Chorus Lines, Caviar, and Corpses (A Happy Hoofers Mystery)

by Mary McHugh

Happy Birthday, Caroline!

  “Where’s Janice?” I asked when we sat down at our table for dinner.

  “She was still in our cabin when I left,” Pat said. “She was talking on her cell.”

  “Who was she talking to?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. She went in the bathroom and closed the door. I couldn’t hear her end of the conversation.”

  “Hope everything is all right at home,” Mary Louise said as she studied the evening’s menu. “Look—beef stroganoff tonight. Let’s see what Sergei can do with that.”

  I motioned to Olga, who came over to our table. “Olga, is the beef stroganoff good?”

  “Potatoes or green beans?” she said.

  “Beans,” I said, giving up.

  In a few minutes, Olga appeared with our dinners.

  “Mmmmm,” Gini said after her first bite. “This is perfection. Beautifully cooked beef in some kind of lovely cream sauce. Wait till you taste it.”

  “I’ve got to get this recipe,” Mary Louise said.

  “I make stroganoff at home but it doesn’t taste like this.”

  Janice came running up to the table. She was smiling.

  “Guess what?” she said. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell you.”

  “What is it, Jan?” I asked, eager to hear her news.

  “My daughter, Sandy, called me,” she said. “It’s the first time in two years we’ve talked to each other.”

  “Oh, Janice, that’s wonderful,” Pat said. “Why did she call?”

  “It’s so exciting. She’s writing a book about the Gypsy Robes, and she wants me to work on it with her. I can’t believe it!”

  “What are Gypsy Robes?” Mary Louise said.

  “It’s a tradition in the theater,” Janice said. “At the opening of every new musical in New York, a robe is passed on to the dancer—they call the chorus line dancers gypsies—who has danced in the most musicals on Broadway. The robe is covered with souvenirs from other shows—like parts of costumes or playbills or photos of other dancers. Half an hour before the show opens, the winner circles the whole group while each gypsy reaches out and touches the robe for good luck. There are about fourteen of them now and some of them are in the Smithsonian in Washington. One of my friends is the official historian of the Gypsy Robes. She has photographs and all kinds of information. Sandy and I are going to produce the book together. Can’t you just imagine how beautiful it will be—the colors, the costumes, the history?”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Pat said. “But the best part is you’ll be working with Sandy. Is everything OK between you two now?”

  “It’s a start,” Janice said. “We have a lot to talk about before everything is really all right. But we’ll get there. I was so young when I had her. I made a lot of mistakes while I was bringing her up. Hearing her voice was like getting a hug from her.”

  “If I can help . . . ,” Pat said.

  “I’d love your help,” she said, smiling at her friend.

  “Ms. Temple,” Heidi said. “Here is recipe. Sergei said is not hard to make. You can watch him next time.”

  “Heidi, you’re the best. Very . . . uh . . . gut,” Mary Louise said.

  Stacy and Andrea burst into our conversation, both of them full of energy and enthusiasm. “Hey Hoofers, you’re invited to a birthday party,” Stacy said.

  “You have to come over to our table,” Andrea said. “We’re cutting Nana’s birthday cake. She asked especially that you five join us. Please, please say you’ll come.”

  “I wouldn’t miss your grandmother’s birthday party for anything,” I said. My friends were out of their chairs and on their way to Caroline’s table before I got the words out of my mouth.

  “Happy birthday, Caroline,” I said, giving her a hug. “You look beautiful.”

  She was wearing a light blue silk dress that made her eyes look even bluer. Sapphire blue earrings against her white hair gave her whole face a vivid, lively beauty that we all envied.

  “I want to look just like you when I’m eighty,” Janice said.

  “Don’t wish your life away,” Caroline said. “Take your time getting here. But, thank you.”

  Two of the waitresses brought a large white cake with pink and blue buttercream roses. Written on the top in icing was Rock on Nana! It was topped by eight candles.

  “I love you two hooligans,” she said to her granddaughters, and paused to make a wish before blowing out the candles.

  “What did you wish for, Caroline?” Mary Louise asked.

