Read Murder in the Past Tense (Miss Prentice Cozy Mystery Series Book 3) for Free Online

the piano in mock exhaustion. “Thank goodness that’s out of the way! Now, here’s the good part: This year I have assembled as talented and experienced a cast and crew as in any theatre company I’ve ever worked with, whether here or in New York. Allow me introduce you to one another.”
    One by one, we each stood and said our name. It wasn’t all that hard to tell the local people—the Civilians—from the Seasoned Broadway Performers. Clothes, for example: theirs were briefer, tighter, and unbuttoned farther down, and there was a tendency to bare midsections. To my surprise, though, the Civilian women seemed to be wearing more makeup than the Seasoned Broadway Performers.
    Terence’s corpulent, brown-bearded confidante turned out to be Chris Gold, the stage manager. When introduced, he waved to the crowd with a shy grin.
    “Last, but by no means least, is my baby sister, Dierdre, joining us for the first time this summer.” From the first row, Terence pulled a pretty, strawberry-haired, freckle-faced girl to her feet. Making an embarrassed grimace at her brother, she nodded her head in a half-bow, then hastily sat. She had the same dancer’s grace. I guessed she was about my age.
    “I don’t know her. Is she from around here?”
    “She goes to St. Mary’s Academy,” Lily whispered back.
    That explained it. Most of the kids we knew went to public school.
    “ . . . and my lovely and talented wife, Pat Gerard.”
    A tall, buxom woman with a wasp waist and a luxurious mop of shiny black hair stood and threw Terence a sultry kiss with long-taloned fingers. Even as she just stood there, she radiated glamour. Were her eyelashes false? If they weren’t, she was even luckier than Danny DiNicco.
    “Isn’t she something? She looks like Cruella deVille, but she’s really nice. You need to ask her to show you the trunk.”
    I opened my mouth to ask why and what trunk, but somebody thrust something in my hands. It was a soft book, about the size of my mother’s Ladies Home Journal , bound in thick brown paper. A label on the front bore the title of the play, The Last Leaf ; and the names of the librettist, lyricist and composer. I turned the pages. It was nothing but sheet music with the lyrics.
    “This is the musical script. Those of you with speaking parts already have your sides.” Terence pulled stacks of brown books from the cardboard box and passed them to outstretched hands. “We’re on a budget here, so only the principals have full scripts—yes?”
    “What’s a side?”
    It was Elm. I was filled with embarrassment at his ignorance.
    “It’s a script with the cues and lines for your part only. You won’t need one, so don’t worry. Now remember, people, these scripts do not belong to us. Repeat, they are only rented. That is why you will observe Dictate Number One, which is—come on, veterans, what is it?”
    Almost everybody looked up from their scripts and chanted together, heads bobbing, “Write lightly with number two pencil only!”
    “Right! So it can be erased. And if you don’t observe this rule, you will have to purchase your script. And how much does a script cost?”
    “Thirty-five dollars apiece!” some called in a bored voice.
    Terence held up a finger. “Wrong! They’re forty this year!”
    A hum of disbelief swept through the Civilians. I looked at my music with renewed respect.
    Terence strolled over to where I sat and leaned over. “Amelia, I’m giving you a speaking part too.”
    I could feel my cheeks redden with pleasure. “Really?”
    He smiled. “Don’t get too excited, dear. It’s not that big. You’re Maud Kelly, washerwoman.” He handed me a plain typed page. “I have no doubt you’ll make something spectacular of it. It’s the last spoken line before the musical finale.”
    I only had one line, given at the very end of the play: “A tragedy, that’s what it is. ’Tis a real shame.”
    I murmured the line under my breath several times, affecting what I