Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway

by Diana Dempsey

  Shanelle reaches across the table. I take her hand and Trixie lays her hand over mine. “These here four walls are a safe zone,” Shanelle murmurs. “Nothing you say leaves here.”

  I nod. Tears prick behind my eyes. A few seconds pass before I can speak. Then: “I just don’t know if I would’ve married Jason if I hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

  We let that hang in the air. Outside a helicopter buzzes across the gray and white sky, somebody taking care of important business even though it’s Sunday morning.

  “You’ll never be able to answer that question,” Trixie says. “But you could’ve gotten divorced a million times in all these years and you never did. And not just because of Rachel.”

  “That’s true. I loved Jason then and I love him now. But sometimes I can’t help wondering ...”

  And not just in the man department, either. In the going-to-college department. In the career department. I was raising a child when I was still a teenager myself and I had to put everything but Rachel on the back burner. I’d do it the same way again, and Rachel is the most precious thing in my life, but that’s not to say I didn’t pay a price.

  Of course, to be fair, Jason did, too.

  I rise to fetch a tissue then decide it’s safer to bring back the whole box. When my sniffling self sits back down, Shanelle is reminding Trixie that she got married in her late twenties and Trixie is nodding that she did the same. “When I met Lamar,” Shanelle says, “I’d been around the block enough times to know I’d found a gem.”

  “Same for me with Rhett,” Trixie says. “It is amazing how young you and Jason were, Happy. You both had so much growing up to do. It’s hard to grow up and stay together. Because you both change so much.”

  “And you know what, girlfriend?” Shanelle says to me. “You’re changing again now. First you win the Ms. America crown. Then you solve all those murders. Your world’s a whole lot bigger today than it was a few months back.”

  “I think that’s what’s got you in a tizzy,” Trixie says. “Not just Mario.”

  “I agree,” I say. “But Mario is a big part of it.”

  “The good news,” Shanelle says, “is that Jason’s life got bigger, too.”

  Between the NASCAR job and the two calendars, that’s certainly true.

  “Which might be scary,” Trixie says, “but it’s much better than him being in a rut while you’re soaring.”

  I give Trixie a smile. That girl is Ms. Congeniality through and through. “I wouldn’t go that far. I did just get semi-fired from Dream Angel and I know Mr. Cantwell is mad at me even though he hasn’t said anything yet. Still, I get what you mean. And it’s ironic that I’m the one who pushed Jason to chase his dreams. Because now that he is, it’s taking him in directions I never could’ve predicted.”

  And that I’m not sure I like. For example, how he’s launched into the orbit of one Kimberly Drayson. I tell Shanelle and Trixie what my husband had to say about her.

  Trixie shakes her head. “It may be turning Jason’s head to have that twenty-five-year-old all into him—”

  “But believe me, girl,” Shanelle interrupts to say, “Kimberly Drayson can’t hold a candle to you.”

  It’s good I carried back the whole box of tissues. Because I need them as I look across the table at these fantabulous BFFs of mine. I may have a lot to worry about, but with Shanelle and Trixie on my team, I feel like I’m strong enough for anything.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  An hour later, dressed, fed, and caffeinated, we three queens depart for the theater. I figure that until I’m thrown off the premises, I’m going in. I simply cannot countenance wasting my backstage pass to a Broadway production. (Well, Off-Broadway, but you know what I mean.) As it is, I have to miss the preview performances, not to mention opening night.

  I will say, however, that in the clear light of Sunday morning we’re not finding much by way of glamour on the Great White Way. Not only are we mere hours past the bacchanal that is Saturday night, meaning nothing is cleaned up yet, but under the onslaught of vehicle traffic and pedestrians the once white snow is now grungy slush.

  I am ruing the damage being done to my black booties when Trixie pipes up. “Happy, how are you going to investigate Violet Honeycutt?”

  Shanelle and Trixie were both riveted by the news that the famous magazine editor—in fact, it’s probably safe to say she’s the best known in the country—was Lisette’s sole remaining rival for the apartment in the Belfer.

