Last Scene Alive at-7

by Charlaine Harris

  I could sense sleep approaching now, could feel it stealing over me. I held onto the thought of Robin so I could slide under; if I looked directly at the sleep I needed, it would slip away. Tomorrow I'd check his picture in the magazine again, examine his hair for any signs of gray. I didn't have any yet, but when I spotted some, I'd have Bonita take care of it right away... .

  Perry and Lillian were in the library's employee lounge when I got to work, and their conversation ground to a guilty halt when I appeared. Lillian Schmidt beamed at me with her most insincere smile. Believe me, she's got quite a repertoire. Perry Allison just looked nervous, which was about par for the course for Perry. Perry is about half Lillian's age, bone thin and perpetually jumpy, while Lillian is as round and plain as a ball of coarse yarn. Perry, who's been in and out of mental facilities and drug treatment programs, is now on an even keel as long as he takes his medication. Lillian, with whom I have even less in common, is a self-centered member of a fundamentalist Christian church. These are my best work friends. Am I lucky? I stuffed my purse in one of the bright orange lockers while they covered the silence with a spate of chatter that wouldn't have deceived a reasonably intelligent child.

  "Good weather for this time of year," Lillian told Perry, who nodded his head in an alarming series of jerks.

  "Uh, Roe. We just want you to know we didn't know anything about that writer, or the article, or anything." Perry was trying an ingratiating smile, but it was sliding off the other side of his face. Perry had a difficult life, and he didn't want me mad at him.

  "No, hon, we would've told you if we'd known a magazine writer was in the library." Lillian's eyes were bright with excitement.

  For all her gusto in the situation, which was the way she was born, I really believed Lillian. For that matter, I believed Perry, who could be quite devious. Other librarians came and went, but we three had been yoked, somewhat off and on for... oh, seven or eight years.

  "Okay," I said mildly, but in such a way as to close the subject. They were probably telling the truth, but someone had talked to the writer, Marjory Bolton. I thought I could pin the betrayal on the shoulders of the aide who'd been fired last week for stealing from other employees. I was willing to bet she was already out of town and beyond reach. I suggested this to Perry and Lillian, and they jumped on the idea with enthusiasm.

  After a second or two of relaxing small talk, both put on their work faces and went through the door to the patron part of the library.

  The employee lounge was a large open room with a couple of tables and matching chairs, a small kitchen, and a large worktable in one corner where we repaired books and prepared new ones to be placed on the shelves. Then there was a half-wall with glass in the top, through which you could see Sam derrick's secretary's office. Sam's was firmly walled. His secretary wasn't at her desk, but I could see the lights in Sam's office were on. If he wanted to ask me about the article, he'd call me in. Otherwise, I knew he'd appreciate not being disturbed. Sam was a whiz with the budget, could apply for grants with one hand tied behind his back, and he was an absolutely sound administrator.

  But Sam was a dismal failure with people. Painfully aware of the fact, he tended to leave all the personnel interactions he possibly could to his secretary, a position he'd manufactured with some creative money managing. Though the job was only part-time, Patricia Bledsoe had made the most of it.

  She was coming in the back door now, dressed, as always, in painstakingly matched and ironed clothes. They weren't expensive clothes, but she had good conservative taste and was an ardent shoe polisher. Patricia—not Pat, or Patsy, or Trish—was somewhere around fifty, with skin the color of a Brach's caramel. Her hair was tamed into a short pageboy—not for Patricia the weaves and beads of more trendy African-Americans. Patricia didn't like nail polish, or dark lipstick, or high heels. Her teenager, Jerome, was not allowed to wear clothing sporting a visible brand name: no Nike, no Fubu, and no Reebok. There was a reason behind everything Patricia Bledsoe did, and if she'd ever acted spontaneously, it had been a long time ago in a galaxy far, far, away.

  Not too surprisingly, everyone depended on Patricia, but no one liked her very much. The great exception was Sam Clerrick, whom she guarded as though he was a wealthy industrial magnate.

