Free Sucker Punch by Sammi Carter Page B

voice sounded far away, and as my vision cleared, the scene in front of me took on a surrealistic feel. It occurred to me that Paisley had been right—something bad had happened. What a senseless tragedy.
    Paisley saw the two of us—or should I say the three of us—and stopped abruptly. One hand flew to her chest and her eyes grew round with shock. “My God! What happened? Is that—?”
    I tried to shake off the mental heaviness, but it clung persistently. “I think he’s dead,” I said, surprised at how calm my voice sounded. “If not, he’s seriously wounded. You need to call 9-1-1.”
    “Right,” Paisley said, bobbing her headful of cherry curls a few times before she realized I meant for her to make the call. When the dots finally connected, she raced from the room and left me alone with Vonetta again.
    Splotches of Laurence’s blood stained Vonetta’s blouse and hands, but she didn’t seem to notice. Obviously in a daze, she sat on the floor and stared at his still form. “Dead. What a nightmare. We’re going to be blamed.” Her head snapped up and her gaze met mine. “ I’m going to be blamed for this, aren’t I? Once the press gets hold of this the theater will be ruined.”
    The media would be on the prowl, all right. They’d be looking for someone to fault. And Vonetta was the person most likely to take the brunt of the blame. “I wish there was a way to keep this quiet,” I muttered. “At least until we figure out what happened.”
    Vonetta turned a deep scowl in my direction. “Isn’t it obvious? That spotlight came loose and hit him.”
    “You’re probably right,” I glanced at the fly system overhead, and wondered where the light had been. I couldn’t see any obvious holes in the lighting system, but I was no expert. The C-clamp was still attached to one end, and the safety cable stretched away through the pool of blood. I couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t look to me as if the cable had snapped. The loose end, which should have been shredded or frayed, looked as if someone had sliced through it with a knife. And if they had, Laurence Nichols’s death was no accident.
    No , I told myself firmly. There was a reasonable explanation for the way the cable looked. But I suddenly found myself wishing that Jawarski hadn’t picked this week to leave town.
    I realized that Vonetta was watching me closely, but I didn’t want to start a wholesale panic so I tried to hide my suspicions. “I’m just confused, I guess. What were you doing in here with the lights out?”
    She looked at me, her eyes blank. “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “You were in here with the lights out when I came in,” I said. “You were kneeling beside Laurence . . . Leaning over him.”
    Her expression turned to stone. “What are you implying?”
    “Nothing,” I said quickly. “But I thought you were all in a meeting. That’s what the call-board said. So why were you in here with Laurence alone?”
    “I told you. I found him like that.”
    “Yes, but—” The sound of running feet reached us, and I swore under my breath. Don’t get me wrong—I didn’t for one minute think Vonetta had bashed Laurence over the head with that light fixture, but thanks to the arguments Laurence had been involved in over the past few days, I was having a little trouble buying the accident theory.
    The footsteps came closer, and I just had time to warn Vonetta, “Don’t let anyone onstage,” before Alexander Pastorelli burst through the velvet curtains that separated the auditorium from the lobby. Jason, the David Beckham look-alike, came in hard on his heels, with Colleen Brannigan right behind him.
    Alexander jumped onto the stage before I could stop him, demanding, “What the hell happened here?” The words were barely out of his mouth when he saw Laurence and bolted toward the body. “Larry? Are you all right?”
    “Don’t come any closer,” Vonetta warned. “I think he’s dead.”
    Alexander stopped