Another One Bites the Crust Page 10

  I watched as she expertly weaved past the line of customers waiting for one of Andy’s vanilla rose lattes and slid the newly stocked trays into the pastry case. A woman stopped her, I assumed to ask whether Mom had any insider information. They chatted while Mom packaged up a box of muffins to go.

  I was about to start on the afternoon cake orders when a loud thud sounded on the back kitchen window. We all jumped. Stephanie dropped a tray of cupcakes, sending pastel buttercream sailing in every direction. Sterling grabbed a towel and raced to help her wipe down the countertop and cabinets. I looked up to see Lance standing outside. He wore a black baseball hat and a baggy gray sweatshirt at least three sizes too big for him. It might have been snug on Richard Lord, but on Lance’s wiry frame it looked like he was swimming in cotton. His pants—sweatpants—were equally giant. Sweatpants? Was Lance wearing sweatpants? No way.

  He rapped on the window and pointed to the front door. “Get out here!” he mouthed.

  Chapter Eleven

  “You got this?” I asked Sterling, who licked pale yellow buttercream from his finger.

  Lance paced outside of the bakeshop. Was he afraid to come in? Lance was never afraid. I pushed the door and held it open.

  “You have to come out here.” He yanked at a black OSF baseball hat to shield his forehead. “I can’t be seen. Not like this.”

  “Fine. Hang on.” I closed the door, walked over to the office and took off my apron. On my way out the door I mouthed that I would be right back to Mom and motioned to Lance. She gave me a thumbs-up and blew me a kiss.

  Lance was leaning against a tree with his face focused on the sidewalk when I stepped outside. “It took you long enough,” he hissed.

  “What? Two minutes? I literally took my apron off and came right outside.” My heart rate rose.

  “Are you intentionally trying to mortify me?”

  “Why would I do that?” I stepped closer. He looked up at me and I almost tripped on a crack in the sidewalk at the sight of his bloodred eyes. He must not have slept at all. “Or is there a reason I would be angry with you?” I gave him a knowing look.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” His glassy eyes had a faraway look.

  “Look, Lance, I want you to be honest with me.” I firmed my lips and swallowed hard. “Was last night a hoax?”

  He threw his shoulders back. “A hoax? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m serious. If this is an act, then our friendship is over.”

  He threw his arm up in the air, causing the saggy sweatshirt to flap like a kite. “You think I’m faking this? Look at me. I’m hideous, Juliet. Hideous. I’m wearing sweatpants. My God, sweatpants.” Spit flew from his mouth as he spoke. “I found Antony at the bottom of the Shakespeare stairs last night. He is dead. I don’t know what happened to the body, but I promise you I had nothing to do with it, and you can’t desert me. You’re my only friend.”

  “Take it easy.” I kept my tone calm. It might have been a lapse in judgment, but I believed him. “Do you want to go talk somewhere more private?” I glanced around the plaza. The oil protesters from yesterday were starting to gather in front of the Lithia bubblers. Richard Lord, wearing an obnoxious orange and brown plaid golf outfit, complete with a matching hat, stood on the front porch of the Merry Windsor. His beady eyes were lasered on Torte. There was no place private. “Maybe the park.”

  He reeled backward and conked his head on the tree. “The park! We can’t go to the park. It’s swarming with police. One sight of me and they’ll probably cuff me on the spot.”

  “Lance, they aren’t going to arrest you.” I tried to reason with him. “They haven’t even found a body.”

  “I know. You think I don’t know that, Juliet? They think I’m crazy. They think that I’ve made this entire thing up. That I’m a complete narcissist. That’s what my entire career has come to? The awards, the accolades, building star after star, putting Ashland on the map, and the thanks I get in return is that I’ve staged an elaborate hoax because I’m desperate for attention.” With each word his voice became higher and higher.

  I tried to interject, but he barely paused for a breath.

  “This is the end of my career, Juliet. I’m finished. Finished. No one will hire me. I might as well crawl into your kitchen and gorge myself on pastries because I’m done.”

  “Lance.” I grabbed both of his hands and tried to get him to focus on me. “Stop.”

