I sized up his almost brutish appearance and bushy blond hair, reminiscent of the man Sam Sheppard claimed murdered his wife.
"I think you're perfect for the part, Mister..."
"Darren Baker."
"Well then, Darren, I guess we're all set as far as cast."
"So whose murder are we recreating?" Vic asked.
"I think her name was Marilyn Sheppard," I heard a familiar female voice say.
I turned and saw the library clerk. "Looks like we meet again."
"Looks like it. I'm Tatum Douglas."
"Hi, Tatum."
"So that's why you checked out a load of books about a woman who was killed by her doctor husband in the 1950s. You want it to happen all over again."
"Not exactly," I said. "And for the record, the victim's husband was acquitted of her murder."
"Then who did it?" Tatum challenged.
I looked at Darren and thought about the man Sam Sheppard was unable to prove killed his wife till the day he died.
Turning back to Tatum, I said, "That might remain a mystery forever. As for my reenactment, we'll just have to wait and see who the killer turns out to be, won't we?"
She sneered, glancing at Camelia and Jason. "Yeah, guess we will. By the way, I'm available as an understudy."
I smiled. "I'll keep that in mind. But this isn't exactly a major production, so I really don't think I'll need anyone else."
I could see the disappointment on her face and wasn't quite sure why, since the work would only be for a few days at best. Was she trying to prove something to someone?
"You bastard!" blared a woman's voice from the other side of the theater.
We all looked in her direction and saw a thirty-something petite brunette barreling toward us at full speed.
When she reached our group, the woman ignored us and glared at Jason. "Is it true?"
Jason's face showed little expression. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Are you having an affair?"
He frowned. "Don't be ridiculous."
She curled a lip. "For once in your life, tell me the truth. Are you cheating on me or not?"
"Really, Sharon, now is not the time—"
"Now is the perfect time—right here in front of your friends who may not see you as the asshole you are."
"You've been drinking."
"Yes, I had a couple of drinks," she admitted. "So what! I needed them to give me the courage to face you..." Her eyes were now riveted on Camelia. "...and your little whore here!"
Camelia grimaced. "You think that—"
"Don't play innocent with me, bitch! You think I don't know what's been going on between you and Jason? Well, I do. And I'm warning you to stay the hell away from him—or else!"
"That's enough!" Jason's mouth was a straight line. "We'll talk about this at home. Come on."
He grabbed Sharon's arm and began to walk away, ignoring her protests.
"Who was that?" I asked.
"Jason's wife," Darren answered.
"Looks like he's got some major kissing up to do," remarked Vic.
"Yeah, but with who?" Tatum gave Camelia a dirty look.
Camelia continued to play the innocent part. "I honestly have no idea what she's talking about. The woman's obviously deranged."
I doubted that very much. Having experienced infidelity firsthand, I would hardly dismiss such claims. A woman was usually the first to know when her husband was cheating, but the last to come to terms with it.
Made me wonder what it said about Camelia's marriage to Glenn Fenkell. Or vice versa.
At least Elliot and I were happily single again, though involved. I decided that having no legal binding forcing us to stay in line probably made the difference in terms of our commitment to each other.
* * *
"Sounds like there's some real drama within your little acting group," Elliot said as we met for lunch at a wonderful seafood restaurant called Soldad's Place.
I'd filled him in on my somewhat colorful cast of characters, including his colleague Camelia Fenkell, though the most colorful appeared to be those on the sidelines. Elliot seemed to take it all in stride.
"Guess that's show biz," I said dryly, and dipped a fried shrimp into sauce.
"Do you think Camelia and Jason are really involved?"
"Do you?" I returned the question. "I think you're in a better position than I am to know what Camelia's capable of."
Elliot remained unflappable. "Not really. I only know the lady on a professional level. What's goes on in her personal life is a mystery to me."
I had no reason to believe otherwise. "I just thought that since you mentioned me to her, she might have—"
"Let me in on her sexual liaisons outside the marriage," Elliot finished. "I don't think so." He paused. "So what do your gut instincts tell you about this alleged affair?"
I pondered the notion, feeling foolish for expecting Elliot to be privy to gossip. "I don't know," I admitted. "Jason certainly denied it and so did Camelia."
Elliot snickered. "Did you honestly expect a full confession in front of a group of nosey onlookers?"
"I suppose not. But if they are involved, there's a lot of cheating going on between the various parties. I don't know Glenn all that well, but I get the impression he still cares for his wife."
"Maybe he does or maybe not as much as you think." Elliot forked several ranch fries. "Just keep your eye on the ball here, Madsen. You don't want to get involved in any domestic triangles. Do you?"
"No, I don't." I put his mind at ease. "Only where it concerns my independent study. The triangle between Marilyn and Sam Sheppard and an assailant is enough for me. And that brings me to where the reenactment will take place. Did you get a chance to talk to your friend yet?"
"As a matter of fact, I did. Parker was completely agreeable to the idea of renting his house to you for a month, especially after I told him about the murder mystery you were undertaking. He's real big on whodunits."
"That's great!" I sipped my lemonade. "So when can I take a look at it?"
