Baby Doll Games

by Margaret Maron

  “I’m sure the lieutenant will understand,” Roman comforted her in his deep bass voice. “Come along to the green room now and I shall make us both a nice pot of tea.”

  “Tea?” She looked into his hooded brown eyes and smiled gratefully. “That would be lovely.”

  Lovely was not the word for the theater’s green room, however. For starters, the only things green were the door, which someone had enameled a bright keHy, and a dilapidated sleeper couch upholstered in a nubby emerald fabric so threadbare that the springs shone through in several places. Roman rather suspected that the couch, like the faded chairs and scarred tables which rounded out the furnishings, had been scavenged from a nearby sidewalk minutes before a garbage truck was due to haul it away.

  Although Roman occasionally indulged in some discreet scavenging of his own, his taste was less democratic and he preferred to hunt along the Upper East Side where wealthy apartment owners threw out traditional oak and mahogany because they were switching to pickled pine and bleached chestnut, not because a spring had sprung or a leg had broken.

  Happily, colorful cushions and photographs of the troupe framed in bright plastic strips made the big shabby room cheerful, and the corner devoted to culinary matters met Romans approval. Its tiny stainless steel sink was immaculate, the two-burner hot plate functioned perfectly, and the full-size refrigerator was a nearly new donation from the mothers of the Saturday-morning dance classes, concerned that their children's juice and milk should stay fresh and cool.

  As Roman had hoped, it was much warmer there than in the auditorium and fully inhabited. Wingate West, Cliff Delgado, and Ginger Judson sat with mismatched mugs before them at a long narrow table near the refrigerator, while Eric Kee paced moodily back and forth. Gingers freckled face lit up as Roman and Ulrike entered and she swung her long legs down from the two chairs next to her to make room for them, but the other three barely acknowledged Romans greeting.

  The older man was undeterred. “Do my ears detect a fading whistle from the kettle? Excellent timing! Sit down, fair Ulrike. Tea will be ready in a trice.”

  He bustled over to the hot plate, turned the burner under the kettle to high, and was almost instantly rewarded with a stronger whistle.

  Upon offering his services to the troupe, he had brought along his own china teapot and a tin of his favorite souchong. “Will anyone else join us?” he asked now, spooning the dark leaves into the pot.

  Win West was drinking a concoction brewed from chamomile and rose hips, Cliff and Ginger were halfway through mugs of mulled cider, and Eric Kee shook his dark head impatiently. ‘Tm not thirsty.”

  “Tea for you, sir?” asked Roman, raising his deep voice to reach the police officer seated beneath a wall phone next to the door. The officer held up a can of root beer to show that he d been taken care of. ‘Thanks anyhow.”

  Even as he spoke, the telephone rang. Everyone listened expectantly, but they soon deduced that it was police business and not for any of them.

  Roman poured boiling water over the loose tea leaves and brought the pot to the table, where its warm smoky fragrance permeated the air.

  “Where's Nate?" asked Ulrike, watching Roman fill her cup.

  “Next door,” said Ginger. “He said something about a roll of film. You okay?”

  “Yes. Is Nate?”

  “I'm fine, you're fine, he, she, it's fine!” snarled Eric Kee. “Everybody’s fine but Emmy.” He leaned across the table and glared into her pale oval face. “Who’s your choice, Rikki? Which one of us killed her?”

  "Aw, c’mon, Eric,” said Win. “Knock it off.”

  “Don't try to bully me, Eric,” Ulrike replied quietly. “I don’t know who killed her”

  Cliff Delgado pushed his mug aside. “Then at least tell us who didn't do it.”

  Ulrike looked at him blankly. “Excuse me?”

  “Dammit all! I could see Ginger sitting mesmerized from where I stood, okay? But she says she only had eyes for Emmy. So what about you? You must have seen me.”

  “Sorry, Cliff. The fence and the tree were in the way.” Her eyes met his unblinkingly. “I couldn’t see you or Eric. You know how dim the lights were then. I didn't see Win either, for that matter, and he was supposed to be directly across from me.”

