THE SOUND OF MURDER

by Cindy Brown

  “I’ll meet you guys at the deli,” I said to Cody and Matt, then caught up with Arnie. Ah, I knew why he was unhappy. “Hey.” I pointed at the cigar in his pocket. “Can’t you chew on that in here?”

  “Somebody once complained I was smoking it.” He shook his head. “People.”

  Arnie’s cart was filled with toilet paper, paper towels, coffee, and other stuff that was probably for the theater. On top of it all was a box labeled “Home Monitoring and Control Kit.” It looked like it had cameras and monitors and all sorts of cool stuff. I waited for Arnie to tell me all about his latest and greatest gadget. But he didn’t.

  CHAPTER 19

  They weren’t supposed to be there. It was Wednesday night—preview wasn’t until tomorrow. I shut my eyes for just a moment, trying to wish them away. But I couldn’t. When I opened my eyes, all the Old FOTS were still there, sitting at the dining tables in the front of the theater, focused on me.

  I’d made it through “Dough Ray Me.” With all of us dancers singing, I was able to sing softly enough that no one could tell if I was off-pitch. But now, Timothy finished his intro into our number and whirled me into our dance break.

  This was where I shone. My jetés were high, my pirouettes perfect. My eyes even gazed lovingly into Wolf’s, but my mind had already leapt ahead to sure failure. And then it was time. I opened my mouth:

  “I am sixteen going on twenty-one…” Aaaaa, a little wobble there.

  “Pure as the driven snow.” I tried to remember the tips Roger had given me at our singing lesson before rehearsal, but they were gone, along with my sense of pitch.

  “Unschooled in love, and ignorant of…” Ignorant of the stupid position I had put myself in.

  “The lessons I ought to know.” I ought to know better. Why did I think I could do this?

  The Old FOTs rustled in their seats and snuck glances at each other. Down in the orchestra pit, Keith tried to magically pull up my pitch with a wave of his baton. I made it through the song, exited stage left, and hid my red face in the darkness of the wings. My musical faux pas was soon forgotten, though, as Marge came onstage and stood there. And stood there.

  In this scene, Marge/Mother Superior explained to Bitsy/Sister Angelica why she was sending Mary to the Vaughn Katt Club. She was also supposed to say the first line.

  Silence. I looked at Bitsy, who gazed expectantly at Marge, a sweet, nun-type expression on her too-smooth face. “C’mon, Bitsy,” I said in a stage whisper, partly to myself and partly hoping she would hear me. “Help her out.”

  It’s an unwritten rule in theater: You don’t let an actor hang himself onstage when there’s an audience. Typically, if you “go up” (forget your lines), your fellow actors help you by giving you a hint that the audience won’t recognize, maybe a question that leads you to your line, or a different version of your line, or even just one of the words from the line—just something to get your brain back on track. Bitsy, though, just waited, like she’d taken a vow of silence.

  Candy/Sister Marvela wasn’t supposed to come on until after the song, but she entered stage right. “Thank you for waiting for me,” she said, a Candy-created line that explained the lack of action onstage. “I believe we are going to discuss your decision to send Mary to the nightclub as a singing teacher?”

  Brilliant. Candy had just encapsulated the entire scene and given Marge her cue for the song, a refrain of “Problem Like a Nightclub.” The orchestra began playing. I thought I saw a brief scowl flit across Bitsy’s face, maybe because Candy had jumped several of her lines to save Marge. Served Bitsy right.

  With a grateful glance at Candy, Marge opened her mouth and sang:

  “WHY WOULD I SEND A POSTULANT TO A NIGHTCLUB?”

  What Marge lacked in memory, she made up for in volume.

  “Why would I have her costumed like a TART?”

  Phew. Marge was going to make it through the song.

  “I THINK she’ll do some good.”

  Her big voice filled the theater.

  “If ANYBODY could.”

  Marge had star quality. Even when she was miscast, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.

  “Mary can reach the singing sinners’ HEARTS.”

