“I’m certain we can adjust to whatever needs Arlena and the crew here might have,” Penelope said confidently.
Armand leaned forward and laced his fingers on his desk. “When Randall said he had a young chef acquaintance who would be on hand during the filming, I just assumed…”
“Assumed?” Penelope asked.
“I assumed, because he said the chef owned their own company and had worked on major productions, he was referring to a man.”
Penelope smiled. “I’m happy to surprise you.”
“And I’m happy to be surprised!” Armand exclaimed suddenly.
Penelope paused a second before speaking again. She heard Arlena laugh under her breath. “So, what do you normally do catering-wise for the cast and crew here?”
“We have a snack table backstage, sandwiches, you know the ones that come in plastic wrap, that kind of thing. When I heard you were coming, I figured I’d wait before diving into any deli ordering,” Armand said.
“How many people are we talking about each day?” Penelope asked.
“Roughly 150. That’s counting the dancers, stagehands, Martha and her choreography team, the set builders, orchestra musicians, the costume department, massagers, the hair and makeup team…” Armand stared into space as he ticked items on his fingers. “Anyway, it’s a big show with lots of crew, but that’s the rough count, I’d say. I’ll make sure to show you the facilities and introduce you both around to everyone.”
“I assume women in the shape those dancers are in stick to some kind of regimen and diet,” Arlena said.
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know. In my day,” Armand said, waving to a photo on the wall behind them, “it was cigarettes and oranges in the morning, not much else during the day, then a thick steak at Sardi’s once a month on payday.”
Penelope glanced at the photo behind her of a young Armand, standing in the center of the stage, his arms over his head, mouth opened wide in song. His hair was just as voluminous, but jet black, in what Penelope guessed by his costume was sometime in the 1970s.
“Those were the days,” he sighed.
A brass buzzer sounded from the corner of Armand’s desk and he shook his head. “Rehearsal is beginning. Would you care to observe?”
“Oh we’d love to,” Arlena said.
Armand stood up from his desk and motioned for them to follow. He led them to a door behind the visitor chairs and pulled it open. On the other side was a narrow balcony.
“Come, take a look,” Armand said, leaning over the railing.
Penelope stepped out behind Arlena and walked cautiously to the end, aware of the creaking boards beneath her feet.
“Look there, they’re lining up,” Armand said.
Several stories below them Penelope could see the stage and the dancers getting into position. They weren’t in costume, so it looked like an exercise class assembling instead of a troupe of Broadway dancers. Penelope felt slightly woozy when she looked down—the space between them and the stage yawning below.
“Line up!” Martha shouted and clapped her hands in a staccato rhythm. The dancers stopped their chatting and got into rows, shuffling in their high heeled dance shoes into the shape of an upside-down V.
“When the theater was built in 1895,” Armand muttered, “the founder and creative director, Thaddeus Vitale, lived up here with his family. He had this balcony built so he could keep an eye on the plays from his home.”
“Wow,” Arlena said. “He raised a family up here?”
“Three girls,” Armand said. “Two of them were actresses, which makes sense, I suppose. They grew up on the stage, literally.”
“What did the third one do?” Penelope muttered.
“She wrote, as a journalist mostly,” Armand said. “The mother died of typhoid when the girls were very young, all still under the age of ten. Mr. Vitale dated a string of actresses afterwards, women who were working on this very stage. Rumor has it he picked the ones who showed the most interest in his girls, like temporary mothers, you see. The youngest daughter wrote a book about the Vitale girls and their stand-in mothers.”
“I’d love to read that book,” Arlena said. “They sound like an interesting family. And it would be an enlightening historical angle for the documentary.”
“Well, the book has been out of print for many years now, but you might still be able to find a copy somewhere,” Armand said, gazing down at the stage. “I can also show you our archives. We’ve kept clips of articles, show bills, reviews, things like that. You are welcome to help yourself to anything you like.”
Arlena balled her hands into fists and Penelope could sense her excitement, even with Armand standing in between them.
“Places!” Martha shouted. Her hair was pulled back in a severe bun at the nape of her neck, a thin black turtleneck sweater reaching up to meet it.
The dancers positioned themselves into two lines. When they were settled, there was a gap in the one on the left. Penelope swept her gaze around the stage and toward the dressing rooms, looking for someone who might be running late, but no one appeared.
“Where’s Elspeth?” Martha asked. Several of the dancers shook their heads and shrugged.
“Elspeth!” Martha called. She tucked her hands on her thin hips, clad in close fitting black pants. “If you’re not lined up in ten seconds we’ll call in your backup!”
When no one appeared, Martha took a few steps upstage and craned her neck, somehow sensing they were standing above and gazing down at them. She raised her palms in the air and shrugged.
“Where is Elspeth, Armand?” she called into the space between them and the stage.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Armand said.
Chapter 3
Martha called another performer to the stage from the group of four backup dancers that were waiting on the sidelines.
“Those are the swings,” Armand said, lifting his chin toward the group of women. They were dressed like the others, in spandex workout clothes. The one on the far left shifted her weight from leg to leg. The one next to her rose up and stretched her calves a few times.
