Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (4 page)

Or at least we all know what we
saw
.

Car horns blaring outside the window jolt me back to the here and now. I turn toward the green couch and Lisette’s satchel.

It’s a gorgeous thing, made of soft gray leather with impeccable detailing and wonderful fringe that must bounce beautifully with a woman’s step. Given the designer, I’m guessing it retails for close to two thousand bucks.

But I already knew Lisette was well-to-do. I heard her father is a banking tycoon.

The handbag itself is notable but nothing inside it is. Except, of course, for Lisette’s cell phone. And, I will add, one other small item. My lackadaisical conscience asserts itself, but in vain. I slip the item into my own purse.

A quick check of Lisette’s phone reveals that there are no voicemails she didn’t hear. I move on to her call log. Just like on my phone, a few names keep repeating themselves. I grab my phone and take photos of the log, going back several days before it occurs to me that I should check her texts and email, too.

It’s safe to say I’m not shy.

I take photos of her list of texts, which has many of the same names I saw on her call log, no surprise. Then I move on to email and take photos of those, too.

I’m pondering what I should scan next when I hear footsteps in the corridor. Before I can do more than slip Lisette’s phone back into her satchel and wonder how the heck I’m going to explain my presence in this office—which I realize I should have figured out
before
I started snooping—the door opens.

“I knew we’d find you in here,” Shanelle says.

Trixie points at Lisette’s satchel. “Is that a Proenza Schouler?” There’s wonder in her voice.

“Yes. You never noticed that before? Get in here”—I frantically motion them inside—“before somebody sees you.”

They step inside and shut the door behind them. Shanelle lifts the satchel from the couch and strokes the velvet-soft leather. “It’s like buttah.”

“Put that down.” I return the handbag to the couch. Even though I’ve rifled through it, somehow it seems even more disrespectful to feel it up.

Shanelle narrows her eyes at me. “So spill it, girl. What are you up to?”

I know it’s pointless trying to hide my nefarious activities. “Going through Lisette’s cell phone. I’ve taken photos of her call log and texts and emails.”

“And why, might I ask, did you do that?” Shanelle says.

“I’m kind of wondering the same thing,” Trixie says.

“You know.” I’m a little uncomfortable now that I’m on the spot. “In case her death wasn’t an accident.”

“How could it not have been an accident?” Shanelle wants to know. “We all saw what happened. Lisette took a really bad fall down that dang staircase.”

“I know it looks that way—”

Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “It doesn’t just
look
that way, girl. It
is
that way.”

“Don’t pester her, Shanelle,” Trixie says. “We all have our weaknesses. Happy has kind of a suspicious mind, no offense, and I”—she picks up Lisette’s handbag—“I can’t resist luxury leather products.”

Again I grab the handbag and return it to the couch. “I just want to keep an open mind, that’s all. Now let’s get out of here.” I hurry us into the corridor, saying a silent prayer of thanks to the angel who watches over Polish women for allowing me (mostly) unmolested access to Lisette’s office.

We’re nearly back to the wings, where cast and crew are congregating, when we run into You Know Who. Literally. “Whoa!” I cry.

Kimberly, her blond head down even though she’s moving at quite a clip, barrels right into me. Her tripod crashes to the floor and her folders go flying. She nearly drops her video camera, too. Her still camera, swinging from a strap around her neck, slams into my torso. “Sorry,” she mumbles and drops to her knees to scoop up her folders. Shanelle, Trixie and I do the same to help. When Kimberly sniffles and swipes at her nose, I realize she’s crying. Pretty hard, too. If she wore mascara, it would be running.

I lay a hand on her arm. Kimberly Drayson may not be my favorite person, but tears get me every time. She raises huge blue eyes to mine. “It’s terrible what happened to Lisette,” I murmur.

She gulps then nods. I have to admit she’s an attractive little thing. She’s very petite, with a heart-shaped face and doe eyes. True, too often her hair is bundled back by a headband and butterfly clip, and she’s always wearing black leggings and a blowsy top belted at the waist, but the basic makings are there.

