Stuart Kaminsky: Show Business is Murder

He went through the window. Cold out there. Sudden shocking chill. His sweat froze. He felt dizzy. Had to move fast. Around the corner, stepping through a thin layer of ice into a puddle of icy water. Hurrying, taps sliding on ice under snow.

Inside, Liz heard her sister, ran down the stairs screaming. The two-man pit band got louder to cover whatever the hell was going on backstage. Alf appeared, shouting “Chrissake, what now?”

Charlotte lay at the bottom of the steps, her eyes closed, her sister cradling her head.

“Oh God, Char. Oh God.”

The old man who guarded the stage door shuffled over, tucking his pipe in his pocket. Vogel came down the stairs quickly and knelt at the fallen dancer’s side. He touched her forehead, cheek, put his ear to her chest.

“Water,” he commanded.

Alf ran for water.

Charlotte opened her eyes.

“What son-of-a-bitch tripped me?” she demanded, woozily sitting up.

“You fell down the stairs,” Vogel said gently.

“You were upset about Corrine,” said Liz.

“Someone tripped me,” Charlotte said. “Help me up.”

Vogel lifted her as if she were a raggedy doll.

“My ankle hurts like hell,” she said leaning over to look at the purple and red welt.

She tested it.

“For chrissake, who are you?” asked Alf looking at a lean, white-haired man in an overcoat and muffler who had apparently come in the stage door while they were busy with Charlotte.

“I’ve come at a bad time,” the man said.

“It could be worse,” said Alf. “The roof could collapse.”

“Happened in the Fairfax in New Haven four years ago,” said the stranger. “I was there. No one was killed but…”

Charlotte was limping around now.

The white-haired man turned not toward the stage door but the door that led into the theater.

“No,” said Alf. “You’re here for chrissake. What do you want? You a cop? That’s all we need.”

“No,” said the man. “I’m looking for Kenneth Poole.”

“Kenny?”

“I just saw his act. I’d like to talk to him and to you two,” the man said looking at Liz and Charlotte.

“We’ve got a dead woman upstairs,” said Vogel softly. “This is a bad time.”

“Where is Kenny?” asked Charlotte as the pit band played By the Sea to accompany Scrimberger and his seals off the stage. The applause was the best of the night.

“What’s with all the noise?” Scrimberger asked.

Both seals barked. Scrimberger threw each of them a fish from the bucket he was carrying.

“Corrine’s dead,” said Liz tearfully. “And Charlotte was almost killed.”

“I wasn’t almost killed,” said Charlotte. “Someone tripped me.”

“Can you still dance?” asked the white-haired man.

Charlotte looked at him and said, “By tomorrow I’ll be perfect, unless I break my leg kicking the hell out of whoever-”

“Where is Kenny?” asked Liz.

The stage door flew open, letting in a frozen blast of air. Standing in the doorway was a chubby little man in a black coat and derby hat wearing black gloves and carrying a black pebbled-leather satchel.

“Someone should be with the body,” the chubby man said, closing the door behind him.

Scrimberger muttered something and led his seals past the stairs to the downstairs room reserved for animal acts so the cats, dogs, seals, parrots, and occasional chimp wouldn’t have to go up and down stairs.

“Buddy Donald is upstairs with her,” said Liz.

“For Chrissake,” said Alf rubbing his forehead. “Buddy’s supposed to be on next.”

“Upstairs?” said the chubby man.

“Corrine’s upstairs,” said Liz pointing to the landing.

“Corrine?” asked the chubby man. “What in the blazes on a cold night in hell are you talking about? I’m Doctor Milton Frazier. Someone called about a dead body. I practically tripped over it right out there.”

He pointed to the door through which he had come.

“And,” he said. “It’s no she. It’s a he, and even though I’ve worked with you vaudeville people before, I don’t think his name is Corrine. And what’s he doing out there without a coat on a night like this and a little U.S. flag on his chest and…”

Alf dashed to the stage door, opened it, and ran out. Buddy Donald, short and wiry with very little hair, who had once been a tenor and was now a comic, came hurrying down the stairs saying, “I’m on.”

He ignored everyone, adjusted his cuffs and walked onstage.

“It’s Kenny,” Alf said coming back through the stage door. “He’s out there. He’s dead.”

“I just told you he was dead,” Doctor Frazier said. “Close the door.”

Alf closed the door.

“What happened to him?” Liz cried.

It was Charlotte’s turn to comfort her sister.

“Looks to me like he slipped on a patch of ice by the steps,” said the doctor. “Looks to me like he must have been in a hurry, which is not a good thing to do on ice, especially when, as I could see, you’re wearing tap shoes. Left leg’s broke. Hit his head on the ice. There’s another body?”

“This way,” said Vogel motioning for the doctor to follow him up the stairs.

The doctor stopped at the top of the stairs and said, “Call the police. And try to stay alive till they get here.”

“Shame,” said the white-haired man, buttoning his coat. “I’ll come back and talk to you two young ladies tomorrow.”

“About what?” Charlotte asked.

“About being in a movie,” the man said. “My name is Lee DeForest. I have a studio here in Chicago. I’m starting to make movies with sound to show in theaters like this one, short movies with music. I’d like the two of you to do your act for my cameras and sound tomorrow.”

“You’re kidding?” said Charlotte.

“No,” said Alf. “I heard of him. He makes movies with sounds. We’re thinking of showing them here.”

“I show them all around the country,” he said. “You get paid well, I think, and people all over the country get to see you. I can assure you, you’ll be famous.”

The sisters looked at each other and simultaneously said, “Sure.”

“I really came to see Mr. Poole,” DeForest said with a sigh. “One of my people said he would be perfect for movies. Tap dancing. Music. Pity. Now if you tell me where you are staying, I’ll have a car pick you up at, say, eleven tomorrow?”

“We’ll miss the first show,” said Liz.

“Miss the first show,” said Alf with a wave of one hand and the other on his forehead. “We’re three acts short. We’ll show an extra movie.”

Winner of the Agatha, Anthony, Macavity, and Shamus awards for her short stories, and Edgar-nominated twice for her Cass Jameson series, Carolyn Wheatembarked on a new venture with How to Write Killer Fiction . This unique approach to writing the crime novel explores “the funhouse of mystery and the roller coaster of suspense” so that the writer can create the ideal reader experience in either genre. She is currently at work on a book about detective characters as archetypes. She offers writing workshops and teaches regularly at UCSD.

Edward D. Hochis a past president of the Mystery Writers of America and winner of its Edgar Award for best short story. In 2001 he was honored with MWA’s Grand Master Award. He has been guest of honor at the annual Bouchercon mystery convention, two-time winner of its Anthony Award, and 2001 recipient of its Lifetime Achievement Award. He is also recipient of Life Achievement Awards from the Private Eye Writers of America and the Short Mystery Fiction Society. Author of over 875 published stories, as well as novels and collections, he has appeared in every issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine since 1973. Hoch resides with his wife Patricia in Rochester, New York.