CHAPTER TWENTY

Sheila drummed her fingers on the steering wheel as she pulled into the parking lot of Spotlight Costumes.

I hope this isn't just a grand waste of time, she thought.

The realization that the killer might be using disguises had hit her like a lightning bolt. If she was right, it explained the discrepancies in witness descriptions and potentially widened their suspect pool significantly.

"You sure anyone's even here?" Finn asked from the passenger seat, stifling a yawn. "It's almost nine-thirty." They'd both been running on coffee and determination for the better part of the past forty-eight hours.

Sheila shrugged. "There's a light on."

"Doesn't mean they're open. A place like this probably closes at five or six."

"Well, they'll just have to make an exception for us. If our guy is using disguises, he has to get his supplies somewhere. Spotlight is the only professional costume shop in Coldwater. I'm not leaving without answers."

Finn chuckled softly.

"What?" Sheila asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You. Determined as always. Just don't give yourself an aneurysm, alright?"

Sheila rolled her eyes and got out of the vehicle.

As they approached the store's entrance, Sheila took in the colorful window display featuring everything from superhero costumes to Victorian-era gowns. The cheerful facade felt strangely at odds with their grim purpose.

Sheila tried the door—locked. A 'Closed' sign hung on the door.

"Well, that's a problem," Finn said dryly.

Sheila leaned closer, peering through the glass. Just then, she noticed a petite woman with graying hair in a bun striding by. Sheila rapped on the glass, and the woman jumped at the sound.

"I'm sorry, we're closed for the day!" the woman said.

Sheila held up her badge. "Deputy Stone, ma'am. This is Deputy Mercer. We need to speak with you."

The woman frowned, shaking her head. "I'm afraid I can't help you at this hour. Please come back during our regular business hours."

Finn leaned in, his voice low. "Maybe we should come back tomorrow, Sheila."

Sheila felt her frustration building. They needed this lead. "We're investigating a series of serious crimes. Your cooperation could be crucial."

The woman's resolve seemed to waver slightly, but she stood her ground. "I'm sorry, but I can't help you."

But Sheila wasn't ready to give up. "Ma'am, are you Sarah Jenkins, the owner?"

The woman nodded reluctantly.

"Mrs. Jenkins, I wouldn't be here this late if it wasn't absolutely necessary. Lives could be at stake. Please, just a few minutes of your time."

Sarah studied them for a long moment, conflict clear on her face. Finally, she sighed heavily. "Five minutes. Not a second more."

As Sarah unlocked the door, Sheila felt a mix of relief and anticipation. They were in, but the clock was ticking. They needed to make these five minutes count.

As they entered, Sheila was immediately struck by the organized chaos of the interior. Racks of costumes lined the walls, while shelves overflowed with wigs, masks, and makeup kits. The air smelled faintly of fabric and face paint.

"We can talk in my office," Sarah said, leading them to a small room in the back of the store. As they settled into chairs, Sheila noticed the walls were covered in photographs of elaborate costumes and stage makeup. It was clear Sarah took pride in her work.

"Mrs. Jenkins," Sheila began, "we're investigating a series of crimes that may involve the use of disguises. Have you had any customers recently who've made unusual or large purchases of prosthetics, wigs, or professional-grade makeup?"

Sarah's brow furrowed in concentration. "We get all sorts of requests here, especially around Halloween or when the Masquerade is putting on a show. But now that you mention it..." She trailed off, her eyes unfocusing as if trying to recall a distant memory.

"Yes?" Sheila asked, leaning forward slightly.

"There was a man," Sarah said slowly. "He's been in several times over the past year. Always very polite, but intense, you know? Said he was working on an independent film project."

Sheila felt a surge of excitement. This could be the lead they needed. "Can you describe him?"

Sarah shrugged. "Average height and build, I suppose. Brown hair. Nothing really stood out about him physically. But his eyes...they were striking. Very intense, almost...I don't know, haunted?"

"Do you have security cameras in the store?" Finn asked.

Sarah nodded. "Yes, we installed them last year after a series of shoplifting incidents. I can get you the footage if you'd like." Her earlier hesitation seemed to have completely evaporated, perhaps due to her excitement to help them crack this case. Sheila hoped that meant that her insistence on only giving them five minutes would be forgotten, as well.

While Finn went with Sarah to retrieve the security tapes, Sheila continued to look around the office, her mind humming with possibilities. If the killer was indeed using this shop for his disguises, they might finally have a solid lead.

Sarah returned with a laptop, setting it on the desk. "Here we go," she said, pulling up the security footage. "I've queued it to the last time I remember seeing him."

Sheila and Finn leaned in, their eyes fixed on the grainy black-and-white footage. They watched as a man entered the shop, his movements purposeful but unhurried. He spent time browsing the wig section before moving to the makeup counter.

The man's face was partially obscured by the angle of the camera, but Sheila could make out enough to see that he was indeed of average height and build, with brown hair. Francine had described him as having gray hair, but that may have been a wig.

Or, for that matter, the brown hair could be the wig. There was no telling.

"We'll need a copy of this footage," Sheila said, leaning back.

"Of course," Sarah said. "I'll copy the file onto a thumb drive."

Sheila tried to hold back her discouragement, but it was difficult. She'd hoped for something more concrete to go on, but thus far the footage had been of little use.

