Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (29 page)

“But it wasn’t perfect,” Shanelle says.

“They had to stop the show twice to switch out mics,” Trixie says.

“And a bunch of people screwed up their lines,” Shanelle adds.

“Never Tonya, though,” Trixie says. “She was perfect.”

“Probably because you guys ran lines with her,” I say.

“And the audience was great,” Shanelle adds. “They kept clapping and cheering. It almost didn’t matter what happened.”

“I think they were trying to give the cast a boost.” Trixie lowers her voice. “Probably because of what happened to Lisette.”

“Obviously you succeeded in keeping Oliver’s father away,” Shanelle says.

I tell them how I managed that. Of course they’re aghast to learn that he’s responsible for some of the meanest posts about
Dream Angel
on AllThatChat.com.

“But now you’re blackmailing him.” Trixie eyes me with admiration. “So you get to meet Violet Honeycutt!”

“Maybe. I’ll probably have to remind Senior a time or two to make that happen.” I check my phone. I’ve received several birthday messages—including a text from Rachel, who’s now in class—but no communications yet from the old coot. It is still early. Then I find the Twitter photo of Blondie wearing my mother’s fur and hold it up for Trixie and Shanelle to see. “Get a load of this!”

After I tell that wild story, Trixie declares she wants to accompany me to the salon. “I feel like I can really learn from the way you tell people off,” she tells me.

I’ll take that as a compliment. I rise from the table. “That was fabulous, ladies. But now I’ve got to get a move on.”

“Not so fast,” Shanelle says, and she whips out a small box beautifully wrapped in shiny white paper and tied with a yellow bow.

Trixie beams. “We hope you like it.”

I already know I’m going to love it. I sit back down. “Asymmetrical earrings!” I screech ten seconds later. (I’ve never been one to unwrap gifts slowly.) “They’re gorgeous!” One a star, one a moon, both adorned with—

“Swarovski crystals,” Shanelle tells me. “We couldn’t resist.”

“They’re French,” Trixie adds.

“I adore them.” We engage in a group hug, a fine tradition if ever there was one. “They’re perfect for what I plan to wear today.”

A half hour later, I too am in skinny jeans, in my case paired with a black tank top featuring a lace overlay, scalloped hem, and buttoned-up envelope back. The new earrings complete the outfit to a T.

Trixie almost topples off her high-heel boots when we arrive at the Plaza Hotel and I confess I haven’t yet told my mother that a salon worker has her fur. “And you don’t want to tell her even
now
?”

We walk past taxis lining up to collect fares to the local airports. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep holding it over her. But I’m so upset with her for leading Bennie on.”

We enter the lobby, as bustling as ever. “Bennie can take care of himself,” Trixie says. “I’m sure he knows your mom still has feelings for your dad, but he wants to be with her anyway.”

“But being with her and buying her fur coats and stays at the Plaza and trips to Japan are two different things. Just follow my lead, okay?”

Trixie reluctantly agrees. We go up to my mother’s room to find her in yet another chic ensemble, this time a black jersey top and pants set worn beneath a sheer duster jacket featuring an animal-print pattern. “That should look great for your photos!” Trixie cries.

“That’s the idea.”

“Your skin still looks amazing, Mom,” I say.

She feigns modesty before she points at me. “It’s you who should be getting all the attention today.” She grabs me in a hug. “Happy, happy birthday, sweetie.” She pulls back to look at me, tears glistening in her eyes. “I can’t believe it’s been thirty-five years. Happiest day of my life was the day you came to me.” She twists around to look at Trixie. “That explains the name we gave her. Lou didn’t fight me on that one.”

“He knew he wouldn’t win that battle,” Trixie says.

“He was so happy, too. He cried like a baby himself that day, just like I did.” My mother pulls a tissue out of her pocket and swipes at her nose.

