Jane accepted this horrible story for what it was: the background she had sorely needed to put this puzzle together. Or were these facts just more random pieces that belonged to an altogether different puzzle?
“I still don’t understand, though, about the play,” said Jane. “Was it ever put on?”
Four different answers in unison.
“No,” said Tim.
“Yes,” said Margaret.
“What’s the difference?” asked Claire.
“What play?” asked Nellie.
“And why is Mr. Bumbles trying to stop this production?” continued Jane.
Margaret was standing between her grandfather Freddy’s desk and the giant wall of windows. She held a book and the paper knife and at the mention of Mr. Bumbles, she dropped both. Claire clutched Margaret’s arm as she appeared to be falling, and Oh sprang to her side with the desk chair, giving her a seat before she could fall.
As pale as she looked, she wasn’t out for the count. She looked directly at Jane and shook her head.
“Who told you about Mr. Bumbles?” she asked.
“I met him the first day Tim brought me to the house to work,” said Jane. “He was just … hanging around.” If there are gods of puns, please forgive me, thought Jane. “And when Penny Kendell had an accident, she received a note signed Bumby, and there’s a Mr. Bumbles in the storage bench just outside that door,” said Jane.
“And there were some notes in the scripts of Murder in the Eekaknak Valley that warned us that the play was bad luck,” said Tim. “They were signed by Mr.”—Tim caught himself—“by someone who claimed to be Bumby.”
“You should pay attention to the notes,” said Margaret. “The play is bad luck.” Margaret shifted in her seat, sitting up a little straighter. “Besides, Mr. Bumbles never lies.”
Jane made the mistake of looking at Nellie, who was on her way from the small bathroom backstage where she had found a clean towel and soaked it in cool water to revive Margaret. When Nellie heard Margaret’s remark about Bumbles, she stopped in her tracks and twirled her finger around her temple, nodding toward Margaret, and cleared her throat. Jane looked away from her mother immediately.
Although Margaret looked dead serious, Claire burst out laughing. Jane had never heard Claire Oh laugh. In fact, she wasn’t sure she had ever seen evidence that she had a fully hinged jaw.
“Ah, you think I kid,” said Margaret, barely changing expression, giving a sideways glance at Claire, but I—”
“Let me out.”
Jane looked at Nellie, since the cranky, half-strangled voice sounded more like her mother than anyone else in the room. Nellie, however, was looking around behind her, trying to find the source of the cry.
“I said to let me out now.”
There was a loud knocking and although Jane thought the voice came from near the backstage area, she couldn’t pinpoint the banging.
Tim had grown so white he was tinged with blue.
Where was Detective Oh? Jane turned around and saw him on the other side of the space, stationed near Nellie, looking ready to assist her if she got frightened. Nellie, however, just looked, in equal parts, mad and frustrated. Jane thought Oh might do better to station himself next to Tim, who could be going down at any minute.
“That knocking has to be coming from there,” said Nellie. She pointed to double doors that adjoined the backstage area. Jane had opened the single door that led directly backstage while exploring but had not opened the bifold doors that were almost hidden along the side of this area between the front of the house and backstage area. Jane looked up, noting that the heavy draperies which would block out light in the event that the space was used for performances would also cover these doors. More backstage storage? Side-stage storage? Lighting cabinets?
Nellie was already heading for the doors, but Jane beat her to them.
“Stand back, Mom,” said Jane, grabbing one of the door handles and giving it a sideways pull.
The hinged door folded in on itself in the middle and then swung open wide from the main door frame, revealing a multishelved storage space about six feet wide. Nellie, right behind Jane, imitated the way Jane opened the door and with a Nellie-ish flourish—part anger, part impatience—did the same on the other side, yanking the door to the side, then out.
Jane had fully expected to find something grotesque—backstage props lined up in a row often have the look of the unworldly. Taxidermy, grimacing masks, menacing sculptures, bloody skulls, severed limbs. She had not, however, expected to see twenty-four versions of maniacally grinning Mr. Bumbles in various postures, sitting and standing, inside the giant cupboards.
