Sinister Stage: A Ghost Story Romance and Mystery (Wicks Hollow Book 5), Page 2

  “Certainly not,” replied Vivien, exchanging glances with Helga. “Does this mean you’ll take the role of Abby Brewster?”

  “Is she the bossy sister or the fluttery one?” asked Maxine, narrowing her eyes.

  “For pity’s sake, they’re both murderers,” said Helga. “What does it matter?”

  “Of course she’s the bossy one,” said Vivien at the same time, then broke off a large piece of the scone she’d swiped and wagged it in front of Maxine’s face. “Typecasting, you know.” She popped the crumbly pastry into her mouth and grinned. “And if we ever do Wizard of Oz, you know what role you’ll be playing.” She hummed the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song.

  Maxine barked a laugh, her eyes gleaming with humor and appreciation. “I’d play the hell out of that role, and you know it. All right, then, Vivien Leigh. I’ll be the bossy sister.” She thumped her cane again. “And they’re not technically murderers, you know, Helga.”

  “What do you call feeding lonely old gentlemen arsenic in elderberry wine—without them knowing about it—if not a murder?” Helga said. Which wasn’t a surprise, as most of the time she was Officer van Hest of the Wicks Hollow Police Department.

  The joy of watching their interplay was so comfortable and familiar that Vivien couldn’t hold back a huge grin. She was just so glad to be back in Wicks Hollow—even though there was a dearth of carry-out options and no delivery service except for pizza. (She’d asked about DoorDash and whether she could get an Uber home from the Roost, and Helga had gone into fits of laughter. “The only ride home you might get from the bar is if you get your pal the cop to pick you up,” Helga had hooted.)

  Nonetheless, Vivien hoped, hoped, hoped everything was going to work out with the theater so she could stay. At least with her temporary rental—off the beaten tourist path and a deal, since the lease went through the end of the year and not just for summer; plus it belonged to a friend of Orbra’s who’d done her a favor—Vivien’s cost of living would be less than a third of what it had been in Manhattan.

  “Why can’t I play Elaine Harper?” grumbled Maxine. “I’d be perfect as Mortimer’s love interest. That boy Baxter is fine.”

  Helga choked on her chai latte. “But you’re fifty years older than he is—”

  “Typecasting, remember?” Vivien interrupted swiftly and soothingly. “Even though it’s not spoken, we just know Abby Brewster is the mastermind behind the whole scheme, and—”

  “That’s age discrimination, you know,” Maxine shot back at Helga, her voice rising into a familiar screech. “And I’ve had enough discrimination in my life being a Black female scientist—you know, I was thinking, they coulda made that Hidden Figures movie about me—”

  “You’re loco, Maxine. You’re a chemical engineer, not a computer whiz, and that movie was about space and mathematics,” said Juanita, but her friend just talked right over her as usual.

  “—and why can’t Vivien be creative like that Lynda-Miranda Miguel person? He didn’t care about no ages or skin color or—”

  “Maxine, you’re going to be absolutely brilliant as Abby Brewster,” said Vivien, using her firm, capable PR/handler voice—the one she’d perfected dealing with some of the biggest Broadway stars back in New York, including Louise London. “And besides, Abby’s a much larger part than Elaine Harper. Everyone in Wicks Hollow is going to love seeing the town matriarch in one of the lead roles, you know.”

  Maxine pursed her lips and considered the (figurative) carrot Vivien was dangling in front of her.

  And so Vivien decided to put a little butter and brown sugar glaze on that carrot. “You know, you might be the oldest person to ever play Abby Brewster—that would probably get a lot of coverage for our little semi-amateur theater production here in Wicks Hollow. I’ll make sure to include that in the press releases.” One thing Vivien knew was that Maxine was not only open about her advanced age, she was proud of it.

  “And besides…as Mortimer’s aunt, you probably get to give him at least one kiss on the cheek—that’s more than Elaine gets to do,” Vivien said with a sly grin.

  “That’s more like it,” said Maxine. “All right, then, you’ve got yourself an Abby—she’s the bossy one, right?”

