DEATH AT THE DRIVE-IN
by Mary Vettel
Chapter 1
Billie Jenkins tried to keep her blood pressure from ricocheting off the ceiling as she followed her landlord into the dimly lit backstage area. “You can’t just double the rent.” She raked her fingers through her graying hair, her mind racing to find the words to convince him to reconsider. “It took me nearly three years to write Her Majesty’s Lorgnette and find the right cast and crew for this Murder Mystery Dinner Theatre.” She failed to mention it had just started turning a profit, fearing that would only fuel his desire to squeeze more money out of her.
He flipped a light switch but the hallway remained dark. He jiggled it up and down and grumbled.
“That was like that,” Billie said, hoping she wouldn’t be blamed for breaking it. “And besides an article and a positive review in the local Dutchess County papers, we were mentioned in the entertainment section of the Sunday Times. That’s the New York Sunday Times,” she elaborated in case he didn’t know. Never mind that the journalist’s car broke down a block from the theatre and he took in a performance while waiting for the tow truck. Billie thought. A mention’s a mention.
With the success and critical acclaim, as Billie liked to put it, Her Majesty’s Lorgnette could run another six months or more, depending on word of mouth. Seeing license plates from Connecticut, New Jersey, and New England states in the theatre’s parking lot gave Billie renewed hope that people enjoyed going to the theatre to experience a good play. If she could garner a decent Michelin or Zagat rating, there was no telling what kind of business she could do here.
The legal fees for her divorce had left Billie deep in debt, but she felt it was well worth the twenty-five grand to get rid of Sully. And then, typical of Sully, he died within six months of the final decree. She railed about that, even going so far as to say he’d done it on purpose, just to leave her under a mound of legal bills that could have been avoided if he’d died sooner. Plus, she could have played the grieving widow rather than the bitter divorcé. Then amazing news arrived that she was still the sole beneficiary on his life insurance policy.
“To Sully,” she’d laughed ironically, lifting a glass of Chardonnay in his honor after depositing the $250,000 check in her bank account. She promptly purchased several acres of land and had a log cabin built to her specifications. Atlas, her polydactyl cat, grumbled about the move from the Bronx apartment to the freshly-hewn cabin, until he discovered the field mice and frogs he could swat around with his six-toed paws.
And just like that, her landlord was threatening to put an end to her livelihood.
“I can. And I did,” he said coldly and pushed open the door to the men’s dressing room. “Look at this mess!” Dust motes hung listlessly in the unmoving air in a slant of muted sunlight through the one window in the small room. He pointed at a large jagged hole in the plasterboard ceiling above the makeup table. “You and your damn actors,” he spat the word. “You’ve ruined my theater. I’ve half a mind to sue you.”
“You’ve half a mind alright,” Billie agreed angrily. “My actors didn’t make that hole. A couple of your dog-sized rats had that plasterboard for lunch. Nearly scared the shit out of my guys when they came falling down on them.”
“Ooh, I’m sure it made them smudge their lipstick.” His sarcasm twisted his face.
“You’re sounding pretty homophobic. Actors wear makeup, get over it.”
“It’s all the damn food you bring in here.”
“It’s a dinner theatre,” Billie argued. “You knew there was going to be food. But we’ve been super careful about removing every speck of food after each performance.”
“Look at those stains on my carpet.” He pointed to a series of six silver dollar-size brown stains.
“That was from a bloody nose after a dueling scene. But I’ll have you know I bought this carpeting - I’ve got the receipt to prove it - because what was there was horrid. As I recall, there was even a faint chalk outline. And it reeked of mildew. I’ve got the photos of the old crap being ripped out and this new stuff being installed.”
“Who gave you permission to remove the carpeting that was here?” he demanded.
“Are you serious? Now you’re talking like a madman.” The rent check trembled in her hand. “You’ll be putting a dozen actors and six crew members out of work,” she pleaded. “One of the only forms of real entertainment in this town.”
He stomped down the dimly lit corridor to the women’s dressing room. “Pigs!” he shouted, banging wide the door.
Billie’s eyes searched the cramped room for any signs of discarded food or clothing. “That’s a pretty tidy room if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” He turned and headed back toward the center aisle.
“Why are you doing this? You just want us out?”
“You can stay.”
“But the rent’s double,” Billie stated.
He stopped abruptly, Billie nearly banging into him. “The rent’s double,” he agreed.
“Where do you expect me to come up with that kind of money?” Fear made her voice crack. “What am I going to tell my actors and crew?” she thought aloud.
“Not my concern.” He strode up the inclined aisle and pushed wide the double doors to the lobby. “Pay up or you’re out the end of the week.”
“I want my month’s security back.” Billie said, glad she remembered; knowing it would be more difficult to get it once she’d left the theatre.
The landlord chuckled. “Not with all this damage.”
“Hey, now, wait a minute. You can’t do that.”
He laughed louder.
“I could take you to court,” Billie bluffed.
