by Joan Hess
Caron turned her gasp on me. “Mother.”
The word consisted of two simple syllables and was the generic term to describe a biological relationship. Etymologically speaking, it came from the Greek meter, the Latin mater, or perhaps the Sanskrit matr. Caron’s inflection imbued it with darkly mystical properties that brought to mind a jury foreman pointing an accusatory finger at a despicable felon destined to swing by the neck for a long, long time—if the jury had its druthers, anyway.
I smiled at Luanne. “I’ll get you for this.”
She smiled at me. “I know you will.”
Caron smiled at everyone.
The next afternoon I stood next to Luanne at the back of the auditorium. Despite her petty victory, she did not look especially happy. I was hardly abubble with glee myself. Tweedlehum and Tweedledrum. On the stage, forty rows of seats down from us, a girl in a stiff pink tutu was trying to coax a recalcitrant Pekinese in a pink clown’s hat to leap through a hula hoop. She’d been wheedling away for five solid minutes.
“So what remains to be done?” I asked in a low voice.
“Here’s the schedule,” she said as she handed me a creased paper. “Today the girls have fifteen minutes each to rehearse, and then they can wander away to pad their bras or whatever. Tomorrow morning is when things get harried. We have the technical, full-dress rehearsal at nine, and I’m hoping we can finish by noon. The girls have a luncheon with the judges at one; it’s at Sally’s cafe. The parade’s at three, although only Cyndi and one of the judges will participate in that. Then we get serious at eight for the preliminary round, which results in the selection of the seven finalists for the grand finale on Saturday night at eight. During the day, the finalists will have to work on the production number for Saturday night, of course, and we’ll have to schedule the talent to avoid a fatal dose of monotonality and batons.”
“That doesn’t sound too dreadful,” I said mendaciously. “Who are the judges, when do they appear, and where do we stash them?”
Luanne leaned back against the wall and rubbed her eyes. “It’s written down in the notebook somewhere, but it’s all done. I’m feeling like hell right now; I think I’m going to limp to the office and lie down for a few minutes. Can you keep the rehearsal moving?”
“Can I order teenaged girls on and off the stage, you mean? You go lie down. We’ll zip through this thing and be home in time for cocktails.”
She moved past me and went down the corridor on the side of the auditorium. I kept one eye on the contestant on the stage while I glanced through Luanne’s notebook. I discovered that the judges were to be State Senator Buell “Steve” Stevenson, who would also serve as emcee; Orkin Avery, the illustrious mayor of Farberville and the local Mercedes dealer when not snipping ribbons and breaking ground; and an unknown quantity described tersely as W. H. Maugahyder. Steve was due to arrive shortly to rehearse; the latter two were slated to appear in time for the luncheon and not a minute sooner, since we had no place in which to stash, alas.
I found two sketchy floor plans of the Thurber Street Theater. One showed the lobby and concession area out front, the two corridors on either side of the auditorium ( Luanne had designated spots for ushers) , and the stage and rows of seats. The judges were to sit in the front row, with a table in front of them so they could sip water and write down cryptic notes during the pageant. A short flight of stairs on the left side of the orchestra pit led to the basement, and there was a greenroom on the right side of the stage so the girls could pace and shred tissues or whatever would-be queens did in the critical preco-ronation moments.
The second sketch showed the basement dressing room. Two long, narrow rooms were for the contestants, and I could envision the chaos of clothing, nylons, leotards, hair dryers, cosmetic bags, batons, pooper scoopers, and other paraphernalia that would fill the rooms to waist level at best. One room, no bigger than a breadbox, had a star drawn on it. The reigning Miss Thurberfest, I guessed. Royalty had its reward, even if it was six by six, damp, and apt to be as cozy as a crypt.
“Oooh, bad dog!” squealed a voice from the stage. “Couldn’t you have waited five more minutes? Oh, really, Chou-Chou, I could just spank you!”
“Don’t bother. I’m going to barbecue the mutt,” growled a second voice, although I couldn’t determine its point of origin.
