The Novel Art of Murder

“What the blazes do you mean I didn’t get the part?” Nana Jo’s face turned beet red and she leapt up from her chair.

I had never been so happy for a slow morning crowd at the bookstore as I was at that minute. My grandmother was about to blow a gasket and, while it might prove entertaining, I preferred keeping the drama contained to family and friends.

“Josephine, calm down.” Dorothy Clark was one of my grandmother’s oldest friends, which was probably why she was nominated to break the bad news to her.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. I am calm. I’m always calm.” Nana Jo pounded the table with her hand. The mugs shook and splashed coffee on the table. “If I want to kick up a ruckus, I’ll kick up a ruckus.” She pounded the table again and then marched over to the counter and grabbed a dishcloth to wipe up the mess.

Ruby Mae Stevenson, another of Nana Jo’s friends, shook her head and moved her knitting out of the way of the spills. “I told you she wouldn’t take it well.”

“I’ve had the lead role in the Shady Acres Senior Follies for the past ten years. That role was created specifically for me. I don’t just play the part of Eudora Hooper, retired school marm dreaming about becoming a famous showgirl. I am Eudora Hooper.” Nana Jo wiped up the spilled coffee.

“I know, and you’ve played the role splendidly.” Dorothy’s face reflected her sincerity.

Dorothy wasn’t merely humoring my grandmother. Nana Jo’s performance was inspired, and each year she got better and better.

Nana Jo looked at her three closest friends. “Who got the part?”

Ruby Mae put her head down and refused to make eye contact.

Irma Starczewski reached for her mug, but it was empty, so she pulled a flask out of her purse and took a swig.

Nana Jo put her hands on her hips, narrowed her eyes, and stared at Dorothy.

For a large woman, almost six feet tall, Dorothy shrank as she stared at Nana Jo. “Maria Romanov.”

I thought Nana Jo was red before, but the beet red coloring from earlier was nothing compared to the purple red that crept up her neck.

“Maria Romanov? That two-bit hack’s only acting talent is in her ability to convince people she’s a decent human being.” Nana Jo pounded the table again, rattling the mugs.

Just as quickly as the anger flared up, it vanished. Nana Jo flopped down in a chair. Nearly as tall as Dorothy, Nana Jo went through a transformation. Instead of the vibrant, active, five-foot-ten, sharpshooting, Aikido-tossing woman I knew and loved, there was a seventy-something, old woman in her place.

She took a few deep breaths. “If that’s what Horace wants, then I guess I wasn’t as good as I thought I was.”

“Irma!” we shouted.

Irma coughed and clamped her hand over her mouth. Years of heavy smoking, drinking, and hanging out with truckers, if Nana Jo was to be believed, had left her with a deep cough, a salacious sexual appetite, and a colorful vocabulary.

I leaned over and gave Nana Jo a hug. “Your performance was amazing and I’m not just saying that because you’re my grandmother.”

She absentmindedly patted my arm. “Thank you, Sam, but Horace Evans is a top-notch director. He once directed Ethel Merman.”

“He even won a Tony award. I’ve seen it. He keeps it in his bedroom.” Irma smiled and then broke out in a fit of coughing.

The fact that Nana Jo didn’t acknowledge Irma’s quip about the location of the award was an indication of her state of mind. “We’ve been fortunate to have someone with his experience and credentials at Shady Acres.”

“Really? I didn’t know he had a Tony award. They always run something about the Senior Follies in the newspaper, but they’ve never mentioned it.”

“He likes to keep it low-key.” Dorothy nodded. “He worked on Broadway for more than twenty years.”

“How in the world did he end up in Michigan?” I asked.

“He wanted to be close to his family.” Ruby Mae looked up from her knitting. “I think his son was an engineer for one of the car companies.”

North Harbor used to have a lot of manufacturing plants that supplied parts for the Detroit automobile industry, but when the economy went south in the seventies, so too did most of the manufacturing jobs.

“I appreciate the kind words, but Horace is an expert. If he thinks Maria Romanov will make a better Eudora Hooper than me, I’ll just have to accept his decision.”

We tried to cheer Nana Jo up, but nothing we said had any effect. She smiled and continued to shrink. Only once did she perk up and demonstrate the flash of fire which characterized her personality.

The door chimed and a customer entered the bookstore.

Nana Jo rose from her seat. “It’s time to face the music. On opening night, I hope you all break a leg.” She pushed her chair in and headed to the front of the store. “And I hope Maria Romanov breaks her neck.”