“I didn’t know there were any missing paintings before you showed up,” said Jane. “Besides, I really don’t think there’s much art up there. There were the three pictures for the set that Freddy had labeled for the play. But that was…”
Claire, as grand a lady as she might be when making an entrance, hunkered right down into the dust and cobwebs of the attic storage room. Jane had to admit she was game when it came to a real treasure hunt. The wooden racks where Jane had found the paintings held five canvases. Claire looked through them, scanning them from corner to corner, then shook her head.
“I don’t think there’s any more artwork. The first trunk is empty, we used everything. The second trunk has some stuff, but nothing valuable.…”
Claire went through the books and candlesticks and other smalls that Jane had decided not to use for set dressing. The first trunk had held all of the essential objects that the play called for.
“You said the house is for sale,” said Jane. “Already on the market…”
Claire nodded, slamming down the lid of the trunk in disgust.
“That means the Realtor has a key?”
“There’s a lockbox on the side door. The one off the kitchen, through the pantry area. Why?”
“We’ve always used the front door. That’s why I didn’t see it. Until today, I hadn’t even taken the time to walk through the backyard,” said Jane. “That lockbox. Every Realtor in town can get into the house. I mean, potentially. We need to have Claire call her broker and find out who she showed the house to and when … and if it was before Rick came and picked up the wrong objects to send to auction.”
When Claire and Jane were back in the kitchen, Claire browsed through all of the open cabinets with prices and signs taped to the doors, while Jane flipped through a small notebook she had stashed in her back pocket.
“Margaret, Rick, Tim, Bryan Kendell—those are the people who have keys to the house. Now I have to add the Realtor and…”
“And who?” asked Claire, turning over a crystal dish, holding it sideways to the light from the window to see if she could read a signature.
Jane decided not to mention the keys to the coach house. No reason to start a stampede. She would check it out herself this afternoon, and if there was anything to discover, it would all be done by the end of the day. Before she could think of a misdirection in which to point Claire, Claire handed her a small bowl.
“Get this out of the five-dollar cabinet. It’s Orrefors.”
* * *
Tim was disappointed when Jane announced she was going back to her parents’ house for lunch. He had brought his usual picnic basket of surprises, and counted on feeding Jane as one of his small pleasures. Jane asked him to save a bite of whatever he had for dessert and promised to be back in an hour. She owed it to Rita, though, to at least give her a fast romp before saying good-bye again for the rest of the day and night.
Jane cut what was going to be a fast fifteen-minute walk to ten, trotting around a block and a half, then bringing the reluctant dog back in the house through the garage door. Jane refilled the dog’s water, tossed a biscuit her way, then packed a canvas tote with her rehearsal notes. She rummaged on the breezeway desk, where she had set up camp, slipping the sheets of paper with everyone’s measurements, the copies of individual actors’ prop lists, everything she might need for reference or for tonight’s rehearsal. Stepping into the house from her makeshift office, she allowed herself one glance around her parents’ lair.
Had anything changed since her senior year in high school when they had moved in? It all seemed so familiar to her since most of the arrangements of furniture, the knickknacks on the lone shelf Nellie had allowed for nonessentials—all were exactly the same as they had been in their previous house, the one that Jane and Michael had considered their true childhood home. Jane scanned the bookshelves that flanked the nonworking fireplace that Nellie had never wanted to fix, since fires were dirty, and marveled at the fact that the same few books, in exactly the same order, were on those shelves that she remembered from fourth grade. The World Book Encyclopedia, of course, which Don had bought for his children as an essential component of their education, occupied the top two shelves. In addition, there were four brown faux leather volumes of Zane Grey that Don had from somewhere, a collection of Mark Twain essays, two Reader’s Digest condensed novels from God-knows-where since there were no adult fiction readers in the house, and Jane’s favorite, the large green out-of-date atlas that she had loved paging through. Jane remembered reciting the names of countries and cities and rivers and mountain ranges, asking her father what he knew about them. She never bothered to ask Nellie, since the only answer would be a “What the hell you care about Tasmania for?”
