Final Curtain: An Edna Ferber Mystery (Edna Ferber Mysteries) by Ed Ifkovic Page A

hungry?” But he didn’t linger, throwing the car into gear and speeding off.
    We sailed by the Assembly of God temple, where Evan slowed down near the massive front doors and pointed. “Sinners in the hands of an angry God.”
    He put the car in park, revved the engine noisily, and blew the horn. Dak and Annika stepped from the front entrance, squinted into the sun at the shiny blue convertible. I noted Annika gripping Dak’s arm, and he whispered something to her. She stepped back, pulling at him, but Dak moved toward us, a puzzled look on his face. Annika reluctantly followed him, her face grim. Dak’s look took in Evan and George, but rested, baffled, on me, the kidnapped spinster in the backseat. Evan waited until he was near and then leaned on the horn, a discordant bah-bah-bah that nearly drove me to distraction.
    “Mine.” Evan raised his body in the seat and waved his hand around the car.
    Annika stood behind Dak but her hand gripped his elbow. Then, brazenly, she moved toward the car. “Could you show some respect for the house of God?”
    “Mine.” Evan was looking at Annika.
    “Where’d you get the money?” Dak asked suddenly.
    “Ask Miss Ferber.” Evan pointed over his shoulder but did not turn around.
    “A dead uncle.” My voice flat, dull. “A conveniently dead uncle. From the pages of a novel only Evan has read.”
    “Dakota, let’s get out of here.” Now Annika sounded panicky. Her grip on Dak’s elbow tightened. “Please don’t go with him.”
    “Wanna jump in, Annika? We’ll leave Dakota in the dust.”
    But at that moment Evan gunned the engine and the car flew off, jerking back and forth for a second, tossing me around the backseat. At the next corner he slowed to a crawl and said to George, who looked pale and nauseous, his eyes shut, “Dak doesn’t love that horrible harpy.”
    “What?” From George, in a faraway voice.
    “Dak doesn’t want to be God’s missionary. Or married to that witch from Salem.”
    “What?” George repeated.
    Evan said through clenched teeth, “Those two pray to the wrong God. My God put cash in my pocket. God loves rascals and ne’er-do-wells. Everybody knows that. Ain’t that a riot? God holds the note for this car. So I guess it does a soul good to…to believe.”
    Then he lapsed into silence and turned the car around. It was as though he’d made a point, and that moment ended. He dropped us off at the Jefferson Village Inn and sped off.
    “Edna, you’re so pale.”
    “George, this is all your fault.”
    An hour later, finishing lunch, I left George and headed back to the theater for an appointment with wardrobe. One of my costumes needed adjustment. I’d scheduled a short meeting with the wardrobe mistress who’d tactfully insinuated that I’d put on a few extra pounds since my fitting in New York a month back. My task completed, I opened the front door to leave, and I saw Evan’s shiny convertible parked alongside the train station, but he was nowhere to be seen. The rear seat was heaped high with cardboard boxes.
    But then I spotted him. He was in deep conversation with Nadine Novack, both partially sheltered by a panel truck. She stepped away from him, angry, knocking his hand away, and he threw back his head, laughing. I watched her closely: her body tense, her arms held out in front of her as though demanding distance. Even from across the street I could see her shaking her head and mouthing a word over and over: no no no . She backed away, turned, and suddenly, in a brazen move, he grabbed both of her shoulders, swung her back to face him, and held her. She pushed against him but couldn’t free herself. He was laughing, but there was no pleasure in it: a cruelty there, a maniac’s raw howl. Finally, desperate, she kicked his foot, broke free and wildly slapped him in the face.
    She ran toward the theater and I stepped back, hidden by the half-shut door.
    He came after her and yelled, “I can tell them, you know.”
    She