  “I wished that all of you would have half the fun I’ve had in my life and that you all end up with people to love,” she said, looking at her two granddaughters, her eyes bright with tears.

  Stacy and Andrea kissed their grandmother and cut pieces of cake for all of us. As we gobbled up Sergei’s divine devil’s food cake, Stacy said, “We have a surprise for you, Nana.”

  “What terrible thing have you done now?” she asked.

  “Andy and I made up a song about your ten rules of life you’re always telling us about.”

  We all cheered.

  “Let’s hear it,” Caroline said, obviously delighted that her granddaughters had gone to all this trouble for her.

  Andrea and Stacy stood up, did a little dance, turned around, and sang to their grandmother:

  Never whine about your aches and pains

  Or moan and groan whenever it rains.

  Tap dance instead—you’ll make people smile

  Try everything once—you’ll find it worthwhile.

  Always be sure you have money of your own,

  And always say I love you before you hang up the phone.

  Make lots of friends—they’re better than gold,

  Forgive your parents—they can’t help being old.

  Make people you meet feel glad they’re alive

  Get rid of the grouches—they barely survive.

  And finally most important of all—

  Love one another—and just have a ball!

  The girls gave one last high kick and grapevined over to their grandmother. We all cheered and applauded as they gave her a hug and a kiss. Other passengers stood up and clapped too, obviously delighted at the girls’ performance.

  “Those are perfect rules of life, Caroline,” Pat said. “No wonder you look the way you do at eighty.”

  “You girls are doing all the right things,” she said. “I wish I could be around to come to your eightieth birthday parties, but I’ll be up there watching you and sending you my love.”

  We were quiet, absorbing Caroline’s wisdom, picturing ourselves at eighty. I thought about the things that were most meaningful to me—my daughters, my friends, my memories of Bill—and Peter popped into my mind. I had a sudden urge to call him.

  “Thank you, Caroline, for letting us be a part of your birthday party,” I said. “We’ll never forget you or your granddaughters. And now, if you’ll excuse us, we Hoofers have to change for our performance tonight.”

  Pat joined me, and we walked downstairs together.

  “Are you sure you can do this, Tina?” Pat asked. “I don’t know how you can even walk, much less dance, after what happened.”

  “I’m tougher now, Pat.”

  When we got to our cabins, I called Peter while Gini was taking a shower. The phone rang . . . and rang . . . until Peter’s recorded voice said, “This is Peter Simpson. I’m sorry to miss your call. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you soon.”

  Where could he be? And who could he be with? A wave of homesickness washed over me, and suddenly I missed him terribly.

  I left a message: “It’s Tina. Things are a little crazy here, but I’m fine. How are you? Call me.”

  I showered after Gini was through, and we changed into our red, white, and blue sparkly outfits of short shorts, jackets, and Uncle Sam top hats, with black sequined stockings and red tap shoes. “Let’s start out with ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy,’ then ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag,’ and end wit
h ‘I Got Rhythm,’ ” I said.

  “Maybe we should put ‘I Got Rhythm’ in the middle and end with a rousing ‘Grand Old Flag,’ ” Pat said.

  “Good idea,” I said. “Gini, will you put the CDs in the right order please? We’ve got a show to put on.”

  We bounced onto the stage that night looking like the American flag in motion, and worked the march step and the high kicks and the salutes for all they were worth. The audience was cheering and clapping and singing along with us. It was as if the horror of the day had been conquered by five tap-dancing American women in the prime of their lives, giving their all for their country, with happy endings and great legs. By the time we ended with “You’re a Grand Old Flag,” the old man in the front row was standing with his hand over his heart while Old Glory waved in back of us, blown by the rickety fan Heidi had dug up in some storeroom.

  At the end, Tatiana rushed up to us and gave us all hugs. “Today, I feel like an American,” she said. “Where do I sign up?” Even the Russian crew was smiling and cheering us on. Sergei gave us the thumbs up sign.

