Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  “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.

  “Oh, my Lord, I can’t believe it. Look!” Trixie is yelping so frantically that I sprint out of the bathroom wrapped only in a towel to find her in the kitchen wearing a white flannel nightgown, clutching a coffee mug, and pointing at the tiny TV on the counter next to the stainless steel knife block. It’s tuned to LIVE with Kelly & Michael and you’ll never guess who’s on the show.

  Yes. Mario Suave.

  I watch, stunned, as Shanelle hikes the volume. There’s Mario, every hunky inch of him, laughing and chatting with the hosts, decked out in a perfectly tailored blue check sport coat that I bet is made of ultra-soft Italian wool. He’s paired it with a dark blue shirt, silver and gray tie, and light gray trousers. His dimple flashing, he looks healthy, relaxed, and, even though it’s January, tanned.

  Of course, he was in L.A. over New Year’s.

  Michael Strahan keeps teasing him about whether he really believes in ghosts, but clearly Kelly Ripa has had enough of that topic. “I want to know about you and Esperanza Esposito!” she cries. “We’ve all seen the tabloids.” She bats him playfully on the arm. “So what is going on there, Mr. Suave?”

  Mario gives a sheepish grin. I clutch the toothbrush I carried from the bathroom, wanting to hear his answer and yet not wanting to.

  “We’re friends,” he allows, and the crowd jeers in obvious disbelief.

  “We all think you’re more than that,” Kelly says. “And why wouldn’t we when she posts photos like this to her Instagram?”

  On screen a picture pops up of Mario and Esperanza, their heads close together and her arm around his shoulders, both of them so dazzlingly attractive even I have to admit they should just go forth and multiply.

  Mario shakes his head and keeps his lips zipped.

  “The man is pleading the fifth,” Michael says, and gets off his chair to high-five Mario. They chuckle like they’re sharing a guy joke.

  “I will tell you she’s here in New York,” Mario says, and that gets Kelly and the crowd going again. I feel a pang deep inside.

  “Well, you’re being very discreet,” Kelly says, “but she is just gorgeous, and even though I don’t know what the heck she’s saying on her telenovela Todos los Días, I think she’s a very good actress, too.”

  Then Kelly reminds the audience that Mario’s show America’s Scariest Ghost Stories is back from hiatus next week and everybody should watch because it’s always so good and what’s coming up next? Healthy cooking! I couldn’t care less because LIVE’s cheerful music is getting louder by the second and the camera shot is getting wider and soon Mario will disappear from view.

  Again. Like always.

  Shanelle switches off the TV. An awkward silence fills the apartment. Trixie throws me a pitying look. “I didn’t know Mario was in New York, Happy. I’d have told you if I’d known.”

  That’s another thing. Trixie now knows more about Mario’s life than I do. They’re in touch because he offered to back her financially if she decides to open her own bridal salon in Savannah once she gets settled. That’s how much she impressed him when she helped salvage the Teen Princess of the Everglades pageant in Miami. And it wasn’t an idle promise on Mario’s part, either, because they’ve talked about it a few times now. Plus, he gave her tips on the business plan she wrote with Shanelle’s help. All of this is yet more proof that Mario Suave is a man of his word.

  “Don’t feel bad, Trixie,” I say. “Besides, New York is so huge it’s not like Mario and I would run into each other here.”

  I bet Mario knows I’m in New York, I think a moment later, which makes me feel even more crushed than when he said Esperanza is here, too, no doubt sharing a hotel room with him. I bet he knows I’m here but hasn’t contacted me.

  Why would he contact you?—my common sense wants to know. You told him to move on. Now he has. You’ve got nothing to gripe about, Missy.

  I’m reeling from the truth of those assertions when my common sense pipes up again.

  Besides, he might not know you’re here. He used to follow you on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, but he probably doesn’t do that anymore.

  Probably not. Now he’s too busy following Esperanza.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “You best eat something,” Shanelle tells me. She turns toward the cooktop, where I see she’s made an omelet. “If I had to face a bunch of lawyers, I’d want protein inside me. Here, eat this one. You’ve got to get out of here faster than we do,” and she slides the omelet onto a plate and holds it in my direction.

  “I’ll pour you coffee while you get your robe,” Trixie offers, and spins away to do just that.

  The toaster pings and up pops an English muffin. “You’re going to eat that, too, girl,” Shanelle calls after me, and I don’t put up a fight. I’m not even sure I could, because I’m pretty darn teary at the moment.

  It’s not becaus
e of Mario, either. It’s because my BFFs are giving me TLC. They know I need it and they’re dishing it out in the form of eggs, English muffins, and caffeine.

