The Backstage Deception

By Patti Larsen

When Petal is hired to discover who is sabotaging a stage production, she uncovers an old mystery about the theater, the man it was named after and his final manuscript, all tied not only to the person responsible for threatening the show's success but ending, for one of those involved, in murder. Can she uncover the saboteur before her boss fires her or the guilty party adds her body to their death count?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patti Larsen
• Release date: May 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781989925027

Patti Larsen

About me, huh? Well, my official bio reads like this: Patti Larsen is a multiple award-winning author with a passion for the voices in her head. But that sounds so freaking formal, doesn’t it? I’m a storyteller who hears character's demands so loudly I have to write them down. I love the idea of sports even though sports hate me. I’ve dabbled in everything from improv theater to film making and writing TV shows, singing in an all girl band to running my own hair salon.But always, always, writing books calls me home.I’ve had my sights set on world literary domination for a while now. Which means getting my books out there, to you, my darling readers. It’s the coolest thing ever, this job of mine, being able to tell stories I love, only to see them all shiny and happy in your hands... thank you for reading.As for the rest of it, I’m short (permanent), slightly round (changeable) and blonde (for ever and ever). I love to talk one on one about the deepest topics and can’t seem to stop seeing the big picture. I happily live on Prince Edward Island, Canada, home to Anne of Green Gables and the most beautiful red beaches in the world, with my pug overlord and overlady, six lazy cats and Gypsy Vanner gelding, Fynn.

Book preview

Chapter One

The heavy leather gloves stuck to my hands, faint sheen of sweat on my palms holding the roughened interior of aged suede in place while I supported the weight of the sandbags with steady pressure. Wouldn’t do to have the backdrop slip during scene change and fall on the lead actress, now, would it?

Yup. New job acquired. How was that for keeping myself gainfully employed? Even if the gig did mean sweating, lifting heavy objects and being yelled at for no good reason while being treated like a packhorse. Good times.

Not that I was really complaining, mind you. This job was actually fun, especially compared to my last one at the greenhouse surrounded by ex-cons and dirt. I inhaled for a count of three as the lights went down before easing up on my grip, letting the thick rope slide through the worn surface of the dense protection at measured speed, the strain of music echoing back from the seating area reaching me while the actors took their designated places, and I smoothly settled their fresh location on the surface of the stage.

Considering it had only taken me a few hours to gain pretty solid proficiency and everyone around me remained unharmed by my actions, I now tagged myself an expert at this particular task.

Cocky, who, me? Next.

No, no! Not yet, Aubrey. I exhaled my irritation as softly as I could manage while the echoing demands, about as common as the scent of musty age in this place, boomed over the fading strains of the transition’s tune. "How many times to I have to tell you—wait until the music is over and then bring up the lights."

He’d said it a lot. And, from what I’d seen, our stage manager had done exactly as the playwright/director/producer/master of annoyance had asked her to do. Hey, at least he knew how to project, and it was never hard to tell what had him on the edge of temper, at least. Nope, an open book, our fearless leader. I blew on my bangs, knowing I needed a haircut, resisting the urge to hack at them myself with the kind of sheer willpower that epic adventurers required to scale giant mountains, and held onto my temper and my need toeye-rolll while the subsequent argument—one I wasn’t alone in sighing over—unfolded from stage right.

I was happy to be stage left, thanks. I glanced up at the fly loft high above, knowing I’d likely be asked to reset and start again since that had been my existence all morning—heck, that had been my life since I was assigned to the fly rigging system I’d been forced into front-and-center recall from my days in a small theater and reinforced by my past sailing and knotting my way through hemp rigging—all while doing my best not to allow the sonorous and flagellating tone of our intrepid leader’s continuing complaints wear me down like they had to be for poor Aubrey.

This time there was no ignoring him, however. Campbell Stanfield appeared at the skirt of the stage, the curved archway blocking my view of him from my vantage point until he practically leaned over the flush edge of the proscenium to continue to berate our stage manager. Not that I needed to see him in person to picture his broad, pale face flushed with a red mask of heat, nor personally witness how his white hair formed a wispy and unkempt halo around his head, the dusty and overdone tweed jacket and pale yellow cravat a bit much as far as I was concerned, as was the clear influence of his British origins that made his delivery of blistering and typically degrading demands all the more offensive.

Aubrey Easton appeared, though from her body posture and fixed expression, obvious even from this distance, she was disinclined to give him the chance to yell at her in front of the cast and crew for much longer. And did I blame her? A shame, since I liked this job, because if I was her, I’d be outta here so fast he’d have whiplash.

Yes, I had a thing about arrogant and misogynistic old white guys bullying women. No judging.

