Backstage Stuff

by Sharon Fiffer

  He cleared his throat.

  Jane had never seen her mentor call attention to himself. In the stunned silence that greeted Rick Kendell’s words, Oh’s loud “ahem” was enough to prompt Rick, who had not paid any attention to Jane and Oh when they first took their seats, to turn now to look at them.

  Rick’s face reddened immediately and his next sentence came out in a faltering manner, almost identical to Margaret’s nervous speech pattern.

  “The fate of the … the building’s future … I mean, of course, that it will be up to me and … my sister, Margie, Margaret, of course, and me … to decide the next step.”

  He quickly closed by saying that Marvin was a kind and talented man and they would all miss him. The workbench, which served as a podium, was a large, sturdy affair, but Rick’s heft was a match for the table, and when he leaned on it, Jane thought she saw a few of the tools shift slightly. She knew it was only her imagination, but perhaps the perceived movement of the solid objects was some kind of metaphor. Before Rick had spoken, the room had been full of sad individuals who were saying good-bye to a friend. Now there was a seismic shift in mood. The friends were angry and unsettled, whispering furiously to each other as Rick struggled out from behind the work area to shake hands with Detective Oh.

  “Whatever brings you to Kankakee, Bruce, and to the … to Marvin’s … is Margie here? I thought she was in London, but…”

  Oh might have let him babble on for days, and although Jane usually enjoyed Oh’s capacity to remain quiet while others filled in all the spaces, she couldn’t stand the high tension of this moment. Rick Kendell’s anxiety, which was amusing and informative, she could take, of course, but Oh seemed not so much the silent beacon of calm resolve as much as he looked like someone who was about to punch someone.

  “I’m Jane Wheel, Rick. I work with Tim Lowry,” she said, extending her hand.

  Her gesture, at least, stopped the flop sweat in which Kendell had broken out, threatening to drown them all.

  “Tim? Oh, T and T Sales,” said Rick. “Right. I just came in from Florida to check out the progress on that. Lowry told me he thought the sale could go on in a few weeks and I came in to see if we could hustle it up a bit.”

  “Now that Claire and Margaret are here helping, that might be possible,” said Jane, “although Tim has the final word—”

  “When, Rick?” said Oh.

  “When what?”

  “When did you get in?”

  “Last night,” said Kendell. “Late. I didn’t go to the house or anything. Checked into a motel and went right to sleep. Then came here this morning to check on the building. My lawyer suggested I come over and talk to Marvin. You know, see what his intentions were, see if he wanted to buy the property since that silly lease expires in a few months. Thought I’d give Marv first crack at it. Then I found out … you know. And Suzanne thought maybe I’d want to, you know, in memory of Freddy … and I—”

  “What time? Exactly?” said Oh.

  “I don’t know. Eight? Nine? I found a restaurant downtown that was open and ate and had a few drinks, then went to the motel, and by the time I checked in there, it might have been ten or eleven. Why?”

  Instead of answering Rick, Oh took a deep breath and composed his face into what Jane recognized as Oh’s face.

  “Your sister will be surprised to see you,” said Oh. “She thought you were remaining in Florida.”

  “I didn’t think I should leave it all up to her. She gets nervous. Didn’t seem right to make her go into the house alone. I don’t know—”

  “She’s not alone,” said Jane. “She’s got Tim and me and my mother, Nellie, and of course Detective Oh and Claire,” said Jane.

  “Nellie?” said Rick. “Nellie from Freddy’s club? You’re Henry’s daughter?”

  “Nellie is my mother. She and Henry didn’t … I mean … she married my father, Don, not Henry. She hasn’t been a part of the theater club for—”

  Jane stopped. She really didn’t know how long her mother had hung with the theater club. Jane had thought it was only for one play—Murder in the Eekaknak Valley—and when that was canceled Jane thought Nellie probably quit. But maybe not. She did rank high enough in the membership to have her own key.

