Work Text:
The snow clinging to Jessica Fletcher’s boots melts into puddles on the polished lobby floor of Arcadia’s old Paramount Theatre as she adjusts her scarf. Behind her, Joan Girardi shakes out her damp curls, her breath visible in the frigid air. “You really think Mom’s gonna be okay?” Joan whispers, eyes darting toward the stage where Helen Girardi rehearses her big monologue—her first role in a decade. Jessica opens her mouth to answer when a crash echoes from backstage. Then silence.
Kevin bursts through the curtains first, face pale. “She’s—she’s...”
Luke, already halfway up the aisle, doesn’t wait. He vaults onto the stage, Jessica close behind. Helen lies sprawled beside a toppled lighting rig, blood seeping into her silver-blonde hair. But it’s the thin wire coiled around her throat that makes Jessica’s pulse spike.
“No one leaves,” Jessica says, sharper than she intends. The theatre’s emergency lights flicker on, casting long shadows.
Joan grips her brother’s sleeve. “That wire’s from the rigging. Someone knew.”
Kevin exhales shakily. “Mom’s understudy quit last week. Said she ‘stole’ her chance.” His jaw tightens. “But she wouldn’t—”
“People kill for less,” Luke mutters, scanning the wings.
Jessica crouches, careful not to disturb the scene. A glint catches her eye—a charm bracelet half-hidden under Helen’s sleeve. The click in her mind is audible.
“Joan. Your mother’s understudy—did she wear one of these?”
Joan freezes. “Yeah. With little drama masks. She never took it off.”
Jessica stands, dusting her knees. “Then we’re looking for a woman missing her favorite jewelry… and likely still backstage.”
Above them, a catwalk creaks.