  “Yes,” Juanita snapped. “Vivien said it was typecasting—didn’t you hear her?” She wiped her dimpled fingers on a napkin, showing off the screaming red fingernail polish that matched her lipstick—both of which clashed wildly with her flame-orange hair, which poofed into a mushroom-cloud-like shape over the crown of her head. She was wearing her normal attire of a flowing maxi-dress—this one tie-dyed in countless shades of blue. At least that didn’t clash.

  Vivien was itching to cast Juanita as Mrs. Potts—it would be a different take, with her being Latina instead of properly British, but that was the joy of being in charge. Unfortunately, the rights to Beauty and the Beast were a little out of reach for the first year of her production schedule. Maybe the Fairy Godmother in Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Cinderella?

  So many possibilities, but her plan was to have at least one production per season include locals from the town acting alongside whatever celebrities she could bring in for a short run. It would be a fun way to involve the community while keeping the productions high-quality.

  “I get to be the other sister. Martha,” Juanita said.

  “Martha—the fluttery one,” said Maxine dismissively. “Definite typecasting.”

  “And what about the rest of the characters?” asked Orbra before Juanita could retort. The tea shop proprietress was a tall, large-boned Dutch woman of seventy who could still manage a tray with four teapots and a three-tier sandwich server balanced on one hand without breaking a sweat. Or a teapot. Hmm. Orbra would be an interesting Mrs. Potts too…or even the Witch in Into the Woods.

  “Doug Horner’s going to play Teddy Brewster. And Vivien said Ricky could be in it, too,” said Juanita, eyeing a thumb-sized currant tart. “Just a small role, but since Clara died a few months back, you know he’s been a little lost with nothing to do.”

  “Clara? Why, it’s been over a year since she died—” Of course Maxine had to argue.

  Before Juanita could jump in and bicker back, Vivien spoke up. “That’s right—Ricky is going to be Mr. Gibbs. The Presbyterian who runs away before he drinks the elderberry wine.” She grinned. “I’ll have to get his full name for the program and press releases, but anyway, Orbra, it’s a semi-professional, semi-amateur production. I wanted Maxine and Juanita to be the Brewster sisters because everyone in town knows them—”

  “Being expert murder-solvers and all,” Maxine said.

  “Murder-solvers? I don’t think I’ve heard about this,” said Vivien, giving her friend the cop a curious look.

  “Please don’t encourage them,” Helga replied under her breath, then went on, loud enough to drown out Maxine, “Do tell us about the rest of the cast—not that I care, because I’m not going to be playing a dead body. I don’t care who’s going to be pulling me—it—out of the window seat.”

  “Not even if it’s Roger Hatchard?” Vivien said with a smirk.

  “Did you say Roger Hatchard?” Helga clapped a hand to her chest, her blue-brown eyes going wide. “Roger Hatchard? For real?”

  “The one and only.” Vivien sat back, folding her arms over her middle.

  “Wait—I thought you said Baxter is playing Mortimer.” Helga looked skeptical but also slyly interested.

  “He is. But in act two, the character of Jonathan Brewster—the villain—also has to help move Mr. Spinalzo—the other dead body—into the window seat.”

  “That’s a lot of dead bodies being schlepped around,” said Orbra, watching them with her hands on her hips.

  “Jonathan Brewster—that’s the role Boris Karloff played,” announced Maxine. “Not that any of you young chickens even know who Boris Karloff—”

  “Of course I know who Boris Karloff is. I watched The Grinch, didn’t I? Anyway…Roger Hatchard?�
�� Helga repeated. “He’s going to be in your show? VL, how could you not have—”

  “Who is Roger Hatchard?” asked Juanita in a prim voice. “Some of us older ladies don’t know all of the newfangled stars—”

  “He was only the best center for the Pistons in the early aughts,” said Helga with a dreamy sigh. “Six foot eight inches of deliciousness, not to mention being brilliant on the court. His footwork in that playoff game against the Lakers…mmhmm.” She did a French-chef sort of kissy thing to express her appreciation for either the man’s playing or his so-called deliciousness; Vivien wasn’t sure which. “Even I could have worn heels if I wanted to date him—and would still have to look up to kiss the guy.”

