“Whew!” Terence heaved a big sigh and sagged against the piano in mock exhaustion. “Thank goodness that’s out of the way! Now, here’s the good part: This year I have assembled as talented and experienced a cast and crew as in any theatre company I’ve ever worked with, whether here or in New York. Allow me introduce you to one another.”
One by one, we each stood and said our name. It wasn’t all that hard to tell the local people—the Civilians—from the Seasoned Broadway Performers. Clothes, for example: theirs were briefer, tighter, and unbuttoned farther down, and there was a tendency to bare midsections. To my surprise, though, the Civilian women seemed to be wearing more makeup than the Seasoned Broadway Performers.
Terence’s corpulent, brown-bearded confidante turned out to be Chris Gold, the stage manager. When introduced, he waved to the crowd with a shy grin.
“Last, but by no means least, is my baby sister, Dierdre, joining us for the first time this summer.” From the first row, Terence pulled a pretty, strawberry-haired, freckle-faced girl to her feet. Making an embarrassed grimace at her brother, she nodded her head in a half-bow, then hastily sat. She had the same dancer’s grace. I guessed she was about my age.
“I don’t know her. Is she from around here?”
“She goes to St. Mary’s Academy,” Lily whispered back.
That explained it. Most of the kids we knew went to public school.
“ . . . and my lovely and talented wife, Pat Gerard.”
A tall, buxom woman with a wasp waist and a luxurious mop of shiny black hair stood and threw Terence a sultry kiss with long-taloned fingers. Even as she just stood there, she radiated glamour. Were her eyelashes false? If they weren’t, she was even luckier than Danny DiNicco.
“Isn’t she something? She looks like Cruella deVille, but she’s really nice. You need to ask her to show you the trunk.”
I opened my mouth to ask why and what trunk, but somebody thrust something in my hands. It was a soft book, about the size of my mother’s Ladies Home Journal, bound in thick brown paper. A label on the front bore the title of the play, The Last Leaf; and the names of the librettist, lyricist and composer. I turned the pages. It was nothing but sheet music with the lyrics.
“This is the musical script. Those of you with speaking parts already have your sides.” Terence pulled stacks of brown books from the cardboard box and passed them to outstretched hands. “We’re on a budget here, so only the principals have full scripts—yes?”
“What’s a side?”
It was Elm. I was filled with embarrassment at his ignorance.
“It’s a script with the cues and lines for your part only. You won’t need one, so don’t worry. Now remember, people, these scripts do not belong to us. Repeat, they are only rented. That is why you will observe Dictate Number One, which is—come on, veterans, what is it?”
Almost everybody looked up from their scripts and chanted together, heads bobbing, “Write lightly with number two pencil only!”
“Right! So it can be erased. And if you don’t observe this rule, you will have to purchase your script. And how much does a script cost?”
“Thirty-five dollars apiece!” some called in a bored voice.
Terence held up a finger. “Wrong! They’re forty this year!”
A hum of disbelief swept through the Civilians. I looked at my music with renewed respect.
Terence strolled over to where I sat and leaned over. “Amelia, I’m giving you a speaking part too.”
I could feel my cheeks redden with pleasure. “Really?”
He smiled. “Don’t get too excited, dear. It’s not that big. You’re Maud Kelly, washerwoman.” He handed me a plain typed page. “I have no doubt you’ll make something spectacular of it. It’s the last spoken line before the musical finale.”
I only had one line, given at the very end of the play: “A tragedy, that’s what it is. ’Tis a real shame.”
I murmured the line under my breath several times, affecting what I supposed was an Irish brogue under my breath until Lily shushed me. I’d have to work on it at home.
Terence looked at his watch. “We’re going to take our lunch break now. It’ll be longer than usual today. When you return, we will begin the first read-through, so be sure to eat hearty and get your potty breaks out of the way.”
Everyone stood and began stretching and gathering their belongings.
Terence raised his voice over the growing sound of banter. “Be back in two hours.”
“Two whole hours!” Lily said as we stepped out into the street.
