Burke said, “More reason to suspect the old man.”
“What’s important,” Kubiak continued, “does it narrow the field of possible suspects?” Both Pridmore and Burke agreed that it did, though at this early stage of the investigation neither was sure how. “We can’t dismiss her own responsibility in this.” Knowing Sara would object, but before she could, Kubiak continued. “It’s like riding a bicycle without a helmet, Sara, or water skiing without a PFD.”
Burke said, “Or driving drunk.”
“Whatever,” Kubiak said. “Under any other circumstances, we hold children responsible for the consequences of their own reckless behavior.”
“It’s different, Art. She wasn’t old enough to be held accountable.”
“By whose definition? I’m sorry, Sara, high-risk behavior carries consequences.” Kubiak thought back momentarily to his conversation over the breakfast table with his wife. Must there always be consequences? Rena had wondered. Perhaps not, but in the case of Missy Bitson, she had atoned.
“As much as I hate to,” Sara said, “I agree with Chris. If anything, it implicates the immediate family.”
“Eugene,” Burke said.
“Not if Mandy corroborates her mother’s testimony. We can’t manipulate the facts to fit our suspicions.” Kubiak passed a sheet of lined paper across the table to each of his novice investigators. “According to the school, her choice of friends—like her reputation (this while looking at Sara)—is questionable.” On the sheet, Kubiak had printed the names of a half-dozen local teenagers with whom the victim was known to associate, if not to be friendly. Topping the list was her cousin, Jordy Bitson, and Kubiak’s own daughter, Jennifer.
“Would you like me to follow up with Jen?” Sara asked.
“To be impartial, it would be best.”
“And me?” asked Burke.
“You handle the school. Speak to the teachers, custodians, and administrative staff, but not to the students. Leave that to Sara,” he said, as if Burke was not qualified. “And the dance instructor. See what she has to say for herself.” Kubiak smoked. He said, “Tell me about the aunt, the priest. What does she say on behalf of Eugene?”
“Supportive, if not entirely approving of his chosen occupation. Gives him credit though, for keeping a roof over her sister’s head. Believe it or not, she seems almost sympathetic.”
“Sympathetic?” asked Sara.
Chris ignited a cigarette of his own, inhaling deeply. He scanned the riverside idly, as if seeking distraction. “C’mon, Sara, the man had a shot at a college scholarship and possibly pro ball. Getting Maggie knocked-up did not enhance his prospects. I suppose she credits him with doing right by Maggie, by giving her a ring.”
Sara said, “Yeah, well, she didn’t get pregnant on her own did she? If he’d done the right thing, he wouldn’t have knocked her up in the first place. Maybe then he’d be in the NBA Hall Fame right now, instead of burying his daughter. Besides, Maggie has money, doesn’t she?”
“Correction,” said Christopher. “Her father has money. According to Cassie, Leland McMaster wants nothing to do with Maggie’s Mandingo. Apparently, he’s written her out of his will.”
“Well, Eugene couldn’t know it at the time, could he?”
“Can she account for her time last evening?” Kubiak asked.
Almost derisively, but not quite, Christopher said, “What are you thinking, Art; it was the aunt?”
“Just covering all the bases.”
“She offered me coffee,” Burke said. “Rather than give her a chance to collect her thoughts while she was out of the room, I followed her to the kitchen. You know, to keep her off balance. Two dirty plates and two coffee cups in the basin, as if she’d had a visitor sometime before I arrived. I didn’t mention it to her. Don’t think she noticed. I let her tell me how she’d spent the evening helping in the search for her niece. Returned home just after eleven, she says, alone, to a hot tub and to rest her feet. Dozed off and was woken by her sister’s call shortly after two. She spent the rest of the night with Maggie.”
Sara said, “What’s your point, Chris?”
“There was two wine glasses on the kitchen counter. Used, and stained with what looked to be a cabernet sauvignon.”
“Meaning what, Sherlock?”
