Free Silent Murders by Mary Miley Page B

taken in the same direction. It made me think of a vaudeville stage with a dozen acts rehearsing at the same time and no stage manager to impose order. Meanwhile, I waited in the wings for my cue, my stomach churning as it always did when I was unsure of my lines.
    I had plenty of time to think.
    Everyone in vaudeville steered clear of the police, and I was no exception. Itinerant performers were often accused of crimes they hadn’t committed, and just as often the evidence consisted of one sentence: “You ain’t from around here.” It was totally unfair, except when it wasn’t. In my younger years, after my mother died and left me orphaned on the circuit with a kiddie act, I became a pretty good thief, thanks to the sleight-of-hand skills I’d learned as a magician’s assistant. My targets were mostly large department stores and grocers, and I seldom got caught. On those rare occasions, I’d act younger than my years and get off with a scolding or a few slaps. Except when I ended up in jail for the night. That experience, plus getting a steady job with a reputable act, made stealing less appealing, and I mostly gave it up. I knew the police here had nothing on me from those years—those cities were too far away and it had been some time ago. And I was pretty sure they didn’t know about the role I’d played as a shill for a shady Indian mystic. But last fall, I’d been roped into a scheme to impersonate a dead heiress—a bit of acting that got tangled up in murder and came out a lot worse than I’d expected—and while the family dropped all charges against me, it had been a front-page story in several states. I’d changed my name before moving to Hollywood, but I couldn’t be certain that someone, somewhere, wouldn’t put the pieces together and decide that a girl who’d been involved in murders in Oregon might well be involved in murders in California.
    I had already told the police everything I knew about Esther’s and Heilmann’s murders. Of course, they didn’t know about the items I’d taken from the two crime scenes, but those had nothing to do with finding the killer. And yes, I thought there was one killer.
    I had never figured Esther’s death as random. It was too much of a coincidence, and coincidence always makes me suspicious. For one thing, there was no apparent motive—no robbery, no rape, no vandalism, nothing taken or disturbed. The break-ins that had occurred in her block, as reported by the neighbors, bore no resemblance to the break-in at Esther’s. In those, no one had been home or harmed, and robbery had been the motive. No, the person who killed Esther was out to kill Esther. The question was, why?
    Bruno Heilmann’s murder had answered that, for me anyway. Someone shot him. Esther must have seen the killer, not actually doing the deed—if that had been the case, she’d have rushed outside and called for help or telephoned the cops or been murdered herself on the spot. Supposing the caterers had remained in the kitchen while she gathered up the dishes—a likely conclusion since they had stayed in the kitchen throughout the party—then she’d have been in place to see the killer, perhaps to speak to him while she picked up the last of the dirty glasses or wiped the water rings off the lacquered tabletops. She would have noticed who was last to leave the party and would have identified him the moment she heard about the murder. The killer couldn’t let that happen, so he shot Bruno Heilmann then somehow tracked Esther to her apartment. What begged for an explanation was how he’d found her, and why he’d used a gun the first time and a statue the second.
    A curly-haired officer came through the main door. Carl Delaney. He caught sight of me, and his eyebrows arched with surprise. I thought he would come over and ask what I was doing here, but he pretended he hadn’t seen me and banged through the gate without a word. Well, who could blame him? At least my