Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Read Online Free PDF

statement to the media. Obviously there will be no preview tomorrow night.” He glances at his watch. “I’ll delay our call time to noon. Be on time.” Oliver spins out of the rehearsal room.
    For a while, nobody speaks and nobody moves. Then people start turning to each other and the low hum of conversation fills the room.
    I turn to Shanelle and Trixie and wonder if I look as shocked as they do. “Sheesh!” I hiss. “That was cold .”
    “If that’s how he speaks of the dead,” Shanelle mutters, “I don’t want to know what he has to say about the living.”
    Trixie’s eyes are wide with astonishment. “He really does speak his mind.”
    Some of the time, anyway. But I wager that the very people who claim to be totally upfront are the ones with the most secrets. Trixie’s right: I do have a suspicious mind. “Let’s get out of here,” I suggest. “And take a cab back to the apartment.” Those twelve blocks can be great exercise, but it’s midnight and I want to get home. I want to get out of these clothes and pour myself a glass of wine, not necessarily in that order.
    Fifteen minutes later we arrive at our high-rise home away from home. What do people say about real estate? All that matters is location, location, location? Well, this place is central, central, central. We’re on the 25 th floor and our floor-to-ceiling windows offer spectacular views. I feel like I can reach out and touch the Empire State Building. It’s all very Manhattan, with designer touches everywhere and a doorman, concierge and porter at our beck and call.
    That said, the apartment is minuscule. You enter a tiny foyer and take two steps through a chic kitchen to find yourself in the main room, fantastic view in front of you, queen bed to your left and leather pull-out sofa to your right. Off this room is a short corridor lined with closets that leads to the bathroom. The only spots of color are the cornflower-blue paint on the accent wall behind the bed, the bright yellow teakettle on the cooktop, and the book jackets on the hardcovers stacked on the nightstand. Everything else is New York neutral: white, gray and black.
    I’m not sure I’d want to live here—not that I could afford to—but for a week it makes me feel very urban and sophisticated.
    By wordless consent, we engage in our evening ritual. We leave the lights off; Shanelle fetches the wine; and Trixie and I get the glasses. We settle on the sofa to enjoy the astonishing view. Some people might think it odd that we sit in the dark, but this way it’s as if we three are hidden in our own private Manhattan aerie. Invisible, we can observe the nocturnal goings-on, for the first time since our morning coffee happily removed from the action. Often we sip in silence—which only adds to the magic—but tonight we talk.
    “I still can’t get over what Oliver said,” Trixie says.
    “Or how he said it.” I swirl my wine as if I were a connoisseur instead of a Two Buck Chuck drinker. “He didn’t sound half as nervous as usual.”
    “That’s because he doesn’t have to fight Lisette any more,” Shanelle points out. “He be the big boss now.”
    “Lisette’s family probably knows what happened to her by now,” I murmur. “How horrible for them.”
    “I don’t know anything about her family,” Trixie says. “All I know is she wasn’t married and didn’t have kids.”
    Shanelle shakes her head. “What I want to know is how did that woman get to be the way she was? What made her so dang hostile all the time?”
    I watch the lights of a distant plane twinkle in the sky. A thought niggles to the surface of my mind. Maybe that’s why I have trouble believing Lisette’s death is accidental. She was such a pain in the patootie that even though her family and friends are in anguish at her death, there must be people who are secretly pleased. Maybe one of them hated her enough to make it happen.
    “You still with us, Happy?” Shanelle asks.
    I snap to.