Scene Stealer by Elise Warner Page A

stepped on by other people seated in my row but I wasn’t fast enough to avoid a pointed elbow that grazed my ear. The elbow belonged to a tall, impeccably dressed woman wearing a large hat that obscured most of her face. I could just about see one eye, noting something familiar about the shade of the iris—an unusual shade of blue. The thought barely had time to register when I found myself being pushed down the aisle by the disorderly mass. A sizable portion of the by now mob-like audience advanced toward the stage, and I was caught in the rush. Several jumped to the stage; one burly giant, thinking I was eager to join them, hoisted me up.
    Several teens wearing the same type of purple bandana favored by the teenage vigilante surrounded the ex-cons and blocked their exit.
    â€œHold it! Hold it! We’re expecting a call from Kevin’s kidnapper.” Bottoms held up his arms again, trying to stem the tide of anger that was washing onto the stage. This time no one paid attention to the gesture. He had lost control of his audience.
    A melee erupted. The female kidnapper ducked behind Norman Bottoms’s desk. One of the kids wearing a purple bandana and a scowl tried to drag the woman out.
    â€œTake your hands off her,” I ordered, outraged.
    â€œMind your own business, old lady, before you get hurt.”
    Bottoms’s pointer was lying on the desk. I rapped the young man smartly on his knuckles. I had never used corporeal punishment in all my years of teaching but sometimes even the most civilized amongst us can be pushed too far.
    The vigilante let out a howl of surprise that revealed two jagged front teeth. My arm received a nasty twist. I dropped the pointer—his cohort had grabbed me from behind. But they hadn’t gambled on my being ambidextrous and I was able to reach Bottoms’s ice-filled water pitcher and pour the contents over the young thug’s head. He backed off and I was able to retrieve the pointer. I advanced—a feminist d’Artagnan—and cornered the ruffian. A strong bass voice stopped me just as I was about to give the thug a piece of my mind.
    â€œMiss Weidenmaier,” Lieutenant Brown said, “would your students approve of your behavior? I certainly don’t.”
    A high-pitched siren of a scream pierced the pandemonium; the fighting ceased and a young woman became the focus of attention. She looked just like the hairdresser on the motion picture set, wearing the now-familiar smock, comb, hair spray and brushes protruding from her pockets. She clutched a can of diet cola.
    â€œHe’s dead,” she cried. “He’s dead.”
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    I waited a short period as the crowd emptied out, then slowly followed the police to the guest dressing room. The reclining chair that held Robert Barton’s body sat against a sink used for washing the hair of Norman Bottoms’s more glamorous guests. My former student was dead; poor Bertie Barton’s head was submerged in water. So was a blow-dryer. The expression on his face was half sneer, half surprise.
    â€œDid you touch anything?” Lieutenant Brown asked the hairdresser.
    â€œOh, my Gawd. No! I took one look and ran.” The woman’s complexion under her heavy make-up was an anemic white. She still clutched the can of soda. “I was only gone a couple of minutes,” she said. “Mr. Barton said he was feeling thirsty. A lot of guests get thirsty. Their mouths get dry. Nerves, you know. He asked me to get him a Diet Coke. My Gawd! This is his Coke.” She stared at the can.
    â€œWhere was the hair-dryer when you left the room?”
    â€œOn the cabinet next to the sink. We always keep it there.” Shaking, she shifted the soft drink from hand to hand, unable to put it down.
    â€œWhich shelf?” I asked.
    â€œThe top one. So it would be handy. Above the shelf with the shampoos and conditioners.”
    â€œWas the hair-dryer plugged in?”