Offed Stage Left

by Joanne Sydney Lessner

  Isobel erupted with a sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a snort. “Who on earth would do a thing like that?”

  “The same kind of people who kill elderly relatives for their rent-controlled apartments,” Delphi said darkly. “Okay, I gotta sleep. I have to learn your track tomorrow, and you know I’m not the quickest musical study. I need every brain cell I can spare.”

  “So you think I should do it?”

  Delphi yawned. “It’s in my best interest, isn’t it? Then I’d get to play Emma for more than three performances. But yeah, take the contract. Live dangerously. Good night.”

  Isobel switched off the lamp and hunkered under her covers. She lay awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. She had gone on for the lead at the last minute and saved the day in front of an influential theater critic and probably a producer, and now she was being handed her union card—all in one night. But the fact that her good fortune had come at the expense of someone else’s life made it impossible to relish her triumph.

  FIFTEEN

  WHEN ISOBEL WOKE and saw the pile of cushions on the floor, it took a moment before she remembered why they were there. Delphi was up and out early to learn her role, working first with Hugh on the ensemble music. Depending on how she fared, he would try her on the duet, although nobody but Jethro wanted him to succeed. Then Ezra would spend a few hours working her into the two Emma scenes with Chris and Sunil and blocking her into the group numbers. It wasn’t much in the way of rehearsal. Isobel didn’t envy Delphi going on pretty much cold in front of the second-night audience.

  Isobel found the kitchen empty. She opened the fridge and removed her last yogurt. It was time for another trip to Price Chopper. The New York Post sat atop a pile of newspapers on the table, opened to Roman Fried’s column. She parked her spoon upright in the yogurt and scanned for her name, which, to her mild annoyance, didn’t appear until the end.

  The proverbial day was saved by a game young actress named Isobel Spice. Though no improvement over Ms. Claire in looks, Ms. Spice offered an attractive singing voice and managed to discharge her duties without the manic edge that typically plagues understudies released from their cages for the first time.

  “I believe that sentence appears in the dictionary as an example of the word backhanded,” Sunil said, entering the kitchen. “The way ‘For God, for country, and for Yale’ is the dictionary’s example of anticlimax.”

  Isobel looked up. “How do you happen to know that?”

  “My brother went there. He made the mistake of bragging about it to me once, and I taunt him with it at every opportunity.” Sunil pointed to the newspaper. “No such thing as—”

  “Don’t you dare finish that sentence.” Isobel tossed the paper aside. “At least he liked my voice.”

  “Good for you.” Sunil opened the refrigerator and removed a carton of eggs. “I’d have thought you’d focus on the negative. Did you read the whole thing or just your part?”

  Isobel bristled. “I like to read up from the bottom.”

  “Mhm.”

  She returned to the column and started at the beginning.

  An anonymous tip led me up the Hudson to Albany’s fabled Livingston Stage Company for “Sousacal,” a new tuner depicting the life of John Philip Sousa. The riotously ridiculous title alone promised a gut-buster on the order of “Elephant! The Musical,” winner and still champion of the Best Worst Musical Award (selections on display in the wonderful movie “The Tall Guy” with Jeff Goldblum and Emma Thompson). With a Fried rating of 5 Elephants (so bad it’s brilliant), this excerpted masterpiece remains the benchmark for unintentionally hilarious musicalizations of unsuitable subject matter.

  I am obliged to report that “Sousacal” falls short of a perfect score with 4.5 Elephants. The plodding story rises above a 4 (just plain bad) thanks to some of the most laughable lyrics ever dashed off to a Sousa march. Oh yes, the entire misguided score is comprised of Sousa marches. Let’s just say it must have looked good on paper. Even more unfortunately, the show was brought to a screeching halt toward the end of act one when former Miss New York Arden Claire, in the role of Sousa’s wife Jennie, collapsed onstage, necessitating a change in personnel.

  Isobel skimmed past the part that mentioned her and read the conclusion.

