Backstage Stuff Read online

  “What the hell are you looking at? You heard her.”

  With that, Nellie climbed into the now solid hospital bed, pulled the sheets up to her chin, and folded her hands on top of the covers, the very epitome of the well-behaved comatose matriarch.

  As everyone scattered to their places for the final scene, Jane walked over to the bed and peered down at her mother. Nellie opened her eyes and gave her daughter a Nellific version of a smile, one corner of her mouth grudgingly curving upward while the other remained resolutely in place. She then winked.

  “It’s about time you took over,” said Nellie in a raspy whisper. “Now let’s get this show on the road.”

  20

  Jane liked doing fast run-throughs. When she was in college, a director she knew had always started rehearsals with a speed run-through as a warm-up. It was fun, energizing, and the perfect introduction to a rehearsal session that would eventually be filled with starts and stops. During a speed run-through, however, there were no stops. If an actor got lost or forgot a line, the scene progressed, one actor coming in to just continue, just keep the story moving forward. When it worked, it clarified the story and livened up the action. Actors usually discovered something brand new about their characters when they zoomed through their scenes.

  Jane’s speed run-through of Murder in the Eekaknak Valley did liven up the actors. Once Tim stopped struggling with his accent, he became more relaxed and playful, doing a credible job with Craven, which was essential for the plot twist at the end of the play. Jane wasn’t sure that anyone in the audience was going to be surprised by the ending of Freddy’s play, since he had clearly cribbed much of his work from every mystery melodrama he had ever seen or read, but at least Tim was now fun to watch.

  Rica Evans blossomed. She had always been in control onstage, but now she felt free enough to smile and flirt with Craven and her soon-to-be-ex-son-in-law, Malachi, whose scheming and blackmailing words, now that Chuck Havens had removed his hand from his face, could finally be understood.

  Mary Wainwright struggled, but stammered through her scenes better than she had when trying to find her place in the various planted scripts.

  Nellie was quiet. She remained still, a hint of a Mona Lisa smile playing around her mouth. Tim had suggested one of the extras come in as a nurse/caretaker, helping her to turn, so her face could be hidden and she wouldn’t be under any pressure to keep her eyes closed and her face rigid, but Jane didn’t like the interruption. Instead she suggested that Rica come over and adjust the covers so that they were higher under Nellie’s chin, and her expression hidden.

  It was a tender moment when Rica adjusted the covers and spoke to her mother, explaining why she had left so many years before, abandoning both her mother and daughter for a career, with Perkins the gardener and Hermoine, her daughter, listening in at the French doors at the back of the stage.

  When Jane dismissed everyone for the evening, the actors gathered their notes and their bits of costuming that they needed to take home and iron or adjust, and in groups of two or three left by the lobby door. Tim told Jane to wait while he locked up the rear and side entrances to the building. Don wanted to wait, too, but Nellie was antsy about Rita waiting at the house for a bedtime walk and snack.

  Jane sat in the empty theater, alone in an aisle seat, sixth row, and stared at the set. It was a miniature of the Kendell house, just as Freddy had instructed in the script. The paintings were hung in the precise spots, the candelabra was centered on the upstage left dining table. The black urn sat on the mantel, allegedly holding the ashes of Myra’s stepfather, Marguerite’s ne’er-do-well second husband, who, it would be revealed, had actually driven his stepdaughter out of the house and out of the Eekaknak Valley. Jane made herself a note to actually fill the urn with gray sand so when it was thrown at the end of the play, the audience would see the ashy remains scattered throughout the set. She also made a note to have a crew member double-check the hospital bed between acts, not just before curtain.

  “Jane, could I have just a moment?”

  Jane thought Mary Wainwright had left with Chuck, so she started at the voice behind her. Damn, she had perfected the throaty, raspy voice she had been practicing since they were teenagers. Jane thought it suited her much better now. She turned to Mary, who stood in the aisle looking apologetic and a little fearful. Jane couldn’t help but think that if she could use that look in the play when Hermione confessed to her mother, Myra, that she had read her diary, it would be much more convincing.

