The attack on Paula had been quick and determined and effective. It was not a so-called prank or an attempt to put a fright into her that went wrong.

  Paula had been murdered. My mother had not.

  What was the difference between Paula and Mom?

  My line of thought was interrupted when, on one side of me, Dad shifted in his seat and leaned forward, and on the other, Alan tensed. I blinked and focused on what was happening in front of me.

  The merry crowd had gathered for the Fezziwigs’ annual Christmas party. The stage was adorned with a heavily decorated, and quickly movable, fake Christmas tree. Extras sipped at empty glasses or nibbled on nonexistent food and laughed heartily. Ian stood alone on the far side of the stage, dressed in Scrooge’s long tattered nightgown and cap, wrapped in the shadows, watching. Something shifted in the darkness at the back of the stage, the audience held their breath. My dad sighed.

  My mother stepped forward. She’d cast off the white gown and was dressed in blue. She stood alone, not moving, drawing the audience to her. And then, she began to sing.

  My mother’s far too old to be playing a young man’s lost love, but when it comes to opera, no one much cares about such details. Belle, as Mom told me, is not only supposed to be in her late teens, but sung by a soprano. Mom’s a mezzo-soprano, but tonight that mattered as little as did her age. She’d modified the song slightly to suit her deeper voice, and it worked brilliantly, giving the character a touch of wisdom and maturity, perhaps even a foreshadowing of what was to come. Her rich, powerful voice captivated the small auditorium and everyone in it. I’ve only seen Mom perform a handful of times, in my childhood when she was appearing at the Met and Dad would bring the kids to the city for a weekend visit. I knew she was good, but as a child I didn’t truly appreciate how good.

  I swear tonight the mice under the stage stopped whatever they were doing to listen. No one coughed, no one shifted in their seat.

  Mom stood slightly stage right, in a circle of light and shimmering blue fabric. The other actors melted into the sidelines where, wrapped in near-total darkness, they partied on, not making a sound. Belle sang about her dreams for love. “Someone …” The lights were on her face, and she wouldn’t have been able to see where we were sitting, but as she sang, “When that loved one is mine …” the years fell away and she dipped her head, ever so slightly, toward my father.

  I felt, as much as heard, him suck in a breath.

  The song ended. My mother blinked several times. The rest of the stage lights gradually turned up and the other actors danced across the stage. The man playing the youthful Ebenezer stepped hesitantly toward Belle, ready for their fateful meeting.

  “Brava! Brava!” A man seated farther down my row leapt to his feet. The audience was shocked out of their silence, and other people began clapping and standing up. Applause and more cries of “Brava!” rang through the auditorium. Poor young Ebenezer hesitated, not sure of what to do.

  My mother dipped her head, ever so slightly, in acknowledgment of the praise. I glanced at Dad. He was beaming and clapping wildly. Mom let the applause last a full minute and then she turned toward young Ebenezer, raised her right arm, dipped her hand, and graciously indicated he could begin. He hesitated and threw a terrified glance at the audience. Seeing the applause was slowly dying and people resuming their seats, “Ebenezer” took a deep, shuddering breath, and croaked, “Miss Belle …”

  And the play continued.

  My mom had been outstanding, the praise lavish, and I knew she’d be pleased.

  What, I’d thought before the song began, had been the difference between Mom and Paula Monahan, that Paula died and Mom did not?

  There were plenty of differences but, regarding the play, I could see only one, and that one was crystal clear.

  Paula was easily replaceable, proved by how smoothly Jackie slipped into her role as Mrs. Cratchit. Paula’s son, Eddie, was equally replaceable as Tiny Tim.

  My mother was not replaceable. Not at all. She was, as I had just witnessed, irreplaceable. Mom might have a minor role, but she was still the star. As Jackie pointed out earlier, people had come to Rudolph specifically to see my mother, the great Aline Steiner, come out of retirement. In addition to her onstage parts, she was vitally needed to direct the singers, and even after opening night, she’d be required to keep rehearsing them and correcting any mistakes they might have made.

  My mother couldn’t be removed from the play without endangering it entirely.

