I studied the rest of the cast, trying to identify anyone that gave off murdery vibes. Surely there would be something that set the killer apart from others. I knew serial killer’s families always said they had no idea they were capable of murder, but that had to be bullshit. There had to be clues, indicators, something! If somebody here was a murderer, Ishouldhave some inkling of who it could be.
I discarded the idea that the director or producers would murder Cheryl. She was a thorn in their side, but she was also the best person for the part; her popularity in the social circles of Broadway would garner more ticket sales. It wouldn’t be worth the risk of jeopardizing the show to kill her. There were notoriously difficult actors and actresses all over Broadway. This wouldn’t have been the first time they’d had to deal with the diva attitude.
I sized up Derek. Cheryl had threatened him that night, too. He seemedshrewd. The type of personwho wouldn’t want to get their hands dirty, who might let a severe allergic reaction do the work of killing someone instead of doing it himself. Hadn’t he slipped out of the rehearsal room that morning?
I tried to jog my memory as they started the opening number, the cast weaving and moving over the area elaborately while the dissonant chords rang out around us. Scarlette stood on the giant contraption the crew had created that allowed her to float down onto the stage in what looked like a giant bubble as the ensemble danced. A couple of them bumped into each other, someone off their mark.
Derek had been missing from the breakroom when Scarlette had come out screaming. And when Warren had suggested Nick could find a spare Epi-pen in Derek’s locker, he’d come back empty-handed. Had Derek removed the Epi-pen from his locker, knowingit would be needed to save Cheryl?
Maybe I should stop trying to figure it out. I wasn’t a detective. The only thing I knew about investigating is what I learned from watchingBrooklyn 99,and somehow, I didn’t think that was accurate in real life.
I studied Scarlette, her blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, a sweet smile on her face as she performed her opening line from high above.
Nick might remember if Derek or anyone else had left the room that morning. As the stage manager, he kept track of most of the comings and goings around here. I still had a few minutes before it was my turn to go on stage, so I strode over to Nick.
“Hey, Nick,” I said, tapping his shoulder.
He turned towards me, eyes drifting to my cleavage. He had a habit of not looking me in the eye when talking to me, always focused on my rack.Creep.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “My eyes are up here, Nick,” I snapped.
His gaze darted back up to my face, a predatory gleam in his eyes that made my stomach clench and frayed my nerves.
He cleared his throat, ignoring my accusation. “What can I do for you, Eve?”
I glanced around, making sure no one else was close enough to hear our lowered voices.
“I was just wondering if you remember Derek going out of the rehearsal studio the morning Cheryl died.”
“Why?” he asked, head down, fingers threading through his beard.
I didn’t want to tell him I suspected Derek might be involved, so I shrugged and answered, “It’s unnerving not knowing who did it. I’m attempting to piece things together, rule out people who didn’t have the opportunity to be in the breakroom alone.”
His head jerked up, gaze meeting mine as if he’d been caught off guard by a thought or a memory.
“In the breakroom alone?” he asked, sounding confused.
“Yeah. They would have had to switch out the salad dressing without anyone seeing them. Since I spend a lot of time with Warren, Scarlette, and Derek, I was hoping I could rule them out. Put my mind at ease, you know?”
He continued stroking his beard. “I don’t know. I don’t remember if Derek left or not. Let me think on it a bit.”
The sound of creaking metal and the shrill squeal of Scarlette pulled my attention back to what was happening in the rehearsal studio.
Scarlette was still up in the air, hooked into the metallic bubble. Crew members were gathered around the mechanism that made the contraption glide up and down.
“Get me down!” Scarlette cried.
“What’s happening over there?” Ed asked gruffly.
“Something malfunctioned. It’s stuck,” a crew member called back to him.
“Well, unstick it,” Ed commanded.
I walked over to the stage, determined to keep Scarlette calm. “They’ll fix it, Scarlette. You’ll be down in a minute.” Her face paled when she looked down at me.
There was a clank of gears, and the bubble shook above me. A collective gasp rang out, and Blake yanked me out of the way as the bubble teetered precariously.
“Stop!” someone shouted.
