“Do they matter that much?” Trixie asks.
“Oh, my God.” Tonya shakes her head. “The New York reviews are make or break. If you get a great one, especially from the Times, you’re pretty much guaranteed success. If you get a bad one, you can close the next week.”
“The next week?” I squeal.
“It would be the next day if it weren’t for Actors’ Equity,” Tonya says. “The union demands the actors get a one-week notice. And the blog reviews for Dream Angel are so bad it doesn’t bode well at all. Have you been on AllThatChat.com?”
“I’ve never even heard of it,” Shanelle admits, which is true for me, too.
“Dream Angel is getting ripped. And I mean ripped.” She grabs her phone from behind her on the vanity. “Listen to this. ‘Trust me when I say you’d have more fun slitting your wrists with a dull blade than sitting through this abysmal, moribund production.’ That’s just the first review that comes up! There are lots more that are even worse.”
“I’m sure there are good reviews, too,” Trixie says.
“A few,” Tonya allows. “And sure, the only people who go to that site are insiders, but the critics are insiders. They go there. And they’re only human. I’m positive they get swayed if they read one bad review after another.”
I rise to my feet. “This is way too much negativity, Tonya. Think back to your own years as a beauty queen. What do we all have in common? A positive attitude.”
“Yes,” Trixie breathes, “a winning attitude.”
“And remember,” I go on, “that all those bad reviews came before Dream Angel was retooled. It’s a much better show now.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Shanelle mutters from the settee.
“And another thing.” I grab Tonya’s arms. “You’re fabulous in this role. Don’t doubt that. Just play your part and I’ll play mine. Come hell or high water, I’ll keep Oliver’s father out of this theater until we’re past opening night.”
“Happy always does what she says she’ll do!” Trixie cries. “Now Tonya, let me give you a piece of advice. I think it’s high time you change out of that dress. Here”—she tosses Tonya a silky blue floral-print robe that’d been hanging on a wall peg—“you’ll learn your lines better if you’re comfy.”
“I’ll try anything,” Tonya says.
“Let’s go get everybody some hot tea,” Shanelle says to me. Once in the corridor, she lowers her voice. “That was a great pep talk you gave Tonya, but what do you want to bet girlfriend will be a basket case by tomorrow night’s preview? I cannot believe how many new lines she’s got to learn.”
“They’re still rewriting, huh?”
She shakes her head. “Dang, this is one tough business, on the performing end and the business end, too. I found out that only one in three Broadway musicals makes money for its investors.”
“So the odds are against Warren Longley.” And he needs all the cash he can lay his hands on just to get his upholstery cleaned.
We arrive in the break room and bypass the suspect coffeepot for the teakettle. Shanelle grabs some mugs. “Did you know that a show is considered a hit only if it recoups its capitalization during its original Broadway run? If it doesn’t, it’s deemed a flop.”
“And its poster lands on Joe Allen’s wall,” I say.
Shanelle pours hot water into the mugs. “The good news, though, is that even if you flop on Broadway, you can turn a profit if you go on tour. These days, shows on the road have higher gross ticket sales than shows on Broadway.”
“Harder life for everybody involved, though.”
“Hey, nobody said show business is easy.” Shanelle hands me peppermint tea bags. “Or you can mount the production overseas and not just in London, either. Germany, South Korea, Argentina, you name it.”
“I’m not sure Warren Longley has that kind of patience.”
“I’m just saying.” Shanelle and I each pick up two mugs. “You can flip a Broadway flop. Little Women, Shrek the Musical, Legally Blonde: it can happen.”
We head back to Tonya’s dressing room. “You businesswoman, you,” I say to Shanelle. “I think you’re wasted in the I.T. department at your bank.”
“I keep telling my boss that. Far as I can tell, he remains unconvinced.”
Since Oliver didn’t banish me from the theater, I feel free to sit on the pink settee, sip my tea, and listen to Tonya run her lines with Trixie and Shanelle, whispering so she doesn’t overuse her voice. Before long my mind wanders and you, dear reader, can guess to what.