  By the time I’m wearing my robe—a soft knit in charcoal gray that’s deliciously swishy—and have settled at the glass dining table by the floor-to-ceiling windows, I’m able to speak without my voice quavering. “I don’t know what I’d do without you two.”

  Trixie rubs my back. “You’ll never have to find out.”

  “No, you won’t, girl.” Shanelle shakes her head vigorously. “Men may come and men may go, but your girlfriends, now they are eternal.”

  I hoist my coffee mug for a group toast. “Amen to that.” I slice into the omelet, which is piping hot and stuffed with ham, green onions, and mushrooms. New Yorkers probably don’t cook in these matchbox-size kitchens but we three Queens On A Budget do, even though we have a per diem. “Just so you know, I have sworn off Mario. I even made a New Year’s resolution to stop following him, which is why I didn’t know he was here in New York.”

  Trixie sits down next to me. “Well, you can’t expect all thoughts of him to disappear overnight.”

  “And he’s probably harder to forget than most men,” Shanelle allows.

  I shake my head. “I can’t believe I have so many setbacks, though.”

  “It takes time,” Shanelle says. “So let’s help by talking about something else.” She heads back toward the kitchen, presumably to whip up another omelet. “Where’s this appointment of yours, anyway?”

  “Near Rockefeller Center.” The stage manager gave me clearance to be late. She’s the one who tracks whether people show up when they’re supposed to.

  “I’ve never been called upon to give testimony.” Trixie sounds more than a little awestruck.

  “It’s not testimony, really. It’s a testimonial. I’m supposed to give what they call ‘character evidence’ about Mr. Cantwell. Since I’m in New York and so are his lawyers, he thought the timing was perfect.”

  I try to sound matter-of-fact although really I’m nervous. The Ms. America pageant owner, the illustrious Sebastian Cantwell, is facing felony charges. He’s accused of inventing losses in the pageant so he could pay lower taxes on his other businesses. It’s kind of mysterious to me—plus, it doesn’t sound all that bad—but apparently it’s tax fraud. And not the misdemeanor kind, either.

  I’m torn about the whole thing. I like Mr. Cantwell and there’s no question that the Ms. America pageant—not to mention the mongo prize money—has opened up the world to me. He’s also been a big supporter of my sleuthing, not exactly from the get-go, when he himself made my suspects list, but since then.

  But I know something Mr. Cantwell doesn’t: that Mario is secretly a part-time F.B.I. agent who investigates financial wrongdoing in the entertainment biz and that it was he who brought this particular mischief to light. Mario believes my beloved pageant owner is Guilty with a capital G.

  You know I find it nearly impossible to believe Mario’s got that wrong. Plus, even if I weren’t a cop’s daughter I wouldn’t approve of people breaking the law.

  “I don’t know about this ‘character evidence’ business,” Shanelle says from the cooktop. “Seems to me a jury won’t care how many people testify that Mr. C’s a nice guy if they see solid evidence that he committed tax fraud.”

  “I’m told it sways jurors.” I finish my omelet. I know I’m not supposed to rely on food to make me feel better, but sometimes it just does.

  “Do you think it’ll actually go to trial?” Trixie asks me.

  “I guess these things often settle beforehand, and we all know Mr. Cantwell wouldn’t want that kind of publicity, but you never know.”

  Shanelle returns to the table with an omelet for Trixie and sits down to enjoy her coffee. She’s wearing navy menswear-inspired pajamas with white piping and has her Afro pulled back by a white jersey head wrap. “Either of you two been online yet this morning?” she asks. “Lisette is all over the news, no surprise.”

  “What do the articles say?” Trixie asks.

  “They all get the facts pretty much right.” Shanelle sips her coffee. “Lisette doesn’t come off that well. There’s a lot about how she was a musical theater novice, quote unquote.”

  “Implying she didn’t know how things work on Broadway,” I say.

  “I hate to say it,” Trixie murmurs, “but it was Lisette’s fault she was up on that staircase.”

  “None of the articles say that flat out, but it sure comes across. There are a few quotes about how she interrupted the preview twice and was screaming at Oliver for everybody to see.” Shanelle harrumphs. “Don’t get me started on him. He’s got some quote where he talks about how talented Lisette was and how deeply he’s grieving for her. But we all know how much truth there is to that.”

  “He needs to make sure Lisette’s father doesn’t get ticked off and pull his money from the production,” I observe. My, oh my, can I be cynical.

  Trixie shakes her head. “So much for Oliver being Mr. Straight Talk. It seems like you can’t trust half the things he says.”