  Patricia said, "Good morning, Ms. Teagarden. How are you today?" Her voice was as crisp as if it'd been in the vegetable drawer overnight.

  As always, I fought the terrible impulse to imitate her brisk enunciation. "I'm fine, thank you, Patricia. Did you see the magazine with the article about the movie?"

  Patricia knew what I was talking about since everyone in Lawrenceton had been buzzing about the movie company's arrival for weeks.

  "No, is there something new?" She waited politely for my answer, her beige sweater half-off. Today she was wearing a solid yellow camp shirt with a khaki skirt and yellow espadrilles. It was that kind of weather, cool in the morning and evening but still awfully hot during the day; the kind of Southern weather that makes you think summer will never, ever, be over.

  "People don't like to talk about it around me," I said matter-of-factly. "But as far as I could tell, the only thing that isn't common gossip around here is the name of the female lead, and the strange fact that there was someone in the library who was willing to talk to a reporter about me. I hate the idea that someone would do that without talking to me first," I told her.

  When her reaction came, it certainly wasn't one I'd been expecting.

  Patricia's face tensed. She froze for a beat, and then she finished shrugging off the sweater and sat in her rolling chair in front of her computer.

  "That does seem strange," she said, but it seemed to me that she was picking words out of the air at random. The secretary was deeply upset. In fact, she seemed suddenly afraid.

  I waited for a second more, but finally I knew that whatever comment Patricia had on news reporters, I wasn't going to hear it.

  She did ask me for the name of the magazine. When I told her, she just nodded in thanks and switched on her computer. I'd been dismissed. Her composure was back in place.

  Thinking of how perplexing Patricia was, I shrugged and left the staff area to start my working day in my favorite place in the whole world, the library. Any library would have done, but this one was dear to me because the shelves held some of my best friends. While I gathered the books that had come in through the after-hours book drop the night before, I puzzled over Patricia's odd reaction.

  It was the first time I'd felt curiosity in months. When I realized how refreshing it felt, I knew that it was good.

  Pushing a cart of books through the library, nodding to Mr. Harmon (who came in every morning to read the papers) , I had a flood of revelation. (What a time and place to review my life, past and future! But I suddenly realized that when I was alone, my life was the thing I worked hardest to avoid considering.)

  As I dislodged one of the cart's rollers from a worn spot in the heavy-duty carpeting, I understood—abruptly and very clearly—that my life had not been bad before I married Martin Bartell. Maybe it hadn't been what I expected, or what anyone would have predicted for me, but it had been livable, with enough surprises and bits of happiness to make it worthwhile and, above all, interesting.

  Grief was boring. This was a shallow thought about a deep subject, but it was a valid observation.

  When my loss had been fresh, passing every hour had been like hiking through a rocky terrain with a monster hiding behind every other boulder. I'd get my bank statement and remember Martin wasn't there to balance our checkbook anymore. I'd cry. I'd go to the grocery store and remember to get one chicken breast, not two. I'd suffer. There'd be no one in the house to share my day with, no one to take care of. That phase had been jagged, acute, draining, a shock wrapped around every daily occurrence. I missed Martin every day, every hour, sometimes every minute.

  But that era had faded, worn thin, and dissipated. Without noting it, I'd entered another phase. The past
few months—say, the past six—had been like slogging through a gray swamp. I'd been too exhausted to even open my eyes and look around me. I had routinely forgotten whole conversations, complete transactions, significant events. Nothing had seemed important but my loss.

  Right now, just at this split second, I fully comprehended for a fact that my life would go on and there would be things in it I would enjoy.

  For the first time, that didn't seem like a betrayal of Martin. Though he'd been the picture of health and his death had been the worst kind of shock, I'd always been aware of the fact that he was fifteen years older than me— that probably, in the natural course of things, I'd have some living to do without him. Events had taken an unnatural course, but the result was the same.

  I was getting sniffly, so I concentrated really hard on checking in the books, getting them back to the shelves, returning the cart to its designated spot. Perry and Lillian were always very obviously tactful when my eyes looked red, God bless them, and they were again today.

