Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (5 page)

“I don’t know anything about her family,” Trixie says. “All I know is she wasn’t married and didn’t have kids.”

Shanelle shakes her head. “What I want to know is how did that woman get to be the way she was? What made her so dang hostile all the time?”

I watch the lights of a distant plane twinkle in the sky. A thought niggles to the surface of my mind. Maybe
that’s
why I have trouble believing Lisette’s death is accidental. She was such a pain in the patootie that even though her family and friends are in anguish at her death, there must be people who are secretly pleased. Maybe one of them hated her enough to make it happen.

“You still with us, Happy?” Shanelle asks.

I snap to. “Just thinking.”

“I know what about, too.” Shanelle sighs, sets down her wineglass, and rises to her feet. “Let’s get this over with. Who else wants to change before we head back to the theater?”

“We’re going back to the theater?” Trixie sputters. “At this hour?”

“Sure enough are,” Shanelle says. “On your feet.”

Shanelle must have serious leadership skills because a second later Trixie and I are both vertical. “How did you know I was going back to the theater tonight?” I ask. “I planned to wait until you two fell asleep before I snuck out.”

“What?” Trixie cries. She’s clearly aghast at my treachery.

Shanelle just puts her hands on her hips. “Girl, what kind of fool do you take me for? The day will never dawn when you do not want to check out a crime scene while the blood’s still fresh.”

“But you keep telling me there’s no crime scene here. That’s Lisette’s fall is just an accident.”

“I keep saying that because it’s true! You can search that dang theater all you want, but you won’t find a thing.”

“You don’t know that for sure. And as much as I’d love your company, I don’t want you going back with me unless you’re willing to take it seriously.”

Shanelle deflates after that. Trixie rubs my arm. “I want to go. And I’m sure both Shanelle and I can keep an open mind.”

Shanelle harrumphs. “I don’t know about that. What I
do
know is that the faster I can get this murder idea out of your mind, the faster we can enjoy New York City. So let’s get a move on.”

We’re out the door in short order. I’ve changed into skinny jeans, a turtleneck, and my black quilted jacket with faux-fur lining at the hood. My footwear is cozy, too: black booties with a foldover cuff and wool lining that feels just like shearling. Only a three-inch heel, too! Talk about practical.

We hail a cab as quickly as if it were high noon and squeeze in the back. “You’d have to be very brave to do this alone, Happy,” Trixie whispers as dark Manhattan streets fly past.

“There’s nothing to be afraid of. Major crime citywide dropped five percent last year. I looked it up. Plus, I’ve got this.” I show off the sequined pepper spray that lives in my crossbody clutch. Criminals might mistake it for a beauty aid, but I know I’m ready for anything.

“It’s not crime I’m worried about,” Trixie says. “It’s ghosts. You know how haunted Broadway theaters are. And here we are going into one after midnight. By ourselves. Where somebody just died.”

I fall silent. Trixie speaks the truth. I looked up Broadway hauntings, too. I do a lot more reading on that topic than I used to. It’s embarrassing, but it’s because it makes me feel closer to Mario. He is, after all, the world-renowned host of
America’s Scariest Ghost Stories
.

“I’m sorry,” Trixie murmurs. “I shouldn’t have brought that up.”

“It’s all right.” I let out a sigh. “I can’t make Mario, or everything that has to do with him, a verboten topic.” We stop at a red light and a young couple crosses the street in front of us. They look in love. Their heads are bent together, they’re chatting quietly, and she’s clutching his arm as tight as can be. “It’s just all that stuff in the tabloids. It bothers me even though it shouldn’t. It so totally shouldn’t.”

“That stuff is all wrong, anyway,” Shanelle says. “You can’t trust it.”

“Pictures don’t lie. And the pictures prove that Mario took Esperanza Esposito to that New Year’s Eve party in Malibu.”

It was at some splashy beachfront compound. Everybody who was anybody was there, apparently, including a beaming Mario Suave and, on his arm, Esperanza Esposito, star of the telenovela sensation
Todos Los Días
. A woman who, even
I
have to admit, is perfect for him. She shares his heritage, his native language, his fabulous looks, even his work history. Mario got his start on a telenovela, too.

Even more to the point, Esperanza shares Mario’s marital status: single. Which is the opposite of mine: married.

“And we all know,” I go on, “that Mario taking Esperanza to that party is only half the story. There are the yoga pictures, too.”

Those appeared in the tabloids just last week. And in my opinion they are even more revealing. Mario and Esperanza appear in workout clothes, with scrubbed and smiling faces, strolling along a foggy Montana Avenue in Santa Monica, according to the caption. Esperanza is carrying a lavender yoga mat and Mario has a takeout coffee. They’re both laughing. If you were a mile away you could see the joy they take in each other’s company.

The caption provides one other telling detail: Esperanza is en route to her early morning yoga class. I don’t have to tell you what it means that Mario is by her side in the early morning. It means he was with her late at night. In fact, it means he was with her
over
night. We tabloid readers all know what
that
means.

Since I am not entirely without discipline, I am able to push these thoughts from my mind. I’ve taken to asking myself one simple question: do you love your husband? When I answer yes, as I always do, I realize I’m a fool to be thinking about Mario. That makes it a teensy bit easier to banish my wayward thoughts.

At the moment it helps that our cab is pulling up to the theater. It’s time to focus on the task at hand. I pay the fare and leap out onto the now empty sidewalk, cheered that thanks to the wee item I purloined from Lisette’s satchel, the locked doors on our theater will present no problem.

My heels click on the pavement as I head for the alley that leads to the rear of the theater and the stage door. It’s the way insiders enter and exit. Until this evening, I didn’t have a key. Trixie and Shanelle reach me as I’m poking Lisette’s key into the lock. Trixie slaps me on the arm. “You scamp!”

