Backstage Stuff Read online

  Jane nodded, again reflecting on the aftermath of Marvin’s death in the parking lot. She knew only the most basic facts about the man. He was born and raised in Kankakee, a widower nearing seventy, with no children, who lived alone in a small cottage on the west side of town. Tim had described him as a wonderful carpenter and she had seen firsthand that he was. He was modest, Jane could tell, by the way he turned away from compliments offered every time a new piece was added to the stage. He was cautious, always wore his safety glasses, and only allowed Henry, who was an experienced woodworker himself and an old friend, to help him. Otherwise, he made sure actors were out of harm’s way. Jane had been surprised at how professional he was, and Tim had explained he had actually been a stage carpenter in Chicago before retirement, and since returning to his hometown had worked on many of the community theater productions. Jane had heard him joke with Henry about their early days in Kankakee, wanting to go professional, waiting for their opportunity to flee to the big-time. Both had flown, Jane thought. Henry had gone to California, and although it seemed he had given up his theatrical dreams, he had made his fortune. And Marvin had been successful in Chicago. Over the last several days, Jane had watched him work, admired his skill and steady patience, and now regretted that she’d never said more than ten words to him. Guilt. That was something else you didn’t see too often in the fictional aftermath of death. Simple guilt that here, just a matter of hours ago, someone was alive—one who had a history, a life, a family, accomplishments, joys, and sorrows and you hadn’t spent even a moment getting to know him and now he was gone and you never would.

  “Maybe this play is unlucky, Mrs. Wheel,” said Oh, walking up behind her as she slipped the key to the padlock for the cabinet back into her pocket.

  “Why unlucky? Why do you use that word?” asked Jane, turning to face him. Hadn’t Tim used the word unlucky?

  “It’s the word Margaret used on the drive down. Her grandfather, the playwright, was pleased with his work. He told his grandchildren that his play would be their legacy, that it would make the family fortune. He expected it to be a great success, she said. Then, because of unforeseen circumstances that occurred just before the premiere, the production was canceled.”

  “Did she say if the play was ever a success?”

  “I don’t know if it was ever performed. When Freddy—that is what they called their grandfather—became ill, the original production was canceled. More than that, I don’t know.”

  “Didn’t they already have a family fortune?” Jane asked, fishing her car keys out of her bag. She turned on the stage light and wheeled it to the center of the stage and motioned for Oh to follow her out through the lobby so she could tell the custodian they were leaving.

  “Interesting question, Mrs. Wheel,” Oh said, taking her bag from her and putting it into the backseat of her car. He then held the driver’s side door for her before letting himself into the passenger seat.

  “Do you have an interesting answer?” Jane asked, backing out of the parking lot. She stopped the car abruptly, shifted from reverse to drive and pulled forward, around to the back of the cultural center. She shifted the car into park with her high-beam lights trained on the four-by-fours leaning against the tree.

  Jane had parked in the lot on the side of the building. The gravel continued around to the back, where double doors opened onto the backstage area. Delivery trucks could drive around to the back, unload, and have enough space to turn around. Marvin had set up his worktable and power tools on the edge of the wooded park.

  “I should cover those tools,” Jane said. “Marv was careful with his equipment. He had special tarps for the saw.”

  Oh got out and together they pulled the heavy fitted covers over the power tools and tied them under the table. The legs of the table were anchored with sandbags and weights. Marv had said that only the most determined thief would be able to get away with his stuff, so he hadn’t minded leaving it under the trees, as long as the tools were unplugged from their extension cords running into the building and protected from the elements. “If some jerko makes off with this table saw, why, he really, really needs a table saw,” Marv had said.

  While they tied the last corner, the motion detector lights on the building flashed on and the entire area was illuminated.

  “Too bad it wasn’t quite dark enough for those lights to go on when Marv got hit. Nellie would have seen the phantom in this spotlight.”

  “Yes, it was that twilight time of night where nothing is dark and nothing is light,” said Oh.

