Chapter One
Elle Finlay’s
dark eyes narrowed behind her stern gaze, scanning Judy Marchmont’s face for
any signs of deceit. “A prop? That looks awfully real to me,” she
remarked, her arms folded firmly over themselves. Elle’s voice was low but
even, betraying no emotion except perhaps a hint of skepticism. The whole
situation reeked of ingenuity; something was very wrong, and it wasn’t just the
fact that the headless body of a yet-to-be-identified community play
participant lay bleeding at stage left; its head being left exactly where it
had rolled after being unceremoniously severed during what Judy Marchmont was
calling a “freak accident.”
Elle
took a step closer to Judy, her tall frame towering over the stage manager. “And
why on earth would anyone go to such drastic lengths to create a fake execution
for a play? What kind of people do you have working for you, Judy? Where did
you get the ‘prop,’ don’t tell me this was the first time someone decided to
try it out to see if it really worked. You know they have lettuce for that sort
of thing!” Elle’s voice rose slightly while emphasizing what she believed
was necessary to point out. “How do we explain the blood? The body? Who the
hell is he anyway? I don’t even recognize him. He’s too old to be one of the students,
and the only teachers or school staff involved were women, so far as I knew
anyway.” She asked.
When
Marchmont’s eyes met those of the Deputy Mayor, her silence filled the room
instantly. Several pregnant seconds of dormancy passed before she answered. “He…he
is my husband; my husband David.” She said. “You’re absolutely right; we had
tested it on the foam rubber pumpkins we found in the back as well as with a
head of cabbage, not lettuce. In every case, the blade remained in place, where
it should be; it didn’t…it didn’t push past the safety nub. God knows why it
did this time; I told him I didn’t think it was a good idea. He’s…you know how
he is; he was insistent! He all but dared…he pushed me. He told me it was safe, Elle; I believed him.
He made it! He would know.”
Elle’s
hand unconsciously clenched into a fist at her side, her body tense and ready
for action. She was far from the type who backed down easily and wouldn’t start
now. “You called the police, haven’t you? I mean, you called me, of course,
but please tell me you’ve called the police!” Her words biting, each syllable
laced with disbelief and anger. Despite the chaos this would cause, she
remained laser-focused on Judy, waiting for her answer, hoping it would make
sense.
At
Judy’s revelation, Elle’s expression softened slightly. She could see the
genuine fear and confusion, perhaps even regret, flooding over her
old friend’s face, and her heart ached for her. However, she couldn’t let her
guard down completely until she knew the full truth. Elle’s mind repeatedly
rolled the words “my husband” as she processed the scene, instructing the woman
not to touch anything. “Leave it exactly as it is. Don’t go near the head,
don’t move. Stay exactly where you are until the police arrive.” Dialing
9-1-1, Elle’s fingers shook, but she managed to connect the digits and place a
calm, if not too calm, report into her phone, addressing the very real need for
both police and an ambulance forthwith. “The man is dead; there is no need
for sirens; just hurry, please.” She stated as she ended the call.
“I
do understand your concern, Judy,” Elle said, her voice still strong enough
to show courage at that most bizarre moment. “But we can’t rule anything out
yet. When the police arrive, don’t lie, don’t try to make up something, don’t
hide anything, nothing will do you more harm than to try and say it was
unavoidable; tell the truth and trust the system.” She told her, thinking that
it wasn’t necessarily the truth that she was doling out, but at least she could
comfort herself in knowing she had seen Marchmont backstage when she heard the
blade fall.
Elle
paused, taking in the sight of the destroyed stage and the panicked stagehands
behind the curtains where she had purposely told them all to stay. “Lock
that door, Michael! No one leaves! The police will probably come through the front
door, but we don’t need anyone making an exit before they arrive.” She told
one of the crew, a lack-lustered youth in his later teens. Glancing back toward
her, Michael Bower informed her and everyone else that the door had been left open
to let in some air. With the stage having been locked up for several months before
their rehearsals, it needed an airing; he couldn’t be positive that someone or
more than just one person had already left through the backstage door.
Turning
to address the group gathered on one side of the stage, her gaze hardened again.
