The Final Performance
February 21, 2025
Detective Mason Drake stepped into the dimly lit theater, the familiar scent of old velvet and dust filling the air. The stage, normally reserved for the finest performances, was now the scene of a brutal crime. Lucille Graves, a world-renowned opera singer, lay lifeless in the center, her elegant gown stained with blood. A single gunshot wound to her chest.
Officer Martin approached, shaking his head. “She was found by her understudy this morning, Detective. No signs of a struggle. Security cameras on the premises were disabled around 10 p.m.”
Mason glanced down at the floor, his eyes scanning the scene. A glass of wine lay shattered near Lucille’s body, the crimson liquid mingling with the blood. But what caught his attention was the small note near her hand, a single line written in elegant handwriting: “The show must go on.”
“Who was the last person to see her alive?” Mason asked.
“Her understudy, Vivian Moore,” Martin replied. “They were scheduled to rehearse late last night.”
Mason nodded. “Let’s bring her in.”
Vivian Moore, Lucille’s understudy, sat across from Mason in the interrogation room. Her face was pale, her hands trembling. It was clear the shock of the murder had yet to wear off.
“I didn’t kill her,” Vivian said, her voice breaking. “I swear, I didn’t.”
Mason studied her for a moment. “Tell me about last night. What happened during the rehearsal?”
Vivian’s eyes flickered with uncertainty. “We… we were rehearsing a duet. Lucille wasn’t happy with my performance. She kept criticizing me—telling me I’d never be good enough to replace her. But it was just words. Nothing more.”
Mason leaned forward. “Did she have any enemies? Anyone who would want to hurt her?”
Vivian’s eyes welled with tears. “Lucille had enemies everywhere. She was a diva. She had a reputation for being ruthless. But I never thought anyone would kill her.”
“Where were you after the rehearsal?” Mason asked, his voice steady.
“At home. Alone. I was preparing for my performance tonight.”
Mason gave a small nod but felt something was off. Vivian’s story didn’t add up.
Back at the theater, Mason sifted through the footage from the security cameras. As expected, the recordings had been wiped clean, but he found something unusual: the theater’s head stagehand, Charles Bennett, had entered the building at 9:30 p.m. and hadn’t been seen leaving.
Mason decided to pay Charles a visit.
Charles was waiting for him in his cramped apartment, his hands nervously fidgeting with a wrench. “Detective, I don’t know what you think I did, but I had nothing to do with Lucille’s death.”
Mason didn’t buy it. “You were the last person to have access to the stage. What happened last night?”
Charles swallowed hard. “I was just fixing the lighting. Lucille… she was hard on everyone, but she had her moments. She told me I was too slow, that I was ruining the show. She said I’d never make it in this business.”
Mason raised an eyebrow. “So you had a motive?”
Charles immediately shook his head. “No, no! I didn’t kill her! I just did what I was told. She had so many people under her thumb.”
Mason stepped closer. “So, why didn’t you leave the theater until after midnight?”
Charles hesitated, then muttered, “I heard something. Footsteps in the wings. Someone else was still here. But I didn’t see them. I left right after.”
Mason’s next stop was Vivian’s dressing room, where he noticed something odd—an empty wine glass, freshly rinsed. The same type as the one found near Lucille’s body.
Vivian had lied.
Mason returned to the station, his suspicions confirmed. He pulled up a photograph of Lucille’s final performance and froze. The same glass of wine, the same elegant handwriting on a note left for Lucille—it was Vivian’s handwriting.
Vivian had killed her.
She had poisoned Lucille’s wine during rehearsal, and when the diva fell unconscious, Vivian took the opportunity to finish the job with a gunshot to the chest. She then staged the scene to look like a last-minute breakdown, using the note to cover her tracks.
Mason walked back into the interrogation room, where Vivian now sat, hands folded, the calm before the storm.
“You were jealous of Lucille. You wanted her spot, her life. And you thought you could get away with it,” Mason said, his voice cold.
Vivian’s eyes widened, her lips trembling. “No… No, I didn’t mean to—”
“But you did,” Mason interrupted. “You were willing to kill for fame.”
Vivian’s tears began to fall as Mason placed the handcuffs on her.
As she was led away, Mason couldn’t help but feel the weight of the case. In a world of glitz and glamour, sometimes the brightest stars were the deadliest.
Case closed.