"Right after we're done here. I already phoned the property management company and a rental agent will meet us over there at two-thirty."
I smiled. "As usual, it looks like you're right on top of things."
"Anything for you." He touched my hand affectionately.
"I'll remember that," I teased.
Elliot rolled his eyes and chuckled. "Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of."
* * *
The aging colonial house was two stories and located near the ocean. I knew the Sheppard's two-story suburban home in Cleveland was lakefront, so I considered this a good start in my re-creation.
We were greeted at the door by the rental agent. He was tall and lanky with dark brown choppy hair that had blond highlights.
"Luther Pickford."
Elliot and I gave our names and shook hands with him. His hand was wet, and I tried not to imagine under what circumstances as I dried my hand on my jeans.
"So you folks are lookin' to rent the place for a month, are you?"
"I am," I told him, not wanting him to draw the wrong conclusions. "Elliot's here as my friend."
Luther gave me a sidelong glance. "Okay then. I guess I'm s'pposed to give you the grand tour, huh?"
"That would be nice."
He made a noise that was a cross between a snort and a chuckle. "Follow me, people."
We did. I whispered to Elliot, "I'm sure glad he isn't going to be my neighbor, even if I won't be living here."
Elliot grinned. "He is pretty creepy. But Parker trusted the rental agency, so it looks like you'll have to as well."
I resigned myself to that, even if my instincts told me to remain cautious where it concerned Luther Pickford.
The inside of the house itself was simple enough. It was sparsely furnished and had a stuffy feel to it, making me want to open all the windows.
A leather sofa sat in the living room. I imagin
ed this was where Victor Hawthorn would park himself as Sam Sheppard, pretending to sleep when Camelia Fenkell in the role of Marilyn Sheppard would be accosted by her killer upstairs.
"Is there a back door?" I asked.
Luther scratched his cheek. "Yeah. Why? You plannin' to throw some loud parties back there and git your neighbors all riled up?"
"No. I'd just like to see if there's another escape route in case the front door is inaccessible for some reason."
In fact, I knew the alleged perpetrator, as told by Sam Sheppard, had made his getaway through the back door, and I wanted to make this reenactment as accurate as possible.
We were led through a thin hall to a door. It went to a small flight of stairs, ending with a back door. I turned the knob to make sure it opened easily, which it did.
Next we went upstairs and looked at the three bedrooms. They were brightly painted and not especially large. Only one of them had a bed.
Guess this will have to be where the murder takes place, I thought.
The stairwell leading to the second floor had squeaked when we came up. It was loud enough for a light sleeper to be alerted that someone was coming. Too bad Marilyn Sheppard hadn't had the benefit of such or it might have saved her life.
"So you want the house or what?" Luther asked anxiously.
Elliot peered at him. "Can you give us a moment?"
"Yeah, no problem. I'll be downstairs."
Once he left, Elliot asked, "You sure you wouldn't be better off just staging this murder scenario in the school auditorium?"
It certainly would have been easier and cheaper, but I wanted to be more creative than that. And I wasn't about to let a weird rental agent scare me off.
"I think I would like to rent the place. It's not like I'll be here alone. The actors and videographer will be here. And you're certainly welcome, too."
"Thanks, but I'll sit this one out. Have to work on my novel. Of course, if you need me for anything, give me a buzz anytime."
"I'll do that."
I didn't expect to have to make that call, not wanting to abuse the privilege of his kindheartedness and companionship.
I filled out the paperwork Luther had brought with him. Since Elliot had personally vouched for my reliability and honesty with his friend Parker, the credit check was waived, and I was allowed to rent the house for a month.
I decided right then that after the reenactment was finished in a couple of days, I would use the house as a place to relax and freshen up after long walks by the ocean, since I had the place for a full month.
Now that I had secured a crime scene and actors, using what I'd learned from my course on theater production and screenwriting, I intended to write a short script re-creating the tragic events that occurred on July 4th more than fifty years ago.
Only this time, the ending would produce a different suspect right from the start. And, hopefully, would result in my passing the independent study with flying colors.
* * *
That night, after reading up on more details of the Marilyn Sheppard murder, I wrote a script I felt conveyed the atmosphere of the actual crime. The added scene, of course, was the what-if of a bushy-haired intruder as the killer.
I made copies to distribute to the members of the cast. We were all to meet at the house the next day at noon for a dress rehearsal and Q and A, along with a friend from the theater department, Peter Nagle, who would videotape it and later help me edit before presenting the final product to Professor Tucker.
Too wired to sleep, I got up in the middle of the night and made myself a cup of green tea. I had a mind to go over to Elliot's and snuggle up beside him in bed. But I had learned the hard way that he wasn't too big on surprises, even if it benefited him equally.
I decided to drive to the rental house, where I could go over the script once more in an atmosphere that would be most apropos.
* * *
Twenty minutes later as I pulled into the driveway, I noted a vehicle parked down the street beside a cluster of pine trees. It struck me as odd only because there were no houses on either side to associate it with. Maybe the driver had car problems or decided to stop and get some sleep before heading elsewhere.
I pushed those thoughts away and went up to the house. The front door was slightly ajar. Studying the lock, it looked as if it had been jimmied.