“I want everyone to stay exactly where they are. The police must take your
statements even if you don’t think you have anything to say to them. If any of
you know who did this, please don’t make up a story to be in the papers or
something; just be as honest as you can be, and by God and all things Holy, do
not go near that contraption again! It is absolutely off limits to everyone; it
will likely be firewood by morning!” her words carried throughout the hall
just as the sirens of the police cars could be heard approaching the hall's
front entrance.
Putting
an older woman from the school in charge, asking her to stand in front of the others,
not allowing anyone to move, Elle walked off the side of the stage, making her
way through the auditorium to the hallway leading to the entrance of the hall
to meet the police. As she strode off, her long legs ate up the distance, and she
disappeared into the blackness of the entertainment hall. Before reaching the
doors, she called back again to ask for the lights to be switched on; someone
had to move to make it happen, but at least she would know where they were.
Elle’s mind raced with possibilities. If this was indeed just an accident, she wanted to find out what caused the malfunction in the guillotine. Perhaps it worked perfectly with stage props like lettuce and the foam pumpkins, but when David’s full weight was on the thing, it could have triggered the blade to bypass the safety nub and fall further than it ever had when he had tested it. This made physical sense to her, her mind turning rapidly during the few seconds it took to reach the uniformed officers waiting for her at the locked front doors.
“Good afternoon,
officers; I am Deputy Mayor Rachelle Finlay, managing the community outlet. We’re
putting on an original play written by one of our students, the winner, in
fact, of the school’s yearly writing contest. It’s something we have done for
years. Believe it or not, it saves the community thousands of dollars in
royalty payments.” Her words faded quickly as she realized how stupid she
must sound explaining the play’s financial valuation at this time.
“I’m
sorry, I’m just not completely sure I’ve lost my head on….oh God, I’m sorry, I
didn’t mean to say that.” She stopped immediately, faced the two men before
her, and asked them if they had been told what they would see. “Has anyone
told you what happened? I don’t want you to get in there and be surprised. A
man has been killed; we don’t know the mode, but we know the method. He has
been beheaded by what was supposed to be a harmless prop, a prop he himself
made for the play. We don’t know if he was testing it or if someone else was
doing so. I’ve asked the crew and stage actors to remain exactly where they
are. They are backstage behind the curtain at stage right.” Elle
immediately realized she needed to explain that stage right was, in fact, on
one’s left as they entered the room.
As
the first officers entered the hall, Elle melted inside herself. Noticing
another set of police officers, both women, this time had made their way to the
front doors as well. Giving the first responders instructions on where to go, she
made her way back down the tiled floor and across the foyer to greet the new uniforms.
“This way,” she said, not feeling the need to try and explain as much as
she had, not wanting to make a fool of herself for a second time. “I’m
Deputy Mayor Rachelle Finlay; I am usually called ‘Elle.’ The others are most
likely at the edge of the stage where the man’s head will be; I don’t know if
you’ll want me to bring the others through the stage door and into the hall so
you can question them, us so you can question all of us.” She said,
allowing herself to breathe while she spoke.
Sitting
in silence, Elle phoned her boss, Mayor Thomas Barnaby, apologizing for not
having called him sooner, but as she explained, it was all rather desperate,
and her first duty was, of course, to maintain the scene, keeping it as pristine
as it could be for the police. “When I finally managed to get the actors and crew into the hall and seated, I noticed that two of them had already left. They either did so before everyone milled around to the
right side of the stage by the stands and gears, or Michael could have let them
out as I was greeting the police; I could tell he wasn’t as apt to keep the
scene as he needed to be. He’s a kid; he probably doesn’t watch as many cop shows
as we do, Tom.” She tried to make things a bit lighter despite the dire
circumstances.
“I
hope I’m wrong about this, Tom. I hope it was an accident and that Judy
Marchmont didn’t want her husband dead. They’ve not had the most amicable marriage; I think we both remember the Christmas party fiasco when David
Marchmont decided ten or fifteen drinks wasn’t nearly enough.” Even while
she said it, she regretted having done so. Her dark eyes closed; she was trying
to find a moment of peace before admitting that Judy Marchmont wouldn’t have
been the only one wanting to see David Marchmont dead. “I’m just being
honest, Tom. I’m just being honest.” She told him.
Photo Credit: Mickey Rogan
