A Fatal First Night

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

  “Miss Ella. Running a bit early today.”

  “Yes.” I shrugged out of my good purple coat and hung it on the rack. “Some days it’s nice to have extra time. Think I will read on the settee, if I won’t be in your way.”

  “Not at all, miss. Would you like the Lorgnette? There’s another item on the show—but this time nothing on the murder.”

  I shook my head. Rosa loves her yellow papers, and the Lorgnette is the gossip column in the Illustrated News. I do not share her affection, but I’m glad to see her reading to improve her English. She came here as a babe in arms, but her family still speaks Italian at home, and her father takes only the Italian paper. “You should read the Beacon.”

  “It’s there. Nothing on us today. I already finished Miss Hetty’s piece on that murder trial that’s starting next week.”

  I took the papers and scanned the fronts. The dressing-room murder had naturally drawn its share of headlines the first day, but a new indiscretion by the Prince of Wales had thrown us, and many other matters in the City, off the front pages. We were not disappointed by this, even though I did not wish to devote much thought to misbehavior among the British ruling classes.

  Today it appeared the Prince of Wales was still up to no good, which did at least suggest an impressive level of energy in a man his age. With a little smile to Rosa, I dropped the Lorgnette on my dressing table and kept the Beacon. “What did you think?”

  Rosa sighed. “I think I envy Miss Hetty.”

  “Really?” I doubted my good friend Henrietta MacNaughten, one of two women reporters at the leading paper, considered her lot so desirable.

  “Oh, yes. To go to the courthouse and see such an exciting case? And then write about it, with thousands of people waiting to read my words?” Her face went dreamy. “What a wonderful job.”

  “Hetty would agree with you on this one, but not most days.” I sat down on the settee, grabbed the mulberry-colored afghan Aunt Ellen had knit for me years ago, and curled up with my paper. “Her editor usually makes her write about hats.”

  “I could write about hats,” Rosa said, looking over the velvet cap I wore as Henry Tudor.

  “I don’t doubt it. But Hetty is every bit the writer the men are, and her editor generally won’t let her write serious things.”

  “Not fair.” Rosa sat down in the vanity chair. “So how did she get to write about a murder trial?”

  “It’s a woman accused of killing her husband, so she convinced her editor that she has a special insight, being a female.”

  “Makes sense to me. But Miss Hetty isn’t married.”

  “No.”

  Her brown eyes took on a naughty gleam. “I bet every married woman wants to kill her husband once in a while, but most don’t. How would Miss Hetty know if this one did?”

  “I think Miss Hetty wants to kill the men in the news office once in a while. Close enough.”

  We smiled together.

  “But she wouldn’t stab them fourteen times,” Rosa said, getting up as she fussed with the feather on the cap.

  “He was stabbed fourteen times?”

  “At least, they say.”

  How did I miss that? I remembered the stabbing, but not the fourteen times. Distracted by the show, no doubt. I blinked and folded the paper to read as I sat on the settee. The trial was set to start next week, and the article summed up the case to date, so readers could be prepared to follow developments. Hetty was at her usual standard, outlining the case against poor Amelie Van Vleet in her vivid prose, sharp and smart, rather than the slipshod stuff that the sensational writers produce.

  When officers arrived at the Fifth Avenue mansion that fatal afternoon, they found Mrs. Van Vleet in the drawing room, wearing only an embroidered batiste nightgown, kneeling and sobbing in a pool of blood by her husband’s prone form. Suspicion immediately rested on her because she was the only family member in the house.

  My eyes widened. This was a corker of a case, as our sports writer friend (and Hetty’s oft argumentative colleague) Yardley Stern would put it. I read on, mentally checking off the boxes for a thrilling tale: husband gruesomely murdered, beautiful younger wife found by his body, wearing only a nightgown—a sheer, fancy one at that!—in broad daylight, relatives and neighbors raising questions about the couple’s marriage and, not incidentally, Mrs. Van Vleet’s fidelity. Oh, my.

