“Look at him there, watching and grinning, sitting there all smug with his legs crossed,” said Jane. “I did not put him there.”
Detective Ramey looked up from the small notebook in which he had been writing.
“Mrs. Wheel, I don’t follow why—”
“Someone, whoever killed Rick Kendell, wanted us to notice that Bumbles approved,” said Jane.
“Would you like us to get you a cup of tea or coffee or something, Mrs. Wheel?” asked Ramey.
Jane looked around for Bruce Oh, who had been consulting with the team examining the site from which Rick Kendell’s body had just been removed.
Suzanne and the rest of the Geppettos, those who worked here, belonged here, were the only people, aside from Jane and Oh, left in the building. All of those who had attended Marvin’s memorial had gone, one by one, or in groups, and one of the police officers was now looking through the memorial guest book with Suzanne. Jane had heard her tell the officer that she couldn’t think of anyone else who had attended who hadn’t signed.
“Rick,” Jane heard her finally say. “Rick was here and he didn’t sign. And those two over there,” she added, pointing to Jane and Oh.
Jane and Oh, the other unexpected guests who hadn’t signed the book and who ended up being the last people to leave the memorial service, explained their presence at Geppetto Studios, if not their entire mission. They had come to meet the carpenter who repaired equipment for Freddy Kendell—to ask a few questions concerning the Kendell estate. They had decided to stay for the memorial service for Marvin, with whom they had been acquainted through the theater. Jane had only to look at Oh to know that she should say as little as possible. This was because of his always cautious, never say more than is absolutely necessary manner, but also, this time, because Jane knew that the only person she had seen who looked like he wanted to murder Rick Kendell was her partner, Bruce Oh. Most of the people in the building had a reason for wanting Rick Kendell dead, but Detective Oh was the only one who had, so uncharacteristically, actually shown his hand.
Jane knew, of course, that she and Bruce were also the only two people who had constant alibis, since they had been in the back of the building the entire time, in conversation with or in full sight of others. Each of them had been in contact with at least one of the Geppettos or Suzanne, asking questions about Marvin, the business, or, in Jane’s case, consulting about the set of Murder in the Eekaknak Valley. All of the other mourners had disappeared, and any of them could have left by the front office, stopping first to ask Rick to sit down for a little chat, planning all along to kill the new landlord-in-waiting.
“Where’s the dummy?” asked Jane, reconstructing the office in her head.
“As you pointed out, Mrs. Wheel, he is sitting right there on the shelf,” said Ramey, trying to gesture to one of his female officers, possibly hoping for some help with the crazy lady.
“The other dummy,” said Jane. “The one who was there in that chair when we came in.” Jane managed to explain that there had been a tableau set up with a mannequin in what was now the death seat.
Ramey excused himself to speak with a subordinate who came over with a small pad of paper. The younger officer whispered something to Ramey, who nodded. Jane was only able to hear a disjointed phrase or two, one of them being “nail gun,” and she shuddered. There were dozens of tools in the workroom behind the office, many of them perfectly usable as a murder weapon, but a nail gun seemed particularly ominous. Whoever the Bumble was in Rick’s murder, he or she hadn’t made the effort or taken the time to make the death look like an accident—no falling beam available anyway, as there was in Marvin’s death.
Jane knew how convoluted this whole story would seem to Ramey if she tried now to explain the connection between Marvin’s alleged accident and today’s murder, and she knew the police would get there soon enough on their own anyway, so why hurry this process along? If she convinced the police to treat Marvin’s death as a murder, the entire theater area would be closed down and the show would most certainly not go on. Jane was beginning to think the only chance she would have to figure things out was to see the play through. Somehow, the production of this play, with all of its prankish warnings and ominous allusions, was key to everything that was going on.
Detective Oh, as always, had made a fine impression on the police. He was always knowledgeable and yet respectfully curious. Even if he’d told the police exactly what to look for and where, they’d somehow walk away thinking it was their own idea.