“What did he mean about Forty-Second Street?”
“It’s an old movie about a Broadway show. The leading lady, who nobody likes anyway, breaks her leg and another girl takes her place and goes from unknown to star!” She ended the sentence dramatically, with a wide arm gesture. “Does that explain it well enough?”
“Yes. I remember that movie now. It was on TV. I just didn’t remember the title.”
I pushed open the theater door. The noontime sunshine caused us to squint after the relative gloom inside.
“You going home?” Lily asked.
“I don’t think so. My mother’s not expecting me. She gave me some money to get lunch. Let’s go to Mason’s.”
In the lower level of the variety store, under the stairs and next to the tires and the tools, was a snack counter where you could buy a hot dog and a soft drink for a dollar and a quarter. Mother expected me to get the nutritious, three dollar blue plate special at the Courthouse Cafe, but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her.
“That way, I can afford something at the Confeck after.” Suddenly feeling generous, I said, “I’ll even treat you. We can get ice cream cones.”
Thus it was that I happened to be standing just outside the tiny ladies’ restroom in the basement of Mason’s Variety. Loaded down with our purses, one under one each arm, two hot dogs and two paper cups of soda, I was waiting for Lily to emerge when Terence galloped down the wide staircase and strode past me at a high rate of speed. I opened my mouth to greet him, but before I could, he walked around a six-foot high wall of tires and was lost to my sight.
I reached out one foot to kick on the ladies’ room door to hurry Lily up. It was a stupid move because I was thrown off balance and just barely avoided dropping both our meals on the floor.
As I was gathering myself I heard, “Over here!” It was a female voice.
“Okay, I got the message! What’s going on?” Terence was whispering, but his theatre-trained voice carried easily to my ears. Suddenly, he gasped and sputtered in surprise. “Eileen? Begad, girl! What are you doing here? What were you thinking coming here?”
The answer to his question was a high-pitched whimper. I couldn’t make out the words.
“But why call me?” Terence asked.
Again I missed the response, but it sounded frantic.
“Yes, but don’t you know what danger this puts you in? You’ve got to go back! You were safe out there.”
Keeping a careful grip on our bargain meals, I edged closer to the stack of tires.
“ . . . and he always told me to come to you if I needed help,” whispered the female voice with a sob.
“Yes, yes, I know I owe your father a lot, but you don’t know who’s in my cast.” Terence’s voice grew louder. He was pacing closer to the stack of tires. “He’s very talented, but he’s also . . . well, connected. He seems all right, but I don’t know.”
I moved back a few steps and missed hearing the response. This Eileen, whoever she was, needed to work on her diction.
“Oh, all right. We’ll come up with something. Just let me think about it. I’m going to have to talk to Pat about this.”
The sounds of everyday commerce at the Mason’s automotive department—voices, cash registers, the muffled staccato of an impact wrench in the nearby garage—filled the silence as I strained my ears and lost a little relish off Lily’s hot dog.
Eileen murmu
red again.
“All right, all right. I’ll have Pat meet you there later. But you’ve got to promise to . . . ” Again the ambient noise drowned out his words.
I edged forward and stumbled into a metal stand displaying cardboard tire cutouts. The stand fell over, and immediately Terence came around the divider to face me. The expression on his face was not a friendly one.
I felt myself shrinking under my load of hot dogs, cups of soda, and wallets. “Um, sorry.” I glanced past him to get a glimpse of Mystery Girl, but this Eileen person had vanished. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. We were—I mean, Lily and I were—um, getting lunch.” I held up my burdens by way of explanation. “I thought I heard crying and—”
Terence stepped closer. “Amelia—” I didn’t like his stern tone.
He was interrupted by the sound of a flushing toilet.
He took my elbow, leaned in and whispered roughly in my ear, “We’ll speak of this later.” And he was gone.
Hastily I returned to my post. By the time the restroom door began to open, Terence had galloped back up the stairs at surprising speed. Well, he was a dancer.
I handed over Lily’s wallet, hot dog, and drink. “Wait a minute.”
