Jane hoped it wasn’t from the electrician who had stopped in yesterday to check the fuse box and lighting board. Her hope was for no surprises, not on opening night. But why would it say Jane Wheel? Until last night, Tim Lowry had been the director to whom any message would be addressed. The envelope wasn’t sealed.
Why isn’t Mr. Bumbles appearing in your play? Bumbles doesn’t like to be left out.
The letter provoked the chill Jane was sure it was meant to do. She had passed by this message board space only a few minutes before, pouring out the alcohol and replacing it with “alcohol,” and hadn’t noticed the envelope. She decided to take a chance that whoever was in the theater with her couldn’t see her in this dark backstage corner. She carefully folded the message, reinserted it in the envelope, and retaped it to the wall. She hoped the Bumbles who was in the theater with her would not know that she had received the ominous note. Better to be the one setting the trap than the one for whom it was set.
Jane walked purposefully across the stage, skipped down the steps to the front row of the audience, and fished out her phone from her tote bag. She scrolled favorites, swiped her finger across a number, and hoped that there would be a real person on the other end. When instead she got a message, she pretended to converse through it, loudly, with as much enthusiasm and sincerity as she could muster, hoping that whoever might be in the theater to hear her would be convinced she was having a real conversation.
“I know where all the stuff is—the paintings, the silver. Yes, of course. It was so obvious. You knew it, too? That’s great. Yes, as soon as you get here.”
Jane clicked off the phone and hoped she had accomplished her mission. Speaking to Oh’s voice mail, she hoped to lure out the Bumbles who was lurking in the theater, imply that she wasn’t the only one who had the information, and stress how important it was for the cavalry to arrive.
“Jane Wheel! Hey, Jane Wheel!”
It was only a matter of time. Jane knew that. But as much as she tried to steel herself for this moment, it was still creepy beyond creepdom to look up at the stage and see Mr. Bumbles calling to her from the loveseat. He was seated on the back of the piece of furniture, and whoever was working his mouth and head must have been hiding behind the couch.
“Margaret?” called Jane. Margaret was the only one of this crowd who Jane was sure could throw her voice and knew how to work Mr. Bumbles.
“Oh come now,” an equally creaky voice, this time from behind her, called out to Jane. “You don’t think Margaret is the only one Freddy taught the fine art of ventriloquism?”
When Jane turned, another Mr. Bumbles, this one dressed in a khaki suit and intact bow tie was sitting about six rows back.
Jane couldn’t have designed a better nightmare if she had tried. Not one, but two ventriloquists? Or was it one, throwing his or her voice to both dummies, and did she just imagine the jaw moving, the eyes rolling? She looked down at her phone, still in hand, and checked the time. Nearly five thirty. Someone would arrive any minute. The call was for six. Mandy, the stage manager was always on time, and Tim was usually early. He might walk in at any minute.
Jane stood in front of the stage facing the audience. She knew that one Bumbles was onstage behind her and one was directly in her sightline as she measured the distance to the front of the house. This was her make-or-break-famous-detective-heroine moment. How many times had she watched the stupid girl in the movie or, on occasion, the mindless boy, run deeper into the maze, climb higher into the attic, crawl farther into the tunnel instead of breaking into a zigzag run (harder to aim at) out of the enclosure—whatever it was—and head straight for the door. Go toward the light was what Jane was thinking, but before she started her run down the aisle, she heard a voice from the last row of the audience—right at the place she was focusing as her finish line.
“Don’t think about running off toward the lobby, Jane Wheel. I can see Nellie walking down the street from where I am, and if you don’t do as we say, your mother and your dog might have to do our bidding. Is that what you would prefer?”
The thing about ventriloquism is that the voice is thrown. Was there really someone in the lobby who could look out and see Nellie barreling down the street, leash in hand, right into the line of fire? Or was this a bluff from someone on the stage, hiding behind the couch with one hand up a puppet’s behind?
