make her rich by any stretch, but it was enough for Vivien to outright buy the abandoned stage…which would soon be known as the Olivia Dee Theater. She was picking up the keys from the realtor tomorrow, whom she’d known back in high school.
Tomorrow, tomorrow, she hummed.
And if—when—she got the loan from the bank, she’d be able to put it back to rights for performances.
As Vivien looked at the building that was now hers, the culmination of years of wishes and dreams now at hand, she smiled through her tears and pushed away her nerves.
We’re gonna do this, Liv.
Welcome home.
Chapter Two
“I am not going to play a dead body in the window seat,” said Helga van Hest. “Whoever plays Mortimer would break his back lifting out my giant self. He’d collapse there right onstage, die from a heart attack, and that would be the end of Wicks Hollow Stage’s—I mean Olivia Dee Theater’s—production of Arsenic and Old Lace.
“You’d have to refund tickets, and all those renovations on the old place would be for nothing. You’d file for bankruptcy and move back to New York in shame, and I’d never see my best friend again.”
Vivien chuckled at her friend’s rant as she snatched the last lemon blueberry scone from right beneath Maxine Took’s greedy fingers.
The foiled eighty-one-year-old Maxine snarled under her breath, but Vivien ignored her. You had to if you wanted to get anything accomplished when you were sitting at Orbra van Hest’s tea shop, where Maxine and her posse—known as the Tuesday Ladies—reigned supreme.
It was barely eight in the morning on a Tuesday in mid-July, so the glut of tourists who filled Wicks Hollow to bursting were still sleeping in at their bed-and-breakfasts, boutique inns, RVs, or lakeside cottages…which meant Orbra’s Tea House was nearly empty.
This morning, only Maxine Took, her best partner-in-crime Juanita Acerita, and Orbra herself were present from the Tuesday Ladies group. Helga, the granddaughter of the tea shop proprietress, and Vivien were the only other people in the café at the moment.
She had an appointment at ten to finally get her keys for the theater (she’d done the closing remotely while packing up in New York), and had been too antsy and excited to wait at her rental home until then. Plus, she was also expecting a call from the bank, and she needed a distraction to calm her nerves.
“You’re six feet, two inches of gorgeousness, not a giant, Helga, and I’m pretty sure Baxter could handle wrangling you out of the window seat. Have you seen him lately? He’s not the skinny dork he was back in high school.” Vivien grinned.
“Baxter James is playing Mortimer Brewster?” Maxine exclaimed, spraying moist crumbs from the scone she was still eating. The greedy old crone clearly hadn’t needed the one Vivien had swiped. “And you didn’t tell me?”
“I didn’t think you’d care,” replied Vivien slyly. She knew exactly how Maxine Took worked. “You said you were too busy to do the show—”
“Well, I just cleared my calendar,” said Maxine, thumping her cane for emphasis. Her brown eyes blazed from behind thick bottle-bottom glasses, and not one of her iron-gray hairs fluttered with her movement. Vivien suspected it was because it was a wig, although she (and everyone else) didn’t know for sure. It could just be an entire can of hairspray. “Can’t make a damned decision if you don’t give a person all-a the information right out front, can I?”
“Certainly not,” replied Vivien, exchanging glances with Helga. “Does this mean you’ll take the role of Abby Brewster?”
“Is she the bossy sister or the fluttery one?” asked Maxine, narrowing her eyes.
“For pity’s sake, they’re both murderers,” said Helga. “What does it matter?”
“Of course she’s the bossy one,” said Vivien at the same time, then broke off a large piece of the scone she’d swiped and wagged it in front of Maxine’s face. “Typecasting, you know.” She popped the crumbly pastry into her mouth and grinned. “And if we ever do Wizard of Oz, you know what role you’ll be playing.” She hummed the Wicked Witch of the West’s theme song.
Maxine barked a laugh, her eyes gleaming with humor and appreciation. “I’d play the hell out of that role, and you know it. All right, then, Vivien Leigh. I’ll be the bossy sister.” She thumped her cane again. “And they’re not technically murderers, you know, Helga.”
“What do you call feeding lonely old gentlemen arsenic in elderberry wine—without them knowing about it—if not a murder?” Helga said. Which wasn’t a