I stared at her. “You mean from the theater group’s account?”

She nodded. “Yes. And, well, it’s not the first one.”

A knot formed in my stomach. “It’s not?”

“No,” she said. Her eyes were bright with worry. “I had to pay the man who films and cuts DVDs of the performances. I had to give him a deposit. He called me two days ago and told me there was a problem. And we had to purchase the wood for the set backdrops. The lumberyard called me last week.” She sighed. “When the lumberyard called, I assumed it was just a mix up, and Eleanor told me she just hadn’t made last week’s deposit. So I wasn’t worried. But now?” She shook her head again. “I think there’s something else going on.”

Three bounced checks wasn’t the result of a late deposit. It certainly sounded like there was a problem to me. I wondered how bad it actually was.

“How did you pay for the wig?” I asked. “Did that check bounce, too?”

“I have the theater credit card so I used that,” she said. “But I have no idea how we’re going to pay that bill when it comes. Especially if there’s no money in the account.”

“Oh gosh,” I said. “That’s not good at all. And that might explain what you told me the other day… about the tickets and trying to drum up business.”

She nodded slowly. “I know. Anytime I ask Eleanor, though, she tells me it’s just miscommunication, or that it must be a mistake. But I’m not dumb.” Her mouth fixed into a tight, tense line. “And it’s making me rethink a few things.”

“Rethink?”

She looked toward the stage again, her hands fidgeting on the table. Then she ran a hand through her hair and chewed on her bottom lip for a moment.

“Um, no one really knows this right now, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it between us,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. “But when Eleanor brought me on for this play, she told me it could become permanent. It’s a volunteer position now, but it was a job in the past.”

I remembered hearing that at the coffee shop. I nodded.

“As in, paying,” she said. “And… well, we could use the money.”

I nodded, my sympathy kicking into overdrive. “I understand.”

“That’s why I’ve paid so much attention to everything Eleanor has asked of me,” she said. She looked toward the stage. “And I’ve done everything I can think of to try and drum up publicity for this play.” Her eyes glazed over a bit. “Everything.” She stared at the stage for a few moments before shaking herself from whatever she was thinking about. “And now I’m thinking I’ve done all of this for no reason and that I should just finish up and start looking for another job. One that might, in fact, be real.”

I nodded again. “Right. I can’t fault you with that. Have you asked Eleanor about any of this? Just to get a better sense of the finances?”

“I’ve tried, but she just gives me the runaround,” she said, frowning. “Which doesn’t exactly inspire confidence. And yet she prances around here acting like there are no issues.” She leaned into the table. “You realize that if we can’t pay for the facility rental, she’ll have to cancel the play?”

I sighed. “Of course.”

“I mean, I know this is a high school and not a private entity, but they aren’t going to just let us keep coming here if we can’t pay them.”

What she was telling me made me both sad and angry. Sad because I was already thinking about how disappointed the girls would be if they had to cancel the play. They’d both been so excited about trying out and once they were cast as dwarfs, their enthusiasm had increased ten-fold. Well, once Grace had gotten over her disappointment at not being cast as Snow White. And I was angry, because it seemed irresponsible for Eleanor to be running around, acting like there wasn’t a problem and having Joanne act as the go-between. I hadn’t liked her from the first time I met her and it had only gone downhill since.

“I’m sorry, Joanne,” I said. “Are you sure there isn’t anything I can do?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head. “No, there really isn’t. I think I just needed to vent. I’m sorry to dump all that on you.”

“Don’t apologize,” I said, smiling at her. “Venting is good.”

“Anyway,” Joanne said, shaking her head like she was trying to clear the cobwebs again. “I’ve bent your ear for long enough. I can’t thank you enough for taking over the programs. Thank you so much.”

“Of course,” I told her. “I’m happy to help.”

She glanced at her watch. “Okay, they should be about done. Could I ask you for one more favor?”

“Absolutely.”

“I need to close up the stage area and the theater,” she said. “A few of the kids came in today for an extra practice and to work on the sets. Could you check the classrooms we use on your way out? Just make sure everything is out and make sure they are locked?”

“For sure,” I said. “I’d be happy to.”

Joanne gathered up her things and handed me back my flash drive.

“Thanks again, Daisy,” she said, standing. “I truly appreciate your help. And your ear.”

“Anytime,” I said, shoving the flash drive in my bag. “Happy to do what I can.”

She touched my elbow. “Cross your fingers. Maybe we can get this pulled off yet.”

TWENTY ONE

I found a bag.

I’d closed up two of the three classrooms. I pushed chairs back under tables, picked up a couple pieces of trash and shut off the lights. Which was sort of like picking up after my own kids.

I walked into the last classroom and did the same things: shoved three chairs back under the desks they belonged to, dropped two soda cans in the recycle bin and was getting ready to kill the lights and go home when I noticed a purple backpack in the far corner. It was expensive looking, with wide black straps and sparkles in the fabric.

I went over to the corner and looked at it. There was no name written on it. For all I knew, it might have been left there by a student the day before. I wasn’t sure.

I picked up the bag. It didn’t feel like it was full of books. More like clothes. Which meant it was more than likely the property of someone in the play.

I unzipped the first small pocket and found a tube of lipstick, some gum and a couple of pens. I zipped that pocket back up and then unzipped the other small pocket. I pulled out a piece of paper that had been balled up like it was supposed to be thrown away. I set the bag on the nearest desktop and unfolded the wadded up paper.

It was a letter.

Addressed to Madison Bandersand.

It read:

Ms. Bandersand,

Thank you for your interest in the University of Minnesota’s theater program. Each year, our program receives hundreds of applications for a limited number of spots. While your application was impressive, we regret to inform you that we are unable to offer you admission at this time. We wish you good luck in your future academic and dramatic endeavors.

It was signed by someone with a fancy sounding title.

I read the letter again to make sure I understood it.

And then I recalled her telling her friend Holly that she’d already gotten in.

I sighed. I thought about my interaction with Madison and what I’d just witnessed between her and Joanne. She hadn’t proven herself to be a terribly likable kid, but it had to be hard to get that letter, especially when everyone was assuming you’d get in. I remembered Eleanor telling Joanne and myself that they were still waiting to hear about admission. Now I knew why she hadn’t heard anything.

Because Madison had gotten to the mailbox first.

“What are you doing?” a voice asked from behind me.

I turned around.

A very angry Madison Bandersand was standing in the doorway.

TWENTY TWO

Madison marched over to me and ripped the letter from my hand, her eyes blazing. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Madison, I was just—”