Josie Day Is Coming Home (2 page)

And some sort of commotion in the front row.

Shimmying sideways, twirling in time with a jazzy Gershwin
tune, Josie looked curiously toward the premium seats. There, a half dozen
audience members were on their feet. They clustered around the
velvet-upholstered banquette that stood third from the left. Some pointed.
Others looked around as though for help. A low murmur rose from the spot.

Josie’s heart rate kicked up. None of the other dancers
seemed to notice the hubbub. For most of them, the audience was a blur…a sea
of faces. She was the unusual one. She liked to connect with the people
watching the show. But tonight something was clearly wrong.

Probably it was a just a passed-out gambler, she told
herself as she swished her enormous feathered fan. She issued her trademark
showgirl smile. Chuck and Enrique, the security team, would take care of the
problem.

Except they didn’t seem to have noticed it yet. As Josie
executed a perfect step-ball-change, she glanced back to the banquette again.
The clump of onlookers parted. Just for an instant, Josie glimpsed an elderly
woman at the center of all the attention. A woman with her eyes wide and her
bejeweled hand at her throat.

Josie knew what that meant. A hand at the throat was the
universal choking signal.

Quickly, she estimated the distance between the stage and
the floor. Too far. If she leaped offstage in these shoes, she’d break an ankle
for sure. Heart pounding, Josie broke rank with her fellow dancers instead and
headed for the stage-left stairs. She moved in double-time with the music,
smiling widely…and doing her high-stepping showgirl walk the whole way.

Hey, old habits died hard. The choreographer, Jacqueline,
had threatened to cut any dancer who dared to walk normally while onstage.
Doing a showgirl walk was second nature to everyone. Josie figured she probably
lapsed into it in the supermarket without realizing it—while selecting a can of
peas or carrying ramen noodle packages to her cart.

She reached the floor and scrambled to the banquette,
feathered headdress streaming behind her. Shocked faces turned toward her.
Josie only had eyes for the white-haired woman.

“Are you choking?” she asked.

By now, the woman was on her feet. Gesturing toward her
martini glass on the table in front of her, she nodded. Her eyes widened with
alarm.

“Let me help you.”

Decisively, Josie maneuvered her way behind the woman. She
apologized hastily as she whacked a few onlookers with her costume’s booty
frill. Music clamored all around. Show lights flashed. She wrapped her arms
around the woman and caught a whiff of expensive perfume. Dimly, she realized
the show was still going on above them in all its glitzy glory. Then there was
no time to notice anything else. She concentrated on performing the Heimlich
Maneuver.

The last time she’d practiced it, she’d been working on a
plastic dummy in first aid class. Squeezing a real live woman was a lot
different. With frantic intensity, she kept at it.

Two-handed fist, below the rib cage, quick upward thrust
.
Again and again. She had to keep going. This woman was somebody’s grandmother,
somebody’s sweet elderly wife, somebody’s sister. Feeling panicky, Josie thrust
upward again.

“That’s enough!” the woman barked. “One more
thrust and I’ll cough up my spleen along with that damned martini olive.”

Roughly, she twisted away from Josie’s arms. In shock, Josie
watched as the woman rounded on the onlookers.

“And
you
! Standing there like a bunch of idiots
while an old woman chokes to death. Shame on you!” Even in competition
with the music of the Glamorous Nights Revue, her husky voice carried. “I
got up to Heimlich myself on the table edge, but this nincompoop”—she
gestured to a gawking businessman—“wouldn’t get his lard ass out of the
way.”

Red-faced with fury, she snatched her cocktail. Drained the
whole thing. Winced. She banged her empty martini glass on the table, then
swiveled her luxuriously clad, barrel-shaped body in a hasty arc. Looking for a
fresh target.

Never one to cower in the face of a challenge, Josie lifted
her chin. “You should sit down.”

Calmly, she reached for the old woman’s arm to help her.

“Mind your own business, Red!” the woman snapped.
“I’m not decrepit.”

But she wobbled slightly as she leaned in the banquette. Her
wrinkled hand trembled as she retrieved her envelope-shaped silk purse from the
velvet cushion. Clearly the martini olive incident had affected her more than
she wanted to admit.

All around them audience members murmured, getting resettled
at their own tables. The show lights flashed. The music from the opening number
reached its crescendo.

