Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) (3 page)

He looked up and smiled. “Call me Terence.” He handed me a small brown booklet. “Here’s your side. Now, up on stage you go. Have you prepared something to sing for us?”

I stood uncertainly. “Well, I had sort of thought about doing ‘What’s Your Pleasure?’ ”

“Really?” Terence’s orange-tinged eyebrows shot up his forehead. “That should be fascinating.”

The pianist, a handsome dark-haired woman, nodded at me and began the opening chords.

The song was a bitter waltz expressing the disillusionment of the penniless artist, Max, in
The Last Leaf.
It wasn’t all that suitable for a young girl, but I had memorized it off the cast album and liked it. In fact, patter songs were my favorites. It was in a man’s key, much too low for me, so I hopped up an octave and began talk-singing,

“
When I was a young man,

My gift was to paint

Bright pictures so lifelike

Realistic and quaint

You’d say that this apple is real

—but it ain’t!

I’d paint pictures of . . .

. . . roses . . .

. . . and kittens . . . ”

I remembered what I’d learned in school choir and sang from the diaphragm. For good measure, I added a dark growl when sing-speaking the words
roses
and
kittens
just the way Jerry Orbach did on the original cast album.

“Thank you, Amelia,” Terence broke in firmly. He and the pianist exchanged glances and smiled. “Now, if you’ll—”

“I don’t need a script, Mr.—um, Terence.”

I declined the brown booklet handed to me. I’d memorized the lines off the album too.

“It’s true!” I said with a sob, clasping my hands tightly to my chest, “It’s absolutely true! I’m dying, and I don’t care!” I emphasized those last three words, drooped my head, and ended in a hoarse whisper, “I’ll be gone when the last . . . leaf . . . dies.” I closed my eyes.

“Thank you, Amelia!” Terence shoved his clipboard under his arm and giving me a few silent claps. “Wow, what energy and enthusiasm! Thank you very much.”

He had a wry smile on his face as I descended the few steps from the stage. I nodded, breathless.

“That was great!” Lily patted me on the back as I resumed my seat.

Elm turned around and winked approvingly. I couldn’t stop trembling for a full thirty minutes.

~~~

“I don’t understand,” I said to Lily as we walked home later that afternoon. “You mean everybody who tried out is going to make it?”

“Pretty much. I told you before that Terence needs all the help he can get, so tryouts are really what he calls placement tests. He’s just seeing what we can do so he’ll know how to use us.”

“What if he didn’t like my singing or acting?”

I was young, but I wasn’t stupid. I had seen the amused look he’d exchanged with the pianist.

“Well, then, he’ll just put you to work on scenery or costumes or sound or something. And even if we do get a part, we still all have to work on a technical crew too.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I wasn’t happy. I’d promised my father that I’d stick to this thing, but I didn’t like the idea of sticking to it backstage.

“He’ll post who has a part and what crews we’re on before tomorrow’s rehearsal. And the rest of the cast will be here too.
Ronde de jambe
,” Lily added, lifting one knee and drawing a circle with her pointed toe. “Don’t worry if you don’t get a part. The tech crews are lots of fun too.”

“Oh,
fermez la bouche
, Lily!” I said and ran on ahead.

When I got back to my room that afternoon, I didn’t automatically turn on my cassette player as usual. Instead I took the four Broadway cast album tapes stacked on the dresser, and stuck them in a drawer. I’d had enough of Broadway today.

I went into Barbara’s room, borrowed her old Jim Croche tape, stretched out on my bed and let the music of “Time in a Bottle” drift over me. I sighed. It was going to be a long summer.

~~~

Gil took the top off the kitchen trash receptacle and hauled the liner bag out by the drawstrings. “Umpfh! What did you put in this thing? Bricks?”

“I cleaned out the refrigerator. Whatever was in those glass jars was so moldy I couldn’t bear to handle it, so I tossed them out.” I shuddered.

“My olives? You threw out my olives?” Gil set down the bag and pretended that he was about to open it.

Laughing, I hurried forward to stop him. “No, your olives are fine. They’ve been given a reprieve. If you always use a clean fork to get them out, they’ll last indefinitely. Or so Hester tells me. I’m learning quite a lot from Hester.”