Murder. And that other tantalizing M-word: motive.
I have mixed feelings about Junior, but I must admit that like any good director he’s pulling out all the stops to make his production a success. Even though it’s putting huge pressure on the cast and crew, he’s pushing through the changes he believes are necessary to turn Dream Angel from bad to good. He’s doing what he can to impress the all-important critics. And though it might be cynical, it’s also smart to move up opening night to take advantage of the publicity Dream Angel has garnered after Lisette’s death. Junior might not be making many friends, but I bet he’s gaining admirers. And I would be firmly among them if I didn’t worry that he committed murder to remove the greatest impediment to his success.
When our star wants to take a break, I pose a question. “Tonya, was there really no rewriting of the lyrics or script while Lisette was alive?”
“Pretty much not a word.” She sits at her vanity, her back to us, and slathers on hand lotion. “Lisette simply refused to make changes. She kept saying ‘this is my baby, this is my baby.’ Oliver was infuriated. Really, we all were.”
“And Oliver couldn’t fire her because her father is the number one investor?” I feel Shanelle’s eyes on my face as I ask this question. She knows where I’m going with this.
“One day he got so ticked off he did threaten to fire her, in front of all of us.” My gaze meets Tonya’s in the huge vanity mirror. “She just laughed. And then she said, and I quote, ‘You fire me and I’ll sue your ass from here to kingdom come.’ ”
We have a moment of silence before Shanelle pipes up. “I sure wouldn’t put filing a lawsuit past Lisette.”
Neither would I. I am pondering just how much not only Oliver, but Tonya, too, is better off with Lisette out of the picture when she resumes speaking.
“This is my first lead role, you know.” In the mirror her green eyes are huge. “And as much as I hate having to learn all these new lines in like five minutes, it’s worth it. I need Dream Angel to be a hit. Or at least not a flop. Because otherwise I’m back in the chorus, probably for good.”
I make a mild remark—“I guess Broadway isn’t famous for second chances”—but all the while my mind is screaming something else entirely: Tonya had as much motive to murder Lisette as Oliver did! Maybe more. She believes Dream Angel is a make-or-break opportunity. Shanelle has argued that Oliver is established enough that he could survive a flop or two.
My thinking is interrupted by a call on my cell. I take it in the corridor outside Tonya’s dressing room. It’s Jason. “Don’t plan on me for dinner, babe,” he tells me.
“To be honest with you, I wasn’t. I figured Kimberly would want to keep shooting until late.” I refrain from adding that I’ll be surprised if the blue-eyed minx detaches her claws from my husband before midnight.
“It’s going good, though. We did a few locations in the Meatpacking District and then a few in Chelsea. No point wasting time trying to get across town.”
So the scheming wench can organize a shoot. “Just let me know where to meet you later.” I lower my voice to its sexiest register, since two can play at Miss Kimberly’s game. “It’ll be fun to spend the night in a hotel.”
From the sound of his chuckle, I can tell Jason is following my drift. “As soon as Kimberly figures that out, I’ll let you know.”
We end the call with me amazed that Kimberly still has to “figure out” Jason’s accommodations
. After all, it’s already late afternoon, and a Saturday no less. I hope she doesn’t try to pull a fast one and claim there are no rooms available so he has to stay at her apartment. How obvious would that be? If it comes to that, Jason can shack up with my BFFs and me tonight.
It occurs to me that I haven’t heard a peep from my mother since I left her this morning at the Chelsea Market. In her case, silence isn’t golden. It’s ominous. I give her a ring. When she answers, in the background I can just make out classical music and female voices. “Where are you?” I inquire. “Did Bennie get tickets to the symphony or something?” Maybe he wanted to make up for squiring her around used-car lots all morning.
She hesitates, then: “Not exactly.”
“So where are you?”
“None of your business, young lady.”
So it’s like that. “Just tell me what you’re up to, because whenever you get cagey like this, I know you’re up to something.”
“I feel no need to account for my whereabouts. So let’s talk about what you’re up to. I hope it includes one-on-one time with that Mario.”
