Theater Nights Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  Figaro came out of nowhere and skidded across the table, batting the ball into the kitchen. We could hear the paper skittering over the porcelain tile.

  “Blanche Carrigan can kiss my . . .”

  Beep-beep-beep. The timer went off for the coffee and I plunged the French press.

  “Forget it! I’m not doing it.” Aunt Ginny picked up the knife and hacked into the carrot cake.

  Mother Gibson took out another sheet of paper and passed it down.

  I took the knife away from Aunt Ginny before she hacked off something important and finished cutting the cake for the ladies.

  Aunt Ginny waved the paper over her head. “What is this?”

  Mother Gibson wiped a bit of icing from her cheek, where it had been flung. “That’s my stage manager punch list. Honey, Neil put you in charge of painting the backdrops.”

  I poured five cups of coffee. “Well, see now, he must have heard what a gifted painter you are. I bet that’s why he gave the part of Donna to Blanche. So you’d have more time to work on the scenery.”

  Aunt Ginny gave me a dry look that said she wasn’t buying it.

  Figaro batted the wad of paper back into the dining room under the table.

  “Did you ladies happen to see who got the other parts?” I passed around the china and the girls started making their coffees.

  Mrs. Davis passed around the plates. “Well, you know Royce is Sam.”

  I waved off the cake, determined to be faithful to my diet. “Of course.”

  Mrs. Davis continued, “Duke is Bill, and Mr. Ricardo is Harry.”

  Mrs. Dodson tapped her cup with her spoon. “Can you believe Duke got a prime role after all the fuss he put up about doing a different play? And I think I’m supposed to kiss him at the end.” Mrs. Dodson scrunched up her nose.

  Mother Gibson snickered. “I think he’s cute for a little white man.”

  Mrs. Davis giggled. “Neil is playing Sky, the groom, and Sol Sheinberg is the understudy for all the men.”

  Aunt Ginny dug into her cake with ferocity. I see now where I got my tendency to eat my feelings. I handed her a napkin. “What about Mrs. Sheinberg?”

  Mrs. Dodson pointed to the punch list. “She signed up to sew the costumes.”

  I gave the list a once-over. “Hey, how did I get signed up to do the lights?”

  Figaro jumped up on the chair next to Aunt Ginny and patted her arm to get a lick of frosting. She indulged him, against my better judgment. “I signed you up. I thought it would be good to keep you busy so you have less time to obsess over the men in your life.”

  Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Dodson, and Mother Gibson all oohed me in unison.

  I felt my cheeks get hot and I knew I was blushing again. Revlon really needs to make a heat-sensitive foundation for redheads. “I wouldn’t say I’ve been obsessing.” Where am I supposed to find the time to do this?

  Aunt Ginny lifted her coffee and blew off the steam. “Besides, if I’m going to be up there around Moira Finklebaum every day, I might need you to keep me from shooting her with the staple gun.”

  I would have laughed except I knew she wasn’t kidding. “I’m surprised Iggy is playing piano for rehearsals. I got the impression he’d rather be home watching Garage Wars.”

  Mrs. Dodson waved her hand. “Honey, please. He’s been voluntold. His momma signed him up. Can you believe he still lives at home at his age? Fiona always was a weird one.”

  Mother Gibson shook her head. “My lord, he’s one of those people who’s always miserable and doesn’t know how to keep his misery to himself. He’s going to pout his way through every rehearsal.”

  Mrs. Dodson crossed her arms over her bosom. “I can tell you this, there is no way I’d let Charlotte still live at home at that age. I’d make her get her own place.”

  Aunt Ginny snickered. Looked at me. Then cleared her throat.

  “What?”

  Aunt Ginny shrugged. “Nothing.”

  Mrs. Davis cast a look around the room. “I heard this play is going to be a big deal because Royce is starring in it. Do you think there’ll be talent scouts in the audience?”

  Mrs. Dodson looked down her chin at Mrs. Davis. “Get a hold of yourself. The only one who anyone will care about is Royce. Apparently, he’s a Broadway legend.”

  Then why is he doing community theater in Cape May?

  “Still,” Mrs. Davis continued, “it doesn’t hurt to prepare. My character has had a lot of work done. Do you think I have time to get a boob job and a butt lift before we open on Valentine’s Day?”

