It had been a rough theater season, what with the strike, the virus, the phantom, and what have you. Her accessories and essences had been set, haphazardly, on the table, so she needed to arrange the bottles, jars, and tubes in an order which would streamline her preparation process.
Finding the paraffin, she unscrewed the cap and scooped out three fingers full. Liberally applying the ointment, the makeup, which felt tight as a drum on her face, began to dissolve and smear into an opaque swirl.
Having removed the painted countenance of the last character she played, cold cream now found her cheeks and pate, returning some moisture which had been leached out.
There was a creaking sound from the shadows in the back of the dressing room. In the mirror she saw her killer. It was Erik. Removing a pistol from the purse in her lap, she fired a shot into his head.
Later, as the ambulance carried Erik’s body to the morgue, police questioned other members of the cast. No one was able to come up with a reason why Erik, the great female impersonator, would shoot himself.