I am startled to hear her make this suggestion, as in mere moments I must depart for my rendezvous with said Latin hunk. “I’m at the theater,” I say, which is truthful enough but also goes to show that both mother and daughter can be cagey. “I hope you’ll let Trixie, Shanelle, and me join you and Bennie for dinner later.”
“So no Jason,” she observes. “I’m good with that. But I don’t know if I’ll want to be out in public tonight. Whoops, gotta go,” and she hangs up.
I’m frowning as I reenter Tonya’s dressing room.
“What’s wrong now?” Shanelle wants to know.
I relay my mother’s bizarre remark about being “out in public.” “Who comes to New York City to go into seclusion?”
“I can understand wanting to stay in and wear the fuzzy robe and have room service,” Trixie says. “Especially at a fancy hotel like the Plaza.”
“So I’m going to make a confession,” I say. “I’m meeting Mario.” This both requires explanation and engenders disapproval, particularly from Shanelle.
“Girl, you’re looking for trouble,” she tells me.
The question is will I find it.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
My real-estate assignation with Mario affords me my first glimpse of the Upper East Side. Even though the brown-brick corner building where I find myself waiting for him is on Park Avenue, it’s not the snazziest Manhattan building I’ve seen, which may mean that in just a few days Cleveland resident Happy Pennington has gotten jaded. But the area as a whole is scary swanky. I read online that years ago it was known as the Silk Stocking District. Not only are many museums and consulates here, oodles of famous people have lived on the Upper East Side, from Jackie O to Madonna to philanthropist Brooke Astor.
At 5 p.m. it’s already dark and snowflakes are tumbling from the black sky like little bits of fairy dust. Even bundled in my plum-colored wool coat, I’ll be shivering if I have to stand outside much longer. I’m about to pull out my compact to see if my nose has turned red yet from the cold when Mario appears at my side.
He’s wearing his camel-colored overcoat over a classic Burberry check scarf, but the fact that he’s decked out in cashmere is the least of it. Being Mario, he looks insanely sexy and handsome. And it doesn’t matter if he’s in Minnesota or Manhattan: he always seems at ease. I guess he’d be the same in Timbuktu.
Both of us say hi and grin. His dimples flash and the night air carries to my nostrils a whiff of his marvelous cologne. I try to rein in my silly smile and don’t allow myself to brush the snowflakes from his dark hair. He glances away as if he’s keenly interested in Park Avenue’s six lanes of traffic and then a moment later returns his eyes to mine. I get the idea he’s about to say something.
“It’s always so wonderful to see you,” he murmurs. “Every time.”
I don’t bother to lie. There’s only so good I can be. “I feel the same way.”
We gaze at each other. As usual with Mario, I could do that until the cows come home. But I’m forced to look away by the bustling arrival of the broker, a 50-something blonde with no-nonsense eyeglasses, a warm smile, and an apology for leaving us out in the cold.
Mario makes the introductions. I learn that the broker’s name is Dina. She is told that I’m Mario’s friend “who happens to be in town this weekend.” I can tell by her friendly but assessing glance that she thinks there’s more to that story.
“This is the Carnegie Hill neighborhood,” Dina says as she ushers us toward the building’s entryway, “named for the Andrew Carnegie Mansion on Fifth and 91st.
“And I call this a white-glove building,” she goes on as she leads us into an Old World-style lobby with a black-and-white checkerboard marble floor, white tin ceiling, and doorman (who indeed is wearing white gloves) who races to summon an elevator. I’ve only been inside ten seconds, but already I realize I grossly misjudged the building.
“Did you notice the hush the moment we walked inside?” Dina murmurs as an elegant elevator carries us skyward. “It’s as if we’ve gone back in time to a much more gracious era. Pre-war,” she assures Mario.
“I appreciate you taking the time to do the showing,” he replies.
