Theater Nights Are Murder

by Libby Klein

  “Duke wasn’t depressed. He had a lead role in a play and his grandson was coming for a visit this weekend to see him in the play.”

  “If I recall, his note said he’d just suffered a breakup. That can set a lot of people over the edge.”

  “If Duke had a lover, it was a secret affair. No one had ever seen him on a date or heard him talk about a girlfriend.”

  Amber put her notebook away. “So. Lots of people like to keep their romantic lives private. Not everyone flaunts their love triangles around town.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Amber put her hands up. “Hey, I’m not judging you. I get it. You’re back in town, recently widowed, hooking up with your old boyfriend and a piece on the side. Nobody’s business but yours. But you mark my words, the way those two men were fuming at each other at the culinary school the last time you interfered with a crime scene . . . I’ve investigated enough domestic disputes and crimes of passion to know you have trouble on the horizon.”

  How did this become about my love life? I tried to calm down and let her intrusive analysis roll off my shoulders. “This isn’t about me. It’s about Duke McCready. The ladies have evidence that the catwalk was tampered with, and a lot of strange things have been going on in the theater.”

  “There is not a thing I can do about any of that, McAllister. I’m not the officer in charge of the case. I’ve got my own investigation in progress. I’m only here to follow up on the nuisance report. I wish I were more surprised to find out that you’re involved.”

  “That’s hardly fair.”

  “Save it. If you have evidence to share about Duke McCready, call Officer Birkwell. You should probably have that number memorized by heart.”

  Amber strode back up the aisle to the exit and I imagined going William Tell with that bun on her head. One day she would need my help. And I wasn’t sure I’d be inclined to give it to her.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Why do I have to go with you? I’m going to be like a third wheel.”

  “You heard Royce. He said we’ll be spending a lot of time together. He wants to get to know you.”

  “He knows me just fine.” Especially if he’s a murderer.

  “Royce never had children of his own, I think he wants a family.”

  “He has Fiona and Iggy.”

  Aunt Ginny made a face and stuck her tongue out. “Okay, fair enough, but does he have to get to know me tonight?”

  “Hey, don’t get sassy with me. I’m not the one who invited you.”

  “But why’d you pick there of all places?”

  “You have to face your fears sometime.”

  I stomped upstairs to my bedroom on the third floor as Aunt Ginny hollered behind me, “We have to leave in twenty minutes.”

  I was more than a little bit put out. I was furious. About what, I didn’t really know. Just a general anger because I don’t like being told what to do, I guess. I’m fortysomething years old. When do I get to do what I want?

  I’m not dressing up, I’ll tell you that. I pulled out my long black skirt and wine-colored chiffon blouse. I did have melted chocolate on my pink flannel from making Stud Muffins earlier. I got dressed and put on a pair of tall black boots. Then went to the bathroom and brushed out my braid, creating a giant, frizzy helmet over my head. It would serve them right if I went just like this. I sprayed my frizz down with a misting bottle and conditioning oil until I had tamed it into soft waves. I freshened up my makeup and considered lining my eyes with thick black rings to punish Aunt Ginny. Only she would rise to the challenge and request the table in the middle of the room. If I showed up at Maxine’s with giant frizzy hair and black rings around my eyes, I’m the only one who would be uncomfortable. Tim would find the whole situation hilarious.

  My phone buzzed. I had a review alert from Yelp. I held my breath. GnobtheGnome left me one star. He said my bed-and-breakfast was infested with fleas from a mangy cat. Tears welled up in my eyes and I wanted to snuggle Figaro for the unjust slander he had no idea he’d received. My cat is not mangy! Why is this happening? Is this Joey and Val? GnobtheGnome’s profile says he’s from Delaware. So, not Joey and Val from Philly.