  “I had such a crush on Nellie,” said Rick. “She was so beautiful.”

  Okay, thought Jane, I’ve seen photos and she was a looker. I can accept this.

  “And she was so sweet,” said Rick, a faraway look in his eye. “I was home from school, between schools actually, and I hung around watching rehearsals, and that Nellie was an angel, so sweet and so funny.”

  Okay, thought Jane, now we’ve entered fantasyland.

  “I can’t believe Henry let her get away,” said Rick. “He’s so old now,” he added, sounding surprised.

  For a moment, Rick, with his smooth round face wreathed in what still could be considered baby fat, did look like a kid, shocked that everything around him had changed. The moment passed, though, and his shock over seeing Detective Oh also passed.

  “I suppose you think it’s rough of me to come in here and talk about the building and all, but hell, I didn’t know Marvin had died. I just showed up to talk over the sale with him.”

  “Margaret didn’t mention that this property was to be sold,” said Oh. “And she usually shares everything with Claire. Everything,” he repeated softly.

  “I haven’t talked to my sister face-to-face in years. She’s always on her way to London or marrying someone or divorcing someone. I’ve always handled more of the business. Mother always wanted me to handle this stuff, and Margaret and I both have bills to pay. This factory is a great property and Freddy gave Marvin one of those dollar-a-year leases so he could employ these misfits—hell, he even houses Suzanne here. When’s the last time old Vampira had a dose of vitamin D?”

  “So you decide that Marvin’s funeral is the right time to play landlord?” asked Jane.

  “Did you say you worked for Tim Lowry? That means you work for me, too, right?” Rick smiled, showing pointy little teeth in the center of that big round face.

  Jane opened her mouth to reply, but Mary Wainwright pulled her away with a question about the set. As Jane half listened to Mary and Suzanne’s questions, she heard Oh’s response to Rick Kendell.

  “Mrs. Wheel works with me, Rick. She’s my partner. And I can assure you she won’t be bullied. Margaret will have to agree about the sale of this property and she might feel that honoring Freddy’s wishes is more important than any money you might get for this place.”

  “Maybe I’ve already got an offer,” said Rick. “And Margaret needs money even worse than I do.”

  Rick walked away from Oh, who regained his composure. So subtle were the changes in her friend’s demeanor, Jane realized that she might be the only one in the room who noticed that he had momentarily lost it.

  “Isn’t that right, Jane?” asked Mary, assuming that Jane had been paying attention to the questions about finishing the work on the play. Jane realized that she would now have to assume Marvin’s role as set designer. The play was opening on Friday and there was no one else to step in.

  “We’ll just go with the staircase that’s there. I can help Tim account for that entrance—we’ll just make it so Rica comes in from the garden. Marvin had finished everything major. I can do the final touch-up painting in a day if I have a little help,” said Jane.

  Henry had been standing at the edge of the little group and he nodded when Jane spoke. “I’ll help you finish. I was Marvin’s assistant on this anyway. He and I couldn’t move around like young men anymore, but between the two of us, we did okay. I can still be a help to you. And we’ve got some other youngsters here who can help.”

  Jane looked at the youngsters to whom Henry pointed. Three middle-aged men, probably a few years older than Jane herself, were helping Suzanne carry out a large coffeepot and trays filled with cups and coffee cakes.

  “Suzanne always finds good p
eople down on their luck. She learned how to do that from Freddy. Freddy found every misfit and oddball in town and gave them a key to his theater club so they’d have a place to belong,” said Henry.

  “A key?” asked Jane, fingering Marvin’s key under her shirt.

  “Not literally,” said Henry, with a little laugh. “Freddy just thought there wasn’t enough art around, that kids and adults, too, for that matter, didn’t have enough places to go or things to do in Kankakee, and he thought theater was a wonderful place to express yourself. He hated business even though he was good at it. It’s because Freddy retained ownership of some of the property that the whole family didn’t end up on the street when his idiot son lost all their money. You’d think Rick would remember that it was his grandfather who took care of them and his wishes should— Freddy always said if there was a kid who couldn’t fit in at school or find a job that made him happy, he could find a place in Freddy’s theater club. He said any kid could go through a door if he had a key.”

