Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (18 page)

Sadly, we never get the chance to share our helpful cleaning tips with the staff. The housekeeper who took our coats tosses them back to us as if she were Eli Manning throwing a touchdown pass. She already has the elevator waiting. Either the woman communicates telepathically with her employer or it was screamingly obvious that me and mine would be summarily dismissed from the premises.

Shanelle shakes her head as we swoosh back down to the ground level. “Guess we best check the flights back home.”

“I am so sorry!” I wail. “I was so freaked out by what Oliver’s father said that I had to do something! And then I accidentally knocked into that table with the darn golf-ball stand—”

“It’s okay.” Trixie rubs my arm.

“I can’t do anything right around here!” I wipe what chocolate I can from my face and hair. “First I mess up with Mr. Cantwell’s lawyers and now this.”

“It could’ve happened to anybody,” Trixie says, but I’m not sure even she believes that.

The elevator doors open to release us. “Could you tell how much Oliver or Warren Longley heard of what Oliver’s father was saying?” I ask as we exit.

“Everybody heard that last part,” Shanelle says, “about Oliver being so embarrassed by
Dream Angel
that he didn’t want his father to see it.”

After getting back our cell phones, we depart One57. I doubt I’ll ever be allowed to set my stilettos in it again. I bet they’ll put my photo in the lobby as if I were an F.B.I. Most Wanted. “Since he’s the main investor, Warren Longley could fire Oliver from the production,” I say as we make for the subway. “Or he could pull all his money, which I’m sure would put the kibosh on the whole thing.”

“I’ll say this for sure,” Shanelle says. “We witnessed some pretty darn unhealthy father/child dynamics all up in there.”

Indeed, the morning’s events have given me a great deal to ponder, not that I’m eager to revisit them any time soon. But before any deep thoughts can be thunk, we repair to the apartment to change clothes, and in my case to shower as well. Even if our garments weren’t chocolate-smeared, it’s just too weird to wear white in January. I’ve barely zipped my black midi dress with mock turtleneck, cap sleeves, and flared skirt when something new happens to rattle me.

Mario calls.

“My real-estate agent got back to me,” he says. “She’ll tell me who else bid on that apartment in the Belfer that Lisette Longley wanted, but only if I agree to see a pied-à-terre she thinks is perfect for me. She wants to show it to me this afternoon.”

“Oh, Mario, I can’t ask you to—”

“Come with me. It’ll be fun.”

I hesitate for only a second. After all, no way will I be wanted at the theater. And what did Tonya Shepherds say? That people would kill to live in the Belfer? Maybe, just maybe, that’s what happened to Lisette. So how can a murder-lover like me allow such a tempting investigative opportunity to pass her by?

At least I tell myself that’s the reason I accept Mario’s invitation.

“Happy, check your phone,” Shanelle yells from the kitchen just as I hang up from Mario. A second later my cell buzzes with a text.

I am astonished as I read the new communiqué, which comes from the stage manager. “The cast and crew are all supposed to hightail it to the theater? Including me?”

Trixie approaches wearing both a frown and a jersey jumpsuit with a ruched waist and ultra-wide legs. All black, it looks both comfy and chic. “I hate to say this, but I can imagine Oliver getting a kick out of firing us in person. Maybe he wants to make a big public scene out of it.”

I cringe. That sounds like something Oliver would enjoy doing.

“Grab your coats and get your hats, girls,” Shanelle instructs. “Let’s get this over with.”

Times Square late on Saturday afternoon is a madhouse, and not just with tourists. The costumed characters who make their living on tips are out in force posing for photos. There are some for the kids—Elmo, Minnie Mouse, and Woody from
Toy Story
among them—and plenty for the grownups, too, notably the feathered girls who can get away with wearing only a thong because of their full body paint and the Naked Cowboy whose trademarked name is printed on his skivvied behind.

“I read he makes a hundred fifty grand a year,” Shanelle says.