  We wish the comely Ms. Claire a speedy recovery from whatever ails her. (Although if she’s smart, she’ll continue to call in sick until the final fanfare.)

  She set the paper down again. “Well, that’s quite a bombshell.”

  “Seriously. Who knew Roman Fried was straight?”

  Isobel made a face. “I don’t mean that, although I grant you that is a bit of a surprise. No, how about the fact that he was there on an anonymous tip?”

  “I guess I glossed over that.” Sunil cracked two eggs into a pan. “I wonder who tipped him off.”

  “And why? And what did they say to him?” She picked up the Albany Times Union, which lay underneath. “He didn’t come expecting a winner. He obviously came to trash it.”

  “That’s his stock-in-trade. But I get what you’re saying. Did his source say, ‘You’ve gotta come see this piece of crap,’ or did they say, ‘You’ve gotta come see this amazing new show’ and he immediately recognized the clucking of a turkey?”

  “Turkeys don’t cluck—they gobble. And I’m guessing the former, since it was anonymous.” Isobel opened the Arts section and started thumbing through. “Anyone who was bullish on the show would have identified himself.”

  “He might not have been anonymous to Fried. Fried could just be protecting his source.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Don’t bother. Nothing yet.”

  Isobel tossed the Times Union aside. “Fried doesn’t know Arden is dead.”

  “He’ll find out soon enough.” Sunil finished scrambling and switched off the burner.

  “If you had a chance to get your Equity card now, would you?” Isobel asked.

  “Where did that come from?” His eyes widened. “Oh, I see. You’ll get yours taking over Arden’s part. Congratulations!”

  “Hugh thinks I should cover the role up to the Equity limit while they find someone else, and Delphi thinks I should take the money and run. You’re the tiebreaker.”

  Sunil brought his eggs to the table. “That’s a tough one. Either way it’s a gamble. If you take it, you might not work again for a while, it’s true. Then again, it could be years before you get another opportunity to join the union.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “That’s not a comment on you, by the way. It’s how the business works. It probably won’t be years, but you never know.”

  She spooned up some yogurt and let it drip back into the cup. “What about how it will look to the others?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Will it look like I killed Arden to get my Equity card?”

  “First of all, we’ll probably find out that Arden had an aneurysm—that’s my educated guess from having played Dr. Singh on one episode of CSI—and second of all, that’s got to be the world’s worst motive for murder.” Sunil took a bite of egg. “Oh, and third of all, anyone who knows you at all knows that the role of murderer is not in your repertoire.”

  “Do you think I should take my card?”

  Sunil waved his fork in her direction. “I think you should do whatever you want.”

  She stacked the newspapers neatly at the side of the table with a sigh. “Yeah. I have about two hours to decide what that is.”

  OH, GOD, SHE REALLY can’t sing, Hugh thought.

  He forced a smile. “That’s great!”

  “It is?” Delphi asked hopefully. “It feels a little rocky.”

  “You’ll be standing next to Marissa for this number. She’s on the alto line as well, so listen to her and you’ll be fine.”

  “Yes, fine, fine.” Jethro’s voice boomed across the rehearsal studio. “Can we look at the duet?”

  “Just a moment.” Hugh excused himself to Delphi an
d crossed the room to the table where Heather and Jethro were sitting with an empty chair between them.

  Hugh leaned down and said in a low voice, “This is a waste of time, of which we have precious little. I’m sure you can hear that Delphi has a character voice, not a lyric voice.”

  “She has to try,” Jethro insisted.

  “I know what you want it to sound like, and it won’t be that. She won’t sound like Isobel,” Hugh argued.

  Jethro folded his arms. “Humor me. And then we’ll know for sure.”

  “Right,” Hugh said with false cheerfulness. He returned to Delphi. “We’re going to give it the old college try.”

  “Drop the key,” Jethro called.

  Hugh transposed the song down a step on sight and taught Delphi the melody. It sounded about like he expected.

  “Another,” Jethro called.