  We celebrated on deck, reveling in the light-filled White Night, which lasted until the sun came up around three in the morning. The Russians call this phenomenon Belye Nochi. The White Nights start in late May and continue until mid-July, during which time there are festivals, concerts, and art shows in St. Petersburg which continue until dawn. We let the rush of adrenaline always generated by a performance subside before going off to bed and instant sleep.

  Tina’s Travel Tip: Don’t miss the chance to watch the chef prepare something delicious in the kitchen.

  Chapter 17

  You’re the Beef in My Stroganoff

  At breakfast the next morning, Sergei came to our table to ask if I was all right.

  “Thank you, Sergei,” I said. “I’m still a little shaky. I’m worried that the murderer is still somewhere on this ship and I’m scared to death he’ll jump out of some closet and get me again.”

  “Police say he is gone. If police say he’s gone, then he’s gone,” Sergei said. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

  “Well . . . ,” I said, hesitating. “I don’t mean to steal your secrets, Sergei, but that stroganoff last night was the best I’ve ever had. Would you mind telling me how you did it?”

  “Of course,” he said, holding out his hand. “Come to kitchen and I show you recipe.”

  “Oh, could I watch too?” Mary Louise said.

  “You are welcome,” Sergei said. “Anyone else?”

  “Think I’ll just have another cup of coffee, thanks, Sergei,” Pat said, taking another sip.

  “I’m saving my energy for St. Petersburg,” Janice said. “Thanks anyway, Sergei.”

  Gini still hadn’t shown up for breakfast, so Mary Louise and I followed Sergei into the kitchen.

  “Look, I show you,” he said. “This is beef I use, and it must be best filet mignon. Whole success of stroganoff is quality of beef. Must be excellent.”

  “But it was the sauce that was outstanding, Sergei,” Mary Louise said. “What did you put in there?”

  “First you cut the meat into strips, flour it, and brown it—very fast—in butter. Add onions, mushrooms, and garlic, and cook them only until onion is tender. Don’t cook too much. Take out of pan and keep warm. More butter in pan and—”

  “Good thing our no-butter lady isn’t here,” Mary Louise said.

  “Sometimes you must have butter. Nothing else tastes as good,” Sergei said.

  “How do you stay so thin when you eat all this butter and cream and stuff?” I asked.

  “I am always moving, walking, biking, always doing something that gets rid of fat when I’m not cooking. Also, I don’t eat so much. No time.”

  “No wonder you look so fit. Anyway, what comes next? Add more butter to pan and . . .”

  “Then blend in flour, add tomato paste, and slowly pour in beef stock if you have it, beef broth if not. Keep stirring with a whisk until it looks thick. Put meat and mushrooms back in sauce, put in sour cream and sherry, and you have stroganoff.”

  “I do all that when I make my stroganoff,” Mary Louise said, “but it just doesn’t come out like yours. What am I doing wrong?”

  “Remember, beef must be the very, very best. And I think we do get better mushrooms here than you do. All our vegetables are fresher, I think.”

  “So I have to shop here in Russia before I make any of the dishes you showed us how to make?”

  Sergei laughed. “Just come here to live and you will make great food every time.”

  “Thanks, Sergei,” I said. “You’re so nice to take all this time with us.”

  “You are Happy Hoofers,” he said. “Trip better because of you.”

  We thanked him and went back to the dining room. Gini and Alex were there now, talking animatedly, when we sat down again at our table.

  “What’s happening?” I asked Alex. “Anything new?”

  Alex stopped talking and looked at me with a worried expression. “Well, there is something new, but I don’t want to ruin your day, Tina.”

  “Oh no. Now what? The killer is hiding in my closet or something?”

  “No, it’s just that . . .” He looked at Gini, as if asking her if he should go on.

  “What? You can tell me,” I said, not at all sure I wanted to hear.

  “They found some food missing from the kitchen—Sergei keeps careful track of every item that goes in or out of the pantry. It could just be one of the other cooks or dishwashers or waitresses who took it, but the police are afraid whoever killed the chef and Sasha is hiding somewhere on the ship. They’re going to search every inch of the ship again while we’re in St. Petersburg today. Don’t worry, Tina, they’ll make sure he isn’t here.”

