Murder by Candlelight by Blythe Baker

Author:Blythe Baker [Baker, Blythe]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-02-09T22:00:00+00:00

Without Mr. Williamson’s help, I found the costume department. It was at the end of the hallway, past the dressing rooms. A large room with low ceilings and no windows, stuffed to overflowing with racks of clothes, reams of fabric, and wooden boxes of thread, buttons, zippers, and anything else a costumer could ever dream of having.

Sitting in the middle of the mess was a gray-haired woman who was studying a suit hanging from a mannequin with narrowed eyes.

She was so focused on her work, she didn’t immediately notice when I walked through the door. I had to clear my throat twice before she looked away from the suit. Even then, it took several seconds for her eyes to focus on me.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Alice Beckingham.” She reminded me of my nanny as a child. A woman who commanded respect and would settle for nothing less. I knew how to handle her. “I’m sorry to intrude on your work. I know it is very important.”

She nodded at the compliment, clearly agreeing with me, and then leaned away from the suit, slouching down in her chair. “I’m in need of a break, anyway. How can I help you?”

For someone whose job it was to dress people, her clothes seemed surprisingly uninteresting. She wore a dark gray dress that hung shapelessly around her wide hips and matching gray shoes with a low heel.

“I was brought in by Mr. Williamson, the owner—”

“I know who he is,” she said, cutting me off.

“Of course,” I said with a smile. “Well, Mr. Williamson brought me in to look into the matter of Phineas St. Clair’s death.”

The woman’s brow wrinkled. “I thought the police were investigating that crime. They came in to speak with me already.”

“I am not with the police. I am working…privately.” The word ‘unofficially’ also came to mind, but I didn’t want the woman to know I was as inexperienced as I actually was.

“Just like I told the police, I don’t have much to say,” she said. “On the day of the accident, I spent the hours before curtain resizing Phineas St. Clair’s costume so he could wear it on stage. When that was finished, I collapsed in a chair and didn’t get up until the news of the accident reached me.”

“I don’t need a statement from you. Actually, I need your permission to look through your jewelry.”

She tilted her head to the side. “Are you looking for anything in particular?”

“A watch with a snake on it,” I said. I still did not know whether the snake would be on the wrist strap or on the face of the watch. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I had never seen a man’s watch with a snake on it before, so I hoped I would know the right watch when I saw it. “I believe it belonged to Phineas St. Clair.”

The woman shrugged. “I never saw him wear a watch like that, but you are welcome to look. Make sure things stay in the boxes they are in.

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