“My brother-in-law’s the mayor.” He flashed an ugly grin at her. “Pay up or you’re out the end of the week,” he repeated.
Billie’s mouth guppied. She could not comprehend the man’s meanness and indifference. “Fuck you!” Billie shouted and shoved open the glass door to the sidewalk. “No, really. Fuck you!”
“You’ve always been a class act, Billie,” he called after her and chuckled.
“Oh, what are you lookin’ at?!” Billie shouted at a startled passerby. “If Dwyer were here he’d kick that son-of-a-bitch bastard’s ass for him,” she muttered as she strode toward her car, the rent check still clenched in her hand. “No-good tightfisted fascist cheapskate,” she grumbled and unlocked the car. “Now what am I going to do?” she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Thank God it’s Monday and the theatre’s dark. But I still gotta call my cast and crew and tell ‘em they’re out of work. “Greedy son-of-a-bitch bastard shithead!”
She pulled away from the curb a little too quickly and the sudden blare of a car horn made her jam on the brake. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Billie said in response to the other driver’s angry hand gesture. She gave a timid smile and a quick wave. “Drivin’ away thinkin’, ‘Crazy ol’ broad,’” Billie said aloud. “I’m not crazy,” she called after the other car. “Distraught, maybe. But not crazy,” she continued despite the fact that the other driver was already several blocks away. “Think, think,” she instructed herself as she guided her Honda into Monday morning’s sparse traffic, with an impromptu detour in mind. “Oh, God, what am I going to say to Eugene?” she asked and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’ll freak.”
“Will that be all, Billie?” Lily, of Lily’s Liquors, asked as she bagged the two bottles of Chardonnay.
“You know, I was going to place an order for two cases of wine – one red, one white – to celebrate our one hundredth performance of Her Majesty’s Lorgnette, but that son-of-a-bitch of a landlord just doubled my rent.” She looked to Lily for some form of sympathy; a sad expression, a cluck of the tongue, a tsk. Nothing.
“That son-of-a-bitch landlord is my husband,” Lily said and slapped Billie’s receipt and change on the counter. She didn’t bother to turn away pretending to dust or rearrange bottles on the shelves, but stood facing Billie, arms folded across her chest, giving her a stink eye.
Taken aback for the moment, Billie gathered up her change and Chardonnay. “You have my condolences.” She sucked her teeth as the door’s bell jingled its last on her. “Guess I gotta find a new liquor store,” she muttered and headed for her car.
Billie Jenkins tried to keep her blood pressure from ricocheting off the ceiling as she followed her landlord into the dimly lit backstage area. “You can’t just double the rent.” She raked her fingers through her graying hair, her mind racing to find the words to convince him to reconsider. “It took me nearly three years to write Her Majesty’s Lorgnette and find the right cast and crew for this Murder Mystery Dinner Theatre.” She failed to mention it had just started turning a profit, fearing that would only fuel his desire to squeeze more money out of her.
He flipped a light switch but the hallway remained dark. He jiggled it up and down and grumbled.
“That was like that,” Billie said, hoping she wouldn’t be blamed for breaking it. “And besides an article and a positive review in the local Dutchess County papers, we were mentioned in the entertainment section of the Sunday Times. That’s the New York Sunday Times,” she elaborated in case he didn’t know. Never mind that the journalist’s car broke down a block from the theatre and he took in a performance while waiting for the tow truck. Billie thought. A mention’s a mention.
With the success and critical acclaim, as Billie liked to put it, Her Majesty’s Lorgnette could run another six months or more, depending on word of mouth. Seeing license plates from Connecticut, New Jersey, and New England states in the theatre’s parking lot gave Billie renewed hope that people enjoyed going to the theatre to experience a good play. If she could garner a decent Michelin or Zagat rating, there was no telling what kind of business she could do here.
The legal fees for her divorce had left Billie deep in debt, but she felt it was well worth the twenty-five grand to get rid of Sully. And then, typical of Sully, he died within six months of the final decree. She railed about that, even going so far as to say he’d done it on purpose, just to leave her under a mound of legal bills that could have been avoided if he’d died sooner. Plus, she could have played the grieving widow rather than the bitter divorcé. Then amazing news arrived that she was still the sole beneficiary on his life insurance policy.
“To Sully,” she’d laughed ironically, lifting a glass of Chardonnay in his honor after depositing the $250,000 check in her bank account. She promptly purchased several acres of land and had a log cabin built to her specifications. Atlas, her polydactyl cat, grumbled about the move from the Bronx apartment to the freshly-hewn cabin, until he discovered the field mice and frogs he could swat around with his six-toed paws.
And just like that, her landlord was threatening to put an end to her livelihood.
“I can. And I did,” he said coldly and pushed open the door to the men’s dressing room. “Look at this mess!” Dust motes hung listlessly in the unmoving air in a slant of muted sunlight through the one window in the small room. He pointed at a large jagged hole in the plasterboard ceiling above the makeup table. “You and your damn actors,” he spat the word. “You’ve ruined my theater. I’ve half a mind to sue you.”