  “That’s what they said before,” I said, really scared now. “Oh don’t worry, they said, we’re sure the murderer is not on the ship. Yet somehow he manages to hide somewhere.”

  “Look,” Alex said, “come see St. Petersburg. It’s so beautiful, you’ll forget all about yesterday’s incident. And we’re not going to leave you alone, ever. You’re safe.”

  MARY LOUISE’S RECIPE FOR BEEF STROGANOFF

  ¼ cup flour

  ½ teaspoon salt

  1 pound filet mignon or sirloin, cut in strips

  ¼ cup butter

  1¼ cups sliced mushrooms

  ½ cup chopped onions

  2 cloves minced garlic

  ¼ teaspoon nutmeg

  1 tablespoon tomato paste

  12 ounces beef broth

  1 cup sour cream

  3 tablespoons sherry

  1. Salt the meat and dredge it in 1 tablespoon of the flour.

  2. Brown beef in half the butter and add mushrooms, onion, garlic, and nutmeg. Cook until onions are wilted.

  3. Transfer meat and mushrooms to a warmed plate. Add the rest of the butter to the pan and blend in the rest of the flour. Add the tomato paste and slowly pour in the beef stock. Stir until thick.

  4. Put the meat and mushrooms back in the pan. Add the sour cream and sherry and heat until warm. Serve with noodles and a green salad.

  Serves two.

  Spasiba, Sergei! (You already know this means “thank you,” Sergei!)

  Tina’s Travel Tip: Try not to go to The Hermitage during a school holiday.

  Chapter 18

  Now You See It, Now You Don’t

  I followed everybody out to the bus where Andrei was waiting for us. Still his usual indifferent self, he tried to look as if he was glad to see us. He managed to dredge up a half smile and ushered us onto the bus. He still wore a shirt and tie, but his red vest had been replaced by a dark blue gabardine jacket.

  Barry called to me as we took our seats.

  “I saved this seat for you, Tina.”

  “Oh, that’s OK, Barry. I need to talk to my fellow dancers about our routine.” I gave him a small smile as I passed by.

  He caught my hand. “I’ll c
atch up with you in the museum,” he said.

  Andrei told us about The Hermitage as we drove through the streets of St. Petersburg, past tall white office buildings and domed cathedrals, which were often on the banks of one of the canals that flowed throughout the city. We could have been driving along the Seine in Paris, the city was so beautifully planned and built. The people walking along the sidewalks on their way to work were dressed as if they were in New York. No long dresses and aprons, no flowered scarves around their heads, just tailored suits and modest dresses, cardigan sweaters over neat slim pants. Sensible shoes or boots. I pressed my face against the window to see every building, bridge, and elegant shop I could spot.

  “We will see paintings by da Vinci, Caravaggio, Titian, great masters,” Andrei said, and I turned around in my seat to listen to him. “You must stay near me because are big crowds this week. Is school holiday and the museums are packed with Russian families as well as tourists. If you lose me, we meet in the lobby of the museum. I show you when we go in.” He waved his numbered sign. “Look for number twenty. Best paintings are on main floor where I take you. If you wish, you can go up to third floor to see third-rate paintings by Impressionists—Renoir, Gauguin, Degas—all those so-called artists who are not so good.”

  I almost jumped out of my seat in protest. Impressionist painters are my favorites. A print of Renoir’s A Girl with a Watering Can is hanging in my bedroom at home. I always head straight for the sun-filled rooms in museums with Impressionist paintings in them. I love the light, the soft colors, the flowers, the rounded pink nudes, the rosy cheeked children, and the tutu-wearing dancers. Evidently, this is all too decadent for Andrei.

  The bus stopped and there it was—the Hermitage. The museum I’ve wanted to see all my life. We climbed out of the coach and stood in Palace Square. We stared at the blue and white Winter Palace of the tsars, who lived there until 1917, when the Communist revolutionaries killed all the royals. I was awed by the size of it. Six buildings stretching along one side of the square held three million art exhibits. All were painted light blue and white, with two floors of windows side by side stretching the whole width of the palace. If you stayed there a week, looking at paintings and sculpture all day long, you’d never see all of it.