Tim squeaked out a mild “Yikes,” but the rest of the observers took in the surreal gallery in silence.
There were several Mr. Bumbles dolls dressed as the boy in plaid and denim, the way Jane had originally met him. There were also versions of Bumbles in top hat and tails. He was dressed, as if for Halloween, as both a pirate and a hobo. And there were some in which he was attired in business casual circa 1958, with slacks and a V-neck sweater over a button-down shirt, looking as if he were preparing to sing a Christmas duet with Perry Como or Bing Crosby.
“Well,” said Nellie, after scanning the four long shelves, left to right, “which one of you wanted out?”
“I would say the one who’s already been out running around doing mischief,” said Jane, stepping back from the closet and looking over the rows.
“Are they serious? Do they believe one of them talked?” asked Claire in a loud whisper.
Margaret, in a soft stutter, started to explain, “It was … I was just … I am a … my Grandpa Freddy taught me to…”
“Yes,” said Jane, “I know your special talent. I saw your yearbook.”
Tim began to breathe more normally.
“But even if you were playing a joke on us, Margaret,” said Jane, “I think your instincts were right. One of these guys has been out recently and probably has more of a taste for mischief than the others.”
Jane now stepped forward and pointed to Mr. Bumbles wearing a brown tweed suit. His shiny black shoes weren’t streaked with dust like those of the other Bumbles dummies lined up in the closet. His jacket was rumpled and his overall appearance, if one compared him to his fellow Bumbles, was disheveled. Most interesting to Jane, however, was his neckwear. Or lack thereof. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the polka-dotted bow and clip she had picked up behind the theater that morning, thinking a child had lost it on a jaunt along the walking path. Around Bumbles’s neck was the remnant of polka-dotted ribbon which comprised only half of what had been a sporty bow tie.
“I think Mr. Bumbles wanted to get out and find his lost tie, don’t you?” asked Jane.
Nellie nodded and grabbed the fabric from Jane and held it up to Mr. Bumbles’s neck. “You find this last night?” she asked.
Jane shook her head and explained how she and Rita had found it on their walk that morning.
“That little sonofabitch was there,” said Nellie, pointing at Bumbles. “That’s who I saw. That little dummy killed Marvin.”
16
Jane could wrap up the case now.
After fingering Mr. Bumbles for Marvin’s murder, Nellie stared at the row upon row of Mr. Bumbles in the cabinet, then shrugged, brushed her hands together as if to say that’s that, and motioned to Margaret to come with her so they could get back to the dishwashing waiting in the house.
Case closed.
Except for a few problems.
First? Mr. Bumbles was a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Last? Mr. Bumbles was a ventriloquist’s dummy.
Claire and Tim had followed Nellie and Margaret back to the house, leaving Jane and Oh alone in Freddy’s Theater Club. Jane continued to stare at all of the Bumbles, who, perhaps not so oddly, stared right back.
“Freddy must have single-handedly kept a toy company in business. I wonder where he bought these?” said Jane.
Oh crossed over to Freddy’s desk and opened a drawer.
“If you think it’s important, Mrs. Wheel, we could probably find out.”
If she thought it was important? What was important about any of this? Mr. Bumbles seemed to be at the heart of everything—he had tried to warn Jane and Tim away from the house, away from the play. He had played havoc—or, at the least, a game of marbles—with Bryan and Penny Kendell, sending Penny to the emergency room. He had left a note in Rica Evans’s script … in several scripts according to Tim. And now, according to Nellie, he had clobbered Marvin with one of Marvin’s own four-by-fours.
“I guess if we hang Marvin’s death on Mr. Bumbles, everything about him is important. I mean, what was his motivation?”