I stepped around the wall of tires and scanned the scene, looking for clues to explain what I’d just heard. There were two well-worn plastic-covered chairs and a small table littered with ragged issues of catalogs and Mechanics Illustrated as well as several tall cardboard signs boasting of tire prices, but nothing to indicate just what the heck was going on. Eileen must have left by the garage entrance, which was across the street from the Greyhound bus station. Hmm.
“What gives?” Lily was standing behind me.
I shrugged and turned. “It’s nothing. Come on, let’s go eat these in the park.”
CHAPTER FIVE
“Isn’t this cute?” I asked Lily. “It’s a tiny stewardess uniform!” We’d been strolling down the aisles of Vickery’s dime store after lunch and happened on the toy department. “Look at the little wing pin on the lapel.”
Lily wrinkled her nose. “It’s just a doll. I outgrew that stuff years ago! Besides, it’s a knockoff of the real one.”
“I just like to collect them,” I declared in order to justify my childish interest. I picked up a brunette version.
Lily gave a snorting giggle. “She looks like Pat Gerard. Look at that chest!”
“That’s not nice, Lily. She—omigosh! Look!”
It was Pat Gerard herself, walking rapidly up the aisle toward the checkout as quickly as her husband had just done a half hour earlier in Mason’s. Scowling, she swept past without noticing us. In one hand she carried an inexpensive yellow cotton sundress with a sunflower pattern at least several sizes too small for herself and, in the other, a shoebox. Frowning, tapping her foot, she paid for her selections and left, pushing through the heavy door impatiently.
“Well,” said Lily, to the closing door, “ignore us, why don’t cha?” She turned to me. “What do you think that was all about?”
I could have told Lily what I’d heard in Mason’s Variety, but if I’d stumbled on a private family crisis, to tell about it—especially to a gossip like Lily—seemed like a betrayal. Besides, maybe that dress wasn’t for Eileen.
I shrugged. “Who knows?” It wasn’t really a lie.
Forty minutes later the entire company had reassembled in the auditorium. Chris Gold paced back and forth next to the piano, checking his watch frequently, stroking his beard and frowning. Finally, at two-fifteen, he whispered something to the pianist, who nodded. Then he stepped forward.
“Ladies and gentlemen, unfortunately Terence and Pat are unavoidably detained, so we’ll begin without them. As stage manager I’ll be stepping in on the occasions when Terence is busy. So if you’ll turn to page one of your scripts, we’ll begin the musical read-through. Linda, will you read for Pat’s part—you know, the landlady, Mrs. Kline?”
The musical read-through was just that. No costumes, no sets and no makeup, just the spoken lines and the songs, sung from the music, accompanied by the piano, but they were enough for me. From the first note of the overture, I was transported to a dilapidated cold-water Greenwich Village apartment right along with the characters. It was thrilling.
But we weren’t doing a radio play, I thought. How on earth was Terence going to manage the scenery? I’d read that the complicated two-story set in the original production had won the show a Tony award. The opening, “Greenwich Montage,” a musical pastiche of a Currier and Ives print depicting Central Park at the turn of the twentieth century, was said to have used a revolving stage. There was a photo of it on one of my albums.
“Do you think you could paint my portrait?” The first words the Lover (played by Danny) says to the young artist Johnsie (played by Terence’s sister Dierdre) begins a flirtation that leads to a passionate romance lasting only through two songs, “Greenwich Montage” and “Art and Cold Water,” about the only apartments available to impoverished artists.
In parting, the Lover sings a rather hypocritical song to justify his leaving: “I’m Doing This for You.” The heartbroken Johnsie falls into an unnamed, life-threatening illness. As her sister, Beatrice, (played by Celia Hurley) struggles to keep Johnsie alive, their neighbor, old reprobate painter Max (also played by Danny, in heavy makeup and body padding), makes things even more difficult with his loud drunkenness. The song, “Survival of The Fittest,” tells of Max’s lifelong ambition to be a famous artist. Max pretends to be heartless, but he is touched by the plight of the two sisters and secretly arranges to help them out financially.