  “He was a little old for you at ten, Helga,” Vivien teased.

  “So how did you manage that?” asked Helga, still moony-eyed. “Getting a basketball player to act?”

  “Well,” Vivien replied slyly, “it could have something to do with the fact that I’ve been sort of seeing his son…”

  “What?” Helga was nearly out of her seat. “VL, I swear I’d kill you if I didn’t want to make sure this production goes off! How could you not tell me?”

  Vivien gave a little snort-laugh. “Well, I’m telling you now, aren’t I?”

  Helga swatted her with a napkin and called her an unflattering name.

  Maxine had pursed her lips so they stuck out in a massive pout. “What’re you talking about? You got a baseball guy playing in the show? Why, I ain’t ever heard of anything so ridi—”

  “Basketball,” said Orbra firmly. “He played for the Detroit Pistons. He’s originally from Lansing, so he’s kind of a local boy. Now he’s an ESPN sportscaster, isn’t he?”

  “He is. And yes, he can act—at least enough to play Jonathan Brewster—which isn’t a very demanding role. He’s just sort of hulking and mean,” Vivien said, looking at Maxine. “I wanted to—er—support the hometown actors in the cast by having some local celebrities to round things out. It’ll help create a draw for the show and we’ll raise more money for the renovations.”

  “Celebrities?” said Helga.

  “Yes…well, Dr. Einstein is going to be played by Michael Wold—you know, the actor who did LeFou from Beauty and the Beast in the national tour last year, and—”

  Vivien’s cell phone chose that moment to buzz from its place on the table. It was the bank. Her stomach dropped to the floor as she snatched up her phone. “Sorry, ladies, I have to take this—it’s the bank about the loan. More info to come, I promise. Rehearsals start next week, Maxine and Juanita.”

  I hope.

  She answered the phone as she hurried out of the tea shop, knowing Helga not only wouldn’t arrest her for dining and dashing, but would cover her tab.

  Of course, then Helga would make her friend pay her back—and insist Vivien do so by going to Trib’s, the trendiest and therefore most expensive restaurant in the county.

  The phone call with her small business loan officer was brief and successful, culminating in the very best news: the loan she’d applied for had been approved—and at the highest amount she’d hoped for. She did a little pirouette in the street, feeling like she was back in ballet class at age five. The only thing that kept her from doing a cartwheel was the fact that she was wearing a sundress.

  She was here in Wicks Hollow and was one step closer to fulfilling her dream and making a life in this sweet, quaint town.

  So different from New York! She’d loved the big city when she first moved there, when she’d been dying to get out of tiny Wicks Hollow right after high school graduation. It helped to get away from memories and gave her a chance to spread her wings. Which she’d done, but not in the way she’d expected.

  But sometime over the last ten years, her desire to live in the frenetic, energetic, demanding city had waned. She wanted to be in a place where she felt at home, where she belonged, where—yes, all right—everybody knew her name. And she wanted to honor Liv and the memories Vivien had with her.

  Not that she didn’t have people who knew her in New York. She did. Maybe too many of them. At least two or three times a month, she’d get contacted from someone in the business on either coast about doing a show or taking an audition or performing somewhere. As she no longer had an agent—she didn’t need or want one—Vivien fielded all of those contacts with a simple but firm “No thank you, I don’t perform anymore.”

  Still, her name and reputation had helped build her marketing and PR business in the Broadway world, and it was partly because of that that Vivien was right where she was now: walking down the main street in the town she’d only lived in for five years—but it felt like the only home she’d ever had.

  In a way, it was.

  Vivien always thought George Wicks (who, in her mind, would have been Henry Higgins in My Fair Lady) must have been the optimistic sort, naming the two main roads that intersected in the center of the village after his daughters—and giving them lofty names like Pamela Boulevard and Faith Avenue. Neither could be considered hardly more than a street, let alone a boulevard or avenue, and when there were cars parked on either side, like there would be by noon today, there was barely enough space for two vehicles to pass each other.