  The other ladies appraised Mrs. Davis’s assets in consideration.

  She lifted her blouse and flashed us, so we could make a more informed decision.

  I accidentally spit my coffee out.

  “I think it could help me get into character.”

  Aunt Ginny handed me back my napkin. “I’m not sure a month is going to be enough time.” She smashed her cake with her fork. “Moira!”

  Mrs. Davis readjusted her blouse. “Are you going to be okay with this, Ginny?”

  Aunt Ginny narrowed her eyes and grinned. It wasn’t a happy grin. It was a grin that caused chills to run up my arms, and Mother Gibson to start praying. “I’m going to be just fine. You wait and see. I swore that Moira Finklebaum would never get the better of me again. That’s a promise I mean to keep. Oh yes, a lesson is well overdue.”

  Chapter Ten

  I was about to throw my Fitbit exercise tracker in the trash, then take the trash to the driveway so I could back over it with the car a few times before setting it on fire. I’d been walking three miles a day and dieting faithfully for almost a month now and hadn’t lost a single pound. I’d changed the batteries in my scale. Twice. Then I swapped it with Aunt Ginny’s scale. The next day, Aunt Ginny had come into the kitchen and announced that she had mysteriously lost five pounds overnight and she needed a milkshake to prevent bone loss. I threw a refined fit and decided to log every bite for the next two weeks. I wasn’t giving up this time. I wasn’t giving in to the call of the Oreos. I was committed. But I’d better start seeing some results soon. I was getting Spanx burn from my knockoffs. They were like wearing an inner tube under my clothes. It rained the other day on my way home from the coffee shop and the water just beaded up on my shirt and rolled off. If that wasn’t enough to throw me into a royal funk, now I had several hours of baking desserts I wasn’t allowed to eat ahead of me.

  I put eight bars of soft cream cheese in the bowl of my stand mixer and started it on Low. Tim and I had come up with a dessert menu that included a chocolate Grand Marnier cheesecake in a chocolate crust. I checked the business email for reservation requests while the mixer did its job. I had teamed up with a local spa for a contest that included a stay at our B&B, and I had a couple from Cape Cod who wanted to book a suite with our romance package for Valentine’s week. Finally! My property taxes were due soon and the tax fairy must have skipped our house. I scrolled through my saved travel websites to check our reviews. Someone had left the Butterfly Wings B&B one star on TripAdvisor. The report was scathing. “The sheets were scratchy, the towels threadbare and musty, breakfast was day-old muffins and moldy fruit. And the worst part was the snotty innkeeper.” What the heck! None of those things were remotely true. And we hadn’t had a guest in weeks. I checked the reviewer. Travelguy95 had left ten other reviews for restaurants and shops in Cape May. Everything was five star except us. I’m not going to let it bother me. He’s obviously a jerk. I’m not even going to think about it again.

  I put my phone away and stopped the mixer. The nerve of that guy. People have no idea how damaging their careless words can be to a new business. I wonder if it’s that weatherman who stayed here. I obsessed some more over who Travelguy95 could be while I measured my sugar and scraped my orange peel into the cheese. The front door opened, and I heard the ladies return from morning rehearsal down at the Senior Center as I was cracking my eggs.

  “It’s a terrible day to
open,” Aunt Ginny said.

  “It has to be why we’re cursed.”

  “We aren’t cursed, Thelma. You’re letting your imagination run away with you again.”

  “Well, somebody is up to something, you mark my words. There is sabotage afoot.”

  That last voice was Mrs. Dodson as the ladies rounded the corner into the kitchen. Figaro the opportunistic trotted behind Aunt Ginny looking for a treat.

  “Poppy, you’ll never believe what happened.” Aunt Ginny opened the cabinet to get four glasses.

  “Someone snuck in and added to your painting again?”

  Mother Gibson shook her head. “Child, you don’t know the half of it.”

  Mrs. Davis spied the plate of cranberry oatmeal bars sitting by the coffeepot. “Are these for everybody?”

  “Help yourself.” I removed the mixing bowl and stirred my filling by hand, so the ladies could fill me in on their latest scandal.