  Cliff’s dark blue eyes narrowed and Roman could almost see the workings of his mind as he considered and then brushed aside the question of Win's whereabouts with an impatient shake of his head. (And why he'd ruined such attractive golden hair with that hideously chopped, neo-Nazi crew cut was more than Roman could fathom. All Delgado needed was a dueling scar to complement his frequent sneers and he could have walked out of a dozen B movies from the early fifties.) “Quit worrying, Cliff,” said Ginger, toying with the end of her thick braid. “If you were there, Sergio must have seen you.”

  “W…?” spluttered Cliff at the same instant as Eric's scornful, “Don’t try to act more stupid than you are, Ginger. Everyone knows that Avril’s blind as a bat behind those Coke-bottle glasses.”

  “Of course, Eric. How brilliant you are.” The redhaired dancer looked up at him With a spiteful smile. “Everyone does know. And isn’t that convenient for somebody?”

  Ulrike pushed back from the table and rose abruptly. “I’m going to find Nate.”

  “But your tea-” protested Roman.

  “Wait, Rikki,” said Win. “We’ve got to decide about tonight.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “Decide what? You don't think-?”

  “Yes, folks, the show must go on,” Cliff said in a heavily ironic tone.

  “You’re crazy! How can we dance with Emmy lying in» a“It's what she would have wanted,” Eric interrupted. “You know how hard she worked for this theater. We can’t let it go down the slop chute without trying to save it.” They had evidently discussed it before Ulrike and Roman came in and now they cajoled her with reasons and rationalizations.

  “Tickets have been sold.”

  “Emmy would have wanted it like this.”

  “Do we lose what we’ve built up?”

  “We can’t disappoint the children.”

  “We’ll dedicate the performance to Emmy.”

  “And the critics are finally coming.”

  This last from Ginger.

  “We don’t know that,” said Ulrike slowly. “It’s just a rumor.”

  “Okay, so even if it’s a rumor;” argued Cliff, shrugging, “what happens if someone from the Times or the Voice does show up and we’ve canceled? How long do you think it’ll be before they ever come back again?”

  A point well taken, thought Roman, but since his opinions were not solicited, he quietly stirred another spoonful of Wingate West’s raw honey into his tea. He had liked Emmy Mion, admired her talents, and found her brutal murder appalling. Nevertheless, while sitting out in the auditorium, alone with his thoughts, he'd been surprised to find himself so keenly regretful that the dancer’s death meant that his and Sergio’s collaboration might never be performed in its entirety. The nobler part of his character was shamed by such admission, yet little tendrils of hope uncurled in his heart as he listened to the dancers argue and realized that Ulrike was weakening.

  “We don’t have time to restructure the dances,” she said, “and none of us has the stamina to go from the first one into the solo.”

  Roman tucked his colorful ascot more firmly into the open neck of his safari shirt and cleared his throat. “What about young Orland? He’s watched your rehearsals often enough, I should think, and I've seen him do parts of the goblin dance with Emmy. They gave the Wednesday class a perfectly charming little preview. While it’s true he left early today-”

  “David Orland was here today?” Eric Kee stopped pacing and an overhead light emphasized the pale golden tones of his face as the skin tightened over his high cheekbones. “When? And when did he leave?”

  “Immediately after the performance began,” answered Roman. “Most unexpected, but I assumed he must have
remembered an urgent previous engagement, for no sooner were the five of you onstage for the first dance than I saw him tiptoe out.”

  As if they’d been waiting for that cue, Nate Richmond entered the room on the heels of an agitated young Hispanic who cried, “Nate just told me! My God! Who-?” At the sight of him, Eric Kee seemed to go up in flames. As Roman was to tell Sigrid later, it was as if a kung fu movie had suddenly exploded around him. Without even a warning curse, Kee launched himself with a midair kick to David Orland’s chest and knocked him heavily to the floor, then followed with a flying leap onto the newcomer s body to begin hammering him with iron-fisted blows.

  “Stop it!” Ulrike shouted and tried to pull Eric off, but she was flung aside.

  Though dazed, Orland recovered quickly and twisted his legs with enough leverage to flip Kee away so he could get in a few blows of his own. Chairs crashed and a small table was destroyed as they rolled and tumbled, each fiercely trying for the other s throat.