We pose with Dorothy and the Tin Man, to whom I pass a ten. “You ladies looking to see a Broadway show tonight?” he asks us.

“Actually we’re working for
Dream Angel
,” Trixie tells him.

I lower my voice. “Please send whoever you can our way.”

He nods. “I heard from your director you could use the help.”

“You know Oliver?” Shanelle says.

“I know everybody!” he cries, and after a round of high fives we’re on our way. We arrive at the theater to see that all the
Dream Angel
signage has been changed. Now everything features Lisette’s name and face.

“They must’ve gotten all this up while we were at the celebration of life,” Trixie remarks.

“I was sure this musical would close!” cries a female voice behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see a strikingly attractive redhead about my age staring up at the marquee. Believe it or not, her lips are trembling and there are tears in her eyes. Still, she looks darn good. For one thing, she’s that rare woman who can truly pull off a pixie haircut. For another, she’s dressed quite stylishly—in slim black pants, ballet flats, and a pink double-breasted bouclé coat featuring gold regimental buttons. I instantly covet it.

“You thought it would close because of the accident,” Trixie murmurs. Ever a soft heart, she’s moved closer to the woman, I’m sure to commiserate.

“Totally!” The woman is clearly appalled at this turn of events. “How is it possible they can just keep going after such a horrible thing?”

Shanelle pipes up. “Well, you know what they say. The show must go on.”

I don’t bother biting back my own cynical opinion. “Especially when there’s money to be made.”

“That’s what it has to be!” the woman wails, her teary brown eyes bugging out. “It always comes down to money, doesn’t it? Every single time!”

“Well, I wouldn’t go
that
far,” Trixie says.

“How can people be so callous?” the woman wants to know. “Whatever happened to simple human kindness?”

Since none of us can answer those questions, Trixie poses one of her own. “Anyhoo, I know I’m changing the subject, but do you mind if I ask who does your hair?”

“What?” the woman sputters.

“You have the greatest cut,” Trixie goes on. “I was thinking of getting one just like it and it occurred to me that maybe I could get it here in New York and surprise my husband with it when I get home.”

“Well …” It takes the woman a moment or two to segue from life’s injustices to the cheerier topic of hairstyles. Then: “My friend Cheryl cut my hair but the truth is
I
could cut yours. That’s what I do. Hair.” She pulls a business card from her handbag, another item I admire: a black crossbody in quilted leather. “Give me a call and I’ll try to fit you in before you go home.”

“I don’t know if I’d let that woman near
my
head with a pair of scissors,” Shanelle mutters as we make for the alley that leads to the stage door. “She seems pretty high strung to me.”

“Some people get very upset by other people’s tragedies,” Trixie says.

“It’s called empathy,” I inform Shanelle.

She glowers at me. “I’ve got another word for it. Hypersensitivity.”

“I bet it makes her a good hairdresser,” Trixie asserts as we enter the theater through the stage door, again using Lisette’s key. “She must be very sensitive to what her clients want.”

“So Trixie wants a pixie?” I quip.

“They’re very trendy,” Trixie tells me, though I already know. “Look who’s had them: Jennifer Lawrence and Carey Mulligan and even Beyoncé.”

We’re only a few steps into the corridor when a very cute, very gay blond dancer sprints up to us to high-five me. “You go, girl!” he chirps.

I’m thinking he must have missed my antics at the celebration of life when he goes on.

“Don’t get me wrong. The last thing I want is for Warren Longley to get so P.O.’ed that he makes
Dream Angel
close. But I sure don’t mind seeing Oliver taken down a peg.” He pirouettes away.

“See?” Trixie says. “Not everybody here hates you.”

It is on that mildly upbeat note that we follow the troops making their way to the stage. I, however, find myself waylaid by our general, Oliver Tripp Jr. Like me, he’s switched from all-white to all-black, except for his trademark red sneakers.