I meet Trixie’s gaze over my mother’s head. She doesn’t have to say a word: I know I’m beat. “So I’ve got good news,” I tell my mom. “The salon has your fur.”

My mother throws out her arms. “Hallelujah!”

“Trixie and I are going over there to pick it up and return Bernadette’s fur.”

“All’s well that ends well!” my mother cries.

“Will you do me a favor?” I ask as I retrieve Bernadette’s fur from the closet. “Will you think long and hard about how you treat Bennie? Because he’s a very nice man and I don’t want you leading him on.”

“I’m not leading him on!” she protests.

“As a favor to me.” I give her a kiss. “Because it’s my birthday.”

“You’re using your birthday to sort of blackmail your mom, too,” Trixie whispers as we head out. “You’ve got mad skills.”

Maybe. I am getting frighteningly good at blackmail. I should examine my soul. But not today. That doesn’t sound like a birthday activity to me.

It’s while we’re outside waiting in the taxi line that my phone rings with the call I’ve been dreading. I clutch Trixie’s arm. “Oh, my God. It’s Mr. Cantwell.”

“Just answer your phone.” Trixie is ridiculously calm. “I think you’ve been much more worked up about that whole testimony thing than you need to be.”

I force myself to answer the call with a cheery voice. “Mr. Cantwell! How are you this fine morning?”

“I’ve been better, Ohio.”

My heart clenches.

“So you’re off the hook,” he tells me. “I don’t need you to be a character witness for me anymore.”

I don’t like the sound of that. I
really
don’t like the sound of what comes next.

“Sherry Phillips will do it. You remember her, right, Ohio? Your runner-up. Now I know what she’s good for. When you can’t do something, she can.”

Since I’m speechless from shock and dismay, Mr. Cantwell keeps talking. “Aren’t there lyrics from a Broadway musical to that effect, Ohio? You should know all about that. ‘Anything you can do, she can do better.’ Something like that.”

Somehow I find my voice. “ ‘Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better.’ Composed by Irving Berlin for
Annie Get Your Gun
.”

“You’re a regular compendium of information, Ohio. I’ve got to give you that. But when it comes to providing a testimonial, you’d be better off if your memory were less good.”

“Maybe I could meet with the lawyers again—”

“No need. Wyoming will touch down at JFK in a matter of minutes. As soon as she gets to the Four Seasons—”

He’s putting her up at the Four Seasons? One time he put me up at Motel 6!

“—the lawyers will meet her there.”

So Sherry doesn’t even have to trek to the law firm. Mr. Cantwell has instructed the attorneys to go to
her
. I take a deep breath. “I’m very sorry if I disappointed you, Mr. Cantwell. That’s the last thing I would ever want to do.”

He doesn’t say a thing, not a darn thing. I’d expect
Don’t let it happen again
, or
There’s always a next time
, but no reassuring platitude is forthcoming. Instead, when he does finally speak, it’s to bring up another of my failures. Or at least that appears to be his interpretation. “No murder on this trip, Ohio? Damn shame.” He hangs up.

I’m shaking as I return my phone to my handbag. “It’s bad, Trixie. It’s bad.”

We get into a cab whose driver is irritated that we’re going only to the Upper East Side instead of ten or twenty miles to an airport. I relay the Cantwell conversation to Trixie, whose face does register concern. That makes me worry even more. But as usual she does her best to make me feel better. “Sherry’s a very nice person, but she’s not super smart. So probably her testimony won’t be any better than yours.”

One can only hope. “Mr. Cantwell did once call her the dimmest bulb this side of the pond.” Those were the days. “But now he’s flying her to New York and putting her up at a five-star hotel.”

“There must be a good explanation for that.” But Trixie can’t come up with one and I can’t, either. She pats my leg. “You’re an excellent titleholder, Happy. Mr. Cantwell knows that. He’ll get over this whole testimony thing.”