  Chapter Two

  I looked up Celia Shaw on the Internet that night. My computer was less than two years old, bought by Martin so he could work at home from time to time. I'd learned to use it, at least enough to send and receive email and to search for information. The games bored me, I'd discovered, and my money was "handled" by my accountant, so I only turned the machine on a couple of times a week.

  Celia was supposed to be twenty-five, I learned, a figure I took with a grain of salt. She'd been born in Wilmington, North Carolina, where her mother had been working in a movie. I hadn't realized there were movie studios in Wilmington but, according to the article, it was quite a moviemaking center. Well, back to Celia. Her mother, Linda Shaw, a middle-aged minor actress, had been so long separated from her husband that the baby's parentage was in doubt. Linda Shaw had left the infant Celia with an aunt and uncle, and fled. Linda resurfaced in California a couple of years later, dead. She'd committed suicide in a motel—barbiturates and a razor combined.

  What a tragic beginning.

  Though my father had left when I was a teenager, my mother had been a rock. I'd never had aunts and uncles, since both my parents were only children (which may have contributed to their problems), but my mother had a whole network of friends, family connections, and coworkers on whom to call.

  Having become more sympathetic to Celia Shaw, whom I'd been quite prepared to dislike, I continued scrolling along. I examined pictures of Celia in various movies I'd never seen. I paused to check out a dress Celia had worn to the Emmy Awards. Hmmm. I was more conservative sartorially than I'd realized.

  I peered at the picture. Had she had to glue that bit into place? How had she planned to cope if she'd dropped her purse? Of course, someone would've picked it up for her gladly; Celia Shaw would never have to perform any little service for herself, at least not for the next ten years. Still, what if she'd forgotten her posture and slumped a little....

  Well, she had nerve, anyway. I'd give her that.

  According to her bio, Celia Shaw had won escalating parts in five minor films and two major television shows. However, Whimsical Death, a two-part made-for-TV movie, would constitute her first leading role. Chip Brodnax was taking the role of Robin. His face was familiar to me, but I couldn't remember where I'd seen him. I didn't watch a lot of television, but I was sure I'd noticed him in something before.

  The same picture of Celia Shaw that had been in the magazine was on the website, the one of her with Robin at a party. There was another shot of Celia holding her Emmy. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. And even if her given age of twenty-five was literally less than the truth, there was no doubt in my mind that Celia Shaw was several years younger than me.

  As I closed down the computer and went upstairs for my bath, I wondered why I'd bothered to search out this information. I told myself it was because she was going to play me—or someone at least as close to me as the movie could go, since I'd refused permission for a character to have my name. Surely it wasn't too surprising that I'd have an interest in the woman who was going to represent me?

  I attended Evening Prayer that Wednesday night. This was by no means my normal schedule, I'm sorry to say. St. Stephen's saw me on Sunday mornings, but that was the limit of my church attendance, and I'd dodged the altar guild, the vestry, and the annual Christmas bazaar committee with amazing agility. (I was beginning to have a slightly guilty feeling, as though I watched PBS every night yet didn't send in a dime at pledge time.) On this balmy evening, I scooted into an empty pew close to the back of the small church and let all my worries go while I moved through the ritual that meant so much to me.

  As I was about to shake Father Aubrey Scott's hand while I was going out the door, he said, "Could you stay for a minute? I'd like to have a few words."

  "Sure," I said. I'd always been fond of Aubrey. In fact, I'd dated him for many months. Then I'd met Martin and he'd met Emily, and we'd parted amiably. The warmth of a pleasant companionship remained. I rummaged through my mind for any recent hot topics in the congregation that he'd need to discuss with me, but I couldn't come up with a one.

  With a sense of mild expectation, I settled on a bench in the quiet churchyard while the other congregants got in their cars and switched on their headlights in the gathering dusk. Soon we'd have the time change. We'd be leaving in the full dark. Through the lighted windows I could see Aubrey's wife, Emily, blond and suburban, moving around the church. She was raising kneelers that had been left down, picking up programs discarded in the pews, and turning out lights. Elizabeth, Emily's daughter by her deceased first husband, hadn't been in church that night. She'd probably used homework to wriggle out of coming; Elizabeth, now ten, was quite a handful. But Aubrey never regretted adopting Elizabeth; he doted on her.