The girl snatched up her dog and clutched him to her chest. “Don’t you say that in front of Chou-Chou. He happens to have a very, very good pedigree and never peepees on the floor at home. Besides, he’s already all nervous about doing his tricks, and I don’t want him to be intimidated by some nasty old threat.”
“Read my lips. If the damn dog pisses on the stage one more time, he’ll never be scared again,” the voice continued.
“Ooh, you are so rude!” The girl scampered off stage, her pink ballet shoes leaving damp smudges on the wooden surface. Chou-Chou gazed over her shoulder with an enigmatic expression, perhaps gauging the potential for a vicious attack on someone’s ankle.
While I stared, rather amused by the brief scene, a lanky figure appeared from one side of the orchestra pit. In fact, he rose from the depths like a missile from a silo, which gave me a hint of his identity. As I strolled down the aisle to meet the owner of the Thurber Street Theater, he went onto the stage and began to wipe up a puddle with a rag from his back pocket. He was decidedly tall, with light brown hair that needed a trim and a scraggly goatee that needed serious professional attention. His faded work shirt and overalls emphasized exceptionally long limbs, but his movements were brisk and economical.
“I’m Claire Malloy,” I said to his back.
“Is that so?” He finished the chore, then tossed the rag into the orchestra pit and started to walk away.
“I’m helping Luanne with the pageant,” I persisted.
He stopped and looked back at me. “Then tell that girl I meant what I said about the damn dog pissing on the stage. The uric acid eats the wood, and I’ve put too much time and money into remodeling this rat trap to have some halfass excuse for a dustmop damage it because of a nervous bladder. Understand?”
“I’ll tell her,” I said mildly, not yet ready to declare war on the man——although not yet sure I wouldn’t change my mind in the immediate future. “I’ve noticed the theater for years, but it was boarded up. How long have you been remodeling it?”
He cocked his head to one side and gave me what might have been a crooked smile. “I bought it seven months ago, give or take a month. It’s a hell of a fine building architecturally, and the structure’s still good. It was built back in the forties as an opera house; you can see where the boxes were before some fool plastered over them. It was a movie house in the fifties, an art cinema in the sixties, and a gay nightclub up until about ten years ago, when it was condemned and allowed to deteriorate.”
“You’ve done a remarkable job restoring it.”
“It’s become an obsession with me,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve tarred the roof, plastered, painted, put down new carpet, reupholstered the seats, and tried everything possible to combat the mildew that seeps up from the basement. I’m hocked up to my armpits with the bank, but I’ve about got this dame back in shape.”
“So you’re a professional restorer?” I asked, thinking about a stain on my office ceiling that might be symptomatic of roof rot, and therefore overlooking his use of the word dame, which was not one of my favorites.
“Now I am. I used to be a local politician before I overdosed on hot air and bullshit.” He came across the stage in a few giant steps and held out his hand. “David McWethy—Mac to those with a limited attention span.”
I shook the hand that had held the rag that had wiped up the puddle that had come from the dog that had pissed on the stage that Mac rebuilt. “Nice to meet you, Mac,” I said with a small nod. “I’m Claire Malloy and I own the Book Depot down the street.”
I waited for him to praise my architecture, but he merely grunted and said, “I’m surpr
ised you or anyone else with a brain larger than a wart on a preacher’s ass would be associated with this nonsense.”
“It falls in the area of civic duty, I suppose. It’ll be over Saturday night, and the girls will all wander back to the real world.”
“I wouldn’t presume they can find it on the first try.” He scratched his chin as he gazed in the direction Chou-Chou’s owner had fled. “Just when you think you’ve seen the bottom of the well of human stupidity, someone like that girl comes along to demonstrate that the well has no bottom.”
“She seemed fairly typical to me,” I murmured, wondering why I felt obliged to defend her—or anything linked with the impending travesty.
“Oh, really?” he said in a shrill falsetto. He then turned on his heel and went through the door to the greenroom. After a moment, I heard a girlish shriek and the pitter-patter of girlish feet in the corridor. The expletives ( by necessity deleted) that followed were not at all girlish.
Chou-Chou, it seemed, had done it again. Shame, shame.
