Shot Through the Tart

by Chelsea Thomas

  Miss May chuckled. “I forgot you have waiters to do the dirty work.”

  “Oh, I do not. I just know how to delegate. Can we focus on the drama from last night?” Teeny said. “I’m sure Chelsea’s hungry so we should let her tell the story.”

  Teeny was right. I was hungry. So I obliged. Told the story with as many details as I could remember. Miss May and Teeny thrived on gossip. They gobbled up every word like it was a freshly baked treat. And I’ll admit, it was satisfying retelling the tale.

  When I concluded the story, Teeny placed her palms on the table and stood up. “OK. Great job, Chelsea. You have earned one of my world-famous tarts.”

  Miss May looked up at Teeny. “You make tarts?”

  Teeny nodded. “Starting today I do. And they’re already world famous.”

  Teeny hurried away. Miss May and I laughed.

  “I bet these tarts are good,” I said.

  Miss May nodded. “Everything Teeny makes is good.”

  A few minutes later, Teeny set three perfect tarts on the table. They were big. At least four inches in diameter. Fresh raspberry compote oozed over the edges. The tart was dusted with powdered sugar and looked like an image cut straight from a magazine. Or printed from the Internet or something. Do they even make magazines anymore? Not important. The tarts looked good.

  “Teeny,” said Miss May. “You’ve outdone yourself.”

  Teeny smiled. “I know.”

  “But you serve these for breakfast?” Miss May asked. “It looks like a dessert.”

  Teeny dismissed Miss May with a wave of the hand. “Breakfast and dessert are the same thing, just on opposite sides of night. Taste it.”

  Miss May and I reached out and each took a tart. The thing was so delicate I handled it like it was a live stick of dynamite. Until, of course, I took a big, sloppy bite. The raspberry was tart, tangy, and sweet. Real chunks of raspberry melded together with a gooey, thick, homemade syrup. And the cookie crust was flaky, buttery, delicious shortbread. Mmmm. Did I mention buttery?

  Teeny leaned forward. “How is it?”

  Miss May wiped her mouth. “Can’t you tell by the way we’re eating in total silence? These things are incredible.”

  I nodded. “World-famous.”

  Teeny cackled and smacked the table with glee. “I knew it. I knew they were world famous. Oh boy, I’m glad you like them. Are you two just saying that?”

  I responded with my mouth full. “Nope. These are delicious.”

  Teeny smirked and smacked the table again. Miss May and I laughed. Spending time together at Teeny’s restaurant always felt good, especially when Teeny had a new delicacy to share. Although, the delicacies didn’t matter, not really. All that mattered was time with family and friends. Sure, being a guinea pig for amazing food was a perk, but it wasn’t the point.

  I had spent so many years living away from home, for school, for work, for my relationship… I had always known that I was missing out on big events, like birthdays and holidays. But I hadn’t realized all the small moments I had missed, like sitting at Teeny’s restaurant, laughing on a random Friday morning. I felt a surge of joy, of gratitude, just to be in a familiar booth in a familiar place with people I loved completely.

  Until, of course… The moment was interrupted.

  Someone pushed the front door of the restaurant open with a bang and charged toward our table. His high, nasal voice gave me a pretty good idea of who it was. “Chelsea. Teeny. Miss May. I hear you three have been gossiping about the community production of Phantom of the Opera.”

  I turned. Sure enough, there was Adam Smith. The notorious lead actor from the community theater. He was wearing black slacks and a turtleneck. And his hair had been slicked back behind his ears. Classic actor.

  “Is that true, ladies? Have you been spreading rumors of infighting among the cast and crew?”

  I wrinkled my nose. “I’m confused. You’re angry because we’re talking about how everyone in the play has been fighting?”

  “All that matters is the work. People always lose sight of that. Don’t you worry about our process. We are dramatists. Our passion infuses our work. It’s not meant to be discussed by the people in town. We are performers. We are meant to remain pure. We are not meant to be ground up in the local rumor mill like common oats.”