“Swings?” Penelope asked.
“Stand ins,” Armand said. “They’re ready to take over a spot, any spot on a moment’s notice in case one of the front lines can’t perform.”
“How are the dancers chosen?” Arlena asked. She kept her eyes on the stage.
“A very long audition season each summer. It takes years to get to the front line for some,” Armand said. “Other times a girl will come straight off a bus from Nowhere, Iowa, and be that year’s Snow Queen. That’s the nature of musical theater. Talent is rewarded as its discovered.”
Music drifted up from below. It was a familiar Christmas tune Penelope remembered singing with her mom while they made cookies in their old house in New Jersey.
“Shall we observe rehearsal from the seats?” Armand said.
“That would be great,” Arlena said.
Armand led them back through the office, closing the door behind him as they entered the waiting area on their way to the stairs. Halfway through the room he stopped abruptly. “There,” he said, pointing at a framed photo on the wall. “I told you I could see the resemblance.”
The picture was of twenty or so dancers dressed in sparkly white leotards with short silky skirts and knee-high boots. Armand’s finger hovered near the center, pointing at a beautiful woman with black hair and a radiant smile.
“Oh my,” Arlena said, stepping closer to the wall. “That’s my grandmother?”
“That’s her,” Armand said dropping his arm and clasping his hands behind his back. He took a step back to allow room for Arlena to move closer. “Ruby was the Snow Queen that year, the star of the Christmas Extravaganza.”
Penelope eyed the frame and the gold plate that was fastened to it. The year 1937 was
etched in the gold.
Arlena reached out a hand and went to touch the glass covering the photo, then pulled back at the last minute. She cleared her throat. “I never got to meet her. She died when my father was young. Do you have any other pictures from her year? It would be great for background material.”
Armand nodded and motioned toward the door. “The archive has photos and other relevant items for each year. We’ve been working to digitize the oldest pictures so we don’t lose them forever, but that’s an off and on project, mostly handled by interns during the summer.”
“Interns?” Penelope asked.
“Mostly theater students. They get credit for coming to help us, and they get to see what it’s like behind the scenes of a working historic theater.”
Penelope and Arlena followed Armand carefully down the rickety wooden steps, changing direction at two landings before arriving safely at the bottom. During their descent, Penelope willed herself to only look as far as the next few steps down. She thought anyone with a fear of heights or vertigo would not be able to manage this theater. Or at least work in Armand’s eagle’s nest of an office.
The music from the orchestra met them at full volume as they reached the bottom of the steps backstage. Armand led them through stage door right and down to the front row in the main seating area of the theater.
Penelope watched in awe as the dancers worked through their routine, moving in unison with each other, marching to a medley of holiday songs. Their legs were lithe and muscular, their abs taut behind their leotards. Most of them held their gaze at the horizon somewhere over Penelope’s head, their faces fixed in toothy smiles. Low-heeled character shoes stomped and scraped against the boards as they worked their way through the number, all completely in unison, not one foot out of place, at least as far as Penelope could tell.
When the song ended, Martha stood up from her seat a few rows behind them and made her way to the stage, the stark blades of her shoulders pressing against her black sweater.
The women on stage eyed her approach nervously. One of the dancers bent over at the waist, visibly huffing and trying to catch her breath with her hands on her thin hips.
“You, move two back, everyone else step forward,” Martha said. The dancer who was asked to take a downstage position fought to hide her disappointment. Without a word of protest, the company did as Martha asked.
“Once more from the beginning,” Martha said. She mumbled something to the conductor before returning to her seat. His back to the audience, he tapped his stand and the music began again after a few beats. Penelope could only see the tops of a few of their heads but guessed there were a dozen or so musicians in the pit. The dancers once again moved in unison around the stage in perfectly formed lines, kicking their legs in time with the music. Penelope was not an expert in dance, but she was impressed by the display of apparent skill on the stage.
“Martha is very exacting,” Armand mumbled. “She’ll make them do it twenty times before opening curtain if she thinks they need to.”
“Incredible,” Arlena whispered. Her eyes followed the routine on the stage, and she tapped her boot on the floor in time with the music.
“The opening show is the Friday after Thanksgiving, and day one must be perfect,” Armand said, nodding. “The press will be here, VIPs. We like the kickoff to help spread the word every year.”
“Have you ever gotten a bad review?” Penelope asked.
Armand sucked his teeth quietly. “A few times,” he admitted. “Before my tenure here,” he hastened to add.
“This show is such a tradition,” Penelope said. “Would a bad review keep people away?”
“It certainly doesn’t help, my dear,” Armand said. “And we need to watch the bottom line, as they say.”
“What did the critic say?” Penelope said. “I mean, how bad could a Christmas show be?”
Armand chuckled. “People had different ideas back in the day. There was one director in the late sixties who thought making a political statement was the way to go. Some anti-war sentiment of his, definitely not in keeping with the holiday mood.”