  He stared back with wild eyes.

  “Listen,” I said softly. “It’s going to be okay, but you have to calm down. We’re not going to be able to accomplish anything if you’re freaking out.”

  “We?” Lance dropped my grasp and threw one of his hands over his mouth in relief. “Oh, thank God. You believe me?”

  “I think I believe you, but don’t make me regret trusting you.”

  He placed one hand on his heart and the other in the air. “I swear on Shakespeare that I’m telling the absolute truth. Please help me. I’m begging. I’ll get down on my knees if I have to. It can’t be worse than wearing sweatpants.”

  “You don’t need to beg. I told you I would help you last night, remember?”

  “You did? I don’t remember most of last night. It’s all kind of a blur. It feels like I’m living the pages of one of Shakespeare’s great tragedies. King Lear, Hamlet, Macbeth, Julius Caesar. Name one. It’s me. I’m a walking catastrophe.”

  I glanced at a group of tourists, wearing matching OSF gear, who piled out of a minivan and immediately began snapping pictures of the plaza. For once Lance didn’t have to worry about being recognized. There was no chance of mistaking the sloppy, frantic man standing next to me for OSF’s artistic director. A far cry from years past when he would hold court in the center of the plaza greeting theater lovers and pausing to take photos with them.

  “Do you want to come inside?” I asked.

  Lance shook his head. “No. I’m not ready to face my public, but swear—swear on your life—that you’ll help me.”

  If I wasn’t mistaken I was pretty sure that Lance’s eyes were filling with tears. “Juliet, I am not having a meltdown. I assure you that I am saner than I’ve ever been. Someone is setting me up. I saw Antony last night. Where else would I have gotten a bloody dagger?”

  I didn’t mention the fact that the props department at OSF had dozens of fake swords and daggers on hand.

  “You have to find that missing DVD. There must be something incriminating on it. And talk to that puppy dog of a police officer and the Professor. They’ll listen to you.”

  “Okay. I promise.” I held up my pinkie. “Pinkie swear.”

  Lance’s shoulders sagged and he let out a halfhearted chuckle. “Pinkie swear.” He wrapped his pinkie around mine.

  “Before I go, let me get you some soup or a muffin or something.”

  “I don’t think I can eat.”

  “You should try. Hang on, I’ll be right back.” I left him slouched against the tree and hurried inside to package up a box of comfort food. Mom caught my eye when I made it to the kitchen and began piling a to-go box with Lance’s favorite baked goods.

  “How is he?” she asked.

  “Not good.” I turned to Sterling, who was frying tortillas at the stove. “Is the soup ready?”

  “It should be.” He took the pan off the stove and checked the soup pot. “It smells good. I added the beans about thirty minutes ago.”

  “Great. Will you ladle some into a container for Lance?”

  He reached for a container without speaking. I packaged a box of macarons and returned to Lance with a huge bag of soup and goodies. “Doctor’s orders, head home and make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ll go talk to the Professor or Thomas. You eat up and stay put. Got it?”

  Lance took the bag from my hands. This time there was no mistaking the water dripping from his eyes. “Juliet, you are truly the best friend I’ve ever had.” His sincerity struck a chord. I hugged him tight and sent him
on his way.

  Once he was out of sight, I decided there was no time like the present and started toward Lithia Park. As Lance had mentioned, the park was swarming with police activity. Police cars and an unmarked black van blocked the end of the street and sidewalk. They must have called in reinforcements from Medford. A perimeter of police tape extended from the bottom of the Shakespeare stairs around the park’s entrance and all the way to the parking area on the other side of Lithia Creek. A large pop-up tent had been set up in the grass. I assumed it must be temporary headquarters for the search since two officers with dogs checked in with a uniformed officer holding a clipboard.

  I wasn’t sure how to get in. There was no sign of Thomas or the Professor near the front, so I continued around the corner. They must have been taking Lance seriously because otherwise why would dozens of officers be searching the park? I wondered if they had found any evidence or a clue to what happened to Antony’s body.