Jane knew that the timing was right for Nellie to arrive. Forget Tim or the stage manager; it would be Nellie walking first through the lobby door. But she wouldn’t have Rita with her, would she? Whenever had they brought the dog to rehearsal? It was someone who had watched them, who knew about Rita and knew that Nellie walked her, but Nellie wasn’t heading toward the theater on foot right now. Bumbles was bluffing.
Jane wrapped her arms around her tote bag and took a deep breath, ready to head for the lobby, but forgot how to exhale when she felt what was, unmistakably, the cool cylindrical barrel of a gun in her back. The voice had been thrown, the Nellie threat wasn’t real, but the gun and the ventriloquist behind her were metal, flesh, and blood. She might not have fallen for the actual bluff, but it had worked just the same, costing her the time she could have used for breaking out of the theater. And the squeaky voice that seemed to come from the rafters, telling her to turn slowly, keep her eyes forward, and walk backstage, might be misdirected sound, but the gun made it a pointed command that had to be obeyed.
The person prodding Jane from behind was either throwing his or her voice to confuse Jane or there was someone else in another location. When Jane tried to turn, the gun was pushed harder between her shoulder blades and she was told to keep her eyes straight ahead. A man? A woman? Who was this? Once they were backstage left, the voice of Bumbles instructed her to unhook the flimsy chain that blocked off a staircase that only went down. Jane had assumed the steps led to a storage area, and as she was pushed and prodded down the stairs, she was already thinking about what kinds of items might be stored under the cultural center theater stage. Furniture, props, costumes? And now, Jane Wheel? Damn, why had she left such a comprehensive note for Mandy? She even included a “break a leg,” like she might not be around to say it herself. Would they even begin looking for her before six thirty or seven? After all, she didn’t have a makeup or costume call, and even though Tim and Nellie would expect her to be there early, they wouldn’t really panic if she wasn’t there when they arrived.
Any girl detective manual would advise her not to go into a dark and enclosed space, but any manual worth its salt would also argue against denying the request of the person holding the gun. And so Jane walked through the door into what she thought was going to be a closet but turned out to be a much larger space, lit by an industrial work light hanging from a hook in the ceiling. Neatly stacked tables and chairs ringed the room. It was a pit-trap room, just like the one under the Playhouse stage at her college theater. The space extended beyond where Jane guessed the proscenium would be. They could even do musicals here with a small pit orchestra. Jane looked up at the low ceiling. She could barely make out some hinged squares. She hadn’t even realized that this theater was so well equipped, so versatile. If they had wanted Marguerite’s house to have a wine cellar, so Myra could send Perkins “downstairs” to fetch a few more bottles of the good stuff, they could have opened a square on the stage floor, built a little railing for effect, and placed a small staircase directly below—Jane saw one wheeled into the corner of the trap room—and Henry could have realistically descended into the “cellar” and climbed back up with his two prop bottles, previously placed on a table in the pit-trap room.
Jane stepped forward and Bumbles gave his creaky laugh. “Far enough, Jane Wheel, we’re here.”
Whether it was because Jane had just been thinking about Perkins the gardener and picturing him descending into the pit-trap room or whether she had caught Don’s distrust of the man, Jane found herself curiously unsurprised to see Henry Gand standing in front of her, pointing a gun when she te
ntatively turned around. “Henry, why in the world are you doing this?”
“My dear girl, I heard you not more than five minutes ago say you knew where all the expensive Kendell treasures Freddy hid away were, so that means you know what they are and what they would fetch. What is it that you young people say? It’s all about the Benjamins.”
Jane knew how serious this situation was, but she couldn’t help but be amused at Henry’s characterization of her as one of the youngsters, and the fact that he thought Puff Daddy was the au courant slangmaster. He wasn’t even Puff Daddy anymore, was he? You had to love someone a little for trying to keep up, even if they were holding a gun on you.
“Could you just tell us where they are, then we’ll give someone a note and they can let you out after the play?” said a squeaky voice from behind her. She turned, expecting to see Bumbles sitting on the couch. Henry was good. She hadn’t seen his lips move at all.