  Jane nodded. “Just what I was thinking. An impossible time to see anything well. So why would a carpenter, a good and careful carpenter, one who wore a sweatshirt that said ‘Measure twice, cut once’ be out here working with dangerous tools in the almost dark?”

  “Maybe he had come out to put things away. From where the beam was rolled away on the ground, from where your mother sat with him,” Oh said, bending over the table saw. “He could have been beginning to cover this corner when the beam fell. If he had his head down, he wouldn’t have seen it coming.”

  Jane stepped over to the base of the tree next to the remaining lumber.

  “If he were standing the way you are, whoever pushed the beam down wouldn’t have had a very good view of him, either. The way those branches hang down, you could barely make him out. He was wearing dark jeans, a dark plaid shirt,” said Jane. “Just like what Henry was wearing. Henry’s been dressing like Perkins the gardener since the night of the first read-through. A method actor, I guess.” Jane paused and squinted, trying for a better view of Detective Oh from where she stood just about ten feet away. “Not a very precise way to kill someone,” she muttered.

  Jane stepped back from the work area and took stock.

  “Okay, tools are covered, power cords are disconnected. I put them backstage earlier. We’re done here,” said Jane.

  Jane drove them to the EZ Way Inn, where the bar was, by weeknight-in-Kankakee standards, hopping. Tim and the rest of the cast filled the table area and Don was moving from table to bar and back with drinks. Carl, the evening bartender who was used to one or two regulars nursing a beer or two, was completely befuddled. Who were all these people and why were they ordering drinks with names? Carl knew the basics. If pressed, and if he could find any olives, he could turn out a martini, but what was a cosmo? And what did they mean by wine by the glass? How else would you drink it? And who did they think they were asking about house brands and bar brands and naming vodkas by the dozen? Did they really expect him to believe that there was a difference between one tasteless glass of alcohol and another fancier-named tasteless glass of alcohol? Again, who were these people? Carl was used to a quiet evening with Francis or Burt, both of them sitting side by side at the bar watching television until eleven or so and Carl could close up and go home. But more than twelve people on a weekday night, all ordering different drinks? This was madness. Carl had not signed on for big-city life in the fast lane. If he had wanted to be in the thick of the action, he could have stayed in Danville, where he grew up.

  Don and Nellie began working the bar and Nellie pushed their bartender toward the kitchen.

  “You look like a damn deer caught in the headlights. Carl, go home. You’re too old for all this excitement.”

  Without a word, Carl pulled on the navy blue cap he wore winter and summer and left by the back door. He wouldn’t bother to remind Nellie that he was one year younger than Don. He would, however, as he did several times a month, call them tomorrow and announce that he was quitting.

  Jane knew there was no bottle of Grey Goose behind the bar of the EZ Way Inn. She also knew better than to ask her dad what brands he did have. Instead, she just asked him to pour her some vodka over ice and throw in a few olives if he had any and vowed not to look at the label. What she didn’t know wouldn’t give her a hangover.

  Jane surveyed the dining room of the EZ Way Inn. It wasn’t exactly a separate room, just the other half o
f the space opposite the barroom. Ten round tables with four to six chairs pulled around them were clustered into the space. Jane remembered the old days, when the Roper factory boys and office girls, for they would always be boys and girls to her parents, crowded into the dining room at lunchtime. Now it was an unusual sight to see three of the tables filled in the evening. Jane knew no one would mistake this for a party … no cardplaying, no loud interruptions, no laughter.

  At the table closest to the bar, Chuck Havens was listening to Mary Wainwright tell the story of Marvin’s set for the musical they had done two years ago. “He was so proud of the turntable. It took six of us to tug that rope and revolve the stage, but when we did it, you could hear the gasps from the audience. They applauded the set every night! Marv always said we shouldn’t be underestimating how much an audience appreciated hard work,” said Mary.

