Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) (6 page)

“Do you know ‘The Waltz of the Flowers’?” I asked Irene Chavez, the dark-haired, long-boned pianist. “By Tchaikovsky,” I added for good measure.

I’d made up my mind; I’d prove myself a performer of Broadway caliber. It was a rather desperate effort. The only dance routine I knew was one my sister did in her ballet recital, and mine was a pale imitation. Still, I was determined to give it a try. The Great White Way beckoned.

“Certainly.”

Irene nodded and struck an opening chord. Her large brown eyes contained just the slightest shade of patient amusement. Her long fingers immediately began pounding out the familiar tune. Of course she knew Tchaikovsky! Irene, apparently, knew and could play anything.

Gritting my teeth, I strode to the center of the stage and started frolicking around to the music, bobbing, skipping, and twirling, raising my arms in approximations of the graceful ovals that Lily and my sister would often assume. I pointed my toes and took a running leap, landing on the side of my foot and collapsing with a loud thump on the boards. Waving for Irene to continue, I pulled myself quickly to my feet and began a series of wobbly turns.

“Amelia! Amelia!” Terence called, laughing. “I applaud your fortitude, but I think we’ve seen enough. We can’t have you hurting yourself.” He made a throat-cutting motion for Irene. “You have a nice sense of rhythm and move gracefully. You’ll make a perfect swayer and reactor.”

My heart sank. “Beg pardon?”

Swayer didn’t sound very Broadway to me and reactor sounded sort of atomic. It didn’t bode well, I thought, using another expression from a Victorian novel I’d recently read.

“You just sway to the music and react to the story. I know you’ll have no trouble with the latter.” He chuckled.

I smiled half-heartedly and made my way off the stage. My sense of disappointment was eased somewhat when I passed Elm DeWitt, carrying a bag of tools backstage.

He leaned down and murmured, “Don’t feel too bad. He had me try to dance, and then told me I belonged in a herd of buffalo.” He grinned, shrugged, and continued on his way.

My eyes widened in amazement. Terence thought our star quarterback Elm, known all over Clinton County for his amazing footwork, was clumsy?

I resumed my seat next to Lily.

“Dierdre, DiNicco, onstage. Let’s see you do the opening dance,” Terence ordered.

Irene struck the chords to the waltz that shows the Lover and Johnsie falling in love. I’d always thought the dance, which involved whirling in circles with the man’s arm around the girl’s tiny waist, to be incredibly romantic. This time was no exception.

Danny’s muscular arms clasped Diedre ever tighter to him as they spun around the stage, gazing into each other’s eyes. It could have been my imagination, but Dierdre’s eyes seemed to widen more and more by the second. It also seemed to have grown suddenly quite warm in the theatre.

All at once, Terence barked, “Thank you! That’ll do!” and the two stopped abruptly, breathing heavily. Dierdre’s pale, freckled complexion was crimson. She put both her hands to her cheeks.

We applauded.

Danny took Dierdre’s hand in his and bowed over it gallantly. Then he guided her gently offstage, still holding her hand in his.

Either both of them were marvelous actors, or I’d just seen some heavy infatuation going on.

Lily whispered to me, “Whew! Who knew the waltz could be so . . . so intense!”

Terence handed his clipboard over to Chris Gold. “Take over, will you? I have some important calls to make.” He hurried up the theatre aisle, with Pat following close after him.

“So, anybody else?”

Chris Gold lifted a page on his clipboard. I heard movement behind us, and turned around.

Janey Johnson had her hand raised.

Chris stuck a pencil behind his ear and frowned. “Um, I don’t know. Are you sure?”

But Janey, clad again in the cheap and surprisingly flattering sundress, was already striding down the aisle. Pausing to whisper in Irene’s ear, she then made her way onstage, and struck a graceful ballet-looking pose. As the opening chords of “Greenwich Montage” began, she turned slowly and surveyed an imaginary crowd. As the pace of the music quickened, she bustled around the stage, acting out the busy street scene in rhythmic pantomime.

Before our eyes she became a coquette, catching the eye of a young swain, and shyly averting her gaze as she fluttered her eyelashes, making good use of her dark eyebrows, which were clearly visible, even at that distance. Moving to the music, she accepted his imaginary arm, and began to stroll along the street.

Suddenly she began singing the verse to the show’s opening song:
This isn’t Paris, nor is it much like Rome . . .

It was a dance tryout, and she wasn’t supposed to sing, but Janey’s voice was lovely, light, bell-like, and perfect for the old-fashioned song. It was even better, I had to admit, than Dierdre’s.

But there’s something here in the atmosphere

That makes it feel like home . . .

Greenwich Village,

This is where I’ll bring my dream—

“Thank you!” Chris interrupted, “Very nice. Wow!”

The assembly burst into spontaneous applause as Janey bobbed a brief curtsey and moved down the stairs. For a split second I caught a glimpse of her dark, raised eyebrows and a self-satisfied expression on her face.

She knows she’s good, really good. But she’s crazy to put herself forward like that, if she’s supposed to be in hiding.

Chris called for a twenty-minute break. Lily and I stood, but instead of heading out the entrance to the vending machines as usual, Lily began edging her way toward the side entrance.

“Where’re you going?” I whispered. That was
sotto voce
, I said to myself proudly, remembering another theatre term.

Lily rolled her eyes and tilted her head in the direction of the exit, where Neil Claussen stood waiting for her, cigarette pack and lighter in hand.

I shrugged and went my own way. If she wanted to stand around out there sucking up other people’s cigarette smoke and ruining her singing voice, it was her business. I tried to ignore the pang of envy I felt. All the really cute boys were out there.

