The Brandywine Prophet

11.6 The Chorus Room

Saturday: two days to the National Championship

(”But where are you going with this, Will?” a curious reader might ask, and William would say, “Not knowing is half the fun!” Like writing a novel without planning the end; watching the characters fuck themselves into holes so deep, then helping them fight their way out with a pen and half-a-brain. Would William move the body? That was a macabre thought; some horrorshow evening tiptoeing through smoke-machine fog with a twirl of the mustache and a wink to the audience, pulling the corpse through leaves and mud and moonlight to a convenient swamp where creepy-crawlies would devour the evidence. No. Probably not. Why hide Hyde?The man already had such a lovely tomb!)

When Sherlock appeared at the theater in full pig garb with another cop—Africa-black with a scar from a cleft lip like a question mark—William found comfort in afternoon sun, his surrounding friends, and the clank-clank-clank of hammers on tent stakes. If the police had any serious reason to suspect him, they wouldn’t be meeting him here.

He dropped a sandbag on tent number eight at the far left corner of the fence. “Afternoon, Sherlock,” he said and wiped his brow with his bare arm; manual labor was bad enough in average temperatures.

He shook Sherlock’s hand first, followed by the new guy with the crushing grip. Sherlock’s voice was softer than usual; more somber. “Will, this is Officer Middleton. We’d like to ask you a few questions about your relationship with Hyde Whitaker. Do you have a place we can talk?”

(This wasn’t a making-the-rounds kind of visit. Cavenaugh had a reason to suspect. Something he forgot? He thought of Kay. Where. Was. That. Puddy-tat? There were no pattering footfalls; no amber eyes watching from the shadows. Did she tattle? Did Sherlock and Brother Watson know of the three-million-dollar prank that would pin a motive-to-kill donkey tail on Will’s ass?)

The pair of director chairs were folded beside the fly system ropes. William bought them for the interview with Robin, but they would suit an interrogation perfectly. Cavenaugh squeezed into the chair while Officer Middleton paced along the counterweights.

“I want to thank you again for your hospitality,” William said. He leaned into the chair’s canvas back and crossed his legs.

“I’m going to jump right in, if you don’t mind.”

William lowered his legs to the footrest and leaned forward. “Of course, Sherlock. Jump away.”

“You’re aware that Mr. Whitaker is missing.”

“I was under the impression that the whole state knew Hyde was missing.”

“You don’t seem concerned.”

“Maybe I made a mistake in assuming you knew about certain... troubles in paradise.”

“You knew about the separation?”

“I knew about the impending separation last year.”

“Kayla asked us to keep that information quiet...”

“I can’t imagine I’ll slip after a year of secrecy. You can’t assume he just picked up and left?”

“I made that assumption. But last night I looked over Hyde’s cellphone records. William, did you call Mr. Whitaker the day he went missing?”

“I did. A minute or two at the most.”

“The records indicate this was the first and only time you ever called Mr. Whitaker.”

“My cellphone is only a few months old. I’m a newcomer to the twenty-first century. Before that I used my daughter’s phone to make calls. If you check her records, I’m certain we spoke more than once on the phone.”