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  ‘I’ve missed you,’ he said.

  ‘It’s only been a couple of weeks,’ I said. ‘But I’ve missed you too.’

  He stopped when we got to the stage door. ‘So is this goodbye again?’

  ‘I don’t know, Cam. You and I seem to be very complicated.’

  ‘I think you make us complicated.’ He smiled at me.

  ‘Probably,’ I admitted. ‘I guess you’ve noticed that I’m really bad at relationships.’

  ‘I don’t have an exceptional record either,’ he said.

  ‘Cam, come by tonight after the show goes in and we’ll coordinate days off. We can spend some time talking and try and decide where we should go from here.’

  ‘I can think of many other things I’d rather do than talk,’ he said, grabbing me in his arms.

  ‘We’ll probably do that too.’ I smiled, remembering the one good part of last night. ‘We always seem to get along better when we aren’t talking.’

  ‘I have to go, but I promise I’ll see you later.’ He squeezed my shoulder and kissed my cheek.

  I watched him walk into the building. Sometimes, I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. He cooks, cleans, isn’t afraid to show affection in public and wants to be with me. What else was I looking for in a man? Cam turned and waved before he went inside. I smiled back and then headed for Grounds Zero.

  Grounds Zero is one of those great places that you can smell before you can actually see. They roast their own coffee beans and there is always a smoky, aromatic haze hanging over the restaurant.

  ‘Hi Gus,’ I said, slipping on to my favourite stool at the end of the counter.

  ‘Hi Kate. I heard you had some excitement at the theatre last night,’ Gus said, coming over and leaning on the counter.

  Gus made a point of remembering everyone’s name and always seemed to know what was going on before anyone else did. He was somewhere around sixty years old, a retired oilman who hadn’t enjoyed retirement a lot. Gus always liked to drink coffee and eat, so Grounds Zero was a natural extension of those habits.

  ‘Yeah, more excitement than I need,’ I said.

  ‘Any idea what happened?’ he asked as he put the lid on my usual – a steaming cup of cappuccino, no foam, extra chocolate sprinkles.

  ‘No, not a clue.’

  ‘You watch yourself, Kate. These things aren’t always what they seem to be.’ Gus’s warning sounded ominous, but I wasn’t worried. We made it through the worst last night, what else could happen?

  ‘See you tomorrow, Gus,’ I said taking the cappuccino and heading up to my office. I had the feeling that this was just the beginning of a long day of answering questions.

  The Plex was an amazing white elephant of a building. It had been somebody’s dream to have an arts centre in Calgary. They thought it would be a brilliant idea to house the city’s main theatre groups and musical organizations in one complex. So a committee had been formed, money raised, ground broken, and here we are.

  The committee had christened the building the Calgary Arts and Theatre House, hoping to encompass all forms of arts and entertainment in the city. There were detractors, who thought spending millions on the project was a waste, and they started referring to it as the Cat House. That was when the committee had a vote and renamed it the Calgary Arts Complex, thinking very carefully about any acronyms that could be formed from those letters. Those of us that toiled there just referred to it as the Plex, which didn’t thrill the board of directors either. They thought it was much more high class to refer to it by its full name. We were in theatre, they reminded us, we had to maintain a certain stature.

  There is a 2500-seat concert hall for the symphony and the opera; a 1000-seat theatre, which the Foothills Stage Network shares with the Ballet; and a 500-seat theatre, which is run by the Heritage Theatre Company. There is also a tiny space used by the city’s improvisation and theatre sports groups; another tiny space that is rented to community groups, and a movie theatre dedicated to foreign and art films. Upstairs we have a recording studio; rehearsal halls; private studios for lessons, practice or auditions; a theatre, music and dance library; and in the middle of the block is the administration tower. This seems to be where the whole plan fell apart.

  The theatres are all separate entities but the admin tower isn’t. The office staff of the Plex, the resident companies and all their boards are housed here, and the infighting is something to see. The best part of my job is that I rarely have to go up to the tower. All of the ‘downstairs’ staff are convinced that it isn’t safe up there, and I agree.

