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.”
