heart problem that two different ERs didn’t diagnose. Anyway, Jonathan Larson was his name. He was only thirty-five.”
“How tragic,” I murmur.
“They skipped only one preview before they started up again. And of course Rent became a huge megahit. I gotta go,” she finishes, and whirls away.
I relay the Dream Angel 411 to Trixie and Shanelle as I retake my seat in the audience.
“What do you want to bet,” Shanelle murmurs, “that Oliver will use this as an opportunity to raise ticket prices, too?”
We’re waiting for rehearsal to resume when I realize this is an excellent opportunity to review my photos of Lisette’s call log. Finally. I pull out my cell phone and what name do I quickly spy? That of Damian Paganos. It wouldn’t have meant much to me earlier today, but it sure does now.
So this is the man Lisette was seeing. I squint at his photo, wishing I could see it more clearly. All I can ascertain is that he’s got dark hair and looks to be about thirty. His phone number begins with the Manhattan area code 212.
I check my photos of Lisette’s texts, by now feeling a surge of sleuthing adrenaline. Yes, Damian’s name appears on that list, too, not surprisingly. It does not show up among her emails.
“What are you doing, Happy?” Trixie wants to know. She’s to my left, with Shanelle to her left, and I see she’s playing Blendoku on her phone. That sort of thing is common around here. A couple rows ahead of us, two actors are playing poker on their laptops. There’s a lot of waiting around putting together a Broadway show. You have to pack your patience.
I confess what I’m up to.
“Ooh, let me help.” Trixie sets her phone aside. “Who did Lisette call a lot?”
“Well, apart from the mysterious Damian, somebody named Wendy Jackson Rafferty.” Her photo reveals an African-American woman who looks to be in her fifties. Like Damian, she’s a Manhattan local whose name also appears on Lisette’s roster of texts. “Oh, good,” I add, “there’s email traffic, too.” Given that I have only a list of Lisette’s emails, though, all I can access is the beginning of the emails that were sent to her. “Wendy sent one twenty-four hours ago.”
“What does it say?”
“ ‘Lisette,’ ” I read out loud, “ ‘the waiting is almost over. The board will meet tomorrow to make their decision, probably around ...’ That’s all I’ve got.”
Trixie frowns. “That sounds serious, doesn’t it? I wonder what board Wendy is talking about.”
“Let’s see if I can find anything from googling Wendy’s name. Okay, here we go. She works for a Pettigrew Realty.”
“So Wendy is probably a real estate agent. Do you think maybe it’s the board of a homeowners’ association they’re talking about? Maybe Lisette needed to get approved before she could buy.” Trixie lowers her voice. “I hate to be mean, but I’m not sure I would’ve wanted Lisette for a neighbor.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Shanelle leans over to ask.
We’re bringing Shanelle up to speed when I realize that I have a few more photos of Lisette’s emails that I haven’t checked yet. And when I do, I discover another email from Wendy, from two days ago.
“The day Lisette went home sick to her stomach,” Trixie reminds us.
“Thanks to Oliver,” Shanelle mutters. “By the way, I heard that tech over there say that it’s taking so long to get rehearsal started again because Enzo has to lengthen the monologue. Oliver moved up a costume change.”
This is the sort of detail that never occurred to me before I was a Broadway aficionado. Or is it aficionada in my case? Anyway, everything has to time out perfectly. If a performer must make a costume change, the action must continue without him just long enough so he can get that done. All theater is an elaborately choreographed dance, often with as much going on backstage as onstage.
“What does the older email from Wendy say?” Trixie
“How tragic,” I murmur.
“They skipped only one preview before they started up again. And of course Rent became a huge megahit. I gotta go,” she finishes, and whirls away.
I relay the Dream Angel 411 to Trixie and Shanelle as I retake my seat in the audience.
“What do you want to bet,” Shanelle murmurs, “that Oliver will use this as an opportunity to raise ticket prices, too?”
We’re waiting for rehearsal to resume when I realize this is an excellent opportunity to review my photos of Lisette’s call log. Finally. I pull out my cell phone and what name do I quickly spy? That of Damian Paganos. It wouldn’t have meant much to me earlier today, but it sure does now.
So this is the man Lisette was seeing. I squint at his photo, wishing I could see it more clearly. All I can ascertain is that he’s got dark hair and looks to be about thirty. His phone number begins with the Manhattan area code 212.
I check my photos of Lisette’s texts, by now feeling a surge of sleuthing adrenaline. Yes, Damian’s name appears on that list, too, not surprisingly. It does not show up among her emails.
“What are you doing, Happy?” Trixie wants to know. She’s to my left, with Shanelle to her left, and I see she’s playing Blendoku on her phone. That sort of thing is common around here. A couple rows ahead of us, two actors are playing poker on their laptops. There’s a lot of waiting around putting together a Broadway show. You have to pack your patience.
I confess what I’m up to.
“Ooh, let me help.” Trixie sets her phone aside. “Who did Lisette call a lot?”
“Well, apart from the mysterious Damian, somebody named Wendy Jackson Rafferty.” Her photo reveals an African-American woman who looks to be in her fifties. Like Damian, she’s a Manhattan local whose name also appears on Lisette’s roster of texts. “Oh, good,” I add, “there’s email traffic, too.” Given that I have only a list of Lisette’s emails, though, all I can access is the beginning of the emails that were sent to her. “Wendy sent one twenty-four hours ago.”
“What does it say?”
“ ‘Lisette,’ ” I read out loud, “ ‘the waiting is almost over. The board will meet tomorrow to make their decision, probably around ...’ That’s all I’ve got.”
Trixie frowns. “That sounds serious, doesn’t it? I wonder what board Wendy is talking about.”
“Let’s see if I can find anything from googling Wendy’s name. Okay, here we go. She works for a Pettigrew Realty.”
“So Wendy is probably a real estate agent. Do you think maybe it’s the board of a homeowners’ association they’re talking about? Maybe Lisette needed to get approved before she could buy.” Trixie lowers her voice. “I hate to be mean, but I’m not sure I would’ve wanted Lisette for a neighbor.”
“What are you two whispering about?” Shanelle leans over to ask.
We’re bringing Shanelle up to speed when I realize that I have a few more photos of Lisette’s emails that I haven’t checked yet. And when I do, I discover another email from Wendy, from two days ago.
“The day Lisette went home sick to her stomach,” Trixie reminds us.
“Thanks to Oliver,” Shanelle mutters. “By the way, I heard that tech over there say that it’s taking so long to get rehearsal started again because Enzo has to lengthen the monologue. Oliver moved up a costume change.”
This is the sort of detail that never occurred to me before I was a Broadway aficionado. Or is it aficionada in my case? Anyway, everything has to time out perfectly. If a performer must make a costume change, the action must continue without him just long enough so he can get that done. All theater is an elaborately choreographed dance, often with as much going on backstage as onstage.
“What does the older email from Wendy say?” Trixie
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