“It’s going to be all right,” she said. Not in her stage voice. More like a murmur, but still loud enough to be heard.
Nothing happened. She relaxed a little more and stepped to center stage.
She turned, shining her flashlight upstage to see the threat that had been emblazoned on or near the back wall.
But all she saw was the black hole of nothing.
No words. No warning.
Nothing.
Chapter Four
“Oh my God, I’ve missed this,” Vivien said with a heartfelt groan.
She was on the floor stretching on her yoga mat in the asana known as Pigeon, with her left leg bent in a reverse-seven position flat in front of her while her right leg was extended straight out on the floor behind. Her hands reached in front of her, fingertips touching the floor, and she eased her torso down so her belly settled onto her left calf.
The position caused a beautiful sort of pleasure-discomfort that opened her hips and reminded her that sitting or even walking every day still required her to stretch her muscles to remain flexible.
Helga was next to her doing the same thing, but her forehead was actually resting on the floor, because she, unlike Vivien, hadn’t skipped yoga class for the last month. “It hurts so good,” she said, taking a deep yogic breath.
Vivien did the same, and when she released the long, steady breath, she was rewarded by sinking deeper and flatter into her mat. Oh yes…almost as good as sex.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Cherry Wilder murmured as she approached Vivien. Cherry, who was one of Maxine Took’s cohorts and a Tuesday Lady, was the studio owner and teacher. Somewhere over sixty, she looked like a very fit Sharon Stone with slender, cut arms bared by a skintight tank in neon blue and short platinum-blond hair.
“You do?” Vivien muttered. Hell, she certainly hoped not.
Cherry placed a firm hand on the center of Vivien’s back, right between her shoulder blades, and said, “Deep breath, Vivien, and now…exhale…” Her hand, flat and gentle, helped coax Vivien down into an even deeper stretch. “You’re thinking, When is she going to let me come out of this so I can do the other side?”
Vivien huffed a laugh as Helga snorted into the floor next to her. “She likes to torture us,” said Helga in a muffled voice.
“That’s right,” Cherry said lightly. “But all right, class, time to switch sides.”
Everyone made little groaning noises of relief as they came out of the position and pulled right legs up and slid left legs straight back.
“What did you need to talk to me about?” Helga said a while later as they rolled over onto their backs for shivasana—the final position of simply resting, face-up, hands at sides, eyes closed, breathing deeply.
“Shh,” murmured Vivien as she took inventory of her body while stretching long and low on her mat. She was a little achy but felt energized deep inside as well. This last hour of simple, easy movement had almost enabled her to put away what had happened yesterday morning at the theater.
Almost.
But now that class was over, it all came back.
She’d decided she had to tell someone, and Helga, being a cop, a very practical person, and Vivien’s oldest and best friend in Wicks Hollow, was the obvious option.
“Tea shop?” asked Helga as they retrieved and put on their shoes in the foyer of the yoga studio. “I’m in the mood for one of auntie’s cinnamon scones. She’ll give us a table in the back.”
“Mmm,” said Vivien. The last thing she wanted or needed was Maxine Took to catch wind of what had happened. “How about we get a glass of wine on the patio at Trib’s instead? You’re not on call tonight. Besides, I owe you for picking up my tab yesterday.”
“Wine after yoga?” Helga looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Don’t you want to at least bask in the wholesomeness of listening to your body’s wisdom before you contaminate it with the wickedness of alcohol?”
“Yada, yada,” Vivien said, flapping a hand at her friend. “Like you don’t snag a chocolate bar half the time after yoga instead of drinking a liter of water like you should.”
“Chocolate after yoga?” They both turned to see Cherry standing there with a bemused look on her face. “I hope it’s at least seventy-five percent cacao.”
“Of course it is, Aunt Cherry,” said Helga with an innocent grin. Cherry wasn’t her aunt, but she’d always used the term for each of her Aunt Orbra’s friends. “And fair-use-sourced and stone-ground and in limited, recycled packaging and everything else that makes it okay for consumption.”