  Hetty handled it all with aplomb, making sure the reader understood exactly what was going on without ever crossing the line into matters unsuitable for a family newspaper.

  “It’s really starting to feel like a run,” observed my leading lady as she knocked on the door and walked in. Marie was doing much the same thing I was, relaxing in the dressing rooms a little earlier than necessary, if for entirely different reasons.

  At home in Brooklyn, she is Mrs. Winslow, the respectable, though unusually lovely, wife of a successful lawyer and mother of three small children. In a theater, she is one of the best coloratura sopranos of her generation, known for her utterly transcendent performances in the incredibly difficult role of the Queen of the Night, in Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Her unusual skill enables her to work when and where she wishes, mostly the Met, but sometimes in prestigious regional productions. But, in my dressing room, she’s just a good friend, the former Maisie Mazerosky of Poughkeepsie, another poor girl who struggled and made the best of her chances.

  Marie often arrived at the theater early because she needed the time away from her family to think herself into the role and put her life as a busy mother firmly offstage. She certainly did not look like a Brooklyn matron at the moment, in a simple sky-blue floral wool dress that set off her sparkly cornflower eyes, with her silver-blond hair in a loose knot. Anyone who didn’t know her might think she’d already begun applying stage makeup, because her lashes were dark and her lips pink, but I knew that was just one extra gift from nature.

  “Are we as much fun as the Met?” I asked impishly.

  “More. The Met is a bit too dignified for fun.”

  “See?” I gave her a triumphant grin.

  “Dignified or not, you know they’d love to have you.”

  “And offer me only one or two roles a year. No thank you.”

  She sat down on the other end of the settee, sighing. This was not a new conversation. We had indeed had emissaries from the Met, but like some other personages who’ve recently appeared in my happy life, they had seemed to want commitments and limits that I was not prepared to give. And Marie well knew it. She took the Beacon from me, a safe change of subject. “Hetty’s got some hot type this time.”

  “Hot type, indeed.”

  “Her editor must be thrilled that he gave her a chance.”

  “I hope so. We’ve both been so busy that we haven’t had any time to talk.”

  “Why do I have the feeling that a velocipede ride is coming on Sunday?”

  I shook my head. “Too cold. I’ll probably just go for a walk with her after Mass and return home for a late breakfast or early luncheon.”

  “I know your Mrs. G doesn’t hold with late breakfast any more than my Coralie does.”

  “No, but she will make compromises during a run. Won’t Coralie?” I did not think it fair to Preston to mention that I strongly suspected she would not be my Mrs. G indefinitely.

  “Grudgingly.” Marie smiled. “I do enjoy being in a real production again. I’d forgotten how wonderful it is to be onstage every night.”

  “It is.” I returned the smile. “Best feeling in the world.”

  “There are a few better. Or at least as good. But for those you need a husband.” Her mouth dropped open a little as she realized what she’d said, and she blushed, before we both burst into giggles like schoolgirls.

  “I wouldn’t know,” I said finally, playing stern maiden lady.

  “I meant, of course, the joy of tending my little ones.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Her eyes drifted past me to the lilacs, which we
re well past their prime and really should have made way for other floral tokens of esteem. Except that I could not quite bear to toss them. “So why have you kept those lilacs so long? Does Cabot Bridgewater finally know you well enough to send lilacs?”

  My turn to blush.

  “Ah. Someone across the pond managed to send an order for lilacs. Quite resourceful.” Her eyes narrowed a bit as she appraised me. “Well, now I know why you haven’t given poor Mr. Bridgewater much encouragement. You’re waiting for London.”

  “I don’t know what I’ll find in London,” I replied with perfect truth, leaving aside the fact that Mr. Bridgewater didn’t seem to want much encouragement.

  “A duke who’s been sending you letters for months, and now lilacs, if nothing else.” She patted my arm. “I saw you two together back then, remember. He’s dead gone on you, too. If it’s just a matter of working out the singing and the geography, well, surely that’s a great deal easier at his end of the social spectrum than ours.”

