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

She paused and looked at me, her eyes sparkling triumphantly. “So what do you say, Molly? We’ll show them I’m not going out of my head, won’t we? We’ll catch that ghost.”


“I’ll give it my best shot, Miss Lovejoy,” I said with what I hoped was enthusiasm.

“Right. Let’s get to work.” Blanche pulled out a script. “We’ve just got time to go through it once together. You’ll have to muddle through as best you can at tonight’s dress rehearsal, but take it home and study it so you’ve got your moves down pat before tomorrow. I’ve written you into the scenes and I’ve marked your position on the stage. Remember, in a play nothing is random. Every move is in the master script and the spot you stand in never varies by an inch. Since you are supposed to have your nose in a book all the time, I suggest that the book is this one. That way you’ll know what comes next.”

She opened the first page and started going through it at a great rate. “So the first scene in the garden, the girls will be playing tennis and you’ll be standing against the back wall. For heaven’s sake, don’t lean on it or it will fall down. You’ll be here, next to the rosebush. Then when the girls rush off to tell me the news, you’ll look up from your book, realize they have gone, and hurry after them, exiting stage left.”

She continued to bark out instructions until I was hopelessly confused. I was feeling inadequate and worried that I’d make a mess of things until I realized that I was the one doing a favor here. If she wanted me to be onstage to protect her, then she’d have to forgive a few errors. Another thought struck me.

“It’s a dress rehearsal. What am I supposed to wear?”

Blanche glanced at Martha. “You’ll need a costume,” she said as if this might not have occurred to her before. “I don’t know if we’ve anything suitable in wardrobe so we may have to improvise for tonight’s dress rehearsal and probably tomorrow night’s, too. It’s supposed to be summertime in the play. Do you have anything like that garment you are wearing, equally dowdy, but lighter weight?”

I realized then that Blanche wasn’t all sweetness and light, but I ignored the insult. I suppose my business suit could be described as dowdy.

“I have a plain muslin,” I said, but she shook her head.

“No, these are good class girls. I don’t think muslin would do, do you, Martha?”

“I’m sure Madame Eva will be able to make something for her in a hurry if you asked nicely,” Martha said. “She’s supposed to be a schoolgirl, isn’t she? So what she needs is a schoolgirl outfit. Checked gingham or black with a white bow or white with a black bow at her neck. Something plain but wholesome.”

“Right, as always.” Blanche nodded with satisfaction. “Come on then. If we hurry we can make it to wardrobe before the meeting.”

I was whisked along the hall, up yet another flight of steps, and into a room that was positively cluttered with racks of costumes, bolts of fabric, boxes of wigs—and half buried under all this a table containing a sewing machine, and sitting at the table a hunched old woman dressed head to toe in black. She looked even more witchlike than Martha. She had similar sharp features and her skin looked horribly sallow in the dim light. I don’t know how she managed to sew in there and how she didn’t go blind doing it. She glanced up, frowning, as we came in.

“It’s all right, you don’t have to make a fuss,” she said in heavily accented English. “I said they’d all be ready by five and they are all ready. See—the last of the tennis outfits, all hanging and ready for the girls to pick up.”

“You’re a miracle worker, Eva,” Blanche said, and produced her beaming smile. “And I’m glad you’re done because I have one teeny little extra job for you to do.”

Eva’s scowl turned to me. “Who’s she? I haven’t seen this one before.”

“She’s new. She’s going to be joining us. We felt the chorus needed comic relief so she’s going to be the studious girl who never joins in. Could you whip up something plain and unflattering for her?”

“Could I whip up?” Eva demanded, waving her arms dramatically. “What you think I have, a magic wand here? Where is this plain and unflattering fabric, huh?”

“Not for tonight, silly. Of course not for tonight. But before opening night. That’s all I ask. Four more days. And she’ll need a wig. That red hair is so un-French. I thought black, plain, two pigtails.”

“And how should this ugly dress look?” Eva demanded.

“What do you think? Plain black with a white bow?”

“She’ll look like she’s going to a funeral,” Eva muttered.

“All right. Plain white with a black bow. Schoolgirlish. Young.”

“I’ll take her measurements and see what I can do,” Eva said.

“Oh, and spectacles,” Blanche added. “And black boots.”