“Meaning, Sara, I think she’s having an affair, sleeping around. She’s protecting someone.”
“Episcopal clergy aren’t celibate you know,” Sara said. “Why does she have to be protecting anyone?”
Chris said, “Maybe she’s sleeping with a married man?”
Turning to Kubiak, Sara said, “Art, does this need to be part of our investigation? Haven’t we got enough to do?”
Kubiak said to Burke, “Does she have an idea who it could be?”
“She has no idea, Art. If she does, she didn’t share it with me.”
Overwhelmed by the possibilities for both motive and means, Kubiak deferred to opportunity. “Anyone could have killed her. Anyone might have had reason. We have to accept that. Let’s eliminate who it can’t be by virtue of physical impossibility,” he said. “From here on, we exclude anyone with a solid, corroborated alibi. It’s our only chance to reduce the options, which in fairness to the family, we should do quickly.”
Kubiak smoked another Marlboro and patiently sipped beer, aware that this would be his last of the afternoon, brightening suddenly at the prospect of meeting with Kruter, realizing the day was not yet over.
The sun had surrendered its heat to the advancing chill of late day. Over Kubiak’s shoulder, the river groaned as it entered a bend on its journey through town, the shifting daylight transforming its color from translucent to a cauldron of slate gray. Obscured earlier by the strong sun, the submerged rocks now became vivid against the confused and swirling current. Much like the village itself, Kubiak decided.
The check arrived and he settled the bill. By three-thirty they parted company, each with an idea as how best to solve the crime.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
RELUCTANTLY AND UNDER protest, Joel Pataki consented to meet with Kubiak that afternoon in the Main Stage Auditorium of the Seneca Falls Theater.
“I’m busy,” Pataki said. It won’t take long, Art Kubiak assured him. “Alright then, I’ll meet you at four. But I can give you only a half hour,” Pataki said imperiously. “I have rehearsal at five.” Will his Fascist sidekick accompany him? Pataki wondered idly, thinking of the swaggering Christopher Burke.
Distractedly, Pataki flattened his thinning hair with a sweaty palm. Sipping from a cup of herbal tea, he scorched his lip. He cursed, his desire for the hot liquid evaporated like the steam rising from his cup. Pataki rinsed, carelessly placing his cup into the sink, chipping the porcelain saucer in the process. Again, Pataki cursed. The tea set had been a gift from a former leading lady, following an opening night production several blocks off, off-Broadway of Shakespeare’s Othello, which Pataki had directed and produced.
Hand painted and imported from Eastern Europe, the tea set was a replica of a Russian Lomonosov Blue Bells flower pattern and would be difficult to replace. Pataki cursed again, though this time with less enthusiasm. Admittedly, his preoccupation that moment was not with the prospect of meeting the police, but rather a disturbing telephone conversation he’d had earlier in the day. Pataki struggled to push the details to the back of his mind even as they threatened to overwhelm him.
“But…but…but…” he’d stammered. “That’s extortion.” It is, replied the caller assuredly. Pataki felt helpless, like the sightless Audrey Hepburn in the film Wait Until Dark. “Tell me why you’re doing this to me,” he’d demanded to the boy now playing at being a man. “After all I’ve done for you.” No reply.
Afterward, Pataki prepared lunch, eating without tasting. He shaved, showered, daubed his plump and hairy body with scented powder, and dressed. Kubiak telephoned at three. By three-thirty, Pataki had made his way on foot the short distance from his home to the Seneca
Falls Theater.
The Barrymore, as it is called (in honor of The Barrymore in New York), raised its curtain five years earlier to a revival of Oklahoma!, the venerable Rodgers and Hammerstein musical that first premiered on Broadway in nineteen forty three. Pataki had not been artistic director then. Had he been, he would have consented only under protest to stage what he considered an insufferably cornball production.
