I'm pleased to welcome Joanne Sydney Lessner to the blog today. Joanne writes the Isobel Spice Mystery series. OFFED STAGE LEFT, the fourth book in the series, was released at the end of last month.
JSL: I knew the biggies: “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” “The Washington Post,” and of course, every Monty Python fan is intimately familiar with “The Liberty Bell.” That was my phone ringtone for ages. But I discovered there were subtler, more serious marches when my husband was leading a band called “Nobles of the Mystic Shrine,” after the Sousa march of that name. Sousa is not quite like anyone else. And he’s just so very American. Patriotic without being sentimental. He also wrote a number of operettas and songs. That said, the idea of singing his marches is inherently hilarious, since they were never intended to be vehicles for words. I’m actually quite proud of the lyrics I wrote for Sousacal; they rhyme and scan properly, but they’re ridiculous. I hope readers will sing along. The marches are easy to find on YouTube.
Kathy: I graduated with a theatre degree and worked in regional theatre at the Cleveland Playhouse many moons ago. Do you have any theatrical experience?
JSL: A kindred spirit! Yes, I’ve been a professional singer/actor since I graduated college. I made my Broadway debut in 1994 and I’ve done a lot of regional theater and opera over the years. I just played Rosie in Mamma Mia! at the wonderful Weston Playhouse in Vermont. I actually set an Isobel short story at a fictionalized Weston (free on my website!), and the theater in OFFED STAGE LEFT is a composite of several I’ve worked at. I doubt anyone would be surprised to learn that Isobel is, essentially, me at twenty-three. Minus the dead bodies.
Kathy: What first drew you to cozy mysteries?
JSL: Nancy Drew was my gateway drug. One of my favorite reviews on Amazon described my books as “Nancy Drew for grown-ups.” From there it was a short leap to Agatha Christie, Ngaio Marsh and Dorothy L. Sayers. I’m also a big fan of British police procedurals.
Kathy: Do you write in any other genres?
JSL: My debut novel, PANDORA'S BOTTLE, is literary fiction. It’s about a man who spends half a million dollars to buy a single bottle of wine once owned by Thomas Jefferson, and the waiter serving him drops it. So it’s about what happens to the man, the waiter, the girl he’s trying to impress, and the woman who owns the restaurant. It was inspired by a true story. I’ve also written extensively for the theater and have had both plays and musicals produced.
Kathy: Tell us about your series.
JSL: OFFED STAGE LEFT is the fourth in the series, which follows aspiring actress Isobel Spice from temp job to temp job, solving murders at every turn. At the same time, it charts her career as she attempts to break into show business.
Kathy: Do you have a favorite character? If so, who and why?
JSL: This is terrible, but my two favorite characters don’t appear in this book! Percival, Isobel’s boy genius younger brother, and James, her temp agent. Percival is based on my son Julian, who was a computer science TA at Columbia when he was still in high school. James is a recovering alcoholic who finds Isobel equally irresistible and infuriating. He’s complex and flawed, and their relationship provides the romantic tension in the series. For various reasons, neither one follows Isobel to her first regional theater job in OFFED STAGE LEFT, but they’ll both be back in the next book.
Kathy: Did you have a specific inspiration for your series?
JSL: Most people have no idea what the day-to-day experience of breaking into show business is like. It can be dehumanizing—you wait for your chance to sing sixteen, sometimes eight bars of music, only to be dismissed with “Thanks for coming in,” which is code for “Thanks for blowing the subway fare.” The flip side is that you make lifelong friends. I’ve always loved mysteries, so it seemed like a great way to illuminate the real story I wanted to tell, which is what it’s like to be a young actor in New York. Plus I get to share all the humiliating audition stories I’ve collected over the years. Some of them are pretty side-splitting—in retrospect, of course. My all-time favorite is in AND JUSTICE FOR SOME, which is book three.
Kathy: What made you decide to publish your work?
JSL: That was always the goal. I guess it’s the performer in me. I need an audience!
Kathy: If you could have a dinner party and invite 4 authors, living or dead, in any genre, who would you invite?
