Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway (19 page)

As I exit Oliver’s office, I realize it shouldn’t surprise me that father and son both have a mean streak the size of Park Avenue. It must be in their DNA.

I text Shanelle.
Where are you?

She replies instantly.
Tonya’s dressing room. Did we get fired?

I did sort of. Be there in a sec.

The stars’ dressing rooms are off the same corridor as Lisette’s office. I arrive there to find Tonya pacing and my BFFs on her pink settee holding a script.

Tonya is well on her way to making her dressing room her own cozy escape. Like all actresses, she has a gazillion hair-care products and cosmetics in front of a vanity mirror with globe-style bulbs on all four sides. When that thing is fired up, it must get hot enough to roast a chicken.

But I digress.

It’s also clear that Tonya is gearing up to repaint: on one wall are color samples in varying shades of rose. On another is a vision board with personal photos, gorgeous scenes pulled from magazines, and inspirational sayings. I also spy a bottle of honey, to soothe her throat; a dock for her phone so she can play music; and a pink lava lamp that I bet creates a marvelous soft glow when the other lights are off.

Trixie’s eyes shine. “I really hope we didn’t get fired because this is so fun. We’re helping Tonya run her lines.”

“It might be fun for you!” Tonya wails. “But I’m a nervous wreck.”

“With all the rewriting,” Shanelle says, brandishing the script, “there’s a lot to learn and not much time to learn it.” Like Trixie and me, Shanelle is dressed in black—in her case in cords and a silky long-sleeve blouse with chest flap pockets. Tonya remains formal in the white sequin midi dress she wore for the celebration of life, but at least she’s kicked off her heels. “So what’s up?” Shanelle goes on. “Are we in or are we out?”

I squeeze onto the settee and tell my sad tale.

Trixie rises to her feet when I’m done. “But it’s so unfair of Oliver to fire you from the production! You were trying to help him! You didn’t want Mr. Longley to hear those things his father was saying!”

“Fair, unfair, I don’t think that makes a lot of difference to Oliver. And it might’ve been better if he
had
plain old fired me. Because how am I supposed to keep his father out of this theater for three whole nights?” I sure don’t intend to sleep with the old coot, if that’s what Junior was counting on.

“I have no idea how you’re going to do it,” Tonya says, “but you’ve got to.” She stares at me with a plea in her green eyes. “We all saw Oliver’s father in action today. Who knows what he’d say to the critics? I am already this close to a panic attack and on top of that to have to worry even more about the reviews ...” She sinks her behind onto the vanity.

“Do they matter
that
much?” Trixie asks.

“Oh, my God.” Tonya shakes her head. “The New York reviews are make or break. If you get a great one, especially from the
Times
, you’re pretty much guaranteed success. If you get a bad one, you can close the next week.”

“The next
week
?” I squeal.

“It would be the next
day
if it weren’t for Actors’ Equity,” Tonya says. “The union demands the actors get a one-week notice. And the blog reviews for
Dream Angel
are so bad it doesn’t bode well at all. Have you been on AllThatChat.com?”

“I’ve never even heard of it,” Shanelle admits, which is true for me, too.

“
Dream Angel
is getting ripped. And I mean ripped.” She grabs her phone from behind her on the vanity. “Listen to this. ‘Trust me when I say you’d have more fun slitting your wrists with a dull blade than sitting through this abysmal, moribund production.’ That’s just the first review that comes up! There are lots more that are even worse.”

“I’m sure there are good reviews, too,” Trixie says.

“A few,” Tonya allows. “And sure, the only people who go to that site are insiders, but the critics are insiders. They go there. And they’re only human. I’m positive they get swayed if they read one bad review after another.”

I rise to my feet. “This is way too much negativity, Tonya. Think back to your own years as a beauty queen. What do we all have in common? A positive attitude.”

“Yes,” Trixie breathes, “a winning attitude.”

“And remember,” I go on, “that all those bad reviews came before
Dream Angel
was retooled. It’s a much better show now.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Shanelle mutters from the settee.

“And another thing.” I grab Tonya’s arms. “You’re fabulous in this role. Don’t doubt that. Just play your part and I’ll play mine. Come hell or high water, I’ll keep Oliver’s father out of this theater until we’re past opening night.”

“Happy always does what she says she’ll do!” Trixie cries. “Now Tonya, let me give you a piece of advice. I think it’s high time you change out of that dress. Here”—she tosses Tonya a silky blue floral-print robe that’d been hanging on a wall peg—“you’ll learn your lines better if you’re comfy.”

“I’ll try anything,” Tonya says.

“Let’s go get everybody some hot tea,” Shanelle says to me. Once in the corridor, she lowers her voice. “That was a great pep talk you gave Tonya, but what do you want to bet girlfriend will be a basket case by tomorrow night’s preview? I cannot believe how many new lines she’s got to learn.”

“They’re still rewriting, huh?”

She shakes her head. “Dang, this is one tough business, on the performing end and the business end, too. I found out that only one in three Broadway musicals makes money for its investors.”

“So the odds are against Warren Longley.” And he needs all the cash he can lay his hands on just to get his upholstery cleaned.

We arrive in the break room and bypass the suspect coffeepot for the teakettle. Shanelle grabs some mugs. “Did you know that a show is considered a hit only if it recoups its capitalization during its original Broadway run? If it doesn’t, it’s deemed a flop.”

“And its poster lands on Joe Allen’s wall,” I say.

Shanelle pours hot water into the mugs. “The good news, though, is that even if you flop on Broadway, you can turn a profit if you go on tour. These days, shows on the road have higher gross ticket sales than shows on Broadway.”

“Harder life for everybody involved, though.”

“Hey, nobody said show business is easy.” Shanelle hands me peppermint tea bags. “Or you can mount the production overseas and not just in London, either. Germany, South Korea, Argentina, you name it.”

