“What did she do to make Miss Forbes miserable?”
“She was downright nasty. Told Christine that Joe Meade had been writing notes to Nora Carson. Claims she found one of them and read it — and tore it up. Of course she did that to keep Christine from being jealous and worried,” Phyllis went on ironically. “And then she told us that Nora was dead — and that there would be another murder, because things like that always went in threes in the theater, especially on opening night.”
“Bunk,” Shayne grunted. “What else, angel? Did you find out what was in the note Joe wrote to Nora?”
“I couldn’t question her while Christine was here,” Phyllis wailed. “And when the policeman came for Christine, Miss Moore passed out. She had been propping her eyes open for an hour with her fingers and squinting at us. She was mad because her escort skipped out on her and because she said they used little gold thimbles to measure liquor here — and, oh, it was simply terrible, Michael!”
“What did the police want with Christine?” Shayne asked.
“I don’t know. The man just said that Joe Meade had shot himself and he’d been sent to get Christine.”
“Well — we’d better rouse Miss Moore and get her to her room.”
“If you had heard her talking about murders going in threes! Her voice sounded like a — well, like one of those awful people who predict things like that. It scared Christine half to death.”
Shayne got up and pulled Celia Moore’s shoulders up against her chair. Her arms slid from the table and lolled in her lap. He started talking close to her ear in a persuasive voice. Phyllis caught her plump hands in one of hers and began chafing them.
One of Celia’s eyes opened and squinted at them. “What you doing, big boy?” she asked thickly.