TWO
I sat in the front row and kept my eyes on my wristwatch as a series of girls sang, twirled, recited, leaped around in leotards, and evinced no discernible talent. On the other hand, I discovered I had a real talent for peremptory commands and heartless refusals to give any of them an extra minute in the soon-to-be limelight. Julianna managed to give me a small smile while interpreting “Feelings” from a cassette player, but most of the others were too involved in their performances to acknowledge my presence. I did not allow my hypotenuse to get bent out of shape.
Once we had heard the antepenultimate, penultimate, and ultimate renditions of “The Impossible Dream,” I stood up and started to leave. Before I reached the end of the row, a dark-haired girl appeared from the wings and came down to the edge of the stage. “Excuse me,” she said, “but how is Mrs. Bradshaw? Will she be working with us now?”
“Mrs. Bradshaw’s ankle was bothering her, and she went to lie down in the office.” I did not recognize the girl, who had not twirled, sang, recited or tried to convince an animal to do unnatural things. “Did I skip you on the rehearsal schedule?” I asked. “You may have a turn now, if you wish.”
“Oh, that’s okay,” she murmured, fluttering her lashes above enormous brown eyes. She had a pretty, heart-shaped face and a complexion that would shame a peach. The corners of her mouth turned down for a fleeting second and she gave me an encore of the flutters. “I’m not really into sick people, but I feel just awful about Mrs. Bradshaw. Is there anything I can do for her?”
“I’m going to check on her as soon as we’re finished here.” I went on to introduce myself and admit my role in the proceedings.
“I’m Cyndi Jay, the reigning Miss Thurberfest. It’s really, really nice of you to help Mrs. Bradshaw, Mrs. Malloy. We all feel just terrible about what happened to her—and I feel the worst of all.” As she shook her head, several of the contestants drifted out from behind the curtain to gather around her and shake their heads, too.
I looked at the serious expressions and all that shiny, bouncy hair. “Why, Cyndi? Did you trip her?”
“Oh, my goodness, no! It’s just that Mrs. Bradshaw was on my mark when she caught her heel on that nasty nail and fell. If she hadn’t been showing me how to do the ending, I would have been the one to get hurt.” She moved to the center of the stage and pointed at a chalky scrawl. “See? The nail was right there where I’m supposed to be for the touch-kick-touch-two-three-four-kick.”
Julianna timidly touched a royal shoulder. “You don’t think someone pulled up that nail on purpose, do you?”
“Of course not,” Cyndi said firmly. “This building is just old and decrepit; it should be condemned. I’m really surprised it ever passed any wiring or plumbing inspections, and it’s a miracle the ceiling doesn’t collapse right on top of us. Why, there are probably a million nails poking out of the wood all over the place.”
“There are not,” came a now-familiar growl from the darkness in the back of the stage. “I checked every nail on the stage last week so none of you girls would stub any of your pretty little pinkies. As for the roof, keep up that caterwauling you call singing and it damn well might collapse. The insurance company will consider it an act of God.”
Several of the vocalists stiffened, but Cyndi merely looked pensive for a moment, then came back to the corner of the stage. “Well, I’m totally sick about Mrs. Bradshaw’s ankle, but we are supposed to run through the opening number for tomorrow night. Some of the girls are a tiny bit unclear about the steps.”
“So am I,” I admitted cheerfully. “Mrs. Bradshaw seemed to think you know what you’re doing, however, so why don’t you direct things while I go up to the office for a minute or two?”
She wrinkled her nose at the group hovering nearby. “If it’s okay with everybody, I can try. We did a similar number at the Miss Apple Festival, and I’ll be happy to help everybody so we’ll look really, really swell tomorrow night for our moms and dads and boyfriends. And the judges, of course.”
At the mention of the dreaded triumvirate, the girls began to scurry across the stage to wherever they were supposed to be. Cyndi asked me to tell Mrs. Bradshaw how really, really sorry she was, and how she really, really hoped Mrs. Bradshaw’s ankle wasn’t hurting really, really, really bad. Although I doubted Luanne wanted such a hefty dose of reality, I assured her I would convey the essence of the sentiment and went up the corridor to the lobby.