The old building chose that moment to creak around me, as though expressing its own dissatisfaction with the creator’s vision impinging on the mental health of the woman who’d been clearly deluded enough to accept the job running this particular dog and pony exhibition. There was something distinctly human about the place, as though some old soul lived and breathed in the bones of the Earnest Loute Theater. I blocked out the gist of my two immediate superiors and their shout-fest, humming the refrain of the opening song under my breath to keep from adding my two cents, shifting the old leather gloves on my hands out of habit. While it might have resided in the same neighborhood as the After Hours club and Full Reveal Theater—owned and operated by my best friend, Reggie Nolan—this place was a far cry from the shabby chic my bestie used to her advantage. Still under renovations and only days from opening, if it had been up to me? I wouldn’t have allowed vagrants to use it for temporary housing let alone shared it with the public.

Okay, so it wasn’t that bad, but still. I’d had enough sketchy moments with electric issues—shocks abounded—plumbing problems—don’t ask me to use the bathroom in the main dressing room again, like, ever—and structural threats—if the floor in the main prop room wasn’t reinforced soon, someone over the weight of a healthy-sized golden retriever was going to make a giant gap all the way to the subbasement—I wasn’t about to sign on as a shareholder.

Not my problem. Nope, that belonged to Reggie’s friend, and the reason I was here in the first place.

We’re taking our cue from you, Aubrey said suddenly, clear as a bell. She’d obviously crossed the stage and now, from the projection of her low and barely contained voice, stood just on the other side of the deep red velvet curtain hiding me from the main theater. If we’re not hitting our mark, Campbell, maybe you’d like to come up here and run the transition.

And snap.

I grinned down at the thick, stained gloves on my hands, thin wrists jutting from the bulky coverings far too big for me but all I had to work with. The disgust of how many other people had worn them long forgotten in the—dare I say—happiness of being on a stage again, even this little confrontation reminding me of the freedom of what it meant to be part of a theater company.

No, so I wasn’t my mother. Sure, you might think being the daughter of Annette Morgan, tragically murdered movie star, I might crave the limelight. And, for a time, I had. A short time, however, lasting about six months in college while I tried to ply my deceased and yet still famous mother’s trade and realized the backstabbing wasn’t worth the effort of learning lines, dealing with handsy directors and entitled costars while navigating the nasty criticisms of those who compared me constantly to the all mighty and revered memory of my truly atrocious parent.

And that was just college level. Considering engaging in the real thing in the big, bad world made me want to throw up.

Resentment, thy name was Petal Freaking Morgan.

Could you blame me? I leaned my weight on one steel-toe-booted foot while Campbell’s arguing dropped a few decibels to the point I couldn’t make out details anymore. Not that I needed to. I already knew everything that drove him nuts and understood none of it, because we’d corrected all the details he’d brought to our attention. Continually. Endlessly. Ad nauseum.

Add frustration to bitterness and you get disdainful snorting on an epic level.

Still, I had to admit while I reached for the rope again in anticipation of flying the rig back out of place so Campbell could have his little show of superiority, I was enjoying myself.

Go figure.

Miss Hughes! Took me a second to remember. Right, that was me. What, you thought I’d taken up legit gainful employment backstage at a theater and abandoned my new favorite way of making money? Not a chance. I was here on assignment, you better believe it. I sighed, now hating the name I’d chosen for myself, though thinking it entirely clever and unassuming. I’d half expected the cast or crew to realize Maggie (okay, Margaret, but no quibbling) Hughes was, in fact, the name of the first woman to grace an English stage. So much for my research. No one batted an eye at the handle, accepting and moving on instead without a single comment.

I hated when that happened. I worked hard on my persona. More so, though, you know what I hated?

Miss Hughes!

Yes, you guessed it. The sound of the boss of me calling my name now triggered the need to punch him in the face. Are you asleep in the wings, Miss Hughes? Reset!

Did I say I was enjoying myself? I pictured his tall, lean body crushed under the backdrop I swung back to first position, that tweed jacket ruined by all his insides meeting his outsides.

Sure, I was having a blast. If thinking about murdering people was fun.

This time, it turned out, Campbell had no issues with our scene transition, and the show, Harder Times Than Before, went on, as they say. At least, the current rehearsal did. That meant I had five minutes to navigate the crowded space behind the back curtain out of sight of the stage to my next position before I was needed again. Lots of time to use the narrow walkway through the carefully placed furniture and rolling sets and necessities required to unfold the fantasy of the show on the other side of the red velvet. I’d learned to walk softly in my work boots, the wooden floor making sound carry, my black jeans and t-shirt dusty from handling some of the old props and brushing against the edge of the ratty curtain yet to be replaced.

Impossible to ignore the charm of this place, though, and when I stopped in my next position stage right, nodding to a fellow crew member who nodded back, her dark ponytail lost in the low light, but white teeth flashing when they caught a stray beam from the spot following the lead actress across the stage, I again found myself sinking happily into this role, more than I had any in a long time, whether as a deception expert (okay, hadn’t been at it enough to call it a long time, but whatever) or not.

