The theater looked much the same as it had in my thoughts, except for the details.
The same crew was on stage, hammering and sawing away on a wooden cut-out of a pink Cadillac. The same group of actors were going over lines off to the left of the stage.
No one noticed me. No one cared. And why should they? They were all busy putting on a stage show about Elvis, and what could be cooler than that?
With murder cases, you always interviewed those closest to the victims, then worked your way out. I would let the police interview any family members, although precious few showed up in my preliminary research. Still, most people tended to open up to an official murder investigation. Not everyone opened up to private eyes.
Go figure.
So as I stood there and surveyed the darkened theater, watching workers carry props and pull cables, actors read and re-read lines, and various stage hands in group meetings, I realized why I was here. Why I had jumped the gun and come here on my own. Against Sherbet's wishes, no less.
He's here, I thought. The killer is here.
Before me, the stadium seating sloped downward. The Fullerton Playhouse wasn't huge. I would guess that it could seat maybe one thousand. The seating itself was arranged into four quadrants, with two aisles leading down and aisles on each side. I was standing on a platform near a metal railing. Wheelchair seating, if my guess was correct. Various lights were on throughout the theater, but certainly not all of them, as much of the seating was in shadows.
A quick count netted me twenty-four people. And one of them was the killer. I was sure of it.
How I knew this, I no longer questioned or doubted, and as I stood there scanning the theater, I felt that something was off. And I was pretty sure I knew why.
There was more than one killer.
It takes a certain kind of personality to be an actor, or even hang around the theater. You had to love masks, the ability to pretend to be something other than what you were. Which was a pretty useful trait for a killer, too.
As I stepped forward, a small man appeared out of the shadows to my left. Holding a clipboard and mumbling to himself, he nearly ran into me before looking up. He was exactly an inch taller than me.
I held out one of my business cards. "Hi. My name's Samantha Moon, and I'm looking into the murder of Brian Meeks."
He looked at the card and blinked twice. "Are you with the police?"
"I'm a private investigator." One of the stipulations with Sherbet was that I was never, ever, to state that I was working with the police. It was a gray area he wanted to avoid. My official employer was the City of Fullerton. In fact, my checks had been issued by the city clerk's office.
"Working for whom?"
"An interested party."
He finally took my card. "What are they interested in?"
"Finding the killer." I tried not to be sarcastic, because that never helps. What did he think, the cops wanted to know his favorite picks to win the Oscars? "Can I ask you a few questions about Brian Meeks?"
He looked at my card, looked at me, looked over at the stage. I sensed his hesitation, his pain, and finally his resolve. "Okay, but only for a few minutes. We're putting on a show in a few days. Opening night. Crazy as Lady Macbeth here."
"Gotcha. We'll hurry this along. Did Brian Meeks work here as an actor?"
"For a few years now."
"Did you know him personally?"
"Not necessarily personally, but professionally. Then again, in the world of theater, personal and professional lines tend to get blurred. We're all so close."
"I bet. Are you an actor?"
"Director only."
"Gotcha. Did you direct anything Brian was in?"
He nodded. "Our last show, Twelfth Night. Brian was supposed to be in this new show, but..."
"He's been missing."
The little director rubbed his face. "Right. Missing. Until we heard the news this morning that he was found dead. Murdered."
"Did Brian have many friends?"
"Funny you should ask...I was just trying to think who his close friends were. I was thinking of doing some sort of memorial for him. Something either before or after our opening show this weekend..."
"And?"
"And I couldn't think of anyone who had been close to him."
"Is that common for an actor?" I asked.
"Actually, no. We don't get many loners in this business. Extroverts, yes."
I skipped the questions of whether or not Brian had any enemies. Whoever had done this to him was doing the same thing to many people. I doubted a personal vendetta had anything to do with his death. I asked, "Had there been any other strange occurrences in this theater?"
"Strange, how?"
"Has anyone reported seeing anything...odd or unusual?"
"Not that I can think of. But a theater is a pretty odd place anyway."
"How long have you worked here?"
He looked again at the stage. I could see that a few people were waiting for him. "Five years. Worked my way up as a lighting guy out of college."
"Good for you. Who owns the theater?"
He pointed to a man sitting on a foldout chair on stage. The only man, apparently, not doing anything. "Robert Mason."
"The actor?"
"The one-time actor. His soap opera days are over. This is where he spends most of his time."
"May I have your name?" I asked.
"Tad Biggs."
I nodded and somehow kept a straight face. I said, "May I ask what's in your back room?"
"Back room?"
"Yes, the storage room at the far end of the hallway."
He blinked. Twice. No, three times. "How do you know about the storage room?"
"I'm a heck of an investigator."
"That room is strictly off limits."
"Why?"
This time he didn't blink. This time, he just stared at me. "Because Robert Mason says it is. Look, I gotta go. We have a show to put on. I hope you guys catch the sick son of a bitch who did this to Brian."
I nodded and watched him hurry off. Then I flicked my eyes over to where Robert Mason was sitting in the foldout chair on stage - and gasped when I saw him staring back at me.
He was still as handsome as ever. Older, granted, but one hell of a handsome man. He stared at me some more, then looked away.
I shivered, and exited stage left.