“Except for the night we found that theater program,” said Jane to Rita, who was whimpering lovingly to a large bone-shaped biscuit, paying no attention to Jane’s chatter. “And we didn’t even realize that it was a theater program, Rita.” The dog shook her body and turned herself away from Jane, who clearly didn’t realize that Rita was busy with something important.
Jane approached the bookcase, letting muscle memory take over. Every book was identically placed, so perhaps they had been packed from the old house in boxes exactly in that order and placed on these shelves precisely as they had been at the old house. Jane and Michael had found the program in the atlas, so Jane removed the large book, held it in the crook of her left arm, and paged through.
Jane knew that if the program had been left and forgotten inside the book, it would still be in the same place. If Nellie had remembered it, she probably would have destroyed it or at least hidden it away from those snoopy children of hers. Jane was almost positive that she and Michael had been paging through the states and turned from Illinois to … and there it was. Protected in the old atlas, the proof of Nellie’s life in the theater remained intact.
MURDER IN THE EEKAKNAK VALLEY
A MYSTERY IN THREE ACTS
by Frederick Kendell
The program was hand-printed on heavy paper. It was probably a prototype for the programs they had planned to print for their opening night. Closed up in the atlas, it had been protected from dust and mites and remained in good condition for a fifty-plus-year-old piece of ephemera. Jane turned to the cast list. Henry Gand played Phillip Craven, the dashing detective, and as Jane already knew, there was her mother’s maiden name, Nellie Schaltis, playing the ingenue, Hermoine.
Jane knew from the last names of other people in the cast that these were people from the other side of town, the wealthier side, the educated side. These were the sons and daughters of business owners and bankers, not her mother’s friends, the Lithuanian and Polish factory girls who had dropped out of high school to work long hours at the hosiery factory and bring home weekly paychecks to their mothers.
From the first time Jane had mentioned acting in a play in high school, Nellie had harassed her about it, calling it a waste of time and worse.
“Bunch of show-offs saying, “Look at me, look at me,” that’s what theater sounds like to me,” said Nellie.
Jane smiled, fingering the program, remembering the time Nellie had come to the dressing room at the Krannert Center after seeing Jane in a college production. Don had carried a bouquet of red roses and beamed at his daughter, so proud and so impressed that there was an actual dressing room with lights around a mirror and his daughter’s name taped right on top of that mirror. Nellie hung back, arms folded, and when Jane asked her if she had liked the play, Nellie had just shrugged. “It was okay.”
Jane remembered now, when they had gone out to a restaurant, Nellie had leaned over and told her that she had done a good job mixing the drinks in Act Two.
“That looked real, when you measured out that scotch, and held it up, looking at it in the light. I liked that part,” said Nellie.
At the time, Jane thought it was funny that Nellie picked out one unimportant moment, a bartending moment of all things, to comp
liment. She now remembered what Nellie said after that, though. “You got to own them things you touch. When you poured that drink, it was real, like those bottles were yours.”
Jane had begun to thank her, touched at how much she had noticed. Jane also felt she had a good moment in that scene.
“Not like when you arranged those flowers,” Nellie continued. “You looked like you didn’t know a tulip from a begonia in that scene.”
Jane remembered all of this now because the whole night came flooding back. The guy doing props hadn’t shown up and they needed new flowers. The assistant director had run out to a supermarket and bought a cheap bouquet that had a few especially sharp, thorny roses in it. Jane kept pricking her fingers when she tried to select stems to put in the vase. She had let those flowers throw her in that scene but thought she covered it. Everyone, including the director, had told her she covered well. Except for Nellie.
Jane put the theater program in the tote with all of her rehearsal material and gave Rita a good rub between the ears.
“There’s more to that Nellie than meets the eye, right, Rita?”
“Damn right there is.”
Nellie gave a low evil chuckle while Jane tried to recover her equilibrium.
