“You looked very comfortable on stage,” Trixie tells me. “Taking your well-deserved bows.”
We three queens have just arrived at Dream Angel’s opening night after-party and we’re commanding a fair amount of attention, I must say. It’s not just because we all look fabulous in our gowns, although we do. Mine is a blush-colored tiered chiffon with an embellished halter neckline; Trixie’s is all drama with a black gossamer mesh skirt and embroidered black-and-white bodice; and Shanelle could not have chosen better than her strapless trumpet gown in deep sapphire.
No, we’re nearly as in-demand as Tonya and Junior at this shindig, thanks to my sleuthing. After that came to light this afternoon, Junior not only let me attend opening night; he brought me on stage to share my triumph with the audience.
“You two should’ve come on stage with me,” I say.
“We didn’t deserve to, girl,” Shanelle says. “We both thought you were nuts when you kept thinking Lisette might’ve been murdered.”
We grab champagne flutes from a passing tray. “That’s not the worst of it,” Trixie moans. “I was stupid enough to hang out with the killer.”
“We all hung out with Cynthia,” I say. “Don’t feel bad, Trixie. Besides, it was you who got me thinking that she was the killer. When you told me on the phone last night that Cynthia was upset about her foster mother, I realized just how much her life story is like the heroine’s in Dream Angel.”
“I don’t think she was upset about her foster mother, either,” Shanelle says. “I think she was upset that the N.Y.P.D. figured out Lisette was murdered.”
That rapidly became a big news story. “She must’ve been feeling the heat then,” I say.
“Probably.” Trixie shakes her head. “Anyway, what I really feel bad about is that I didn’t tell the two of you everything she said to me. If I had, you might’ve figured all this out sooner, Happy.”
“What’d you hold back, Trix?” Shanelle wants to know.
“That she wanted us to use our influence to get the show to close.” Trixie grimaces. “That was a real red flag, now that I think about it. But I knew you two didn’t like her, so I didn’t want to admit she said something so crazy.”
I hoist my flute in the air. “To honesty among BFFs!”
We’re enjoying our bubbly when Tonya joins us, resplendent in a teal-colored fit-and-flare bandage gown with a plunging V neck. “You were so fabulous tonight, Tonya,” I say. “Your voice really soared.”
“Guess what Oliver just told me?” Tonya is so giddy she can hardly speak. “Brad Baisley, you all know who he is, right?”
“He’s the Times critic, girl!” Shanelle cries.
“Yes,” Tonya says, “only the most important man in my universe right now. Anyway, he told Oliver that I’m going to be very happy with the review. Those are his exact words!” she squeals. “ ‘Very happy.’ ”
“I can’t believe we have to wait until tomorrow to read it,” Trixie says. “I’m jumping out of my skin. I can’t imagine how you must feel, Tonya.”
“Right now, delirious.” She turns to me. “But I want to understand more about Lisette using Cynthia Cowlin’s life story to write Dream Angel. I’m a little worried. Is the musical going to run into copyright trouble now?”
“Not at all.” I got quite an education on this topic today after Cynthia was arrested. “A copyright covers only a specific telling of a story. You can’t copyright a story itself, only a certain way it’s told. So in other words, Cynthia’s life story can’t be copyrighted. Dream Angel, however, can be.”
“And I’m sure it is,” Tonya says. “But what about Cynthia’s right to privacy?”
“We all have that right. But Lisette changed some of the details of Cynthia’s life when she wrote Dream Angel. For example, Cynthia is a hairdresser.”
Tonya nods. “But the heroine I play works in retail.”
“So Lisette probably could’ve defended herself in court,” I say, “by claiming that while her heroine’s story was similar to Cynthia’s, it wasn’t based on Cynthia’s.”
“That doesn’t make it right, though,” Trixie murmurs.
“I think the problem was that Lisette couldn’t come up with a story of her own,” Shanelle says. “We heard at the celebration of her life that her father kind of bulldozed her into this career.”
I wonder if Warren Longley will ever communicate with me about his daughter’s murder and my role in bringing it to light. He hasn’t yet. “I feel bad for everybody involved in this. Even Cynthia.”
“Now I understand why she saw Dream Angel five times,” Trixie says. “It wasn’t because she’s a Broadway geek, like she told us.”
“But since she saw so many Dream Angel previews,” I say, “Cynthia did know the exact moment Lisette would appear on the staircase. She knew exactly when she could hit her with the ball bearing. By the way.” I lower my voice. “Guess what the police found in Cynthia’s apartment? A competition slingshot. That’s how she hit Lisette in the back of the head.”
“You learn something new every day,” Shanelle says. “I had no idea there was such a thing as a competition slingshot.”
“There are clubs and everything,” I say. “Clearly Cynthia practiced this.” I hate to say it was impressive that Cynthia killed Lisette the way she did, but in a gruesome way it was. It required cunning and skill, attributes I would not have guessed Cynthia possessed in great measure.
Junior joins us, looking dapper in a tuxedo. “How are my two stars?” he inquires, looking first at Tonya and then at me.
“Never better!” Tonya beams.
“Tonight went so well I don’t even mind that my father’s here.” Junior raises his champagne flute in his father’s direction and Senior raises his as well. I’m guessing that’s the warmest gesture I’ll ever see between those two. “Apparently the old bastard tried to trash talk Dream Angel to Baisley,” Junior goes on, “but to no avail. So even though we’re not sitting on Hamilton here, we’re sitting pretty.” He spins away. Tonya is spirited away, too, by a throng of chorus members.
A server tops off our champagne. “It’s too bad your mom and Bennie didn’t come to the party,” Trixie says.
“Maybe it’s better they have a quiet night just the two of them,” Shanelle says.
“Things might settle down between them once they get back home,” I say.
Or they might not. Trust is hard to rebuild once it’s shattered.
I glance across the room at Kimberly, who’s very pretty in a red cocktail dress with a strappy open back. She’s laughing with a small group. I excuse myself from my BFFs and head in her direction. “I owe you an apology,” I tell her.
Her enormous blue eyes fly open.
“I was wrong to accuse you of having anything to do with Lisette’s death,” I go on.
“You were wrong,” she tells me. “And you wouldn’t let up.”
“I’m sorry. Really I am.”
She makes me wait before she says it. Then: “I accept your apology,” she says, and turns back to her friends.
We’ll never be besties, that’s for sure. But Kimberly may be part of my life for a while if she manages to get Jason’s calendar back on track. He says that’s possible.
Our conversation was strained this afternoon when I called to tell him about the day’s events. I’m already getting publicity from figuring out that Cynthia killed Lisette, which should bolster me with Mr. Cantwell but might have the opposite effect with Jason. Between that and the shark-kicking video that went viral, I fear Jason will be even more convinced that I’m somehow “too much” for him.
I walk to a window and gaze at Manhattan’s amazing night time skyline. Lights from more buildings than I can count twinkle in a madcap dance that can’t be matched anywhere else.
Somewhere in all that magic is Mario. No doubt he’s heard by now that I solved another murder mystery. But for the first time, he didn’t call to congratulate me. I heard that silence, and I understood it, but it hurt.
I look out at the beautiful night and what else can I do? I wish Mario well.
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Continue reading for an excerpt from Diana’s novel Chasing Venus, the story that readers call “a perfect blend of romance and suspense” ….