The banality of such musical numbers as Pore Jud is Daid, I Cain’t Say No, and Oh! What a Beautiful Mornin, caused Pataki to quiver like a mountain of Jell-O within his ill fitted two-piece ensemble. That he had been pressured this season by the Board of Directors to appeal to the least common denominator by including Lady Be Good together with his own suggestion of a dramatic revival of Picnic was distressing enough, though not so much so as if it had been something more insipid. At least, Pataki rationalized, he could have fun with it, apply his own Roaring Twenties sense of joi de vivre to the preparation of the costumes and in the set design, even include a vampy, campy rendition of The Man I Love, which incidentally, he went to great lengths to make those in the cast aware, was not included in the original production.
Pataki did not have to inquire from Kubiak the reason for his visit. It concerned the dead girl, Missy Bitson. By now the entire town was aware of her horrific and untimely demise. All death is untimely, Pataki conceded, but hers, coming a month prior to opening day, made it inconveniently so.
At the urging of Marie Radigan, Pataki had consented to cast Missy in the role of The Debutante, played in the nineteen forty-one cinematic version of the play by an impossibly creamy complexioned and freckle faced Doris Day (and, to Joel Pataki, the world’s second greatest female singing voice behind Ella Fitzgerald).
Missy was young and inexperienced but my, those legs!, like Ann-Margret, but up to here, instead of just there. And could Missy dance, my could she dance!, like Juliet Prowse, of whom Elvis once said had a body that would make a Bishop stamp his foot through a stained glass window.
Four months of rehearsals with a scheduled six-month engagement, Pataki lamented; on short notice, where would he find a qualified replacement?
Kubiak entered the room like Broderick Crawford in an episode of Highway Patrol; beefy, unkempt, seemingly inert but with a hint of menace lurking beneath the fleshy exterior. Kubiak would make a great Willy Loman, Pataki mused, a challenge in physical dimension to even the classic Lee J Cobb, though Kubiak’s ragged complexion would preclude him ever qualifying as a star of either stage or screen.
Moving to greet Kubiak, Pataki braced himself against the interrogation. Short and sweet: keep it short and sweet, he reminded himself. Monosyllabic, answering questions directly but never, ever at any time volunteering more than is asked. Pataki had seen enough movies to know how to handle the police.
“Inspector,” he said as Kubiak approached, extending his hand.
“Nothing quite so grand, Mr. Pataki. Sheriff will do. Or Art.”
Pataki blushed, embarrassed by his first misstep. Recovering, he said, “I can offer you bottled water or juice. I can’t offer you coffee unless you’re satisfied with machine brewed. We do serve alcohol—beer, bourbon, gin, vodka and red or white wine—but that is strictly accounted for and I’m afraid I’d have to ask you to pay.” Pataki giggled. “In fact, we turn quite a tidy profit from bar sales, as much almost as walk-up ticket trade, though annual subscriptions and public funding account for the bulk of our budget.”
Kubiak said, “I’ve just come from lunch. I’m fine.”
I’m sure you are, Pataki thought but didn’t say. A liquid lunch, he imagined, the Sheriff smelling of stale tobacco and beer. (And me offering him a drink!)
Taking the initiative and against his own good advice, Pataki said, “I know why you’re here. It’s about the girl, Missy Bitson. She was to play The Debutant in our forthcoming production of Lady Be Good. You must know, otherwise you wouldn’t be here. But Missy was only one of many cast members. She was very good mind you, but one of only many. I can’t be expected to know the affairs of them all. Besides,” he continued in a rush, “Missy was recommended by her dance instructor, Marie Radigan. Marie operates a school of dance, from a studio attached to her home. Her advance students are some of the best. For our musical productions our chorus, mainly, consists of students from Marie. It would be impossible to attract trained actors from as far away as Albany or New York to fill secondary roles. Nothing to do with the quality of production mind you, it’s simply that we can’t afford to pay them.” Pataki was concerned Kubiak might misunderstand. “Mainly, paid professionals play our principal characters. Marie knows—knew—Missy better than I. Have you talked with her?”