  “Just a goddamned minute!” roared the startled policeman. He rushed forward and yanked Eric Kee from the floor while Cliff and Win held onto the enraged David Orland. “What the hell’s got into you?” rasped the officer, shaking the younger man as if he were a rag doll.

  Kee was in better shape physically, but the officer had the advantage of forty pounds and twenty years of police experience in breaking up street brawls and the dancer found himself held in an unbreakable grip.

  “He killed Emmy,” Kee gasped, his face flushed with rage, “You filthy liar!” David Orland lunged for Kee, but the others restrained him.

  The police officer looked from one to the other. “You,” he said, nodding to David Orland. “Lieutenant Harald seen you yet?”

  Chapter 8

  Sigrid usually tried to approach each witness in a homicide case with as few preconceptions as possible, but by the time she was ready to question Helen Delgado, she knew that Emmy Mion had been a sexual magnet who seemed to draw every affection that wasn’t firmly committed elsewhere. Apparently the costume designer’s husband was included in that category. Cliff Delgado had smoldered with open jealousy of Eric Kee’s late monopoly on Emmy and Sigrid doubted if he’d hidden it from his wife since he spoke of her with such scorn.

  Accordingly, as she waited for Mick Cluett to bring Helen Delgado to her, Sigrid braced for a drab neglected wife and another trying, emotional outburst. The woman who entered, however, came swathed in queenly serenity and, although considerably overweight, she wore vivid makeup and a flattering scarlet caftan and she moved with unexpected lightness of foot.

  When asked to give her version of the murder, she faced Sigrid squarely and told her, “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but that’s impossible. Your people separated us before I heard all the details and I never see a first performance if I can help it. Second performance, third-I’m right there watching from the back or in the wings. But never the first. I guess it’s a mixture of superstition and stage fright.” Helen Delgado's skin glowed above the high neckline of the scarlet caftan. Her glossy black hair was brushed straight back on one side to cascade down the other in a dramatic contrast of dark curls against a flawless complexion as she tilted her head to consider Sigrid's questions.

  “It doesn’t really matter though. I couldn’t begin to tell you why Eric did this horrible-to hurt Emmy like that. He’s as temperamental as the others, of course, but still-” Her warm contralto voice trailed off as she shrugged her heavy shoulders in puzzlement. “So much for love, I guess.”

  “Why do you think Eric Kee did it?” asked Sigrid. “Because Ginger said so.” A single earring of red stones dangled from her exposed ear and glittered brightly as she looked from Sigrid to Elaine Albee to Bernie Peters. “Didn’t she?”

  “I’m told she did so initially,” Sigrid admitted. “She now claims she’s no longer sure and since Mr. Kee denies it, all three men are under equal suspicion.”

  “All of them? Why?”

  “Each appears to have had equal opportunity, and none can prove he was elsewhere.”

  "Oh. So, does anyone know why Emmy was killed?”

  “No,” replied Sigrid. “Do you?”

  The designer crossed surprisingly trim ankles. Light flashed on her gold slippers and was reflected by the many rings on her plump fingers. “No. I couldn’t believe that Eric had flipped out like that, but if he’s not the one-no, I just can’t figure it. Everyone was crazy about her.”

  “Nevertheless, she was killed,” said Sigrid, who was getting a little tired of hearing how universally beloved the murdered dancer had been.

  A look of inexpressible sadness crossed Delgado’s plump face. She took a deep breath and said, “Not by Win. He doesn’t have enough passion.”

  Sigrid let that pass for the moment. “And Eric Kee?”

  “Eric has passion. And he was frustrated by coming so close to what he wanted.”

  “Which was?”

  “To possess Emmy completely. She wouldn’t let him. And she had already tired of his sulks.”

  “So that he might have killed her to keep from losing her to someone else?”

  “It’s happened.”

  “What about your husband?”

  “Cliff?” Her eyes met Sigrid’s, then settled on the toes of her golden slippers. “Yes, poor Cliff has enough passion, and he wanted Emmy so damn bad.”

  “That didn’t bother you?” asked Sigrid.

  Helen Delgado shrugged. “How could I expect him not to lust after her? She was so elfin and exquisite while I-” She flung out her arms. “This is hardly the body that launched a thousand ships and burnt the topless towers of Ilium.”

