"You said you wanted to be sure she was dead,” the voice of Watts sounded close behind him, startling him as much as the ringing of his phone in the silent apartment had earlier. “If you had any doubt—"
The young man made a move to climb up on the stage. Kubiak put out a hand, told him to wait, asked if either of them had been up on it yet. Both said they hadn't, and he told them to keep it that way. Barbara had come up beside him, so close he thought she might clutch his hand.
"Her eyes,” she said. “I can't stand to look at her eyes."
Indeed, Rydell's eyes were open wide, staring grotesquely at that finger of her own right hand, at the task she had been at just before she passed away. With whatever strength she had left, she had dipped her finger into her blood, and had used it to ink out four letters on the wood floor: BOBO
"Bobo,” Kubiak said. “What's a bobo, either of you have any idea?"
"I'm a bobo,” Barbara answered. “I mean, I am Bobo. It's my nickname. Everybody calls me that. But I don't know why she would ... How could she possibly...?"
"She called you that as well?"
Barbara nodded, eyes squeezed shut. Watts had crossed to her, and just in time, as she crumpled into him and the tears began.
"You might have thought to mention this particular detail,” Kubiak said.
"Are you kidding?” Watts said. “It's just what we couldn't tell you, or you never would have come here. Of course, Rydell didn't write that. Whoever killed her climbed up on stage, took hold of her hand, and wrote it himself. That's obvious, isn't it?"
Actually, it was anything but. Kubiak looked to either side of the stage, at the dark behind the curtains, up at the black ceiling a good forty feet above, back down at the glaring scene so stark on stage, felt the weight of the vast, silent theater behind the three tiny live bodies in it.
"You still have that phone?” he asked Barbara.
Of course, it was hanging from her key ring. Watts took it from her, hesitated before handing it over. “You're planning on calling the cops after all."
"Not the cops,” Kubiak said, taking the phone. “A cop. There's this old acquaintance of mine..."
* * * *
"Theater people,” Crawford muttered, dropping into the seat beside Kubiak. “It isn't enough drama you get yourself killed center stage, you've got to bring down the house with a dying message in your own blood. Outrageous."
They were sitting in the theater's second to last row, near the aisle, in about the same seats Watts and Barbara had told Kubiak they had occupied while discussing what to do before coming to see him. It was the last thing they had told him, as the three had been separated when the police arrived. Barbara had been seated in the first row on the opposite side of the theater; Watts was somewhere above, up in the balcony.
Crawford had arrived a good two hours after the first responding officers. The lieutenant looked fresher than Kubiak felt. Of course, Kubiak had woken him only a couple of hours before he normally got up, and at this hour Crawford would have been well into his day at his office in Police Headquarters on South Michigan, anyway, as it was nearly eight.
"You told them we were friends,” Crawford added. “Don't you think you should have checked with me first?"
"I said you were an acquaintance. I wanted to give them some window of hope. They were ready to run."
"I can understand why."
"Is there any?"
"Hope? Not if your nickname is Bobo there's not.” Crawford sighed. “This place.” He waved his hand. “It's not where I'd want to finish an acting career, but I suppose it's where you have to start. A tough break, as they say, some hard-headed old biddy squelching that just because she takes a dislike to you."
"There are other theaters,” Kubiak said. “And better motives."
"There are and there are. Young Bobo might have considered going back to school, maybe performing in some university's basement where she could tell all her friends that she once upon a time had her foot in the door performing on the fringe of Chicago's theater district, two stops short of New York's Broadway, until some old woman slammed that door shut. Some option."
"You make it sound like there was premeditation."
"No, just more animosity than you're willing to admit. You talk to the boyfriend five minutes, it's plain enough. And don't forget, that pretty young thing with the tears in her eyes is a professional actress, even if only part time. She's probably a good one, too, if she managed to play you for a sucker, which she did. Oh, don't worry, Kubiak, I know the tears weren't the only reason you called me instead of dialing 911. You felt you owed her something simply because she came to you for help, figured by dropping her in my lap I'd give her the benefit of the doubt for the sake of our old friendship."