  The other side of the park was usually packed with families playing on the climbing wall or Southern Oregon University students out for a day hike. Today, it looked like a scene from a police procedural. Crime tape stretched from the bridge across the street to the ice skating rink. My heart rate picked up. I had a feeling they must have found something.

  “Jules!” Thomas called. He was standing near the duck pond wearing his standard blue uniform with his iPad in his hand.

  I waved and pointed to the tape.

  He nodded, which I took as a sign that he had given me his permission to cross the barricade.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, meeting me halfway with his long stride.

  “Not great. I just saw Lance.” Big leaf maple trees drank in the sun. The grass was a lush pastoral shade of green, probably from the deluge of rain we had received this winter. Two ducks floated on the pond’s surface. The pond was framed in with huge boulders, a few wooden benches, and metal railing that had been painted brown to blend in with the natural landscape. A pressed pebble path connected the pond with a large grassy area on one side and the children’s playground on the other.

  Thomas checked around us to make sure that none of his colleagues were nearby. “How is he?”

  “Pretty freaked out. I’ve never seen him like this, Thomas.” I noticed small yellow markers in a zigzagging line near the duck pond. “How’s the investigation coming?” Behind the pond was a gated stairway that led up to the Elizabethan Theater. It was surrounded by dense shrubbery and thick trees. A black sign on the gate warned that access was only granted to authorized personnel. The concrete steps were cracked and hidden under thick moss. It didn’t look like anyone had recently used the secret stairwell, but my thoughts went immediately to Lance. He must have a key to the gate.

  “Well, we can’t find a body, but we can’t find Antony, either. We sent a team to his apartment, we’ve searched the entire OSF complex, and as you can see now we’re sweeping the park.”

  “What are those?” I pointed to the yellow markers.

  Thomas hesitated for a moment. “The Professor noticed what he thinks could be drag marks in the dirt and grass.”

  “So Lance isn’t crazy?” I could hear the relief in my voice.

  “It’s too soon to know. Until we have a physical body every assumption is fair game. The marks could be from kids scootering through the grass, or someone dragging a portable chair behind them.”

  “What are the odds of a kid scootering around the pond last night?” I couldn’t stop staring at the gate. Could Antony’s killer have escaped back up to the theater complex that way?

  Thomas ran his fingers through his hair. “Jules, cut me some slack. You know how it goes. Until we find a body we can’t close any potential door.” He followed my gaze. “What are you looking at?”

  “Those stairs. Who has access to them?”

  “I don’t know. OSF staff, probably.”

  “Did you check the lock?”

  Thomas raised his brows. “Seriously?”

  “Just checking.” I gave him a sheepish smile.

  He tapped his iPad. “I do have one piece of news that I can share.”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound excited. You’re not going to like it.”

  I stared at him, trying to read his blue eyes. “What?”

  “The Professor is officially off the case.”

  “No.” I must have spoken too loudly because two ducks paddled off to the opposite side of the pond.

  A team with search dogs came toward us. Thomas spoke quickly. “He doesn’t want to do anything to jeopardize the investigation, but don’t worry. He’s doing his own underground work and I’m still on the case. We’re getting ready to start searching the ponds and surrounding grounds. The water has been running so high this winter that they’re trying to determine what equipment to use.”

  I looked at the duck pond. It had always been one of my favorite spots in the park with its wooden archways and bridges and peekaboo view of the Elizabethan stage above. Could Antony’s body be submerged beneath its waveless surface?

  The search team came closer. Thomas wrapped his arm around my shoulder and guided me to the barricade. “You probably shouldn’t be here, Jules.”

  One of the dogs yelped and lunged toward the duck pond. His handler tugged on the leash and sounded a command.

  “I better go. I’ll check in later.” Thomas turned toward the commotion. Both dogs had been released from their leashes and bolted for the duck pond.

  My stomach rumbled with butterflies—the sick kind—as I watched the dogs circle the pond and bark. Was this the proof the police were waiting for? I didn’t want to wait around to watch.

