Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) by E. E. Kennedy
Authors: E. E. Kennedy
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I asked, fingering the material. It was unbleached muslin.
“These are rehearsal skirts. I ran ’em up last night, one for every woman in the company.” She held one up by the waistband. “The waist is stretchy, see?”
“Rehearsal skirts?” I was still puzzled.
Lily murmured, “We wear them during rehearsal so we’ll be accustomed to the length as we move. No use wearing out our costumes, which aren’t even finished yet, anyway.”
It’ll make every one of us look like a sack of potatoes, I thought. Well, anyway, at least the costumes are going to be wonderful, if they turn out like the sketches on the bulletin board.
In particular, there was a drawing of a gorgeous periwinkle blue creation featuring leg-o-mutton sleeves, a striped skirt with a bustle, and white trim, which I mentally claimed as mine. In the sketch, it even had a hat with a saucy little feather and a half-veil.
“Did you design these?” I asked Pat.
“I design all the costumes in the troupe.”
“Wow!”
I stepped forward to examine the picture more closely and nearly bumped into someone carrying a needle and thread, who shouldered past me and took one of the theatre seats. It was the new girl, again in the yellow dress. Pointedly ignoring me, she turned her attention to making stitches in the colorful garment she’d placed in her lap.
“Oh, sorry,” I said.
“This is, um—” Pat said, “Janey Johnson.”
The girl stared at her work.
“Hi.”
The girl looked up for a second. She had strange eyes; no, it was her eyebrows. Most women I knew plucked their eyebrows to a thin line. Janey’s were thick and dark, unusual in a blonde, and arched as though she was in on some amusing secret. After glancing at us and giving a hesitant smile, she returned to her hand work.
I pointed to a large, battered-looking trunk in the corner. “What’s this?”
Suddenly Pat seemed to glow. I hadn’t seen her smile before, and I could now see why her husband had called her lovely. Her eyes crinkled, her well-shaped mouth revealed an even row of very white teeth, and a dimple peeked in and out of her right cheek.
“That,” she said softly, proudly, “is my memory box. Want me to show you?”
So this was the trunk Lily had mentioned before. Of course we did.
The blonde girl continued to ignore us and sew diligently. Her long, straight hair formed a kind of curtain, so that I couldn’t see her expression.
Fine, I thought, be that way.
We three knelt around the trunk as Pat separated a key from the assortment on her key ring, turned it in the keyhole and carefully lifted the lid. Sitting atop a motley assortment of items was an overloaded scrapbook with the edges of paper sticking out on every page level. Pat opened it gently.
“This used to belong to Terence’s mother. She saved everything. Isn’t this adorable?”
There was an professional color picture of Terence, approximately age fourteen, looking a little incongruous in a bright green leprechaun suit and hat, a tall spangle-costumed adolescent standing next to—and towering over—similarly-dressed children.
“That was at the dance school,” I blurted and pointed to a green spangled folded garment. “That must be the costume there.”
Pat nodded. “Um hum. But look at this.”
She turned a dozen heavily-pasted scrapbook pages that crackled their objection to being moved all at once to reveal an 8 x 10 glossy black-and-white picture of Terence in a leather jacket, sneering like Elvis, with his hair slicked back and a cigarette hanging from his twisted lip.
“ The Rockets , his first actual Broadway show.” Pat turned the page the reveal another photograph. “This is my favorite, though.”
I leaned forward. “Oh my goodness, is that a moustache? He looks like that Theodore Roosevelt character in Arsenic and Old Lace . You know, he was always running up the stairs, yelling, ‘Charge!’ Is that padding around his middle?”
Pat chuckled. “Yes. Terence has
“These are rehearsal skirts. I ran ’em up last night, one for every woman in the company.” She held one up by the waistband. “The waist is stretchy, see?”
“Rehearsal skirts?” I was still puzzled.
Lily murmured, “We wear them during rehearsal so we’ll be accustomed to the length as we move. No use wearing out our costumes, which aren’t even finished yet, anyway.”
It’ll make every one of us look like a sack of potatoes, I thought. Well, anyway, at least the costumes are going to be wonderful, if they turn out like the sketches on the bulletin board.
In particular, there was a drawing of a gorgeous periwinkle blue creation featuring leg-o-mutton sleeves, a striped skirt with a bustle, and white trim, which I mentally claimed as mine. In the sketch, it even had a hat with a saucy little feather and a half-veil.
“Did you design these?” I asked Pat.
“I design all the costumes in the troupe.”
“Wow!”
I stepped forward to examine the picture more closely and nearly bumped into someone carrying a needle and thread, who shouldered past me and took one of the theatre seats. It was the new girl, again in the yellow dress. Pointedly ignoring me, she turned her attention to making stitches in the colorful garment she’d placed in her lap.
“Oh, sorry,” I said.
“This is, um—” Pat said, “Janey Johnson.”
The girl stared at her work.
“Hi.”
The girl looked up for a second. She had strange eyes; no, it was her eyebrows. Most women I knew plucked their eyebrows to a thin line. Janey’s were thick and dark, unusual in a blonde, and arched as though she was in on some amusing secret. After glancing at us and giving a hesitant smile, she returned to her hand work.
I pointed to a large, battered-looking trunk in the corner. “What’s this?”
Suddenly Pat seemed to glow. I hadn’t seen her smile before, and I could now see why her husband had called her lovely. Her eyes crinkled, her well-shaped mouth revealed an even row of very white teeth, and a dimple peeked in and out of her right cheek.
“That,” she said softly, proudly, “is my memory box. Want me to show you?”
So this was the trunk Lily had mentioned before. Of course we did.
The blonde girl continued to ignore us and sew diligently. Her long, straight hair formed a kind of curtain, so that I couldn’t see her expression.
Fine, I thought, be that way.
We three knelt around the trunk as Pat separated a key from the assortment on her key ring, turned it in the keyhole and carefully lifted the lid. Sitting atop a motley assortment of items was an overloaded scrapbook with the edges of paper sticking out on every page level. Pat opened it gently.
“This used to belong to Terence’s mother. She saved everything. Isn’t this adorable?”
There was an professional color picture of Terence, approximately age fourteen, looking a little incongruous in a bright green leprechaun suit and hat, a tall spangle-costumed adolescent standing next to—and towering over—similarly-dressed children.
“That was at the dance school,” I blurted and pointed to a green spangled folded garment. “That must be the costume there.”
Pat nodded. “Um hum. But look at this.”
She turned a dozen heavily-pasted scrapbook pages that crackled their objection to being moved all at once to reveal an 8 x 10 glossy black-and-white picture of Terence in a leather jacket, sneering like Elvis, with his hair slicked back and a cigarette hanging from his twisted lip.
“ The Rockets , his first actual Broadway show.” Pat turned the page the reveal another photograph. “This is my favorite, though.”
I leaned forward. “Oh my goodness, is that a moustache? He looks like that Theodore Roosevelt character in Arsenic and Old Lace . You know, he was always running up the stairs, yelling, ‘Charge!’ Is that padding around his middle?”
Pat chuckled. “Yes. Terence has
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