  “Drink, Merry?”

  I pulled myself out of my thoughts. All around me people were talking and getting to their feet. The auditorium lights were on. “What? I mean, is it over already?”

  “Of course it’s not over,” Dad said. “Scrooge hasn’t had his great redemption yet. Are you okay, honeybunch?”

  “I’m fine. I just … got distracted.

  Alan and my dad both gave me curious looks. “If you’re going to the bar,” I said quickly. “I’ll have a soft drink, please. Anything.”

  I followed Alan into the lobby, and Dad followed me. That is, Dad started to follow. He didn’t get far as people kept slapping him on the back and telling him what a great job Aline was doing.

  “Does your mom come onstage again?” Alan asked me.

  “Yes, but not to sing a solo. She’s part of the dinner party at Fred’s house when Scrooge arrives hoping he can join them.”

  “Fred? Oh, right, Scrooge’s nephew. I’ve never particularly wanted to go to an opera, but after hearing your mom, I might reconsider. That’s a heck of a line at the bar. I might not have time, but I’ll try.” Alan hurried off.

  I glanced around the crowded hallway. People were laughing and chatting, and everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves. I overheard more than one person telling their friends the production was better than they’d expected. I supposed that was good.

  “Your mom’s great.” Vicky slid up to me. “I’m sorry I never got to see her perform on a professional stage.”

  We watched Sue-Anne proudly introducing her special guests to everyone she could corral while Randy Baumgartner tried to muscle in. Diane Simmonds stood alone in a far corner, her sharp eyes roving over the room. The police chief walked up to her, and they exchanged a few words.

  Bells tinkled to tell us it was time to return to our seats. Vicky went in search of Mark, and I waited for Alan. He returned empty-handed. “Sorry, Merry. Line was too long.”

  I linked my arm through his. “Doesn’t matter. I’m sure the drinks will be flowing at the after-party.”

  “If not there’s always George’s truck,” he chuckled. We took our seats, the lights were dimmed, the curtains swooshed open, and the play resumed.

  Once again, I tried to focus on the show, but once again, my mind wandered. I found myself studying the row of heads in front of me. Plenty of people wanted to see this play succeed, particularly after last year’s flop. Sue-Anne cared about the reputation of the town. As did Dad and all the councilors. The store and hotel and restaurant owners. Independent businesspeople such as Alan. No doubt the chief of police and the fire chief did as well. For Rudolph to survive it had to continue to be known as a “Year-Round Christmas” destination. Particularly at Christmastime.

  Someone had been angry at my mother. They’d also been angry with Paula. They’d killed Paula, but didn’t dare do the same to Mom.

  If my mom wasn’t part of it, the play might still go ahead, but its popularity and success were not guaranteed.

  I could think of only two people who’d clashed with both Paula and Mom, who also cared about the play and had their personal pride riding on its success: Catherine Renshaw and Desmond Kerslake.

  At that moment, the senator leaned across the Broadway producer and whispered something to Desmond. The director nodded, but he didn’t take his eyes off the stage. Ian and the large man pretending to be the Ghost of Christmas Present, who’d earlier been Fezziwig at the company party, were watching the Cratchit family preparing for their Christmas feast. Jackie stepped forward. She hesitated. Her bodice heaved. The audience held its breath. I held my breath. “Now children!” Jackie bellowed. Everyone let out a sigh of relief.

  I tried to focus on what was happening on the stage, but my mind wouldn’t stop returning to the puzzle. The music room was situated at the back of my parents’ house, not visible from the street. Had the intruder been prowling the property under cover of darkness, searching for the best way to enter, or had they previously known its location and that the French doors opened directly into the garden? Footprints would have been left in the snow. I made a mental note to ask Diane Simmonds what a search of the property had found. Had someone been sneaking about searching for possible ingress, or had they gone directly to the music room knowing it was there?

  If the latter, they must have previously been in Mom’s music room. That didn’t narrow the suspect list down much—Mom had coached most of the singers in the production at the house. On the other hand, a small sign by the driveway indicated the direction to the music studio. Easy for anyone to assume that meant there would be a side door even if they’d never seen it.