  Teeny chuckled. “Adam. You really are dramatic. A little gossip never hurt anyone. Besides, Chelsea was there. Your understudy verbally attacked her boyfriend. I heard he growled.”

  “No one growled,” I said. “And I’m sorry for gossiping, Adam. You’re right. We should support local theater, not grind it up in the rumor mill. I’m sure the show will be very good.”

  The town lawyer, Tom Gigley, popped his white-haired head up from the booth behind us. “Hey, I don’t care if you actors hate each other. Live theater is such a thrill. I hope you get into an argument on stage. Maybe a fistfight breaks out. Then I’ll get my money’s worth.”

  Teeny pointed at Tom to show her agreement. “Well said, Tom. The more these people hate each other, the less boring the play will be. I bet these rumors are helping ticket sales.”

  I shook my head. “The play will not be boring, even if no one gets into a fistfight. Germany has worked hard on this production.”

  Adam crossed his arms. “We have all worked hard on this production. We have poured our souls into it. Committed our lives to theater and the dramatic arts. Please respect that.” Adam waved his arm wide, gesturing at the people dining in the restaurant. “All of you. Respect our privacy. Support our art. That is all we ask.”

  Adam turned and hightailed it out of the restaurant with his nose pointed skyward.

  Miss May chuckled. “If Adam is the lead in the play, I’m sure it will be very exciting.”

  If only Miss May knew how right she would be… Pine Grove’s production of Phantom was about to have more thrills than all of Broadway combined.

  3

  Dead Man Talking

  The Pine Grove community theater sat right in the center of town, near the gazebo and the walking track. The theater was in a two-story brick building with a big parking lot. There was a playground off to the side for bored children. And when there was no play going on, the stage was often home to dance classes, knitting clubs, or preschool groups on field trips.

  On opening night, there was an electric hum in the air. Dozens of audience members gathered out front, excited for the town production of Phantom of the Opera.

  An elderly lady with big, gray hair pushed and shoved her way toward will-call. Girl Scouts sold cookies out front. Humphrey, a Grandma’s regular and curmudgeon-about-town, went from person to person with a bucket, selling raffle tickets to benefit the town’s next production.

  Miss May smiled and nudged me with her elbow as we approached. “Don’t you love live theater?”

  I nodded. “I loved it way more before Germany got involved. This stuff is stressful.”

  Miss May shook her head. “It’s a good stress. The stress that comes from working with people. Building something together. Creating an experience that will delight your friends and neighbors and will be talked about for years to come.”

  “You two wait up.” Teeny rushed toward us from the parking lot. “I thought we were meeting at my restaurant. What happened?”

  Miss May crinkled her eyes. “We never said we were meeting at your restaurant.”

  Teeny’s eyes widened. “Then who was I supposed to meet at the restaurant?” Teeny crossed her arms. “And why were they late?”

  Miss May shrugged. “I’m not sure. But if you want candy, we better get inside.”

  “I want a lot of candy,” said Teeny. “I bet Chelsea does too.”

  I smiled. “You know me so well.”

  Excited audience members crowded the lobby of the theater. There was a line for the women’s room that snaked out toward the front door. But there was no line for the men’s room. That was always how it worked.

  A b
ored teenage girl sold candy behind a folding table. Teeny approached with a big smile. “Hey there. I’ll take one of everything.”

  The teenage girl cocked her head. “You want one of every candy?” She spoke in a drawling monotone that almost made me laugh.

  I stepped forward. “Teeny loves candy. I bet she’ll come back for more at intermission.”

  “If everything goes according to plan, I’m going to sneak out during the first act and reload,” said Teeny. I wasn’t sure if Teeny was serious or not, but the lady loved her sweets.

  The girl shrugged and rang Teeny up. Teeny leaned in with a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you heard about all the fighting in the cast? Do you think there will be fireworks tonight?”

  The teenage girl shrugged. “I’m just doing community service hours for my church group. I don’t pay attention to the gossip. But if I paid attention to the gossip, I’d expect a wild fist fight. Every actor in this play hates each other. And I hear they hate the weird director even more.”

