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  The Showstopper

  A Wing and a Prayer Mystery

  ROBIN MERRILL

  New Creation Publishing

  Madison, Maine

  THE SHOWSTOPPER: A WING AND A PRAYER MYSTERY. Copyright © 2019 by Robin Merrill. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Robin’s Readers

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

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  Chapter 1

  The candy apple red minivan veered off toward the trees, and Sandra flung her arm out to save the imaginary person in the front seat as she pumped the brakes. She had no idea whom she was trying to save. No one ever sat in the front passenger seat, except for the few times her angel friend had ridden around with her.

  “What’s happening?” Peter asked from the middle seat.

  The van slid to a halt inches shy of the ditch, and Sandra lowered her arm as she eased the van back out onto the road. She didn’t want to take the time to gather herself, because someone might rear-end them while she sat collecting her unwieldy emotions. The visibility was about ten feet.

  “Dad says it doesn’t do any good to pump the brakes.”

  Not appreciating the timing of his criticism, Sandra didn’t respond until she was heading in the right direction and safely in her lane. At least, she thought she was in her lane. Even if she could see the lines on the road, this road didn’t have any lines. Back road Mainers guessed where the lanes were. Tourists usually guessed wrong. “It’s a habit. When I learned to drive, if we lost control of the vehicle, we pumped our brakes.”

  “’Cause those were old cars.”

  “Peter! Do you mind? I’m risking our lives for your burgeoning theater career here. I could do without the constant criticism.”

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, and she believed him. He was probably just nervous about the weather, and this anxiety was manifesting as snark.

  “I’m sorry too. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just so far beyond irritated that they’re holding rehearsal tonight. I mean, are you kidding?” She leaned forward and peered upward. “Look at this! It’s a blizzard!”

  “Sorry.”

  She glanced into the rearview so she could look her almost-eleven-year-old in the eye. “The weather’s not your fault, honey, and it’s not your fault that they’re having rehearsal in a blizzard. It’s the director’s fault.” Yet she knew that she wouldn’t say a word when they got there, if they got there. She wasn’t good at confrontation. In fact, she tried to avoid it. Except when she was on the soccer field. She was getting pretty good at confrontation there.

  But this wasn’t soccer. This was theater, Peter’s newest passion, though Sandra suspected he might be more interested in the young actress starring in the play than he was in the art form itself. Either way, Sandra had supported this new direction until tonight—until the blizzard. To be fair to the director, the revered Frank Flamatti, who had directed eight zillion plays in his sixty-year career, the forecast hadn’t predicted this. And it hadn’t even been snowing that hard when Sandra had left the house, or she might never have left it. But now they were winding their way up into the mountains, to this quaint little theater that should really stick to summer plays, to rehearse for the final play of the season: The Homecoming: A Christmas Story, a play based on the book Spencer’s Mountain—the book that also inspired The Waltons.

  Sandra had grown up watching reruns of The Waltons, and the show occupied a soft spot in her heart. She was thrilled that Peter had been cast as one of the Spencer brothers, so she tried not to be resentful of her immediate circumstances. The van slid again, but she regained control before they had a chance to panic.

  “How much farther?” He was definitely worried.

  “Not sure. It’s hard to see any landmarks. I would say just a couple of miles? But don’t be scared, honey. Your mom is an excellent driver.” She started to hum The Waltons theme song.

  “I’m not scared. But I’m still going to pray.”

  Oh, duh. Why hadn’t she prayed yet? “Good idea.” She gave Peter a minute of silence to do his thing, and then she prayed aloud for the both of them and for everyone else headed toward Mountain View Theater.

  When she’d said amen, Peter said, “We do need this rehearsal. I don’t see how we can be ready in two weeks.”

  “I know, but I trust Mr. Flamatti. He knows what he’s doing.” Sandra forced her jaw to relax. She was too tense.

  “I know, but some people don’t even know their lines yet!”

  She’d noticed. Someone called for their line nearly every other line. It drove her nuts. “They’ll get there in time. Some people memorize faster than others.”

  “It’s not that I’m fast at memorizing. It’s that I worked hard at doing it.”

  “You’re right. Sorry. I didn’t mean to discount the time and work you’ve put in. But I’m sure they’re working hard too.”

  Peter grunted his dissent with that cheery assessment, and she didn’t blame him. There were a few of them who hadn’t seemed to be working too hard, namely John Boy himself, who was originally called Clay Boy, but she couldn’t help thinking of him as John Boy. A local college student, Matthew Longwood had gotten the role, but she didn’t know how. He showed up late when he showed up at all, and didn’t appear to be able to act his way out of a wet paper bag. He didn’t seem the theater type. Or even the artist type. Or even the pleasant type. She suspected he’d only auditioned because Treasure Foss was staring in it—a woman, Sandra thought, far too sensual to be cast as Ma Walton, but what did she know? Treasure Foss on the bill probably sold more tickets.

