Free Death by Deep Dish Pie by Sharon Short Page A

dirty mess. Even the red, white, and blue U.S. flag motif bandana tied over his head had dirt on it. There were twigs and leaves stuck in the fringe of long, gray hair that hung down from underneath his bandana and in his bushy gray beard.
    My Uncle Otis stared out, blinking, at the crowd. Then he grinned and flashed a peace sign at his fellow Paradisites. “Hey. Just here to get my tools. Go easy, good buddies.” And then picked up a toolbox that was sitting on the right side of the stage, and clomped backstage, from whence he came.
    And Slinky, now somewhere up in the rafters, gave a loud “Skreeee!” —think nails on a chalkboard, pitched two octaves higher—that sent everyone shrieking and running. Except me. I said a silent word of thanks for the ferret of the opera.
    My goal was to get to the green room upstairs and collect the costumes and go home. At least that way the night wouldn’t be a complete waste.
    I was stopped twice on my way to the green room.
    Once was by Trudy, who was sobbing, her black makeup streaking down her face. “Josie Toadfern,” she wailed, “this is all your uncle’s fault! And your fault, too! You’d better make him find Slinky!”
    That wasn’t entirely fair—the ferret had gnawed its way to freedom before Uncle Otis arrived on stage—but I reckoned the child just needed someone to blame for her woes, and my uncle and I were safe choices. She ran over to Charlemagne, who held her tightly while she sobbed. I didn’t think it was the right time to point out that she’d taken advantage of my sponsorship.
    Then, just as I got to the auditorium door, Alan Breitenstrater himself stopped me. He grabbed me by the arm, pulled me toward him, and hissed in my ear, “Josie Toadfern, I don’t know why my daughter has befriended you, or just what she and her uncle have cooked up with this play, but you’d better convince her and Cletus not to have an audition or pass out those scripts, or there will be no fireworks display.”
    I jerked away from him. “That would be up to Cletus,” I snapped.
    Alan just smiled at me—not a nice smile. “Who do you think funds Cletus’s little fireworks business? Me, of course. Cletus likes to play at managing his business—but God knows he couldn’t run a lemonade stand. But if I tell him to withdraw the fireworks or else I’ll shut down his precious little Fireworks Barn, he’ll do it. No fireworks display for Paradise—and I’ll make sure the town blames you.”
    I gave Alan my hardest look. He didn’t even wince. Just kept grinning.
    I walked away from him, going to the narrow staircase tucked on one side of the lobby, and walked slowly up the stairs to the second-story storage and green room. I wanted to run, but I could feel Alan still staring and grinning at me, and I wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.
    I thought I was going to find refuge in the green room. I was wrong.
    Sitting on the end of a cracked, brown vinyl couch was my cousin Sally. She was sobbing.
    I looked around the room, a jumbled disorder of boxes and props—even a brass birdcage—and a few old bureaus with mirrors over them used for the actors and actresses to apply makeup, although truth be told, most of them applied their makeup and put on their costumes before coming to the theatre. I couldn’t blame them. The place was not only a mess, it smelled of mildew. This year, the smell was overpowering. I guessed there’d been a leak somewhere in here. I glanced at the closet where the costumes were kept. Nah, they were okay, I told myself. I’d personally made sure they were stored in heavy-duty garment bags.
    No one else was up here, just Sally Toadfern (she’d taken back her maiden name since her divorce from Waylon Hinckie), crying, sitting on the end of the couch with the feet missing, which made it look as though the couch was