  Another thought came in for a hard landing when Jane turned to Mary. Mary had been a friend of hers in high school. They had been rivals, yes, but they had also been friends, and it was only after high school, after years had risen up between them, that Jane had let her resentment about the competitions between them grow. Looking at Mary now, Jane realized that she had missed her. Jane didn’t have any old friends besides Tim, and no girlfriends at all. She had been so hell-bent on leaving Kankakee behind and having a career, and so caught up with Charley and Nick and all of her stuff, that she had forgotten that she had a younger self. And wasn’t her resentment of Mary partially constructed from her own guilt of leaving behind everyone, except Tim, who wouldn’t let himself be left behind, and never bothering to look back, never trying to keep in touch?

  Damn, it was the magic of sitting in an audience, working on a play, in a now-empty theater. It always got to Jane, making her nostalgic for what might have been. She could hear the squeaking wheels of the stage light, the naked safety bulb, which Tim must be bringing out onto the set before they closed up.

  “Jane, did you hear me?” said Mary.

  “No, actually, I didn’t. I’m so tired and I haven’t really eaten all day. I was a million miles away,” said Jane.

  “I’m sorry,” said Mary, and then added, “about the scripts.”

  “Oh Mary, don’t worry about that. You have the scenes down, you don’t need the crutches anymore. I remember,” said Jane, smiling, “that you were excellent as Lady Macbeth when we did the Shakespeare scenes junior year. And that was a lot harder to memorize.”

  “You remember that?” said Mary. “I think that might have been the most fun I had in high school.”

  Mary looked so wistful that Jane knew she wasn’t the only one who grew nostalgic in an empty theater.

  “Anyway, I’m sorry about all the scripts. I shouldn’t have taken them. Here are some more,” Mary said, laughing. She handed Jane five more play scripts.

  Jane noticed each of the covers was a slightly different shade of yellow. One had the title Murder in the Eekaknak Valley printed in red rather than black.

  “Where did these come from?” said Jane. “You have more scripts than there are extras in the cast.”

  “I didn’t get them from the cast members,” said Mary. “I got them from Freddy’s studio. He had this space over the garage that he used for a theater club where—”

  “How?” asked Jane, standing. “How did you…”

  Mary’s apologetic look returned.

  “I’m the Realtor who listed the house. The key to Freddy’s club was on the ring that Rick Kendell gave me. I took it off so that no other agent could have access to the garage or coach house. Rick called me and insisted I do that once he realized he had given me the whole ring of keys. I was not to open that space during an open house. Rick and Margie were supposed to go up there before we could show it. I figured it was just storage, but I had the key and I wanted to see the whole property so I decided one day to just pop in. I saw all these scripts on the shelf behind Freddy’s desk and I grabbed them all. I planned on photocopying my lines and planting them around the stage, just in case, but I hadn’t had time so I just figured I could plant scripts. But it made things worse. Every time I picked up a script to study lines, I got them all jumbled. I even remembered the cues wrong. Whenever we practiced together, I accused Chuck of gaslighting me—you know, making me think I was crazy because it seemed like his cues wer
e different all the time. I made him show me in his script where he was and where I was. Honestly, I think I really might be losing my mind.”

  Jane looked at the five scripts Mary had given her. She stuck them into her tote bag with the other three she had confiscated from the set.

  “Do you have the key to the coach house with you?” asked Jane.

  “No, the key’s at home. I heard about Rick Kendell. He was a jerk, but still…,” Mary shook her head. “Still a terrible thing that somebody killed him. Made me feel even worse for going against his wishes and sneaking into Freddy’s club.”

  Right. Jane was sitting here all smug about turning around the play and holding a decent rehearsal, completely blocking out the fact that the evening had started with a murder.

  Mary patted Jane’s shoulder awkwardly and turned to leave.

  When she was almost to the door to the lobby, Jane called out, “How did you hear about Rick Kendell?”

