CHAPTER SEVEN — THE PEOPLE WHO BUILT THE SHOW

Lena took Nora through the backstage rooms where costume workers sorted fabric beneath fluorescent lights.
A seamstress named Mrs. Doyle held up a gown with its hem torn away.
“They want this copied in new synthetic cloth,” she said.
“Marion wore it when she was thirty, and it was already old then.”
Nora recognized the costume from the photograph.
The seamstress described repairing the same dress after every performance because Marion preferred it to anything new.
“She said clothes should show the places people had worked on them,” Mrs. Doyle recalled.
Lena asked about the unrecorded song.


Mrs. Doyle shook her head.
“I heard it once, but I was behind a wall when she sang.”
The three women walked toward the old orchestra pit.
A custodian pushing a bucket paused when he heard Marion’s name.
“She used to sing during the crew supper,” he said.
“Not the concert pieces.”
His name was Bernard Ellis, and he had worked at the Wren for thirty-four years.
Bernard leaned against his mop handle and hummed four uncertain notes.
Lena recognized the melody immediately.
“That was what my grandmother used to sing,” she said.
Nora looked at her.
“Your grandmother worked here?”
“She sold tickets when this was still a neighborhood theater.

”
Bernard tried the tune again.
He stopped and shook his head.
“The third line changes when you remember it right.”
Mrs. Doyle joined them with the repaired gown draped over her arm.
She sang a different ending.
The two argued briefly, then laughed at the absurdity of trying to assemble a song after nearly three decades.
Nora saw Lena’s shoulders relax for the first time all evening.
A door slammed nearby.
Martin appeared with two members of the production team.
“Rehearsals are suspended,” he announced.
“All staff should leave their departments.”
Bernard looked at his bucket.
“The building still needs cleaning.

”
“Not tonight.”
“There are open paint tins beside the orchestra pit.”
Martin ignored him.
“The board will meet at seven in the morning.”
Lena stepped in front of Bernard.
“We need the crew to make the theater safe before you close it.”
“The contractor assumes responsibility at six.”
“The contractor hasn’t seen the pit.”
Martin’s tone sharpened.
“Are you refusing a direct instruction?”
Nora looked toward the dark stage.
The argument no longer concerned only a dead singer’s voice.
People who knew the building were being sent home before their work was complete.
She asked Bernard whether the theater had a fire curtain.


He nodded and described an old manual release that would need to remain accessible while the equipment came down.
Lena looked alarmed.
“Gideon hung a speaker rack in front of that release yesterday.”
Martin frowned.
“The fire marshal approved the installation.”
“Not after the rack was moved,” Lena said.
Martin checked his phone and began walking away.
“I’ll ask facilities.”
Nora caught Lena’s sleeve.
“Don’t let him send Bernard home yet.”
Bernard stood straighter.
“Nobody’s sending me anywhere until I finish my floor.”

CHAPTER EIGHT — A BOY ON THE PHONE

By two in the morning, Nora was sitting in an empty dressing room with her phone pressed to her ear.


Mrs. Alvarez had finally managed to wake Eli just enough for him to speak.
“Did you find the milk?” he asked sleepily.
Nora closed her eyes.
“Not yet, sweetheart.”
“Did the store close?”
“Something happened at work.”
He was quiet for several seconds.
“Are you in trouble?”
Nora stared at her reflection in a dressing-room mirror surrounded by unlit bulbs.
“I’m trying to help someone.”
“Is it the old man?”
She had told him about the customer during an earlier message.
“A little,” she admitted.
“Mostly I’m trying to help people at a theater.”
Eli asked whether there were actors and whether she could bring him a program.


She promised she would try.
Then he surprised her.
“Are there songs?”
“Yes.”
“Can the people singing hear the people listening?”
Nora thought about the artificial applause.
“Sometimes.”
“Then I hope they play something happy.”
After the call, she sat for another minute staring at the phone.
She had wanted to sound calm, but she was no longer sure what she could promise him.
Claire knocked on the open door.
“The board members are arriving early.”
Nora rose.
“Are they deciding whether to cancel?”
“They’re deciding whether I had authority to pause the rehearsal.”
“That sounds like a different question.

”
“It is.”
Claire sat down opposite her.
“I signed a contract that I did not examine as carefully as I should have.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wanted the theater funded.”
She explained that the Wren had struggled for years, and the family had kept it open by subsidizing shows that rarely sold enough tickets.
Whitmore Eternal had promised a spectacular reopening and new revenue.
“Martin told me the project would preserve Mother’s performances,” Claire said.
“I wanted to believe him because I was tired of watching this place become another empty building.”
Nora looked at the costume photographs on the walls.