  Aunt Ginny poured four glasses of tea and motioned to me did I want any. I nodded, so she got down a fifth glass. “Not only did someone paint a giant mermaid with big boobies on my Greek ocean backdrop, but they stole all the props. The rowboat, the watering can, the guitar, everything.”

  Mrs. Dodson hefted herself up on a barstool at the island. “And that whole yacht piece that Royce enters from the catwalk, gone.”

  “Oh no.” I folded the melted chocolate into the cheese mixture. “Who do you think is doing it?”

  The ladies all said in unison, “Duke.”

  Then Mrs. Davis continued. “He won’t stop going on about that play he wrote. Keeps shoving scripts in everyone’s hands. He says it’s an urban mystery.”

  Mother Gibson rolled her eyes. “In Sea Isle, that hotbed of corruption? What’s the big mystery? Break-in at Yum Yum’s ice cream?” The retired Sunday school teacher snickered. “Nobody got time for that.”

  Aunt Ginny put the tea back in the fridge. “Just wait. I’m setting a trap for him. If he tries to mess with my paints this afternoon, he’ll regret it.”

  “Are you sure it’s Duke?” I asked.

  Mrs. Dodson answered me. “Who else would try to sabotage the play?”

  Aunt Ginny pulled up a barstool and joined the other ladies. “I know one thing. I am so tired of repainting those scenes and learning lines for a part I’m never going to have. And if I have to hear Blanche explain one more time that she’s a Method actor and needs to stay in character, I might fly into a rage.” Aunt Ginny took a long drink of her iced tea. “And you’ll never guess who Neil called in to rebuild that yacht.” Aunt Ginny gave me a pointed look over her glass.

  “No?”

  “Oh yes. Itty Bitty Smitty.”

  I stifled a laugh. “Does he know you open in a week?”

  Mother Gibson threw her head back and laughed. “Honey, he knows. Everybody knows. This may be the first play in history that opens on Friday the thirteenth.”

  Aunt Ginny looked at the ladies and grinned. “Do you remember the look on Royce’s face when he found out?”

  “Fiona had to come up and fan him.” Mrs. Dodson giggled.

  Aunt Ginny turned back to me. “Apparently, theater people are very superstitious. You’ll see this afternoon when you come to the technical rehearsal to learn the lights.”

  The doorbell rang, and Aunt Ginny slapped the counter. “Hee! They’re here!” She jumped down and practically skipped from the room.

  “What is that all about?” I asked the ladies.

  They put on innocent faces and shrugged. Aunt Ginny returned, giggling, with a package. “Just a little special order to help me get into the spirit of things.” She tucked the package into her bedroom and came back out with her eyes shining with mischief.

  I can’t believe I got roped into this. I ladled cheesecake into the waiting springform pans and put them in the oven. Then I started making the crust for Tim’s Peanut Butter Mousse pies. “How are things going between Royce and Blanche onstage?”

  Mrs. Dodson shook her head. “The woman has no shame. Pawing all over Royce like that. It’s unseemly.”

  Mrs. Davis joined in. “And Neil isn’t doing anything to stop it. He just lets it happen.”

  Mother Gibson waved her hands in the air. “Honey, you could hang your laundry on the tension shooting out of Fiona. She does not like Royce giving attention to anyone but her.”

  Aunt Ginny set her glass down with a thud. “She’s getting on my nerves.”

  “Fiona?” I asked.

  “Both of them. They’re demanding and selfish and make the whole thing a lot less fun than it could be.”

  Mrs. Davis helped herself to another half of a cranberry oatmeal bar. “The only scene Blanche wants to practice is the one where she and Royce kiss.”

  Aunt Ginny took the other half and it crumbled in her grip.

  I took out a mixing bowl for the mousse filling and opened the jar of peanut butter. Figaro appeared like magic at my feet, rubbing against my ankles. “You’ve been seeing a lot of Royce lately. How does he feel about Blanche?”

  The ladies whipped their heads around to Aunt Ginny, who blushed.

  She gave me a wild look and said through gritted teeth, “That was a secret, Poppy.”

  I looked up from my mousse. “Oh, sorry.”

  Aunt Ginny shrugged for the ladies’ benefit. “We’ve been meeting for coffee. No big deal.”

  “Ooh,” the ladies sang out together.