  Well, it was worth a shot. Someone was targeting the bed-and-breakfast, or me specifically. A dreadful thought crossed my mind and I checked the reviews for La Dolce Vita. There had been two one-star reviews left in the last two days. Both reviewers said the coffee was great, but the baked goods brought the score down. One reviewer said, “Beware! Not really Gluten-Free. I’ve been sick all day since eating one of La Dolce Vita’s muffins. I should sue! Someone needs to report them to the health department.” The other review was just as spiteful. To make my humiliation worse, Gia had responded very professionally to both reviews, saying he thanked them for coming in, and La Dolce Vita has only the highest-quality gluten-free ingredients and a strict adherence to quality control. He was sorry they didn’t have a good experience and that he hoped they would find another place more to their liking.

  I wiped tears from my eyes before I remembered I was wearing mascara. I checked Maxine’s Bistro, but the reviews of late were all good. There was even a couple who raved over the new dessert menu, so that was promising.

  Aunt Ginny hollered for me to get the lead out. I cleaned the mascara from around my eyes and grabbed my purse before heading downstairs.

  Joey and Val were in the library in front of the fire on their cell phones. Figaro was in Val’s lap and she was petting him. He looked at me through slits for eyes. I told them we’d be back in a couple of hours and that they should call my cell phone if they needed me. They waved us on.

  I was getting Aunt Ginny settled in the passenger seat of my car when I noticed that maroon Marquis was still parked on the street down a ways from Mr. Winston’s house. His daughter doesn’t usually stay but a few hours when she visits. I hope everything’s okay.

  Maxine’s had a decent crowd for a Monday night in February. About half the tables were occupied. The hostess took our coats and led us to the main dining room in front of the fireplace. Royce stood when we entered. “Here’s my girl.” He handed Aunt Ginny a dozen red roses and kissed her. Then he surprised me and handed me a dozen pink roses. “And for her lovely granddaughter.”

  Aunt Ginny corrected him as she took her place by his side. “Niece.”

  Royce looked surprised. “She’s your niece?”

  Aunt Ginny nodded. “I never had children.”

  Royce raised his eyebrows. “Five husbands and you never had children?”

  Aunt Ginny shrugged. “Well, the five husbands often acted like babies, so that made up for it.”

  Royce laughed rich and deep. It was easy to see how he had made a living on Broadway with that voice.

  “Mr. Hansen,” I said, “everyone is so excited to have a professional actor in the play. I’m curious, how did you hear about the Cape May Senior Center musical?”

  Royce grinned broadly. Clearly, we were talking about a subject he was very comfortable discussing. “I was eating my lunch at Carnegie Deli when I got an email from Neil. He said he was the new director of the Senior Center in my hometown, and would I like to star in a play for charity.”

  Aunt Ginny and I looked at each other. Aunt Ginny picked up her water glass and asked me around the side of it, “What charity exactly?”

  Before Royce could continue, our waitress came over to tell us tonight’s specials. I wanted to order the seafood pasta in the worst way. Instead, I begrudgingly asked for the filet mignon and steamed broccoli. I feel like something is very wrong with your relationship to food when you grieve over having to suffer through a thirty-dollar steak and broccoli when all over the world people are eating a handful of rice every few days. Maybe I need therapy.

  The waitress left, and Royce continued his story. “I was surprised to hear from Neil because no one knows my personal email address but family and close friends. But apparently, he’d been writing letters to my a
gent for months.” Royce laughed. “They must have gotten lost in the mail. Ernie said he never got a single one. Can you imagine?”

  Aunt Ginny and I made eye contact again. Aunt Ginny muttered, “Yes, that is hard to believe.”

  “Well, I had just closed a run of A Christmas Carol a few nights earlier, to great reviews—really, the press in New York is just fabulous. And I was wondering what my next project should be.”

  The sommelier, who, I happened to know, was just Carlos the waiter unless someone wanted to order wine, came and suggested a bottle of Pinot Grigio or Picpoul de Pinet to go with Royce’s and Aunt Ginny’s dinners. Royce chose the Picpoul and Carlos went to fetch it.

  “Then the strangest thing happened.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “I got a call from Fee, telling me she needed my help, and could I please come home. Well, I took that as a sign from the universe and moved back to my old stomping grounds to help out my sister.”

  I nodded along. “That was very nice of you. So, when did you agree to do Mamma Mia!? After you knew you were coming home to Cape May?”