While Sarah copied the file, Sheila's eyes wandered across the room. Her gaze landed on a framed poster on the wall for a production of 'The Crucible' by the Masquerade theater group, starring several names she'd never heard of: Mike Goodell, Ezra Thorne, Elsa Maye. There was a second post from the same group for a production of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar.

A thought stirred in the back of Sheila's mind. She pulled out her phone, navigating to the picture she'd taken of the killer's letter.

"What is it?" Finn asked, stepping closer.

"Something he said in the letter," she murmured. She scanned the text. Most of it struck her as pseudo-religious jargon. But then her gaze fell on a particular phrase.

"The tide is at its flood," she said. "I could swear I've heard that before."

"Hamlet," Sarah said.

Sheila and Finn both turned to look at her.

"The actual quote," Sarah said, "goes, 'there is a tide in the affairs of men, which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; omitted, all the voyage of their life is bound in shallows and in miseries.'" She shrugged. "I did a lot of theater as a teenager."

"What about the Masquerade?" Sheila asked, pointing to the poster. "Do they do a lot of Shakespeare?"

Sarah nodded. "They did one of Hamlet just last year. I try to make it to as many of their shows as I can, not just because I love theater but also because they're our biggest clients. I've been providing costumes and makeup for their productions for years. In fact, their current director, Marcus Holloway, was just in last week discussing their upcoming show."

Sheila felt a chill run down her spine. The disguises, the theatrical supplies, the allusion to Shakespeare… Could it be that their killer wasn't just using disguises, but was actually involved in theater?

If so, it would explain his skill with disguises and his flair for the dramatic. But it also meant that there was no telling how much of his behavior was an act. The priest impersonation, the religious jargon in the letter—it might all be a ruse, a trick.

Which was to say, they might know even less about him than they'd thought.

Finn cleared his throat. "Where exactly does this group like to meet?"

***

Sheila guided the patrol car into the nearly empty parking lot of the Masquerade Theater. The imposing structure loomed before them, its Art Deco facade sticking out among the modern buildings surrounding it. Moonlight pooled on the cracked asphalt, giving the scene an eerie, almost abandoned feel.

A single vehicle, a sleek black Audi, sat in the parking lot.

"We should run those plates," Sheila told Finn as she cut the engine. The sudden silence was almost oppressive, broken only by the distant hum of traffic.

"And by 'we'," Finn said, "you mean 'me' right?"

"I was trying to be diplomatic, but yes."

While Finn called in the plates, Sheila studied the building. If the killer was involved in the world of theater, what were the chances he was involved in this theater? It was, as far as she knew, one of the only such places in the city—and certainly the largest—but still…

"Plates are registered to Marcus Holloway," Finn said a moment later. "The theater director."

Sheila nodded, a mixture of anticipation and apprehension coursing through her. "Let's go see if he's inside."

After checking to make sure the Audi was empty, Sheila and Finn approached the theater's grand entrance, its brass doors gleaming in the moonlight. Ornate carvings adorned the frame, telling stories of Greek myths and Shakespearean tragedies. Sheila tugged on the handle, surprised to find it unlocked.

"Hello?" she called out as they stepped into the cavernous lobby. Her voice echoed off the high ceilings and marble floors, seeming to multiply until it filled the space with a chorus of ghostly greetings.

The lobby was a testament to the theater's glory days, with ornate chandeliers, gilded mirrors, and plush red carpets. Faded posters of past productions lined the walls, silent witnesses to decades of performances. Sheila's eyes were drawn to a particularly striking poster for 'Phantom of the Opera,' the masked figure's eyes seeming to follow her as she moved.

"Mr. Holloway?" Finn called, his voice bouncing off the walls and returning to them unanswered.

They shared a look before proceeding deeper into the theater. Sheila's hand instinctively moved to her holstered weapon, a sense of unease growing with each step. The plush carpet muffled their footsteps, adding to the surreal atmosphere.

They passed through the main auditorium, rows of velvet seats stretching into the darkness like a sea of red waves. The air was thick with the musty scent of old fabric and wood polish. Sheila's flashlight beam cut through the gloom, dancing across the ornate moldings and faded murals on the ceiling.

The stage loomed before them, the heavy curtain half-drawn, revealing glimpses of an elaborate set. It appeared to be for a production of 'Macbeth,' with a foreboding castle facade and gnarled trees creating an ominous backdrop.

"Finn," Sheila whispered, her voice seeming too loud in the oppressive silence, "check the wings. I'll take the backstage area."

Finn nodded, moving off to the left while Sheila headed for the door marked 'Backstage.' She pushed it open slowly, wincing at the slight creak of the hinges.

Backstage was a maze of corridors and small rooms. Racks of costumes lined the walls, a riot of colors and textures in the beam of her flashlight. The air was thick with the scent of grease paint and sawdust, with an underlying mustiness that spoke of age and disuse.

Sheila's eyes darted from shadow to shadow, every nerve on high alert. She passed dressing rooms with stars on the doors, names long faded but still legible.

A sudden crash from somewhere ahead made Sheila freeze. Her heart pounded in her ears as she strained to listen. Another sound—footsteps, quick and light, moving away from her.

"Finn!" she called out, breaking into a run. "Someone's here!"

She rounded a corner and caught a glimpse of a figure darting across the far end of the corridor.

"Hey!" Sheila called out, increasing her speed. "Stop! Police!"