Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) Read Free

wild, dissolute life. The matriarch Fanny sees her beloved world crumbling. She insists there must always be a Cavendish headed out on the road or trodding the Broadway boards. Though she dies at the end—yes, this is still a comedy, though of manners—her resolve successfully holds the family to the age-old theatrical tradition. Success! Somehow I’d have to embody Fanny’s venerable position—the steely-eyed, steel-ribbed woman who holds the play together. If I wrote the part, I could play the part. I told myself that over and over. Sometimes—early mornings—I actually believed it.
    Earlier on the phone Cheryl told me she was hoping for a serene, uneventful summer. Last year actress Jane Wyatt, granting an interview to a giddy high-school student, announced that she was traveling shortly to Italy and hoped to meet Mussolini. “A firestorm, that indiscreet remark,” she’d added. “She also mentioned the Pope, but the protest lingered.”
    I’d shivered. “That horrid man. Hitler’s brutal sidekick.”
    Cheryl was now talking about a phone call earlier that week from Bea, George’s wife. “I found myself saying yes, though I don’t know why.”
    “What are we talking about?” I asked.
    Cheryl looked irritated that I’d not been paying attention.
    George was snickering. “Cheryl, Edna’s already on that stage, taking a bow and accepting my bouquet of golden rod.”
    Cheryl leaned in. “George didn’t tell you? Good God, George, what do you tell Edna?”
    “Only what she doesn’t want to hear.”
    I offered a sickly smile. “Obviously not always.”
    “Bea asked a favor,” Cheryl went on. “It seems she has an old friend from her very short time at Wellesley, whose son is an actor. He asked to understudy the part of Tony, Louis Calhern’s part. I told her we’ve been using another bit player, mostly unnecessary, but…” She breathed in. “Well, this Evan Street is now our understudy.”
    A bad feeling in my gut. “What do you know about him?”
    “I checked, of course. A brief time in Hollywood where everyone spends a ‘brief time,’ a couple minor roles on Broadway, good-looking, eager.”
    George was staring at the Kandinsky. “And obviously a charmer, if he got Bea to pimp for him.”
    “Well, Bea rarely asks for favors.”
    “Which is why she is always granted them,” George noted.
    I added, “I doubt if we’ll need him for one week’s play-acting.”
    Cheryl shrugged. “Won’t hurt.”
    “George, did you know about this?” I pointed a finger at him.
    “Bea may have mentioned it.”
    “What do you know about this Evan Street?”
    “I met him once or twice at some dinner his mother hosted. She’s a schoolteacher in Scarsdale. We actually had to go there.”
    I smirked. “Lord, a pioneer into uncharted wilderness. You and Ponce de Leon.”
    “No Fountain of Youth, I’m afraid. It was Scarsdale, Edna. People believe in manicured lawns and manicured lives.”
    “You didn’t like him,” I concluded.
    George’s eyes were shiny. “Good for you, Edna. He’s tall and athletic and dark and handsome—too handsome, really. Large cobalt-blue eyes. A real lady-killer. Ladies deny such men nothing.”
    “We’ll see about that.”
    “Edna, I said…ladies.” His mouth was filled with chocolate, so his words were mumbled.
    Cheryl was trying to say something, finally cutting in. “You two. You’re always writing dialogue you’ll never use.”
    “Cheryl, you want to say something?” From me, all smiles.
    “Well, this dashing hero, in fact, just called me. He thanked me for giving him a chance. He wanted Maplewood desperately, he said. He claims to know so much about my theater—a lie, of course. Yet he did seem to know Maplewood. The town. God knows why. That gave me pause.”
    “What’s your point, Cheryl?”
    “He flattered me mercilessly, even lowering his voice provocatively. I enjoyed every second of it, though I believed none of it.”
    “That’s why