Death of an English Muffin Read Online Free PDF

special talent,” I said, then turned to Barbara, who appeared miffed at the interruption of her diatribe. “Mrs. Beakman, why don’t you tell the others about your work with the youth theater in Harlem?”
    I had been fascinated to learn from Pish that once upon a time whiny, sickly Barbara had created a group to teachacting to kids in Harlem, back in the sixties. It was revolutionary then, to teach the arts to kids who often didn’t even have the basics of life, and maybe it seemed frivolous. Shouldn’t she have been giving them food and educational supplies and clothes so they could go to school in the bitter winter cold? Perhaps, but at least she
did
something. Pish fondly remembered the Barbara of that time as someone who took him to the theater, explaining the subtleties of Shakespeare and Ibsen in equal measure.
    She spoke; as I lingered nearby, I forgot what a complainer Barbara was as she told the tale of a family of kids who came to her theater group because she offered a free lunch, and stayed to get lost in her world of make-believe. I reminded myself to never judge someone based on minor flaws.
    I turned and noticed how the afternoon sunlight streamed in one of the arched windows, touching Shilo’s lovely face with such ethereal beauty. Since she had gotten married we had drifted ever so slightly apart—inevitable, I suppose, but I missed her. I strolled to another table when Stoddart, interested, joined the conversation as Barbara spoke of one child from the family who grew up to be a famous actor.
    Cleta shuffled into the dining room and made her way back to her seat, her huge pocketbook over her arm. One thing from Barbara Beakman’s earlier complaint came back to me; I could get no one to admit who had spilled the beans to Cleta Sanson about their move to my castle. It was a dumb detail to fuss about, I suppose, but it rankled. Lush said Cleta already knew about their temporary relocation to Wynter Castle and raised a stink; Lush being a sweetie, felt bad and invited her. They
all
claimed they were trying to keep Cleta from finding out so they could sneak off into the night. Not one would ’fess up to being the first to tell her their plans, saying they only discussed it with her because she already knew.
    The tea and snacks portion of the afternoon finished, Pish moved to the piano as Hannah’s parents departed topick up their daughter. He started with a medley of Broadway tunes. To my surprise and delight, some folks sang along, especially Elwood Fitzhugh, who had a lovely tenor voice. He stood while he sang and gestured grandly, belting out “Hello, Dolly!” to the world. If Pish and his troupe had been putting on Gilbert and Sullivan or Rodgers and Hammerstein, Elwood would have been a grand addition.
    But Pish then switched to some light opera. After that Stoddart, silvery hair glinting in the sunlight that streamed in the window, joined him at the piano and they sang a duet, “Lily’s Eyes” from
The Secret Garden
, taken down a bit for Stoddart’s lower range. It was lovely, and I felt like the audience held its collective breath. The best part, for me, was when Pish met my gaze and sang just to me. I love him so; he was one of the few who I felt understood and valued Miguel as much as I. He has told me I am the daughter he never could have, and he is more than a father for me; he is friend and brother and father all in one.
    Stoddart, Pish’s friend, is a federal agent who was sent to Autumn Vale to consult about the illegal goings-on at the Autumn Vale Community Bank. He is handsome, fit, perfectly tailored, exquisitely groomed, and he was riveting as he went on to sing Lancelot’s song “If Ever I Would Leave You” from
Camelot
. As the applause died down, he bowed, but remained standing, and said, “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will come to the castle for our performance of
The Magic Flute
, in which I have a small part. My friend, Pish Lincoln, myself, and various other