  Delphi raised a questioning eyebrow at Hugh, who shifted his hands farther down the keyboard, and then farther. When they were a third lower than the written key, he stopped.

  “This is way too low for Chris. Even if we modulate back up for him, you can’t have Emma singing lower than Sousa. And how will we find a key that works for both of them when they sing together?”

  Jethro stared stonily at Hugh. Then he sprang up from the table, making Heather jump, and left the room without another word.

  “Does this mean the song is out?” Delphi asked, her eyes glistening.

  Hugh reached for her hand over the top of the upright piano. “Ezra has been fighting to cut this damn song since the first read-through. Although she’ll never say it in front of Jethro, Felicity agrees. It has nothing to do with you.”

  “You’re very kind, but full of shit. I sound like a rhino in heat.” A tear rolled down Delphi’s cheek. “This is why I don’t do musicals anymore. I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Saving the day, that’s what. Hang on a moment.”

  He crossed the room to Heather, who was making notes in her binder.

  “I think we need a five.”

  “Sure.” Heather peered around him. “Is she okay?”

  “A little upset, understandably.”

  “I hope she’s a better actor than she is a singer,” she whispered.

  “I can absolutely vouch for that.” He followed Heather’s gaze and took in Delphi’s tight black jeans, Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, and nose ring. “Lose the silver and black, put some rosy makeup on her, and she looks like a Dresden doll.”

  “Yeah, I can sort of see it. And it’s not like we have much choice at this point.” Heather examined the eraser on her pencil. “Ezra is right about the song. It’s just too bad that…”

  “What?” Hugh asked.

  She looked up at him. “What do you think of the show?”

  “Oh, well, I…” He took his glasses off and wiped them on his shirttail. “I could have done without quite so many marches.”

  “Ha,” she snorted.

  “And honestly, that’s the one thing ‘Song of the Sea’ has going for it. It’s not a march. But don’t tell Jethro. He doesn’t need any more ammunition.”

  Heather gave him an enigmatic smile, and Hugh returned to the piano, where Delphi was folding the sheet music to the duet in half. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Heather was getting at something, and he’d missed it.

  SIXTEEN

  “I DON’T THINK Arden smoked,” Felicity said.

  Isobel paused outside the door to Felicity’s office, which was open a crack. She waited for a response, but when Felicity spoke again, Isobel realized she was on the phone.

  “I see. No, of course. I understand. Please let me know when you have more information. Thank you.”

  Isobel lurked for a moment, waiting to see if Felicity was the sort of person who talked to herself and might repeat whatever had just been said on the other end of the line, but all she heard was the desk drawer open and shut and the clacking of computer keys. She rapped lightly on the door.

  “Come in,” Felicity bade her. “Are you here to sign your Equity contract?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Makes things easier all around.”

  Isobel had a flash that Hugh was right and she was somehow getting the short end of the stick, but she’d made up her mind decisively after speaking to her brother Percival, whose opinion she valued more than any of her friends’. He’d encouraged her to take the risk and had given her an idea.

  “On one condition,” she said.

  “Oh? And what’s that?” Felicity said with a touch of amusement.

  “I’m helping you out of a difficult situation by saving you the time and expense of finding someone to replace Arden, but it’s costing me money. I think it’s only fair that the theater split the Equity initiation fee with me.”

  Felicity stared at her, and for a moment Isobel feared that she’d miscalculated. But to her surprise, Felicity’s mouth widened into the first true smile Isobel had seen since her false friendliness at the auditions. A chuckle welled up from deep within her.

  “Why not? Kelly has your contract ready to go,” Felicity said. “She’ll be in at one.”

  Isobel had prepared herself for a flat no or at least an indignant outburst. Before she could recover and express her thanks, voices raised in argument distracted them both. Isobel heard footsteps in the hallway before Jethro and Ezra burst in.

  “There’s nothing to discuss,” Ezra said.

  “We are not cutting the duet,” Jethro insisted.

  “But you said yourself she can’t sing it.”

  “Stop!” Felicity put up her hands.