  Her voice was light, but Sigrid, who was currently caught up in emotional entanglements of her own, heard something darker underneath.

  “Then you did mind?” she persisted.

  “I am a Jew. If you cut me, will I not bleed?” the designer parried.

  “A simple yes or no will do,” Sigrid said quietly. “Nothing’s ever that simple, Lieutenant.”

  “Try.”

  Helen Delgado sat back in her chair with a quizzical smile. “Are you actually as bloodless as you try to look?”

  She turned to Albee and Peters, her earring swinging. “I’ll bet she’s a real pisser to work for, isn’t she?”

  Bernie Peters choked on his coffee and Elaine Albee abruptly discovered something about her left boot that required her immediate, head-down attention.

  Sigrid had hoped that Delgado would be as she'd originally appeared, a rational bystander who had somehow managed to stay above the tempestuous currents which swirled around her colleagues. Evidently that was not to be.

  She turned her slate-gray eyes on Bernie Peters, who was red-faced and half-strangled, and coldly suggested that perhaps he should go get himself a drink of water. “And you might as well question that composer when you’ve recovered.” The three women watched the coughing detective leave.

  “I’d love to see him in tights,” murmured Helen Delgado.

  Sigrid said patiently, “Any time you you’re ready to get serious, Mrs. Delgado”

  The woman arranged the folds of her scarlet dress. “Very well, Lieutenant. Yes, if pushed far enough, my husband is probably quite capable of murder. But if he killed Emmy out of frustrated lust, he killed the wrong woman. I was the roadblock on his highway to paradise, not Emmy. Emmy would screw with anyone who asked nicely.”

  She settled her large body more comfortably in the chair. “You ask if I minded? Yes. I did mind. Less than you might think, but enough. And Emmy knew it. For such a thoroughgoing libertine, she was quite the born-again moralist at times. If I’d told her that the marriage was over, she’d have had Cliff on the green room couch ten minutes after I announced it; but until she knew for a fact that I didn’t give a tinker’s damn, she wouldn’t let him touch her. And that wasn’t just because I’m more valuable to the troupe than Cliff.”

  She caught the skeptical look that passed from Elaine Albee to the
lieutenant. “Don’t laugh, doll,” she told Albee. “I am, you know.”

  It was a proud statement of feet.

  “Cliff’s a very good dancer. Good, not great. Any casting call would turn up a half-dozen dancers just as competent. On the other hand, costume designers of my caliber don’t pop out of every box of Cracker Jacks. I’m a genius with a sewing machine but more than that, when it comes to stage design and making ten dollars’ worth of nothing look like a thousand, Nate Richmond and I are pure unadulterated magic. We could work anywhere we wanted.”

  “Then why are you in this shoestring theater?” Albee asked curiously.

  “Nate and I can work anywhere,” she repeated. “Cliff can’t. You’ll have to ask Nate what holds him here; Cliff’s my reason. We helped start this company because it gives him a chance to dance more often than he ever could anywhere else.”

  “Ulrike Innes appears to doubt that the company can survive without Emmy Mion,” said Sigrid.

  “She may be right,” nodded Delgado. The glittering stones brushed her rounded cheek. “Emmy took care of most of the business end-licenses, Insurance, the grant applications, billing the parents. The dance classes bring in a large chunk of our income and after that ghastly experience last winter, it was Emmy who-”

  Sigrid held up a slender hand. “What ghastly experience?”

  “Last February. One of our students was killed. So horrible. Her poor little body was stuffed in a snowbank near her apartment. It was nothing to do with us, except that she'd been on her way home from class when someone grabbed her, but mommies and daddies get real spooked real quick when something like that happens. I couldn’t blame them, but if Emmy hadn’t called a meeting and talked them around, 8th-AV-8 might have gone under then and there. God knows how they’ll react to this.”

  “What was the child’s name?” asked Sigrid.

  "Amanda Gillespie. Mandy.” With her loose caftan felling in graceful folds around her full body, Delgado moved over to the wall above the bookcase and began scanning the photographs tacked there. “You people still haven’t found her killer.”