How Much Will It Cost to See What's Behind the Crimson Curtain?

If you’ve come here first, you’ll want to check the other authors’ blogs before reading my story because it’ll finish off the full story.

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How Much Will It Cost to See What’s Behind the Crimson Curtain?

It was sad, I won’t deny it, when I sent out the final ransom note. After all, that’s what they were. With Tabitha Bouldin’s name written in my best flourish, I took myself off to deliver it. Maybe furtive movements were necessary for others, but not for me. At the sight of anyone, I pretended to be sunning myself, resting on a bench–whatever was appropriate.

However, once the missive had been left, then the real work began. First stop, the theater.

Slipping past the stage manager wasn’t as easy as one might think. They’re used to backstage crashers, and in this day of threats from all corners, they have to be careful. I tried to get someone to take me in with them, but no one seemed interested. So, I did what I had to. Sometimes all it takes is the equivalent of a vanishing act. An idiot flung a lit cigarette right at me–could’ve caught my jacket on fire!

But it gave me an idea, so I balled up a page of my book (the title page if you must know) and dropped it on the cigarette. That thing went up in flames! “Fire!” I screamed at the top of my voice as I ran toward the door. “Fire!!”

The manager stepped out, saw nothing, and stretched way out, his gaze peering down the alley where the tiny blaze was probably half out. I didn’t take the time to look back. I just slipped through the door and avoided him. Didn’t want to make him angry!!! His hands looked like they could snap my spine in two.

Backstage felt like one of those ghost towns in old movies.

I kept hearing the theme song from “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” playing in my head. No tumbleweeds, but I swear I saw a dust bunny tumble past instead.

I couldn’t turn on backstage lights without alerting Mr. Manager (I think someone called him Inigo–I did not kill his father, but with a name like that, I was prepared to die!). So, I pulled the crimson curtains apart just a tiny bit to allow the dim lighting of the theater to illuminate my task.

The chaise longue was heavy, but I managed to inch it across to center stage. Next up, a lamp. The floor lamp toppled with a crash the second I tried to push it across the floor. In an instant, I squeezed under the gold velvet chaise and tried not to let my jacket rustle with my quivering. Inigo burst onto the stage, glanced around, and flipped on the lights. “Who’s there? No one is supposed to be here today.”

I practice slow breathing, trying not to get ruffled.

Something must have caught the man’s attention down in the seats because he rushed down the side steps at stage right and into the auditorium. A bang out front sent him racing through the double doors. And I now had lights, which made my job easier.

Not to put too fine a point on it, I totally booked it. In a flash, I’d pushed a small end table over to rest beside the chaise. Getting a lamp up on it? Not easy. Not at all, but I finally managed and even managed to get it plugged in. Getting a cup of piping hot tea there–crazy. I’d end up burned to a pulp. Instead, I put the tea bag, sugar bowl, creamer, and tea kettle up on that end table. Yes, it was crowded. Yes, I did spill the milk–twice. No, I am not happy about having to mop up the mess.

But, as they say in the business, the stage was set. Almost. I hopped up on the chaise longue, posed, decided I was satisfied, and pulled a final flat notecard from my jacket and propped it up against me as I posed again.

Now… all I had to do was wait.

An argument out front got me all aflutter. She had arrived. She’d run into Inigo and had fanned the flame of his fury. At least she could bear the brunt of it. I could not.

My last thought before the curtains parted and the woman stepped forward was, Did I put back Chautona’s pen? It’s her favorite fountain pen. She’ll rip me to shreds if I’ve lost it!

The woman froze at the sight before her, and Inigo looked a bit… dampened. “What’s that doing there? It wasn’t there before!”

“What wasn’t?”

“The table… the cup and kettle and that book. That note!”

A picture of grace and elegance, the woman stepped forward and picked up my note, reading it aloud. “You have been kidnapped. I demand a ransom of a few hours of your time. Make yourself comfortable. Drink some tea. Read my pages. You won’t be allowed to leave until you are done. You’re welcome.”

The woman stared at me. Reached for me. Stroked my cover before turning me over and reading the back. A smile formed. “A Vanishing Act… I think I’ll just kick off my shoes. I have some reading to do.”

Congratulations to Edwina Kiernan on her new book, A Vanishing Act!

On screen, they’re a darling duo, but it’s a whole different story backstage.

Hollywood legend Kent Selwood isn’t happy sharing the limelight with rising star Stella Sanders. Tired of her diva drama, Kent makes it clear—he wants Stella gone.

Seamstress Bonnie Roseland is practically invisible to everyone at the studio, except for slick actor, Jerry Jackson — the one man she wishes would leave her alone. Her deep-rooted faith helps her see beyond the glitz and glamor to the broken realities and dysfunctional atmosphere at the studio. She sometimes wonders if God has a purpose for her there or if she should just move on.

When the studio receives blackmail letters, Kent’s attitude makes him the prime suspect, and he’s swiftly banished from the lot, despite insisting that he’s been framed. Only Bonnie believes him — and she’s confident she knows who the real culprit is.

But when a ransom note arrives after Stella goes missing and evidence is discovered that clearly implicates Kent, will Bonnie help him uncover the truth in time to save his career… and Stella’s life?