  But what would we do about the play? It’d kill Marge to be replaced, but we couldn’t have her continually forgetting her lines.

  “Oh, why would I send a postulant to a NIGHTCLUB?”

  She seemed to do just fine with her songs. No memorization problems there.

  “Why? ’Cause I trust she’ll do THE WORK OF GOD.” She finished with a flourish.

  I had it! I knew how Marge could stay in the play. I bounced on the soles of my feet, waiting for Marge to come offstage.

  When she finally did, I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her into a corner away from everyone. She didn’t exactly resist, but it felt like pulling a wet bag of sand. “Marge, I know how you can remember your lines. I can help you.”

  Marge’s eyes flickered with hope. “Really?”

  “Really. I know just the trick.”

  The bag of sand straightened itself up into a semblance of the old Marge. “Me too,” she said. “I think I can help you too.”

  I’d forgotten all about my little singing problem. Some folks might call it denial.

  “You wash my back, I’ll wash yours,” said Marge, and we shook to seal the deal.

  CHAPTER 20

  “That’s it? That’s all there is to it?” Marge asked the question loudly, presumably to be heard over the kicking and splashing of her water aerobics class, but mostly because she was naturally loud.

  “Yep. It’s simple.” I had just regaled her with my periodic table Oklahoma! story. “You just have to sing your lines.” I had to talk loudly too, especially since I stood a nice safe distance from the edge of the pool. Though we both thought we needed all the rehearsal we could get before preview tonight, Marge was adamant about not missing her morning workout, so we decided we could talk during her Water Lilies class at Sunnydale Recreation Center, then follow up with a session at her house.

  “But that’ll sound weird.”

  Marge jogged in the shallow end of the enormous indoor pool. Bitsy worked out next to her, the little skirt on her swimsuit floating up and down with each step.

  “It’ll take a little practice, but I really think it’ll work.” The water aerobics instructor had turned up the music, so I had to shout. “You start out by singing the words to a tune you know. Then take away the notes, so you just have the rhythm, then soften that rhythm just a bit. The music will help you remember your lines, and the audience will never know.”

  “I’ll give it a try.” She tried to smile. “What have I got to lose?” She swung her arms in wide circles, as did the rest of the class. An aerobicizer wearing a glittery pink cowboy hat splashed water my way, and I jumped back.

  “I can’t believe you don’t like the water,” said Marge. “I love it. It’s the only time my boobs point in the right direction.”

  I snuck a look at my own boobs, wondering how they’d fair in years to come. They were pretty perky now. So were Bitsy’s, which was weird considering she was probably nearing seventy.

  “Ever thought about a little lift?” Bitsy said to Marge.

  Ah.

  “Nah.” Marge made a big wave with her arms and accidentally splashed Bitsy. Or maybe not so accidentally. “I make the best of what I got, but I’m not doing anything unnatural. This is what I look like. Those who don’t like it can lump it.”

  “Noodles!” shouted the instructor, a young woman who looked about fourteen next to all the folks in the pool. Marge grabbed a yellow foam noodle from the side of the pool, swung it under her rear, and sat on it, like a kid in a swing. “Now you, chickie,” she said to me, kicking her legs as she talked. “When exactly do you lose it?”

  B
itsy’s head turned slightly in our direction, but I didn’t care. Everyone knew there was a problem. I just wanted to fix it. “When I have to sing in front of anything that remotely resembles an audience.”

  Marge began kicking up a storm. “Do you have stage fright any other time?” she asked, not panting or breaking her stride. She really had some lungs on her. “When you’re acting? Or dancing?”

  I shook my head. It was one of the mysteries I was trying to solve. I’d been an actor since I was a kid—not in plays necessarily, but I was always pretending to be the Red Queen or Dorothy Gale or Han Solo (I was a big fan of gender-neutral casting). Dancing came naturally too. I didn’t even have to think about it. Once a choreographer showed me the steps, it was as if my legs took over. I mean, it was work, but glorious physical work without any mental or emotional baggage.

