Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (6 page)

“As long as I get some,” Enzo says.

“You’ll get yours. As for me, I don’t know if there’s any amount of cash that’ll make up for having to kowtow to that—”

“Easy, Oliver. The woman’s dead.”

Good for Enzo. He might be greedy, but at least he’s got enough human feeling to shut Oliver up.

“Let me ask you another thing,” Enzo goes on. “You’re sure you got rid of … you know.”

“You mean—”

“The eggs from the other day.”

I go on even higher alert. What the heck is
this
about?

“Of course I got rid of them.” Oliver makes it sound like Enzo’s an idiot to ask. He lowers his voice even though he must believe he’s alone in the theater. “You don’t think I’m stupid enough to keep those?”

“I’m just asking. After tonight you can’t be too careful.”

By this point, my ears are so perked up I must look like a Vulcan.

“The last thing you want,” Enzo goes on, “is anybody asking any tough questions.”

By this point, Happy Pennington has several extremely probing questions she’s dying to ask Oliver Tripp Jr. But all she can do is listen to what he tells Enzo.

“Nobody’s going to ask me anything about anything.” Oliver sounds serenely confident. “Lisette fell, pure and simple. It was her own damn fault for being on that staircase.”

“What happened to her Wednesday wasn’t her fault.”

“Nobody’s going to connect one with the other,” Oliver declares.

“I hope you’re right. Because there will be an autopsy.”

“Won’t matter. It’s more than twenty-four hours since she ate that sandwich.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Pause, then: “There’s another thing. OSHA.”

“I know. Just what I need.” Big sigh. I hear a clattering sound as if Oliver threw a pen across his desk. “If it’d been Tonya who fell—”

Tonya Shepherds is the star who plays the beauty queen.

“—I’d have a problem. But Lisette was never supposed to be on those stairs.”

“One way or another we’ll have to change them now,” Enzo says.

“Which is too bad. Because by this afternoon, half of New York would pay to see them.”

Both men chuckle in what I consider a pretty unseemly fashion.

Oliver speaks again. “Let’s start again at seven a.m.”

“That’s five hours from now.”

I glance at my watch—very on-trend with its stainless-steel band and face in rose gold—and remember that my mother and Bennie will descend on New York this morning. I have a deposition around the same time. I’m not ready for either event and I’m 100% sure that the Big Apple is unprepared for the cyclone that is Hazel Przybyszewski.

“Let’s not talk until eight,” I hear Enzo say. “I need my beauty sleep.”

They banter a bit then end the call. I am delighted to report that Oliver crashes around in his office only briefly before he departs. We hear him proceed toward the stage door along the very route we queens took just a short while ago. Then the stage door opens and clangs shut.

Silence falls. “I think he’s gone,” I whisper. “Shanelle, do you understand that thing about OSHA?”

“Yes,” she whispers back, “that’s the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. They could issue citations or penalties or something. Like they did to Cirque du Soleil when that woman acrobat fell and died during her high-wire act.”

“That was terrible,” Trixie whispers. “I suppose they could shut this whole thing down. We might have to go home tomorrow.”

“I hope not,” I murmur. “I feel like we just got here. We’ve barely had a moment to enjoy New York.” Hearing myself say that makes me realize just how selfish I can be. Here I am, wanting to have a good time when somebody just died. “Anyway, I had no idea Lisette’s father funded this production.”

“I don’t think it’s normal,” Trixie whispers, “for the father of the writer to put up the money. I wonder if it means they couldn’t get money any other way?”

We pause to consider that demeaning possibility. “That would make this kind of a vanity project for Lisette,” Shanelle says.

I think about that. “It could also explain why she had so much say over what went on.”

“No wonder Lisette got on Oliver’s last nerve,” Shanelle mutters. “He had to kowtow not only to her but probably to her father, too.”

Lisette’s father the Tycoon Banker, who might be as unpleasant as she was. I don’t envy Oliver that task.

