Opening night of the season at Winnipeg's Prairie Theatre Centre is a glittering event on the city's arts calendar, and this October, there is real drama happening offstage. Gerald Blaise, the company's well-loved Artistic Director has failed to show up. Gerald's car is found the following day, north of the city, when a couple of dogs take a keen interest in the bloody contents of the trunk. Since Gerald's remains have been discovered outside the city limits, Sergeant Roxanne Calloway of the RCMP finds herself investigating the death.

PTC's next play up is to be Shakespeare's Macbeth, an unlucky play according to theatrical tradition. That rings true, for the staff, cast and crew as well as Roxanne. When a second body is found, this time in a city park, Roxanne finds herself having to work alongside the cynical Detective Sergeant Cooper Jenkins of the Winnipeg's Police Services.

Theatre is a different world with its own jargon, where fact and fiction merge, lies are delivered as truth, and where people with active imaginations conjure up convincing stories. Who is Roxanne supposed to believe?

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Prairie Theatre Centre was housed in a custom-built grey concrete slab. It was faced with Tyndall stone, a local limestone studded with marine fossils that reminded the people of Winnipeg and its surroundings that the land they lived on was an ancient lakebed. The building had no windows on the street side and resembled a bunker, but bright lights beamed from the front doors. Margo was relieved to see people still standing around talking, drinks in hand, in the lobby. The audience hadn’t gone in yet.

The house manager, elegant in a tailored suit and bow tie, caught her eye as they handed over their tickets. “Dr. Wishart!” he greeted her. Margo had been introduced to him, just two days before. She couldn’t remember his name, then was glad to spot the name badge on his lapel.

“Hello, James! We got here just in time.”

“You’re in luck.” He wore a professional smile. “We’re delayed. You’ve got time to run upstairs for a quick drink.” He indicated a doorway to the right. Private Reception, Friends of PTC said a sign on a stand beside it. “There’s a coat rack inside.” And there was. The room at the top of the flight of stairs glittered with celebrities. Margo surveyed the crowd. She recognized the mayor and a couple of well-known politicians, a local magnate who donated generously to the arts; a well-known CBC personality was chatting to the theatre’s marketing director. Roberta spotted the food table and made a beeline for it, helping herself to a glass of wine en route. Up here, in this privileged eyrie, it came free. Margo was driving. No wine for her tonight.

Professor Thom Dyck waved a hand. Thom was a colleague. He ran the theatre department at the university and had introduced her to the PTC staff. He was also on PTC’s board of directors.

“Glad you could make it,” he said. “They’re running late tonight. It’s not like them.” They watched as Tamsin Longstaff, PTC’s general manager, detached herself from a group of donors and went to talk to James, the house manager, who was hovering at the door. They left together.

“They can’t find Gerald,” Thom explained. “That’s the reason for the holdup. He always opens the show.” Gerald Blaise had been artistic director at PTC for over twenty years. It was his habit to stroll onto the stage on each opening night, affability oozing from every pore, and welcome the audience to “his house.” “He’s never missed, not once, and this is the season opener. Hasn’t been seen all day. They haven’t a clue where he’s got to.”

Roberta joined them, crumbs at the corners of her mouth. In one hand was the wine glass. In the other she held a plate on which sat two chocolates, handmade by a local chocolatier specially for the occasion, with the PTC logo imprinted on the top. She offered one to Margo. Margo declined. Thom looked inquiringly at Roberta, colourful, untidy, decked out in her bright scarves and homemade earrings, rings on almost every finger. Margo introduced them.

“I just met the head of the Humane Society! Isn’t that great?” Roberta enthused and popped one of the chocolates into her mouth. Animal welfare was a cause that was dear to her. She had sold her old farmhouse to Mo Magnusson, a young woman who had inherited a lot of money after the violent death of her mother. Both Margo and Roberta had been involved in the investigation into that murder, earlier that year. Now Mo was setting up an animal rescue and Roberta was an enthusiastic volunteer. They were interrupted by an announcement. They should take their seats. The play would begin in five minutes.

“Wonder if Gerald’s shown up, or if they’re going to go ahead without him,” said Thom, downing the remains of his drink. “See you later!”

Margo and Roberta had barely made it downstairs and found their seats when the lights dimmed and Tamsin Longstaff strutted onto the stage. She was tall and thin and she wore very high heels. She lacked Gerald’s relaxed bonhomie but smiled broadly and was crisply professional. Gerald was unavoidably detained, she said, and was sorry he couldn’t be with them tonight. A curious murmur ran through the auditorium but that soon subsided. The audience had no reason to be concerned. Tamsin kept her comments brief. She made all the necessary acknowledgements to sponsors and the like, stepped out of the spotlight and exited, stage left. The lieutenant-governor and her husband made their entrance, they all stood for the playing of “O, Canada,” and the play began.