I’d like to say I look forward to premieres the way children do Christmas. . .but the fact is that they’re rarely as wonderful as expected. Still, I hoped The Princes in the Tower might just be the exception that proves the rule. After all, not only was I opposite my favorite singing partner, soprano Marie de l’Artois, I also had the pleasure of doubling as Henry Tudor and vanquishing Richard III. I do fancy a good vanquishing.

So I awoke in Washington Square at eleven o’clock that Tuesday in early October 1899 feeling quite optimistic. The final dress rehearsal had gone beautifully. Marie and I were both in peak voice, and we looked spectacular in our doublets and hose: recalling the poor boys of the famous painting while remaining attractive women. All in all, my beloved cousin and manager Tommy Hurley quite fairly described this new opera as “a license to print money.”

Money we might print that night, but first comes coffee. Even after sleeping late, I was moving a bit slowly. I would never be guilty of the sin of sloth, but when one is working (singing) until all hours, one must make accommodations. My mentor, Madame Lentini, admonished me to always take proper care of myself because the instrument performs best in a healthy body.

Decently brought-up people do not eat breakfast in bed unless they are sick, naturally, but our cook Mrs. Grazich is used to the ways of respectable artists, and kindly supplies a generous pre-luncheon coffee on performance days. So I scrambled into a simple pansy-print day frock, leaving my dresser and lady’s maid Rosa still sleeping, and slipped downstairs in search of stimulation and sustenance.

Tommy was in the parlor, with the hoped-for tray of coffee and baked (very) goods. He took one look at me, grinned and poured another cup. “You look like you need it, Heller.”

“Oh, do I!” Returning the grin, I buried my face in the rich steam. Tommy is the only person in the world who calls me Heller, a nickname from our street-scrapping childhood. I used to throw in on his side when the other tenement boys called him a sissy. . .something that amazingly stopped when he grew half a foot and became the star of his boxing gym. Tommy’s not the marrying kind, but nobody has the right to insult him.

Most of the world calls me Ella Shane, though I was born Ellen O’Shaughnessy, and, as the daughter of Molly Steinmetz O’Shaughnessy, Meira bat Malka. There are still enough people, even in our relatively enlightened world, who have problems with the Irish and the Jews, not to mention a combination thereof, that a stage name simplifies matters. Not that I’m anything but a proud child of both my parents; I go to Mass every Sunday, and light candles in my mother’s small pewter holders on Friday evening.

“Ready for tonight?” Tommy asked. “Everyone’s coming backstage after, so you’ll have someone between you and the Lotharios.”

“Thank Heaven for that.” I reached for one of Mrs. G’s lemon-iced fairy cakes, even though I should avoid sweets during a run. Well, lemon is good for the voice.

Tommy chuckled. “You don’t really think we’d leave you to their mercies?”

“Never.” I swallowed the smile along with a bite of cake. It would be an interesting night, then, with not just Tommy, but his best friend Father Michael, and our informal uncle, the noted sports columnist Preston Dare, all lurking about the dressing room glaring at my various stage-door admirers.

Just fine by me. Stage-door admirers are an unfortunate occupational hazard. I was glad to have my gents there to look daggers at them. If I wished another gentleman were about as well, that was my business and mine alone. Since a misadventure in the spring, I have maintained a warm correspondence with one Gilbert Saint Aubyn, Duke of Leith, which may lead to more when we bring the Princes to London in the winter. That, however, is neither here nor there.

“Here.” Tommy tossed me a newspaper. “Hetty’s above the fold again.”

“The Van Vleet murder?” I took the Beacon with a smile. My reporter friend had FINALLY been assigned to something other than hats: the case of a woman accused of killing her husband.

“Trial next week.” Tommy took another fairy cake and refilled his cup. “About time they gave her something worthy of her talents.”

I topped off my own coffee and settled in for a good read. It certainly seemed like all was well in our world on this premiere day.

I should have known it could not last, even if I could never have predicted the murder or the rest of the mayhem. . .

A Fatal First Night, An Ella Shane Mystery #2
Genre: Historical
Release: April 2021
Purchase Link

It’s easy to be overlooked in Gilded Age Manhattan, but the Ella Shane Opera Company’s latest premier manages to attract adoring crowds, rave reviews, and a killer who’s a real showstopper!

New York City, Fall 1899. Ahead-of-her-time coloratura mezzo Ella Shane has always known opening night to be a mess of missed cues and jittery nerves, especially when unveiling a new opera. Her production of The Princes in the Tower, based on the mysterious disappearance of Edward IV’s two sons during the Wars of the Roses in England, concludes its first performance to thunderous applause. It’s not until players take their bows that the worst kind of disaster strikes . . .

Flawless basso Albert Reuter is found lurched over a bloody body in his dressing room, seemingly taking inspiration from his role as the murderous Richard III. With a disturbing homicide case stealing the spotlight, Ella can’t be so certain Albert is the one who belongs behind bars . . .

Now, Ella must think on her feet while sorting out a wild series of puzzling mishaps and interlocking mysteries. Yet even when sided with her aristocratic beau, does this scrappy diva have the chops to upstage the true criminal, or will this be the last time she headlines a Broadway marquee?

Meet the author
Kathleen Marple Kalb grew up in front of a microphone and a keyboard. She’s now a weekend morning anchor at 1010 WINS New York, capping a career begun as a teenage DJ in Brookville, Pennsylvania. While she wrote her first (thankfully unpublished) historical novel at age sixteen, fiction was firmly in the past until her son started kindergarten and she tried again. She, her husband the Professor, and their son the Imp, live in a Connecticut house owned by their cat.

All comments are welcomed.