  But that was part of what made Wicks Hollow so charming—its quiet, tidy streets studded by urns spilling with bright geraniums, gerberas, and lush, dangling vines.

  There were shops and establishments—very limited compared to what she’d passed every day in New York, but Vivien certainly didn’t miss the alleys smelling of urine, the constant blare of sirens and horns, the throngs of people everywhere all the time, and the perpetual odor of rotting garbage (every day was trash day somewhere in the city).

  Vivien paused outside the window of the small florist to admire a springy, airy fern that she coveted for the kitchen in her tiny rental. But she’d probably kill it like she did the tomato plant she’d had on her windowsill one summer, and so she continued on down Pamela, heading toward Elizabeth Street—better known as B&B Row.

  Vivien could have returned to the café and finished her scone (and paid her bill), but during the conversation with her banker, she’d automatically walked three blocks. Now she realized she’d almost arrived at the office of her realtor, whom she’d known a hundred years ago in high school. Though she was early, she decided to go inside in hopes of getting the keys sooner.

  Twenty minutes later (hurray for a canceled appointment that had left her realtor free), Vivien was on her way to the theater—her theater.

  She could finally go inside, knowing it was hers. She had seen it twice during the buying process, which had taken over five months, because although she was determined, she wasn’t foolish enough to waste the money Gran had left her, and she’d negotiated the crap out of the deal.

  But she’d always been with someone when inside. Never alone.

  Never just her…and Liv.

  The Wicks Hollow Stage had struggled with a few short-lived seasons in the late 1980s into 1990 before being shuttered permanently. Prior to that, it had been quite successful in turns as a vaudeville theater, a venue for silent films with an orchestra pit for live music accompaniment, and then the talkies that came out in the 1930s. But eventually, the old building had been abandoned sometime during the Second World War.

  Whoever reopened it in the eighties had done a stellar job of updating and restoring the place, so fortunately for Vivien, she mainly had to clean it up and fix a few damaged areas, as well as update the lighting system and install new seats in the house. Her loan (she squealed happily inside) would more than cover those improvements, and she wouldn’t have to dip into her savings…which meant she might even be able to buy a house next year.

  It was a short drive to the six-hundred-seat theater she intended to make a tourist destination during every season—not just the summer. She suspected part of the reason it hadn’t been successful in the past was because it wasn’t in the downtown area, nor was it near Lake Michigan�
��both locations being the main draws for tourists. Instead, it was on a residential side street that ended in a cul-de-sac just off the two-lane state route that angled led outside of Wicks Hollow to Wicks Lake.

  The location didn’t worry her; it was only two miles from town, and tourists drove to and from activities in the area all the time. And Vivien didn’t have a solid track record in publicity and advertising for nothing. The bank agreed: Wicks Hollow needed a live entertainment venue other than the small outdoor music stage and a movie theater ten miles away.

  And now, Vivien thought as she pulled into the side parking lot of the Olivia Dee Theater, she was going to make it happen.

  The original red velvet seats had long decayed and been removed, but Vivien would replace the rows of folding wooden seats from three decades ago with something like the original. The interior was dusty, dark, and very dingy, but there wasn’t any indication of leaks or mold. The stage itself remained solid, and the catwalk above was stable and would be usable, with little need for repair.

  However, the traditional red velvet curtains were a tattered mess (and would be the first thing Vivien would tear away once she got inside), and the dressing rooms and costume wardrobes needed a lot of work. She’d already ordered two fifty-yard Dumpsters to be placed in the parking lot, and they should arrive tomorrow. She’d have her work cut out for her, filling them up.

  Vivien let herself in through the front door, the main entrance the theatergoers would be using hopefully six weeks from now, when Arsenic and Old Lace opened.

  It was important for her to envision what it would be like when the place was illuminated and filled with chattering people milling about and filing down the aisles to their seats. She wanted to picture what the audience would see when they first walked in to the new, clean, renovated theater. Six weeks was an aggressive schedule, but Vivien had planned everything out and was optimistic it would work. She’d already had measurements taken for the new curtains, and had priced out audience seats and was ready to place the order. She would open the weekend after Labor Day.