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

“Anything more?” Eva asked. “You want me to make her a ball gown, in case you change your mind and this girl turns into a princess in the middle of the play?”


Blanche leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Eva dearest. Stay with her, Molly, and let her take your measurements, then come down to the stage when you hear the bell.”

I nodded, noticing that she had called me Molly. I had thought we had decided on an alias, but I suppose nobody was likely to recognize me, especially under the black wig, glasses, and ugly dress. But I couldn’t say anything in front of Madame Eva.

“So what do you want me to wear tonight?” I asked before Blanche could disappear.

Blanche glanced at Eva. “You couldn’t find her a plain skirt and shirtwaist?”

Eva shook her head. “I’m not running a department store here. I don’t keep clothing on spec.”

“Then it will have to be your own clothes, Molly. I must dash.” And she was gone. Eva took my measurements, tut-tutting in horror that I wasn’t wearing a corset and had such a large waist.

“What man you think you get with a waist like that?” she demanded. “You should see Miss Lovejoy’s waist. A man can encircle her waist with his hands, even at her age.”

A distant bell summoned us to the stage. I heard the sound of feet tramping from all over the theater and joined the growing crowd as we hurried down the stairs. I got more than one inquisitive stare as we made our way to the stage. Most of the cast took up positions sitting cross-legged on the floor while Blanche and the men I had seen in the stalls the day before sat on the sofa and chairs that were part of the set. I slid to the floor at the back of the crowd.

The director, Mr. Barker, the one she had called Robert, gave a speech about all their hard work coming to fruition. The choreographer, Desmond Haynes, the slim dark-haired man who had been watching Blanche’s dressing room when I came out, gave his own speech, mainly directed to the dancers, about the importance of the straight line and the pattern. A distinguished-looking white-haired man, who turned out to be the conductor, talked about tempo and signals and watching him and not rushing the cancan number. There were more instructions, some questions, and then Blanche gave a pretty speech about how she was counting on every single one of us not to let her down.

As they spoke I studied them in turn: round little Robert Barker with his worried frown, supercilious Desmond Haynes, the various actors and actresses and chorus girls. And there was the backstage crew, lurking in the wings. Did one of them have a secret grudge against Blanche Lovejoy? How was I ever going to find out?

Blanche got to her feet. “All right, everybody. Overture and beginners down here at six forty-five. Oh, and before you go, I have one small addition to our happy family. Molly dear, would you stand up?” I stood, feeling all those eyes upon me. “This young lady is the cousin of none other than Oona Sheehan, so of course I had to find her a small part in our play.”

“I hope you’re not thinking of making her an extra maid and taking away more of my lines,” the older actress who played the maid said peevishly.

“Of course not, darling. Wouldn’t dream of it,” Blanche said. “Molly will be an extra pupil in my school.”

“But we’ve got all the chorus numbers worked out perfectly,” one of the girls complained. “We don’t have time to relearn anything now.”

“Molly will not be part of the chorus. She will be the studious girl who never joins in. Onstage but not part of the action. Now this is all new to her so you must help her. Right, off you go.”

The stage cleared in seconds. I ran to catch up with Blanche. “Where should I go?” I asked.

She considered this. “Probably best if you change with the girls in their dressing room. It would create resentment if I had you get dressed with me. Up the staircase and to the end of the hall.”

She ran ahead of me. I was following, picking my way past props and scenery, when my arm was grabbed roughly. Desmond Haynes was glaring down at me. “You listen to me, girl,” he said. “This is a stupid idea of Blanche’s. She always was too softhearted. The theater is no place for amateurs and I take it you are a rank amateur?”

I could only nod.

“I have worked these girls until their routines are perfect,” he said. “Do anything to spoil what I have created and I’ll have you out of here so fast your feet won’t touch the ground. Do I make myself clear?”

“Absolutely,” I said.

As I climbed the stairs to the dressing room my heart was hammering. I couldn’t help wondering if Mr. Haynes was looking for an excuse to get rid of me as quickly as possible. I also wondered whether this was only because of artistic sensibilities or because he sensed my presence as a threat.