  “It’s nothing.” Aunt Ginny waved them off but couldn’t keep a tiny smile from forming.

  Mrs. Dodson nodded sagely. “Mm-hmm. And when do you meet your gentleman caller next?”

  “This afternoon.” Aunt Ginny giggled. “We’ve been going to that little café in West Cape May.”

  “Are you and Royce dating again?” Mrs. Davis’s eyes lit up.

  I apologized to the ladies and turned on the mixer to whip the bowl of cream for the mousse. It only took a minute and they continued where they left off as if nothing happened.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say dating, since we have yet to go somewhere without Fiona and Iggy tagging along. I’ve had moles removed that were less attached.”

  “Maybe you could take Poppy along and she could find a way to distract Iggy while you and Royce get to know one another.”

  Say what now? “Oh no. Leave me out of this. I have enough trouble with the two men I’ve got in my life. I don’t need to add a middle-aged child to the mix.” I took the jar of peanut butter away from Aunt Ginny and scooped it into a bowl with some mascarpone.

  “That’s a good idea.” Aunt Ginny smacked the island with her hands. “Poppy, you can be my wingman!”

  “I don’t think you know what a wingman is.”

  Aunt Ginny sat up to her full height of about five foot nothin’. “Honey, we invented the wingman.”

  Before I could come up with a sassy response, the front door chimed, and Sawyer called out from the foyer, “I got four roses!”

  I continued folding my mousse and we waited for Sawyer to bounce into the kitchen. Her chestnut hair was wind-whipped and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. Her green eyes sparkled and danced with delight as she held up four long-stemmed red roses.

  “Same as the others; they were outside my front door tied with a ribbon.”

  Sawyer had been my best friend since I moved to Cape May in the fifth grade, and Aunt Ginny had been tormenting her at least that long. “Did you check to see if anything was missing?”

  Sawyer blinked. “No, why?”

  “Maybe it was a cat burglar. They sometimes leave tokens behind.”

  The other biddies nodded along in support of Aunt Ginny.

  Mrs. Dodson nodded to the roses. “Gentleman Johnny was a cat burglar in the seventies who broke into ladies’ bedrooms and stole their jewelry right off their nightstands. He always left a rose.”

  Sawyer nervously turned her green eyes on me. “I’ve gotten roses four days in a row.”

  Aunt Ginny made a good show o
f appearing alarmed. “Oh no. Did you check your jewelry this morning?”

  Mother Gibson had to hide her face.

  Sawyer’s arm dropped to her side. “I don’t think anything was missing.”

  Sawyer was gorgeous. It wasn’t hard to believe that she would have a secret admirer. She was also very sweet and very gullible. Not a good combination around Aunt Ginny and her accomplices. I laughed. “They’re teasing you, Sawyer. Was there a note this time?”

  Sawyer side-eyed Aunt Ginny, who had my jar again and was letting Figaro lick peanut butter off her spoon. “No, they’re from a secret admirer.”

  “You better not put that spoon in there again.” I mixed my peanut butter mousse. “Who do you think it is?”

  “It has to be Adrian. We’ve been dating since Restaurant Week.”

  “Then it’s not much of a secret,” Mrs. Dodson pointed out.

  “But it is very sweet,” Mrs. Davis comforted. “Maybe you and he could double-date with Poppy and Iggy.”

  My mixing bowl slipped and banged the counter.

  The ladies cackled, and Sawyer gave me a confused look. “Who’s Iggy?”

  I shook my head at the biddies. “Why are you all so naughty?”

  Aunt Ginny closed the peanut butter. “Oh honey, if you think this is bad, just wait till opening night. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Everyone was gone. Sawyer to her bookstore, Aunt Ginny to her coffee date, and the biddies to reign terror on other unsuspecting victims. I walked Tim’s desserts out to my Corolla to carefully arrange them in the trunk. Two trips and one sneak attack by Figaro later, I was heading for Maxine’s down by the harbor. The boats were moored for the winter, but they were bobbing with vigor today as the brisk wind was making the water especially choppy. My car crunched over the broken shells as I parked in the back, where two of Tim’s line cooks were standing at the kitchen door taking a break between prep and the dinner rush. They crushed their cigarettes in a stone urn and rushed to the car to help me carry in the desserts.