  I work for Foothills Stage Network and my title is front of house manager. Sounds great but just means I have to work nights and weekends. FSN is the resident company in the 1000-seat Centenary Theatre. That means that we run the place, no matter who’s on stage. We mainly share our space with the Ballet. FSN runs all the production staff and stage crews. The theatre is filled with really expensive, state-of-the-art equipment, and our guys are in charge. I am responsible for all the front of house staff – merchandisers, ushers, bartenders and ticket takers.

  I have ten part-time ushers and about twenty volunteers for each show. We use volunteers from wherever we can get them – our company and any of the others. I was not above stealing volunteers from the other companies in order to get enough staff for my theatre.

  I walked down to the end of the block and let myself in through the side door of the theatre. I was supposed to use the stage door and sign in, but I don’t respond well to authority or the rules and regulations that they try to impose on me.

  The lobby was dimly lit and I noticed the police tape was still up when I walked through. My office is in a corner off the first balcony, at the end of a short hallway and beside the washrooms. Not a glamorous location, and the elaborate decor ends at my office door. Theatres don’t waste money on areas that the public will never see. I have given up requesting that the walls be painted; even sleeping with Cam hadn’t helped me there. I began to buy posters and now have the walls almost totally covered with everything from Star Trek to Monet. I have a huge south-facing window, which looks out over the parking lot, but allows plenty of sunshine. I brought in several plants that hadn’t fared so well in my kitchen and saved their lives. I’ve been here over two years now, and I think it feels like home.

  Getting this job was the result of my thirtieth-birthday crisis and my growing dislike of the secretarial work I had been doing for several years. One day, while I was volunteering with the Symphony, I saw this job posted. I thought it over for about thirty seconds, decided the corporate world could do without me, and miraculously got the job. I do have some experience in community theatre, some supervisory experience, and lots of stage experience in school, but secretly I always thought there hadn’t been any other applicants.

  I now take a university course every other semester, have most days to myself, and go to the theatre every night. It has turned out to be a good way of life.

  Theatre people have great parties and I don’t miss many. That’s a bonus that isn’t in my contract – an expanded social life. If there isn’t a party happening, we have several restaurants and bars in the building, and you can usually find someone to go out with after work. Then there’s Cam.

  Cam is a building engineer. There are six of them altogether, covering all the trades. Due to the incredible under-funding of the arts, they not only perform their own, specialized duties, but do everything else from unblocking toilets to freeing children trapped in the escalators. They work twelve-hour shifts, four on and four off, so I see lots of them.

  One night, Cam and I were both at the security desk, signing out at the same time. I had never seen him in street clothes before, and I don’t think I had ever seen anyone else who could fill out a pair of jeans the way Cam did.

  He asked me out for a coffee and I asked him why he wasn’t going home to his wife. That’s when I found out that he was getting a divorce. We ended up seeing each other for a year un
til I decided I couldn’t continue the relationship until his divorce was finalized. That took him another six months, but somehow we never really got back together. But then, we had never really broken up either. Two weeks ago I told him I needed some time alone, to sort things out. I had been doing so well until last night.

  I fumbled with my keys and finally got my office door open. This building is locked up like a bank vault and you can’t get through a single door without a key. The lights were on in my office and Otis Naggy, a security guard, was sitting on one of the benches, flipping through a program. He has a name that sounds like it came from a book, and he looks like he belongs on the Andy Griffith Show, fishing with Opie.

  I always hate running into Otis. He is incredibly young, incredibly naive, and thinks he is my best friend. I’ve caught him sleeping in my office several times when he was supposed to be on duty and had never reported him. Otis thinks I like him because I never turned him in. Truth is, I just didn’t want to deal with the paperwork.

  ‘Otis, I told you that you couldn’t use my office to nap in anymore.’