  I headed back the way I came toward the intersection of Main and Main. Brock, Antony’s roommate, was loitering about ten feet away from the roped-off area near the Shakespeare stairs. A police officer on the other side of the caution tape pushed him back. “You need to clear the area, son.”

  Brock kept his gaze focused on the Shakespeare steps and backed straight into me. “Sorry.” He flinched and turned around. “I didn’t see you there.”

  “No problem.” I rubbed my shoulder.

  He looked completely different from last night in his OSF warm-up jacket and running tights versus his toga. “Hey, didn’t I see you at the party last night?”

  “Yep. I’m Jules. We did the dessert buffet.” I offered him my hand.

  “Oh yeah? Those apple tarts were pretty good. Right up there with my grandma’s.”

  “That’s high praise.” I chuckled. “Stop by Torte anytime. They’re on our menu for the spring season.”

  “Cool.” Brock tugged on the strings of his OSF warm-up jacket. “Do you know what’s going on around here? The police are swarming everywhere. They’re all over my apartment.”

  “Really?” The sun highlighted the tops of the trees and danced merrily off the yellow caution tape.

  “I guess Antony must have had a rough night because he never made it home.” His feet were clad in work boots. “That, or he shacked up with one of the actresses.”

  Had he not heard about Antony?

  “The problem is the police won’t let me in my own place.” He kicked a pinecone on the sidewalk.

  “Didn’t you hear?”

  Shifting his feet from side to side he batted the pinecone like a soccer ball. “Hear what?”

  “About Antony,” I said, pointing to the park. “He’s missing. That’s why the police have the park roped off.” I didn’t mention anything about Lance or that Antony might have come to harm in hopes that I might gauge Brock’s reaction to the news.

  “What?” The hint of color on Brock’s pale face faded. “I thought he was sloshed last night or something. No one said anything to me about him being missing.” He twisted one of the strings from his jacket around his finger and stared at the park for a minute. Then he shrugged. “He’s probably passed out somewhere, knowing Antony.”

  “Did you see him after the party la
st night? I remember you jumped in when he and Lance got into it, but did you see him after that?”

  Brock chomped on his fingernail. “Nope. Lance asked me to get him out of there. He didn’t want Antony making more of a scene than he already had. Antony likes to drink. He also likes to get in people’s faces. It’s his thing. He claims that it’s because he’s a method actor. When he lands a role he never breaks character. In the play Antony is a drinker, courageous on the battlefield, that sort of thing.”

  “But isn’t Antony supposed to be heroic? He’s not a villain.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not a Shakespeare guy. I just help on the sets. But I heard Tracy get pretty pissed about Antony ruining the role. She said he’s missing the point. Antony and Cleopatra is a love story—a tragedy, I guess. They fight all the time. Although I can’t blame her. It’s stupid that we have to call him Antony. That’s not even his name.” He kicked the pinecone again and sent it shooting into the grass. “Whatever. You just have to ignore him. He tries to get under your skin. He likes to rile people up and get a reaction. He’s been doing it for years. You can’t sweat it.”

  He had succeeded doing that with Lance, I thought. “What is his real name?”

  “No idea.” He shrugged. “I offered to take Antony home, but as we were about to leave we ran into one of the volunteers and she told me that she would give him a ride home. She said his place was on the way.”

  “Do you know her name?” I asked.

  Brock moved to chewing his thumbnail instead of his index finger. “No. I’m new here. I think she’s been around forever. She knows everyone. Kind of plump. Older. Antony was happy to leave with her and to be honest I was glad that I didn’t have to deal with him.”

  Was the volunteer Judy, who had been flirting with Antony last night?

  “I should go.” With that he took off across the street and past the Merry Windsor. I watched him before continuing to the bakeshop. He had sounded sincere in his surprise that Antony was missing, but then again, I had just met him. He could be lying. The idea of a stagehand killing off the star was so cliché but I couldn’t help wondering about Brock’s attitude. He hadn’t seemed overly concerned that Antony was missing. I wasn’t sure if that meant he could be involved in whatever had happened to Antony, but I did know that I was going to try to learn more about him. I had made a promise to Lance that I intended to keep.