  “I don’t know. He may have expectations I can’t meet. And I—” I broke off, uncertain how to explain the strange complex of feelings that came up whenever I thought of Gilbert Saint Aubyn. Attraction, surely; enjoyment of his company in person, and as much of his colorful, witty letters; but something less pleasant, too.

  “You’re afraid.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Not of him, which would indeed be a good reason to leave him in London, but of what he may do to your nice comfortable life.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I remember when Paul and I were courting. He swore on all he holds holy that he would not stand in the way of my singing and that he loved all of me, including the music. But I couldn’t believe him.”

  “You couldn’t?”

  “Not really.” She sighed. “I had to learn to trust him.”

  “How did you?”

  “Mostly time. And seeing him do what he said he would do. Yes, there are a lot of men who want to shut us in a bandbox and keep us for their eyes alone. But there are also some wonderful men who enjoy standing beside, or even behind, their women. Paul is one. Your duke might be, too.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to know yet.” She smiled. “You’re probably also a bit afraid of all those feelings you have about him.”

  I shrugged.

  “If he’s a good man, and worthy of you, he won’t take advantage. But I wouldn’t make any plans for breakfast the morning after the wedding.”

  I could feel my eyes widening. “Marie!”

  “As my Irish grandmother used to say, there’s no reason to marry unless you’re going to have someone to keep you warm in bed.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “She did. And she made sure to give me the talk before the wedding, because she didn’t want to leave that to my mother, who she described as a cold Polish fish.”

  I laughed.

  “I’m glad she did.” Marie gave me a very mysterious smile. “And one of these days, I hope I get to pour you some whisky and pass on her wisdom.”

  “I don’t drink whisky.”

  “You will for this.”

  We laughed.

  “Two-hour call, Madame de l’Artois, Miss Shane!” Booth called, knocking on the open door with a long bony hand, his spare face warming with a smile at the sight of us. “You ladies make it easy for me.”

  “Anything we can do for the crew,” I said, only half joking. “It’s almost candle-lighting time, anyway.”

  Booth’s smile widened. “I’ll be back.”

  Marie nodded. “I’ll just stay, then.”

  I pulled my mother’s small pewter Sabbath candleholders, the only thing I have of hers, from the spot behind my mirror, where they’d been waiting for tonight. While I usually attend Mass at Holy Innocents with Tommy, I haven’t lost track of Mama’s Jewish faith, either. I light candles on Friday evenings whenever I’m at home. During a run, I host the company’s little observance in my dressing room. Lighting candles alone at home often leaves me melancholy, but welcoming the Sabbath with my colleagues is far closer to the joyful intent of the observance.

  We are anything but doctrinaire about it, though. Everyone in the company is welcome, Jewish or not, and many do come. Booth, who grew up in a fire-and-brimstone family, will not darken the door of a church but rarely misses candle lighting.

  Marie, raised Catholic, as I ultimately was, also often joins us. She, like me, enjoys the warmth of the ritual and the joy of celebrating with our fellows.

  Louis and Anna walked in with their small son, Morrie, otherwise known as the Morsel—for “small morsel of humanity.” He looks like a golden-haired cherub from a carte de visite and is astonishingly well behaved besides. Tommy was just behind them, and as soon as the Morsel sighted him, he marched right up to him and put his arms up.

  “Sure thing, fella.” Tommy bent down and helped him into place on his shoulders. Like all small, vulnerable creatures, the Morsel loves Tommy, and for him, it takes the form of demanding a ride at any opportunity.

  While Tommy settled in with his new driver, making sure the little one wouldn’t scrape his head on the ceiling, I set the candles in the holders. A few supernumeraries and stagehands filtered in the door, and then it was time.

  I handed the matches to Anna. Her Hebrew is far better than mine, and while I can and do manage it at home, I also enjoy deferring to her. I’m sure we’re violating any number of rabbinical laws by lighting candles to welcome the Sabbath, only to go out and perform, but this is not a traditional observance.