  * * *

  I slowly became aware that all around me people were getting to their feet. I blinked and refocused. The curtain had come down, the audience was applauding enthusiastically. “Merry?” Alan looked down at me. “You okay?”

  “Absolutely. Great job. Loved every minute of it.” I also leapt up.

  The curtain rose. The chorus stepped out, giggling and bowing, clearly delighted at the enthusiasm of the audience response. Those with minor speaking or singing parts came next, including a beaming Jackie, who dropped into a curtsy so deep she must have rehearsed it for hours.

  There’d be no living with her now.

  Dave came out alone. The applause increased. In front of me the guy from Broadway said something to the senator as he lifted his hands in a salute. Dave noticed, his eyes flicked, and he smiled.

  Then came Mom and Ian, to a burst of thunderous applause. My mother swooped into a deep curtsy, which after years of experience she hadn’t needed to rehearse. Ian lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips. Someone in the audience threw a bouquet of flowers. Aaron, the boy who’d played Tiny Tim, rushed forward to scoop them up and present them to Mom.

  Everyone stepped back and beckoned to the wings. George Mann and Irene Dowling edged onto the stage, both beet red with embarrassment. Mom took one step forward and gestured to the front row of seats. Neither Desmond nor Catherine needed any prompting to get up and turn to face the auditorium. More applause. They smiled graciously at each other.

  Finally, everyone trooped off the stage, and the lights were turned fully up.

  “I didn’t think it was that good,” Alan said to my dad. “To deserve that amount of applause, I mean. Other than Aline, who blew the roof off with her song.”

  “Hometown crowd,” Dad replied. “Most everyone here tonight has a relative in the cast or crew. I have to admit, they exceeded expectations. Except for Merry’s mother, of course. I wouldn’t have expected anything less than a stellar performance.”

  We slowly filed out of the auditorium, heading for the after-party.

  “Desmond did a good job,” I heard the Broadway guy say to Sue-Anne. “With what he had to work with.” He laughed. “For a minute there, I expected Mrs. Cratchit to faint dead away, and the kid who played Tiny Tim doesn’t exactly look as though he’s lingering at death’s door. What some of the singers might lack in vocal range, or even talent, they made up for in sheer enthusiasm. Which is precisely what I want to see in amateur theater.”

  Waitstaff were ready for us when we entered the gym, armed with trays bearing flutes of Champagne. The bar had been set up in here and a line of non-Champagne drinkers immediately formed in front of it. Other young people serving as waiters circulated, offering canapes. I recognized many of the kids as those who’d put on their elf costumes on Sunday for the children’s party.

  “Drink, Santa?” a pretty girl said as she held out her tray.

  “Don’t mind if I do.” Dad accepted a glass.

  Alan drew me to one side with a soft hand on my arm. “Several times when I looked at you, you seemed lost, Merry. Didn’t you like the play?”

  “What I noticed of it was fine. I had things on my mind.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. You need to let the police sort it out, Merry.”

  I smiled at him. He didn’t even have to ask what precisely had been on my mind. “I should. But I can’t stop myself thinking about it.”

  “I know.” He gave me a smile so warm it had my toes tingling. He gestured to the crowd and said, “Diane’s here. Obviously she’s not working undercover.” He was right about that. The detective stood alone against a wall, a glass of water in one hand, watching everyone and everything. “Unlikely the guilty party’s going to be so intimidated by her presence they’ll walk up to her and confess all.”

  “She knows that,” I said. “She’s just taking it all in.”

  Excited whispers started at the doorway to the gym and spread through the room. Conversation died as people turned to look at what was happening, and applause broke out as the cast made their entrance. Mom and Ian came first, the rest of the players following. Irene, George, and the crew brought up the rear of the procession.