“I’ll call security for you,” Josie said.
“You shouldn’t be alone right now.”

The woman stiffened. For an instant, her demeanor
softened—as though she’d glimpsed a friend in the crowd. Then she morphed back
to her curmudgeonly self.

“Look. They’re continuing the show without you,”
she pointed out, eyeballing the stage knowingly. “It’s almost as though
they never even noticed you were gone.”

Stricken, Josie glanced up. It was true. Parker and Thad and
all the rest of the dancers posed in perfect position on the darkened stage.
One by one, the spotlights popped on, illuminating the principals in the second
number—a “Chicago”-style jazz routine.

The show was all she had. If she lost her place there….

“I’ll comp your drinks and your show ticket,” she
blurted, hastily straightening her headdress. “Dinner, too, if you want.
Just leave your name at the door and I’ll take care of everything. And next
time, I recommend a cosmopolitan.” She couldn’t help but grin. “No
olives, plenty of kick.”

The woman
humph
ed. Taking that as her exit cue, Josie
left her behind. Awash in a sea of curious gazes, she hurried backstage to
rejoin the show. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d bailed out on an awkward
situation.

Given her track record, it probably wouldn’t be the last,
either.

Tallulah Carlyle had seen a lot of things in her sixty-seven
years. She’d done a lot of things, too. Crazy things, wild things, happy and
sad things…including losing her beloved Ernest. But somehow, watching the
redheaded duplicate of herself who strode backstage toward Tallulah’s chair
right now, none of that mattered quite as much as it had a few hours ago.
Because she’d found a way to do it all over again. By proxy, of course. But
what the hell. A woman had to take what she could get.

Or at least to maneuver things the way she wanted them.

Patiently, Tallulah waited for the redhead to reach her.
Dancers streamed through the dressing room, trailing short sequined capes and
shedding parts of their costumes. There was only an hour-long break between
shows, Tallulah had discovered. Then all the dancers would go back onstage for
almost two more hours, until midnight.

“Omigod, Josie! You’re like, a hero, or
something!” a nearby showgirl said, grabbing the redhead’s arm in
excitement. “Can you
believe
it?”

“Yeah, you were amazing,” another dancer added,
crowding into the group. “You really saved that old lady.”

Still unnoticed, Tallulah stiffened.
Old lady, my ass
.
She’d been sitting backstage pretty happily until now. But if this kind of
nonsense was going to continue….

“When you leaped offstage like that, I thought
Jacqueline was going to have a cow.” This from a statuesque blond carrying
a Dietrich-style black top hat. She slung her arm over the redhead’s shoulders.
“Way to go, Josie.”

“Settle down, Parker. I didn’t do it just to aggravate
Jacqueline.”

“Sure
, you didn’t.”

“I’m serious.” Josie widened her eyes.
“Aggravating Jacqueline was just a happy side benefit.”

They exchanged a mischievous look—borne of long-standing
camaraderie, Tallulah would’ve bet—then went on chattering. The dancers neared
the long row of makeup mirrors where Tallulah sat, unpinning headdresses as
they came. Then, from amid her cohorts, the redhead spotted Tallulah.

To her surprise, the girl broke into a grin. It was a gaudy
grin, brightened with stage makeup on a face streaked with sweat, but it looked
authentic. That was good enough.

“You’re all right!” The girl hurried closer. She
peered at Tallulah as though checking her condition, then straightened with
crossed arms. Her expression turned suspicious. “Hmmm. That’s weird. You
look almost happy. What’d you do, terrify a few slot machines into paying
out?”

She was cheeky. Tallulah liked that. She liked her name,
too. Josie. It suited her. She’d thought so from the minute she’d learned
it—along with the showgirls’ dressing room location—from the producer. It was
amazing what throwing her weight around—not to mention her true identity—could
do.

“No,” Tallulah said. “I came to talk to
you.”

Wariness leaped into the girl’s eyes. As though hiding it,
Josie angled herself sideways. She didn’t look at Tallulah as she dropped her
spangled prop umbrella on the vanity, then set to work dragging pins from her
rainbow headpiece. For a tall girl, she moved with surprising grace.

She carried herself with surprising nerve, too. She set down
her headpiece. Then, rather than wait for Tallulah to take the lead, Josie
swiveled suddenly to confront her.