Pataki spoke rapidly, his voice reverberating through the empty auditorium. In the past, Kubiak had attended only one performance here, though he could neither recall which one or whether he had enjoyed it. If he had enjoyed it, he supposed he might have returned for more, concluding then that he must not have.
The theater itself was impressive: fifteen hundred sixty-three comfortably upholstered seats in twenty-six rows labeled A to Z, Kubiak noted. Forty-two seats per row in first aisle orchestra, increasing by number progressively through to row J, maxing out at fifty-one seats across: a total of four hundred sixty five seats. In the next section, three hundred forty-eight seats numbered one to fifty-three per row, increasing to sixty-three per row from aisles K to P respectively. Finally, in the largest and the lowest priced seating area, eight hundred thirteen seats in aisles O to Z, progressing by twos from sixty-six per row to eighty-four per row and, for convenience, divided by a center aisle.
There was a high baffled ceiling for acoustics and a broad and deep main stage running from wall to wall, which could be dissected for more intimate productions or left as is for musical extravaganza. The walls were brown brick alleviated at four-foot intervals by polished cedar that was simultaneously rustic yet refined, a look that at first blush jarred, settling on you over time. During intermission a cocktail bar in the lobby served alcohol, soft drinks and light snacks. Two years ago, the Seneca Falls celebrated the opening of the attached Studio Theater, a three hundred-seat venue financed by the State government, accommodating the work of local and lesser-known artists. Kubiak had never been and was unfamiliar with specifics of the layout.
Feeling heavy on his feet, he turned from the sea of upholstery and sat himself in an empty row. He reached for a cigarette before Pataki cautioned him, “No smoking,” pointing to a backlit sign to emphasize his point.
Nico-Nazi. Kubiak shrugged resignedly.
“You covered a lot of territory in your statement, Mr. Pataki.” Kubiak extracted a notebook from his breast pocket, displaying it as if to show it wasn’t cigarettes. Resting pen on paper he asked, “For my benefit, could you slow down, repeat what you just said?”
Pataki cringed. He must appear to this man as either a prevaricating fool, or a blithering buffoon. Still standing, he began more calmly. “Inspec—Sheriff—as I say, I didn’t know her well. I don’t have occasion or the time to mix with any but my principal players. You can imagine how hectic this must be.”
“I’m sure I can,” Kubiak said, disinterested. “But her character had a name, didn’t she?”
Pataki said, “Beg pardon?”
“Her character, it had a name: Debutante, I believe you called it.”
“Yes, of course, but what has that to do with the price of tea in China, Inspec—Sheriff?”
Kubiak said, “Presumably, if she had a name, she was more than a minor character.”
Dawning slowly, realization caused Pataki to blush.
Moving on, Kubiak asked, “Did you know her family well?”
“No,” Pataki replied, “though I’m sure I would have made their acquaintance on opening night.”
“When she came here, she came alone?”
After a moment, Pataki answered, “I suppose; I didn’t bother to ask.”
“Her friends?”
/> Pataki considered what to reveal and what to conceal. Staggered by his previous misstep, he admitted, “Some. The kids hang around the stage door waiting for each other after rehearsal. I don’t encourage it, mind you; don’t want them becoming a nuisance. You know how kids are; give them a room and before you know it, they move in to occupy the whole house.” Pataki giggled. “Sometimes I have to shoo them away.”
“Do you have children, Mr. Pataki?”
“No.” As abruptly as it had started, the giggle stopped.
“Married?”
“No. What has this to do with anything?”
“Just asking,” said Kubiak. The chair was comfortable, the auditorium warm, like a cocoon. The absolute silence of the empty space lulled his senses, lobbying him to sleep. Kubiak pulled a hand over his face in an effort to keep awake. “Did you rehearse Sunday?”
The Body In The Water Page 19