  “Last push!” shouted the aerobics instructor. “Your choice of aerobic activity for two minutes. Go, ladies!”

  I wondered if the instructor actually overlooked the one man in the class, or if her instructions were so ingrained she couldn’t stop herself. I felt a little sorry for the guy, being the odd man out. Then I noticed the ring of swim cap-clad heads around him, the ladylike laughter that surrounded him. He was a small man, neat and hairless, and in pretty good shape. No pecs or anything, but no flabby man-boobs either. He was a good catch in these parts.

  “I got an idea for you,” Marge said, powering her way through the last part of the routine, splashing and kicking to beat the band. Beside her, Bitsy trotted daintily like a miniature pony. The pool churned with the efforts of the swimmers, except for the sparkly cowgirl, who just pushed the water around. Maybe she didn’t want to lose her hat.

  “Nice job, ladies!” shouted the instructor. “See you tomorrow.”

  The little man got out of the pool first, hoisting himself up a ladder near me. Marge and Bitsy both walked over to the pool steps in the far corner, as did most of the women. I wondered why for just a moment, then realized that I wouldn’t want my butt hanging off the ladder for all the world to see, either.

  I got in line with the aerobicizers as they filed out of the pool area door, held open by the man from the class. As I passed by, the guy winked at me. Not a friendly “hiya” wink, but a slow lascivious one. He mouthed the word, “Tonight?” I was about to give him a piece of my mind when I heard a soft giggle behind me. Phew. I was not the object of his attention. I wanted to look behind me, but couldn’t do so without being obvious. I wished I had Arnie’s spy sunglasses.

  I followed the ladies into the locker room, now full of chatting, dripping swimmers. The sparkly cowgirl paused in front of a sink where a sign taped to the mirror said, “No hair dye in sink, especially black dye.” She took off her cowboy hat to reveal suspiciously dark hair.

  Marge stopped in front of an unlocked locker and opened it.

  “Wow,” I said. “Is Sunnydale so safe you don’t need a lock?”

  Bitsy, who was spinning a combination lock, stopped and waited to hear what Marge had to say. Marge paused too. That was out of character. Marge was never at a loss for words.

  “I don’t bring anything worth stealing,” Marge finally said, keeping her back to me. She pulled a plastic bag from the locker and sat down on a slatted wooden bench.

  “Olive!” said a querulous voice. I looked over to see Fran Bloom, from my neighborhood investigation, dressed in a tracksuit. “Have you found out anything more about Charlie Small?”

  At the mention of Charlie’s name, a murmur went up among the locker room ladies and several of them looked at Bitsy. I remembered that Charlie had been in her karaoke club. Maybe they sang duets?

  “Well…” I began.

  “Oh, sorry, dear. Never mind.” She waved goodbye as she padded off. “I’m sure that’s all supposed to be top secret.”

  Uh-oh. She might be right. And I hadn’t been exactly closed-mouthed about the whole thing.

  “So.” Marge stripped off her wet suit, plonked it in the plastic bag, and tossed it in the locker. “I have an idea what the problem might be. We can talk through it in the sauna.”

  “Sauna? I’m not dressed.” I nodded down at the t-shirt and jeans I’d thrown on that morning. I’d gotten up earlier than usual to meet Marge and was pretty impressed that I’d managed to dress myself in something clean and right-side out.

  Marge barked a laugh. “It’s a sauna, Ivy. You don’t need clothes.”

  “Oh. Um. I’m not really comfortable being naked in front of others.”

  “And you’re in the theater? How do you make it through the underwear scene onstage?” One of the dance numbers in The Sound of Cabaret took place in the dancers’ dressing room with all of us nearly naked.

  “That’s different.”

  “How?”

  “Because it’s not me. It’s my character.”

  Marge smiled. “I can definitely help you. C’mon, let’s sweat this out in the sauna.”

  I hesitated.

  The very naked Marge walked a few feet and opened a wooden door. “I bet when we come out you’ll be cured.”