Looking at the figure on the love seat, she realized she hadn’t seen Henry’s lips move because Henry hadn’t said anything. Instead, Suzanne was now doing the talking, still in a Bumbles voice, but as herself, sitting on the couch with a black hooded scarf folded neatly in her lap.
“You look surprised to see me,” said Suzanne.
“I thought you didn’t leave the studio. I thought you were agora—”
“No! No! Who told you that? Rick Kendell? He always called me the vampire, that little brat. I just have an illness. I can’t be in sunlight. My eyes, my skin … I only go out at night, that’s all.”
“It’s still light out now,” said Jane.
“It’s a special occasion,” said Suzanne, refolding her scarf and face covering.
“We have to hurry, Jane,” said Henry. “Just tell us and no one in the cast, not you or anyone, will be hurt. Right after the play, Suzanne will go her way, I will go mine—and you’ll be discovered and released.”
Jane had been facing Suzanne while Henry was talking. She saw her flinch when he said she would go her way.
“Where will Suzanne go?” asked Jane. “She won’t be able to return to the studio. You’ll have to help her find a safe place, won’t you?”
“Of course, of course. I have some places in mind for her already,” said Henry.
“If Marvin were here,” said Suzanne, “none of this would have happened.”
If Jane could keep them down here, if she could stall them long enough, cast and crew would arrive. Henry wouldn’t be able to slip up the stairs unnoticed.
“What would Marvin do?” asked Jane.
“Marvin wouldn’t have killed anyone!” said Suzanne.
“Don’t start this again,” said Henry. “You did what you had to do.”
He handed his gun to Suzanne and told her to train it on Jane while he emptied her bag. He pried the tote from her hands and dumped its contents onto the floor. All of the scripts scattered, Jane’s sewing kit, a flashlight, all of her notebooks, and three lipsticks rolled under the loveseat. Jane kept her eyes on Suzanne, who held the gun, but shook her head, pressing her lips together until they were pale lines on a paler face.
“No gun?” said Henry. “Don and Nellie said you were a detective. No gun?”
“I’m a beginner,” said Jane.
Henry pocketed Jane’s cell phone.
“I’ll give everyone your message—that you decided to go and pick up some special treats for the after-party in the lobby. It’s a tradition you know, after invited dress. And if you’re held up, you told me to tell everyone to break a leg. I’ll even drive Don crazy by blowing Nellie a kiss and saying it’s from you.”
Jane could fight these two people, they were her mother’s age for heaven’s sake, but the gun gave them an advantage.
“Suzanne, I’m padlocking the door from the outside. I’ve got to get up there. I hand your mother a sip of water in the second act, Jane. Remember? I’m not supposed to give her anything, but I think she looks thirsty and hold the glass up to her lips?”
Jane nodded. She was afraid of what was coming.
“If I don’t get a signal from Suzanne that you’ve told her where everything is, that glass will have poison so fast-acting and so subtle that no one will know until the curtain call that anything is wrong. She won’t recover, capiche?”
Puff Daddy, Goodfellas, who was this guy really? Jane could hear Don muttering that Henry Gand was a hell of an actor.
“You loved my mother, you wouldn’t…”
“No, dear. She was a good actress and years ago, I wanted her to be in a play. Freddy kept recruiting idiots and runaways for his little club. Nellie could memorize lines and she had a kind of … empathy. But I didn’t love her then and I don’t now. I just like making Don squirm.”
“He’ll know it was you. My dad knows you’re just faking it all. He’s been watching you,” said Jane.
“Oooh, I’m scared.” A voice came from behind Jane. It was a Bumbles voice, and it was Henry and his lips did not move. He was a good actor and a good ventriloquist.
Henry slipped out the door and locked it. Jane heard the key turn and the thud of the padlock against the door.
“May I put my purse back together?” asked Jane.
“If you tell me about the paintings and stuff while you do it,” said Suzanne.
“What if I really don’t know?” asked Jane.
“We heard you on your cell phone and we know you’ve worked at the house,” said Suzanne. She smiled. “We also know you were talking to voice mail. You should turn down the volume, because we could hear the recording click on and off as loud as we could hear you. So we know you were pretending that the guy you were talking to knew, too. Henry said it made sense that you knew by now—he said that’s why you took over directing the play.”
