“You’re making this part up, aren’t you?” said Jane.
“You could solve the Freddy Kendell murder!”
“Murder in the Eekaknak Valley?
“That’s right. You design it, prop it, and solve it—a perfect summer project!” Tim turned the key and swung open the heavy door.
“You know, we detectives have to be hired by someone, paid by someone to solve a case. It’s not a hobby like…” Jane’s words stuck in her throat. The light was dim, filtered through sheer curtains made less sheer by several decades of dust. While Tim was wrestling with the heavy door, trying to get the lock to release his key, Jane stepped over the threshold. The entryway was a round foyer larger than most dining rooms. Although this space was cluttered with stacks of sealed boxes, and several folding tables marked T & T SALES leaned against the walls, it was still imposing, grand, and spacious. The floor was patterned in an elaborate mosaic design of tiny shards of blues and yellows and gold. The walls were painted with angelic murals, clouds. It was churchlike except for the one unholy sight that made Jane’s skin crawl, a picture so horrific that she couldn’t make the smallest sound let alone the scream that ached to come forward. Jane clutched at Tim’s arm with her left hand and pointed to the chandelier—an enormous crystal-laden behemoth, the kind you might see in an opera house or the lobby of a grand hotel.
“Tim,” Jane finally got out, squeezing his arm so violently, that without thinking he shook free before looking to where she pointed.
“What, what the…” Tim began, then followed the arrow her body made as she reached out both hands and leaned forward.
“Chandelier,” Jane said, knowing that this word was not the one she intended to say. “Chandelier,” she repeated.
From one of the chandelier’s gigantic prism-laden arms swung a small body. A child hung from his neck by what appeared to be several colorful scarves knotted together. The door opening had caused the prisms to shimmer and shake and the body now continued to sway, seemingly keeping time with Jane’s lurching heartbeat.
“Get a ladder,” said Jane, after what felt like years of being frozen in place. “Tim, get a ladder and call the police.”
Tim, still paralyzed, didn’t answer.
Jane suddenly let out a breath. “Dummy.”
Tim looked at her, apparently not comprehending.
“Dummy. It’s a dummy.”
Jane walked over to the light switch and pushed the heavy round button in. The chandelier lit up, illuminating the foyer, causing the gold-flecked floor to shine and the mirrors hanging on the walls to ricochet light around the circle of the room.
The brightness helped Tim see what Jane had just figured out.
The body swinging from the chandelier was not that of a child, but instead a ventriloquist’s dummy—a boy with red hair and freckles and what would have been a giant grin on his face, had the mouth mechanism not dropped open, changing the mindless jolly expression of the doll’s face to one of slack horror. Now that the room was lit, they could see that the clothes, the blue-and-white-checked shirt, the baggy dungarees, and the shiny black round-toed shoes were plainly those of a doll, a vintage doll at that. Now that the chandelier illuminated the space, the dummy looked so unlike a human child, instead of relief, they were overcome with the kind of anger that only strikes when one feels he or she had been made a fool.
“Get the ladder anyway, Tim. We can’t leave it there to give the next person a heart attack.”
“I want to know who in the hell thought this was funny,” said Tim.
Jane set up the small stepladder that Tim had stashed with his folding tables. Rummaging in one of his supply boxes, she found a pair of heavy scissors and climbed up to the light fixture, ready to cut through a fuchsia-flowered scarf.
“Don’t cut. Untie if you can,” said Tim. “Most of the clothes here are really good. I’ll bet those scarves are silk and—”
“Damn,” said Jane, her fingers tangled in a knot. “This one isn’t just silk, honey, it’s Hermès.”
Jane handed the designer scarves to Tim, who smoothed them out, clucking over the wrinkles. Jane held up the dummy by its shoulders in front of her.
“What was so bad about your life, buddy? Why’d you try to end it all?”