  “I can’t believe you’re asking me that!” I cry. “You thought it was ridiculous for me to do any investigating.”

  “For Violet Honeycutt, I’ll make an exception. Maybe Lisette was murdered,” Trixie allows. “Anyhoo, I’m hoping you can score face time with her and I can come with. You, too, Shanelle.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Shanelle mutters.

  “I have no idea what I’m going to do about Violet Honeycutt,” I admit. As for Oliver Tripp Sr., there is of course the obvious ploy of using my feminine charms. I drank copious quantities of java this morning, but so far that has failed to prod the gray matter into generating any ideas more inspired than that one.

  Speaking of which, as of tomorrow my brain will reach the ripe old age of 35. Ugh.

  As we do most days, we pass Dorothy and the Tin Man. “How’s business?” Shanelle inquires.

  The Tin Man shrugs. “Not bad. It’s still early. I hear your opening night got moved up to Wednesday.”

  “Wow!” Trixie says. “Almost nobody knows that yet.”

  “You really do know what’s going on around here,” I add.

  He points to his tin head. “It’s very simple, ladies. I keep my eyes and my ears open.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “Plus, Oliver told me. Gotta run,” and he and Dorothy snag a photo-op with an excited little girl and her mom.

  By arrangement, we meet Bennie in front of the theater. Again today he is outfitted in his field jacket and herringbone flat cap and his grin has enough wattage to compete on Broadway.

  I introduce him to my BFFs then grab him in a hug, guilt piercing my insides. Yes, for all you other lapsed Catholics out there, there is such a thing as a sin of omission. And by not telling Bennie that the fur he gave my mother has gone AWOL, I am committing one. On Sunday morning, too. Eventually I pull back from the hug. “Did you have a good time last night even though you stayed in?” I ask him.

  “Your mother’s a card!” Bennie tells us. “She wanted to binge watch Food Network. I could do that at home!”

  We head for the alley that leads to the stage door. Bennie gets a kick out of that, as I still do. “Your mother’s face is still super shiny this morning,” he tells me.

  That makes me feel guilty all over again. Bennie is cheerfully going about his business ignorant of why my mother got the shine-inducing facial while all the rest of us know it had to do with the ex-husband she’s hoping to win back.

  “When room service comes,” Bennie goes on, “she’s so embarrassed she hides in the bathroom.”

  “What does she plan to do today?” Trixie asks.

  “First she’s going to say the rosary. After that, anybody’s guess.”

  I wonder if my mother’s prayers have more to do with my father or her lost fur. Whichever the case, she might segue from the rosary right into a novena. And that’s nine straight days of special prayers.

  Unfortunately, I don’t think I can do anything about the fur today. I’ve discovered that the Fifth Avenue salon in question is closed on Sunday, thank you very much. So I have to let that huge worry fester for at least another day.

  Bennie is highly enthusiastic about his backstage tour. “What’s the difference between Broadway and Off-Broadway?” he wants to know as we shamelessly fondle costumes hanging on a rolling clothing rack.

  By this point Shanelle, Trixie, and I are all pretty knowledgeable about Broadway, but I answer first. “I used to think it was just location, but it’s not, even though there is an official theater
district. For one thing, all Broadway productions have to be staged in a theater that’s got at least five hundred seats.”

  “But some venues that are big enough and nearby enough,” Trixie says, “aren’t considered Broadway theaters. Like Radio City Music Hall.”

  Shanelle weighs in. “And the various unions have to agree that something qualifies as a Broadway production.”

  “If it doesn’t, its actors can’t win Tony Awards,” Trixie adds. “So everybody on Dream Angel is out of luck because this is an Off-Broadway production.”

  I keep to myself my opinion that no one involved with Dream Angel would run much risk of being nominated for a Tony, anyway. “There are rules about what qualifies as Off-Broadway, too,” I say. “In that case the theater has to have at least a hundred seats. And of course some productions try to skate past that because they don’t want to be called Off-Off-Broadway.” Which does sound a trifle insulting.