“Look, Suzanne,” said Jane, fanning out the scripts, compulsively arranging them in the chronology she had figured out. She leafed through the most recent, the one that was probably printed a few years before Freddy died. “I thought the answer was here, in the script, but I haven’t figured it out yet. I don’t know, I honestly don’t. And you’re in so much trouble now, I mean two people have died and maybe, because of your illness, maybe they would take that into consideration?”
“I have porphyria,” said Suzanne. “I’m not crazy, I just can’t be in the light. And,” she added, “I didn’t kill anybody, so there’s nothing to take into consideration.”
Jane looked down at the script. There were black smudges all over the yellow cover. Jane opened her hand. Her fingers were covered with a powdery black substance. The fake cremains? This stuff wouldn’t brush off like the ash and soil and charcoal mix would. She wiped her hands on the back of her jeans.
“That’s the damn spray paint,” said Suzanne. “Freddy wanted the chandelier to be black and a bunch of the chrome and silver stuff, so we spray-painted all of that old plate for Marvin. And the boys found that the only stuff that gave coverage at all just flakes off and gets all powdery. If the play was running more than a weekend, we’d have to repaint it all.”
Why did everything have to be sprayed black? The silver would reflect light better onstage, silver would make everything look richer, wouldn’t it? Jane started flipping through the script. She found the spot where the cremation urn was described. Double-handled, a metal bead around the edge, a triple-edge pedestal? Three graduated blocks? Even for Freddy Kendell, this was mighty specific.
“Suzanne, Marvin is dead and Rick Kendell is dead. Rick was killed with a nail gun in your studio. Do you expect me or anyone else to believe you didn’t kill Kendell?”
“Henry says he didn’t do it, but if he didn’t, who did? He told me where to put the nail gun so we could scare Rick and I probably could have killed him if Henry couldn’t have gotten him alone. I was mad enough to do it. I would have put a nail right through him, like the bolt on Frankenstein’s neck. I was so mad. But when I went in there, he was already dead. Henry keeps saying it was me, but it wasn’t. I think it had to be He
nry.”
“He’s going to pin it on you, Suzanne. He’s setting you up for Rick Kendell’s murder.”
Jane heard footsteps on the stage. They were testing the hospital bed. She couldn’t make out the words—everything was muffled—but it wasn’t the actors, it was the stage crew putting on the finishing touches. Suzanne looked up, too. She waved the gun.
“Tell me where the paintings are, where Freddy hid his stuff.”
“Suzanne, Henry made you place the nail gun, so your fingerprints are on it. Henry probably wore gloves and he’ll say he saw you take the gun. That’s the place he has in mind for you, Suzanne. Jail.”
“Henry says he didn’t do it because he doesn’t even know how to use a nail gun, and he probably doesn’t. He says he was helping Marvin with the set, but Marvin said Henry didn’t know one tool from the other.” Suzanne paused. She was agitated and unused to talking this much, but she was beginning to think things through. “Just because Henry couldn’t do it, that doesn’t mean that I did it. They won’t think I did it,” said Suzanne.
Jane could hear Nellie’s voice but couldn’t make out any words. She could hear the staccato rhythm of Rica Evans’s heels pacing the floor. Who was that singing and vocalizing? Henry and Tim.
“That’s exactly what they’ll think, Suzanne. You were the one who was going to lose her business and her home. And maybe at the time, you thought Rick was responsible for Marvin’s death?” said Jane.
Where was Oh? He would get her message and know that she hadn’t gone out for party food. And Nellie—wouldn’t she know that Jane would be there for their unofficial opening? Then again, she had left a pretty comprehensive checklist for the stage manager. Nellie would have no reason not to believe Henry that Jane had dashed out to get a cake and champagne.
Suzanne held the gun steady but looked uncertain. Jane’s best chance was to chip away at any confidence Suzanne may have placed in Henry. Suzanne made it clear that her faith was in Marvin. He was the one who had taken care of her.
Backstage Stuff Page 23