attended.”
“You knew Toodles well?”
Nico surprised me with a wink. “In every sense of the word. He was one of my first.”
“Nico! Are you suggesting Toodles was . . . ?”
“Bisexual? Yes. And quite energetic. He chased skirts and trousers with equal zest. He practically used chorus girls like his own private harem. I told you, he was the life of the party. Don’t tell Herman.”
I was pretty sure Herman knew all about Nico’s previous dalliances. I said, “Did you know the Tuttles are working on a new musical? An old one Toodles left behind?”
Nico gave a gentlemanly snort. “If Boom Boom or Jenny found any decent music or lyrics in that mausoleum, I’ll eat my sombrero. What’s the show called?”
“
Bluebird of Happiness
.”
He laughed. “That proves it. Toodles would never have stooped that low.”
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t believe Toodles left an unproduced show?”
“Nora, not only was Toodles a marvelous composer and a delightful raconteur, plus an adventurous spirit in his personal relationships, but he was an astute businessman, too. He advised me extensively in business, so I should know. A genuine Tuttle musical? I’m sure he’d have left it safely in the hands of experienced theater people—not his nut of a wife.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“His final show—
The Flatfoot and the Floozy
? Not his best material. If he had old work lying around, he’d have produced it then, instead of that stinker.”
“If he didn’t write this new show, where did it come from?”
Nico’s brows gathered. “Is it any good?”
“I’ve only heard rehearsals. Despite all those years of symphony subscriptions and Todd dragging me to jazz performances, I’m still not very discerning when it comes to popular music.”
“Todd’s idea of jazz was—well, never mind.” Nico had the good grace not to speak ill of the dead. “Who’s directing? Sometimes it’s a ghostwriter.”
“The music director is Fred Fusby.”
“Freddie?” Nico scoffed. “The tall, skinny daddy longlegs of a hoofer? He’s no director!”
“I got the impression he was trying.”
Nico wagged his head. “So they’re producing it on the cheap. The whole thing sounds like a disaster. What do you bet BoomBoom is squeezing some discarded songs into a lame book she’s written herself?”
I doubted that theory. Boom Boom didn’t seem capable of creating much of anything. Maybe whatever had turned her blue had also affected her mind.
Herman returned with a waiter carrying a tray of food and more drinks. They had gathered a selection of the best of the canapés, which the waiter set down on the low table before me. It took all of my self-control not to seize a stuffed mushroom right away. Herman tipped the waiter and dragged another chair closer for himself. When he was seated, the three of us dug into the feast. I avoided the oysters, saying I was supposed to skip raw seafood, so the men enthusiastically gulped all of them in short order. They told me stories about the people we could see at the party below and their donations to the current show. None of their anecdotes had information I could write up for the paper—too many off-color insider jokes for the public to appreciate. Nico and Herman were very entertaining, however. I enjoyed their company and was sorry to have to tear myself away.
“Let me call you a cab,” Herman said with concern when I told them I needed to start walking to my next event. “You shouldn’t be out on the streets in your condition.”
“Don’t be silly.” I stretched up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “The walk will be just what the doctor ordered.”
Besides, a walk might help me organize my thoughts about Jenny’s murder.
My mind was sidetracked, though, when I left the building and noticed a man loitering on the corner. Although he ducked his head and pretended to throw a cigarette into a trash can, I recognized Hostetler, the reporter Gus had
“You knew Toodles well?”
Nico surprised me with a wink. “In every sense of the word. He was one of my first.”
“Nico! Are you suggesting Toodles was . . . ?”
“Bisexual? Yes. And quite energetic. He chased skirts and trousers with equal zest. He practically used chorus girls like his own private harem. I told you, he was the life of the party. Don’t tell Herman.”
I was pretty sure Herman knew all about Nico’s previous dalliances. I said, “Did you know the Tuttles are working on a new musical? An old one Toodles left behind?”
Nico gave a gentlemanly snort. “If Boom Boom or Jenny found any decent music or lyrics in that mausoleum, I’ll eat my sombrero. What’s the show called?”
“
Bluebird of Happiness
.”
He laughed. “That proves it. Toodles would never have stooped that low.”
“Wait,” I said. “You don’t believe Toodles left an unproduced show?”
“Nora, not only was Toodles a marvelous composer and a delightful raconteur, plus an adventurous spirit in his personal relationships, but he was an astute businessman, too. He advised me extensively in business, so I should know. A genuine Tuttle musical? I’m sure he’d have left it safely in the hands of experienced theater people—not his nut of a wife.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“His final show—
The Flatfoot and the Floozy
? Not his best material. If he had old work lying around, he’d have produced it then, instead of that stinker.”
“If he didn’t write this new show, where did it come from?”
Nico’s brows gathered. “Is it any good?”
“I’ve only heard rehearsals. Despite all those years of symphony subscriptions and Todd dragging me to jazz performances, I’m still not very discerning when it comes to popular music.”
“Todd’s idea of jazz was—well, never mind.” Nico had the good grace not to speak ill of the dead. “Who’s directing? Sometimes it’s a ghostwriter.”
“The music director is Fred Fusby.”
“Freddie?” Nico scoffed. “The tall, skinny daddy longlegs of a hoofer? He’s no director!”
“I got the impression he was trying.”
Nico wagged his head. “So they’re producing it on the cheap. The whole thing sounds like a disaster. What do you bet BoomBoom is squeezing some discarded songs into a lame book she’s written herself?”
I doubted that theory. Boom Boom didn’t seem capable of creating much of anything. Maybe whatever had turned her blue had also affected her mind.
Herman returned with a waiter carrying a tray of food and more drinks. They had gathered a selection of the best of the canapés, which the waiter set down on the low table before me. It took all of my self-control not to seize a stuffed mushroom right away. Herman tipped the waiter and dragged another chair closer for himself. When he was seated, the three of us dug into the feast. I avoided the oysters, saying I was supposed to skip raw seafood, so the men enthusiastically gulped all of them in short order. They told me stories about the people we could see at the party below and their donations to the current show. None of their anecdotes had information I could write up for the paper—too many off-color insider jokes for the public to appreciate. Nico and Herman were very entertaining, however. I enjoyed their company and was sorry to have to tear myself away.
“Let me call you a cab,” Herman said with concern when I told them I needed to start walking to my next event. “You shouldn’t be out on the streets in your condition.”
“Don’t be silly.” I stretched up to give him a kiss on the cheek. “The walk will be just what the doctor ordered.”
Besides, a walk might help me organize my thoughts about Jenny’s murder.
My mind was sidetracked, though, when I left the building and noticed a man loitering on the corner. Although he ducked his head and pretended to throw a cigarette into a trash can, I recognized Hostetler, the reporter Gus had
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