“I suppose he can’t replace me with Sherry over this. I’d have to do something really bad for him to do that.” After all, it is a public-relations nightmare for a pageant to strip its winner of her crown. It requires her to do something that a majority of people would regard as a major misstep. Failing to lie under oath for the pageant owner would not qualify. When I realize that, I am somewhat mollified.

Somewhat. I would still much prefer to be on Mr. Cantwell’s good side.

We give the cab driver an outrageous tip to make up for the short distance and find ourselves staring at a storefront that looks more like a high-end boutique than a beauty salon.

“I’m surprised your mom had the nerve to walk in there,” Trixie whispers. “This place scares me.”

But walk inside Salon Marceau we do, with our perfectly coiffed heads held high. It is a chic space, but no salon can completely eradicate the smells of blow-dried hair and product. Blondie meets us at the reception desk, her expression sullen. At least she doesn’t appear to be tipsy, which she most certainly was when she tweeted Saturday night. She relieves me of Bernadette’s fur. “Our client will be very happy to get this back,” she tells me.

“I can assure you my mother feels the same way about
her
fur,” I say.

She narrows her heavily made-up eyes at me. “Describe the fur to me. So I know it
really
belongs to your mother.”

That is a reasonable request, even if it was snarkily delivered. I provide a description, including the fact that the name Hazel is embroidered in white thread on the lining.

“Maybe you just saw the fur in the closet when you were here,” Blondie says.

I lean closer to the fur-snatching smart aleck. “Why don’t you check the credit-card receipt for my mother’s overpriced facial? You’ll see that her last name is Przybyszewski, spelled—”

Blondie loses interest by the time I hit the second Z. “I’ll be back,” she says, and slithers away.

Before she reappears, a thin dark-haired man dressed all in black takes her place behind the reception desk. “You are being helped?” he asks. His French accent is so thick I half wonder if it’s fake. After all, such a thing could be an asset in the beauty business.

I assure him we are being helped and he busies himself on a laptop computer. Soon Blondie returns with my mother’s fur, but she blanches when she sees Frenchie. She pushes the fur into my arms—“Here it is”—and tries to strong-arm me toward the door.

“Not so fast.” I dig in my booted feet. “Let me make sure it’s okay.”

“It’s fine!” she hisses.

“Oh, my Lord,” Trixie whimpers a moment later, and I see why.

There are two rips in the lining, one so severe that the silk dangles well below the fur’s hem. Frenchie abandons the reception desk to join our trio. “Is there
un problème
?” he inquires.

I glare at Blondie. “There most certainly is.”

“I am Yves Marceau,” Frenchie informs us.

“He’s the salon owner,” Trixie whispers, but I already got that.

“Are you aware of what your employee here did?” I say. Since Blondie fails to utter a single syllable, I launch into a recitation of the facts. Frenchie remains silent, but his lips tighten with every detail. Occasionally he glances at Blondie, who I’m sure wishes she could disappear between the slats of the hardwood floor.

“
Bien sûr
,” he says when I’m done, “we will pay for the repairs to your mother’s fur.”

“I expect you to do considerably more than that,” I hear myself say. “I also expect you to comp my mother’s stem-cell facial.”

Trixie looses a quiet gasp. Frenchie jerks backward as if I prodded him with a hot poker. He spreads his hands wide. “But the stem cells … they are
très cher
.”

“If my mother had known beforehand how
cher
they are, she never would’ve gotten the treatment. The salon clearly took advantage of an older woman who was visiting New York from out of town.” I’m proud of that phrasing. I managed not to say what popped into my head first, which is
from the hinterlands
.

“I’m afraid to comp the treatment is quite impossible,” Frenchie tells me.

I sigh heavily. “It will sadden me a great deal to report this incident to my Twitter followers. They’re always so keen to hear my advice.”

“She has at least ten thousand followers,” Trixie pipes up to say. “My friend here is the reigning Ms. America.” Trixie boosted my numbers by a good 25 percent, but I’d do the same for her in a pinch.