“Whatever it is, if it requires wine after yoga, make sure Trib pours you some of that Sancerre he keeps in the back. It’s by request only,” Cherry told them. Then she leaned closer so none of her other students could hear. “If I didn’t have a hatha class right now, I’d invite myself to join you. It’s been a hell of a week.”
“But it’s only Wednesday,” said Vivien with a laugh.
“Tell me about it!” Cherry clapped her on the back, then turned to speak to a student who’d just come in the door.
“Oh, hi, Melody,” said Helga as they turned to leave.
It took Vivien a moment, but then she remembered the woman from high school. Melody Carlson had been her name back then; Vivien had no idea whether it still was. They hadn’t been friends, but it was a small school, so they’d known each other.
“Oh, hi, Helga. I’m glad to see you here—I wanted to thank you again for helping me with that little fender bender the other day. I was late going to see my daddy up at the assisted living place, and I was just so out of sorts, and— Vivien Savage? Is that you?” Melody removed her sunglasses. “You’ve not changed a bit. Bella mentioned you were coming back to town.”
“Yes, I just bought the old theater—she was my realtor,” Vivien said proudly. “Maybe you can do a stint there someday. I’m trying to keep locals involved as much as possible.” She didn’t remember thinking Melody was all that talented back in high school when she had the lead in every play, but she was part of the community, and Vivien was definitely going to be building relationships with as many people as possible.
“Oh, how sweet of you to think of me. It’s been years since I’ve been onstage,” said Melody, adjusting her yoga mat. “Well, I’d best get in so I can grab a spot in the front—it’s easier for me to see up there. Ta-ta!”
“See you later,” Helga said as they walked out.
“Was she a little…chilly?” Vivien muttered as they walked down the street. “Or did I imagine it?”
“Oh, she’s always like that—kind of brittle. I think it really upset her when she had to put her father in the assisted living home a while back. He was only sixty. She’s nice, though, once you get around her and she relaxes. I’ve been out with her and Bella and some of the others a few times.”
“Maybe I can tag along next time,” Vivien said.
“I’ll let you know,” said Helga.
Although they were both dressed in yoga pants and tank tops, their attire wasn’t a problem for Trib’s, even though it was the fanciest place in the surrounding area. Tourist towns like Wicks Hollow didn’t stand on ceremony, and certainly didn’t require dress codes. Why would they, when their patrons might be coming in from fun in the sun at any time of day, starving and ready to relax—and spend money?
It was barely four o’clock in the afternoon, however, and so the restaurant was in the lull between lunch and the dinner rush, as the tourists were swimming, boating, fishing, shopping, or napping.
“Darling Vivien Leigh!” Trib himself swooped down on them the moment they stepped over the threshold into the restaurant.
He was a neat and fashionably groomed fifty-ish man with hair styled in a modern version of a flat-topped buzzcut. It was salt-and-pepper around the sides and ears, blending into a stark platinum white on the brush top. He wore a closely trimmed, mostly gray goatee and mustache. Today his attire was a summery lime-green shirt with a bowtie of orange
and cobalt in Harlequin-style diamonds. His crisp, pleated trousers were probably bespoke, if Vivien knew Trib (and she did), and they were charcoal gray with the faintest of blue pinstripes. He looked, as always, utterly smashing.
“I thought you’d never come in here to see me! It’s been ages, VL,” he went on as he took Vivien’s arm. “Tell me how our dear Frankie is doing, will you? I miss her so.”
“Oh, she’s doing fantastic. She’s working at a very chichi pastry shop in Manhattan—they’re even letting her do her own macarons—and she says her summer internship here was the best thing that ever happened to her.”
“Well, you’ve never steered me wrong with summer internships, darling. All these wannabe chefs—I just love gobbling up their energy during these crazy summer months! And Benjamin is working out just fine—although he’s unequivocally not a pastry chef,” he added in a conspiratorial voice. “I think the best I can expect from him is doing sous work, but that’s just fine with me. He can prep to his heart’s content.” He smiled at them both. “Now, inside or outside today, my lovelies?”
“Outside, in the shade, and Cherry says we need to ask about your secret stash of Sancerre,” Vivien replied.