  Bryan and Penny had joined the theater group, arriving through the front door only a few minutes after Jane and Oh had entered through the back. Penny looked pale, but maneuvered well on her crutches. When Jane asked how they knew about the gathering, Bryan nodded toward Henry. “He called us. We had all worked on lots of shows together and Pen and I just thought we’d like to be here.”

  Jane noted that Bryan and Penny seemed surprised to see Margaret but did not make much of a fuss over their distant cousin. They exchanged hugs and pats, but none of the three had much to say to each other. Bryan and Penny seemed anxious to get over to the table where the actors sat exchanging their stories.

  As far as Jane knew, no one had ever determined how the jar of marbles had spilled in their home. Or who had left the note from Mr. Bumbles. She had tried to pursue the question, but Bryan had shaken his head and told her to chalk it up to an accident and they were just relieved that Penny was okay. He told her they did have a cat, and although nothing had ever fallen before, maybe it was Pumpkin who knocked down the marbles. There was no need to make a fuss.

  Oh had joined Claire and Margaret at a table where Marvin was not the topic of conversation. The two women flanked Tim and continued to question him. Jane decided it was time she met Margaret Kendell.

  “Lowry, we know you’re honest, there isn’t a question about that, but those paintings you sent to auction, the Scottish watercolor, at least…” Claire was talking to Tim but looking down, consulting a small black leather-bound notebook.

  Tim allowed himself to exhale when Jane arrived, his oppressed expression almost giving way to gratitude.

  “Margie, this is Jane Wheel. She’s worked at the house with me all this week. Tell her what you told me.”

  Jane reached across the table and shook Margie Kendell’s hand, then sat down in the empty chair between Oh and Claire. She was torn when she saw Nellie sit down with the cast members since she didn’t want to miss Nellie’s version of what happened, but Margie looked like she had her own compelling tale. Her face, years older, of course, was still that of a sad-eyed girl. Her yearbook quote, “Make ’em laugh,” might no longer be her motto, but her yearbook expression hadn’t changed a bit.

  “I’ve heard about you from Bruce, too, Jane. I’m glad you’re here to help out with this mess.”

  “It’s been a night of messes, Margaret. You’re going to have to fill me in from the beginning.”

  “The valuable paintings from the house and a few of the silver pieces—the pieces I’ve always been told are the valuable items … objects my grandfather said … the pieces that we could count on to retain…” Margie didn’t exactly stammer, but Jane noticed that in trying to choose her words carefully, she had a difficult time getting out even one coherent sentence. Jane was, by nature, a sentence-finisher, one who tried to supply the missing words, to finish the half-formed thoughts, but Oh’s presence made her conscious of what he called “listening discipline.” He taught her that no matter how close she might come to what another intended to say, when she helped them to say it, she would not learn as much from her own words as she would from theirs, no matter how haltingly the other person’s words came out.

  Claire Oh, however, either had not had the same lesson from her husband or she chose to ignore it.

  “What Margie means is that there were valuable paintings, some silver, some Kalo silver pieces—large ones—and I have them all documented right here. I helped find the silver, as well as some Chinese porcelains, for her mother over twenty years ago. These are the pieces Rick and Margie knew they could count on to bring in some money when the estate settled. It turns out that the auction house has determined that all the pieces we sent in are either not authentic or not that valuable. They are moderately priced antiques or merely decorative reproductions.”

  “Did you see them before they went to auction?” Jane asked. “Are they the same…”

  “The two paintings I purchased for Margie’s mother were authentic. I delivered them to the house and helped her place them myself. The large silver bowl was Kalo, two water pitchers, a set of plates. I have the receipts from when I purchased them. The total value of that silver should be well over fifty thousand, and that’s allowing for this economic climate. Let me make it clear that I am not accusing Lowry, but I need to know the timeline of when these pieces were boxed and sent—”

  “But you don’t know if what you purchased twenty years ago was what was boxed and sent to the auction house. You weren’t here, and if there was a switch—”

  “Of course there was a switch, whatever and wherever.”

