Curtain Call for a Corpse

• Chapter 1 Places, Everyone!
• Chapter 2 The Leading Lady's Last Bow
• Chapter 3 Trapped Behind the Velvet Curtain
• Chapter 4 Props, Secrets, and Poison
• Chapter 5 A Fatal Stage Direction
• Chapter 6 Stage Fright and Foul Play
• Chapter 7 Scripted Deceptions
• Chapter 8 Offstage Whispers
• Chapter 9 Ghost Light Revelations
• Chapter 10 Costume Shop Secrets
• Chapter 11 Intermission Suspicions
• Chapter 12 Understudies and Motives
• Chapter 13 Technical Difficulties
• Chapter 14 Rehearsing the Alibis
• Chapter 15 Break a Leg
• Chapter 16 Backstage Sabotage
• Chapter 17 The Director's Cut
• Chapter 18 Echoes in the Green Room
• Chapter 19 Unrehearsed Accusations
• Chapter 20 Lighting the Suspects
• Chapter 21 Overacting an Alibi
• Chapter 22 A Missing Scene
• Chapter 23 The Trap Door Solution
• Chapter 24 Climax in the Wings
• Chapter 25 Unmasking the Killer
• Chapter 26 Final Curtain Call

If anyone had told me that taking the assistant stage manager gig for the Shady Grove Community Players would lead to high-stakes drama, I would have laughed in their face. I’m Nora Blake, twenty-four years old, and my primary goal in life—at least for the month of October—was to make sure twenty-two adults in community theatre didn’t trip over their own hemlines or forget which side of the stage was prompt left.

"Nora, darling! Where is my tea? My throat feels like sandpaper, and if I don't have my chamomile with three drops of honey before the house opens, the entire third act will be a disaster!"

The voice boomed through the narrow hallway backstage at the historic Little Theatre. It belonged to none other than Victoria Croft, the undisputed queen of Shady Grove’s local stage. Victoria was fifty-five going on thirty, possessed a wardrobe entirely made of velvet and silk, and treated every local production of Murder at Elm Manor as if it were a Tony Award-winning Broadway revival.

"Right here, Victoria," I said, stepping into her dressing room with a steaming mug. I handed it over, taking extreme care not to spill a single drop on her silver sequins.

Victoria took the mug without a word of thanks, inhaled the steam with a tragic sigh, and waved a manicured hand at me. "You're a lifesaver, dear. A bit sluggish on the footwork, but a lifesaver. Now, clear out. I need to center my aura before Arthur tries to give me notes. That man wouldn't know true theatrical genius if it bit him on the script."

"Ten minutes to house opening, Victoria," I reminded her softly, retreating out the doorway before she could find something else to complain about.

The backstage area of the Little Theatre was a labyrinth of creaky floorboards, dusty velvet curtains, and the faint, persistent odor of rubber cement and damp plaster. Built in the late 1920s, the building had seen better days, but what it lacked in modern heating and plumbing, it made up for in chaotic charm. Tonight was opening night for our autumn production—a classic murder mystery—and the energy behind the scenes was a volatile mix of panic, hairspray, and unbridled ego.

I checked my clipboard, adjusting the headset strapped to my ear. As assistant stage manager, I was the glue holding this production together, mostly because our primary stage manager, Marcus, was currently locked in the light booth having an existential crisis over a sticky dimmer switch.

I waded through the narrow backstage corridor, dodging actors in tweed suits and flapper dresses. Outside Victoria's room, Arthur Pendelton, our long-suffering director, was pacing frantically while clutching a marked-up script. Arthur had directed community theatre in Shady Grove for thirty years, a fact written clearly on his wrinkled brow and thin, silvering hair.

"Nora!" Arthur caught my arm, his eyes wide behind thick wire-rimmed glasses. "Has Victoria tried on the velvet cloak for the scene two transition yet? She claimed it felt 'too heavy for her delicate constitution' during tech week, but it's essential for the blocking!"

"She's drinking her tea, Arthur. I wouldn't interrupt her right now unless you want the cloak thrown at your head," I said practically. "Besides, Chloe checked the seam on it. It’s light enough."

Arthur let out a ragged breath. "Right. Right. Good. What about Julian? Is he sober?"

I glanced down the hall toward the green room. Julian Vance, our leading man and Victoria’s ex-husband—a detail that made rehearsals endlessly entertaining—was currently leaning against a prop table, practicing his dramatic scowl into a handheld mirror.

"Julian looks fine," I reported. "He’s just working on his jawline."

"Thank heaven for small favors," Arthur muttered, dabbing his damp forehead with a checkered handkerchief. "This show has to go off without a hitch, Nora. The

The house lights dimmed right on schedule at precisely eight o'clock, plunging the packed auditorium into expectant silence. Down in the pit, our pianist struck the opening chord of the overture, a moody, melancholic minor progression designed to set the tone for a murderous night at Elm Manor. Stage left, I stood behind the velvet main curtain, clutching my clipboard like a shield and monitoring the comms headset clamped over my hair.

"Stand by, house lights," Marcus’s voice crackled through my earpiece, sounding considerably less frantic now that the sticky dimmer switch had been wrestled into submission. "Stand by, main drape. Nora, is the cast in place?"

I swept my flashlight along the backstage wings. Julian Vance was standing near the fireplace flat, adjusting his tweed jacket and shooting me a sharp thumbs-up. Chloe, our tiny wardrobe mistress, was making a last-second adjustment to the seam of the heavy mantle clock on the prop table. Across the stage, nestled in prompt right, stood Victoria Croft. She looked magnificent in her tailored silver sequined gown, her diamond necklace catching the faint ambient light filter from the emergency exits. She held her teacup in one gloved hand—a character choice she had insisted upon for her grand entrance—and gave me a dramatic nod that suggested she was about to grace humanity with the performance of the century.

"Cast is set, Marcus," I whispered into my headset mic. "We are ready to roll."

"Cue one... and drape up."

The heavy crimson velvet swept slowly upward, disappearing into the dark rafters above. A polite smattering of applause rippled through the audience as the stage lights burst into warm amber illumination, revealing the grand parlor of Elm Manor. Julian took a deep breath, stepped into