“Mom, when are you going to stop sneaking up on me?”
“You’re in my house, going through my stuff, and I saw you steal something of mine and put it into your bag. Who’s the sneak?”
Jane looked back and forth from Nellie to Rita. The dog was standing so close to Nellie, there was no light between them, and both, if Jane’s perceptions were on target, were giving her the fish-eye.
“You were an actress. Why didn’t you tell me? Why’d you always say it was a waste of time?”
“It was my business. And it was a waste of time.”
“Did you like doing it?”
“It was all right. I didn’t like it the way Henry and them did. They were always crazy to put on a show. Henry heard that Freddy Kendell was writing a new play and…”
“Were they friends? In school together or something?”
“Henry’s just a few years older than me. How old do you think I am? Freddy was old. He had a bunch of people his age and his son’s age to be in the play, but he needed some kids like us and all them rich people knew each other from the country club, so he told Henry to get his friends together and he’d pick some of us to be in his play.”
Jane kept gathering up her things for the rest of the day while she listened to her mother. “I want to continue this conversation, but I have to get over to the Kendell place now.” Jane turned back to her mother. “This is why you give Tim such a hard time at rehearsal. He’s not directing it the same way Freddy did.”
“It ain’t the same play.”
“It never is, Mom. Theater is a living art—every production is different. Every actor, every director brings something new.… At least that’s what you hope for.”
The strumming of a harp interrupted Jane.
“Where’s the damn angel coming from?” asked Nellie, looking around.
Jane held up her phone. She answered Tim and promised she was leaving immediately.
“To be continued,” said Jane.
* * *
Jane ran into her bedroom to grab her phone charger, threw it in her bag, and yelled good-bye to Nellie and Rita. When she got to her car, she found Nellie slumped down in the front seat.
“What?”
“You’re the one wanted to continue everything, Mrs. Drama Queen. Besides, Tim called me at the tavern this morning and asked me to come over when I could and help out at the Kendells’. That Margaret’s a little crazy about the dust, so Tim asked me if I’d do some washing up of stuff for the sale. Dad sure as hell didn’t need me at the tavern. Place is as dead as a doornail today.”
“But after Marvin and everything, don’t you want to…?”
“What? Lay around and think about the poor old guy all day? Nope. I’d rather wash dishes and see if Margaret knows something about who clobbered Marvin. Nobody died until she showed up, right?”
“No, Mom, I don’t want you—”
“You said ‘to be continued,’ like a damn TV announcer, and I’m continuing. No time like the present.”
“Okay, fine,” said Jane, starting the car. Before backing out of the driveway, she reached up and removed the silver necklace she had been wearing all morning. “I guess you can start by telling me all about this.”
Nellie took the chain from Jane and studied the key that hung from it. Then she picked up the tiny disk and tromboned it back and forth in front of her eyes, squinting to read the engraving. Aloud she said, “How about that?”
Jane raised her eyebrows and echoed, “Yeah, how about that?”
Shifting into reverse, Jane kept one eye on her mother, who carefully slipped the chain around her own neck.
“What are you doing?” asked Jane.
“It’s mine, ain’t it? It’s got my name on it. I guess I can wear it if I want to.”
15
“Old Freddy Kendell was a weirdo, but he was a nice enough guy. Always throwing in new things when we practiced the play, making jokes, hiding things on the set. He had a rubber chicken he used to stick in a desk drawer,” Nellie said.
Jane heard what sounded like ice breaking up on a pond. Had she driven over a carton of bubble wrap? No … it was Nellie laughing. Who knew that Nellie was a sucker for prop comedy?
“He loved his grandkids, always talked about them. Thought his son was a complete dope. Funny, though…”
“What?” Jane drove slowly back to the Kendells’. Might as well let Nellie talk as long as she was in the mood. Jane was afraid once they arrived at the house and Nellie went on duty washing dishes and cleaning up the place, the rare talkative mood she was in right now would pass for good.
