LITMIR.BIZ

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Responsible,” I said. And willing to play your silly warm-up games, I wanted to add, without laughing behind your back.

      “You all talk about her as if she has passed as well.” Bill looked at Lola, then Walter, and, finally, me.

      Silence.

      “I’ll need contact information on her and anything else you can tell me. Like when she arrived in Etonville and anything about her personal life.”

      “Of course, Penny can help you. Walter, let’s break the news to the cast. We’ll post some people in the lobby to intercept the audience,” Lola said, weary.

      “Good idea,” Bill smiled sympathetically.

      “Dodie, what do you want to do about the desserts and drinks?” Lola asked.

      The colonial food! I’d been so angsty, I hadn’t given any thought to the concession stand. I jumped to my feet. “I’ll take care of it.”

      The minute they were out the door, Bill touched my arm. “Still on for tomorrow night?” he asked quietly.

      Our redo-Valentine’s-Day dinner. My insides fluttered. “I’m in if you are.”

      5

      Georgette, who’d come to see the show, helped Carol distribute Swamp Yankee applesauce cake and pumpkin bread to a morose and frustrated cast and crew. Under the circumstances, they deserved a little free food to keep their spirits up. Not to mention the mulled wine. It disappeared like hotcakes. Lola had explained the situation and that they were free to go, but they were an ensemble, after all, and hanging around the theater was something they just did. Maybe they were hoping that Bill might walk through the lobby doors and announce a stay of execution for the production: There hadn’t been a murder after all and the show would go on. That was a fantasy. Besides, Penny was stationed by the entrance to the theater and had been announcing the cancellation, clipboard in hand. Word would no doubt go viral through Etonville, setting the gossip machine working overtime.

      “Dodie, did you see the dead man?” one of the Banger sisters asked.

      “I’m afraid so.”

      “Tell me,” the other one lowered her voice. “Did it have something to do with the turntable?” They looked at me eagerly.

      “I’m pretty sure the turntable was not responsible for his death.”

      “Because we think it’s a deathtrap. Dangerous.” They nodded their heads in unison.

      “Excuse me,” I said. Never mind sipping mulled wine from a paper cup, I wanted to dunk my entire head in the punch bowl.

      Lola detached herself from Walter, who was sitting in the theater office, scribbling on his script of Eton Town as if he was getting ready to rehearse. He looked as lost as the actors, who huddled in small clusters, whispering.

      “This is a nightmare,” Lola said.

      “How’s Walter taking it?” I asked, brushing crumbs from the pumpkin bread off my early American blouse. I was on my third slice, eating to remain calm.

      “I think he’s in denial.”

      “That’s the first stage. Wait until he gets to stages two, three, and four. And forget about acceptance,” I said.

      “I don’t understand. What was that man doing in the theater anyway?”

      I pulled her aside. “I think Sally knew him.”

      “Our Sally?” A light bulb went off. “Do you think that’s why she was in the theater? I wondered about that. Her call wasn’t until five thirty. But if she knew him, why was she running away?” A second bulb. “Unless… Oh no… Do you think she had something to do with his death?”

      “I don’t know. But she must have been with him. Her palm was all bloody.”

      Her eyes widening, Lola clapped one hand over her mouth as if to keep her shock from escaping.

      Penny sauntered over, the only member of the ELT taking the catastrophe in stride. She consulted her clipboard. “Got to most of the audience. Good thing we only had half a house tonight.”

      Which was a mixed blessing. Most things were where Penny was concerned.

      She checked her watch. “Woulda been show time.” Then she pushed her glasses up a notch. “We got to keep an eye on Walter. He might schiz out. You know he can be a little manic, kind of tri-polar.”

      Penny had managed to mashup three psychological disorders and still not get Walter right. “It’s bi-polar. And I don’t think he’s either manic or schizoid.” Personally, I’d have gone with narcissistic.

      “Whatever. He could be…you know.” She put her hands on her hips.

      “What? Suicidal? Over this show?” If the night wasn’t so tragic, I might have laughed.

      Lola closed down the discussion. “Penny, Chief Thompson wants Sally Oldfield’s contact information. And he might want to speak with cast members. Can you take care of it?”

      I could see Penny mentally calculating her role in this disaster. “I’m on it. What do you want me to tell the actors about tomorrow night?”

      “The truth. The show’s cancelled for this weekend. The chief said no one is to go onstage until further notice,” Lola said.

      Penny tapped her clipboard and cackled. Tact and discretion were not in her wheelhouse. “Well, that’s show—”

      Lola lost it. “If you say ‘that’s show biz,’ I’m going to scream. And then I’m going to fire you.”

      Penny gulped, looked aghast at Lola, and considered the threat. She slowly backtracked, turned on her heel, and toddled across the lobby.

      “Getting to you?” I asked softly.

      “I need a drink. And not mulled wine.”

      “Me too. I’ll clear up the food, you clear out the lobby, and let’s get out of here. I’ll tell Carol.”

      “What if the chief…?” she asked.

      “I’ll check with him. He can find you if he needs you. Or he can consult with Walter.”

      We both leaned sideways to get a better look inside the theater office. Walter was doing a face-plant on the sofa, a pillow over his head, with Penny bent over him, talking in his ear. Not for the first time it occurred to me that they deserved each other.

      “Maybe he is tri-polar,” I said solemnly.

      Lola and I traded looks, both of us borderline hysterical from the evening’s events. I anticipated the prospect of storing pies and cakes in the Windjammer refrigerator for who-knew-how long and having to listen to Henry’s complaining about it. Lola had to face the prospect of no audience and its effect on the ELT budget. The turntable might turn out to be a boondoggle after all.

      * * *

      I called Enrico and had him haul what was left of the concession cakes back to the Windjammer. Bill was still observing the CSI unit onstage when I told him that Lola and I were moving next door. He nodded and said he’d be in touch, whatever that meant. I was back in the lobby when I realized I’d left my clothes in the dressing room. I groaned. I would have to spend the rest of the evening dressed like a refugee from Betsy Ross’s sewing circle. In sneakers. Without the mob cap. I ran a brush through my wild waves, chucked the apron behind the concession stand, and donned my down jacket.

      A fine mist was descending on us as we slogged through the cold and damp, past a waiting ambulance, to the Windjammer. The brisk air was like a shot of adrenaline. We discarded outerwear on the coat tree inside the restaurant, and Lola and Carol deposited themselves at the bar.

      Benny scanned my costume.

      “Don’t say it, I know. Betsy Ross,” I said.

      “I

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