“Look, about what happened out there. If you’re
thinking of siccing your lawyer on me, you’d better think again.”

At that, Tallulah felt more encouraged than ever. The girl
was tough, despite her loopy smile. Probably smarter than those tarted-up looks
of hers would suggest, too.

“Because I only wanted to help you. If you can’t handle
that, then—”

“Is that your real hair color?” Tallulah
interrupted. “Or a wig? If it’s a dye job, it’s a good one.”

Obviously confused by the abrupt change of topic, Josie
touched her hair. Her mouth opened slightly. Then, as though realizing she’d
let herself be distracted, she shook her head.

“None of your business.”

Tallulah nodded approvingly. In Josie’s shoes, she’d have
said the same thing.

She heaved herself upward, cursing the snap, crackle, and
pop in her knees as she went. Getting old was for the birds. She remembered when
she’d been as lithe and limber as these pop-tarts backstage were. No
kidding—that shopworn cliché was true. Youth really
was
wasted on the
young.

But maybe not on Josie. Not if Tallulah could help it.

“Well?” the girl demanded. “Are you going to
sue? For overly enthusiastic Heimliching or something? I mean, I don’t know why
you wouldn’t—everybody’s lawsuit-happy these days.” She flung up both arms
in exasperation, showing off the sinuous gold costume bracelets on her wrists.
“I might as well warn you, though. You won’t get much out of me. I share a
double-wide trailer with two other dancers from Bally’s. The most valuable
things I own are my dancing shoes. So unless you plan on cha-cha-ing your way
back to the old folks’ home—”

A pair of dancers lingering nearby gasped.

“—you’ll be wasting your time.” Clearly wound-up,
Josie plunked both hands on her hips. She examined Tallulah with a defiant
expression. “What’s so funny? Why are you smiling like that?”

“Because you remind me of myself. Which is why I’m here.”
Straightening herself to her most regal five-foot-two, Tallulah pulled a
business card from her purse and handed it to Josie. “Also, to thank you.
For saving my life tonight.”

As she said it, the reality of the situation struck again.
Immediately after Josie had Heimliched out that damned martini olive, Tallulah
had been too shaken to think clearly. She knew she’d acted badly. But now she
wanted to make amends.

She wanted to fire up a fresh pack of Winston Lights, too.
However, like so many other things, her smokes were off-limits. She’d have to
settle for this.

Gruffly, she added, “I might have to go eventually. But
I’ll be damned if my obituary will read: ‘Done in by an extra-slippery martini
olive. May she rest in peace.’”

Josie blinked at the card in her hand.

“I didn’t plan on telling anyone this.” Tallulah
paused, glancing around the ever-quieting dressing room. Showgirls nearby
puttered with their false eyelashes or their false ta-tas, pretending not to
listen. “But you might as well know. I’m…Tallulah Carlyle.”

She waited for the inevitable shriek of recognition.

And waited.

And…screw it.

“Hello? The owner of this dump! Tallulah Carlyle. Widow
of Ernest Carlyle, Carlyle Enterprises. You mean to tell me nobody notices the
name on the bottom of their paychecks?”

Muttering ensued. The lanky blond stepped forward.
“It’s just a stamp. It’s pretty unreadable, actually.”

Tallulah frowned. “Don’t you have somewhere else to
be?”

“Not if you’re causing trouble for Josie.”
Loyally, she edged closer to the redhead. “I’m sticking right here.”

“It’s okay, Parker.” Josie shook her head over the
business card, then gave it back to Tallulah. “Look, I don’t know who put
you up to this…Chuck and Enrique, probably. Or maybe Jacqueline. But the
joke’s over. I get it. April Fool on me, ha, ha.”

“I’m serious,” Tallulah insisted. “You
deserve something for helping me.”

“Yeah. A joke, apparently.” Josie held up her
hands, signaling for attention from the other showgirls. “Okay, you got
me. Very funny, everybody. Just wait till next year.”

Her playful expression promised retribution on an April
Fool’s Day yet to come. But when she turned again to face Tallulah, her eyes
were troubled.

“You probably weren’t even really choking, were
you?” She smacked her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Geez, am
I
a sucker. I bought the whole thing. Hook, line, and sinker.”