“Well, keep it up. Maybe you’ll be able to cook by the time the baby gets here.”

I gave him one of my disapproving teacher looks. My non-existent cooking skills were a source of merriment for everyone I knew.

“Or maybe you’ll finally get used to my expertly microwaved TV dinners,” I suggested with artificial brightness.

“I better get this outside.”

Gil hefted the bag again, which clinked musically. He moved to the screened porch, where I heard the crash as he tossed the bag in the big trash bin.

As he came back inside, he said, “Remind me again. Which of those guys was the one who got murdered?”

I picked up the tabloid from the nearby coffee table and pointed at the photo. “Danny. Danny DiNicco. Charlotte Yates’s third husband, according to this.”

He squinted at it. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. The pretty boy.”

“We thought of him as the handsome boy. Or rather, the handsome man. He was really nice too. And friendly.”

“Oh, right, friendly. Is that what you called it?”

“Of course!”

“You were just kids. What did you know?”

“You made it!” Lily patted me on the back. “See there? I told you so!”

She pointed to a list posted on a bulletin board backstage. “There’s your name under chorus, and you’ll be working on costumes too!” She laughed and we both knew why.

“I can read.”

I’d gotten a D in Home Ec the semester we made dirndl skirts, even after I’d put the waistband back in four times. Still, I’d made the chorus for
The Last Leaf
. It said so, up there in black and white, so it wasn’t a total washout.

“Did you get what you wanted?” said a deep voice behind us.

Lily and I spun around and found ourselves less than five feet away from the handsomest man I had ever seen in my entire short life.

It was Danny DiNicco.

I’d seen him on stage last summer, of course, but I was sophisticated enough to know that people looked quite different in everyday life without makeup and costume to cover their flaws.

Flaws, however, were hard to spot on Danny DiNicco. He was a couple of inches shorter than Elm, but under the loose white shirt he wore over artistically ragged jeans, I had the impression there was solid muscle. His face was classically handsome, almost too perfect, with a slightly arched nose, high cheekbones, and a hint of a dimple in his chin.

His dark eyes glistened, like the onyx college ring my mother wore on her right hand. His eyelashes were so long, I suppressed a pang of envy. A strand of black hair fell down over one eye, and I had an irrational desire to reach up and tenderly brush it back into place.

Struck uncharacteristically dumb, Lily nodded.

Stepping in between us, Danny DiNicco draped his arms around our shoulders and turned to the call board. He smelled of freshly ironed shirt and shaving cream.

He looked down at Lily. “What part d’you get?”

She pointed a shy finger at her name listed in the chorus.

“Sure! You’re Lily! You were here last year! And you?” It was my turn.

I pointed.

“Amelia, eh? Named after the lady pilot, right?”

“No, after my great-grandmother, actually,” I said to his Adam’s apple. I hadn’t been this up close and personal next to a male non-relative since I’d played Red Rover in fourth grade.

He squeezed my shoulder. “Doesn’t matter. That’s how I’ll remember your name. It’ll be great to work with you, Amelia Earhart.” It seemed to me he looked searchingly at my face for a beat longer, but I’d been reading
Jane Eyre
last night, and I could have been wrong. “Terence says you’re quite the little actress.”

“H-he does?”

He stepped back and held out a hand. “Daniel DiNicco—Danny.”

I shook it. He already had a pet name for me! I was in love.

“Checking out the new blood, DiNicco?”

A short, curly haired blond man appeared suddenly from behind one of the curtains. His voice seemed bigger than he was.

Danny pulled Lily and me closer. “Remember, I was here first, Claussen. But are they not delicious?”

“Indeed!” Neil Claussen held out his hand to Lily. “Especially my old dance partner here.”

She took his hand and stepped forward into a whirling dance step that ended in a deep bow.

Neil kissed her hand lightly and murmured, “Hello, dear girl.” His pink, freckled face was endearingly ugly, and mischief danced in his eyes.

“Hello, Neil,” Lily said breathlessly, blushing a deep pink. She turned a meaningful smile at me.

Nobody had ever called me delicious before. I stood utterly still, holding my breath lest Danny take his arm away from my waist.

He looked down at me. “Miss Amelia Earhart, do you dance too?”