JSL: J.K. Rowling, Agatha Christie, W.S. Gilbert and George R.R. Martin. Then I’d just sit on the side and listen.
Kathy: What are you currently reading?
JSL: When we were in London last winter, I dipped into Foyle’s Bookstore while my husband and daughter went on the London Eye. When they came back, I asked, “Guess what I bought?” My husband replied, “Probably some English country house mystery.” With which I produced my purchase: an anthology actually entitled English Country House Mysteries. I’ve been hoarding it ever since, so I’m reading it now as my reward for getting OFFED STAGE LEFT out the door.
Kathy: Will you share any of your hobbies or interests with us?
JSL: Singing, reading, writing, travel, going to live musical and theatrical performances, and hanging out with my husband and kids, who are my favorite people on the planet.
Kathy: Name 4 items you always have in your fridge or pantry.
JSL: Kind bars, eggs, paper towels and grated Parmesan. I have an irrational fear of running out of paper towels, and there’s nothing that can’t be made better with grated Parmesan. Except maybe paper towels.
Kathy: Do you have plans for future books either in your current series or a new series?
JSL: I have solid ideas for two more and a title idea for a third, but I doubt I’ll go beyond that. I have ideas for other standalone books, but not another mystery series. I think Isobel is it.
Kathy: What's your favorite thing about being an author?
JSL: There’s something really satisfying about pointing to a paperback and saying, “I made that.” But mostly what I love is storytelling. I do it as an actor and as a writer. The rewards aren’t as immediate for a novelist, since you’re not sitting there watching someone read your book (thank God!) but I love knowing that people want to spend time with these characters I invented.
Synopsis:
There’s one role you don’t want a callback for: Prime Suspect.
Aspiring actress Isobel Spice lands her first regional theater job, playing a supporting role and understudying the lead in "Sousacal: The Life and Times of John Philip Sousa." A series of minor backstage accidents culminates in the suspicious death of the leading lady on opening night. When Isobel takes over the role, her mastery of the material makes her more suspect than savior, and she realizes the only way to clear her name is to discover the identity of the murderer—before he or she strikes again.Don't Miss Your Chance to Read Offed Stage Left! You can grab it at Amazon , Barnes & Noble , Kobo , Smashwords , & Add it to your Goodreads List !Book Details:
Genre: Mystery, Amateur Sleuth
Published by: Dulcet Press
Publication Date: Late October 2016
Number of Pages:260
ISBN: 978-0-9981332-0-1
Series: Isobel Spice, 4 | Each is a Stand Alone Mystery
Read an excerpt:
CHAPTER ONE
“Be kind to your web-footed friends, for a duck could be somebody’s mooo-ther,” Sunil Kapany sang under his breath to the tune of “The Stars and Stripes Forever.”“Shhh!” Isobel Spice elbowed him. “There’s a rehearsal going on, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“You have to admit, it’s better than the lame words we’re being forced to sing,” Sunil grumbled. He sank further into his cushioned seat in Livingston Stage Company’s darkened theater, drawing up his knees against the scratched donor nameplate on the seatback in front of him. “Seriously, who thought it was a good idea to write lyrics to Sousa marches?”
“I don’t see how you can have a musical about the March King without using his music,” Isobel said. She shifted the bustle of her pale-blue and white muslin gown, her act one costume for Sousacal: The Life and Times of John Philip Sousa.
“Easy,” Sunil replied. “You hire a composer with a sense of the period to write the book songs, and use Sousa’s marches for the gazintas and gazoutas.”
Isobel frowned. “The what?”
“The underscoring that goes into one scene and goes out of another. Gazintas and gazoutas.” He looked askance at her. “Have you never done a musical before?”
“Plenty.” She bristled. “And I’ve never heard anyone use those words. You are totally making that up.”
“I am not,” Sunil said, affronted. “Hey, Kelly!”
Several rows in front of them, Kelly Jonas, the stage manager, held court behind a large wooden plank balanced across the seats, which served as a makeshift control center for tech rehearsals. She looked up from her prompt book, a three-inch binder stuffed with script pages and scenic renderings, fastidiously divided by brightly colored tabs. Pushing aside a long strand of graying hair, Kelly squinted at Sunil through her wire-rimmed glasses.