  Mary thought for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Rica, maybe? Everyone in the cast was talking about it. Most of us had been at the memorial and every time one person mentioned what a creep Kendell had been, rubbing it into Suzanne’s face that she was going to lose Geppetto Studios, somebody else would tell them he had been murdered. I heard we all have to talk to the police. Got around pretty fast,” said Mary. “I’ll have to talk to Margaret about the listing on the house now, but it can wait.”

  Mary waved and turned to leave. Tim had jumped down from the stage and was now rubbing his knees, muttering about what a stupid thing that was to do, when Jane turned to him.

  “Do you remember who told you about Rick Kendell?”

  “What about him?” asked Tim.

  * * *

  Don and Nellie were sitting at the kitchen table eating ice cream when Jane and Tim walked in. Rita had been walked and treated and looked grateful to have all of her humans back in the same place again. It wasn’t easy guarding your loved ones if your loved ones kept drifting away and leaving you behind.

  Nellie jumped up and without asking first got up to scoop out two more bowls of ice cream.

  “Any chocolate sauce, Nellie?” asked Tim, following her to the refrigerator and peeking in over her shoulder.

  Nellie got out jars of hot fudge and caramel sauce, ignoring Tim’s presence, almost closing the refrigerator door on his head.

  “So what happens to the sale now?” asked Nellie. “Can Margaret okay everything by herself?”

  “Nope,” said Tim. “At least I don’t think so. They were the heirs and now, I assume, Margaret is the sole heir to the property, but it’s possible Rick could have left his half to someone. Maybe he has a significant other down in Florida?” Tim looked around the kitchen, waving the jar of hot fudge. “Still no microwave?”

  Nellie grabbed the jar out of his hand and placed it into the pan of hot water she had already coaxed to a simmer.

  “Don’t need a microwave,” said Nellie. “You all are going to grow tails if you keep using those inventions.”

  Tim looked like he might start up an old argument, just for fun. He even opened his mouth to protest but then closed it just as quickly and shrugged. He was too tired to engage. Don patted the chair next to him and Tim crossed the kitchen to sit down and wait for Nellie to spoon the hot fudge on his ice cream—just as she had done since he was a little boy.

  Jane swiped her finger over “end call” on her cell phone and came over to the table. When Nellie pointed to the hot fudge, she nodded. Like Tim, she knew that if she sat down, Nellie would serve her up a giant sundae.

  Nellie wasn’t always in the kitchen, on duty, when Jane got home from school. She was usually still at the EZ Way Inn, finishing up the dishes from lunch, waiting for the three o’clock rush when the Roper Stove boys poured into the bar, but when Nellie was around—on weekends or after dinner—she waited on Jane, and when he was tagging along after her, Tim, too. Jane acknowledged that she and Nellie never had a particularly warm mother-daughter thing going, but at least Nellie treated her like a favorite customer. Even now, Jane smiled when she saw her mother give her an extra dollop of hot fudge and drizzled caramel over the top.

  “Mom, I need to know some stuff about Freddy’s theater club,” said Jane.

  Nellie shrugged and crouched down to rub Rita’s ears.

  “Freddy was a nut who always wanted a group of people around him, so he wrote plays and got us to practice and—”

  “Yeah, I get all that, but what was the group like without Freddy? Were you all friends? Did you hang out together?”

  “Jane, you know all this. I didn’t go to high school. I worked at the hosiery factory. You think all those country club kids wanted to hang out with me? I lived alongside the tracks, remember?”

  Jane nodded, remembering the Sunday visits to her Lithuanian grandmother’s house. They sat in her spotless kitchen, Nellie nodding along to her mother’s soft broken English, and then the rumbling and vibrating would start. Six times a day, the Illinois Central roared by, shaking the little house, stopping all conversation. The Schaltis family did, indeed, live on the side of the tracks.

  “Well, it wasn’t just the side, it was the wrong side, and all of them at Freddy’s knew it. I was just the best memorizer,” said Nellie.

  “And the prettiest,” said Don.

  “Shut the hell up,” said Nellie, passing out napkins to everyone.

  “They’re so cute when they get all romantic,” said Tim.