  A few minutes later we decide to watch the rehearsals from a box, just for fun. Bennie pipes up again. “Is it always like this? Everybody running around like a chicken with its head chopped off?”

  “This is even more frantic than usual,” I say. “That’s because previews start up again tonight. And the musical has been changed a lot, so everybody’s worried they’re going to make a mistake.”

  “Remember that site AllThatChat.com that Tonya told us about?” Shanelle asks me. “I hope she’s not reading the latest reviews. They’re nasty.”

  “Who’d be posting nasty reviews now? That’s really unfair,” I say to Bennie, “since so much of the show has been changed since the last preview.”

  This is the eternal dilemma for Broadway directors. They can’t finalize a show until they know how an audience reacts to it in previews, yet people who attend those previews might ream the show that’s still very much in flux.

  Of course I can’t resist taking a peek at AllThatChat.com. The first post I see is indeed scathing. Is it vicious to call Dream Angel sophomoric and banal? No. It’s too kind.

  I cringe. I’d hate to be on the receiving end of that. No wonder everybody involved in this production is a basketcase. Onstage even now, two techs are yelling at each other, an actor is demanding that from now on he get hit with a spotlight, and an actress is in tears.

  “I heard the stage manager yell at her backstage,” Trixie murmurs. “She forgot the golden rule: ‘Ten minutes early is on time. On time is late.’ ”

  You do hear that a lot around here. That said, there’s no sign rehearsals will commence any time soon. We settle in to wait.

  I’m lost in thought when rehearsals get going a bit later. And while the run-throughs are fairly entertaining, my now-cranking brain soon recalls the tasks I wish to accomplish. I excuse myself from Bennie et al., and make my way backstage in search of the DVDs of Dream Angel’s preview performances, recorded by your favorite strumpet and mine, Miss Kimberly Drayson.

  The DVDs are kept in a small windowless room off the same corridor as Oliver’s office. Fortunately, it is unoccupied. I slip inside and shut the door. A motley assortment of file cabinets that looks to be from the dawn of time lines the perimeter, topped with random objects and no doubt filled with documents no one ever needs. A dusty DVD player and small-screen TV squat on a desk that saw better days decades ago. I perch on a director’s chair sagging from the weight of countless butts and rummage among the DVDs scattered on the desktop. Soon I find the one I want to see most: from the night Lisette died. I mute the volume, since I don’t want to call attention to my dubious activities, and skim through to the end.

  What do I discover? The recording cuts off well before Lisette mounts the killer staircase. In fact, it halts a full scene before Tonya even begins the final song, which accompanies her climb up the stairs to the tacky gilded throne.

  I flop back in the chair. So it’s partially true what Kimberly said the night Lisette died: that she wasn’t recording when Lisette pitched down the stairs. I was disappointed at the time because it meant there was no record of what happened, which no doubt my homicide-seeking self would have perused time and time again.

  But the rest of what Kimberly said is not true. No, she did not stop recording when Lisette appeared at the head of the stairs; she stopped considerably before that point.

  Why? The preview was proceeding normally. Why wasn’t Kimberly recording it?

  I eject that DVD and insert the recording from the night before Lisette died. After I scan it, I go through the same procedure with every other preview performance I can find. And wouldn’t you know, on every other one Kimberly records all the way through to the finish, even including Lisette’s nightly tirades.

  Why, on that one night only, did Kimberly not record until the conclusion?

  I am pondering what that husband-stealing vixen might have been up to when my cell buzzes with a text. It turns out to be from said husband. You won’t believe where I am.

  I hope not Kimberly’s apartment. But I simply text: Where?

  K’s uncle’s place on Long Island. What a spread!!!

  Great. So now Jason and Kimberly are holed up not in her apartment but in a swanky private home. And it is quite possible there’s no Uncle Jerry on the premises to chaperone. I clutch my phone, wishing Jason had stayed put in Central Park even if that would’ve meant freezing his perfectly toned buns off.

  Since I don’t reply fast enough, Jason pops off another text. Not that big but right on the water. Dock too. Amazing!!!