Had someone broken in?
I found that hard to accept as the house was currently unoccupied, and I'd seen nothing inside of particular value.
Nonetheless, I wasn't going to dismiss the possibility outright. Especially with the door showing clear signs of being forced open.
Taking out the pepper mace I kept in my purse for protection, I entered the house guardedly. It took a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.
"Hello..." I said, as if I were visiting rather than being visited by an uninvited guest.
I got no response and called out again with the same result.
I began to mount the stairs, hopeful that if anyone had been in the house they were long gone by now.
That's when I heard the hardwood creaking on the first floor, and there was no mistaking the footsteps.
My heart lurched. "Who's there?"
Instead of an answer, the steps picked up their pace, past the kitchen, down the hall, and into the doorway leading to the back door.
A moment later, I heard the door open and slam shut.
Instinctively and perhaps foolishly, I ran back down the stairs and out the front door, hoping the intruder might come that way and show his or her face.
I was too late for that. I saw the back of someone wearing a hooded sweater race toward the car parked on the street and get inside.
Without giving it much thought, I jumped off the porch and ran after the person, still hoping to get a look at the face or a license plate number. I failed on both counts as the car sped away, leaving me in its wake.
What did the intruder want in the house? I thought of the creepy rental agent and wondered if he had left something inside from yesterday. But he had a key, so he wouldn't need to break in.
Stranger things had happened though.
I went back inside and cut on some lights. There was no indication anything had been taken. Not that I would know upon a cursory glance, as I wasn't familiar with the house's contents.
I thought I heard a noise upstairs. Was someone still here? Or was it just the sounds associated with an older house settling?
Climbing the stairs once again, I kept my mace handy. Upon reaching the second floor, I cut on the hall light. The illumination poured into the various rooms, but I focused on the master bedroom.
The door was partially shut, which was strange in and of itself. I distinctly remembered it being wide open when Elliot and I completed our tour yesterday. And I was pretty sure that Luther Pickford had left the house at the same time we did. There was no reason to believe he would have come back. Which wasn't the same thing as saying he hadn't.
It occurred to me that besides the intruder who got away, the house could have mice or some other pests looking for company. The thought was unsettling.
Using my foot, I pushed the door open slowly, keeping the pepper mace as my line of defense.
My eyes went straight to the bed. I screamed in shock and horror when I saw a woman lying flat on her stomach with a large knife protruding from her back. The woman's face was turned awkwardly to the side, and her eyes were staring blankly at me.
It took only a moment to realize where I'd seen that face before.
Twice.
Yesterday at the library. And then the Biltmore Theater Company.
Camelia Fenkell.
Why had she been here hours before our scheduled practice session?
Who had killed her and why?
Why here at this house?
All I knew was that Camelia played the role of Marilyn Sheppard in a way none of us could have imagined. Someone decided to take the reenactment to a whole ne
w level—making sure Camelia wouldn't walk away when the proverbial curtain came down.
Camelia had been murdered, and it was anything but a history lesson.
* * *
Half an hour later, the house had become the scene of a real life murder investigation. There were crime scene technicians and investigators combing the place for evidence and clues. It wasn't exactly like CSI, but Pearl's Village did pride itself on being up to date in crime investigation.
I hoped that would be enough to get to the bottom of Camelia Fenkell's death.
"Why didn't you wake me to go with you?" Elliot asked. He'd rushed over the moment he got the disturbing news.
I knew he was concerned about what might have happened if I hadn't scared the killer off or had arrived just a few minutes earlier. We were standing in the living room. Camelia's body remained upstairs until the coroner and police chief arrived.
"There was no reason to. I didn't expect to find a murder scene when I got here."
"I didn't either or I never would have let you rent this house."
"You couldn't have known, Elliot. Besides, it wasn't the house per se. I suspect Camelia would have been murdered whether she was here or somewhere else tonight."
"That's assuming the rental agent wasn't the one who killed her."
I considered that prospect and certainly couldn't rule it out. Especially if it was Luther Pickford's intent to make this look like a break-in to cover his tracks.
"Yes, that's possible," I conceded. "But I think it's more likely Camelia knew her killer than came upon a stranger. She was probably lured to the house and murdered."
"Interesting theory, Ms. Vensetta, though that's all it is at the moment," the voice said succinctly.
Elliot and I turned to see the Pearl's Village Chief of Police, Ham Rutger, approaching. In his late forties, he was muscular and had short grayish hair.
We'd met last semester when he was a guest lecturer in my police procedures course.
"Good morning, Chief Rutger," I said.
His brow furrowed. "I don't think so. Not with a dead body up there."
I couldn't argue the point. "Well, it's certainly not the way I planned to start my day either."
"I'll get to you on that in a moment." He looked toward the stairs. "Right now, I'd like to take a look at the victim."
"Be my guest," I said as if he needed my permission.
"Don't go anywhere—either of you."
"We wouldn't think of it," Elliot said.
I concurred, having no desire to flee the scene of the crime prematurely. Not when there were so many unanswered questions as to why Camelia Fenkell had been murdered in my rental house.