“Oh,” Penelope mumbled. “Yeah, that’s not good.”
“Exactly,” Armand said. “Theatergoers want to leave behind the outside world once they take these seats. They want to be transported to a beautiful place where dreams come true.” Armand smiled widely and his eyes glistened.
“The magic of the theater,” Arlena said under her breath.
“Quite,” Armand said.
As the dancers appeared to be coming to the end of their first routine, the outer doors of the theater rattled open. Penelope glanced over her shoulder and saw a woman hurrying down the aisle from the lobby toward the stage. She paused and watched the dancers for a second, then headed straight for Martha.
Martha glared at the young woman, who wore a dark green peacoat over black yoga pants and shiny winter boots. The look of irritation on Martha’s face softened as the woman knelt in the aisle and whispered something to her, then morphed to concern. Martha cupped the girl’s cheek in her hand, then stood up next to her in the aisle, grasping her hand. The young woman began to cry, shaking her head as Martha attempted to calm her down.
“She’s gone!” the woman shouted toward the stage.
Martha patted her upper arm, then shot a glance at the orchestra conductor who was watching them curiously.
“Let’s take a break,” Martha said to him as she led the woman toward the dressing rooms.
The music dribbled to a stop, the last sound from a violin bow dragging slowly across the strings. The dancers paused and watched in confusion as Martha urged her along.
At the last second, the woman broke from Martha’s grasp and turned to the dancers.
“No,” she said, her pale cheeks reddening beneath her tears. “She’s gone. When did you see her last?” Her face was doll-like, her pale skin smooth and fragile.
“Abigail, let’s talk this out. I can see you’re worried, but I don’t think it’s as urgent as you think,” Martha said. “Let’s go figure out what’s happened without disrupting rehearsal.”
Armand stood up from his seat and put his hands on his hips. “Martha, what’s the matter with the poor girl?”
“Elspeth is gone,” Abigail said. Fresh tears began to flow, and her body shuddered as she hugged her torso tightly over her pea coat.
“What on earth is she talking about?” Armand asked. “Elspeth has missed rehearsal today, my dear, that’s all. She’ll probably get moved to swing unless she can provide a doctor’s note. But it’s nothing to get this worked up about.”
“No, she’s gone,” the young woman insisted. “She never came home last night!”
Martha shook her head and gently took Abigail by the elbow. “Please, I’m sure she just decided to stay with someone, maybe with a friend?”
Abigail shook her head forcefully. “She doesn’t know anyone besides us in the city.” She looked at the other dancers on the stage who stood silently in their formation, eyeing her with concern. “And she would never just stay out all night without letting me know. She would text or something, wouldn’t she? She’s worked so hard to get here, she wouldn’t screw it up by pulling a no-show and losing her spot on the front line. Something’s happened to her!”
Penelope and Arlena exchanged glances. Arlena shrugged and adjusted the cowl of her cashmere sweater.
“Let’s go sit down backstage and make some calls. We’ll figure it out,” Martha said. Her tone was gentler than Penelope had ever heard her speak before, but it was still no nonsense and firm.
Abigail shook her head and went to the edge of the stage and took a seat, her legs dangling into the orchestra pit. The musicians were all standing, watching her. The entire rehearsal had ground to a halt. A stagehand stuck his head out from behind the curtain and shrugged at Martha, tapping his wa
tch.
“She’s intimidated by the city. New York,” Abigail said darkly. “It’s overwhelming for her—the crowds, the filth. She would never stay out all night. Never. It’s my fault, I should’ve gone with her.” Abigail broke down in sobs.
“Go with her where?” Armand asked, standing up from his seat and moving into the aisle.
“To the store. Last night,” Abigail said. She pulled her knees up and hid her face behind her hands, folding in on herself into a ball.
Two of the dancers knelt next to her, one of them wrapping her long arms around Abigail’s shoulders.
Armand walked to the stage. “We’re going to find her, my dear. Martha, do you think you can calm the poor girl down so we can find out what exactly is happening here?”
Martha nodded sharply and waved the other dancers away. “Take a break. But don’t leave. We still have hours to go.”
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Armand said gently to Abigail. “What time did you last see Elspeth, and what store are you talking about?”
“When we left rehearsal yesterday. She said she had an appointment, and that she’d be back at the apartment by supper after going to get some groceries.” Abigail paused, her voice breaking. “That was yesterday afternoon. She’s been gone a whole day almost. We need to call the police!”
Chapter 4
“Maybe we should leave,” Arlena mumbled to Penelope in the front row. “We’ve gotten a lot to start the project and they seem...”
Penelope nodded. “Yeah, they’ve got a situation to deal with.” She and Arlena stood and shuffled between the seats toward the aisle.
“Arlena,” Armand said, calling from the stage. “You don’t have to leave just yet. We’ll have this sorted out very soon.”
“Oh, it’s actually time for us to get going,” Arlena said. “We very much appreciate your time today. We’ll let you get back to,” her eyes fell on Abigail, “whatever you need to take care of.”
MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS Page 3