“Think about the game show your son, Nick, loves so much, Mrs. Wheel, that’s the key to dealing with others in a case.” Oh had told Jane.
“The Price Is Right?” asked Jane. Nick loved all game shows and was weirdly good at guessing the price of a box of fabric softener.
“Jeopardy, Mrs. Wheel. If you put your thoughts in the form of a question, the police will not feel like you are trying to outsmart them or do their job. It can be helpful to remember that you don’t ever want to know too much about a murder before the police do. Rather than seeing you as a helper, the more you know, the more likely they are to see you as a suspect.”
Jane tried to figure out how to put her thoughts into the form of an innocent question—wouldn’t someone have to move the mannequin out of sight and get Rick Kendell seated in the chair in order to come up behind him with a nail gun? He was too big to drag into the chair and position so perfectly. And where was the blood? There were just too many questions ricocheting inside of her head, and Jane knew giving voice to them would not make her seem merely curious. Instead, while she waited for Ramey to get his report, she tried to think herself where that life-sized mannequin that had so startled her and Oh could be stashed. She scanned the now well-lit corner of the office, looking to see if that tromp l’oeil wall might conceal a closet door. It had been such a realistic figure … tricked out like a forties private eye, yes, but aside from the vintage clothes, if it were just sitting … and then she knew. Just as sure as she knew how to spot the one Bakelite button out of hundreds in a vintage tin, a McCoy flowerpot on a table full of Morton and Haeger, and a tarnished sterling silver brooch in a bowl of pot metal pins. They were always hiding in plain sight.
Jane had been so focused on the corner of the office where Kendell had been slumped over the desk, she only now remembered that the other corner of the space held the other half of the vintage office. There was also an oak desk there with a typewriter and an adding machine. That other oak swivel chair had been empty when Suzanne barely opened the door for them. Now, Jane turned around, knowing what she would find in the still barely lit corner.
The mannequin, the same one—Jane recognized his navy blue tie peppered with red-and-white bowling pins—was now sitting up in the other chair, his arms placed on the keys of the vintage typewriter, a page of white onionskin gracefully draped over the carriage. No fedora—his hat remained on the other desk to conceal Rick’s face. Someone had moved the mannequin over to the other desk, probably before asking Rick Kendell to step out front for a chat. The murderer, or possibly murderers, would tell him to have a seat, then move behind him to point out something, perhaps, some paper on the desk, a document, a contract. He or she could then take the nail gun, which could have been stashed right on top of the bookshelf, and boom. The front office was half a block away from the back of the factory space where they had held the memorial. All of the remaining guests were still congregated in the back, some of the Geppettos had even gone back to work so there might have been carpentry noise as well as conversation to mask anything going on up front. After killing Rick, the murderer could either walk back and mingle with the guests a bit more and leave by the side or back, or the murderer could have simply left by the front office door. Anyone who walked by the place on a regular basis would be used to the practical joke—the mannequin slumped over the desk—and even Suzanne, if she had come up front to lower the shades and check the door locks, might not notice that the dead private eye
had put on about one hundred pounds. Hidden in plain sight—victim and mannequin. If Jane hadn’t come up to fetch Bumbles and been drawn to the desk by the vintage Bakelite phone, Rick Kendell might have remained part of the vintage office tableau for the rest of the evening.
Oh came over to Jane and told her that they were free to go. Jane pointed out the other desk where the mannequin now typed a letter. It was the kind of office where two private eyes might work side by side in the same space with no secretary. The mannequin looked perfectly at home at the typewriter.
Oh looked over at Ramey, still in consultation with one of his officers, and raised one shoulder almost imperceptibly.
“I’ll call him with the rest of our information later,” said Oh.
“I’m not sure I’m excused,” said Jane. “We were right in the middle of things.”
Detective Ramey told Jane they would be in touch. Soon. Despite his disinterest in what she had to say earlier about the importance of Mr. Bumbles, he would not let her take the dummy with them.