I glanced at my watch, one minute to go, and grasped the rope connected to the next backdrop. This one was a bit more unwieldy and required my full attention. Rather than the simple cutout I’d swung onstage a few minutes ago, this one descended stage center, depicting an entire cityscape, and despite the flying rigging still weighed enough I grunted when I had to let it settle to the stage. Good thing it stayed put, the final scene of the show unfolding in front of it. I was sure if I had to loft it when there were cast on the set, I’d have taken someone out.

The final strain of our diva’s song signaled the scene change and, on cue, as the lights dimmed and the sound of footfalls heading my way told me everyone was doing what they were meant to and it was safe to proceed, I released the clamp on the rope to the heavy backdrop and held on.

Shocked when the length of hemp in my hands collapsed toward me, falling on me in weighted coils even as the sickening crash of the falling set onstage echoed through the theater.

***

Chapter Two

I was already running when someone started to scream, heading for the stage while the full house lights flared to life. Someone was thinking quickly, at least, affording me full view as I pushed past the heavy curtains and leaped on stage. A brisk exhale of relief escaped me when I realized no one was hurt, though the backdrop itself had snapped into three pieces, two of them tilted sideways into the curtains, that soft landing all that held them up while the third was doing a slow teeter-totter forward until it crashed fully, paint first, and shattered into bits.

While we all watched, no one making a move to stop it. Not like there was much we could do. When it finally settled, I kicked a shard of shattered set back toward the fallen wood and canvas construction, thankful it was, at least, a lightweight contraption, if a falling ten-foot structure plummeting to the stage at who knew how many miles an hour (no, I didn’t like math and no, you couldn’t make me because word problems, yo) could be called light. Might as well have been a ton of bricks if I was going to be honest, 2X4s turned into deadly weapons as they’d separated at the seams, spinning sideways with giant chunks of torn painted canvas, the scene depicted now a muddied mess of city backdrop worth of Godzilla or some other civilization crushing creature. Since this wasn’t a disaster play, but a tragic romance, I figured the effect of the fallen set wasn’t going to go over well.

Campbell started yelling my name rather than speaking it, his incoherency echoing with the sound of MISS HUGHES clear enough despite the garbled gobbledygook that surrounded it. I gritted my teeth against shouting back at him, since I wasn’t really a stagehand, thank you very much, but trying to figure out who was behind very acts just like this one and his shouting wasn’t really helping matters. You know, Reggie’s friend owed me a danger bonus. Whoever was sabotaging the show? Upped their ante from missing props and broken lights and tangled ropes to what could easily have been attempted murder.

He wasn’t paying me enough for this. Not even the $50k price tag Reggie negotiated for me (bless her) was worth my life.

It wasn’t until the dust had literally begun to settle and our illustrious writer/director drew a breath to go one, that anyone spoke.

Miss Hughes. Oh no, he was not going to continue to blame me for this. Not. Campbell’s inhale of rage wasn’t dissipating, clearly written on his face. But he didn’t get to continue past that slightly more subdued use of the name I now hated and wished I hadn’t chosen.

We both know she had nothing to do with it. Aubrey’s anger cut through his like a whip crack, hers far more authentic than his put-upon blame shaming. She caught my eye, her grim expression uncertain. Did you, Maggie?

I shook my head quickly, rubbing my arms with the heavy gloves to dissipate the goosebumps left by the close call. No, ma’am. Something in her steady calm, her confident quiet seemed to do what Campbell’s raised ire hadn’t managed. It was as though the entire cast and crew inhaled together before gushing a breath of released tension. Giving me time to hurry forward and check the rope connected to the far end of the backdrop.

The evidence was as I suspected and equally hated to share with her since she seemed so determined, of all of us, for the show to go on. But there was no denying the truth, was there? I turned back to her, holding up the frayed end up for visual inspection, so there would be no question as to my next statement. Anyone could see the separation was far too clean to be a weakness break.

Nope, not an accident. Sorry, Aubrey. It’s been cut.

You’d think such a statement would arouse an uproar or some kind of demand for police intervention, an investigation. Instead, everyone took a small step back, including the pompous idiot who was the reason we were there in the first place, leaving me with the most recent threat in question in my leather glove. And a very unhappy stage manager who clearly struggled to find reason around the obvious. Frankly, I was getting a little tired of her putting the rest of us at ease when it was blatantly clear someone didn’t want the show to go on.

Are you sure it was cut? Aubrey joined me, kneeling next to me, her clipboard in one hand, reading glasses tucked into her graying red hair, face deeply wrinkled despite her early forties. She looked up at the rigging, squinting into the lights shining down on us. Could it have caught on something and severed?

I was used to this by now, the excuses, the reaching for reasons that had nothing to do with what we all knew was going on. Because no one wanted to admit the performance was being sabotaged, did they? In fact, in