“Wanting something good doesn’t make the agreement good.”
“I know that now.”
“What do you want from me?”
Claire took a breath.
“I want you to attend the board meeting.”
Nora gave a weary laugh.
“A waitress at a billionaire’s board meeting?”
“You saw the demonstration without knowing what anyone hoped you’d say.”
“I also have a child waiting for breakfast.”
“I’ll make sure you get home afterward.”
Nora shook her head.
“You keep promising transportation.”
“What would help?”
“Tell the people in charge exactly what the crew told us.”
“They’ll say you misunderstood.”
“Then bring the crew.”
Claire considered that.


“The meeting isn’t open to employees.”
“They’re the people whose hands built the show.”
Nora stood and collected the case.
“If you’re asking me to speak, I’m not going alone.”

CHAPTER NINE — THE ROOM UPSTAIRS

The boardroom above the lobby was smaller than Nora expected.
Its walls were covered in photographs of donors shaking hands beside ceremonial ribbons.
An oval table occupied most of the space, and the remaining chairs had been pushed against the windows.
Martin stood beside a screen showing projected ticket sales.
Five board members sat with folders opened before them.
When Claire entered with Nora, Lena,

Bernard, and Mrs. Doyle, the chairman raised an eyebrow.
“I understood this was a directors’ meeting,” he said.
“It is,” Claire answered.
“These people have information the directors need.”
Martin closed his laptop without saving the page.
“We can take employee comments after the contract questions are settled.”
“Their comments are contract questions,” Claire replied.
Nora placed the leather case on the table.
The music box looked out of place beside the polished presentation equipment.
The chairman introduced himself as Robert Fenwick and asked Nora what connection she had to Whitmore Industries.
“None,” she said.
He blinked.
“Then perhaps you can explain why you’re here.

”
Nora described the older man entering the diner and the call that brought Claire to her door.
She omitted the twelve dollars until a board member asked why Henry would have chosen her.
“I bought him soup,” she said.
“He wasn’t feeling well, and he had no money with him.”
Martin leaned back.
“That’s touching, but what does it establish?”
“Nothing about your contract,” Nora answered.
“It explains why I’m standing here.”
Fenwick asked what she had observed.
Nora told him about the projected singer performing a song Marion had never recorded, the artificial applause, and the orchestra directed to pretend it was playing.


A woman at the far end of the table frowned.
“I was told the orchestra would perform live.”
Lena explained how the production team had recorded the accompaniment the previous afternoon.
Martin said the prerecorded version was a temporary contingency.
“Then why did we receive a final cue sheet instructing the musicians to keep their bows off the strings?” Lena asked.
She passed the sheet to Fenwick.
Gideon, who had entered behind Martin, objected that rehearsal documents could change.
“Of course they can,” Lena said.
“That’s why I’m asking whether this one will.”
Fenwick read the cue sheet carefully.
“It identifies a complete playback track.”
“A synchronization precaution,” Gideon said.
Mrs. Doyle stepped forward with the old gown.
“They also ordered a duplicate made so a projected woman could appear to wear what Marion wore,” she said.
“They wanted me to remove the repairs because the repairs looked untidy.”
Martin shook his head.
“We are discussing stage design now.”
Mrs. Doyle spread the gown across the end of the table.
Small patches marked its seams, and several had been sewn with visibly different thread.
“She wore this because she loved it,” Mrs. Doyle replied.
“The repairs are part of the dress.”
A board member touched one sleeve.
“My mother worked here when Marion performed.”
For a moment nobody spoke.
Martin recovered first.
“The estate authorization specifically allows restoration and adaptation.”
Claire opened the contract in front of her.
“It allows adaptations approved by the estate’s designated representative.”
Martin looked irritated.
“That’s Henry.”
“And he has not approved the new song.”
“He verbally approved the initial concept.”
“That isn’t the same.”
Fenwick raised a hand.
“Let’s clarify the legal position before we embarrass ourselves in public.”
The board’s counsel, a woman named Elaine Park, explained that the agreement contained different permissions for image restoration, new composition, and promotional use.
The new composition required separate written approval.
Gideon looked toward Martin.
“You told us that approval was pending.”
Martin replied sharply.
“It is pending.”
“Then the song cannot be broadcast tomorrow,” Park said.
Martin pressed his palms against the table.
“If we miss the livestream window, our international partners can withdraw.”
Claire stared at him.
“You risked the entire project on a permission you didn’t have.”
Martin gave her a cold smile.
“I risked the project because somebody had to make it commercially viable.”
Nora watched him glance at the music box.
“Why does that bother you?” she asked.
Martin followed her gaze.
“It doesn’t.”
“You keep looking at it.”
He turned away.
“This has become a circus.”
Bernard spoke from beside the door.
“The theater’s safety access is blocked.”
Fenwick looked up again.
Bernard explained that a suspended speaker rack stood in front of the manual fire-curtain release.
Gideon insisted the rack could be moved in minutes.
Lena said it should have been moved before the workers were sent home.
Fenwick stood.
“Then we are going downstairs to look at it.”
Martin stared at him.
“Now?”
“We have people arriving for an event in less than twenty hours,” Fenwick replied.
“Now is exactly when we should look.”