“So far, he’s my only witness, Mrs. Wheel,” said Ramey. “Perhaps my only suspect.” Although he didn’t have the complete neutrality of Oh’s face, Jane could see that Ramey had a fair poker face. Was he making fun of her or simply trying to lighten the moment, to show friendliness?
Since they were not allowed to leave by the office front door, where technicians were still working, Jane and Oh walked through the workspace toward the side door. Jane noted that Suzanne was sitting with a female officer, pale, but otherwise not visibly distraught.
“Can we go over to her and say good-bye?”
Oh didn’t answer. Instead, he took her elbow and guided her over to where Suzanne was in the middle of what seemed like an inventory list. Jane realized that the police were loading up nail guns as well as other tools from the work area and Suzanne was signing off on them.
“We’re leaving, Suzanne. Will you let us know if we can help?” said Jane, searching in her bag for a “Jane Wheel, PPI, Picker and Private Investigator” card.
“This has both of our numbers,” said Oh, putting his own card into her hand. It simply said “OH” with two phone numbers below. “You can phone us at any hour.”
“When Marvin and I set up the front office as a double office for two private eyes, it was just for fun, like a stage set for Marlowe and Spade, Marvin said. I never dreamed I’d meet two real investigators or that there would be a…” Suzanne looked over at the police officer who had stepped away, then whispered, “murder.”
“Whose idea was it to decorate the office like that?” asked Jane.
“Marvin knew somebody in Chicago who was tearing out some old downtown offices and he just grabbed a bunch of the stuff, said it would be fun to set up the front like that. Said we’d use it if the theater ever did The Front Page. He got a lot of stuff that way, for sets and all. Just went to the demo sales and cleaned them out. He said our two private eyes weren’t that successful—no secretary—so sometimes he’d put one partner to work and sometimes he’d make him a victim and now…”
“Did you move the mannequin today?” Jane whispered. “Set him up at the other desk typing?”
Suzanne shook her head.
“Typing,” Jane repeated. She handed her large leather tote to Oh. “I’ll be right back.”
Oh nodded, looking as if he was thinking the same thing as Jane.
“Did I leave my purse up here?” said Jane as she entered the office.
None of the police or the technicians looked up. They remained at the door and two men were crawling around under the desk. Ramey was talking on his cell phone just outside the front door. He poked his head in and looked questioningly at Jane.
“I thought I might have left my purse over there,” said Jane softly. Ramey watched her for a moment as she scanned the area, then he reminded her that he would want to talk to her again. She nodded, but he was already back outside the door, talking on his phone.
Jane walked over behind the desk in the opposite corner where either Spade or Marlowe sat hatless at the typewriter. Careful not to touch anything, Jane took a pen from her pocket and carefully lifted up a corner of the drooping onionskin paper. The letters were only faintly visible, showing the age and dryness of the old machine’s ribbon, but the message was legible.
Good job, Mr. Bumbles. Well done.
19
The day had been full of secrets and surprises. Jane had found the bow tie, proof that Mr. Bumbles had been at the scene of Marvin’s “accident”; had possibly been flirted with by her old teacher, Mr. Havens; opened up the door to Freddy’s theater club; met at least thirty identical Mr. Bumbles; heard a demonstration of Margaret’s ventriloquism; stumbled onto Marvin’s full life as Geppetto, the carpenter/guru; met Rick Kendell and found him dead; and now, as before, found that all roads always led back to Mr. Bumbles.
“And Nellie,” said Jane. “She was the ingenue who everybody loved.”
Oh parked Jane’s car in front of a convenience store. “We’re getting you a sandwich because at some point today, your body will realize you haven’t eaten.”
“I’m already an hour late for rehearsal. I haven’t looked yet, but I bet I have a million missed calls from Tim.”
“He knows what’s happened. I’ve spoken with Claire. She needed to prepare Margaret. First it was just to see her brother, and now this. Margaret will have to meet with Detective Ramey this evening. This will all be difficult for her. She is fragile at best and when it comes to her brother, she is like glass. Apt to shatter.”