“Everybody thinks just because somebody wears a suit and ties their tie, they’re one of the sensible people in this world. The ones like Freddy who act like nuts? Everybody thinks they’re nuts, but…” Nellie fingered the chain she had slipped around her neck. “Freddy was just his own guy, that’s all. He wore crazy clothes and sang and danced and made that dummy talk for him. One time, he had the dummy direct the whole rehearsal. It was creepy as hell. But with Freddy, you knew what you got. He was nuts, but he was honest nuts.”
Jane nodded and pulled over before reaching the driveway leading to the Kendell place. She didn’t want to pull into the circle in plain sight of the house and have Claire Oh come bustling outside. She did want to hear the rest of what Nellie had to say.
“But Fred, Margaret and Rick’s dad? He was the real nut. Quiet. Mean as hell to his wife. I don’t think he ever let her say more than three words in front of company. Freddy hated him—his own son, too. But he loved those children, Margie and Rick, and was always talking about how he’d take care of them. How he had to provide for them. He worried about Fred investing away the family money. He said he’d write the plays that would be their fortune. I was just a kid when Henry brought me here to be in Freddy’s play, and I had never read a play let alone acted in one. But I’ll tell you one thing for sure. Even though I didn’t know anything about plays, I knew this one sure as hell wasn’t going to make a fortune for anybody.”
Jane laughed. Nellie had taste. She knew what she was talking about.
“We did the best we could to make it sound right, but the play was corny as hell.”
“It is corny,” agreed Jane.
Nellie gestured that Jane should drive on. Jane could tell she was winding down. This had been more talking in one sitting than Jane had ever heard from her mother. Detective Oh would tell her to fight all her instincts to draw her out even more and just quietly let her keep going. Jane bit her tongue to keep from asking any questions.
“Yeah, this one’s corny, too,” said Nellie with a sigh.
Jane parked her car behind Tim’s truck.
“What do you mean, this one?” Jane asked, fo
rgetting all about the tongue-biting.
“This play we’re doing with Tim. It’s just as corny as the first one,” said Nellie.
“I have the program from the play you were going to be in from before, Mom. Murder in the Eekaknak Valley. Same play, same characters. But you were playing Hermione, the young girl, not Marguerite. Maybe you’re just confusing the lines because you’re playing a different part?”
Too much. Jane could hear Detective Oh now in her ear, telling her she had said too much, offered too much of her own opinion. She had made a judgment, and that was guaranteed to make the other person defensive. Or, in Nellie’s case, shut down for another decade or two. The seventeen-year cicada had nothing on Nellie.
“Oh, that’s it, huh? I’m just senile.”
Nellie got out of the car and slammed the door.
Jane watched her mother march up the front steps of the house and walk right in the door without hesitation. Nellie might claim to have felt like she was from the wrong side of the tracks when she was young, but she sure as hell wasn’t intimidated by a big fancy house anymore.
Jane pulled the old program from her bag. The small block printing was the same as that on the Mr. Bumbles notes she had seen. Except for the one that was written in wobbly cursive, the others were all written in these boxy capitals. The name of the play was the same, Murder in the Eekaknak Valley. Character names were the same. Jane read the author’s note.
I hope this entertainment provides you, the audience, with a delightful evening. I dedicate this play to my grandchildren, Margaret and Ricky. Dear children, may this play have a long life and provide you with years of pleasure.
Jane slipped the program back into her bag. Freddy might have been a nut, but this program note didn’t give off the kind of nuttiness Nellie had described. He simply wanted his play to go on forever. Didn’t every writer seek immortality for his work?
By the time Jane got into the house, Nellie was already at the kitchen sink. Margaret looked happier than she had earlier, handing Nellie dusty bits and bobs of pink and green Depression and creamy white milk glass that she was pulling randomly out of the cupboards. Nellie looked perfectly at home and Margaret looked content. What was wrong with this picture?
Backstage Stuff Page 13