"Acquaintanceship."
"Of course I wouldn't, but you could fool yourself into thinking you'd done all you could, at least sleep soundly by keeping me from doing so. But it was a losing proposition from the start. This is about as simple a case of homicide as I've run across in months, complicated only by the deliberate actions Leigh and her boyfriend took afterward. She stated to four witnesses her intention to come here and confront the victim, and then did so. She had access to the gun most likely used, and I'd tell you all about that except I don't have the time or the inclination, though it does open up the door to premeditation. My guess is she only intended to use it to threaten, was leaving in a huff when she decided to turn back around and get the last word in by putting five bullets into Rydell because she was standing in the aisle at least six rows back. Only three of the bullets landed, but they did the trick. Leigh panicked, got her boyfriend. They came back to make sure Rydell was dead, found out Rydell had been busy scribbling in their absence, so they sat and concocted a scheme."
"Simple enough,” Kubiak said. “Except the two of them were sitting right here doing it. Why didn't they at some point concoct simply to walk down and scrub Bobo's name off the stage?"
"I'm sure they did but decided against it. People watch these crime scene shows on TV these days, they're smarter than that. Any tampering with the scene, Leigh would have to deny she came here when she had already announced her plan to. And there was no tampering. There was no one up on that stage but Rydell, Kubiak. The dust on the floor from the set construction guarantees at least that much. Nobody came down from the ceiling on the curtain fly system. Nobody was set up. There was just Rydell, all by herself, who, bless her, did us the great favor as she was dying, of fingering the woman who killed her. No pun intended."
"That's funny. You should do vaudeville, Crawford, except you're not supposed to practice in the last row of the audience."
"No, that's reserved for hecklers, so I'll leave you here. Better yet, go home before somebody finds a reason to keep you from doing so. Your actions may have been technically—Hey, hold on there!” And Crawford was up and heading toward the doors to the lobby through which Paul Volti had come storming into the theater against the protests of the uniformed officer flanking him.
The four core members of the theater company, Mike Morris, Pamela Lipinski, Jeri Hall, and Volti, had arrived about an hour earlier and had been kept confined to the lobby or the street outside. Because of Kubiak's seat location and the fact that the lobby door was occasionally left propped open, he had learned that each had arrived separately for an appointed seven A.M. gathering, each had been informed of Rydell's death in turn, and after expressing their initial shock, each had had a different take on what step be taken next. Lipinski, the oldest in the group, somewhere in her early forties but with a face and figure for the camera, wearing narrow glasses that only made her look younger, kept insisting that they be allowed to see Barbara, or at least Watts, immediately. Morris, tall and equally good looking but still in his late twenties, concentrated his efforts on keeping control of, and giving comfort to, the immediate group, reasoning with Lipinski and trying to quiet Volti. Kubiak had yet to get a glimpse of Jeri Hall, but he had heard her referred
to more than once as “young lady,” and her responses to the reference, coming in a voice so soft he wondered how she could possibly project it to the back of a theater, made it clear she was content to let Morris run interference.
Volti, on the other hand, could be heard most anywhere in the building and was more often than not. Also in his twenties, wiry, wearing a baseball cap and a beard so sparse most men would have shaved it off out of embarrassment, he had yet to tire of expressing indignation over the fact that the theater his company was renting had been taken over by the police and that he and his friends were the only ones not being given the freedom to move about within it. He was doing so again now as Crawford blocked his progress down the aisle. Crawford spoke to him softly but sternly, and Volti eventually quieted, perhaps because of Crawford's powers of persuasion, or just as likely because he was finally getting a direct view down at the corpse of the woman he was accustomed to seeing in that same spot every day, only very much alive.
Other heads poked in through the doors. Crawford, exasperated, ushered everyone back out to the lobby, then ordered them out to the street. More protests. When could they talk to Barbara? How long would this take? Mike Morris ran interference again, saying they could kill some time while the police finished up, maybe breakfast down the street at The Copper Kettle where they could be reached.