It freaks me out that I suspect Jason finds Kimberly attractive. Her looks are so different from mine! If she were a Mini Me, at least in a backhanded way I could take his attraction as sort of a compliment. I jut my chin at her camera equipment. “You must’ve seen Lisette’s fall pretty close up.”

Trixie winces. “That would be horrible.”

Horrible: yes. Potentially useful, too. “You were recording, right?” I say.

Kimberly looks away. “Not right then.”

Darn!

“I mean,” she goes on, “once Lisette gets on stage, there’s no point recording.”

Sad but true. Oliver wants a video recording of the performance, not of Lisette’s high jinks.

We clamber to our feet and Kimberly zigzags away. Shanelle gives me a meaningful look. “Guess you won’t be able to check out the recording to spy the murderer hightailing it.”

“You’ve made your point, Shanelle.”

“I bet I’ll have to make it again before all this is over.”

I bet she will.

Trixie sidles close. “Look how upset everybody is,” she whispers.

Indeed there is none of the usual jocularity among cast and crew. By this time of night, people are always zonked, given the brutality of the schedule, but still they manage to be boisterous and chatty. Not tonight. We’re all shell-shocked.

Word comes down that Oliver wants us to assemble in the second-floor rehearsal room. Usually we convene onstage post-performance, but since it’s been taken over by a corpse, the cops, and the coroner, that’s not happening. Shanelle, Trixie and I trudge upstairs after our colleagues.

The rehearsal room reminds me of a gargantuan dance studio except that it has fewer mirrors and no barres for dancers to hold on to as they practice their pliés. It does have blue tape on the hardwood floor marking where the entrances, exits and curtains would be if this were a stage. I note Kimberly in one corner, her head bent over her cell phone, madly texting away.

I wonder if she’s texting Jason. Granted, she’d have an excuse: he’s coming to New York Saturday for their photo shoot. It amazes me, but Kimberly convinced the calendar company to do an edition for next year that features my husband and my husband only. I guess Jason has way more star power than I gave him credit for. It makes me feel bad that I underestimated him all these years. I used to think that was my mom’s territory, but I guess it’s mine, too.

Another thing makes me feel bad: how jealous I get watching Jason and Kimberly work together. It’s sure helped me understand how Jason felt seeing pageant events—and my sleuthing—draw Mario and me closer.

Unfortunately, any hope I had of making Jason’s New York visit a bit of a romantic getaway is pretty much dashed. Not only will both of us be working most of the time, but my mom is showing up in the Big Apple tomorrow with Bennie Hana, her employer and boyfriend all rolled into one. And where Hazel Przybyszewski goes, drama inevitably follows. Jason and I will be lucky if we get any quality time alone.

Oliver waves the last stragglers inside the rehearsal room. Maybe it’s just me but I sense a certain tension in the room. We all know Oliver couldn’t stand Lisette. This is like asking one of the Hatfields to say a few nice words about one of the McCoys.

Oliver squeaks out his opening. “What happened tonight is a huge tragedy for Lisette and her family. It’s a horrible, horrible thing. And there’s no playbook for what to do afterward, either. My father tells me he’s seen it all on Broadway, but he never saw this.”

Shanelle glances at me and arches her brows. I can guess what she’s thinking. This is the first time we’ve heard Oliver mention his father, the legendary Broadway producer Oliver Tripp Sr. I’m glad I’m not Oliver because it’d be tough to follow in those footsteps. If my dad had been a star crime-solver, or my mom Miss Universe, deep down I know I’d be competing with them.

“You all know by now,” Oliver says, “that with me, what you see is what you get.”

Not really. Oliver screamed at Lisette behind closed doors but feigned friendship otherwise.

“I speak my mind,” he goes on. “Tonight’s not going to change that.”

