“How well did you know Megan?”
They glanced at one another sideways and replied in unison, “We didn’t know her.”
Huber stared at them.
Mrs. Kingsley explained, “We saw her on stage at the dress rehearsal and also on opening night, but we’d never talked to her.”
“I see. Was she a good actress?”
“Indeed she was and played an impressionable Vanity.”
“Did Megan have a dressing room all to herself, or did she share it with others?”
“She used the small dressing room which accommodates only one person.”
“How bad was the damage to it?”
Her husband took over and stated, “It was completely destroyed and so was part of the hallway. We had to get estimates and last Friday finally obtained the okay from the insurance company to go ahead with the reconstruction. Work on it will start next week.”
“So the crime scene is still untouched?”
“It’s boarded up.” He got to his feet and beckoned, “Come, I’ll show you.”
Mrs. Kingsley said, “You two go ahead; looking at the destruction gives me the willies.”
Mr. Kingsley turned the auditorium lights on and then led her down the right-hand side aisle. As they passed by rows of seats covered in red velvet fabric, Huber got a glimpse of the heavy brocade curtain drawn across the proscenium style stage, before they mounted the few steps leading backstage.
Mr. Kingsley suddenly became a tour guide and said, “We are now passing through the green room, a lounge where performers wait when they are not needed onstage. On the opposite side is the dimmer room housing the dimmer racks which provide power to the lighting rig in the theater.”
Stepping a few yards down the hallway he continued, “To your right is a storage room, and next to it the male dressing room with adjoining restroom. On the left we have the female dressing room and corresponding restroom. The door adjacent to it leads to the back entrance.”
Then they walked a few more paces down the corridor and without warning came upon an area barricaded off by plywood panels, and beyond, nothing but a big gaping hole.
He said, “As you can see, there’s nothing left of the room and this part of the hallway.”
Huber peered into the abyss for a long moment, and then said, “Why was there an additional dressing room needed in such a small theater?”
“How perceptive of you! Originally, the room used to be another storage room to hold costumes, wigs and props. A few years back, we had a famous star among the cast - - I won’t mention her name - - with a big ego, demanding to have her own private dressing room. As a courtesy to her, we converted the little storage place into a dressing room and then kept it that way. The lead ladies have had their private place backstage ever since.”
They turned away from the gloomy site and retraced their steps. As they passed the back entrance, Huber asked, “So the orchid plant was delivered through this door and brought to where there’s nothing but a ruin now?”
“I would guess so.”
There was no point in lingering backstage any longer. They returned to the auditorium, walked through it, and headed back to the small office where Mrs. Kingsley still sat on the same folding chair. She seemed a bit muddled, and Huber suspected that the lady might have dozed off and was now trying hard to focus.
“I have just one more question. Do either of you have a theory as to why the young woman was killed?”
Mr. Kingsley shook his head and replied, “I can’t imagine why anyone would do such an atrocious deed.”
His wife said, “The modern world is full of violence and criminals; no place is safe anymore.”
“Evil has always existed in our world, and always will,” Huber stated.
Chapter 9
On that same afternoon, R. A. Huber was scheduled to see Madame Dubois, owner of Le Monde Fashion. The upscale boutique was located in South Pasadena on a cul-de-sac. The establishments on that particular street were comparable to those of Rodeo Drive, serving a wealthy clientele. The lady detective had on occasion done a bit of window shopping in the area, but never ventured into any of the places. Le Monde Fashion was well-known for its clever window displays. Huber remembered having strolled along the district one day in December and being captivated by the ingenious holiday window exhibit. In the foreground, there stood one single mannequin dressed in a red floor-length cape, and an enormous star loomed over the entire background space. The star sparkled with such brilliance that it attracted people’s attention clear across the street.
She now admired another fascinating window scene. A cardboard dummy dressed in a police officer’s uniform had a whistle squeezed between his lips, and with an outstretched arm held off traffic to let three mannequins parade by. Each was decked out in a different color outfit, with matching hat, purse, sunglasses and coordinated jewelry.
As soon as Huber stepped inside the shop, a tall, stunning young woman walked up to her and announced, “Welcome to Le Monde Fashion,” and with a trained eye took in the potential customer’s appearance. Huber, although dressed in her usual chic mode, was out of her league in this establishment.
The young woman said, “May I help you?”
“I have an appointment to see Madame Dubois. My name is R. A. Huber.”
“Oh sure, Ms. Huber, I’ll tell her you’re here,” and she vanished.
Left alone, Huber looked around. The place was not busy. She spotted a lone customer at the opposite end of the store browsing through suits with the help of another salesclerk, equally attractive as the young woman who had welcomed her. Huber scrutinized a few items hanging from a clothes rack near her, noting that the stylish garments were of superior quality, and she was not surprised to find no price tags attached.
Her escort suddenly stood next to her again and said, “This way, please,” and she followed her out the store to the back corridor. They passed several doors and at the end of the hallway came to a halt in front of an area similar to a small hotel lobby. The young woman asked her to have a seat and then left.
Huber barely had time to select one of the upholstered chairs and glance around the place when she heard a door being shut and then fast approaching footsteps. A second later, a forty-year-old petite brunette entered the area with a brisk gait. She was clad in black leggings and a loose black-and-grey tunic and wore dark flats resembling ballet slippers. Her hair was pulled into a ponytail, and she wore no jewelry or any kind of makeup. In short, the woman looked more like an artist than the proprietress of an upscale fashion boutique.
Huber stood up, and at 5’6” towered over the other woman by several inches.
“Voilà Madame Huber,” she said, in an unmistakable French accent.
The lady detective said, “Bon après-midi Madame Dubois. Merci de prendre le temps de me reçevoir.”
“Pas de problème. Vous êtes canadienne-française?”
“Non, je suis de la Suisse.”
As they both sat down, the conversation reverted to English and Madame Dubois said, “Excuse my getup; I’m in the middle of creating my next window display.”
Astonished, Huber asked, “You’re doing the window dressing yourself?”
“I enjoy it. Besides, I wouldn’t trust anyone else with the job.”
“You are extremely talented.”