  “Now I understand,” said Tim, sounding almost relieved. “You’ve been peppering me with questions for over an hour, but you never exactly explained what had happened. You think I switched the items? Boxed up fakes and sent them to auction? I stole the Kalo and swapped it for cheap plate and thought I’d fool the auction house?” Tim’s relief disappeared and was replaced with anger. “I’m not sure whether to be insulted because you think I’m dishonest or because you think I’m that stupid.”

  “I think you are neither, Lowry,” said Claire. “However, someone was duped.”

  She was interrupted by Margie, who shook her head and said, “Not either one, Tim. I knew right away I could trust you. Claire had advised me on pieces to send for auction, but I didn’t think she’d want to do a house sale. I thought it would be beneath—” Margaret caught herself before she branded Claire a snob and Tim a lowly house sale guy and began again.

  “Right away when you came to the house, I knew you understood there were lives and histories in that house and that you … you had an understanding of how things— I mean, I said yes to this silly play idea of yours and I wouldn’t have if— I trusted you. I mean, I trust you.”

  “But,” said Claire, “we need to know exactly when you sent those pieces and who packed them, if you had help,” Claire turned and looked at Jane pointedly. “You love Kalo silver. Did you help pack it for the auction house?”

  Had Claire totally forgotten that Jane had cleared her name and reputation when Claire herself was accused of selling an expensive forgery?

  Jane took a deep breath. Looking at Tim and Tim only, putting on imaginary blinders to screen out both of the women who insisted they weren’t accusing anyone of anything, she asked, “What’s the story?”

  “I had met with Margie twice at the house and the paintings and silver weren’t there. She was having them independently appraised.”

  Margie nodded while Claire shrieked. “You didn’t tell me they had left the house. Who appraised them?”

  Tim continued talking directly to Jane.

  “When the house keys were turned over to me, it wasn’t by Margie, it was Rick who was in town and who left the keys for me. He was going to meet with the appraiser and have them sent directly to auction. I never saw these items, although Rick left the photographs of the Kalo…”

  Jane raised an eyebrow.

  “Yes, it was fabulous,” said Tim. “But I was never in the same room with any of the stuff pulled for auction.”

  “Nicely done, Mrs. Wheel,
” said Oh, who had been watching all the parties in action. “Claire, you could have gotten to the bottom of this much faster if you had allowed Mr. Lowry to answer any of the questions you hurled in his way.”

  “Right as always, Bruce,” said Margie. “I see it now, don’t you, Claire?”

  And at the same time that Margie said, “My brother, Rick,” Claire said, “that scumbag, Rick.”

  Tim had been right when he described the greed that divided siblings. But didn’t Rick and Margie each inherit a bundle of money? How much would be enough?

  “Here’s the other silver bowl,” said Margie, holding up a photograph. “This one was in the family forever and Freddy … my grandfather, Freddy … said it was better than all the rest of the stuff in the house. Is this one that my brother Rick showed you, Tim?”

  Tim shook his head. Although this was an old photo and the quality was not great, it did look magnificent—a large double-handled bowl.

  “I would have remembered seeing it,” said Tim. “It’s a grand piece.”

  Jane nodded as the photo was passed to her. She repeated, “a grand piece,” and looked up at Tim. “Why does this look so familiar?”

  Claire’s facial features grew even more symmetrical as she pulled herself up straighter in her chair. “Perhaps you’ve visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art?”

  “No, I mean, yes, of course I have.” Jane was too absorbed in the photo to be insulted. “This does look like a museum piece. A grand double-handled silver bowl. It reminds me of one that I’ve seen.” Jane looked up. “There’s one in the Metropolitan?” she asked.

  Claire nodded.

  “Freddy said it was by Cornelius Kierstede. Eighteenth century, American. Would be worth millions now. Maybe it’s still at the house. Maybe in one of the large cabinets in the hall between the dining room and the butler’s pantry?” said Margie. Those cabinets were fitted with locks so mother could lock up the valuables and maybe Freddy told her to lock it up.…”