  Jane looked over at Oh, who had accepted a cup of coffee from Suzanne, which Jane knew he did not drink. He was nodding and listening to her speak rapidly, glancing over her shoulder at Rick Kendell as she talked. Jane remembered why she and Oh had come to Geppetto Studios.

  “Henry,” asked Jane, “do you know who brought Mr. Bumbles in to Marvin for repairs?”

  Henry shook his head. “Marv would be the only person who could answer that. Suzanne might know, but then again, she didn’t always go up front to meet people. None of the people around here except Marv would want to work on a Bumbles, that’s for sure.”

  “Why?” asked Jane, leaving out any speculation about the general creepiness of the Bumbles.

  “Marvin said once that every time one of those dolls was sitting on a shelf, something bad happened in the shop. Teddy over there, who has as steady a hand with tools as you could ever imagine, cut himself and had to get forty stitches when a Bumbles was looking at him. That’s what he said, anyway. Bumbles was looking at him, laughing when the saw blade jumped. And another time when there was a Bumbles here, there was a break-in at the front of the shop, in the office. Nearly scared Suzanne to death. Electrical shorted out once. Stuff like that. And now Marvin…” said Henry, his voice breaking.

  “But Bumbles wasn’t here,” said Jane.

  “What?” asked Henry, wiping his reading glasses on his handkerchief.

  “You said all the bad luck happened when Bumbles was in the shop for repairs, but there wasn’t a Bumbles here in the shop when Marvin … and Marvin wasn’t here when it happened. I brought the Bumbles…”

  Henry looked at Jane with wide-open eyes, but she had the feeling he wasn’t following her out-loud thinking, and she wasn’t sure what there was to follow anyway. She shook her head and stopped talking, giving Henry an awkward pat on the shoulder.

  People were leaving after their obligatory coffee and bite of cake, except for the resident carpenters of Geppetto Studios. Once people had stopped milling around the actual work area, a few of the workers had begun painting in a corner of the workspace. Jane was pleased to see them working, since she noted it was the last window frame they needed to complete the set over at the theater. It probably could be placed tomorrow and they would be done with all the work needed to be finished up at the studio. Jane felt vaguely guilty that she had seen Marvin drive up and unload his truck night after night and hadn’t been even the least bit curious about where he was getting all of this work done. She had this achy sense that she would have liked Marvin, liked working side by side with him in this magnificent space. There were little things about the space, like the niches in the original brick factory walls that Marvin or Suzanne or one of the Geppettos, as Jane was beginning to think of the carpenters under Suzanne’s supervision, had filled with tiny carved figures or miniature books or small beeswax candles and vintage candle molds. As utilitarian as the space was, it had been warmed and charmed into something else. It reminded her of Freddy’s theater club space. It had character and personality … it was a home.

  Everyone Jane had recognized—Penny and Bryan Kendell, Rica Evans, Mary Wainwright—and all the rest of the guests had left when Jane finished up checking out the window frame and chatting about other touch-ups that could be done on the set. Even Suzanne was nowhere in sight. Detective Oh was tapping furiously on his phone. Jane guessed he was texting to Claire, advising her to prepare Margaret for a visit from Brother Rick.

  Just then Suzanne came up behind Jane and asked if there was anything else they were going to need before opening night. Her eyes were red-rimmed but dry.

  “Might be corny, but Marv really would say that the show must go on. So would Freddy,” said Suzanne.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask someone, Suzanne, why didn’t the show go on the first time? Forty years ago. I mean, Freddy had a heart attack, I know that much, but when he got better, why wasn’t Murder in the Eekaknak Valley ever produced?”