  I’m not loving the hyper punctuation. My husband is having way too good a time. I wonder if he’s getting the idea that Kimberly’s uncle is loaded.

  I certainly am. I can’t imagine coastal real estate on Long Island is cheap. As my mother’s facial so rudely reminded us, nothing in these parts is cheap.

  Took a while to get here, Jason texts. I’ll be back late.

  Have a good time, I reply, because I don’t know what else to say. Then I search for the weather forecast, hoping we don’t get slammed with another snowstorm and the roads become impassable. How crazy was it for the two of them to go all the way out there? And doesn’t that pint-sized conniver have to be back in the city tonight to record the preview performance?

  I get one piece of good news, at least: there are no squalls on the horizon. I clean up my DVD mess and go in search of the day’s sign-in sheet. It is as I feared: Jerry Drayson has a call time, but his niece doesn’t. Kimberly is off tonight. And I bet Uncle Jerry is in the city and not on Long Island if he’s got to work tonight.

  I go to the break room to fetch myself a sustaining cup of coffee, hoping no one got mad enough today to pee in the pot. I resist downing a chocolate chip cookie from the ever-present stash. Now that I’ve got competition from a woman ten years my junior, it is not the time to bulk up my hips and thighs.

  Now is the time to trust my husband and my marriage, I tell myself. Jason has had to deal with me having loads of one-on-one time with Mario and now I must react with equanimity while he spends hour after (semi-clothed) hour with that cunning minx Kimberly. And while I have been sorely tempted where Mario is concerned, I have never actually been naughty.

  True, there was that one unforgettable kiss in Minnesota. But that’s easily explained! We were under mistletoe at the time and it would have been very rude to turn away in that situation.

  At least that’s what I tell myself. And surely Jason will exercise the same self-control that I have been able to summon most of the time ...

  “What the hell are you doing here?” squeaks Oliver from behind me.

  I see our esteemed director has come in search of sustenance as well. “To be honest with you, I just love being here at the theater,” I tell him. “But don’t worry, I’ll keep your father away tonight. He wouldn’t bother showing up during mere rehearsals, anyway.”

  Oliver pours hot water into a mug. I’m sure he’s got some fancy Japanese tea he wants to steep. “What makes you so sure?”

  “Rehearsals aren’t
splashy enough for your father. He wants to flaunt himself, not get ignored while everybody’s busy.”

  Oliver arches his brows. “Good for you. You’re starting to figure him out.”

  “By the way”—I edge closer even though Oliver and I are alone in the break room—“are you aware that Kimberly’s recording of Thursday’s preview cuts off way before Lisette even shows up on the stairs?”

  He looks surprised but dodges the question. “What’s it to you?”

  “I just wish I understood better how she fell. I have nightmares about it,” I lie, adding to my list of Sunday sins.

  Oliver shakes his head. “I haven’t watched it. It’s too morbid. Besides, so much of the production has changed since then that it’s beside the point.”

  “Did you see Lisette actually fall? Where were you when it happened?”

  “Where do you think I was? In my office trying to recover from her latest diatribe. Gotta go,” he says, and spins away.

  It’s certainly plausible he was in his office. That doesn’t mean I’m buying it.

  I’m finishing my coffee and trying to relax about Jason when I get the idea to google Gerald Drayson’s name. Let’s see just how big a dog Kimberly’s uncle is. The first hit that comes up is his web site, which turns out to be a thing of beauty. One stunning Broadway photo fades seamlessly into the next. Up top are a few shots of the man himself, wielding a still camera and laughing, wearing jeans, a sport coat, and a dress shirt open at the neck. He looks professional yet warm and approachable. I will add that the flawlessness of the site creates the impression that his services are extremely expensive.

  He does wedding and engagement photos, too, I soon realize, though he warns that his availability for such events is “very limited.” Nevertheless, I can tell that within the last year he found time to do one wedding in Lake Como, Italy, and another in France’s Loire Valley. I click on the gallery of photos for a mundane affair in boring old Manhattan and nearly keel over.