Murder At the Cubbyhole. Alice Zogg
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on the second, apartment 10C.”
In a swift motion Huber turned away from the window and wagging her finger at him said, “Apartment 10C is next door to where Megan lived. Don’t tell me you’ve never met her over the span of a year!”
His face turned red as he protested, “Naturally I saw her coming and going, but we didn’t socialize. When I first moved in, both women came to my door together and introduced themselves as Amber and Megan, but I could never remember which was which.”
“When was the last time you saw Megan, to put it in your words, coming and going?”
He thought about it for a second and then said, “It was the Friday right before Valentine’s Day.”
“And that day sticks in your mind?”
“Not really. It wasn’t until later when hearing the cop say she was killed on Saturday that I realized I’d seen her the night before.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“Yeah, it was weird. Even though we didn’t really know each other, she usually smiled and commented about the weather or something when we crossed paths.”
“And on that evening she was different?”
“Exactly. Like I said, it was strange. We were both coming home around eleven at night and she was standing in front of her door, fiddling for keys in her purse. I said, ‘Good night, sleep tight,’ as I passed by her on the way to my place next door. I obviously had startled her; she seemed scared out of her mind and almost fainted. The building is well lit at night and when recognizing me, she seemed to pull herself together. I asked whether she was okay and she assured me that all was fine.”
“Granted, you frightened her, but I see nothing strange in that.”
“I’m getting to it. After she found her keys, and just before she opened the door and went inside, she did something like this - -” he first touched his forehead with his right hand, then the middle of his chest, then left and right.
“She crossed herself?”
He nodded. “She did it slowly and deliberately. It was dramatic.”
Chapter 8
On Monday morning, R. A. Huber had an appointment to meet with Mr. and Mrs. Kingsley, the owners of the Cubbyhole Theater, at their playhouse. It was located down a side alley off the main drag in Old Town Pasadena. She was a few minutes early and found the place locked. From the outside, the small theater could have been mistaken for an office building were it not for the wide front portal. Photos with scenes from the current play were exhibited in glass cases on either side of the entrance. Huber was studying a picture of a young woman in the role of Vanity when the couple walked up to her. They were both well into their seventies. Huber had the distinct feeling that the pair had been arguing moments before but were trying to hide this from her.
After introductions were made, she pointed to the photo and asked, “Was this Megan Maguire?”
Mrs. Kingsley replied, “Oh no, it’s the actress who replaced her. Considering what happened, I think it would be in poor taste to show a picture of the first Vanity.”
Mr. Kingsley unlocked the entry and then pulled the heavy doors open. As Huber followed them past the ticketing counter into the lobby, he said, “Have you been to our theater before?”
“I sure have on several occasions,” Huber replied with an appreciative smile. “I enjoyed the small scale setting as it gave me an intimate rapport with the performers. You have a real treasure here.”
Flattered, he beamed at her. Then he said, “There’s an office to the left where we can talk,” and led the way past the coat check and restrooms.
To call the tiny workstation an office was a generous statement. Mr. Kingsley motioned Huber into the only comfortable chair behind the modest desk and opened up two folding chairs for him and his wife he found leaning against the wall. The only other furniture was an old-fashioned wooden file cabinet. The small space had no window, just three walls and an open arched entryway. There was no computer, printer, or fax machine in the room.
He said, “You’re not claustrophobic, are you?”
“Don’t worry, I’m not,” Huber replied. “First off, let me thank you both for granting me this interview. Since you were questioned by the police a while back, some of the material we’ll go over might be repetitive.”
Mr. Kingsley said, “We’re glad to help and the faster the culprit is caught, the better.”
“Do you folks run the theater yourselves?”
“We used to when we were younger, but decided to hire a manager some years back.” And with a meaningful side glance toward his wife he remarked, “As we’re learning now, it is not always a good idea to delegate one’s responsibilities.” Returning his attention back to Huber he continued, “This is his office.”
“Would he know about deliveries made to the backstage area?”
“You mean props and such?”
“No, I was thinking of things sent to actors; like the orchids delivered to Megan Maguire, for instance.”
“Oh, I see, how stupid of me! Our manager takes care of the business aspect of the theater, but the director might know which of the stagehands accepted the flowers.”
“Would that be Sal Silverberg?”
“Correct.”
Mrs. Kingsley chimed in, “He is a tremendous asset to the cast. We are so lucky to have him.”
Huber said, “I have Mr. Silverberg on my list of people to see.” Then she asked, “I take it you’ve owned the theater for a long time?”
“35 years, and we’re quite nostalgic about it,” said Mrs. Kingsley.
Her spouse nodded and said, “The Cubbyhole was already old when we bought it and in dire need of repairs. When it was put on the market we feared that if sold to the wrong people, the memorable playhouse would be torn down. We couldn’t let that happen and put in a generous bid.”
Huber remarked, “You were lucky to be able to do that.”
“You’ve got that right. Just around the time the theater was for sale, we’d inherited a substantial sum and planned to invest it in real estate. We were, and still are, performing arts enthusiasts and eagerly grabbed the opportunity to keep this place alive. There was even money left for repairs and remodeling.”
The sadness in Mrs. Kingsley’s voice was undeniable as she said, “Those were the good old days. In the current economy it is a daily struggle to keep our doors open.”
“Now, don’t whine, dear,” her husband put in. “From Sin to Virtue is a success. We are nearly sold out at every performance.”
“You keep the play going despite what happened to Megan?”
He replied, “We initially thought to close down the Cubbyhole for a while, but the director insisted that the show must go on and has replaced her with the understudy.” And with a bit of embarrassment he added, “The news of what happened backstage on the night of the debut performance seems to have put our little theater into the limelight. As I mentioned, we’ve had a full house ever since.”
His wife commented, “There is no harm in seizing a good business opportunity, now is there?”
Mr. Kingsley gave her an irritated look and she quickly added, “After the explosion we hired extra security personnel, though.”
“Are there other performances at the Cubbyhole besides From Sin to Virtue?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “Something’s going on almost every night; we have to be flexible, or else couldn’t survive.” She turned to her husband