by Gail Oust
“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I already got me an important job.”
We let out a collective sigh of relief. I squirted a blob of ketchup onto my plate, then dredged a fry through it. The notion of resuming production of Forever, My Darling seemed to be taking on a life of its own.
And I had only myself to blame.
“I’ve got the perfect solution,” a little imp prompted me to say. “Who’s better qualified than someone who was in charge of casting from the get-go? Someone familiar with both the script and the roles.” Smiling sweetly, I raised my iced tea. “I nominate Janine for director.”
“Here, here!” Connie Sue lifted her water glass high. “Y’all, let’s toast Janine Russell, brand-new director of Forever, My Darling.”
Rita clinked her cup against Gloria’s. “I vote we dedicate the play to Claudia Connors Ledeaux.”
The show might go on, I vowed amidst all the chatter, but I intended to keep my eyes peeled for anyone with more than a passing interest in the prop table. And this time the gun would be the best money could buy—at the dollar store.
Chapter 20
Notices of the upcoming audition were plastered on bulletin boards from Serenity Cove Estates clear to Brookdale five miles down the road. No place was exempt: the Piggly Wiggly, the rec center, the Koffee Kup, and the pro shop at the golf course. We’d even chipped in for a small ad in the Serenity Sentinel. Date and time were set for the following night.
The role of director fit Janine more snugly than OJ’s glove. She’d wasted no time appointing Bill and me as her assistants in recasting the two leads. Personally, I think it was revenge for nominating her as director. She also made it known she preferred her title changed to artistic director as opposed to plain old director. Well la-di-da, I said to myself. She could call herself anything she pleased as long as she got the show on the road.
Meanwhile, I kept busy with mundane tasks. At least I could cross grocery shopping off my to-do list. I swear it had taken twice as long with people at every turn wanting to stop and talk. The topic of Lance’s death—I still stubbornly refused to call it murder—had been hot, hot, hot in the frozen food aisle at the Pig. I was surprised the freezers hadn’t sprung a leak with temperatures soaring skyward. What a mess that would’ve been with soggy vegetables and melting ice cream. Ugh! I grimaced at the thought.
I was lugging in the last of the groceries when Krystal, dressed casually in gray sweats, accosted me. “It’s my day off,” she complained. “I haven’t even been able to take a nap. That blasted phone’s been ringing nonstop ever since you left.”
“Sorry, Krystal,” I said, nudging the door closed with an elbow. “Probably folks wanting to ask about the audition.”
“I guess.” She started to help unload the grocery bags, then paused, holding up a can of pet food for my inspection. “What’s this?”
Did the girl need glasses? Any fool could plainly see it was premium-brand cat food, the kind advertised on TV. I was sick and tired of sharing my tuna with an ungrateful feline. Besides, I didn’t want to chance the possibility of another tuna-free casserole like on the night I’d invited Bill to dine. “I wasn’t sure which one Tang would like, so I bought a selection: tuna select, choice of the chick, and veal-beef medley. I thought we could serve any leftovers creamed over toast points for dinner some night.”
From the frown on her face, Krystal failed to see the humor in my little joke. “Tang doesn’t like the fancy canned food,” she said.
I stopped shoving vegetables into the bin. “Tang told you this?”
Krystal gave a head toss, sending her long dark hair flying over her shoulder. “He prefers regular tuna, not pet food—albacore is his favorite.”
I rolled my eyes and resumed placing lettuce, carrots, and celery in the crisper. The silly cat wouldn’t come within ten feet of me, but here he was, having heart-to-hearts with Krystal.
“I tried feeding him one of those fancy brands the other day, but he just turned up his nose and stalked off.” Krystal continued to unload grocery items onto the counter.
“What happened to the old phrase, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’?”
“Never heard it before. Certain things he likes; certain things he doesn’t, just like people at the diner. Tang has certain expectations when it comes to food.”
“You know this for a fact, or are you making it up as you go along?”
“You’ve never been around cats much, have you, Kate?”
“No, my husband was allergic.” I stored the empty plastic grocery bags with the other items I recycle. It’s the creed I live by. I’m a firm believer in the three Rs: reduce, reuse, recycle. Right about now, I was wishing I could recycle my houseguest to Myrtle Beach.
“Kate, I, ah . . .” Krystal struck a hand-on-hip pose reminiscent of vintage World War II posters I’d seen. Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner sprang to mind.
I stopped what I was doing and gave her my full attention. “Out with it, girl.”
“I was wondering if it’d be OK if I tried out for a part in the play.”
