I pushed open the swinging doors that led into the dining room and was greeted by a blast of cold air. Lola Tripper, current artistic director of the Etonville Little Theatre, forced the front door shut and leaned against the jamb.
“It’s feels like zero out there!” She stamped her knee-high boots on the doormat, leaving bits of frozen slush to settle into its bristly fibers.
“With the wind chill, yeah.”
Lola flipped the fur-lined hood of her high-end winter coat. “I ignore that wind chill stuff. It’s either freezing or it isn’t.”
“Right.” I took her coat, some Icelandic clothing brand. “Looks warm.”
“Canadian goose down. Windproof and waterproof.” Lola fluffed her blond mane.
Definitely not wallet-proof. I sneezed.
“You poor thing. What are you taking for it?” she asked.
“The usual. Aspirin, vitamin C, a shot of whiskey.” That last was my great-aunt Maureen’s remedy for whatever ailed you. She usually came down with “something” once a week. “What’s happening next door?” The ELT was about ready to open its version of Our Town.
“We’re actually ready for tech rehearsal. With only a few items to catch up on. Chrystal has to let out the waistcoats for some of the men. And her crew is still altering aprons and breeches. Good thing we have the ruffled shirts and the men’s stockings from Romeo and Juliet.” Lola grimaced. “I told Walter we needed to stay on budget for this show.”
“So…that’s why he insisted on a rotating stage?”
Lola grunted. “He had a vision. You know Walter and his visions.”
I certainly did. “You’re the director. Walter’s only the playwright.”
Walter Zeitzman was the on-again-off-again director of most ELT productions. But when the board balked at the budget for a big musical, Walter offered his adaptation of Our Town—called Eton Town—as a replacement, shifting the script to colonial America to celebrate the founding of Etonville, shortly after the American Revolution. I got Walter’s vision; I just wasn’t sure his playwriting skills were up to the challenge.
Lola twisted one strand of hair in a recognizable nervous gesture. “The turntable sounded like a good idea. One side for Act One, the other for Act Two. Passage of time. Life moving round and round…you know.”
I’d been to rehearsal. It was more like life grinding to a halt every few seconds. “I hope he gets it running more smoothly before opening night.”
“That’s where he is now. With the cast off today, he and JC are working on the turntable to make sure it’s spinning properly.” She crossed her fingers.
I crossed mine back. “Come on. Let’s see what bakery mayhem the good folks of Etonville are creating. Georgette is so good natured.” The smell of something burning leaked into the dining room. I bolted, Lola close on my heels.
I burst into the kitchen just as Georgette withdrew four cakes from the oven and slammed the door shut, stifling a cloud of smoke by locking it away in the oven. On the center island the remaining pans of Swamp Yankee applesauce cake batter were lined up like victims about to face a firing squad.
Georgette cut open one of the four baked cakes: charred on the outside, gooey on the inside. A thin film of sweat covered her forehead. “Not to worry. A minor mishap.” She paused and eyed her baking staff, who were staring open mouthed at the burnt cakes. “We need to remember to set the temperature at 350.” Her bakers nodded.
“We should have done the regular Our Town,” grumped Mildred’s husband Vernon, who played the Narrator in Walter’s adaptation. Until now he had pretty much kept his mouth shut, either because he had nothing to add or because he was missing both his hearing aids and the gist of the afternoon’s conversation. “Walter should have let well enough alone. He’s not a playwright.”
“I like the costumes in our version,” said a Banger sister.
“The tricorn hats and the men’s breeches,” giggled the other.
Walter had kept many of the original play’s elements—the narrator, two families, a love story, everyday life in Etonville, and a visit to the town graveyard. Even the theme was preserved: appreciating life and living in the moment.
“I don’t know, I kind of like the early American feel. The founding of Etonville, lovers separated by the war,” said Sally Oldfield.
She was a quiet, pretty, twenty-one-year-old transplant from New England. I’d known her since mid-January when she appeared, unannounced, on my doorstep, wondering if I had any advice on places to live. I gave her some recommendations, made a few phone calls, and within twenty-four hours she had rented a room in a boarding house in Etonville and found a part-time job as a car wash cashier in Bernridge, Etonville’s next-door neighbor. My younger brother, Andy, who’d moved from San Diego to Boston in November, had apparently given her my contact information.
Sally had seemed lonely and disclosed that she’d done some acting in high school so I suggested she audition for the ELT production. Now a Townsperson and member of the Eton Town choir, Sally eagerly agreed to join the baking class.
“Well, I still think Walter went too far this time.” Vernon put on his galoshes and made ready to leave the Windjammer.
“Vernon, you’re doing a lovely job as Narrator,” Georgette said.
“Say what?” Vernon asked.
Definitely no hearing aids. Mildred and Vernon bundled up and left arm-in-arm, Vernon still grousing.
Sally offered to help with the cleanup.
“Thanks. You’ve been a really good addition to the class,” I said. “You don’t complain, you can read a recipe, and you know how to multiply and divide.”
Sally grinned. “It’s been fun. I’ve enjoyed meeting everyone. It’s given me something to do.”
“If you want to stay busy, I could use help with the hot drinks—”
Lola stuffed her cell phone in a pocket. “Dodie, sorry to run off and leave you, but Walter and JC are into it over the turntable—”
“Go. We’re fine here,” I said.
“I hope that contraption doesn’t go any faster than five miles an hour,” said one of the Banger sisters and wrapped a muffler around her neck.
More like minus five miles an hour. “I don’t think you need to worry,” I said.
The other sister studied me over the rim of her glasses. “I was dizzy from the spinning and nearly fell off the stage one night.”
Dizzy yes, turntable no.
My cell chirped. It was a text from Bill. Aka Etonville Chief of Police Thompson. We’d gotten to know each other during the past year when I’d assisted in the investigation of a couple of homicides. Okay, so I “investigated” on the sly and jeopardized our budding relationship. But Bill was still grateful for my detection skills and I still got all jittery when I saw that sandy-colored brush cut and former-NFL-running-back build. We’d been dating for the last couple of months. Which included a New York Giants football game, Thanksgiving dinner with Lola and her daughter, home from college, a couple of movies, Christmas Eve dinner at the Windjammer, and an aborted attempt to go sledding in the town park. At the last minute, Bill had had an emergency.
Lola swaddled herself in her Canadian goose down coat and prepared to brave the cold. “Want to stop by my house later for a bite to eat? I shouldn’t be more than an hour at the theater.”
I waggled my cell. “Bill…”
Lola beamed. “Ooh la la!