Ellen Hart Presents Malice Domestic 15: Mystery Most Theatrical. Karen Cantwell

band members. For a moment he thought it was just special effects, dry ice brought in to add drama to their performance. But the band stopped playing and jumped to their feet just as someone shouted, “Fire!”

      Then the lights went out.

      People screamed as darkness wrapped around them, fumbling their way along the rows of seats toward the narrow aisles, growing more frantic as the smoke thickened. A few flipped on their cell phone lights, but folks still tripped on the steep steps that led up to the exits, falling as those behind them kept pushing forward. Couples tried to stay together, holding hands as they funneled toward the doors, yelling out for their loved ones as colliding bodies forced them apart.

      Someone slammed against Buck. He dropped to his knees as desperate actors scrambled over him. Behind him, orange flames ripped through the heavy stage curtains. The intense heat melted his wig tape. The curly brown hair slid off his head. He was no longer a rock star.

      But he was still an insurance guy. His job was about keeping people safe. Making sure they were protected against the hazards of life. Against dangerous storms that sent falling trees crashing against their roofs. Against speeding cars that hydroplaned on icy highways. Against fire.

      His first thought was for his family. He was relieved to see them near the top of the stairs, close to the exit. Then, fighting his survival instincts, Buck headed toward the backstage dressing area, to make sure everyone else had gotten out. He called out, coughing as the smoke filled his lungs, “Anyone back here?”

      “Help,” a voice called. “I’m trapped.”

      Buck pushed through the flames. Darlene Hestor stood at the entrance to her dressing room, paralyzed with fear. Buck grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the stage. She screamed as the fire scorched her ankles. “Is anyone else back there?” he asked.

      “Judy. I think she’s in the bathroom.”

      As Darlene headed for the exit, Buck made his way down the hall and pushed open the bathroom door. “Judy, you in here?” he called as he moved from stall to stall. “Judy? Hello? Anybody here?”

      The only answer was the crackle of flames. Buck turned back toward the stage, staggering through the thick smoke. He stumbled into some equipment. The drums, maybe? The keyboard stand? Confused, he whirled around, desperate for fresh air. If he kept the flames at his back, he should be able to reach the exit. But the side curtains were now burning, and flames surrounded him. Which way was out?

      Dizzy, disoriented, Buck fell flat and army-crawled on his stomach across the stage, all elbows and knees, dodging the flames. A heavy object crashed down beside him. A ceiling beam? The lighting boom? He veered to the side as he pushed his hands out, desperately feeling his way. And then he hit empty space, and he knew he had reached the edge of the stage. He rolled down to the floor and headed for the gap between the smoldering seats. He could do this, work his way up the aisle, get to the exit. He was safe now. All he had to do was stay calm and stay low.

      He screamed as something smacked his head. He threw his hands up in a futile attempt to protect himself. What was that? Did the chairs collapse? Part of the wall? The pain was so intense that he froze in place, unable to move. And then it hit him again.

       * * * *

      Outside, sirens punctured the country stillness as firetrucks raced to the scene. Jagged streaks of flames danced along the roof. Firemen in helmets and yellow jackets jumped from their trucks, positioning ladders to reach the smoking upper floors even as the intense heat caused glass to pop out of the windows.

      Alton Humphrey and Emmet Ralston stood near the theater exit, grabbing people’s hands as they emerged from the dense smoke, leading them to safety. Theater patrons wandered through the parking lot, calling out for friends and loved ones lost in the desperate rush from disaster. Margie, who had been sitting on the front row, was one of the last to escape. She clutched her children close, watching the actors race out the door, some in the middle of costume changes, dressing robes wrapped around their underwear. Darlene Hestor ran out, wig askew, one false eyelash hanging low like an escaping centipede.

      “Where’s Buck?” Margie called out, grabbing her arm. “Did you see him?”

      “He saved my life,” Darlene said. “Pulled me out of the fire. And he went back in for Judy.”

      Firefighters donned masks and air tanks to enter the basement theater, threading fire hoses into the narrow aisles. Silver streams of water jabbed through the thick smoke. A fireman carried Sallie Minnows out, her head lolled back, blood spattered down her dress. Her white braid, now gray from smoke, dangled toward the ground. He handed her off to the rescue squad folks, who strapped an oxygen mask over her face, loaded her into their ambulance and took off, siren screaming, for the nearest hospital.

      Margie rushed toward the theater entrance and tried to push her way in. “You can’t go in there,” the fireman said.

      “My husband’s still inside,” Margie said.

      “We’ll look for him, ma’am. But it’s solid flames in there now. You can’t go in.”

      Multiple hoses and sheets of water were no match for the dried-out timbers of the centuries-old tavern. Television crews were on site now, filming dramatic shots of the burning roof as it collapsed. Police worked the crowd to figure out if anyone was still inside. By the time the fire was finally extinguished, even the untrained eye could see that the building was a total loss.

      Miraculously, there was only one casualty. Buck Wheeler.

      Darlene Hestor repeated her story multiple times to television cameras. Each time she told it, she added a few new details. By the time the story was picked up on morning news shows across the nation, Darlene explained that Buck had broken through a locked door to rescue her. He had thrown a heavy coat over her to extinguish the flames that singed her flouncy costume. And he had tossed her across his shoulders to carry her through the fire. Then he had gone back into the flames to search for Judy, who as it turned out, wasn’t in the bathroom after all. She had taken off at the first signs of smoke and was one of the first to escape the flames.

      There was no doubt about it. Buck Wheeler was a hero.

      Sheriff Gibson and his forensics team searched through the rubble. They determined that the fire started from a short in the HVAC system, which caused sparks to filter down on sheetrock and paint cans stacked in a back room while contractors worked on the renovation. At first, they thought Buck Wheeler died from smoke inhalation, but a closer look showed his head had been smashed in, his jaw shattered. Ceiling debris was scattered around him, but nothing that matched the size and shape of the blunt object that had caused his death. They quickly decided that Buck Wheeler had been murdered.

      Alton Humphrey was the logical suspect. Everyone knew he and Buck had been at each other’s throats over the rezoning for the proposed development. Sheriff Gibson brought him in for questioning, wanted to lock him up, but Alton quickly called in a high-powered lawyer who got him released. As the investigation progressed, the sheriff realized there was no evidence tying Alton to the murder. No fingerprints. No DNA or trace evidence on Buck. No murder weapon.

      Emmet Ralston was also questioned. He and Buck had argued over the future growth of the county. Emmet had openly expressed his frustration that Buck stood in the way of good jobs and a stronger tax base for Foreman County.

      But again, there was no evidence. And residents remembered that Alton and Emmet had stood at the exit of the theater, helping others escape the crippling smoke. Surely a murderer wouldn’t have hung around to do that. Without a murder weapon, without any solid evidence, neither could be tied to the crime.

      At least they had the decency to stay away from Buck’s funeral. It was held in the old Baptist church that Buck had attended since childhood. Locals mingled with out-of-towners who had heard Buck’s story and wanted to honor him. Tents were set up on the lawn to handle the overflow crowd, with speakers broadcasting the poignant tributes given by Buck’s many friends.

      Church ladies fussed for days to cook enough fried chicken, ham biscuits,