There was only one person at the snack machine, a skinny hippie-looking kid sporting a short dark brown pony tail, with his back to me, dropping coins in the slot.

~~~

“Hold it. Skinny? Hippie-looking? Is that how you saw me?” Gil gathered his breakfast dishes and carried them to the sink.

“Well, you were, weren’t you?” I rinsed his juice glass and placed it in the dishwasher.

“I thought I was cool. I was working on a beard and everything.”

His wounded tone would have been more convincing if he hadn’t been trying so hard to keep a straight face.

“As you may remember,” I pointed out, “you weren’t exactly Mr. Charm that day.”

~~~

When his chocolate bar became wedged and refused to dislodge, he began to curse and pound the glass.

“Wait, wait,” I said impulsively, “I think I can help.” I had been in this situation before.

The boy turned around. “What do you mean?”

“Gilly Dickensen! What are you doing here?”

He crossed his arms and leaned against the machine. “That’s Gil to my friends and Mr. Dickensen to you, but I might ask you the same question, Prentice,” he said in a surprisingly deep voice. There were a few stray hairs on his chin and upper lip.

I gathered all the dignity I could. “I’m in the play.”

“Well, I’m doing sound for the play,” he answered, mocking my tone. Frowning, he pointed at the ceiling. “Upstairs, in the projection booth. But you said you could help me. How?”

I noticed that there was a hole in the knee of his jeans. Was he in style or just short of money?

“Like this. I’ll make my selection.” I deposited my coins and pressed the numbered buttons. “My crackers will knock your candy bar down, see?”

As I explained the trick, my mind was racing. Gilly, that is, Mr. Dickensen was two years ahead of me in school. The boy had definitely changed. The last time I saw him was at a school concert. Then he had short hair and sang alto in the mixed chorus.

I pulled the knob confidently, then a second time. My cheese-and-peanut-butter snack crackers moved forward, then stopped, poised over the precipice.

“Doggone it!”

I struck the glass with my fist. Gil’s candy bar wobbled and fell.

“
Voilà!
”

He hastened to retrieve it. “Thanks, Prentice.” He peeled back the wrapper and took a bite. “Bye.” He turned to leave.

My crackers were still stuck. “Wait! Aren’t you going to—”

“Sorry, too busy.”

Chewing, he loped across the lobby and fled through the door to the upstairs, narrowly missing a hallway collision with Chris Gold, who entered the theatre office.

I struck the glass of the snack machine again, a wasted effort. “I hate that boy!”

I fished in my purse for more coins. My stomach was growling. With any luck, I could make this stupid machine yield something. The second time I tried it, my trick worked and the machine yielded two packs of crackers. An expensive snack, but hunger won out.

~~~

“That’s not quite the way I remember it. As I recall, there was
a giggly little girl making eyes at me and it was all I could do to peel her off and get back to work.” He sat back down at the table.

“Oh, really? Trust me, you weren’t all that irresistible. To tell you the truth, I thought you were totally obnoxious.”

Gil did an exaggerated double-take. “What? I thought of it as dry wit. I was cultivating a world-weary attitude suitable for a globe-trotting journalist.”

“Is that right?”

“Yep, but after the globe-trotting that I did experience . . . well, now I’m just glad to stay put.”

I linked my fingers with his. The bantering mood was broken. Gil had seen action with the Army in the first Gulf War.

“Was it that bad?”

He patted my hand and kissed it. “Yes, no, maybe, and all of the above.” He shook himself. “Come on. What else do you remember?”

~~~

Crackers in hand, I turned to go back into the theatre, but as I did, loud arguing came from behind the theatre office door.

“She
what
?” It was Terence’s voice.

Murmur, murmur.

“Oh, no, she won’t! She can’t!”

Murmur, murmur.

“Go get her!
Now
!”

I ducked into the nearby telephone booth a fraction of a second before Chris emerged from the office and headed into the auditorium.

What’s happening?

Within sixty seconds he returned through the lobby, pulling a reluctant Janey by the elbow into the office, followed by Pat. The door slammed shut.

Once again, the voices were muffled. I couldn’t hear. Slowly I moved toward the door.

“What’re you doing, Amelia Earhart?” somebody asked behind my back.

I whirled.

It was Dierdre and Danny, arms around each other.

“I, um, I just got myself some, um, crackers.” I held the remaining package up as proof. Casually, I headed back towards the door to the auditorium.

Meandering slowly, I watched them out of the corner of my eye. They moved to the snack machine, where Danny fished change from his pocket and bought Dierdre’s choice without the slightest mechanical problem. She giggled as she accepted it.

Was I observing the blossoming of a relationship here? He hadn’t danced with me that way and the smouldering looks she gave him left little to the imagination. A familiar sinking feeling of disappointment began again. This summer was developing its own musical score in my mind. The melody floated in my head.

Why are all the sweetest love songs

Played for someone else, not me?

I blinked. Hard.
Get a grip, Amelia!

Shaking off self-pity for more pressing issues, I tossed one more glance down the hall. The sounds from the office were impossible to discern at this distance.

As I was about to open the auditorium door, Chris Gold emerged from the office, carrying the Mighty Clipboard. He strode past us rapidly, stone-faced, followed quickly by a smug-looking Janey, a frowning Pat, and a scowling Terence, who immediately spotted his sister.

Gesturing the others to go on without him, he turned and beckoned to her. “Dierdre, come with me. We’ve got to talk.” With a puzzled glance at her brother and a wave at Danny, she obeyed.

I tried to look casual as I slipped back into the nearby phone booth. Somewhere inside, my conscience was whispering,
Aren’t you ashamed? You’re turning into Lily McIndrick.
I ignored it and waited until the office door closed. Now the lobby was empty, and I was free to move nearer to listen better.