“Oh, sweetie, please don’t open the door to jokes about all those strange hands up his—”
“Right. Being a ventriloquist’s dummy would be a hell of a life…”
Jane brushed off the doll’s clothes. A tag on the inside of his collar read: MR. BUMBLES. Underneath it, in italics, was written Bumby. “So you’re Bumby,” said Jane. She held him up and gave him a shake. A halo of dust radiated out from the doll.
“Well, Bumby, unless I find a suicide note, I am unable to rule out foul play. This could be attempted murder.”
“Out of curiosity, Madame Detective, how do you tell when a ventriloquist’s dummy is a victim of murder or just attempted murder?” asked Tim.
Forgetting her anger, Jane laughed, closing the dummy’s mouth and laying it out on a mahogany console table. It was true that the difference between a dead dummy and a live dummy was, on the surface, negligible.
“He just doesn’t look depressed enough to end it all, does he?” asked Jane.
The dummy was one of those clones of the early television brash boys of ventriloquism. Not quite Howdy Doody, not quite Jerry Mahoney, but close enough to present to your child as a recognizable TV toy and creative prop for playtime.
Peering over Jane’s shoulder at the laid-out Bumby, Tim shuddered. “They are so creepy. Honestly, dummies give clowns a run for their money when it comes to a what-were-my-parents-thinking-when-they-handed-me-that-nightmare-provoking toy?”
Jane nodded, also wondering what parents actually wanted their child to show a knack for ventriloquism. Wouldn’t the ability to throw one’s voice just push a child into the class clown role at best, the class pariah at worst? If your son was bad at ventriloquism, you would be doomed to watching his little playlets, sitting on the couch pretending not to see his lips move. And if he was good at it? Even worse. He might grow up to be a ventriloquist!
“Hello, Bumby, what’s this?” Jane said, straightening the kerchief in Bumby’s pocket. She pulled out a folded piece of paper.
“If you tell me that it is a suicide note, I’m giving up this sale,” said Tim, backing away.
ASK ME ABOUT THE MURDERS
The words were block-printed on a lined piece of paper, a page, Jane noted, that was ripped from a small six-ring binder, a calendar book, a Day Runner–type organizer.
“Okay, I’m officially creeped out,” said Tim. “Anyone who plays this kind of game is a little too sick to mess with. Maybe I should give up the sale and the play.”
Tim had stepped away from the dummy and Jane until his back was against the wall on the other side of the foyer. Directly above him hung an austere portrait painted in a stiff, unappealing style. This was not a painting old or ornate enough to be one of those collectible instant ancestors one finds at a flea market, nor was it folksy enough to be painted by a wandering itinerant artist or a family member hobbyist with a palette and a smock. This gentleman was professionally painted, but the work was completely devoid of emotion or affection. The painting looked as if it might belong in a row of past company presidents whose portraits might line the hallways of corporate headquarters.
Jane did not think it was the right time to point out to Tim that he was standing beneath a painting that, in an old horror film, would have eyes that followed you wherever you moved. She also had had enough time to cast her eye into the parlor off the foyer that was filled from parquet floor to cove-molded ceiling with antique tables, needlepointed stools, dusty books, and a plethora of fascinating small collectible items crying out for a dust rag and a price tag.
“I’ll need a copy of the play, an expense account, and a boatload of cleaning supplies.”
“You’re taking the job,” said Tim, exhaling
in relief.
“Ssss,” said Jane. “Jobs, plural. I’ll start by reading the whole play tonight and making the props list, then working here tomorrow to see what we might use. We can clean and price as we go.”
Tim nodded, rummaging through his leather bag to find her a copy of Murder in the Eekaknak Valley.
“I’ll need a list of everyone who has a key to the house, too, so we can put a stop to any more practical jokes,” said Jane, laying a protective hand on Bumby’s shoulder. “I want the cast of the play and the cast of the house.”
“Yeah, hey,” said Tim, handing her the script. “I can’t believe I just got this. The title? Murder in the Eekaknak Valley? Eekaknak? It’s Kankakee backward.”
Jane looked at the script, then at Tim. She had just agreed to become props mistress for an amateur melodrama starring Nellie, cut down a suicidal ventriloquist’s dummy named Mr. Bumbles, and decided to solve a possible seventy-year-old murder.