“These Broadway musicals are seriously expensive,” Shanelle goes on. “I read they can cost ten or fifteen mil to develop. Then add to that the operating expenses, week after week.”

Trixie’s eyes widen. “Is Lisette’s father
that
rich?”

“We don’t know that he funded the whole thing,” I say. “But he must’ve put in a lot since Enzo sounded worried about what would happen if he pulled his money.”

“
Dream Angel
could close for that reason, too,” Trixie says. “I’d better do my souvenir shopping tomorrow.”

“Right now I’m not thinking about souvenirs,” I say. “I’m thinking about egg salad sandwiches. Remember Oliver ordered that restaurant down the street to bring those in for lunch Wednesday? Not that he ate one.”

“Of course not,” Trixie says. “He only eats Japanese food.”

Oliver is very showy about his strict Japanese-food-only diet. The rumor is that it has to do with a new woman he’s chasing. Every day he sends an intern to get sushi for him. It has to be a certain kind, at a certain temperature, from a certain restaurant. Pretty pretentious, if you ask me.

Shanelle nods, understanding dawning in her dark eyes. “And that afternoon when we all had to eat egg salad, Lisette went home sick.”

“Sick to her stomach,” I clarify.

Trixie gasps.

I continue. “I bet Oliver put something in Lisette’s egg salad sandwich to give her food poisoning.”

“Girl, you got a sick mind.” Shanelle pauses. I see her mind working. “And I bet you’re right.”

I smile. I much prefer when Shanelle and I are on the same wavelength. “And Enzo knew about it.”

“They were in cahoots,” Trixie breathes. “But do you really think Oliver would go that far? Just to make Lisette go home so he could rewrite some scenes?”

“As a matter of fact,” Shanelle says, eyeing me, “Happy thinks Oliver might have gone even further.”

“Well, if Oliver made sure that Lisette got food poisoning just so he could get her out of the way for a day or two—”

“He probably realized how many problems he’d solve by getting rid of her permanently,” Shanelle finishes. “But come on, Happy. It’s one thing to give somebody a passing bug. It’s another to kill them. Plus, we all saw Lisette topple down those stairs. It’s not like somebody pushed her.”

True. Nobody could’ve pushed her: she was standing in front of the throne when she fell. And that throws a serious kink in my murder theory. “But just think,” I say, “of everything that’s riding on this musical.”

“Millions of dollars,” Trixie says. “Oliver’s reputation.”

“A director as big as Oliver can survive a flop or two,” Shanelle says.

“Enzo said he just got back from London,” I remember. “That means he wasn’t at the preview tonight.”

“So Enzo can’t be your killer. But I still say
nobody’s
your killer.” Shanelle wags her finger at me. “Ms. Happy Pennington, do not go looking for trouble where it doesn’t exist. Trouble will find you if it’s there. Believe me, I know.” Then she frowns and looks away.

Trixie glances from Shanelle to me and shakes her head slightly. I know she’s thinking what I am: that it’s the second time tonight Shanelle has gotten distracted by whatever is bothering her. I wish I knew what that was. I bet Trixie and I could help her.

Well, she’ll share when she’s ready. And if she doesn’t, we’ll pry it out of her. That’s what friends are for.

“Maybe we should walk to the stage now,” Trixie says, “even though it’s probably the most haunted part of the whole theater. Did Mario ever do a show on haunted Broadway, Happy?” she asks as I lead us into the corridor.

“Not that I’ve seen. Haunted New York, yes. But not Broadway specifically.”

“Don’t you go telling him he best come to Manhattan this very minute to shoot one,” Shanelle orders from behind me.

“I would never!” Fortunately I’m not so fixated on Mario that the idea crossed my mind.

We proceed to the stage, our heels echoing in the emptiness. It is very strange, and indeed quite spooky, for us to be alone in the theater. There are so many dark corners, and so many hulking items I don’t look at twice during the day, that somehow take on a menacing aspect now.