He slid his arm around my back and laced the fingers of my right hand in his. He guided me through a number of simple steps.

“Polka, perhaps. Or tango?” Effortlessly, with one smooth move, he dipped me.

“Just the jitterbug,” I managed to gasp while suspended with my ponytail brushing the stage. My cousin Bob had taught me the outdated dance a few months before.

“In that case,” he said, pulling me upright and extending me at arm’s length, “let’s go!”

Hand in hand, we ran to center stage and began a frantic jitterbug, while Neil and Lily clapped rhythm and sang the tune in la-la syllables. Right away, I could tell Danny danced a fancier Jitterbug than my cousin Bob ever thought about. Before I could see it coming, I was flying through the air over his head and sliding on my knees across the floor, stopping just short of the orchestra pit.

“Bravo!” I heard Terence’s voice booming from the back of the auditorium. He was applauding as he sauntered down the center aisle. “Amelia, you didn’t tell me you were an American Bandstand alumna!”

Panting and grinning, I took Danny’s proffered hand, and he pulled me to my feet.

As I brushed dust off my knees, adjusted my skirt, and tucked in my blouse, Terence added, “However, gentlemen, I hope it won’t be necessary to reiterate our previous discussion re local flora and fauna. You follow? Neil? Danny?”

“Yes, sir!” said Neil jauntily and vaulted, acrobat-style, off the stage over the orchestra pit, making a neat, upright landing in the center aisle. Danny winked at me and made a more sedate exit down the side steps into the auditorium. I scurried along behind and found that Lily had saved me a seat next to her.

A much larger group gathered in the front rows of the theatre today.

Terence Jamison leaned on the grand piano. Next to him was a chair, supporting a large cardboard box.

“Look at that label,” I whispered to Lily. “Samuel French. He’s a theatrical publisher. Those are the scripts!”

She rolled her eyes. I’d told her something she already knew.

Terence consulted his clipboard, exchanged a few whispered words with a stocky brown-bearded young man in the front row, slid his reading glasses up his forehead to rest in his tawny hair, and turned to address the assembly.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. Those of you who’ve heard this all before, bear with me. As for all you tenderfeet—” he smiled graciously at the smattering of chuckles and surveyed the group “—this summer, you will be working in a real, honest-to-goodness professional theatre, and, as such, you will be expected to behave in a professional manner.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the piano. “By that, I mean that we arrive on time, pay attention, learn what we need to learn as quickly as possible, and recognize the one Universal Eternal Truth.” He held up a long index finger.

I glanced at Lily. She had a faint smile of recognition on her lips.

“And what is this one Universal Eternal Truth? Anyone?”

Allison Bouyea raised her hand.

“Yes? Allison?”

“The director is always right.”

“Excellent, Allison! That bears repeating—you!” He swiveled on one foot and abruptly pointed at Lily.

“—director’s always right!”

Terence Jamison slapped his fist to his heart. “That always gets me right here.” He gave a mock sob

“Now, being a good Catholic, I wouldn’t go so far to say that I’m God in this company. That would be blasphemous. However, Emperor would not be inappropriate.” He smiled broadly. “And why? Because it’s my name on the poster, kids, and if you do a lousy job, it will reflect on yours truly, and that isn’t good.” He shook his head slowly and held up the clipboard. “And this is the Mighty Clipboard, containing all the wisdom of the Imperial Director. So take mental notes, people, ’cause here’s how it’s going to be.”

Terence Jamison should have been a teacher. He imparted information succinctly and with humor, and when he was finished everyone understood what was expected.

He spent a good deal of time covering the rules. Smoking was restricted to the lobby and the parking lot just outside the auditorium exit doors, “because,” he explained, “this place is a firetrap.” Dressing rooms, which were located under the stage, were to be strictly segregated by sex. “Another kind of firetrap,” said Terence, leering gently.

“I want to point out that I’m a local boy, and I care what this town thinks of us, so if anybody can’t behave as a lady or gentleman—no matter who it is—they’re out!” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “And we’ll make do without them in the best
Forty-Second Street
tradition.”

“Forty-second street?” I whispered to Lily.

“The movie,” she whispered.

“Movie?” I whispered back. It didn’t ring a bell.

