Tell Me, Pretty Maiden (Molly Murphy Mysteries, #7)

We reached the end of the hallway and Blanche went ahead of me down the stairs.

“Straight ahead to the pass door,” she whispered as we reached the wings. “Don’t let anyone see you.” Then she handed her wrap to a stagehand and was suddenly a different person. She swept toward the stage with her head held high, making her entrance like arriving royalty.

It was easy to slink past unnoticed in the dark chaos backstage. Scenery flats, pillars, ropes, spotlights, props were everywhere—whole rooms waiting to be assembled in seconds. The chorus girls were lined up beside the stage, some of them doing stretches or jumping around to keep warm. The overture for the second act had begun and the light jaunty music that filled the area was in strange contrast to the darkness and chaos of the wings. I climbed over a rope hanging from somewhere above and reached the door. Then I pushed it open just a crack and squeezed through.

Instantly I was in another world. In the half-light from the stage, this looked like the interior of a sultan’s palace. Every inch of wall and ceiling that I could see was carved in a Moorish style with arches and niches and geometric designs. On either side of the stalls rose two tiers of ornate boxes, looking like pictures I had seen of Indian palaces, and were hung with rich fabric curtains and drapes. If a maharaja or an elephant had walked past, I shouldn’t have been too surprised. Behind the boxes a carved balcony ran around the rest of the theater and from this balcony pillars fanned out to support the ceiling like exotic blooms. The thought crossed my mind that one could sit here and gaze in wonder without having to watch a play as well. No expense had been spared in the design of this theater. No wonder Miss Sheehan had said it was the plum. No wonder Miss Lovejoy was reluctant to move somewhere else.

I was about to find a way into the stage box when I noticed two figures sitting in the third row of the stalls. One of them was the round little man that Blanche had addressed as Robert. The other was a striking dark-haired man with classic features.

The overture finished. The dark-haired man shouted, “Blanche, where are you? You’re late. The curtain would have gone up by now.”

“Go to hell, Dessie.” Blanche swept onto the stage. “When we have a curtain working, I’ll work with it.” She suddenly switched on a radiant smile and became someone quite different.

“Claudette, is zat Monsieur Wexler’s motor car I ’ear?”

While their attention was focused on the stage I slipped past the men in the stalls and found an entrance to the stage box. Then I sat concealed behind the drapes in the darkness and watched.

I have to say it was a very silly play, but then I suppose most musical comedies don’t rely on their plot. From what I could gather Blanche played an impoverished French countess who opened her chateau as a seminary for young ladies. A motor car with several American artists has broken down near the chateau, and Blanche has convinced them to stay and paint in the area, since the owner of the car is reputed to be a millionaire. But she is falling for the most handsome (and considerably younger) Monsieur Teddy Wexler, even though she knows he is impoverished.

There were the requisite love songs. “Let’s bill and coo like the birdies do,” and “My sweet Monique, you’re quite unique. I can’t wait to dance cheek to cheek.”

And then there were the naughtier songs that apparently had made Blanche famous, including that one about “the way we do it in France,” in which all the lyrics were supposed to be part of a cooking demonstration but were laden with double entendres. “For dessert we like a good ripe pear, or a nice little tart will do.”

Grudgingly, I had to admit that I could see why Blanche had become a star. Her presence dominated the stage. Her big booming voice echoed through the theater. Her winks and innuendoes in the naughty songs would make half the women in the audience blush and reach for their fans and handkerchiefs while all the men roared with laughter.

The play ended with no more ghostly appearances and I made my way back to Blanche’s dressing room.

“So what did you think?” she asked.

“Delightful, just delightful,” I said. “I’m sure it will be a big hit.”

“And you saw nothing—strange?”

I shook my head.

“Thank God for that. Maybe the evil presence will know that you are watching out for him and retreat.”

I thought secretly than any self-respecting ghost would not have been put off by the likes of me, but I merely nodded encouragingly. “So when do you need me again?”

“We have our first dress rehearsal tomorrow at seven,” she said. “Company meeting at five. If you and I plan to arrive early—say by four, we can have time to talk while Martha dresses me.”