I get an even worse feeling. Lisette’s not even cold and Oliver is about to ream her. He’s sure not bothering to put on his timid act for us mere mortals, the cast and crew. Though his voice is as squeaky as ever, he sounds quite self-assured.

“So if you need to talk about what happened tonight, don’t come to me,” he tells us. “Go to your shrink; go to your rabbi; I don’t care. Because the bottom line for me is that this production is the toughest I’ve ever worked on and that’s because of Lisette Longley. I’m not saying she deserved what happened tonight, but she was hardly a friend of mine. I’m not going to start pretending now that she was.”

Not a peep comes out of a soul in that rehearsal room.

“So here’s what we’re going to do.” We might have a corpse one floor below, but Oliver sounds totally matter-of-fact. “We’re going to get back to work. Mourn Lisette on your own time. Come here to work. Opening night is coming up fast and nothing is going to keep me from making
Dream Angel
the best musical it can be. If you’re not on board with that program, I want you gone.

“One last thing,” Oliver says into the stunned silence. “What I said to the audience goes double for all of you. If anybody posts or tweets about what happened here tonight, you’re outa here. Period.” He lets that sink in. “I’ve drafted a statement to the media. Obviously there will be no preview tomorrow night.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll delay our call time to noon. Be on time.” Oliver spins out of the rehearsal room.

For a while, nobody speaks and nobody moves. Then people start turning to each other and the low hum of conversation fills the room.

I turn to Shanelle and Trixie and wonder if I look as shocked as they do. “Sheesh!” I hiss. “That was
cold
.”

“If that’s how he speaks of the dead,” Shanelle mutters, “I don’t want to know what he has to say about the living.”

Trixie’s eyes are wide with astonishment. “He really does speak his mind.”

Some of the time, anyway. But I wager that the very people who claim to be totally upfront are the ones with the most secrets. Trixie’s right: I do have a suspicious mind. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggest. “And take a cab back to the apartment.” Those twelve blocks can be great exercise, but it’s midnight and I want to get home. I want to get out of these clothes and pour myself a glass of wine, not necessarily in that order.

Fifteen minutes later we arrive at our high-rise home away from home. What do people say about real estate? All that matters is location, location, location? Well, this place is central, central, central. We’re on the 25
th
floor and our floor-to-ceiling windows offer spectacular views. I feel like I can reach out and touch the Empire State Building. It’s all very Manhattan, with designer touches everywhere and a doorman, concierge and porter at our beck and call.

That said, the apartment is minuscule. You enter a tiny foyer and take two steps through a chic kitchen to find yourself in the main room, fantastic view in front of you, queen bed to your left and leather pull-out sofa to your right. Off this room is a short corridor lined with closets that leads to the bathroom. The only spots of color are the cornflower-blue paint on the accent wall behind the bed, the bright yellow teakettle on the cooktop, and the book jackets on the hardcovers stacked on the nightstand. Everything else is New York neutral: white, gray and black.

I’m not sure I’d want to live here—not that I could afford to—but for a week it makes me feel very urban and sophisticated.

By wordless consent, we engage in our evening ritual. We leave the lights off; Shanelle fetches the wine; and Trixie and I get the glasses. We settle on the sofa to enjoy the astonishing view. Some people might think it odd that we sit in the dark, but this way it’s as if we three are hidden in our own private Manhattan aerie. Invisible, we can observe the nocturnal goings-on, for the first time since our morning coffee happily removed from the action. Often we sip in silence—which only adds to the magic—but tonight we talk.

“I still can’t get over what Oliver said,” Trixie says.

“Or how he said it.” I swirl my wine as if I were a connoisseur instead of a Two Buck Chuck drinker. “He didn’t sound half as nervous as usual.”

“That’s because he doesn’t have to fight Lisette any more,” Shanelle points out. “He be the big boss now.”

“Lisette’s family probably knows what happened to her by now,” I murmur. “How horrible for them.”