“Why do you despise—” Jane began, then corrected herself. “Why did you despise Rick?”
Jane realized after she said it that this might be the first time she had ever asked Oh a direct and personal question. She was surprised that he answered so easily.
“I dislike people who take advantage of those weaker than themselves, Mrs. Wheel. You already know that. Rick Kendell coaxed his mother into giving him the Florida property, he stole from Margaret, he tricked people into supporting his gambling habits … he fooled everyone but Freddy. Freddy tried to protect Margaret. That’s why Claire is so upset about the missing art and antiques. She thinks that’s how Freddy tried to provide for Margaret, knowing that any money would either be lost by her father or gambled away by Rick. As soon as I saw him, I was sure he was here to steal from the house, but then when I heard about the lease on the building, I thought perhaps he would hold the key to Mr. Marvin’s accident. If Marvin died before he could exercise his option to buy the property for Freddy’s low price, Rick could sell the property out from under Geppetto Studios and find a way to keep all of it, or most of it, from Margaret. As much as I disliked Rick Kendell, I was pleased that we had so easily found our murderer.”
“Until he was murdered,” said Jane, “although being murdered doesn’t mean you aren’t a murderer. He could have gone to talk to Marvin last night and found him unreasonable and thrown the beam down on him, but…”
“Unlikely, I know. A big man, not light on his feet, escaping through the woods? Doubling back to get into a rental car and…”
“Mr. Bumbles,” said Jane, taking a bite of the plastic-looking sandwich she had found in the refrigerator case. Although it was labeled “turkey,” she could not taste anything recognizable. She wrapped up the rest of her dinner and threw it back into the plastic bag and took out a dark chocolate bar. Reliable food.
“Mr. Bumbles left his tie there. Whoever was with Marvin, whoever knocked the beam down on top of him, had Mr. Bumbles with him. That wouldn’t have been Rick.”
“Freddy made sure there were dozens of those dummies. He called them his alter egos. It is certainly possible that Rick could have had one, although I agree it’s unlikely. I’m going to drop you at rehearsal, then check out his story about when he got in and checked into the hotel. The police will already have entered his hotel room. I think I will also go make friends with Detective Ramey.”
Jane had Oh drop h
er in front of the theater building and entered through the front lobby. So many people had been in and out of her day, she found herself taken aback when she saw such a warm familiar figure standing and staring out of the window next to the box office.
“Daddy?” Jane said, immediately correcting her grown-up self. “Dad?”
Don turned around and held out his arms and Jane gratefully accepted her father’s giant hug. Jane and her dad had never called this massive embrace a bear hug; instead, they had always shared what they named “ow hugs.” The idea was to hug the other person so hard you made them say “ow.”
“Ow,” said Don. “Must have been a hell of a day.”
“You look a little beat-up yourself, Dad,” said Jane, noting the deep lines around Don’s eyes and mouth. Did they look deeper? Or did Jane try not to notice how old her parents were getting?
“I was just thinking about a cigarette,” said Don.
“No, Dad,” said Jane. Don had quit a three-pack-a-day habit seven years ago.
He shook his head. “Not having a cigarette. I was thinking about the first time I saw your mother.”
Jane waited. Don, unlike Nellie, was an expansive storyteller. He liked to reminisce and spin a tale or two. But he liked to take his time.
“Your mother was in a play. Not this one, but another one Freddy wrote. I had a date who dragged me to the dress rehearsal because she had friends in it. I had never seen anything onstage except when a movie had a live show—you know, they had those traveling shows at the Majestic downtown. Your mother came onstage and Henry Gand was playing some weasel and he lit a cigarette for her. She was great, so pretty, and I believed everything she said, but she couldn’t smoke to save her life. Wrecked the whole thing, I thought.
“After the play, we went to a party and all the actors were there and I went up to your mother and offered to teach her to smoke a cigarette.”
“I never knew how you two met, Dad. That’s a great story. You helped her become a better actress,” said Jane.
Backstage Stuff Page 18