Free Becklaw's Murder Mystery Tour (Jo Anderson Series) by Dane McCaslin Page B

answered, ‘I’ll take a look in a few minutes, dear. Let me just escort dear Lucy here to the front room first, then we’ll go over the costumes. Lucinda?’
    Here she opened the dressing room door, holding out her left arm in a magnificently sweeping gesture that said very clearly, Get Out.
    Dear Lucy got out.
    In spite of the bad vibes between the two Becklaw gals, we managed to fit both Lily and Josie, as well as the Three Amigos. With the clothing issues out of the way, we set about getting the eating area in order, our ‘stage’ zone defined by a long table (Derek’s bar), an upright piano, and three round tables with mismatched chairs. Since we really didn’t use props other than the cards, ashtrays, and a few bottles for the bar, we were ready to go.
    ‘Miss Bea,’ questioned Josie, ‘when I leave to go rest during the play, which direction should I walk?’
    As we had already gone over what ‘stage right’ and ‘stage left’ meant, I waited for Miss Bea to reply using one of those terms. To my amazement – and amusement – she said, ‘You go to your right, Josie, as if you were looking out at the audience and decided to run back to the dressing room. Does that make sense?’
    Her tone was kind, not facetious in any way. I could tell then that Miss Bea associated ‘beauty’ with ‘empty head’. Well, who didn’t? Josie didn’t seem to notice anything of the kind, instead pausing to crinkle her smooth brow, look out at where the audience would be, back to her right, and then nod.
    Eureka, I thought. She’s got it! (Never mind that I was feeling a bit cynical at this moment, dear reader. I was actually impressed that the girl knew her right hand from her left.) With that little issue taken care of, Miss Bea gave us all last - minute chores to do before we left.
    I soon found myself side by side with Miss Lucinda, moving chairs closer to the tables in order to form more walking space for when Leslie and I would venture out among the diners and encourage them to participate. Much to my surprise and thankfulness, she had nothing to say. Instead, she marched up and down to the best of her ability, shoving in chairs with enough vigor to make me think that she still was a bit miffed over the ‘Get Out’ scene with Miss Bea.
    I have to say that right about then I was starting to get a funny feeling about the entire thing: the venue we’d been hired on to play, the way Miss Lucinda showed up out of the blue, and even the way that Skinny Joe insisted on helping to choose the bit-parters. Something Did Not Feel Right. No siree, Bob.
    I did have a sort of reputation already, though, as one who tended to leap to conclusions and even quicker to action, so I was loath to mention any of my gut reactions to anyone. That is, until I was cornered by Miss Lucinda at the end of one of the long tables.
    ‘So spill it already, missy,’ Miss Lucinda barked, blocking my path with her girth.
    As is my wont, I feigned a look of innocence as my mind raced to decide what I could say to this woman. ‘I’m afraid that I don’t …’ I began, but Miss Lucinda’s laser beam glare blew my words clean out of this galaxy.
    ‘Do not play ingenuous with me, young lady! I’ve had plenty of experience with folks like you who like to think that age dulls one’s senses. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday,’ – a sharp look from her stopped my grin in its tracks – ‘so you’d better give it up. Now.’
    She sounded a lot like my third grade teacher, scary Mrs Fiornelli with the moustache.
    I gave it up.
    ‘Miss Lucinda,’ I said, ‘I really have a bad feeling about all of this.’ There. I’d said it. She could take it or leave it. I hoped she’d leave it.
    She took it.
    Miss Lucinda plopped down a bit unsteadily, her braced leg stuck straight out in front. She motioned to me to sit down as well, which I did, afraid to defy her.
    She really did remind me of Mrs Fiornelli, moustache and all.
    As I sat in silence,