  ‘Funny, Kate. Lazlo asked me to wait here until you came in. He needs to talk to you about last night.’

  ‘Otis, let me have my coffee, then I’ll call Laz the Spaz,’ I said as I took the lid off my cappuccino and flopped down in my chair. None of us have much respect for authority in this building.

  ‘Sorry. I radioed him as soon as I heard you at the door. His orders.’

  ‘That does it. No more free cookies for you.’

  ‘Kate, the Spaz is really excited about this. This is the closest thing to a real police investigation he’s come across in five years and you know how he is about things like this.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Well you don’t have to babysit me. I promise to stay right here until Lazlo arrives,’ I told him as I thought about where I could hide for the afternoon.

  ‘Do I still get free cookies?’ he asked as he left the office.

  ‘It depends on whether Lazlo ruins my day or my whole week.’

  As soon as Otis left, I started the coffee-maker, pulled several files out and spread them over my desk. Hopefully, if I looked busy, Lazlo wouldn’t waste too much of my time.

  Lazlo Hilleo is head of Building Services, which includes security. He had been a cop for about three years but he likes everyone to think he had been on the force for much longer. No one knows why he left the police department after such a short time. There’s a pool worth over five hundred dollars to the person who found out why.

  Lazlo loves rules and regulations, which drives all of us crazy because he makes the rules. He is obsessed with numbers, logbooks, and signing things in and out. All these picky rules just create more paperwork for the rest of us. Lazlo is one of the few people who has access to the entire building. This is a big responsibility, because the lower levels of this building are like a maze, and if you accidentally leave an area you have access to, you could be trapped for life. There is a story circulating that a construction worker was lost over five years ago in the basement and he’s still wandering around, trying to find his way out.

  My guess is that Lazlo’s attitude problem is caused by the fact that he is short. I once dated a short man who liked to be in charge, just like Lazlo. Plus, he is a born and bred chauvinist. Unfortunately, none of that helped me get along with him. I tend to react poorly to Lazlo and the authority that he represents.

  I quickly hid my trash can under my desk before he showed up. Mine had gone missing a couple of weeks ago and I swiped this one from the Heritage Theatre. Lazlo has ID numbers painted on everything, and if he saw a garbage can from another theatre in my office, he would confiscate it and write me up. I was sure he would figure out that Cam had used his keys to let me into the Heritage to steal it – also against the rules.

  I had just poured myself a coffee when I heard someone coming down the hall. There are double doors at the far end of the corridor, so I always have a bit of warning when someone is approaching. I sat down behind my desk, opened a file, and tried to look busy.

  ‘Excuse me, Kate.’ He tapped at my door, waiting for an invitation.

  I looked up. ‘Hi, Lazlo. Otis said you wanted to speak with me.’

  ‘If you can spare a minute or two . . .?’

  I’d be lucky to get him out of here in a minute or two, I thought, but instead I smiled at him. ‘Help yourself to some coffee.’

  ‘No thanks.’ He sat down across the desk from me. ‘So how are you doing after last night? Did you get any sleep?’

  Lazlo is in his mid-forties and wears a cheap toupee and an expensive suit that must have been tailor-made to fit his short, heavy-set build. He tries so hard to act nice, but usually ends up being patronizing. Everyone refers to him as Laz the Spaz behind his back, and a few of us have said it to his face. I often wonder if it bothers him. I always feel a bit guilty for thinking badly of him, but he can never carry off the nice-guy routine for more than a few minutes at a time.

  ‘I’m OK,’ I said, shuffling the papers on my desk.

  He pulled a little notepad out of his pocket, like detectives in the movies use, and flipped it open.

  ‘May we speak confidentially?’ He spoke softly.

  ‘Do you want me to close the door?’ I asked.

  ‘No, but I would prefer that this not be spread around the building. There are enough rumours flying already.’

  ‘All right,’ I agreed. ‘What’s this about?’ I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like what he had to say.