“Ooh! So it’s one of those kinds of days.” He grinned. “I can’t wait to hear all about it. And Officer Sugar, don’t lie—you’ve done something brilliant to your hair. Love the new shade. It’s like a honey-lemon, and it makes you look absolutely delicious with your creamy skin tone and that splash of freckles—I’ve always said it looks like a natural bronzer. You’re simply a goddess.”
Her cheeks a little pink—for she was much shyer and more subdued than Vivien—Helga reached up to touch the high ponytail she’d worn for yoga. “Only you would notice, Trib. It’s just a slight tweak in the color, but Emily did a great job.”
“She always does. It’s simply delicious,” Trib said, taking her arm as well. “Now, let’s see about a couple glasses of that crisp white for you both, and I’ll check whether I have something interesting in the kitchen for you to nibble. Marty wanted to try something with grilled peaches, toasted pepitas, and Brie, and who was I to say no?”
Moments later, Vivien and Helga were seated in a prime location in the corner of the restaurant’s front patio—prime because it was in the shade beneath a vine-wrapped pergola with a nice view of the street but not close enough that passersby or vehicles would interrupt their tête-à-tête. A tall pot placed strategically to give some privacy for the diners from pedestrians held an equally tall boxwood trimmed into a conical spiral. There was a small vase bursting with pink sweet peas and yellow pansies on the table.
“Damned birds,” Trib said as he delivered two glasses of nearly clear white wine and a small platter of grilled peaches topped with oozing brie and a side of house-made crackers. Toasted and seasoned pumpkin seeds—pepitas—were scattered on the plate.
Trib paused to shoo away a pair of wrens that had perched among the red-flowering vines above them. “I’ve got nothing against them personally, but I don’t want them sitting—and shitting—above my customers while they’re eating!”
Vivien laughed and pretended to duck as she looked up. “Oops.”
“Yes. It wasn’t part of my master plan when Hector convinced me I needed to install the pergola with trumpet vine. That’s the last time I listen to that gay old fart. Should’ve just put in a retractable awning, but no, he said this would create a better ambiance.” He pursed his lips. “I’ve got a guy coming to install some netting a few feet above it to keep the birds off, but until then, it’s a manual project to keep them from crapping all over everything. Now, how’s the wine, darlings? And what do you think about the Brie?”
They concurred it was excellent, and although Vivien was itching to tell Helga about what happened at the theater, she was also pleased when Trib pulled up a chair to join them.
“Now tell me true, VL, you really wanted me to play Mortimer, didn’t you?” he said, preening a little.
“Of course I did,” she replied. “But then you’d steal the show from Roger Hatchard and Michael Wold. We couldn’t have that, you know—a small-town restauranteur showing up national celebrities.”
Trib laughed uproariously. “Oh, you’re good, darling. You’re very good. All those years in advertising and PR have served you well. But admit it—you’d be more worried what Maxine would say if I stole the show from her.”
Vivien laughed and toasted him with her wine. “You caught me.”
“Anyway, I admit, I’ll be in the front row on opening night. Roger Hatchard is such a lovely piece to look at. All that leg and that thick head of dark hair even at his age. I had no idea he could act.”
“We are looking for someone to play the dead body in the window seat,” Vivien told him with a sly look. “No lines, you can wear whatever you want, and you’d only be in Act Two.”
“And then I could be backstage, couldn’t I? Can I have my own dressing room? Or, better yet, share one with Hatchard?”
“Nice try. But you can share one with Doug Horner, whoever we get to play Mr. Witherspoon, and Juanita’s friend Ricky.”
“Oh, Ricky’s going to do the show? That’s good—I think his son’s been trying to encourage him to get out more since Clara died. He’ll like that. And you say Doug’s going to be in it too? Poor guy. I wonder how long it’ll be before Juanita accidentally-on-purpose stumbles into his dressing room.”
Doug Horner was the Wicks Hollow veterinarian, and he was a confirmed bachelor in his late sixties. He had snowy-white hair and a bristly gray mustache that looked like a toothbrush. Juanita, who was at least ten years older than he, had had her sights set on him for years.