  “We should have offered Ethel a ride,” Sandra muttered. When no one auditioned for Grandma Walton, Peter had encouraged Ethel to give it a shot, and she’d been a shoo-in. Sandra had been so proud of him for thinking of Ethel, but then, all her kids were growing quite attached to their new cookie-baking babysitter.

  “There!” Peter pointed, but Sandra couldn’t see anything, her eyesight evidently inferior to his. But then she did see it, the outside light of the theater peeking through the white wall, and then the outline of the main building took shape.


  “Thank God,” she breathed out as she slowed to a crawl, not wanting to have to use the brakes before turning in.

  “Um, there’s no one here,” Peter said.

  Sandra scanned the parking lot and saw that he was right. There weren’t nearly enough cars in the lot. She glanced at the clock. “We’re only five minutes late, so others are probably even later. I’m sure we’re not the only ones slowed by the storm. It was the same for everyone.” She put the car in park, wishing she’d brought a shovel. She didn’t know how much snow they were going to get, and she wasn’t sure she’d be able to back out when rehearsal was over. Peter had started to open the door. “Hang on a sec, let me turn around while I still can, so I don’t have to back out when we’re done.”

  Peter groaned, but shut the door and leaned back in his seat.

  She began her fifteen-point turn. Might as well pack the snow down while she was at it. “Maybe I’ll ask Mr. Flamatti to let us go early—”

  “No! Don’t!”

  “Honey, he’ll understand.”

  “Then let someone else ask. I don’t want to be the one.”

  “Fine.” She put the car in park again. “Okay, let’s go.” They climbed out into the snow, and she turned her collar up against the large, fluffy flakes that were trying to sneak down her neck as she looked down to shield her eyes. Then she trotted for the closest door, grateful that she’d at least had the good sense to wear her boots. She sneaked a look at Peter’s feet and was relieved to see that he too had worn boots. Sometimes he tried to sneak out in flip-flops, even though it was December.

  Peter beat her to the basement door and opened it for her, and she thanked him as she stepped into the warmth. At least the heat was on—for now. This area of the state was notorious for losing power. They didn’t see anyone in the basement, so Peter headed up the narrow, rickety stairwell that led to the back of the theater. Sandra grabbed the handrail for support, but it wobbled so efficiently that it made her ascent more perilous, not less. She couldn’t believe no one fixed these stairs. This theater must rake in serious cash from summer tourists, so they really could afford a new railing, but that obviously wasn’t their priority. Till they got sued. Then it would become their priority.

  I stand corrected. At the top of the stairs, the ledge was littered with tools: an electric drill with its cord hanging down like a bell cord; a bag of nails; a level that showed the ledge wasn’t level at all; and a hammer. There were small kids in this play, and the placement of those tools was probably not ideal, but she tried to unsee it. She didn’t want to spend the whole rehearsal worrying about safety, and this wasn’t her barbecue.

  Chapter 2

  Sandra stepped out into the auditorium and saw a small group gathered in the front few rows. The director waved them over. Peter headed toward him, and Sandra headed for the back row to lay low.

  “Would you come too, please?” Frank asked her in a formal tone. He was such a professional.

  She changed course and went to sit beside Peter. Several years ago, the ancient theater had gotten a grant to get new chairs, and she was grateful for their comfort. She settled in and scanned the room to see who was there and was surprised to see that Ethel had indeed ventured out. That woman was fearless. Their eyes met, and Ethel gave her a springlike smile that clashed with their current circumstances. Sandra tried to return the smile, but knew hers didn’t match Ethel’s good cheer.

  “I owe you all the most heartfelt apology,” Frank began. “I’ve been here all day, and I’ve only just looked out the windows. I had no idea it was supposed to get this bad. As soon as I realized, I called as many people as I could and told them to stay home, but some of you were out of cell phone range.” Sandra wasn’t surprised. Thanks to the mountains, the theater had absolutely zero cell service. “Please accept my apologies. I hate that you’ve wasted a trip, but please do leave right now, in case it gets worse.”

  At first, no one said anything, and then Otis, who played a too-thin and not nearly jolly enough Grandpa Spencer, said, “But we’re all here. We should rehearse!”

  Frank shook his head. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I don’t think that is wise. Your safety is my primary concern.”

  Tell that to the hammer and drill.

  “We’re Mainers!” Otis cried. “We know how to drive in the snow. We’re already here. We might as well take advantage—”

  “A true Mainer knows when to stay off the roads,” Billy offered.

  Billy was starting to grow on Sandra. At first, his in-your-face friendliness had frightened her New England disposition, but the more she was around him, the more she appreciated him. Like now, for instance.

  Otis folded his arms across his chest. “Well, I think we should stay.” His tone suggested that he was now going to punish them all with the silent treatment.