Jane was definitely in Kankakee, and as usual, life was definitely running ass backward.
5
Jane clicked through the new photos posted on Nick’s Facebook page. She enlarged the picture of Nick standing next to Charley, both of them holding special narrow-bladed shovels. Jane leaned in toward the screen and moved the cursor to the thumbs-up symbol. Is this what exchanging letters had become? A picture had always been worth a thousand words, but her return of “Like”? Wasn’t that just worth one word? Jane tapped out a Facebook message to Nick, telling him briefly about the play and the Kendell house, leaving out any mention of Mr. Bumbles. If there was a mystery to solve, it was a little too tangled to explain just yet. Nick would just be happy to know she was working with Tim, staying with Don and Nellie in Kankakee, and not rattling around in the house alone. Jane logged out and settled back into rereading the script.
It had been a while since Jane had done props on a theatrical production, but, she reasoned with herself, how hard could this show be? Even though MITEV, which was her shortened version of the bulky Murder in the Eekaknak Valley, was a three-act play, heavy on the deco set dressing, it was an almost-closed-room kind of murder mystery. No real scene changes.
Myra, a famous actress, retires and moves back to the Eekaknak Valley of her childhood, buys the biggest house in town, and invites all of her relatives and ne’er-do-well friends to live there with her. A cousin who resembles Myra is found murdered in the herb garden, laid out with flowers and leaves decorating the body, and a detective sets up shop in the gazebo, ready to solve the mystery and woo Hermione, Myra’s daughter.
“Who’s playing Hermione?” said Jane out loud. “Why in the world wouldn’t Tim offer that role to me?”
Rita, resting under Jane’s bare feet, sighed and groaned. It wasn’t the first time that the dog had heard the question.
“Okay, maybe I’m too old for Hermione, which means that Tim is too damn old for Craven, but if not Hermione, I could have played Myra—aged it up a bit.”
Rita had been listening to Jane mutter and mumble and watched her scribble notes to herself for three hours—twenty-one hours in dog time—and enough seemed to be enough. The dog rose, stretched, and trotted off toward the kitchen in search of Nellie and leftovers and a tall, cool drink, not necessarily in that order.
“Yeah, go ahead. Just like in college—everybody wants to hang out with the actor. Who wants to be with the techie?”
Jane had read the play twice, making a list of all objects required to be on the set, which thankfully did not change through the acts. Freddy Kendell had spent more time specifying props and set dressing than he had on believability of characters. Jane was delighted to see that her work, in the form of a meticulously detailed props list, was practically done for her.
A formal and ornately decorated living room with three entrances: One, in the rear opens onto the garden. Stage left is the entrance from the dining room; stage right leads to the front entrance of the stately home. There is a staircase in the rear leading to the upstairs bedrooms and living quarters of Myra, Hermione, and all of their relatives, friends, and hangers-on.
The fact that the set remained the same except for the hospital bed set up on one side during the second act when the room is converted into Myra’s mother, Marguerite’s sick room simplified the set dressing somewhat. Curtains, rugs, furniture would all remain the same. A bar set up downstage left would be fun. Jane already had the glasses, cocktail shaker, and decanters sketched out—all from Tim Lowry’s private collection. Jane knew he’d balk at letting his Chase cocktail set out of his house, but those were the sacrifices an actor-director would have to make for his art.
“I told you I’m not interested. Do you see the sign there? I printed it myself, and…” Nellie’s voice was rising steadily. Jane hadn’t heard the doorbell but had heard her mother open the front door and start talking before any sounds came from the other side. Jane pitied the poor child who might be selling candy for his Little League team or, worse yet, the earnest college student collecting signatures for a worthwhile cause.