“You,” he says in his squeaky voice as I move past, “get in here,” and he pulls me inside his office. Shanelle and Trixie attempt to follow, but Oliver will have none of that. “No,” he says before he shuts the door, “you two go with everybody else.”

My spirits lift a tad. Maybe I’m the only one getting the boot. And maybe I won’t be publicly shamed.

Oliver turns to face me. “You put on quite a show today.”

I take a deep breath. “I am so sorry, Oliver, I really am. I was just trying to—”

“I know what you were trying to do.” He goes to sit behind his desk. “You were trying to shut up my father. I could’ve told you that’s impossible.”

I learned that the hard way. “I hope Mr. Longley calmed down after I left.” Since there’s no second chair in Oliver’s office, I remain on my feet.

“It took half an hour and two martinis, but yeah, eventually he calmed down.”

I decide to be bold, as I so often do. “I also hope he’s not too angry with you.”

Oliver scowls at me. “I can manage Longley. Besides, he’s smart enough to know my father’s a big bag of wind. And
you
he’ll forget by the cocktail hour.”

Ouch.

“So you’re fired,” Oliver goes on. Unlike Donald Trump, he doesn’t jab his finger at my face. “But make no mistake. You’re still working for me.”

It’s safe to say I’m baffled. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that as far as Longley is concerned, you’re fired. He never wants to see you again and he wants you to have nothing more to do with this production.”

I can’t really blame the man. Even though it was unintentional, I did pretty much ruin the celebration of his daughter’s life. “Then how can I still work for you?”

“Easy. You stick to one simple job. You keep my father out of this theater. You keep him out for tomorrow night’s preview, and Tuesday’s, and most important you keep him out Wednesday night when we open.”

I start sputtering. “How am I supposed to do that? I doubt the man will ever speak to me again! He must hate me!” It’s hours later but Senior might
still
be trying to get all that chocolate off his pudgy self. And the humiliation: there’s no quick way to eradicate that.

“So he hates you. How is that my problem?” Oliver wants to know.

“What about Trixie Barnett and Shanelle Walker? Are they still consulting for the production?”

“Absolutely. Longley has no beef with them. And I might need them.” He slides a slip of paper across his desk. “Here’s my father’s phone number and address. Don’t pass ‘em around.”

I don’t even glance at the paper.

“It’s not that big a deal!” Oliver claims. “Just keep my father out of this theater until we’re past opening night. After that, if the fat bastard wants to come, let him buy a ticket and come.”

“Why do you care so much if your father sees
Dream Angel
before opening night?”

He slams his palms down on his desk. “Do I have to spell it out for you? You think I want my father hobnobbing with the critics who’re going to show up the next few nights?”

That shuts me up. I’ve already seen Senior try his hand at sabotage. He’s a master.

“Especially Brad Baisley from the
Times
?” Oliver thunders. “I can’t stop Baisley from calling the old SOB for a comment, but I sure as heck don’t have to make him available. Fuhgeddaboudit!”

I throw out my hands. “I get where you’re coming from, Oliver, I really do, but I came here to consult for this production, not to play referee between you and your father.”

“You came here to work for me. That means
I
get to say what you do.” Oliver narrows his eyes at me. “Do you want me to tell the owner of your pageant that you’re uncooperative?” He reaches for his cell phone. “Because I’ve talked with him before and I can talk with him again.”

“No! Please don’t.” The last thing I can afford is another mark against me with Mr. Cantwell. My mind cranks. After all, I am a beauty queen and it is in my makeup—no pun intended—to solve problems as they arise. And it is safe to say this is a Problem with a capital P. “Well, I suppose I could somehow try to ingratiate myself with your father …”

“Now you’re talking.” Oliver leans back and crosses his hands in his lap. “And just so you know, if I see my father within fifty yards of this theater I’ll make that call to your pageant owner.” He points toward the door. “Now get your skinny ass out of my office. And have a nice day.”