  That was good enough for me. I stripped quickly and followed Marge into the dark cedary-smelling room. She shut the door, turned up the temperature, and poured a pitcher of water on the rocks. Steam filled the room like a fog. “If we make it really hot we can have the place to ourselves.” Marge laid a towel on a wooden bench and sat down. “So, what do you think about while you’re singing?”

  I didn’t have a towel, so I stood instead of parking my bare butt on the bench. “Well, breathing from my diaphragm, and raising my soft palate, and not sliding into the notes and—”

  Marge raised a hand. “That’s enough. What do you think about when you’re acting?”

  “I’m in character.” I almost added “of course.” What actor worth his salt wouldn’t be in character?

  “So you’re thinking your character’s thoughts, right?”

  “Right.”

  A lady poked her head in. “Heavens!” She waved away the heat and backed out again.

  “Works every time.” Marge smiled at me. “Well? Did you figure it out? Your problem, I mean?”

  I shook my head, confused. “Roger says—”

  “Roger?”

  “He’s giving me singing lessons.” Wow, it was hot. I fanned myself with my hand.

  “Listen, kiddo. Roger can teach you technique—and it won’t hurt you to learn some—but…Roger’s got a great instrument, but he doesn’t use it like an actor.”

  Marge was right about Roger. His rich baritone voice was the type a radio announcer might envy. But his singing was fine instead of great. He hit the right notes, but the music never soared, like it did when Marge sang.

  “That’s why he never made it big.” She shook her head.

  I’d heard the story. Years ago Roger and Marge were both in an off-off-Broadway musical called The Improbables. The show launched Marge’s career, but Roger was replaced when it moved to Broadway.

  “Only reason he’s made it this far is because of his agent. She’s crazy about him. In fact, I heard…” Marge stopped. “Sorry. Idle gossip. Now,” she said, facing me. “You’re more like me.” She wiped the sweat off her brow. “It’s not necessarily what we got, but how we use it. What Roger’s going to teach you won’t help with your stage fright. Might even make it worse unless you keep this one thing in mind…” She leaned forward on the sauna bench, boobs swinging dangerously close to her knees. “You gotta be in character when you sing.”

  “That’s it? I got naked for this?” I’m not sure I said it out loud, but I thought it.

  “Music comes in when words aren’t enough,” Marge continued. “It’s like you can’t contain your love or heartbreak or outrage, so it comes out in a song. If you’ve done the technical work ahead of time, all you do once you’re onsta
ge is be your character, and let that emotion pour out of you.”

  This was not going to help. Of course I was in character when I was…I sank down on the bench, not caring I had no towel. Marge was right. During my songs, especially in front of an audience, I’d been thinking about singing. I hadn’t been in character. How could I not have recognized that simple fact?

  “Hello ladies!” Bitsy came in the door. Steam billowed as Marge poured more water on the rocks. Bitsy stayed anyway. “Did I hear that you two are helping each other with your little problems?”

  Marge nodded and snaked an arm toward the temperature control, but I blocked her. I couldn’t take it any hotter.

  “That’s so nice of you both.” Bitsy hopped up on one of the slatted benches. “You know, I’ve never had any problem with stage fright, but I have had some experience with ‘senior moments.’ My husband, you know.” She smiled brightly at Marge. “He died of Alzheimer’s.”

  CHAPTER 21

  After deploying her little stink bomb, Bitsy left the sauna. Marge got up too. “Let’s go.” She looked like she had the wind knocked out of her.

  Things did not get better. When she got to her locker and opened the door, it was empty. No swimsuit, no clothes, no nothing.

  “Shit, Marge,” I said. “I’m sorry. I feel horrible. I’m the one who made such a big deal of it being unlocked.”

  She shook her head and sank back on the bench without saying a word.

  “Tell you what, I’ll drive over to your house and get you something to wear.”

  “No!” Even Marge realized she’d shouted. “The house is an embarrassment right now,” she said in a much quieter voice. “Maybe I could borrow something from Bernice?”