“You’ve half a mind alright,” Billie agreed angrily. “My actors didn’t make that hole. A couple of your dog-sized rats had that plasterboard for lunch. Nearly scared the shit out of my guys when they came falling down on them.”
“Ooh, I’m sure it made them smudge their lipstick.” His sarcasm twisted his face.
“You’re sounding pretty homophobic. Actors wear makeup, get over it.”
“It’s all the damn food you bring in here.”
“It’s a dinner theatre,” Billie argued. “You knew there was going to be food. But we’ve been super careful about removing every speck of food after each performance.”
“Look at those stains on my carpet.” He pointed to a series of six silver dollar-size brown stains.
“That was from a bloody nose after a dueling scene. But I’ll have you know I bought this carpeting - I’ve got the receipt to prove it - because what was there was horrid. As I recall, there was even a faint chalk outline. And it reeked of mildew. I’ve got the photos of the old crap being ripped out and this new stuff being installed.”
“Who gave you permission to remove the carpeting that was here?” he demanded.
“Are you serious? Now you’re talking like a madman.” The rent check trembled in her hand. “You’ll be putting a dozen actors and six crew members out of work,” she pleaded. “One of the only forms of real entertainment in this town.”
He stomped down the dimly lit corridor to the women’s dressing room. “Pigs!” he shouted, banging wide the door.
Billie’s eyes searched the cramped room for any signs of discarded food or clothing. “That’s a pretty tidy room if you ask me.”
“I didn’t.” He turned and headed back toward the center aisle.
“Why are you doing this? You just want us out?”
“You can stay.”
“But the rent’s double,” Billie stated.
He stopped abruptly, Billie nearly banging into him. “The rent’s double,” he agreed.
“Where do you expect me to come up with that kind of money?” Fear made her voice crack. “What am I going to tell my actors and crew?” she thought aloud.
“Not my concern.” He strode up the inclined aisle and pushed wide the double doors to the lobby. “Pay up or you’re out the end of the week.”
“I want my month’s security back.” Billie said, glad she remembered; knowing it would be more difficult to get it once she’d left the theatre.
The landlord chuckled. “Not with all this damage.”
“Hey, now, wait a minute. You can’t do that.”
He laughed louder.
“I could take you to court,” Billie bluffed.
“My brother-in-law’s the mayor.” He flashed an ugly grin at her. “Pay up or you’re out the end of the week,” he repeated.
Billie’s mouth guppied. She could not comprehend the man’s meanness and indifference. “Fuck you!” Billie shouted and shoved open the glass door to the sidewalk. “No, really. Fuck you!”
“You’ve always been a class act, Billie,” he called after her and chuckled.
“Oh, what are you lookin’ at?!” Billie shouted at a startled passerby. “If Dwyer were here he’d kick that son-of-a-bitch bastard’s ass for him,” she muttered as she strode toward her car, the rent check still clenched in her hand. “No-good tightfisted fascist cheapskate,” she grumbled and unlocked the car. “Now what am I going to do?” she asked her reflection in the rearview mirror. Thank God it’s Monday and the theatre’s dark. But I still gotta call my cast and crew and tell ‘em they’re out of work. “Greedy son-of-a-bitch bastard shithead!”
She pulled away from the curb a little too quickly and the sudden blare of a car horn made her jam on the brake. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Billie said in response to the other driver’s angry hand gesture. She gave a timid smile and a quick wave. “Drivin’ away thinkin’, ‘Crazy ol’ broad,’” Billie said aloud. “I’m not crazy,” she called after the other car. “Distraught, maybe. But not crazy,” she continued despite the fact that the other driver was already several blocks away. “Think, think,” she instructed herself as she guided her Honda into Monday morning’s sparse traffic, with an impromptu detour in mind. “Oh, God, what am I going to say to Eugene?” she asked and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “He’ll freak.”
“Will that be all, Billie?” Lily, of Lily’s Liquors, asked as she bagged the two bottles of Chardonnay.
“You know, I was going to place an order for two cases of wine – one red, one white – to celebrate our one hundredth performance of Her Majesty’s Lorgnette, but that son-of-a-bitch of a landlord just doubled my rent.” She looked to Lily for some form of sympathy; a sad expression, a cluck of the tongue, a tsk. Nothing.
“That son-of-a-bitch landlord is my husband,” Lily said and slapped Billie’s receipt and change on the counter. She didn’t bother to turn away pretending to dust or rearrange bottles on the shelves, but stood facing Billie, arms folded across her chest, giving her a stink eye.
Taken aback for the moment, Billie gathered up her change and Chardonnay. “You have my condolences.” She sucked her teeth as the door’s bell jingled its last on her. “Guess I gotta find a new liquor store,” she muttered and headed for her car.