  “But you dated Henry, right?” said Jane. “Sorry, Dad, but I’ve got to figure this out. At first it was just all the valuables missing, but now Marvin’s dead and Rick Kendell. There’s something about Freddy’s club—”

  They all heard the knock at the kitchen door.

  “Oh,” said Jane.

  “Who the hell comes by at this time of night?” said Nellie.

  Don stood and motioned for Nellie to stay in her chair, but she ignored him and beat him to the door.

  “Oh,” said Jane. “I forgot to tell you that he was coming by. I wanted to look at the receipts that Claire had for all the art and antiques she had purchased for the Kendells.”

  Oh came in apologizing for intruding. Claire came in behind him, carrying a woven leather briefcase. It was nearly midnight and she still looked cool and calm and put together in tan slacks and a navy blue fitted jacket, a scarf tied at her throat.

  Jane could feel hot fudge dripping down her chin. Without turning to look at her, Nellie handed Jane another napkin.

  “Ice cream?” Nellie asked.

  The Ohs shook their heads, and Nellie nodded, crossing to the stove and putting the kettle on. She busied herself getting out tea bags and sugar and lemon, but Jane could tell her mother remained at alert. All ears, all systems go.

  “Claire wanted to bring the receipts herself,” said Oh.

  Was there a note of apology in his voice?

  “I have a notebook and some photos, but I just thought I could explain some of the pieces better than little scraps of paper could,” said Claire.

  Don had pulled up two more chairs to the round kitchen table.

  “How’s Margaret?” asked Jane.

  “It’s been grueling,” said Claire, “but I think she’s pulling through okay.” Claire looked at Bruce Oh, who nodded.

  “We waited to come here until she was asleep. Identifying a relative for the police is never an easy chore, and for Margaret, even though Rick was not a good brother, he was the last relative,” said Oh.

  “Bryan and Penny Kendell?” asked Jane.

  “Oh, they’re just spongers,” said Claire. “Distant cousins waiting for some crumbs to be tossed their way. Margaret said Penny had wanted to visit her at the motel this afternoon, but she was able to put her off.”

  “This afternoon?” said Jane. “Wasn’t Margaret at the house with you washing dishes … and I saw Penny at the memorial for Marvin.”

  “We left the house around three, didn’t we, Nellie?�
�� asked Claire. “Margaret wanted a nap and I wanted to go over this book again. I keep thinking I’ve missed something in that house,” Claire paused, cocking her head as if she surprised herself by what she had just said. “And I never miss anything.”

  Jane did a little time check in her head. The memorial probably ended around three thirty. At least Rick had stopped his petty little speech by then. People had remained chatting and consoling Suzanne, but Jane had been talking to the carpenters and looking around the shop. Could Bryan and Penny have said their good-byes, met Rick out in front, and, between the two of them, switched the mannequin, encouraged him to sit and talk family business, then killed him? Then Penny might have called Margaret, hoping to get rid of her, too, so she and Bryan would be the last Kendells standing? Jane really hadn’t paid attention to who left when. She envied those fictional detectives who always had just glanced at the clock before they heard a scream or the witnesses who had checked their watches the minute they heard a shot. All Jane knew at this point was that she and Oh had arrived at Geppetto Studios shortly after lunch, had momentarily gotten hung up in the stage set office where Marvin had set up the Lew Archer/Sam Spade dead detective tableau, or whatever the hell it was supposed to be, then walked through the doors that hid the enormous workspace from the front, walked the length of half a block through the scene shop area to the partitioned-off back where the memorial site was set up. Jane had found Rick Kendell’s body around five? Five thirty? That did it. Jane promised herself she would start wearing a watch. She knew it was after seven by the time they left, after reporting the murder, after talking to Ramey.

  And after finding the typed note from Mr. Bumbles.

  “Look at this,” said Claire. “That silver vase, eighteenth-century American? I found that for Margaret’s mother, when she still had money or thought she did. Artistry, function, and history. A piece by this silversmith sold a few months ago at auction for over a million. And that’s in this economy. Museum quality,” said Claire. Jane watched her stroke the pencil sketch of the piece with her index figure. Jane wondered why a sketch.