Neil, playing Mick O’Shaunnesy, sweetheart of Johnsie’s sister Beatrice, introduces a note of humor as he explains to the girl why he doesn’t have a job, and isn’t likely to get one. He pulls a sign from a storefront and holds it aloft: “No Irish Need Apply.” He then sings and dances to a sprightly Irish jig with a note of sadness.
I’ll ever be a son of Erin
So please don’t ask me why
I crossed the wide sea
To be in a place
Where no Irish need apply . . .
He sweeps Beatrice into his arms, dances with her and tries to persuade her to come west with him where
Alls there is is cowboys and a wide blue open sky
And nary a sign put anyplace, No Irish Need Apply!
Mick asks Beatrice to marry him, but though she loves him, she chooses to remain with her sister, who needs her. Mick departs sadly. I could tell that Neil was perfect for this part.
Johnsie (a whining character that I found rather tiresome) decides that her life force parallels that of a dying vine clinging to the wall just outside her window. In the song “The Last Leaf,” Johnsie says that every day, several leaves fall from the vine and soon they will all be gone. She has decided that the day the last leaf falls will also be her last. Beatrice is frantic and sings the impassioned descant “Hold on and Grow” over her sister’s melody of despair. The intermission curtain falls.
Chris Gold stood. “Okay, that’s Act One, everybody. Let’s take a break right here.” He consulted his watch. “Let’s all be back in fifteen.”
As everyone filed up the center aisle, Pat Gerard shouldered her way down to the stage and had a brief whispered consultation with Chris. Beckoning to Deirdre, she escorted the puzzled girl up the aisle. They disappeared into the lobby.
When we all returned from our break, Terence was standing in front of the piano. “I apologize for the delay, ladies and gentlemen. Family business and all that.”
Deirdre and a girl with long blonde hair made their way together down the aisle.
Lily beat a tattoo on my shoulder with her index finger, whispering, “Look-look-look! Look at what’s she’s wearing!”
“Who’s wearing?” I whispered back.
“That girl there. She’s got on a yellow flowered sundress. I think it’s the one Pat bought at Vickery’s.”
“You’re right!
” I whispered back.
Terence clapped his hands. “Quiet everyone! Let’s get started! Act Two.”
Max opens the act by singing “What’s Your Pleasure?” expressing the artist’s frustration at not being able to sell his abstract paintings. He ends the song by throwing a large painting out the window into the street, where it remains.
As Max storms out of his flat, he finds Beatrice crying on the stairs. She tells him that there is only one fragile leaf left on Johnsie’s vine. He sings with her “If I Could Believe,” which gives Beatrice courage to mount the steps and try again to pull Johnsie out of her deathwatch.
As Max contemplates the girls’ problem, an art dealer, Leonard Price, enters with the remains of Max’s painting and in a comic scene sings “Caveat Emptor—Let the Buyer Beware!” and offers to try to sell Max’s work.
There is a reprise of Johnsie’s miserable song of self-pity and doom, ending when Beatrice angrily tells her sister that she has turned down a marriage proposal to help her. Johnsie seems even more determined to die soon.
That night, in an act of unselfish love, Max mounts a tall ladder outside Johnsie’s window and paints a lifelike picture of a leaf on the wall. The bitter cold makes the task extremely difficult, and Max works most of the night, singing a different, unselfish version of the faithless Lover’s farewell song, “I’m Doing This for You.”
At sunrise Johnsie wakes and is surprised to find the leaf still firmly attached to the wall. She sings the delicate “I’ve Always Loved Mornings,” demonstrating a renewed interest in life. She asks for soup, and an overjoyed Beatrice hastens to prepare it. As the soup cooks, Beatrice writes a letter to Mick, promising to join him in a month.
Outside, a policeman finds the frozen body of Max slumped at the base of the ladder, just as Max’s friend Leonard Price arrives with the good news that he has found a buyer for the artist’s work.
Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) Page 4