  Catherine hurried forward and wrapped my mom in an embrace. Notably, she did not do the same to Ian. I’d seen Rachel McIntosh before the play began, laughing and chatting with friends. She slipped up to Ian now, and put a hand on his arm, establishing them as a married couple. Catherine greeted her with icy coolness, and the look Rachel returned was anything but friendly. The affair between Ian and Catherine might be over, but Rachel would not be forgetting anytime soon. Ian took his wife’s hand and they walked away. Catherine gave a barely noticeable shrug and turned to lavish praise on Irene for the costuming.

  Mom had scrubbed off the stage makeup and reapplied a touch of blush, lipstick, and mascara. She looked every inch the diva in a quilted green, red, and black jacket worn over wide-legged black linen pants and a black silk V-neck shirt.

  Sue-Anne grabbed Mom’s arm and almost dragged her across the crowded room to meet the senator and other honored guests. Russ and Kyle, and Kyle’s camera, joined them.

  The Broadway producer gave Desmond a hearty slap on the back. Alan and I headed in the direction of Vicky and Mark, but Jackie stepped in front of us. “So, what did you think, Merry?” She held a glass of Champagne, and her eyes were bright with excitement and pleasure.

  “You were great,” I said honestly. Maybe not Broadway great but perfectly fine for a small-town amateur production.

  “I was so nervous. I hope you didn’t notice.”

  “No one did,” I said, not so honestly.

  “See that guy talking to Desmond? He’s a big shot on Broadway. I’d love to meet him. Come on, you can introduce me.”

  “Me? I don’t know him. I don’t even know his name.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Tell him you’re Aline’s daughter. That’ll be good enough.” She gave me a good strong shove in the men’s direction.

  “If I must,” I said.

  “I’ll catch you later, Merry,” Alan said. “Congratulations, Jackie.”

  I didn’t need to interrupt anyone. Desmond saw me coming and said, “Frank, here’s someone you’ll want to meet. Get over here, Merry. Merry, have you met Frank Kendale? He’s visiting us from the great city of New York. Frank, this is Merry Wilkinson, Aline’s daughter.”

  Frank’s gaze didn’t pass over me, searching for someone more interesting to talk to. Instead he looked genuinely interested. “Pleased to meet you, Merry. Are you as talented as your mother?”

  I laughed. “Totally and completely tone deaf, but Mom doesn’t mind. Not too much anyway. My three siblings are all in show business.”

  “Might I have met them? I do some work on the periphery of Broadway on occasion.”

  “My brother Chris is as musically talented as me, but he loves the theater anyway. He’s a set designer.”

  “Don’t recall the name, but if I run into him, I’ll say hi.”

  I could almost feel the rays of impatient energy behind me as Jackie bounced on her toes wanting to get into the circle. Frank turned his attention to her. “You were Mrs. Cratchit, right?”

  “Yes! You noticed me!”

  “Not an easy role to play,” he said. “A young woman such as yourself portraying a life-worn working-class mother.”

  He hadn’t praised her performance, but Jackie took it that way. “Thank you. Thank you so much. I watched plenty of productions on YouTube to get an idea of exactly how I wanted the part to work. Not that I copied anyone, of course. I want to give the character of Mrs. Cratchit my own individual spin. I—”

  “I always knew my old pal Desmond had a keen eye for talent,” Frank said, neatly cutting Jackie off. I decided I liked Frank Kendale very much. He’d changed the subject while letting Jackie still think she was involved in the conversation. “He and I go way back. I always figured he could have gone far in show business, but he had other ideas.”

  “I love the theater,” Desmond said. “But the cutthroat world of putting on major productions simply wasn’t for me. My wife, Lorraine, hated Manhattan with a passion. When she got ill, that made up my mind once and for all. We came back to Rudolph for her to spend her last years in the town she loved.”

  Frank’s smile disappeared, and he dipped his head. “Great woman, Lorraine.” He slapped Desmond on the back again. “Far too good for the likes of you, but I never could convince her of that. Try as I might.”

  Desmond smiled at his old friend.

  I’d been wrong when I considered the possibility that Desmond might have killed Paula in a desperate attempt to improve the play, to impress the producer in a last-ditch attempt to salvage his reputation and get himself back to Broadway. Frank Kendale had come here to support his friend, under the full understanding of what amateur theater was.