  Royce grinned at me blankly. “Did I tell you about A Christmas Carol?”

  Aunt Ginny cocked her head to the side like a bird. “You may have mentioned it, yes.”

  “Fabulous reviews. The press in New York is just fabulous.”

  Carlos returned with the wine and Tim came with him bearing baskets of bread. “Hey, gorgeous. Carlos said you were out here, and I wanted to deliver these to you personally.” He placed the basket of rolls in front of me with a grin. “I made them special for you.” He said hello to Aunt Ginny while I sniffed my basket.

  I looked under the cloth napkin expecting to see snowflake rolls like Aunt Ginny and Royce were digging into. But instead, I had corn muffins.

  “Gluten free and with a side of honey butter.”

  “Ooh.” Okay, did I just shudder in delight over corn muffins and honey butter? I really do need therapy. I bit into one. “You did a great job, I love them.”

  “I figure I need to come up with some gluten-free dishes to take care of my girl.”

  Aunt Ginny kicked me under the table.

  “I’m thinking about adding them to the bread basket every night, so I have something gluten free if it’s requested.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea.” I introduced Tim to Royce and they shook hands.

  “Make sure you save room for dessert. Tonight’s special is white chocolate raspberry cheesecake.” He winked at me. “And so far, I’ve already sold out of one.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Aunt Ginny said. “I got to lick the bowl and it was purty good.”

  Royce smiled. “You do a good business here, I take it?”

  “We’ve been booming since Restaurant Week last month. I’m going to have to hire more staff when the South Jersey Dining Guide comes out.”

  Maxine’s was doing well. I was relieved that the bad reviews hadn’t reached Tim. “I got some more trolls today.”

  Tim took my hand in his. “I’m sorry, Mack.”

  “They’re attacking the coffee shop now because I do the baking.”

  He shook his head. “Not cool.”

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to stop it?”

  “Short of hiring a PR firm and a lawyer, there’s nothing I know of. Besides, all the reviews are coming from different accounts, right?”

  “Yes, but most of them are brand new and they always leave one or two reviews for someone else, usually five star.”

  Tim shook his head. “Yeah. That’s how they get around being flagged as fake. Unfortunately, I think you’re just going to have to ride this one out.”

  Royce and Aunt Ginny gave me sympathetic smiles even though they had no idea what I was talking about.

  The waitress came over carrying a tray and placed two plates piled high with seafood pasta in front of Aunt Ginny and Royce. Then she placed the filet mignon and steamed broccoli in front of me. “Bon appétit.”

  My imagination played Def Leppard’s “Bringin’ on the Heartbreak.” I really do need therapy.

  Tim stood to go. “I’ll let you enjoy your dinner. You made great choices. And Poppy, let’s get together in the next couple of days. I have something very important I want to ask you.” He winked.

  Aunt Ginny kicked me under the table again. Her eyes were as big as the scallops nestled in her angel hair.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  I had a nightmare that I cheated on my diet with marshmallow Peeps. I woke up in a cold sweat. Figaro was watching me calmly from the end of the bed. I sensed his thoughts were, Where are these Peeps you speak of?

  “Fig, it was horrible.”

  Figaro bit my foot. Fig had a different concept of comfort than the rest of us.

  “Okay, that’s rude.”

  My cell phone chimed, and I looked at the screen. It was a selfie of Sawyer with eight roses, a box of Godiva chocolates, and a gigantic smile.

  I got out of bed and tried to shake off the dream. I took a deep breath and ran through my yoga workout and my morning routine. Fig led me down the backstairs to the kitchen as if I’d forgotten where it was and I sat at the table with a carton of sugar-free coconut yogurt while Aunt Ginny heated water for coffee.

  “It’s silly to let it upset you this much. It didn’t happen.”

  “It felt very real.”

  “So, what if you did eat the Peeps? Life is too short to obsess over a few carbs.”

  “I’m trying really hard right now. Don’t you think I need to lose some weight?”

  Aunt Ginny gave me an appraising look. “You could stand to lose a few pounds in the middle there, but everything else is fine.”

