. “Like the payoff from a drug deal? No, Dash, he doesn’t.”

I let the comment slide. It was a lot of money—most of the bills, from what I could see, were fifties and hundreds. But it wasn’t a lot of money, if you know what I mean. This wasn’t enough cash to explain the second mortgage.

“God bless me,” Fox said (not exactly their words, but you get the idea). “What was that man doing?”

Drugs did come to mind. That was one explanation for why Terrence might need that much cash.

An equally possible answer, though, was taxes.

If The Foxworthy was in trouble, then maybe Terrence was trying to do as much business in cash as possible.

He might be paying the actors in cash. He might be buying equipment or supplies in cash—if nothing else, because vendors might not sell to him on credit anymore.

There were other, less savory possibilities that I wasn’t ready to consider.

“Do you want to take it?” I asked. “It’s not secure.”

Fox stared at the cash. Finally, in a dispirited voice, they said, “Let me think about it.”

I slid the drawer shut and opened the lower drawer.

This one was larger, and it was designed for hanging folders.

It was currently full to capacity—and maybe beyond.

Many of the folders were marked with tabs that explained their purpose— Taxes 2019 or Utility Bills or Car .

Others were clearly connected to Terrence’s work at the theater, with labels like Set Ideas and Foxworthy Future Shows .

For all of Fox’s complaints about his father’s childlike behavior, there was no evidence of it here; if anything, Terrence seemed surprisingly—unexpectedly—organized.

Except for the folder that had been jammed in, seemingly at random.

It stuck out at an angle, and the topmost corner was bent where it had folded when someone shut the drawer. It looked like it had been stuffed back into the drawer either hastily or angrily—at odds with the rest of the neat organization. And, unlike the other folders, it wasn’t labeled.

“Do you have gloves?” I asked.

Fox considered me for a silent second. Then they retreated downstairs.

When they came back, they were holding a pair of elbow-length silk opera gloves.

“You’re joking,” I said.

“I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?”

My better idea was to start keeping my snooping supplies in Bobby’s Pilot, but I suspected I knew how Bobby might feel about that.

Also, I’d never worn opera gloves before.

(Were they called opera gloves? Did they have a real name?

Like Lady Stiletto gloves? I made that up, but it actually sounds like an awesome secret weapon a spy would have.

If the spy was an opera singer. Oh! Maybe she was an assassin!)

I managed to head that idea off at the pass, although it had been fun—for a moment—to feel that old, familiar surge of excitement at what might be a new story. I pulled on the gloves. (They were so soft—and is it weird that they fit perfectly ?) And then I took out the folder.

It held newspaper clippings. Not many of them—only a handful, and all of them old.

The largest bore the headline, BOX OFFICE ROBBERY—SUSPECT GONE WITH THE WIND.

Above the headline ran the banner of The Herald , Hastings Rock’s local (and nowadays, primarily for tourists) paper.

Below the headline, a black-and-white photo showed a room that was surprisingly familiar.

It took me a moment to recognize it as the back room of The Foxworthy’s box office.

It looked different, of course—nobody had hung a television yet, and it had hideous shag carpeting juxtaposed with pine paneling.

But the ceiling-mounted fan and the safe were the same.

A theft at The Foxworthy Theatre last night has the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office in hot pursuit of a local man.

Although the sheriff has refused to comment on an ongoing investigation, sources say that deputies are currently in hot pursuit of Raymond Hatch, originally from Arch Cape.

Mr. Hatch worked as an attendant at the box office until last night.

When the theft was discovered after the evening’s performance of A Flicker in the Dark , Mr. Hatch was nowhere to be found.

With Mr. Hatch presumably on the run, and deputies in hot pursuit —

The article cut off there, continued on A3. (Presumably, the reader would follow the story in hot pursuit , which must have been the reporter’s favorite phrase.)

“Good Lord,” Fox said. “This is from before I was born. And since Keme isn’t here, there’s no need for you to attempt a joke, Dash. Save yourself the embarrassment.”

“But I can tell Keme later, right?”

Fox motioned for me to move on to the next article, but before I did, I checked the date. The first article was from August 7, 1977—over forty years ago.

The next article was shorter and dated almost six months after the first one. I barely managed to suppress a groan at the title: HOT PURSUIT GROWS ICE COLD.

“Did they not have an editor?” I asked. “Didn’t anybody even look at this before it went to press?”

Fox shushed me, and I scanned the text.

After nearly half a year, the theft at The Foxworthy Theatre remains unsolved.

In a recent statement, the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office assured the citizens of Hastings Rock that the case is still open , but sources close to the investigation say that officials have reached a dead end.

Early information that Raymond Hatch, of Arch Cape, was involved in the theft prompted a search that has gone cold.

Mrs. Raymond Hatch has since moved away.

Friends of Mrs. Hatch suggest that she has gone to join her husband in Hollywood, where Mr. Hatch had spoken of moving shortly before the theft.

Asked about this potential lead, the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office declined to comment.

“What are we looking at here?” I asked. “A theft from forty years ago? I mean, I see the parallel—a box office robbery—”

Fox hissed, an impatient little noise, and I moved the paper aside so we could read the third clipping. This one was even shorter, only three lines in a narrow column, and the typeset was different from the other clippings.

Mr. and Mrs. Jones are delighted to announce the marriage of their daughter, Jonni Jones, to Mr. Raymond Hatch of Arch Cape.

“Wait a second,” I said. “Jonni? She was married to this guy, the one they think stole all the money?”

Even as I said it, the heat drained out of my body, leaving me cold and stiff.

Here were the facts: someone in the theater had a secret that they were willing to kill to keep from coming to light.

Someone had tried to kill Terrence to keep that secret from coming to light.

And here was this file in Terrence’s desk, linking Jonni to a theft from forty years ago.

Jonni had gotten her start here; that’s what someone had told me.

Before she went to Hollywood. Before she reinvented herself, before her acting career took off.

And the envelope of cash, my brain added. Blackmail?

But for what? For following her husband to California?

For stealing a few hundred dollars? That didn’t make any sense.

The scandal—if this could even count as a scandal—didn’t mean anything.

Jonni’s career was over; that was why she was back at The Foxworthy.

And the statute of limitations was certainly past—not to mention the fact that there was no way the sheriff would try for a prosecution for something from forty years ago, without any evidence.

The icy ache in my chest seemed to spread.

And it was like my brain was a projector reel, spinning out the events in a flickering sequence.

A husband who disappeared.

Missing money.

A woman who reinvented herself and went on to have a moderately successful career in the limelight.

The renovations at The Foxworthy.

“She tried to kill him,” Fox was saying, their voice high and compressed with outrage. “That’s what this means, isn’t it? She tried to kill my father.”

I nodded slowly. “And she killed Kyson. And I’m pretty sure she killed her husband.” I got back, the chair legs scraping the floor, and reached for my phone to call Bobby. “And I think I know how to prove it.”