  “Hey,” I said. “That weird director is my boyfriend.”

  The teen girl looked down. “Sorry I called him weird.”

  I shrugged. “It’s OK. He is weird. It’s his best quality.”

  The lights in the lobby flickered. Miss May rubbed her hands together. Her eyes sparkled. “Better go get our seats, ladies. It’s going to start in a couple minutes.”

  “I think we might have some time,” Teeny said. “Looks like they’re experiencing some difficulties with the lights.”

  “The lights aren’t flickering because they’re having difficulties,” I said. “Flickering lights are the international symbol for the start of a play.”

  “I know, Chelsea. I’m joking,” Teeny said. “Gosh, sometimes it’s so easy to make you think I’m some kind of dumb blonde. I’m not! I’ve been to dozens of shows down in the city.”

  “Hey, I’m blonde too,” I said. “I don’t make any assumptions based on hair color.”

  The lights flickered again. Miss May walked toward the theater. “Let’s get our seats.”

  If you’ve never seen a small-town production of the Phantom of the Opera, I can’t recommend it highly enough. Phantom is a challenging play, to say the least. The parts require excellent singers, phenomenal actors, and world-class set design. Most small towns don’t have access to those things and the creative workarounds are entertaining. OK, at least our town didn’t have access to those things. Not so sure about yours.

  So Germany had taken some, um…creative liberties to accommodate for the lack of budget and resources.

  The sets for Pine Grove’s production of Phantom were mostly made of cardboard. The costumes had been borrowed from another small-town production and they did not fit the actors well. Our local actors struggled to hit the high notes.

  Still, the play was entertaining. Possibly more entertaining than the Broadway production, because of how much I enjoyed seeing familiar faces on stage.

  Brian, the owner of the coffee shop in town, had several lines. He delivered them all perfectly. I clapped extra hard after his scene.

  Adam Smith, however, the lead in the play? He had worse luck remembering his lines. His performance was awkward and clunky. I wondered if Germany had been correct to deny Master Skinner the lead role. Skinner at least had charisma. Adam was odd and awkward.

  About halfway through the second act, there was a scene where Adam and the female lead, Zambia, had a romantic meal together. My eyes widened as they took stage together. I nudged Miss May. “I think this is the kiss. Coming up.”

  Miss May nudged Teeny and whispered the same thing. Teeny nudged whoever was next to her. The whole theater played a hushed game of telephone, waiting for the kiss.

  Adam and Zambia looked out at the audience, sensing the excited frenzy. Then Adam stood and took Zambia’s hands in his. Zambia stepped toward him. Adam wrapped his arm around her waist. She leaned forward. They kissed.

  The first five seconds of the kiss seemed normal. But the lip lock did not stop after five seconds. It did not stop after ten seconds. It did not stop after fifteen seconds. Twenty seconds into the kiss and people were hooting and hollering from the crowd. I looked over at Miss May and Teeny. They were cracking up with laughter. I looked back at Adam and Zambia in disbelief… The kiss was still going! Finally, the two separated. Adam wiped his lips. The audience erupted with laughter.

  An angry woman pushed her way out from the center of a row then stormed up the aisle, toward the exit. My eyes widened. “Is that…?”

  Miss May nodded. “That’s Dorothy. Adam’s wife.”

  Teeny covered her eyes. “I can’t look. Tell me when she’s gone.”

  The door slammed. “OK. She’s gone,” I said.

  Up on stage, the scene concluded. After another minute, Adam and Zambia exited stage left. The rest of the play continued without much drama.

  That is, until the end.

  Adam took center stage for the last scene of the play. He delivered a concluding monologue, pacing the stage. His character was upset for some reason or another, I don’t remember why.

  “Life is long,” Adam announced. “For some of us, it’s short. The sky is blue. But for some of us, it’s green.”

  Teeny nudged me. “What is he talking about?”

  I shrugged and pointed back at the stage. Adam opened a box of pastries and held a tart to his chest.