She frowned and put a finger to her lips. “Shh! I’ll tell you later.”

Everyone was to be on time to both rehearsal and tech meetings. “You’ll find a large calendar on the call board next to those stairs with the times and places of everything leading up to the first performance. Everyone will need one of these.” He held up a small assignment pad. “Take down the times and places. It’s your responsibility to be there. Now I understand that some of you civilians have lives outside our little world.”

He grinned and scanned the crowd. “Silly little things, such as jobs and college classes. We will do our best to accommodate you, but please check now to make sure you can handle this. You’d hate to have to pull out in the middle of things and leave a gaping hole in the show. Even worse—
I’d
hate it, so let’s try to work out any problems ahead of time. As you can see, I’m pretty demanding. I feel very strongly about the quality of our productions.”

“Whew!” Terence heaved a big sigh and sagged against the piano in mock exhaustion. “Thank goodness that’s out of the way! Now, here’s the good part: This year I have assembled as talented and experienced a cast and crew as in any theatre company I’ve ever worked with, whether here or in New York. Allow me introduce you to one another.”

One by one, we each stood and said our name. It wasn’t all that hard to tell the local people—the Civilians—from the Seasoned Broadway Performers. Clothes, for example: theirs were briefer, tighter, and unbuttoned farther down, and there was a tendency to bare midsections. To my surprise, though, the Civilian women seemed to be wearing more makeup than the Seasoned Broadway Performers.

Terence’s corpulent, brown-bearded confidante turned out to be Chris Gold, the stage manager. When introduced, he waved to the crowd with a shy grin.

“Last, but by no means least, is my baby sister, Dierdre, joining us for the first time this summer.” From the first row, Terence pulled a pretty, strawberry-haired, freckle-faced girl to her feet. Making an embarrassed grimace at her brother, she nodded her head in a half-bow, then hastily sat. She had the same dancer’s grace. I guessed she was about my age.

“I don’t know her. Is she from around here?”

“She goes to St. Mary’s Academy,” Lily whispered back.

That explained it. Most of the kids we knew went to public school.

“ . . . and my lovely and talented wife, Pat Gerard.”

A tall, buxom woman with a wasp waist and a luxurious mop of shiny black hair stood and threw Terence a sultry kiss with long-taloned fingers. Even as she just stood there, she radiated glamour. Were her eyelashes false? If they weren’t, she was even luckier than Danny DiNicco.

“Isn’t she something? She looks like Cruella deVille, but she’s really nice. You need to ask her to show you the trunk.”

I opened my mouth to ask why and what trunk, but somebody thrust something in my hands. It was a soft book, about the size of my mother’s
Ladies Home Journal
, bound in thick brown paper. A label on the front bore the title of the play,
The Last Leaf
; and the names of the librettist, lyricist and composer. I turned the pages. It was nothing but sheet music with the lyrics.

“This is the musical script. Those of you with speaking parts already have your sides.” Terence pulled stacks of brown books from the cardboard box and passed them to outstretched hands. “We’re on a budget here, so only the principals have full scripts—yes?”

“What’s a side?”

It was Elm. I was filled with embarrassment at his ignorance.

“It’s a script with the cues and lines for your part only. You won’t need one, so don’t worry. Now remember, people, these scripts do not belong to us. Repeat, they are only rented. That is why you will observe Dictate Number One, which is—come on, veterans, what is it?”

Almost everybody looked up from their scripts and chanted together, heads bobbing, “Write lightly with number two pencil only!”

“Right! So it can be erased. And if you don’t observe this rule, you will have to purchase your script. And how much does a script cost?”

“Thirty-five dollars apiece!” some called in a bored voice.

Terence held up a finger. “Wrong! They’re forty this year!”

A hum of disbelief swept through the Civilians. I looked at my music with renewed respect.

Terence strolled over to where I sat and leaned over. “Amelia, I’m giving you a speaking part too.”

I could feel my cheeks redden with pleasure. “Really?”

He smiled. “Don’t get too excited, dear. It’s not that big. You’re Maud Kelly, washerwoman.” He handed me a plain typed page. “I have no doubt you’ll make something spectacular of it. It’s the last spoken line before the musical finale.”