The office door was locked. I tapped, then knocked, and finally pounded with my fist, all the while entertaining ghastly images of Luanne’s unconscious form sprawled across the carpet. She had mentioned a mild concussion, I thought worriedly, and was the sort to laugh it off all the way to the morgue.
I was glancing around for a battering ram when Caron and Inez came through the front entrance. Inez Thornton was Caron’s best friend ( when not at Rhonda McGuire’s house) and a perfect counterfoil for my daughter’s histrionic approach to life. Inez must have peaked in her prepubescent days, for she was faded at the ripe old age of fifteen. She had limp brown hair, dusty freckles, a lumpy body, and flat eyes behind thick glasses.
The two were an interesting study in contrasts. When Caron wallowed in imprudence, Inez was there to pat her shoulder and offer circumspect analysis. Caron’s mildest statements ended with an exclamation mark, Inez’s every declaration with an implicit question mark. Caron flung herself off the metaphorical cliff. Inez looked a dozen times before she leaped—or dared to cross the street.
“What on earth are you doing, Mother?” Caron asked sternly. “We could see you from the street—as could Other People.”
“Luanne’s in there, and the door’s locked.”
Inez blinked at her best friend’s deranged mother. “Maybe she’s asleep or wants to be left alone, Mrs. Malloy.”
“Then she isn’t going to get her wish,” I said. “Go find Mr. McWethy and ask him if he has a key. I’m afraid Luanne may be unconscious in there. Now, go!”
“But we’re not allowed in the auditorium,” Inez said with more blinks. “Julianna said it was off limits to everyone until the actual pageant.”
Caron jabbed her. “Come on, Inez—this is an emergency, and we have a perfectly good excuse to go in there and find what’s-his-name for Mother. Maybe we’ll see Cyndi Jay.”
I opened my mouth to reiterate the urgency of the mission, but as I did so Luanne opened the door. I rescinded the order and told the girls to wait for me outside the theater, then turned back to Luanne, who gave me a mildly inquiring smile.
“Good grief,” I snapped, “I was about to break down the door and stumble over your lifeless body. In spite of my aversion to reckless driving, I was going to accompany you in the ambulance to hold your flaccid hand in my sweaty one. Caron and Inez were going to sing a duet at your funeral. I was going to visit the cemetery every Sunday afternoon for a year, and twice on Memorial Day.”
“Do you want me to go in and expire? I
t’ll take only a second, and you know how much I hate to see you disappointed. It makes your face turn all blotchy.”
“It does not. Would you be so kind as to tell me what you were doing in there while I was beating on the door?”
She led me into the office, which was furnished with a metal desk and chair, a small couch, and a large, plastic plant that had defied the laws of nature and died. The wallpaper was bleached with age; whatever flowers had once bloomed were long since withered. Asymmetrical tan circles on the ceiling resembled some I knew down the street in someone’s bookstore.
Luanne sat down on the couch and dropped her crutches. “I was in the washroom. The water was running and I didn’t hear you.”
“What were you doing in there all the time I was creating my Stephen King opus?” I said, still irked but not the least bit blotchy.
“I beg your pardon?” Miss Manners couldn’t have done it better.
“Never mind.” I sat down behind the desk and idly tugged at drawers. “The contestants have completed their vain attempts at talent and are currently rehearsing the opening number under Miss Jay’s supervision. Miss Jay asked me to offer you her condolences for your infirmity, since she is devastated by the fact that you were stricken when, in reality, she should have been the one to fall off the stage.”
“Did she read something to that effect in her horoscope?”
“She pointed out that you were doing whatever you were doing on her mark. Had you not done it in that precise spot, she would have demonstrated the unsuccessful half-gainer into the abyss. One of the girls asked if the nail had been pulled up intentionally, but our Miss Thurberfest was quite cool in the face of such bourgeoise impudence.”
Luanne did not laugh at my whimsical recitation. “I was in a few beauty pageants in my day, and there were some dirty doings among the contestants. Most of them were harmless practical jokes, but—”
“You were in a few beauty pageants?” I interrupted.