Kubiak sat back in his chair in the audience, checked his watch. They had let him phone Denise, but he imagined her still pacing, anxious and curious. He now regretted insisting she stay home; better for her to be bored here with him. And he didn't know what he might have to offer her upon his return. After all, he had left on a mission to save her hairdresser. To return having cut Bobo Leigh loose with nothing by way of explanation but shrugs and shakes of his head...
He looked down at the front row, noticed Barbara was gone. For how long now? She probably had been whisked over to District 19. And Watts? Who knew? Questioned and released? He would have to settle for sketches in tomorrow's paper. Or would he?
* * * *
The Copper Kettle was an old-school coffee shop, all Formica, the clatter of spoons, and the smell of mop water. The group of four had settled at a table near the front. Their apprehension as Kubiak pulled up a chair faded when he explained how he had come to be there and provided the details of Barbara's night they had been so anxious to hear. He ordered coffee, eggs, and bacon, answered the questions he could, finished with those shrugs and shakes of his head.
Jeri Hall gave a visible shudder. She was Barbara's age and nearly as pretty but was shorter and had jet black hair that fell in clouds over her shoulders.
"So it's true, then?” she asked in that soft voice. “She really did write Bobo's name in her own blood as she was dying?"
Morris shook his head. “You've got to hand it to Janet. She always was a rock."
"I don't believe it,” Pamela Lipinski said.
"Which part?” Morris asked her.
"Any of it."
"Well, we're here. And Janet's in there. You think the cops—"
"I think they're wrong. I think it's most likely some crackhead broke into the theater last night and killed Janet. I mean, it certainly makes more sense than poor Bobo doing it."
"Afraid not,” Volti said. He was still wearing the baseball cap but had quieted, was playing sullenly with what was left of the food on his plate. “I was given the impression there was no sign of a break-in. And even if there had been, what was your crackhead after? The cops didn't say anything was missing but the gun."
"Besides, Pam, think about it,” Jeri Hall added, less arguing a point than gently offering a suggestion. “Janet didn't scratch out ‘crackhead’ in her own blood. As troubled as her and Bobo's relationship was, I can't imagine her doing that to Bobo if Bobo didn't ... Oh, I can't even say it, much less think it."
"About that gun,” Kubiak said. “It was here in the theater?"
"Yes,” Morris volunteered.
"I'm guessing the police think it was the one used on Rydell."
"From what we gather. They won't tell us anything outright."
"What kind of gun was it?"
"I don't know. A pistol. A revolver, I think.” He looked around for a second opinion, got a nod from Pam Lipinski.
"What was it doing here?"
"It was a prop, is all. Kept with the rest down in the basement. It's the genuine article, though. We only used it loaded with blanks for the occasional play. It's been a while. When was the last time, Paul, that cowboy farce two summers back?"
"No,” Volti muttered, still playing with his food. “You shot me with it last Christmas in Murder Runs Afoul."
"Oh, that's right. I forgot about that. Or tried my best to.” He turned to Kubiak. “That one was mine. The play, I mean. I wrote and directed it. Hardly my best effort.” Back to the group: “Old Janet was upset about pulling the chairs out of the orchestra section pit. You remember her face the second weekend of that disaster."
The memory brought a round of chuckles, even prompted a smile on Volti's face. Kubiak asked about the chairs, and each took a turn giving him an explanation. Evidently, the theater's front row was not necessarily that. If a play didn't use an orchestra, the floor of their pit could be raised and a couple of rows of folding chairs placed in it, commanding a premium view at a premium price. There had been some interest in purchasing them for opening night of this weekend's play, but the deal had fallen through.
"Funny time of day to be moving around chairs,” Kubiak said.
"Not if you're Janet,” Pam Lipinski offered.
"Were Janet,” Volti added.
