The apartment consisted of seven rooms full of regal architectural details such as original crown moldings that looked like they'd been squeezed out of a mammoth pastry tube. But the décor suggested that George and Davy had never really left their crummy-apartment roots; the grand rooms were filled with a hodgepodge of furniture that seemed to have no particular color scheme or style. “Davy lifted most of it,” George said, beaming proudly. “When he was in a show that flopped and they were hauling away the furniture from the set, he'd take what we needed before it all went to the dump.”

In addition to the flop show furniture, George's home was stuffed with theater memorabilia. Covering the walls were theater posters, framed copies of playbills, albums of Broadway musicals, and hundreds of pictures of people George and Davy had worked with. A glass case in the library featured pictures of Davy playing first base for the Broadway Softball League. There were shelves packed tight with scripts, musical scores, and scrapbooks. Every available surface was covered with souvenirs from cities they had toured, as well as what seemed to be an endless collection of snow globes, toys, stuffed animals, and other knickknacks, which, George informed Carrie, had been opening night presents. Framed opening night telegrams had been pasted on the walls of a guest bathroom. As far as Carrie could see, there wasn't one book in the entire apartment.

“On to lunch,” George sang out, “before we wilt from starvation.”

Three tiny Yorkies joined them in the kitchen.

“They're so quiet, I didn't know they were here,” Carrie said.

“They stay in the bedroom when Daddy has company,” George said. “Davy and I always took our puppies to rehearsals with us, so they had to learn to speak only when they were spoken to. I don't rehearse anything anymore, but I still train my dogs.”

George had made chili—a killer recipe—that he served with mounds of sour cream to kill the sting, and ice cold beer. Then, as the dogs curled up to sleep at his feet, he said, “You said on the phone you had questions for me. Fire away.”

Carrie did have questions—dozens that she'd practically memorized because she'd thought about them so much. But now only one popped into her head. “On opening nights, when people touched the Gypsy Robe for luck, did Lu do it too?”

George frowned. “Everyone touched the Gypsy Robe. What makes you think Lu wouldn't?”

“Because she was the star. Maybe she was above mixing with the kids in the chorus.” My mother said Lu was an egomaniac. Uncle Paulie says she isn't, but he's her brother. “I've gotten some conflicting stories about Lu,” she added.