“Yeah?”
“What are gazintas and gazoutas?” Sunil asked.
“The playons and playoffs before or after a scene,” she answered distractedly. A movement onstage caught her attention. “Are we ready to move on?”
Sunil turned triumphantly to Isobel. “See?”
Isobel sighed. “This is going to be a long day.”
“They don’t call it a ten-out-of-twelve for nothing.”
“Is there anything more tedious than spending ten hours waiting around while they set lighting and sound cues?” Isobel whined.
“Um, yes. Doing the actual show.”
As much as Isobel hated to admit it, Sunil was right. From day one, it had been clear that Sousacal was a dog. There had been a buzz of anticipatory excitement in the air when the company assembled for the first read-through in the third-floor rehearsal studio of the sleek, state-of-the-art performing arts complex in downtown Albany. In addition to hosting the century-old Livingston Stage Company, relocated from its charmingly dilapidated (some said haunted) prior home in an old vaudeville house, the building had a black box theater and a café that served light meals before and after performances. Everything about her surroundings made Isobel feel like a working theater professional.
Everything, that is, except the material. Sunil had politely informed her after the read-through that his shin was black and blue from her kicking it under the table. But having taken out her frustration on his tibia, she resolved to relish her first regional theater job rather than let the disappointing quality of the show get her down. Since moving to New York a year and a half ago, when she’d met Sunil at her very first audition, Isobel had learned that most acting work was to be found in summer stock or regional theaters. Isobel had resigned herself to the conundrum of living in New York in order to get work out of town, which was the best way for a young performer who was not yet a member of Actors’ Equity Association to build her resume. Despite Sunil’s increasingly steady stream of snarky comments, she had thrown herself enthusiastically into her small role as John Philip Sousa’s first love, Emma Swallow, while assiduously preparing the larger role she was understudying: Jennie Sousa, the composer’s wife.
Isobel sighed again and flipped open her script to a scene between Jennie and Sousa, running her finger down the neon pink highlights. “I may as well use my downtime to memorize lines.”
Sunil jerked a thumb at the stage. “You really think Arden is going to miss a performance?” Isobel followed his gaze. Arden Claire was stalking the proscenium like a tiger that hadn’t had its morning coffee. A statuesque, auburn-haired beauty, Arden had once represented New York in the Miss America pageant and was hailed as a minor celebrity, even though she hadn’t made it past the swimsuit competition. So far, her portrayal of Jennie Sousa was not living up to expectations. Throughout the three-week rehearsal period, Ezra Bernard, the director, had pushed Arden to suppress her natural hauteur and find Jennie’s quiet strength and self-deprecating humor. Their struggles swallowed up rehearsal hours, and the more Ezra tried to mold Arden’s characterization, the more fiercely she clung to the glamour that had guaranteed her past successes, which didn’t exactly endear her to the rest of the company.
Chris Marshall, the charismatic, square-jawed actor playing Sousa, found her completely intolerable. All Arden’s scenes were with him, which meant her epic ego flashes impacted him more than anyone else. Initially, Chris had struck Isobel as the sort of galvanizing personality who stepped up to lead the company, but after three weeks of Arden, he had withdrawn into sullen, stormy silence. Lately he had stopped addressing his leading lady directly and had taken to routing all his communication through Ezra, a gently bearish man who was growing increasingly frazzled as opening night approached. Isobel was surprised now to see Chris saunter onstage and whisper something in Arden’s ear, prompting her to glower at him and retreat to the wings.
“Even divas get sick,” Isobel remarked. “Better safe than sorry.”
Sunil gave Isobel an appraising look. “If I didn’t know you as well as I do, I’d warn that girl to watch her back.”
Isobel flicked her eyes toward him. “Are you being purposely obnoxious today?”
“I assure you, it’s completely accidental.”
“Ha ha.”
“Trust me, you’re better off playing Emma.”
“Jennie is the lead. She’s Sousa’s wife. Emma is a passing fancy. I’m only in act one,” Isobel griped.
