“I’m not obsessive compulsive. I really am not.”    She had a tendency to talk to herself but not in the crazy kind of way.   “And I’m not a clean freak either,” she said as she lifted the dust ruffle on her bed and swiffered furiously.  “Ben makes me look messy.”  Ben was the friend with whom she usually saw movies.  And, when she was doing stress cleaning, she always thought of him as if trying to prove that she wasn’t obsessive compulsive.  Her daughter lovingly called her Felix unless she was feeling cranky about something and then it was Monk.

She’d just finished cleaning out the refrigerator when the phone rang.  She put the lid on the trash barrel she’d brought in from the garage, and reached for the phone.

“Hello?”

“Angelique Parker,” the voice on the other end asked, always an indication that the caller was a stranger.  Her given name was Angelique Lane Parker. She knew something about the name Angelique conjured up thoughts of an angelic face with a disposition to match.  Even as a child, she’d lacked the disposition.  She’d been Lane to friends and family for decades.  Only official documents, like her passport, tax returns, and driver’s license bore the name Angelique.

She asked who was calling, knowing that Sunday mornings weren’t prime telephone solicitation times.

“Detective McGuire,” the velvety voice replied.

That made sense; the uniformed officer had copied her name and address from her driver’s license.  “Yes, this is Mrs. Parker.”

“I was hoping you were feeling up to answering some more questions today.”

“I’m much better today, detective.  When do you want to talk?”

“Are you available now?”

Lane looked at the clock.  It was 9:00 a.m.  Her friends wouldn’t be at the Plaza until eleven o’clock.  She had some time.  “Yes.  Do you want me to come to the station?”

The metropolitan Kansas City area is no different from other sprawling cities.  One township butted against another.  Lane lived in Leawood, but within a two-mile radius, one would find Prairie Village and Overland Park, Kansas and Kansas City, Missouri.  Add another mile and you’d run into Fairway, Lenexa, Mission, and Mission Hills, Kansas.

“That’s not necessary; I’m out of the office and could be at your house within 15 minutes.”

She agreed and looked around the house.  Police detective or not, he was still company and she only had 15 minutes to put away her cleaning supplies and tidy up.  Her Aunt Marta had always said one needed to have the house, what she called presentable, at anytime.  In the rural community where she’d lived until the age of thirteen, they were used to friends, family, and neighbors just dropping by.  It didn’t happen much in the city, but keeping the house presentable was a habit she’d never lost.

She pulled the trash barrel to the garage, glad that Monday was trash pick-up day and the left overs she’d tossed wouldn’t have time to become noxious. It had been unusually cool, but this was Kansas and it was late July.  She knew that the cool temperatures wouldn’t last.  She heard a car door close, looked at her watch and mumbled, “Fifteen minutes my ass. The guy must have been calling from the driveway.”  She opened the garage door and walked out to meet him.

He was dressed in black slacks and had on a lightweight long sleeved black polo shirt. Lane smiled, wondering if he was on his way to a funeral or if someone had told him black was a power color.  As they shook hands and exchanged the normal pleasantries, she could see a few defiant chest hairs peeking out at the open neck of his shirt.  She ushered him through the garage and into the French country kitchen.  As she motioned toward the table, Lane explained that because she wasn’t a coffee drinker she didn’t have any brewed, but offered to make some for him.  He said it wasn’t necessary.  Ever the good hostess, she offered orange juice or diet soda.  He declined both.  He was still standing.  Apparently, Detective McGuire’s mother had taught him it was impolite to sit if there was a lady standing.   Lane retrieved a glass of Diet Dr. Pepper from the kitchen counter and sat down at the table.  The detective followed suit.

“As I said on the phone, I have some questions,” he said as he sat.  “Did you notice anything odd last night?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.  Certainly no one stood up and yelled I’m going to kill someone now,” Lane responded.

“Okay, what can you tell me about the people who sat next to the victim?”

She thought for a moment.  “There were men on either side of him, but I don’t remember anything in particular about them.  One of them might have been wearing a baseball cap.”

“You told me last night that you’re in the habit of going to the theater early.  Can you tell me if the victim was alone?”  He watched her closely as she put her right elbow on the table, leaned her head into her hand, and rubbed her forehead with her fingers.  He’d had many and varied reactions to questioning, but this was a first.

She stopped rubbing and looked at him.  “You don’t arrive early for many movies, do you, Detective?  A lot of people come in alone to get a seat while their husband, wife, boyfriend, girlfriend, family member, friend stops at the concession stand.  As the theater fills up, it’s difficult to say who’s with whom.  As I said, there were men seated on either side of him.  I couldn’t say whether or not either of them was with him.”

“How crowded was the theater,” he asked, knowing that the manger had told him it was a sold out show.

“It was the second night of the opening weekend.  By my estimates, it’s going to be the top box office hit of the weekend.  The predictions are that it’s going to be this summer’s biggest blockbuster.  In other words, there wasn’t an empty seat,” Lane said, as she once again began rubbing her forehead.

“We’ve already established that you were alone. Was the deceased with anyone?”

What was this, like a Psych evaluation test where they ask the same question three different ways, spaced throughout the test, to see if you give the same answer every time?   “As I said, there were men on either side of him.  But, he must have been alone.  After all, a companion would have noticed when he didn’t get up, don’t you think?”

He let the sarcasm go without comment.  “What can you tell me about the people seated next to you?”

There he goes again with that “you were alone at the theater” line of questioning.  She closed her eyes.  God, if only she’d known that she was supposed to be in charge of keeping track of the seating assignments for the entire theater.  She’d have paid more attention.  She reached to the top of her head with both hands and began massaging with her fingers.  Hadn’t this guy ever been to the movies at all?  Even people who go early just don’t engage in conversation with the other people who are there.

“There were women on both sides of me.  They were there with men.  Husbands I’d say.”

He cocked his head and looked at her.  “Why husbands?  Why not friends or boyfriends?”

Lane smiled.  “Couples who are just friends don’t usually share soda.  Both of these couples were sharing large sodas and popcorns.  The couple on my right even used the same straw.  Couples who are dating usually do a little hand holding maybe even some kissing before, during or after the movie.  These people weren’t.”

“I see.  Is there anything else you can tell me?  Anything odd or out of place?”

She thought for a moment.  “Well, there was something that distracted me during the movie.  There was a guy who was seated the other side of the couple to my left.  He got up midway through and left.  You know like he was going to the bathroom.”

“Uh-huh and why did that seem strange?”

Have you ever been to the movies Detective?  She thought, but what she said was, “Have you ever noticed that men rarely have to leave in the middle of a movie to use the facilities?  Women get up and go out a lot.  So, it was odd that he got up to begin with.  He also stepped on my foot, nearly fell over, and had to grab the seats in front of him to keep his balance.”