  “That’s a small comfort.”

  “I just think you’re going overboard with it. How much kale can a person eat?”

  I went to the oven and shook the Southwest breakfast casserole. It was just about set. I turned the oven off and left the door open a crack, so it would finish baking on carryover heat. “Well, nothing else is working.”

  “You already walk three miles a day, do yoga, and eat practically nothing but vegetables. At some point you might just have to accept that this is you and be okay with that.”

  Crazy woman, crazy talk.

  The timer went off that the coffee was ready, so I plunged the press. “This is the happiest part of my day.”

  A clicking sound thumping into the cabinets drew my attention and I had to extract Figaro from the empty yogurt cup he had lodged on his head. His pink tongue fought furiously to catch the last schmear.

  Aunt Ginny peeked into the dining room. “The silver fox is early.”

  Charles and Barbara Ainsworth had arrived from Cape Cod yesterday afternoon for a romantic Valentine’s week getaway. Charles had the chiseled features and a strong body used to hours on the StairMaster. His gray hair and tailored sport coat gave him a George Clooney/Richard Gere kinda vibe and I had to drag Aunt Ginny away from the door before she started drooling.

  I took the carafe of coffee out to the sideboard with the cream and sugar. “Good morning, Mr. Ainsworth.”

  He held up a finger. “Ah-ah. Remember, you’re to call me Chigsie. All my friends do.”

  I smiled and handed him a china cup and saucer. “All right, Chigsie.”

  As if on cue, his wife came through the sitting room. “And call me Bunny. Bar-bara sounds like my mother.”

  Bunny had all the earmarks of having been a trophy wife twenty years earlier. Platinum blonde, French tip manicure, dripping with diamonds, and a body that had put in many hours with a personal trainer or tennis coach. “I just love your little inn, Poppy. It’s so quaint.”

  “Thank you. It’s been in my family since the 1800s.”

  “How delightful.” She helped herself to the coffee, black, one Splenda, I noticed.

  “And how did you like the Purple Emperor suite?”

  Bunny reached out and touched my arm. “It
’s darling! I’ve always wanted to sleep in a four-poster bed, haven’t I, Chigsie?”

  “You have.”

  “We have an antique, hand-carved French Provincial at home and it’s nice to have something rustic for a change. It makes me feel like I’ve stepped back in time. And those sheets are divine. I must know where you bought them.”

  “I’ll try to get you the name of the store.”

  I went back through the kitchen door and ran into Aunt Ginny holding out the carafe of juice in one hand and the muffin basket in the other. “Let me help you.”

  “You just want to get a better look at Chigsie, don’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What would Royce say about that?”

  “Who cares? He doesn’t own me.”

  We carried the items into the dining room, where Bunny was reading the stamp on the bottom of the china cups. “I just love antique china. I have a vintage set of Limoges Nosegay, service for ten. It’s such a darling little pattern. So happy.”

  Aunt Ginny added the juice to the sideboard while I placed the muffins on the main table and described them.

  Bunny threaded her arm through Chigsie’s. “I have my stud muffin right here.” She gave him a brilliant smile that he returned.

  Aunt Ginny turned on the charm that was usually reserved for the man at the deli counter and the volunteer fireman handing out the bingo cards. “So, what brings you to America’s oldest seaside resort?”

  Chigsie pulled out a chair for Bunny. “We usually winter in the South of France this time of year.”

  Bunny picked up the story from there, as seemed to be their custom. “Chigsie works in finance and he has clients all over the world. Have you been to Nice?”

  I shook my head no. Aunt Ginny said yes.

  “Monte Carlo?”

  Again, I said no. Aunt Ginny said yes.

  “Marseilles?”

  This time we both said no.

  “They are so beautiful. And the food is so fresh. You could just pick lemons and oranges right off your trees and eat them.”

  Val and Joey meandered in, having just rolled out of bed. Joey was scratching his stomach and yawning. They were both barefoot and in their pajamas, not that we minded, but it caught Bunny off guard and she paused in her story.