Jane had set up shop in the small room one step down from the living room, which her mother referred to as the breezeway and her father referred to as the den. It was neither breezy nor denlike; it was just a convenient and tidy little room that led from the attached garage into the small dining area and living room of her parents’ early-fifties, almost-ranch-style house. The house was a one-story with a deep basement, laid out like a ranch, but with touches that were definitely pre-fifties ranch explosion—a fireplace alcove, a built-in china cupboard. Cape Cod meets California? Jane’s parents had moved to this house during Jane’s senior year in high school, so it was and wasn’t her childhood home. Jane had lived there, occupied a bedroom across from her parents’ room, and tried to entertain friends in the finished basement, but only for a year. This house had never stuck as her real home. She always felt like a tourist when she stayed with Don and Nellie, except when she worked on a project in the breezeway. Jane had claimed this room, the one that was neither fish nor fowl, as her own space. The knotty pine wainscoting was right out of the forties, and although the windows on both sides had been updated, the wooden venetian blinds were old-school—fat, real wooden slats—installed long before mini blinds were a gleam in some metal fabricator’s eye. Jane had found a comfy old stuffed chair with hassock and dragged in a small wooden side table to use as a makeshift desk. An open corner cupboard held plants—ropy philodendrons and ivies cascaded down the front of the shelves. Nellie claimed that she had never killed a houseplant. Even when she tries, Don would always add. Nellie always claimed that houseplants just grew for her, and although Jane had pointed out the excellent light sources, windows on both sides—southern and northern exposure—her mother had shrugged it off.
“It isn’t the light that makes my plants grow,” she said, nodding. “I’ve got secrets.”
Now Jane could hear her mother growing more agitated at the front door. When she heard Rita give her low, almost inaudible growl of warning, Jane shoved aside her notebooks and hopped up.
Although Nellie seemed to be treating the four people standing on the porch as a cross between door-to-door missionaries—“I got my own church”—and vacuum cleaner salesmen—“I don’t need anything you’re selling”—Jane could see right away that they were neither.
The only male in the quartet looked the least disturbed; he seemed to be amused by Nellie’s bum’s rush. Although it had been more than twenty years since Jane had seen the man, she recognized him right away. Still tall, of course, but also still handsome—all the girls had thought him pretty dreamy when he started teaching freshman English at Bishop McNamara during Jane’s senior year.
“Hi, Mr. Havens,” Jane said, trying to edge around Nellie, who, tiny as she was, seemed to grow in every way when she was bent on blocking the doorway. Before he could answer, the woman who Jane now realized had been doing all the talking, who had taken Nellie on, eyeball-to-eyeball, turned to Jane and began lau
ghing.
“I think you can probably drop the ‘mister’ stuff now, Jane. Still afraid of getting a demerit?” Although Jane might not have recognized her face, she would have known the voice anywhere. Low, throaty, always sounding as if she knew a delicious secret. Twentysome years might have changed the face and altered the body, but that voice was unmistakable. Mary Wainwright.
Why is it a universal truth that no matter how far one travels in life, no matter how much material and professional success one achieves, when one is confronted with one’s high school nemesis who could always reduce one to a stuttering clown, one …
Jane’s highest thought process could not finish on a high note—damn it. Now that Jane was face-to-face with Mary Wainwright, no matter how hard she tried to think herself onto the high road, to reflect on youth with lofty language, it clearly wouldn’t work. When Jane thought about her four years of high school, sitting next to Mary Wainwright in class after class, competing for grades, boys, class offices, and the leads in every school play, Mary Wainwright was, and Jane now realized, disappointed in her own pettiness, would probably always be “the bitch who tried to ruin my life.”
“Do you know Patty Horton?” Mary asked, introducing the dark-haired woman, perhaps five or six years older than Jane and Mary. And with a gesture to her left, she indicated the fourth member of the group, a gray-haired woman who looked embarrassed to be standing there. “And this is Rica Evans.”
Nellie had remained quiet during the introductions, partially, Jane was sure, out of curiosity. Her finely tuned antennae would have picked up Jane’s agitation and Nellie, always delighted to observe discomfiture, especially, Jane thought, in her daughter, was willing to wait a few minutes longer before slamming the door in the faces of her visitors.
Backstage Stuff Page 4