  “Apparently he set up a distress hotline for everybody who witnessed Lisette’s fall,” Shanelle says. “As if he’s concerned, which we all know he’s not.” She shakes her head in obvious disgust at Oliver’s hypocrisy. “Oh, and get this. Somebody in the cast or crew did tweet a photo of Lisette all in a heap. The photo I saw online was definitely taken by somebody on stage.”

  “There’ll be hell to pay for that.” I rise and carry my plate and mug to the kitchen to load them in the dishwasher. “Now I do have to hurry. Thanks for the fab omelet, Shanelle.”

  She pads after me into the kitchen. “Time to make one for me.”

  I exit the kitchen to the sound of Shanelle whisking eggs in a bowl. My outfit choice for the day is easy because I settled on it before I went to bed. I’ll wear my slim knit skirt with gray ombré stripes, a closefitting charcoal-colored pullover, black tights, and my chunky boots for easy traipsing about Manhattan. Since I should’ve washed my hair but didn’t, I’ll contain it in a side ponytail, careful not to tie it too tight and to place the elastic behind my earlobe, to avoid the common mistakes with that style.

  I feel like a real New Yorker as I take the subway to Rockefeller Center. Once I emerge above ground, the morning rush is over, but the streets and wide sidewalks are still crowded, at least by Cleveland standards. The light snow that fell earlier has melted, leaving the pavement damp. Between the towering buildings and the gloomy sky, it’s all beige and gray, as if the only colors God created were neutrals.

  On the sidewalk by the subway is a man bundled in a parka and red wool cap selling roasted chestnuts from a cart. They have such a wonderful distinctive smell. They make me think of Christmas, not that I had a happy one this last year.

  Of course, it was the first Christmas after my parents’ divorce, so how happy could it be? Instead of us all together on Christmas Eve for our traditional family feast of pork chops, mashed potatoes, and green beans, Jason, Rachel, and I ate with my mom and Bennie at her house, where I grew up. Presumably Pop spent the evening with his lady friend Maggie (whom I very much hope does not become his fiancée) because we ran into them later at midnight Mass. Naturally, we didn’t sit together. It would have been awkward if we did, but it was awkward, anyway.

  It was just all so awkward. And that’s not even getting into the vague unease between Jason and me. An undercurrent of sadness ran through the entire season. My mother was subdued and you know how unusual that is. She put up only a spindly two-foot-tall Christmas tree, a tragic-looking pine if ever I’d seen one; she declared she’d had enough of fruitcake in Winona; and she baked only one batch of Christmas cookies. “Who’s going to eat them?” she wanted to know.

  Pop wouldn’t be around to over-indulge.

  He came to my house on Christmas Day, of course with Maggie in tow. On the surface, except for Maggie’s presence and my mother’s absence, it
was the same as ever. Rachel and I stuffed a chicken and roasted it with all the fixings; Pop and Jason shoveled snow and watched basketball; we oohed and aahed as we opened gifts; we kept the tree lit the entire day; and we played Monopoly. This year, Rachel won. I usually do, probably because I’m the most competitive, but Rachel has gotten very strategic and she was also lucky rolling the dice. Usually I’m the lucky one, but sometimes, I can’t put my finger on why, I have the oddest feeling that’s changing.

  A few steps later I reach 30 Rockefeller Plaza, that iconic piece of American real estate. My spirits lift. Towering above me is the mighty beige stone structure famous long before the sitcom 30 Rock hit the airwaves. This is the home of NBC. This is where Jimmy Fallon and lots of other stars and newspeople show up to work. Nearly at the top is the Rainbow Room. I hope Trixie, Shanelle, and I can sneak in a cocktail there at some point.

  My cell phone rings. I don’t have a fun ring tone like I usually do, just a businesslike buzz. Yet another sign that I’m out of kilter. “Rachel!” I cry. There’s nothing I like better than hearing from my daughter. But that doesn’t stop me from ruining the mood. “Why aren’t you in class?”

  “Don’t get on me, Mom. I’ve got study hall from ten to eleven on Fridays. Where are you?”

  I barely have the word “center” out of my mouth before Rachel starts pelting me with facts. “Do you know Rockefeller Center is a National Historic Landmark? And it took almost the entire 1930s to construct the original buildings? They’re Art Deco, you know.”

  “You’re better than a tour guide.”

  “I did some research online. You know you should’ve let me come along.”

  This is a typical refrain. “I would love to have you here, Rach, but you can’t ditch school.”

  Silence. Then: “So do you remember how I was telling you that I thought Madison would flake out as head of the prom committee? She did. This morning.”

  Madison is the most popular girl at Rachel’s high school. She and my daughter have had their share of run-ins. “You’re kidding me! What happened?”