Feigning confidence, I stride through the wings and onto the stage. It’s pretty much empty—the glittering staircase down which Lisette fell has been moved—and it’s saved from total darkness by a single light upstage center.

“The ghost light,” Trixie whispers, coming up behind me.

“Always left on when everyone is gone,” Shanelle murmurs. I watch her shiver. Even
she
seems cowed by the paranormal possibilities.

Not that I took those very seriously until recently. But in Winona, Minnesota, Mario bore witness to a few spectral events. That went a long way toward banishing my skepticism, I can tell you.

We look around. It’s so dark that I can’t see past the first few rows of the orchestra section. The front mezzanine could be loaded with ghosts taking our measure and I wouldn’t have a clue. My eyes drift to the apron of the stage where Lisette met her Maker just hours ago.

I clear my throat. “The light is to ward off ghosts,” I declare firmly.

“Maybe,” Trixie says. “Or maybe it’s left burning so the ghosts have enough light to see.” She hesitates. “So they don’t get mad.”

“The sooner we get out of here, the less mad they’ll be.” Shanelle sets her hands on her hips. “So what are we looking for, Happy?”

“What we’re always looking for. Anything that doesn’t fit.”

Trixie nods. “Anything weird.”

We split up and move slowly about the stage, looking up, looking down, looking for who knows what. No question our sleuthing is hampered by the fact that we can’t turn on more lights. Of course I find myself drawn to the killer staircase.

It’s been rolled upstage nearly into the so-called crossover, the space usually hidden by drapes where actors move from stage left to stage right and back again without the audience seeing them. I bend to examine the staircase’s lowest treads. I think I see a rust-colored stain but I’m not sure.

I’ve been peering at the stairs for a while when it hits me. What the heck am I hoping to accomplish? Even if I do see a blood stain, what would that tell me? I already know Lisette bled heavily from her fall. I saw that. We all did.

“Don’t go up there, Happy,” Trixie calls behind me.

“I won’t. I’m tempted but I won’t.” I straighten and turn around. “You know what? We should get out of here. We’re not going to find anything and it’s getting on toward three in the morning.”

“Praise Jesus!” Shanelle throws up her arms. “Girlfriend has seen the light!”

Trixie regards me with a worried frown. “Are you sure? We haven’t found anything.”

“No, but we learned good stuff from Oliver’s call with Enzo. And I’ve already put you two through enough. It’s time we get some shuteye.”

Maybe it’s because I’m exhausted, but while I was crouching over that staircase I began to feel like a lunatic. Did I really drag Shanelle and Trixie to an empty theater in the middle of the night to look for clues into a death that nobody but me thinks might have been a murder? Indeed I did. And why? Because apparently I think I know better than everybody else, including New York’s Finest, the N.Y.P.D. That makes me pretty arrogant. It probably also makes me an addict. Yes, Ms. America Happy Pennington is a murder addict. It’s been a month since her last homicide so naturally her system needs a fix. Too bad
Dr. Phil
tapes in Los Angeles because I could use an emergency intervention.
Beauty Queen Needs a Murder a Month To Keep Her Spirits High! Can Dr. Phil Break Her Homicidal Habit?

“I’m buying dinner tomorrow,” I tell Trixie and Shanelle as we hail a cab. Even at three in the morning, we have to wait only five minutes to get one. “It’s the least I can do to thank you for coming back here with me tonight.”

“As Rhett always says,” Trixie chirps as she climbs into the taxi, “it’s the least I could do, so I did it!”

Twenty minutes later, as Trixie and Shanelle tuck themselves into bed no doubt dreaming of their husbands, I retire on the pull-out sofa bed acutely aware that Jason and I haven’t communicated for more than 24 hours. No calls; no texts.

Not good. So even though it’s 3 a.m., I text my husband that I love him.

We queens awaken to gray skies overhanging the cityscape, light snow flurries, and a shocking discovery.