“I’m not sure Warren Longley has that kind of patience.”

“I’m just saying.” Shanelle and I each pick up two mugs. “You can flip a Broadway flop.
Little Women
,
Shrek the Musical
,
Legally Blonde
: it can happen.”

We head back to Tonya’s dressing room. “You businesswoman, you,” I say to Shanelle. “I think you’re wasted in the I.T. department at your bank.”

“I keep telling my boss that. Far as I can tell, he remains unconvinced.”

Since Oliver didn’t banish me from the theater, I feel free to sit on the pink settee, sip my tea, and listen to Tonya run her lines with Trixie and Shanelle, whispering so she doesn’t overuse her voice. Before long my mind wanders and you, dear reader, can guess to what.

Murder. And that other tantalizing M-word: motive.

I have mixed feelings about Junior, but I must admit that like any good director he’s pulling out all the stops to make his production a success. Even though it’s putting huge pressure on the cast and crew, he’s pushing through the changes he believes are necessary to turn
Dream Angel
from bad to good. He’s doing what he can to impress the all-important critics. And though it might be cynical, it’s also smart to move up opening night to take advantage of the publicity
Dream Angel
has garnered after Lisette’s death. Junior might not be making many friends, but I bet he’s gaining admirers. And I would be firmly among them if I didn’t worry that he committed murder to remove the greatest impediment to his success.

When our star wants to take a break, I pose a question. “Tonya, was there really no rewriting of the lyrics or script while Lisette was alive?”

“Pretty much not a word.” She sits at her vanity, her back to us, and slathers on hand lotion. “Lisette simply refused to make changes. She kept saying ‘this is my baby, this is my baby.’ Oliver was infuriated. Really, we all were.”

“And Oliver couldn’t fire her because her father is the number one investor?” I feel Shanelle’s eyes on my face as I ask this question. She knows where I’m going with this.

“One day he got so ticked off he did threaten to fire her, in front of all of us.” My gaze meets Tonya’s in the huge vanity mirror. “She just laughed. And then she said, and I quote, ‘You fire me and I’ll sue your ass from here to kingdom come.’ ”

We have a moment of silence before Shanelle pipes up. “
I
sure wouldn’t put filing a lawsuit past Lisette.”

Neither would I. I am pondering just how much not only Oliver, but Tonya, too, is better off with Lisette out of the picture when she resumes speaking.

“This is my first lead role, you know.” In the mirror her green eyes are huge. “And as much as I hate having to learn all these new lines in like five minutes, it’s worth it. I need
Dream Angel
to be a hit. Or at least not a flop. Because otherwise I’m back in the chorus, probably for good.”

I make a mild remark—“I guess Broadway isn’t famous for second chances”—but all the while my mind is screaming something else entirely: Tonya had as much motive to murder Lisette as Oliver did! Maybe more. She believes
Dream Angel
is a make-or-break opportunity. Shanelle has argued that Oliver is established enough that he could survive a flop or two.

My thinking is interrupted by a call on my cell. I take it in the corridor outside Tonya’s dressing room. It’s Jason. “Don’t plan on me for dinner, babe,” he tells me.

“To be honest with you, I wasn’t. I figured Kimberly would want to keep shooting until late.” I refrain from adding that I’ll be surprised if the blue-eyed minx detaches her claws from my husband before midnight.

“It’s going good, though. We did a few locations in the Meatpacking District and then a few in Chelsea. No point wasting time trying to get across town.”

So the scheming wench can organize a shoot. “Just let me know where to meet you later.” I lower my voice to its sexiest register, since two can play at Miss Kimberly’s game. “It’ll be fun to spend the night in a hotel.”

From the sound of his chuckle, I can tell Jason is following my drift. “As soon as Kimberly figures that out, I’ll let you know.”

We end the call with me amazed that Kimberly still has to “figure out” Jason’s accommodations. After all, it’s already late afternoon, and a Saturday no less. I hope she doesn’t try to pull a fast one and claim there are no rooms available so he has to stay at her apartment. How obvious would that be? If it comes to that, Jason can shack up with my BFFs and me tonight.

It occurs to me that I haven’t heard a peep from my mother since I left her this morning at the Chelsea Market. In her case, silence isn’t golden. It’s ominous. I give her a ring. When she answers, in the background I can just make out classical music and female voices. “Where are you?” I inquire. “Did Bennie get tickets to the symphony or something?” Maybe he wanted to make up for squiring her around used-car lots all morning.

She hesitates, then: “Not exactly.”

“So where are you?”

“None of your business, young lady.”

So it’s like that. “Just tell me what you’re up to, because whenever you get cagey like this, I know you’re up to something.”

“I feel no need to account for my whereabouts. So let’s talk about what
you’re
up to. I hope it includes one-on-one time with that Mario.”

I am startled to hear her make this suggestion, as in mere moments I must depart for my rendezvous with said Latin hunk. “I’m at the theater,” I say, which is truthful enough but also goes to show that both mother and daughter can be cagey. “I hope you’ll let Trixie, Shanelle, and me join you and Bennie for dinner later.”

“So no Jason,” she observes. “I’m good with that. But I don’t know if I’ll want to be out in public tonight. Whoops, gotta go,” and she hangs up.

I’m frowning as I reenter Tonya’s dressing room.

“What’s wrong now?” Shanelle wants to know.

I relay my mother’s bizarre remark about being “out in public.” “Who comes to New York City to go into seclusion?”

“I can understand wanting to stay in and wear the fuzzy robe and have room service,” Trixie says. “Especially at a fancy hotel like the Plaza.”

“So I’m going to make a confession,” I say. “I’m meeting Mario.” This both requires explanation and engenders disapproval, particularly from Shanelle.