  What it is, more than anything, is a chance to feel God in the room and share a special moment with our closest friends and family. Not even remotely orthodox, but it gives us joy and reminds us who we are. Any God I want to worship, never mind spend eternity singing for, would not be troubled by that.

  Tommy took my hand as Anna finished the prayers, and we exchanged a little smile. He’s as good a Catholic as any I know, but even when we were children growing up, he would often stay and watch while I lit the candles on Fridays, with Aunt Ellen’s cautious but still amazing permission. “No different than lighting a candle at the church, after all,” she’d said after seeing me light them the first time. “Just another way to talk to the Lord.”

  She did not share any of that with her priest, who was not nearly as progressive as Father Michael, considering it to be a matter inside the house and therefore none of his business.

  Once the blessings over the candles were done, Louis reached up to bless the Morsel, who giggled at being so high above his daddy, and we all exchanged a hearty Shabbat Shalom.

  “Well, now that we’ve taken care of our souls, it’s time to look to our voices,” Louis said with a wry smile. “Vocalization in ten minutes, ensemble.”

  And so back to the life of the theater.

  Chapter 5

  Intermission at Washington Square

  The first week of the run ended as a sparkling success. No further untoward incidents marred our performances, and while we surely did not forget the murder, neither did we dwell much on it. Tommy was pleased with the sold-out houses, Marie and I were glad for the appreciative audiences, and all were amazed by the good reviews for quite literally everyone involved. One newspaper (the lowly Brooklyn Lighthouse) even praised the stagehands for the smoothness of the scene changes. And well-deserved praise it was, if somewhat unexpected.

  The worst of the stage-door Lotharios stayed away, a small mercy we knew could not continue, though the dressing room was filled with society matrons happy to enjoy the cachet of a backstage visit while looking down on me. There’s an expression, unfortunately, that I see too often on the sleek, well-fed faces of these women: envy for my talent and what they perceive as my freedom, held back by a great satisfaction that they are so far above me as respectable married socialites.

  Most of the time, I simply do not take delivery on the insult.

  And so, we came to our fir
st intermission. Even performers who love their art and the particular piece they’re presenting at the moment look forward to dark day. Most of the popular theaters observe similar schedules, whether they have some sort of extravaganza involving chorus girls, an operetta, or a truly serious work of art like The Princes in the Tower. And everyone, from the newest stagehand to the marquee attraction, rejoices in the rest.

  For opera singers, of course, the physical strain is much higher than with lighter kinds of music, and the need for recovery far greater. So with that need, and Marie’s family responsibilities in mind, we set up a rather unusual performance week. After the premiere week, Sunday and Monday were our dark days, with a regular night show Tuesday. Wednesday we offered only a matinee, allowing us extra rest before the most important performances at the end of the week. Not to mention giving Marie a nice long late afternoon and evening with her children, because her older son has only a half-day on Wednesdays. It worked well for us, and ticket sales suggested audiences agreed.

  Despite the demands of performing, and all the extra drama of premiere night, what I needed most by the time we finished the first week of the run was not more rest but an ordinary day with my friends and family.

  Sunday began with Mass at Holy Innocents, Tommy and I having both decided that spiritual comfort, and Father Michael’s latest homily, outweighed extra sleep. That would change as the run wore on, at least for me, so it was wise to get to church while I could.

  Soul tended and a candle lit for my father, I left Tommy to his own plans and headed out for another of my great joys.

  Hetty MacNaughten, Beacon reporter and my best friend outside the opera world, was meeting me for a long midday walk in Washington Square Park, followed by a luxurious tea and gossip, before she headed off to the news office. It was our last chance for a girls’ afternoon for some time, and we cheerfully seized it.

  We were, of course, well aware that the boys might horn in on the party, and that was quite all right, too.

  I took off with a smile and a spring in my step, humming something I’d heard Montezuma singing that morning. Just before the triumphal marble arch at the main entrance to the park, I saw a familiar bent figure crouched on a bench.