  ‘The police were here all morning. They sent an evidence and forensics team over and combed the place. I used to work with the detective in charge, so I encouraged them to speed through the job. They’ve finished now and released the theatre back to us.’

  ‘Released the theatre?’

  ‘Yes. Which is why you were supposed to check in at the security desk before coming on site. If the police hadn’t finished, you could have been charged with tampering with a crime scene. There are reasons for these rules, Kate, and you sneaking in the back is not setting a very good example for the staff.’

  ‘OK, I promise I’ll check in from now on.’ I was lying, but at least it stopped the lecture.

  ‘Now, since the police are finished, you are free to run the performance this evening.’

  ‘Was there ever any doubt? I really think this is getting a little carried away.’

  ‘Kate, there was a murder in your lobby last night.’

  ‘I mean, I know this was a shock to everyone but . . . what did you just say?’

  ‘I said there was a murder in your lobby.’

  I finally set down my pen. ‘A murder?’ I asked in disbelief.

  ‘Yes, there is no doubt it was a murder.’

  ‘Lazlo, what are you talking about?’

  ‘The victim had a nail driven into the back of his skull. I heard some talk from the paramedics when I went to the hospital last night and the police confirmed it this morning when they found a nail gun buried in the trash can. A nail gun with a Complex ID number on it.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ I almost dropped my calculator. I got up and took my half-empty cappuccino cup over to the coffee pot and filled it, holding out the pot to offer Lazlo some. ‘So somebody here murdered him?’

  ‘That sounds like an obvious conclusion. However, we both know that ID numbers and logging in and out does not stop certain items from wandering from place to place,’ Lazlo said as he picked up a cup and held it out for me to fill.

  I ignored his last comment and filled his cup.

  ‘We are instigating a key and equipment inventory now,’ he continued as he sat back down. ‘If any keys are missing, the police can look into that. If not, then we check out everyone in engineering.’

  ‘You’ll have my full cooperation,’ I promised.

  ‘Good, then perhaps you’ll go to the security desk and sign in. As you are supposed to do every time you enter the building.’

  ‘Do they
know who he was?’ I said, still not believing that this could happen in my theatre.

  ‘Excuse me?’ he asked.

  ‘The man. Do they know his name?’

  Lazlo studied his notepad for a minute. ‘I imagine it’ll be in the evening papers, so I guess there’s no harm in telling you. His name was Peter Reynolds. Apparently he was a stockbroker.’

  ‘What?’ I sat down on the window ledge, almost knocking a plant over.

  ‘I said his name was Peter Reynolds . . .’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘Don’t believe what?’ he asked. ‘Do you know something?’

  ‘I knew him.’

  ‘You knew him? The victim? Why didn’t you say so last night?’

  ‘I didn’t recognize him. I’d only met him once before. He didn’t have a beard the last time I saw him.’

  Lazlo put his note-pad away, looking quite excited by this news. ‘I’m going to call Detective Lincoln. He’s the homicide detective in charge of this investigation. He’ll want to talk to you. In the meantime I would appreciate it if you would go down, sign in, and then stick close to your office, OK?’

  I hated the fact that Lazlo seemed to know what he was doing, and I hated having to agree to do what he wanted me to do, but I nodded anyway.

  ‘Good,’ he said, standing and putting his notebook away. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I speak with the police.’

  ‘Thanks, Lazlo.’

  I waited until he was gone, then went to the security desk to sign in. I realized I should obey the rules, but he didn’t have to know I was doing it.

  It was three o’clock. I had finally waded through the previous night’s sales figures. I spend hours every day reporting what we had sold in our lobby market and bars the night before, counting T-shirts, pins and mugs and checking how many beers had been drunk. The office staff thrive on these minute details and the money we make from selling it all. I also filled out an incident report, which would also hit almost every office upstairs. They like to know about the money we make and they love to know when something has gone wrong. Everyone except the public relations department, which, I’m sure, would be working overtime trying to make light of this whole event.