  Isobel backed out of the room but didn’t leave entirely, positioning herself behind the two men, whose double girth made a convenient screen.

  “Delphi stays. If she can’t sing the duet, it’s out,” Felicity said firmly. “I’ve made that clear.”

  “But—”

  “Jethro!” Felicity’s bark was so unexpected that Jethro took a step backward and almost trampled on Isobel, who skittered out of the way just in time. “With everything else that’s going on, you’re being maddeningly shortsighted. Hugh will work on a solo version with Chris. From there, we’ll have to see.”

  “I want to audition new actresses for the part,” Jethro said.

  “This is ridiculous!” Ezra exploded.

  Jethro wheeled on him, forcing Isobel to dart around the corner. “You are trying to sabotage my show!”

  Ezra’s whole body shook with rage. “Are you fucking kidding me? I’m trying to save your show, you—you ape!”

  “You rigged the masking to fall, you poisoned the coffee, you tampered with the orchestra parts…” Jethro took a deep breath and geared up for the final accusation. “And you tipped off Roman Fried, who trashed the show!”

  Ezra shook his head in disbelief. “Why would I do anything to sabotage a show that has my name—my good name—attached to it?”

  “Because I threw out your boyfriend’s score.”

  Isobel gave a tiny squeak of surprise and clapped her hand over her mouth.

  “How…dare…you,” Ezra seethed.

  “Do you deny it?”

  “Geoff brought me in on the project, yes, but he is absolutely not, nor has he ever been, my boyfriend. Not my team. I have no idea what put that in your head.”

  “Fine, play dumb.”

  “I’m not the one who’s dumb. No matter how much I might have preferred Geoff’s score, I would never—ever—sabotage my own work. Nobody in their right mind would do such a thing. So stop talking out your ass and making excuses for your own failures.”

  “That’s enough,” Felicity said sternly.

  “I suppose next you’re going to accuse me of killing Arden,” Ezra bellowed.

  “Will you two stop—”

  “Of course not,” Jethro said. “I know who killed Arden.”

  A pregnant silence filled the air. Isobel held as still as possible.

  Finally, Felicity spoke. “W
hat are you talking about? We don’t have any reason to believe her death was a result of foul play.”

  “Oh, but it was.” A cryptic smile overtook Jethro’s doughy features.

  “Then who killed her?” Ezra asked, rising to the bait.

  “The ghost of Robert Livingston,” Jethro said somberly. “He haunts the theater, you know. I’ve seen him.”

  “OH, MAN,” SUNIL SAID. “And what did Ezra say to that?”

  Isobel followed him as he turned his grocery cart down the frozen food aisle. “He was more or less speechless,” she said. “And then Jethro launched into this whole song and dance about how the ghost of Robert Livingston appears from time to time in full Revolutionary regalia, but only when he doesn’t like someone’s performance.” She pulled a box of frozen spanakopita out of Sunil’s hands and tossed it back in the bin. “Did you read the fat content on that?”

  Sunil retrieved the spinach pie and dropped it in his cart. “Take it up with Hugh. Since he’s stuck in rehearsal with Delphi, he asked me to pick up some stuff for him.” Sunil waved a ripped sheet of music paper covered in Hugh’s careful English schoolboy penmanship.

  “I should probably pick up some stuff for Delphi, now that you mention it.”

  “Who was Robert Livingston anyway?”

  “One of the Founding Fathers. Haven’t you ever seen 1776?”

  “The movie, yeah. Wait, is he the guy from New York who keeps abstaining courteously?”

  “No. That’s Lewis Morris. Livingston gets a verse in the quintet. The one about popping the cork.”

  “In old New York. Right.”

  “Anyway, Felicity declared the duet down for the count, and kicked them both out. But this was interesting. Jethro accused Ezra of tipping off Fried in order to sabotage the show.”

  “Why would Ezra do that?”

  Isobel stopped her cart and examined the nutritional information on a box of frozen pizza. “Jethro claimed Ezra was Geoff’s boyfriend and he was getting revenge.”