Page 62 of Script Swap
Except for the folder that had been jammed in, seemingly at random.
It stuck out at an angle, and the topmost corner was bent where it had folded when someone shut the drawer.It looked like it had been stuffed back into the drawer either hastily or angrily—at odds with the rest of the neat organization.And, unlike the other folders, it wasn’t labeled.
“Do you have gloves?”I asked.
Fox considered me for a silent second.Then they retreated downstairs.
When they came back, they were holding a pair of elbow-length silk opera gloves.
“You’re joking,” I said.
“I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?”
My better idea was to start keeping my snooping supplies in Bobby’s Pilot, but I suspected I knew how Bobby might feel about that.Also, I’d never worn opera gloves before.(Were they called opera gloves?Did they have a real name?Like Lady Stiletto gloves?I made that up, but it actually sounds like an awesome secret weapon a spy would have.If the spy was an opera singer.Oh!Maybe she was an assassin!)
I managed to head that idea off at the pass, although it had been fun—for a moment—to feel that old, familiar surge of excitement at what might be a new story.I pulled on the gloves.(They were so soft—and is it weird that they fitperfectly?) And then I took out the folder.
It held newspaper clippings.Not many of them—only a handful, and all of them old.The largest bore the headline, BOX OFFICE ROBBERY—SUSPECT GONE WITH THE WIND.Above the headline ran the banner ofThe Herald, Hastings Rock’s local (and nowadays, primarily for tourists) paper.Below the headline, a black-and-white photo showed a room that was surprisingly familiar.It took me a moment to recognize it as the back room of The Foxworthy’s box office.It looked different, of course—nobody had hung a television yet, and it had hideous shag carpeting juxtaposed with pine paneling.But the ceiling-mounted fan and the safe were the same.
A theft at The Foxworthy Theatre last night has the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office in hot pursuit of a local man.Although the sheriff has refused to comment on an ongoing investigation, sources say that deputies are currently in hot pursuit of Raymond Hatch, originally from Arch Cape.Mr.Hatch worked as an attendant at the box office until last night.When the theft was discovered after the evening’s performance ofA Flicker in the Dark, Mr.Hatch was nowhere to be found.With Mr.Hatch presumably on the run, and deputies in hot pursuit—
The article cut off there, continued on A3.(Presumably, the reader would follow the story inhot pursuit, which must have been the reporter’s favorite phrase.)
“Good Lord,” Fox said.“This is from before I was born.And since Keme isn’t here, there’s no need for you to attempt a joke, Dash.Save yourself the embarrassment.”
“But I can tell Keme later, right?”
Fox motioned for me to move on to the next article, but before I did, I checked the date.The first article was from August 7, 1977—over forty years ago.
The next article was shorter and dated almost six months after the first one.I barely managed to suppress a groan at the title: HOT PURSUIT GROWS ICE COLD.
“Did they not have an editor?”I asked.“Didn’t anybody even look at this before it went to press?”
Fox shushed me, and I scanned the text.
After nearly half a year, the theft at The Foxworthy Theatre remains unsolved.In a recent statement, the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office assured the citizens of Hastings Rock that the case is still open,but sources close to the investigation say that officials have reached a dead end.Early information that Raymond Hatch, of Arch Cape, was involved in the theft prompted a search that has gone cold.Mrs.Raymond Hatch has since moved away.Friends of Mrs.Hatch suggest that she has gone to join her husband in Hollywood, where Mr.Hatch had spoken of moving shortly before the theft.Asked about this potential lead, the Ridge County Sheriff’s Office declined to comment.
“What are we looking at here?”I asked.“A theft from forty years ago?I mean, I see the parallel—a box office robbery—”
Fox hissed, an impatient little noise, and I moved the paper aside so we could read the third clipping.This one was even shorter, only three lines in a narrow column, and the typeset was different from the other clippings.
Mr.and Mrs.Jones are delighted to announce the marriage of their daughter, Jonni Jones, to Mr.Raymond Hatch of Arch Cape.
“Wait a second,” I said.“Jonni?She was married to this guy, the one they think stole all the money?”
Even as I said it, the heat drained out of my body, leaving me cold and stiff.Here were the facts: someone in the theater had a secret that they were willing to kill to keep from coming to light.Someone had tried to kill Terrence to keep that secret from coming to light.And here was this file in Terrence’s desk, linking Jonni to a theft from forty years ago.Jonni had gotten her start here; that’s what someone had told me.Before she went to Hollywood.Before she reinvented herself, before her acting career took off.
And the envelope of cash, my brain added.Blackmail?
But for what?For following her husband to California?For stealing a few hundred dollars?That didn’t make any sense.The scandal—if this could evencountas a scandal—didn’t mean anything.Jonni’s career was over; that was why she was back at The Foxworthy.And the statute of limitations was certainly past—not to mention the fact that there was no way the sheriff would try for a prosecution for something from forty years ago, without any evidence.
The icy ache in my chest seemed to spread.
And it was like my brain was a projector reel, spinning out the events in a flickering sequence.
A husband who disappeared.
Missing money.