The key fits. I turn it and pull open the heavy metal door painted emerald green. “I recognized this key from that time Lisette let us in behind her,” I whisper. “I thought it might come in handy.”

“I knew you’d have some trick up your sleeve,” Shanelle murmurs.

“Let’s be super quiet until we’re sure everybody is gone. It would be really hard to explain why we’re here at this hour. By the way,” I add, “I’m so glad you two came with me.”

“Girl,” Shanelle says, “I may not always agree with you, but I’ve always got your back.”

“I want you to have
my
back,” Trixie tells Shanelle, “in case there are any ghosts.”

It is in this formation, with me in the lead and Shanelle bringing up the rear, that we enter the theater. Taking care to be quiet, Shanelle closes the stage door behind us. We pause to listen for sounds of life. The overhead lights are on, but the corridor in which we stand is dim. Lisette’s office is at the other end. Between here and there are dressing rooms, mostly, and halfway down there’s another corridor that splits off to the right. That’s the route to the stage, and everywhere else in the theater, for that matter. For some reason it’s a little better lit than where we are.

It’s so quiet I swear I can hear my heart thud in my chest. But it’s not utterly silent. Old buildings like this creak. Something somewhere is whirring. And overhead I hear water trickle. I wonder where that’s coming from.

I tiptoe forward, ruing my choice of footgear. I should know by now that chunky heels do not aid surreptitious investigation. Trixie and Shanelle creep along behind me. As I near the corridor to the right, I understand why it’s brighter. Somebody left his office lights on. I’m about to peek around the corner to see if the coast is clear when Oliver’s voice, loud and impatient, sails toward me. I reel backward, colliding with Trixie.

“Since we can’t think of anything,” Oliver says, “let’s leave that for now. Go to page a hundred and twelve.”

I twist around.
Oliver’s here
, I mouth.

Next I hear a male voice that sounds as if it’s coming from a speakerphone. “I think we should leave it till the morning when we’re fresher. Let’s wrap it up.”

“I want to finish at least this section tonight,” Oliver says. “Come on. Page a hundred and twelve.”

“Who is Oliver talking to?” Trixie whispers in my ear.

I shake my head. I don’t recognize the other voice. But I’m pretty sure I know what the men are talking about. Known as the libretto, or the book, it’s the script for a musical, for all the words that aren’t sung. Lisette wrote every one of those words and balked at changing any of them. It didn’t matter what anybody else wanted, not even Oliver, and in theater the director is The Big Dog. That’s why Lisette went ballistic when the new scene began. She didn’t write it.

Lisette protected her work like a tigress does her cubs. But she’s not around to protect it anymore. Which means Oliver can make all the changes he wants.

The unknown male voice pipes up again. “What was that line we had about the foxhole?”

“That was good,” Oliver says. “What was that?” Silence, then: “You know, I marked up this section on another copy. I think I left it onstage. Let me go get it,” and we hear Oliver stride out of his office and away from us.

“Come on,” I hiss, and sprint as noiselessly as I can up the corridor past Oliver’s office to a production room beyond. We slip inside and I close the door most but not all of the way. I want to hear the rest of this conversation, which some people might construe as eavesdropping.

“We can’t go to the stage until Oliver’s left the theater,” Trixie whispers.

“That could take a while,” Shanelle mutters.

“It could,” I whisper back. “But don’t you want to hear what else they say? And isn’t it weird that Oliver’s here this late?”

“Why isn’t he home doing this?” Trixie wants to know.

“Maybe he has his kids this week,” Shanelle says. “Remember he said he hates being home when he has his kids?”

“I hoped he was joking,” Trixie says.

Oliver might be a dweeb, but he’s a Broadway powerhouse dweeb, which explains why he has three ex-wives and four children.

I hear footsteps coming and make a zipping motion across my mouth.

“I’m back, Enzo,” Oliver says a few seconds later. “I found it.”

I twist around and mouth the name
Enzo
. Both Trixie and Shanelle nod with understanding. Oliver must be speaking with Enzo Donati.

None of us have met Enzo, but we keep hearing his name. He’s famous for being a “script doctor” for plays and musicals, hired to make changes the writer can’t or won’t make. He’s not brought in when productions are going great guns, I can tell you. I know he worked with Oliver in the past. I read that when I was boning up on Oliver Tripp Jr. before I came to New York.

Lisette exhibited her typical charm the one time Enzo’s name came up. “He’s talentless. Those who can’t do, consult,” she informed me with a glare, trying to dis both Enzo and me in one fell swoop. Unbeknownst to her, I was thrilled to be mentioned in the same breath.

I had no idea Enzo was involved with
Dream Angel
. It’s certainly not public information, which this sort of thing usually is, to let critics and audiences know that directors are doing everything they can to improve a troubled production. And from the way Enzo and Oliver are talking about the libretto, it sure seems like tonight is not Enzo’s first time working on it. So I have to conclude that some time back, without Lisette’s consent, Oliver hired Enzo on the sly.

The two of them must have come up with a great line because they start cackling to beat the band. “That’s good,” Enzo says, “that’s really good. But I’m thrashed. That’s it for me for tonight.”

“Come on—”

“No, that’s it. Don’t forget, I just got back from London. Let me ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Any chance Longley Sr. is going to pull his investment?”

“No way,” Oliver says.

“ ‘Cause his daughter’s not part of this anymore. Obviously.”

“Let me tell you something.” Now Oliver sounds really serious. “Warren Longley knows this musical is his little brat’s legacy. I bet he’ll pour
more
money into it.”

This is the first I’m hearing that Lisette’s father is an investor in
Dream Angel
. Up till now I haven’t spent a second wondering who’s funding this production.