I wonder if Mario is at all serious about this apartment or if we’re here only because Dina promised to dish the dirt about the unit Lisette wanted in the Belfer. Either way, it’s very fun to tour a snazzy Manhattan pied-à-terre that I soon learn is listed for two and a half million dollars.
I nearly topple off my stilettos when Dina informs us that two-point-five mil gets you two bedrooms and two baths in these parts. She enters the apartment ahead of us and flicks on lights. I walk into a stunning living room—in which almost all the décor is white because everything in Manhattan seems to be, at least until I’m done with it—and try not to gape as Dina natters on about 10-foot ceilings, south and east exposures, exquisite trim and crown moldings, and high-end finishes.
Even more than usual, I am keenly aware of Mario behind me. It’s very intimate, this looking at a home for sale: it’s something couples do. You don’t tour real estate with a man you barely know. I know that, and so does Dina, which is no doubt why her eyes fix on my face when we halt at the large paned windows in the living room to take in the glittering Park Avenue view. She’s trying to figure out the nature of my relationship with Mario. Little does she know that I am, too.
“This apartment is stupendous at night,” she tells me, “but I so wish you could see it during the day. Then you would understand how the natural light enhances the scale and beauty.”
I’m flattered that she’s trying to win me over. She must think I could influence Mario’s purchase decision, and maybe I could.
He pipes up with a question, delivered with a laugh. “So, Dina, you think the board of this building would approve me?”
“I believe they would.” She’s all seriousness as again she turns to me. “If you want a pre-war, you pretty much have to go co-op rather than condo. In the city these days it’s about seventy-five percent co-op, but condos are on the rise.”
“That’s because all you have to do is pay for a condo,” Mario says. “You don’t have to be vetted by a board like you do for a co-op.”
“With a co-op there are any number of restrictions,” Dina allows. “Some of the more exclusive buildings don’t even allow financing. And of course once you’re in, you have to abide by the rules.”
I wonder how good Lisette would’ve been at that.
“I’ll think about this place,” Mario tells Dina, “though as I said on the phone, I’m not in the market.”
She winks at him. “Well, I couldn’t let you leave New York without showing you this exceptional opportunity. And I won’t keep you in suspense any longer about the apartment in the Belfer. It turns out that by the time the board was ready to make a decision, there was only one other potential buyer. Violet Honeycutt.�
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“The Violet Honeycutt?” I blurt. Any American woman who’s remotely fashion-oriented knows the name of the formidable magazine editor who for decades has presided over Mode, which I too consider my style bible even though I have to buy the knock-offs.
“The very same,” Dina says. “No one ever thought she’d leave her townhouse in Greenwich Village, but such is the lure of the Belfer.”
“Would Violet Honeycutt have known Lisette Longley was her only rival for the apartment?” I ask.
Dina must think the walls have ears because she leans close and lowers her voice. “Oh, both parties were well aware. According to my source, the Belfer is not above pitting buyers against one another to drive up the price.”
So the board of the Belfer is not only snooty. It’s sly.
“You’ve been very helpful, Dina,” Mario tells her as we exit the apartment, and I must agree.
Back on the sidewalk, with snow now falling in earnest, we say hasty farewells to Dina. I find myself in no hurry, however, to bid adieu to Mario.
Apparently he feels the same. “I know the perfect cocktail for this weather,” he tells me. “Do you have time?”
Is the name Przybyszewski Polish? “I have to be Midtown at 7:30,” I warn him. Knowing me as she does, Shanelle backended my Mario rendezvous with a dinner reservation.
“You’ll get there in plenty of time.” Mario offers me his arm. I take it not because the sidewalk is slippery, but because I can’t resist.
We leave Park Avenue for a narrow tree-lined street with brick apartment buildings rising on both sides. Millions of hearts are beating in this city, but the snow seems to have chased them all inside. So while I’m eager to discuss the Violet Honeycutt revelation, for the moment I’m completely content to do nothing more than walk alone with Mario arm-in-arm down this deserted street.
Eventually he breaks the spell. “Did you see that the autopsy results are in for Lisette Longley? She died of multiple blunt force trauma.”
Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Page 14