  “Maybe it could be optional?” Gloria offered. She wasn’t an actress, but a chauffeur to her two thespian children, Corban and Corina. “We live nearby, so we could stay—”

  “We could run Corban’s and my scene!” Otis said, the silent treatment abruptly abandoned.

  “It’s up to you,” Gloria said to Frank, her voice sounding meek and gentle compared to Otis’s. “If you want to lock up and go home, then we should.”

  “Honestly, I’ve got so much work to do, I was just going to sleep here.”

  Otis slapped the arms of his chair. “It’s settled then. If you want to go, go. If not, let’s rehearse!”

  “I’ve got a shovel!” Gloria said with too much excitement.

  Sandra wasn’t sure anything was settled, and she didn’t like being forced into the decision-making hot seat. If she chose to go home, Peter would be mad, and they wouldn’t be real Mainers. She didn’t want to be the bad guy, but she really wanted to go home. But then she looked into Peter’s giant doe eyes, which were pleading with her to stay. She nodded. “Fine. But you owe me.”

  His face lit up and he hurried to the stage, leaving her to reflect. Had she just agreed to stay to make Peter happy or because she feared the judgment of the others? Or both? She decided it didn’t matter and picked up her knitting, which had gotten wet on the way into the theater. She wasn’t much of a knitter, but she’d been spending so much time at the theater, everyone was getting a scarf for Christmas.

  Jan, the stage manager, stood staring at the almost empty stage with her hands on her hips. “We’ve rehearsed in worse weather than this and lived to tell the tale,” she said to no one. Jan had also been at Mountain View Theater for eons, and reminded people of this as often as possible.

  The college student strolled in then, looking as though he’d just rolled out of bed. He brushed the snow off his gelled-solid hair and straightened his glasses. “It’s snowing out. Why are we having rehearsal?”

  No one acknowledged his existence, so he repeated his question with even more accusation in his tone. Treasure tossed him a look. “If you’d ever show up on time, you’d know. Now get in your place. You’re in this scene.”

  “I’m in every scene,” he mumbled as if that were a great oppression he was enduring, as if he’d never auditioned for such a role. He didn’t go to his place. He crossed the stage to stand too closely to Treasure, who backed up a foot. Sandra couldn’t blame her. Matthew’s lips moved, but Sandra couldn’t hear what he said. She had no problem, however, hearing Treasure’s answer.

  “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you. I will never, ever, ever go out with you. So stop asking, you creep!” She stormed off the stage, and everyone watched her go. Sandra was certain that this was the way she wanted it. Sandra had never seen such an attention-seeking person in her life. Treasure wanted all eyes on her all the time, which made her a good actress. In a private conversation with Sandra, Billy had once called Treasure a “theater tramp,” and Sandra had failed to bite back the laugh. The phrase fit. The single, twenty-something-year-old woman traveled all over the state to act in amateur plays. Sandra had no idea how she pa
id her bills, and had wondered why such a passionate actress hadn’t moved to a place that offered paying roles. But Sandra didn’t want to know badly enough to ask, so Treasure’s motivation would have to remain a mystery.

  Deciding she needed some caffeine, Sandra headed for the concession booth in the back of the theater. It wasn’t open, but the cast and crew could help themselves and then drop their money into a can, on the honor system. Sandra had already stuck a twenty dollar bill in there, hoping that would cover all the Coke she could drink. As she passed the sound booth, she heard Otis say to Treasure, “Don’t pretend to be such a victim. If you don’t want him to like you, stop flirting with him.”

  “I don’t flirt with him!” Treasure cried, as if Otis had accused her of drinking pond scum.

  “You disgust me,” Otis said and brushed by her, physically knocking her aside. As he did so, his eyes met Sandra’s, and she quickly looked down to pretend she hadn’t seen or heard anything.

  Her cheeks got hot and she hurried to the fridge. Had that not been a bit aggressive? Treasure was obnoxious, sure, but she didn’t deserve that! The more time Sandra spent with Otis, the less she liked him. However, she’d met his wife at other rehearsals, and she’d been lovely, so surely Otis must have some redeeming qualities?

  Chapter 3

  Not long after polishing off her Coke, Sandra had to use the ladies’ room. Wanting to stretch her legs as much as possible and kill some time, she chose to use the downstairs one. As she passed the pile of tools at the top of the stairs, she thought about moving them, but decided against it. Most of the kids weren’t here tonight, anyway. And it might be overstepping her bounds to start moving things around, even if her intentions were good. The soccer momming she had down, but she wasn’t quite sure how to be a theater mom yet.

  She met Gloria coming out of the bathroom and smiled at her. Now this woman was a theater mom. Her kids were in every Mountain View play that had kid parts. Maybe she should observe her more closely, try to get some pointers.