Who's Kitten Who? Read Free

audience was doing the exact same thing.
    Halfway back, a young woman had stood up. She was dressed entirely in black, wearing a long dress that looked as if it was from another era. Either that or it was one of those bridesmaid’s gowns I’d been wishing Betty would opt for.
    Still, there was no way I would have traded my mint-green frock for her getup. Not when the dress was accessorized with a dramatic black velvet cape edged with silver sequins and a black felt hat that swooped down over one eye and was decorated with a huge feather that some poor ostrich was undoubtedly still looking for.
    Once I managed to get past her startling outfit, I saw that a cloud of wild and wavy jet-black hair hung halfway down her back. Her features were pretty enough, if not particularly outstanding. That is, except for her green eyes, their striking emerald color no doubt the result of tinted contact lenses. Even though her eyes were ringed in thick black eyeliner, I could see that they burned with fury.
    “How
can
you?” she repeated, gliding down the aisle. “How can you possibly go on as if nothing has happened?”
    “That’s Aziza Zorn,” Betty whispered. “Simon’s girlfriend. They were very close. At least if the fact that Aziza was always hanging all over him is any indication.”
    “Does she always dress like that?” I asked.
    “I understand her day job is working at the Port Townsend branch of the Bank of Long Island,” she replied. “I have a feeling their dress code isn’t quite that liberal.”
    Aziza had reached the front of the theater. She planted herself firmly next to Derek, and, throwing her arms out dramatically, she cried, “Simon is dead! He’s gone! Some vile person has taken his life. And with that cruel act, he’s taken a part of our lives too! So how can we be expected to proceed as if…as if life could possibly go on in exactly the same way?”
    “I agree with Aziza,” a male voice added. I turned in time to see a tall, lean man with sandy-colored hair and blue eyes rise from his seat. “If you ask me, the best way to honor Simon would be to admit that we can’t possibly continue without him.”
    Instantly, the entire theater erupted into chaos. People rose to their feet, shouting about what Simon would have wanted and what Simon wouldn’t have wanted. I had to admit, this was turning out to be much more interesting than I’d expected.
    “People, please!” Derek finally yelled, his voice loud enough to rise above the racket. “Take your seats. Please, we must discuss this reasonably!”
    Once everyone had quieted down, he held up both hands. “I hear what you’re saying, Aziza. Kyle too. When you come right down to it, I think we all have to mourn our loss in our own private way. But for me, that means continuing the work Simon started. He was so excited by this production, and I think it’s vital that we keep it going. Those of you who agree with me, I invite you—no, I
beg
you—to stay. Those of you who don’t, you’re welcome to leave, with no hard feelings.”
    Aziza bobbed up from where she’d perched in the front row. “You all know what I think,” she said, turning to address the audience. “I’m just too sickened by what happened to go on. But if you truly believe this is what you have to do, I wish you the best.”
    With that, she squared her shoulders and stalked out of the theater, heading up the aisle and disappearing behind the double doors that I surmised led to the lobby.
    “Anyone else?” Derek asked.
    The room was so still you could have heard one of Gabriella Bertucci’s pins drop.
    “Good. Then I suggest that we all go home and try to get over the shock of the terrible news we received this morning,” Derek said firmly. “A wake is being held tomorrow from one to four at Bingham Brothers’ Funeral Parlor in Sandy Point. I urge everyone to stop by, not only to pay their respects but also to try to get some closure. As for our production, we’ll stick