  “This tart is a symbol of my love. I shall break it in half. I shall keep part of this tart with me at all times to remember my love. She will stay with me always. And she will––”

  Bang. Bang. The sound of a gunshot echoed in the theater. Adam doubled over, then fell backwards. He reached up to the sky and delivered his final line. “My tart. My heart.”

  There was a moment of quiet in the theater. Then applause rippled across the room. Seconds later, and everyone in the theater was on their feet for a standing ovation. Miss May, Teeny, and I joined the crowd. Yes, much of the play had been confusing and weird. But the finale had had a resounding impact. Cheers boomed throughout the theater. I saw an old woman wipe a tear from the corner of her eye.

  After a few seconds of the standing ovation, Zambia rushed out onto the stage, no longer wearing her costume. She knelt down beside Adam and screamed. “That wasn’t part of the play! He’s been shot. Adam has been shot.”

  Germany rushed out beside Zambia. He pumped on Adam’s chest. Listened for a heartbeat.

  Appreciation and applause morphed into unsettled shrieks and panicked conversation.

  It seemed Adam Smith, not his character, had been shot. Audience members rushed for the exit but Miss May, Teeny, and I stayed in our seats, necks craned, looking toward the stage.

  Police rushed toward the theater stage as audience members rushed toward the exits. I couldn’t look away from the stage. Blood covered Germany's hands. Zambia continued crying, rocking back and forth in stunned grief.

  Someone murdered Adam Smith. And it would be up to me, Miss May, and Teeny to find the killer and bring justice to our small town, once again.

  4

  Adam Bomb

  Adam Smith was not the first person who had been murdered in Pine Grove. You probably know that already. Our little town had been unlucky in the last year and we had seen quite a few murder victims. Miss May and I had investigated each of those murders. With Teeny, we’d found the killers and restored peace to Pine Grove.

  What I’m trying to say is…

  Adam Smith was the first person whose murder I’d actually witnessed. Every time Miss May and I had investigated a case prior to that night at the theater, we’d stumbled onto the crime scene after the act. Let me tell you, it’s never good when someone dies… but when someone dies right in front of you, it’s really bad.

  I wondered, how could anyone end a life like that? I hated the reminder, so up close and personal, that there was evil in this world. And that even the most charming small towns could not be guarded from treachery. I thoug
ht of the audience in the theater when John Wilkes Booth had assassinated Lincoln. Sure, this was all happening on a smaller scale, but it still felt chilling and dramatic.

  It’s not like bad things hadn’t happened in Pine Grove before. Our little town had experienced more than its fair share of bad news recently. But this was different. This was happening right before my eyes. I didn’t move for at least two minutes as people streamed out of the theater and the police rushed toward the stage. Miss May and Teeny didn’t move either.

  Perhaps their minds were racing with theories and suspicions… Questions we would need to answer to solve the mystery. Not me. I’m not sure I had a single thought beyond, “Wow. I’m scared.”

  I snapped back to reality as Miss May took a firm hold of my wrist. “Chelsea. Are you OK?”

  I slowly turned my head toward Miss May.

  “I’ve been saying your name. No answer,” she said. “You’re in shock.”

  I pointed toward the stage. “Adam… He was shot.”

  Miss May swallowed. “I know.”

  Teeny leaned forward and looked in my eyes. “We will find the person who did this, right?”

  I stammered. Miss May nodded. “Absolutely. This shooting isn’t just a crime that was perpetrated on Adam. He was killed in front of everyone. We all had to witness this atrocity. The shooting was a crime perpetrated against everyone in this room.”

  I nodded. “Everyone in this town.”

  Miss May set her mouth, hard and determined. “You’re right. This was a crime against Pine Grove. We have no choice but to solve it.”

  Teeny balled up one of her tiny little hands. “Let’s get to it, then. Let’s find the bad guy.”

  Suddenly, I had a panicked realization. “Germany! Germany must be so upset.”

  We found Germany pacing in front of the stage near the orchestra pit, wringing his hands. His eyes widened when he saw me. “Chelsea. Chelsea!”