Something moved behind the closed stall, something alive. The stall door went down to the floor. Hell, it was probably just a plastered plasterer taking a … I looked for something to bash him with, but there wasn’t much in the way of choice. I picked up a piece of broken wood with a semi-serious jagged end. If I unleashed a vampire, maybe I could draw some blood. I took a breath, stepped in front of the door, and kicked it open. Something moved inside, a flicker. The door banged closed and slowly started to creak open again. A large, dark butterfly fluttered past me and drifted past the single open bulb.
I pulled myself together and went back out into the hallway. Vera was handing a glass of water to Lorna. Raymond was looking at me, one hand plunged deep in his pocket, the other holding an empty and not particularly clean-looking glass. Lundeen was seated next to Lorna.
“Nothing in there,” I said, “but a butterfly.”
“This is ridiculous,” Lundeen said, turning around. “Someone is trying to frighten us.
“Doing a good job, too, from the looks of all of you,” Raymond retorted. “Got you shadow-scared. I’ve been alone in this building every day for the past thirty-four years and never saw nor heard anything except Milo, the Furs, and the Ghost till you people came.”
“Milo and the Furs?” Lundeen asked.
“Ghost?” asked Vera.
“Snakes, rats,” Raymond explained. “Ghost been here since the place closed. Doesn’t bother anyone.”
“Who paid you all those years?” I asked.
“Providence,” said Raymond, winking at me and holding up the empty glass in a toast.
“Providence hell,” bellowed Lundeen. “I thought the real estate company paid you. But when I have the final inventory I’m sure it will confirm … You’ve sold off all the paintings, every piece of sculpture, every vase, every chair, every …”
“Plenty left,” Raymond said. “It was all ugly as a horse’s heinie anyway.”
“You are fired,” Lundeen cried.
“Ha,” said Raymond. “I repeat, ha. I could damn well say it all night and into next Tuesday. I don’t work for you. Kick me out and you won’t be able to find anything in this place. I’ve got the keys and the know-how.”
“Lundeen,” I said. “Raymond’s not the problem.”
“I’m getting out of here,” said Lorna, standing up.
“I’ll take you home, Lorna,” Vera said, giving me an apologetic smile.
I turned to the old caretaker. “Raymond, will you please escort the ladies to the front door.”
“Certainly.” Raymond handed Lundeen the empty glass and took Lorna’s arm. Miguelito let out a single yap in Raymond’s direction and then settled back in Lorna Bartholomew’s arms. “All you gotta do is ask polite.”
Lundeen sat deflated. I moved to the railing and watched Vera and Raymond help Lorna down.
“Erik,” Lundeen sighed. “I tell you, Peters, the world is populated by lunatics. This war breeds fanatics. You’d think people would have enough to worry about without fixing their delusions on an opera. Why isn’t he …”
“… or they,” I corrected.
“Or they,” he agreed, “in the army or navy, fighting the Japanese, if they are so … I’m sorry. How would you know?”
“Maybe I’ll find out,” I said. “Round up everyone you can find in the building and bring them back into the theater. Ask them where they’ve been for the past fifteen minutes. Ask them for the names of anyone who was with them or saw them during the last fifteen minutes.”
“You mean workmen? Contracting people? Pull them off work? Stop construction? Are you crazy?”
“Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. And I don’t know,” I answered.
Lundeen shook his head and smiled, the smile of a martyr.
“All right,” he said, getting up.
I watched him sway down the stairway, then I headed back into the men’s room. I took two minutes to search it. No doors, no panels, nothing. Back in the hall I thought I heard a sound. I headed across the hallway to one of the doors marked. MEZZAMINE. I opened it and stepped into darkness and the smell of mildewed carpet.
The theater was quiet. The door closed behind me. I stood, trying not to move, listening.
“Poor butterfly.” The man’s voice came from above, echoing.
I listened quietly and when he finished the song with, “you just must die, poor butterfly,” I applauded slowly, without enthusiasm.
“You jest,” came the voice.
“When I can,” I called out. “Did you kill the plasterer?”
“His name was Wyler,” the voice said. “To you he was just a plasterer, but he and I were very close for a brief period.”
“You killed him,” I said, trying to get a fix on the voice.
“I gave him the opportunity to see if he could fly,” said the voice. “He was unable to do so. Close the doors or the butterfly dies. It would be a shame for our beautiful diva butterfly to have such a short life.”
“Buddy,” I said, “you are a ham.”
“On wry,” he called back and laughed.
I wasn’t sure I got the joke. I wouldn’t have laughed even if I had.
“I’m on a daily retainer,” I said. “Give me a run for my money so I can make it worthwhile. Don’t make it too easy to find you.”
“We won’t,” he said. “You’ll see me soon. Ah, wait. A present before I take my leave.”
Something whirled from the darkness under the boxes across from where I was standing. Whatever it was flew toward me. I moved to my right and the thing hit the wall of the box and clattered to the floor. I got up and looked over the railing. I thought I saw a figure, black against black. I know I heard a door close.
I considered getting out, down the stairs and after him, but I knew I had no chance. Instead I reached down and picked up the ax Erik had thrown. The light was bad, but even in the dimness I could see there was something wet and sticky on the blade. I had a few guesses about what it might be.
5
It was late afternoon when Lundeen and I and a young woman named Gwen, who seemed to have no lips and eyes twice the size of normal behind thick glasses, put together the notes on where everyone in the building said they were when Lorna Bartholomew was attacked. Gwen, in addition to having no lips, had no breasts and no sense of humor. She was, Lundeen explained, a volunteer, a graduate student of music history at the University of San Francisco. Gwen was wearing a green dress with puffy shoulders and ruffles around the collar.
We were sitting in Lundeen’s office at his conference table. Lundeen needed a shave and a new tie or a thinner neck. He kept shaking his head at the pile of papers. I had already called Los Angeles and told my “team of agents” to get to San Francisco by the next morning.
“Gwen,” I said.
She looked up from putting the scraps of paper into neat piles.
“Yes,” she said, giving me her full attention.
“You know what to do?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m checking alibis. And you want me to see who, if anyone, doesn’t have reasonable corroboration, an alibi, for the period in question. You’d like me to do the same for the period in which Mr. Wyler the plasterer died. In that case, I am to determine who was at the rehearsal.”
Lundeen looked at the girl hopefully. Perhaps she would solve all of his problems. The police had certainly failed to solve any of them.
After Erik had heaved the ax, Lundeen had insisted on calling the authorities. About twenty minutes later a pair of cops were ushered by Raymond into the mezzanine box where Lundeen and I were waiting. On the main floor, about forty people were gathered, waiting to find out why they had been called. The workers weren’t complaining. They were paid by the hour. Some of the opera staff were grumbling. There were no musicians around. Lundeen assured me there was no way he could have kept any musicians sitting around waiting for the police.