Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway Read Free Page A

throne.
    That turns out to be the last order Lisette Longley ever gives. All of a sudden she lurches forward, her eyes amazed behind her amber-colored eyeglasses, and does a header down the stage’s sky-high staircase— boom, boom, boom, boom —tumbling ass over applecart all the way down to the footlights, thumping every tread en route, head and body flailing like nobody’s business.

CHAPTER TWO
     
    I guess I leap to my feet because the next thing I know I’m standing. That puts me in sharp contrast to Lisette, who’s an inert heap onstage.
    The orchestra stopped playing while Lisette did her bloodcurdling plunge so the only sounds in the theater are screams and shouts. No doubt I contributed a shriek or two myself. To my left I heard Trixie make a strangled cry and probably even Shanelle joined in.
    The lights come on. “Is there a doctor in the house?” a male voice from the stage roars. I guess not, because no one steps up. “Somebody call an ambulance!” the voice repeats, and I bet fifty people turn on their cell phones to make that call. I note nobody is heading for the exits. Unlike the preview, this is real drama, which not a soul wants to miss.
    The actors huddle around Lisette attempting to shield her from view. I see among them the dazed-looking heroine who somehow managed to step out of the way as Lisette did her barrel roll down the staircase.
    Shanelle’s fingers dig into my right arm. “Do you think—”
    “I don’t know.”
    “I don’t see her moving,” Shanelle adds.
    Neither do I. I’m squinting hard, but I don’t see a single sign of life coming from Lisette. I state the obvious, as I often do in times of crisis. “That was one heck of a fall.”
    “My Lord, did you see how much her head was bleeding?” Trixie murmurs. “Should we go up there and help?”
    “I don’t know,” I say again, which goes to show what a nut job I am, because if this were a murder, God help me, I’d know exactly what to do. I’ve been down that ghoulish road a few times now. But show me a tragic accident and apparently I’m verklempt.
    “An ambulance is on its way!” a woman’s voice calls from the rear of the theater.
    “Thank you!” cry a few people onstage. It’s at that moment that I realize Oliver is not among the crew that’s created a protective circle around Lisette.
    “Where’s Oliver?” Shanelle asks. Sometimes it works that way with us, especially after we’ve been together a few days. I think something and she says it.
    “He’s probably too scared to face”—Trixie hesitates—“tragedy.”
    I have a different noun bouncing around in my brain, even more stark. It starts with a “d” and rhymes with breath. And while I remain silent, I agree with Trixie. Oliver’s absence does not sit well with me, either. So what if he’s not exactly Lisette’s biggest fan? She’s a colleague. After an event this calamitous, he should be by her side.
    Trixie chokes out a sob. I put an arm around her as Shanelle grabs her hand. “I can’t believe this!” Trixie whispers. “I thought we might get some bad luck from the M word but this is too much.” A tear rolls down her cheek. “I feel so guilty.”
    “Why would you feel guilty?” I say.
    “Because I didn’t make that man who said the M word eradicate the curse. As soon as I let him walk away, I knew I made a mistake.”
    “Don’t you go blaming yourself, girl,” Shanelle says.
    “Shanelle is right,” I say. “This has nothing to do with any so-called curse. Besides, if anybody’s cursing anybody, that would be me. I can’t go anywhere anymore without people dropping dead. It’s a wonder you two are still kicking.”
    “Lisette might still be alive,” Shanelle points out.
    I glance at the stage, upon which Lisette remains as immobile as a boulder. Yeah, and Dream Angel might win a Tony Award for Best Musical.
    “I can’t help it,” Trixie says. “I just feel so guilty.”
    I squeeze her shoulders. “What