Sunil raised an eyebrow. “Let me get this straight: you think the show is a piece of crap, but you’re complaining your part isn’t big enough?”
Isobel crossed her arms defiantly. “What if I am?”
He laughed. “You are so predictable! Look, Jennie is your typical ingénue. Emma has, if you’ll pardon the expression, spice.” Isobel glared at him, but he went on. “Plus, you get to come back at the end as the hotel maid who finds him dead.”
“I have two lines and a scream,” she said. “About what you have in act two as the Indian chief who makes Sousa an honorary chieftain.”
“I don’t scream—I chant.” Sunil twirled the walking stick that rested horizontally across his knee. “Isn’t it time someone told Felicity she hired the wrong kind of Indian? I’m pretty sure the Pawnee Nation doesn’t have a Delhi tribe.”
Isobel resisted the urge to look several rows behind her, where Felicity Hamilton, artistic director of Livingston Stage, was sitting. Felicity was in her late fifties, short and stocky with impeccably coiffed black hair, a deceptively warm smile, and a calculating gaze. She had never married, but despite an apparent absence of maternal warmth, she treated her nephew and godchild Jethro like a son. It was Jethro Hamilton, a self-described Sousa fanatic, who had written the book and lyrics to Sousacal. The musical was Jethro’s baby, and, in his way, Jethro was Felicity’s.
“She thinks she’s getting points for non-traditional casting,” Isobel said. “Don’t kill the dream.”
“Where she’s really getting them is casting a brown person to play Philadelphia gentleman and man of the church Benjamin Swallow, your…gulp…stepfather.”
Isobel knew that Sunil, an Indian Jew, was perennially frustrated at the inability of directors to see past his ethnicity and hire him for the glorious tenor voice he had inherited from his cantor father.
She patted his hand. “It’s utility casting. They had to give us small parts because we’re covering the leads.” She eyed him curiously. “You are looking over Sousa’s stuff, right?”
Sunil pulled his hand away. “I’ve glanced at it.”
“Glanced…?” Isobel’s jaw fell open. “It’s huge! Sousa carries the show.”
“Eh, it’s pretty much sunk in by osmosis. Besides, you know actors. They’ll drag themselves onstage coughing and hacking rather than turn their creation over to a scheming understudy. You know, I’m not even the—”
“What if something serious happened to Chris? And what if there was a Broadway producer in the audience and you had to go on?”
Sunil snorted. “As if Broadway cares a hoot about what happens in the boonies.”
“Last I checked, Albany was the state capital.”
“Like I said, the boonies. Theatrically and politically,” Sunil cracked.
“Plenty of Tony winners are launched in regional theaters like Livingston,” she reminded him. Sunil unbent his long legs and stretched them out under the seat in front of him. “Let’s review all the reasons that’s never going to happen with Sousacal. Number one: the show sucks. Number two: the show sucks. And number three: it’s not very good.”
Isobel turned a page with a dainty finger. “Then you won’t be interested in what I heard from Thomas in the costume shop.”
“Probably not.” Sunil yawned ostentatiously and tipped his straw boater over his face.
“Arden, back onstage, please.” Kelly’s voice echoed over the God mic. “We’ll finish the duet and move on to the wedding without stopping. Ensemble, please be ready for your entrance.”
Isobel set her script on the seat next to her and nudged Sunil. “Come on. Time to make the donuts.”
He righted his hat with a groan and led her down the aisle. They skirted the orchestra pit via a set of narrow utility stairs and took their places offstage left.
“So, what did you hear in the costume shop?” Sunil asked casually.
“I thought you weren’t interested,” Isobel teased.
“I’m not. I’m bored.”
Isobel’s eyes darted around the wings. Three chorus women, locals whom Isobel didn’t know well, were fussing with their costumes, which everyone was wearing for the first time. One of the ensemble men was trying to draw out the shy little boy who played young Sousa, while two others were engaged in a quiet but intense conversation. Satisfied that nobody was listening, she returned her attention to Sunil.
“Someone from the Donnelly Group is coming opening night.”
“The Broadway producers?” Sunil waved her off. “I don’t believe it.”