Trib sighed, shaking his head sadly. “If those two would stop dancing around each other and playing games and just tear off each other’s clothes and do it all ready! She’s so delicious with all those opera-singer bodacious curves—if I were straight, I’d go for her myself.”
“Ew!” Helga was holding up two fingers in the shape of a cross, warding him off. “That’s a picture I don’t need in my head. Let’s talk about exactly how Vivien got Roger Hatchard to be in the show.”
“Ooooh?” Trib made the word undulate like a writhing belly dancer. “Do tell, VL!”
“Well, I’ve been sort of seeing his son Daniel,” Vivien said. “It’s nothing serious—in fact, I don’t even know if we’ll continue on now that I’m here and he’s back in Hartford. He’s a great guy, but he has no interest in moving away from the East Coast, and I’m not going anywhere now that I’ve bought the theater. But it was Daniel who suggested I ask his father to be in the show.”
“Spectacular,” said Trib. “That’ll be a nice draw, and I’m not just speaking for me.”
“That’s it?” Helga was disappointed. “I was hoping for more scoop about the Hatchard family.”
Vivien laughed and shook her head. “Really, it was pretty low-key.”
“So I assume you’re playing the young and lovely Elaine Harper, VL,” said Trib with a smile and a quirked brow.
“No. I’m directing,” she replied, squashing a little pang. “I’ve got Penny Stern—you know, she had that little stint on Bull?—to play Elaine. She grew up in Muskegon—did you know that?”
“But VL…you’re the biggest local celebrity we have—next to that darling Ethan Murphy.” Trib seemed genuinely surprised. “Roger Hatchard notwithstanding.”
“This man. Who even says ‘notwithstanding’ anymore?” Vivien said to Helga. Then she looked back at Trib and smoothly changed the subject. “We’ve got so much to do to get things ready at the theater besides actual rehearsals. There’s a Scout troop that’s going to come in and help with some of the cleanup, and the high school football team, the pom squad, and the drama department are also going to volunteer some time. The students all have to do service hours over the summer, and helping with the restoration of the theater is being considered community service. That’s going to save me quite a bit of mon
ey. In fact, I’ve got to meet them tomorrow morning at eleven.”
“Eleven?” Trib said. “That’s getting to be the hottest part of the morning.”
“They’re teens. I’m lucky to get them there before noon on summer break,” Vivien said dryly.
“Good point.” He was looking at her curiously, but to her relief, he didn’t press on his earlier question. “Speaking of Ricky, have you met his son? I’ve been trying to figure out whether he’s a prospect or not. I’ve only seen him from a distance—but that was enough.”
“I’ve met him several times,” Helga said. “And no, I don’t think he plays for your team, Trib.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that. And he’s a doctor, too!”
Vivien stilled. Something jangled in the back of her mind. “Be seeing you around.”
No. Surely not…
With a feeling of impending doom, she was compelled to ask, “So, this Ricky—what is his last name, anyway?”
“DeRiccio. His name is actually Fabrizio, but everyone calls him Ricky. What’s the matter?” Helga said.
Vivien took a big sip of wine and shrugged. “Nothing.” But inside, she was shrieking epithets at the universe.
“Speaking of cues, that’s mine to get back inside,” said Trib when his assistant manager poked her head out of the restaurant and beckoned. “And I was just getting comfortable. Ah well, a genius’s work is never done. I’ll come by the stage soon, darling, and take a look at the dressing rooms—and the actors. You might just get me to play dead after all. I’ll send Benjamin out to say hi if I can spare him for a few—though he showed up late for his shift yesterday morning, so I’m still annoyed with him.” He smacked a kiss onto Vivien’s cheek, then Helga’s, and then was off in a swirl of lime green.
“Who’s Benjamin?” Helga asked.
“Younger brother of Louise London, believe it or not. Wants to be a chef, obviously, so I helped set him up with Trib for the summer. Speaking of Louise, oh-em-gee, she is driving me a leetle crazy.” Vivien held up her phone to show Helga the fifteen text notifications from the actor. “This is just in the last hour.”
Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5) Page 4