Ms America and the Brouhaha on Broadway
terrible,” Trixie whispers. “I suppose they could shut this whole thing down. We might have to go home tomorrow.”
    “I hope not,” I murmur. “I feel like we just got here. We’ve barely had a moment to enjoy New York.” Hearing myself say that makes me realize just how selfish I can be. Here I am, wanting to have a good time when somebody just died. “Anyway, I had no idea Lisette’s father funded this production.”
    “I don’t think it’s normal,” Trixie whispers, “for the father of the writer to put up the money. I wonder if it means they couldn’t get money any other way?”
    We pause to consider that demeaning possibility. “That would make this kind of a vanity project for Lisette,” Shanelle says.
    I think about that. “It could also explain why she had so much say over what went on.”
    “No wonder Lisette got on Oliver’s last nerve,” Shanelle mutters. “He had to kowtow not only to her but probably to her father, too.”
    Lisette’s father the Tycoon Banker, who might be as unpleasant as she was. I don’t envy Oliver that task.
    “These Broadway musicals are seriously expensive,” Shanelle goes on. “I read they can cost ten or fifteen mil to develop. Then add to that the operating expenses, week after week.”
    Trixie’s eyes widen. “Is Lisette’s father that rich?”
    “We don’t know that he funded the whole thing,” I say. “But he must’ve put in a lot since Enzo sounded worried about what would happen if he pulled his money.”
    “ Dream Angel could close for that reason, too,” Trixie says. “I’d better do my souvenir shopping tomorrow.”
    “Right now I’m not thinking about souvenirs,” I say. “I’m thinking about egg salad sandwiches. Remember Oliver ordered that restaurant down the street to bring those in for lunch Wednesday? Not that he ate one.”
    “Of course not,” Trixie says. “He only eats Japanese food.”
    Oliver is very showy about his strict Japanese-food-only diet. The rumor is that it has to do with a new woman he’s chasing. Every day he sends an intern to get sushi for him. It has to be a certain kind, at a certain temperature, from a certain restaurant. Pretty pretentious, if you ask me.
    Shanelle nods, understanding dawning in her dark eyes. “And that afternoon when we all had to eat egg salad, Lisette went home sick.”
    “Sick to her stomach,” I clarify.
    Trixie gasps.
    I continue. “I bet Oliver put something in Lisette’s egg salad sandwich to give her food poisoning.”
    “Girl, you got a sick mind.” Shanelle pauses. I see her mind working. “And I bet you’re right.”
    I smile. I much prefer when Shanelle and I are on the same wavelength. “And Enzo knew about it.”
    “They were in cahoots,” Trixie breathes. “But do you really think Oliver would go that far? Just to make Lisette go home so he could rewrite some scenes?”
    “As a matter of fact,” Shanelle says, eyeing me, “Happy thinks Oliver might have gone even further.”
    “Well, if Oliver made sure that Lisette got food poisoning just so he could get her out of the way for a day or two—”
    “He probably realized how many problems he’d solve by getting rid of her permanently,” Shanelle finishes. “But come on, Happy. It’s one thing to give somebody a passing bug. It’s another to kill them. Plus, we all saw Lisette topple down those stairs. It’s not like somebody pushed her.”
    True. Nobody could’ve pushed her: she was standing in front of the throne when she fell. And that throws a serious kink in my murder theory. “But just think,” I say, “of everything that’s riding on this musical.”
    “Millions of dollars,” Trixie says. “Oliver’s reputation.”
    “A director as big as Oliver can survive a flop or two,” Shanelle says.
    “Enzo said he just got back from London,” I remember. “That means he wasn’t at the preview tonight.”
    “So Enzo can’t be your killer. But I still say nobody’s your killer.”

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