Oh looked as if he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
“I do know that it isn’t Mr. Bumbles himself,” said Jane. “But instead of trying to say whoever the person is dragging around Mr. Bumbles, or one of the Bumbles, I just think it’s easier to…” Jane paused, considering how to put this in the most professional manner. “I’m just naming our perpetrator Mr. Bumbles.”
Oh nodded. “That’s a good idea; however, it’s not what troubles me. Mr. Bumbles as a mischief-maker, one who left notes in the scripts? That could have been Freddy. He was a prankster and Margaret often told us of his antics with Mr. Bumbles. But the more serious offenses? The accident with Penny Kendell, Mr. Marvin’s accident or worse … those are the work of an unsound mind. Using the doll as a surrogate? And if this person has access to this house as evidenced by his access to the dummies, he could be in a position to harm you or Mr. Lowry when you are here working. You mustn’t continue to work here alone as you did last week.”
Jane couldn’t say exactly what she was thinking. Now that Claire Oh had her friend Margaret’s ear and now that she had seen the treasure trove in this house? No chance Jane and Tim would ever be here without Claire latching on. So if the old saw “safety in numbers” had any validity, the Kendell mansion had just become a much more protected site.
“Do you really think trying to scare us is the work of an unsound mind? Or is it someone who wants us to think he or she is just some creepy psychopath? What’s scarier than a ventriloquist’s dummy? Why not try to scare someone or distract them if what you really want to do is have access to this house? That would explain trying to scare Tim and me away from the sale,” said Jane. “Bumbles doesn’t want to hurt us, just wants to keep us, and possibly Bryan and Penny Kendell, who have a key, away from the house so he or she has more time to hunt for valuables. Makes sense to me that it was Bumbles who took the artwork, made the switch for the auction house.”
“Bumbles, not brother Rick?” said Oh.
“Unless Bumbles is brother Rick,” said Jane.
Feeling more like an amateur psychiatrist than a detective, Jane tried to put things in order. Jane walked over to the closet and picked up the wandering Mr. Bumbles, the one Nellie had accused of Marvin’s murder. When Jane picked him up, his right leg slipped out of his body and hung lower than the left. She realized it wasn’t just his tie that was torn away, he also had a broken leg. He had been up to something all right.
“What does the other guy look like?” Jane asked Mr. Bumbles.
“It wasn’t a toy company, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, studying a page from Freddy’s desk drawer. “The Bumbles, at least the more recent acquisitions, last twenty years, were made and maintained by a private woodworking firm here. Looks like the last new Bumbles was made nine years ago. The company did repair work. This is an invoice from six years ago for repairs on Bumble number seventeen. His neck was rehinged,” said Oh.
“Yikes,” said Jane.
Jane closed up the cupboard but took the Bumbles with the broken leg down before latching the doors. Why not take him into protective custody for the time being? Besides, he had a broken leg. Perhaps Margaret would want them to leave him at the woodworker’s for repairs. Then again, if she felt the need to resurrect one of her ventriloquism routines, she did have about twenty other dummies to choose from.
Jane locked the door to the theater club but decided to hold on to Marvin’s key. She fingered the cold silver of the key and name tag, slipping them underneath her shirt.
Oh reached into the storage bench and pocketed the other keys as well. “No reason to make it even easier for our Bumbles to come and go at will,” said Oh. “I’m sure Margaret would agree.”
Margaret, after her earlier comeback as the ventriloquist, had once again become the protégé of puppetmaster Nellie, who was instructing her on the finer points of dishwashing. Margaret, every bit the grateful student being trained in the ways of an important art, was properly respectful, carefully imitating the way Nellie dried a glass, rubbing the rim so hard it threatened to break apart in her bare hands.
“You don’t want spots,” said Nellie, a pronouncement so fierce that any pupil had no choice but to shake her head, agreeing that no, she certainly did not want spots.
Jane studied Margaret from the doorway. Could she be fooling them all with her shy and confused demeanor? She had access to the house. She could throw her voice. She knew her way around the Bumbles family. Maybe she had taken the valuable articles, then used her mighty acting skills to convince Claire that her brother or someone was taking advantage.