  “Oh, Freddy just kept rewriting it and rewriting it. He said he wanted it to be perfect so it would live on as a legacy for the kids, his grandkids. Margie and—” Jane could see that Suzanne had a hard time even saying the name. The old woman swallowed hard and added, “Rick.”

  Oh looked up from the phone and nodded at Jane. She nodded back. It was time to grab a sandwich, then head over to the theater.

  “I’m sorry we barged in here today and so sorry about Marvin. I wish I had known him better,” said Jane.

  Suzanne nodded. “He was a loyal man, a good friend,” said Suzanne.

  Suzanne suggested they leave by the side door, which had a lighted, covered walkway leading to the front of the building, where they had parked. One row of folding chairs remained and Suzanne started putting them away. Oh and Jane both began to help her, but she waved them off, claiming she didn’t need any help. Jane picked up her bag and started for the side door, thinking about where they might grab a bite before heading to the theater, but then she remembered what they had come for. And who they had come with.

  She held up a hand to Oh, jerking her thumb back at the office, making what she thought was a kind of Mr. Bumbles face, and since it almost made Oh smile, she figured she had done a decent impression. She ran back toward the office to grab the dummy. All the vintage desk lamps were turned off, and although it was still light outside, the shades had been pulled, leaving only a narrow frame of light around the window.

  Jane loved the setup. There was nothing as atmospheric as an old office from the forties, maybe even the thirties. Jane had noted when they entered the similar desks in opposite corners, quarter-sawn oak, substantial workspaces, one with a built-in typewriter that was unfolded into the work position. On the desk where the fake victim or sleeping private eye—depending on your point of view—slumped over his typewriter, was a black Bakelite rotary telephone. Jane felt a small lustful stirring for that phone. She loved the way it looked, of course, all curvy and shiny and heavy and real. It was the opposite of the skinny little rectangle that passed for a phone that she kept in her own pocket. This beautiful Bakelite piece of equipment was as substantial and well-designed for its day—utilitarian, of course, but also clean and modern. What the hell—Jane had to pick up that receiver, feel it in her hand, cradle it between her ear and shoulder.

  Mr. Bumbles was perched on the shelf above the desk. His legs were crossed, and he was smiling down at Jane as if he approved of her trying out the phone.

  Jane picked up the receiver, so heavy and satisfyingly smooth in her hand, and hugged it into her shoulder. She looked down at the base, thinking about dialing the number of the EZ Way Inn—the way she remembered it from her childhood, Wells 9-9129. The private eye’s fedora was still tumbled to the side on the desk, half covering his face.

  He’s huge, this guy, thought Jane. He was much bigger up close than he had appeared when they had seen him from outside the window. And fully to scale, thought Jane, glancing down at the meaty paw on the desk. The hand was clenched
around a letter opener, which also looked like it might be Bakelite. Wanting a closer look at the piece, Jane touched the hand of the mannequin. Unlike the carved wood of Mr. Bumbles’s features, which was always warm to the touch, this hand was cold. Jane felt herself go rigid with revulsion, then just as quickly go limp. To anyone looking in the window, if he could see around those heavy shades, Jane Wheel would appear to be a forties-era secretary screaming into the office telephone that someone had just murdered her boss.

  Close.

  It was modern-day Jane Wheel, screaming into the forties telephone that someone had just murdered Rick Kendell.

  18

  Jane hadn’t ever met the police officer who questioned her about finding Rick Kendell sprawled across the desk in the office. It was just as well. Jane didn’t really want to explain herself to any local law enforcement officer who might already be familiar with her penchant for finding bodies, who would be reminded that Jane Wheel was often at the right place at the right time when it came to murder in Kankakee. No. Stop. Reverse that. Think like a normal person. If one was at the scene of a murder, it must be the wrong place, wrong time.

  She found the most difficult part of the question-and-answer session came when she tried to explain that Bumbles had been moved to the shelf and had his legs crossed. Detective Randy Ramey seemed to brush this part of her answer aside and moved on to the next question when Jane repeated it for him.