  Having divested himself of his robe, Aubrey came to sit beside me in the half-darkness. Aubrey was a lot grayer than he'd been when he'd first come to Lawrenceton to take the helm of St. Stephen's. Was Aubrey thirty-nine? Or closer to forty-two? I caught myself frowning: I was thinking about age far too often these days.

  "I have something I need to ask you," Aubrey said, sounding very grave.

  "Ask ahead," I told him. From the open church door came a thwack! as Emily raised the fourth kneeler from the back on the left, which was a little noisier than the others.

  "Would it offend you if the movie company filmed some scenes here at the church?" he asked.

  Whatever I'd expected, it wasn't this request. I was glad of the darkness, since I had no idea what my face looked like. I couldn't think of what to say.

  "The vestry met with the film company representative last night. The thing is," he continued, after a pause to offer me a chance to comment, "they're offering enough in compensation to get a new roof put on St. Stephen's— both the parish hall and the church. But if you have the slightest objection, we'll forego the money. It won't be worth it. You're one of ours. The vote on that was unanimous."

  So many comments came to my lips that I compressed them together to lock the words inside. There was only one answer I could possibly give. "Of course," I said. "For a new roof, you have to say yes." I knew my voice was much cooler than I wanted it to be, and I knew my words weren't exactly enthusiastic or even very civil, but that was the best I could do.

  "You don't sound okay about it," Aubrey said after a hesitation. "You sound like you want me to go play in traffic."

  I smiled a little, a very little, but he couldn't see that.

  "St. Stephen's is beautiful. I'm not surprised they'd like to use it as a set. Nothing will be changed?"

  "He promised not. He said everything would look just the same or better, since the film company will paint the sign on the corner for us."

  "Then you'd better do it." It crossed my mind that I could pay for the new church roof, all by myself, and then the film company could go whistle. But that would draw even more attention to me, and that was the one thing I didn't want. I made sure to exchange
another comment or two with Aubrey, so he wouldn't think I was leaving angry. He'd given me a choice and I'd picked, so I couldn't take the result of my decision out on him.

  By the time Emily locked the door of the church, I was on my way to my car.

  Madeleine was waiting at the kitchen door when I got home. Madeleine, golden and fat and increasingly slow, was the living part of the legacy an old friend had left me. Jane had left me the cat and a pot of money. Guess which I liked best? Madeleine was known and feared by every vet in the Lawrenceton area. Fortunately, except for the effects of old age, the cat had always been healthy. Her annual checkups were traumatic for everyone involved. Though I'd grown up without pets, thanks to a mother who thought having animal hair in your house was comparable to having lice, Madeleine and I had coexisted in reasonable harmony for several years now. I fed her, brushed her in the spring and summer, and scratched behind her ears. She ate the food, enjoyed the brushing, purred when I scratched her, and otherwise ignored me. It worked for us. I watched the huge old cat launch into her kitty chow with gusto. When that palled, I wandered across the hall into the den, admiring the way the wooden floors gleamed and the books marched in even rows in the built-in bookcases in the hall. The answering machine light was blinking by my telephone and for a minute or two I thought about checking my messages.

  Then I decided it didn't matter what other people wanted.

  Smiling a little, I hiked up the stairs, spent some time in the bathroom on my minimal grooming ritual, and climbed into my high four-poster. I had lots of pillows, a comfortable bed, and a good book.

  Martin hadn't really liked my reading in bed. To Martin, a bed was for sleeping in or making love on, not for reading or lolling of any kind. For the most part, I'd read downstairs in the den while we were married. Now, this was one of the moments of the day to which I actually looked forward; and if it was raining outside or cold, or both, and I could swathe myself in blankets, so much the better. The night was mild outside my windows this evening, but as I pulled up the clean sheet I came as close as I could, these days, to being happy. I was reading a new C. J. Songer, too, an added bonus.