Nellie handed Margaret a new towel. “Can’t get ’em dry with a wet towel,” said Nellie.
Why did everything Nellie say sound like it should be embroidered on a pillow or scrawled on a public bathroom wall?
Margaret reached out a shaky hand for the clean towel. If she was faking her fragile state and was good enough to fool Nellie, who had X-ray vision for phonies and liars, Jane would be shocked.
Margaret is as needy as a dry sponge, thought Jane, almost satisfied that she could hold her own with embroidery-worthy thoughts.
* * *
The plan was for Jane and Oh to run over to the woodworking studio with the damaged and tieless Bumbles in tow and see if there was anything to learn about the dummies. Jane knew that it might be a wasted errand—after all, what could the woodcarver/repairman tell them about a dummy that would be helpful in terms of solving either a murder or a theft? Then again, Jane pointed out to Oh that a repair on a dummy had been done six years ago according to one of the receipts, and Freddy had been in ill health at the end of his life around then. Who was maintaining this collection?
Besides, who wouldn’t want to visit a business named Geppetto Studios?
While Jane and Oh were off detecting, as Claire Oh characterized their errand, she and Margaret would stick with Tim and Nellie, organizing and prepping for the sale at the house, then everyone would grab dinner and meet at the theater for rehearsal. Although there had been some lip service paid to canceling the show because of Marvin’s death, the talk seemed to have faded. Jane was gathering up her bag of tricks when she heard Tim on his cell phone telling someone that rehearsal would begin at seven thirty, as originally scheduled.
* * *
“Interesting,” Jane said to Oh. “We are always here if we’re not at rehearsal, and still someone manages to get in and out, taking out and replacing one of the Bumbles? Pretty lucky timing, wouldn’t you say?”
Oh drove Jane’s car so she could respond to a text message from Nick. Although she had never met a short story she couldn’t make into a novel, and did not feel that tiny keyboarded messages were her forte, she was trying to keep in touch as best she could with Nick in his preferred means of communication. Jane smiled to herself—today was the communication trifecta. She had seen new photos on Facebook, read a tweet, and now had a text. Since she had sent Nick an e-mail, he might return that, too, and that would mean they had covered all the electronic ground available to them for the day. After hitting send, she stretched out her fingers and arms and picked up broken-legged Bumbles and sat him on her lap.
According to the receipt that Oh had found, one of the Bumbles had needed r
ehinging. How many times a day did she feel that she could use rehinging? Jane was pretty sure the Geppetto woodworkers would not have help for the wearing out of her own joints and hinges, but they might be able to say who had been bringing the dummies in for repair and refurbishing. Margaret, in London for half the year, said she hadn’t visited the Bumbles collection in years. When she had come to the house to assess the property, she hadn’t even gone into Freddy’s studio.
If Jane hadn’t met Margaret, watched her shake and falter, she wouldn’t have believed that there was any part of the property she hadn’t visited. An heir to the estate, one who needed to wring all the profit from it that she could? Why in the world wouldn’t she visit the old theater club? Claire, speaking for her, said that Margaret had told her she wouldn’t want to sell anything that had a close personal connection to Freddy. She knew there was nothing particularly valuable, and until she had to clear the house, she was putting off going through the detritus of Freddy’s life. Claire said Margaret knew all of it would be painful, and she was taking on what she could, when she could.
“But Freddy had told her that it was his play that would provide for her,” said Jane aloud to Oh. “Why wouldn’t she think that some clue to what he meant would be in his studio?”
“Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, following her directions to Geppetto Studios. “I’m afraid you’re asking aloud the question provoked by a long chain of your silent thoughts.”
“Sorry,” said Jane, fingering the key she now wore around her neck. If Nellie kept wearing hers, too, people would think they were going steady. “This is the place.”
Backstage Stuff Page 15