“Thomas says all they have in the pipeline is revivals, and they’re scouting for something new,” Isobel insisted. “And you know as well as I do, if you want to know what’s going on, ask the costume shop.”
“Still don’t believe it.”
“And…continue,” Kelly called.
Chris and Arden picked up, rather mechanically, in the middle of act one, scene seven. Isobel watched them intently, mouthing Jennie’s lines while Sunil eyed her in amusement.
“You’re really taking this seriously,” he whispered.
She ignored him and continued, but stopped abruptly when Arden veered from the script.
“I can’t sit on the gazebo bench if that spotlight is right in my eyes,” Arden announced.
“We’ll adjust it on the break,” Kelly said. “If you stand on six, you should be in the clear.”
Arden shuffled over a few inches. “Now I’m in the dark.”
“Those are your choices right now. We’ll fix the cue later,” Kelly said.
Chris reached for Arden. “Oh, Jennie, you’ve made me the happiest man on earth. Please? Not just a tiny kiss?”
Arden stepped forward and shaded her eyes from the bright stage lights. “Ezra, I need a fan for this scene. It’s summer and she would have one.”
“Jesus Christ,” Chris muttered.
“We’ll get you a fan,” Ezra boomed from the back of the house. “Go on.”
Chris repeated his line. “Not just a tiny kiss?”
“Not until I have a fan,” Arden said.
“Something I’ll never be,” quipped Chris.
“Ooh, snap,” breathed Sunil.
Arden shot Chris a murderous look.
“I will get you one for tomorrow’s dress,” Ezra shouted. “Finish the goddamn scene!”
Arden turned to Chris and batted her eyelashes unconvincingly. “Not until we’re married,” she said with a tight-lipped smile.
From the orchestra pit, the piano launched into the intro to Sousa’s famous march, “The Washington Post.” Chris dropped to one knee, flung his arms wide, and sang in a lusty bari-tenor:
I’ll probably die if you don’t kiss me,
Yes, that’s what I most want you to do,
You simply have got to see it through!
As Chris pulled Arden onto his knee, Sunil continued the verse, singing his own lyrics into Isobel’s ear:
I’ll die if I ever have to sing that!
I’ll fall off the stage and land on my head,
And then I’ll be just as good as dead!
Isobel let out a squawk of laughter, which was topped by an even louder shriek from the stage, where Arden was jumping up and down, clutching the back of her thigh.
“Stop!” Kelly called out over the mic. “Are you okay?”
“There’s a wire sticking out on this stupid bustle!”
“Thomas? Are you in the house?” Kelly asked.
“Coming!” The lean, blond costume designer loped down the aisle and took the utility stairs by twos. “Okay, princess, let’s see what the problem is.”
He led Arden into the wings next to Isobel and Sunil. Arden spun around, allowing Thomas to hike up her skirts and examine the bustle, which was knotted around her waist under a candy-cane-striped dress.
“Yeah, I see it. Heather, do you have pliers or something?”
The mousy, wide-eyed assistant stage manager hopped down from her stool, rummaged in a box on the floor, and retrieved a slightly rusted pair of pliers. Arden turned around, hands on hips, facing Isobel, while Thomas adjusted the padded wire contraption.
“Those things are a pain in the ass,” Isobel said sympathetically. “Literally.”
Arden’s lip curled. “Oh, look, it’s my stalker. Probably wishing the wire had hit an artery.”
“I’m just doing my job,” Isobel said defensively.
Thomas released Arden’s skirts and let them fall to the floor. “You’re fixed.”
“We’re good,” Heather reported into her headset.
“Back onstage, please,” Kelly called over the mic.
With exaggerated courtesy, Isobel pulled aside the black masking curtain. But as Arden flounced toward the stage, the entire length of material came down from the ceiling, burying Sousacal’s leading lady under its heavy folds.
Author Bio:
I found this interview enlightning sinceI did read this book. I love learning about an author of the books I read. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteGreat questions! I really enjoyed answering them. Thanks for featuring me today!
ReplyDeleteThanks so much for stopping by. You're always welcome at Cozy Up With Kathy.
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