"Stop it, Paul,” she said, and he did, pushing away his plate with a sigh and pulling a toothpick out of his pocket. Lipinski gave each of the group a den mother's stare before adjusting her glasses and continuing to Kubiak, “Janet was tireless. Of course, all the heavy lifting is supposed to be done by union, but if that were the case there would never be a play performed at The Emerald. They know we could never afford them, so they pretty much ignore us, let us do what we want."
"Actually,” Mike Morris added, “it would have been Janet's job to pay them. It's her theater. Well, really, her nephew's, but she runs everything."
"And every one,” Volti said, regaining a bit of his old bravado. “The theater was her passion, and we were her ... pets? Do I dare use passion and pet in the same sentence when talking about old Rydell?"
Two more glares from Lipinski, one for Volti, the other for Morris. “Whoever's job it would have been to cut a check is irrelevant,” she said. “The cost would have been passed on to us. Yes, Janet could be meddlesome at times, but she kept The Emerald open and running. If it weren't for her—"
"Oh, come off it, Pammy.” Paul Volti had come back to life. The boom was back in his voice, and in case anyone in the back of the coffee shop might miss it, he slammed the palm of his hand down on the table to command their attention. “Meddlesome? She had her iron fist in everything. ‘Alter the script, Miss Rydell? Well, if you really think ... Change the lead? Well, now that you mention it ... Only, please don't close those theater doors on us.’ The old witch was a tyrant. You said so yourself a hundred times, and again just last night."
"I did not."
"No? Remember what you said just after Bobo left to go see her? Something about a lamb and a pit bull?"
Lipinski's face reddened a touch. Another adjusting of the glasses. “I felt bad for Bobo, is all. After what Janet told me yesterday, I knew that poor Bobo was only heading off into a confrontation that she would regret. It's why I tried to talk her out of going."
"Well, you got the confrontation part right. I don't know about the regret. Look, I feel bad for Bobo too. More than for Rydell. I'm not saying the old spinster deserved to die, only that the world, at least the world of theater, won't suffer for the lack of her. And every one of you would agree with me if it weren't for our company. Mr. ... What's your name again, buddy?"
"Kubiak."
"Mr. Kubiak, would you mind going down the street for some smokes or something so we can talk?"
"Go ahead and talk. I'm the guy Barbara came to for help, remember?"
"Yeah, so you say."
"You want me to get her boyfriend on the line to verify?"
"Watts? That pit bull? I'd rather talk to a serpent."
Morris stepped in again. “Look, we're all on Bobo's side, but what can we do except what the cops tell us? We can talk all we want, but we've got a show to put on in thirty-six hours."
"Mike, you've got to be kidding,” Jeri Hall protested. “Janet's still lying there, and you're talking about going ahead with the play?"
"Half the tickets are already sold, Jeri."
"Maybe we could leave her there,” Volti suggested, one eye fixed on Kubiak. “Old Rydell always wanted to do a one-woman show. I don't suppose at this point she'd mind doing it facedown. What with all the publicity we're about to get, I imagine people would rather see that than what we've been rehearsing. A little docu-drama. What do you think, Mr. Kubiak? Would you be interested in a walk-on role? Fifty dollars a night, and you only have to share a dressing room with the gentlemen."
* * * *
"He actually joked about a walk-on role, with the woman's body still warm on the stage just down the block?"
"By the time I left them, I'm not so sure it was a joke."
Kubiak was shaving. Denise stood leaning against the bathroom door's jamb, her arms folded, her eyes fixed on nothing in particular as she took in what her husband had been telling her.
"How much longer was that?” she asked.
"Another hour or so. And Rydell's body was cold enough at that point. I will give them credit for waiting that long before seriously mulling over how they might use the press they're going to get from this."
"They're theater people. It's all about them."
"Yes, and so is Barbara Leigh, don't forget, and my day and night have been all about her."
"But Barbara isn't like that."
"If she could sit at a table with those four without having to, she certainly is. Good Lord, the gossipy chatter. It only got worse as they grew accustomed to my presence. Oddly enough, the only one I could tolerate at all was that scraggly Paul Volti."
AHMM, January-February 2008 Page 11