Well, Krystal’s question certainly explained the posturing. The part of Roxanne, Claudia’s former role, was that of femme fatale. My command of French is practically nonexistent, but even to my untrained ear, fatale sounds too much like fatal. And fatal reminds me of Lance sprawled deader ’n a doornail, as Bernie so eloquently phrased it.
“Well . . . ?”
Krystal’s voice jerked me back to the present. “No, of course not,” I said. “It’s an open audition.”
“Great,” she replied, breaking into a smile. “I wondered if it was only for residents of Serenity Cove. Since technically I’m only a visitor and not a resident . . .”
“By all means come. You’re welcome to try out for the part.” I found a spot for the expensive—and unappreciated—pet food on a pantry shelf. “Besides, you won’t be the only nonresident in the play. Eric Olsen, that nice young policeman from Brookdale, is playing the part of detective. Do you have acting experience?”
Krystal busied herself rearranging the stack of mail lying on the counter. “Ah, I was in the drama club in high school. And I had a small part in a road show of Grease.”
“Grease?” I nearly knocked over a box of Cheerios. “As in John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John? The ‘grease is the word’ kind of Grease?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.” She shrugged. “I was Marty Maraschino.”
“Wow!” I said, truly impressed. “With those credentials, maybe we don’t even need an audition. You’ll be a shooin.”
“That wouldn’t be fair. I don’t want people saying I won the role just because I’m staying with you.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Who would have guessed Krystal would turn out to be a genuine actress in the guise of a pregnant waitress and resident cat lover? “I know my friend Monica is determined to read for the part.”
“Monica? You mean Mrs. Pulaski?”
“The one and only.” One Monica is quite enough, thank you very much.
“Then it’s all set. Can I hitch a ride with you tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” I was beginning to feel like a soccer mom ferrying Krystal back and forth. Maybe I should bribe Bill’s buddy with a batch of cookies to work faster on her Honda. It was worth a try.
“Guess I’ll go to my room and read over the script one more time.” She started to leave but turned back. “I forgot to mention I turned off the ringer on the phone. And, while you’re at it, you might want to check your answering machine. I think I heard someone leave a message.”
“Right, thanks.”
Groceries stored and kitchen tidy, I entered the room I tentatively refer to as the library. Its name had gone through a series of changes during the time I lived there—den, study, and finally, library. The word seems a trifle ostentatious for a room boasting a humble magazine rack. Once the play is over, I’m going to ask Bill to build some bookshelves. And while he’s at it, I’ll apply my feminine wi
les. Poor guy will never know what hit him.
The little red light on the answering machine flashed impatiently. Pressing the button, I heard not the voice of an aspiring actor, but that of Tammy Lynn Snow.
Miz McCall, drawled the familiar voice, I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon. Sheriff wants you in his office first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp, he said. The message clicked off.
I glanced at the clock. It was too late to call now to learn the reason for the summons; Tammy Lynn had probably left for the day. If nervous tension caused weight loss, I’d be skinny as a rail come morning.
I decided to bide my time at the Koffee Kup after giving Krystal a ride to work the following morning. There was no sense going home only to turn around for my meeting with the sheriff. I instructed her to keep my tank—I mean cup—topped off with high octane. None of that decaf for me. I needed every spare molecule of caffeine I could swallow.
“And, Krystal, bring a slice of lemon meringue pie to go along with the coffee.”
She looked at me oddly. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for pie?”
“Just bring it.” So much for being skinny as a rail. Guess nervous tension can work in one of two ways. At this rate, I’d be round as a Teletubby before the appointed hour. I didn’t care if all the other early birds were chowing down on eggs and grits; I needed fortification. And for me fortification came in the form of lemon pie heaped mile high with fluffy white meringue.
I glanced up as the door of the diner swung open and Bill sauntered through. My heart went into its familiar tap dance at the sight of him. Flap-brush-step. Flap-brush-step. My, oh, my. Our eyes met. He smiled; my heart cheered. I may be getting a little old for such a robust cardiovascular workout, but I’ll die happy.
He wove through the tables, working his way toward my booth. I racked my brain for witty repartee—or even mediocre repartee. “Hey, Bill,” I said, and winced inwardly at the inane attempt.
“Hey, yourself.”
Not sure whether I mentioned this, but here in the South, hey replaces its northern counterpart, hi. It’s one of the few Southernisms I’ve adopted. I’ve been dying to sprinkle y’all into conversations with my children, but I haven’t found a way to do it without sounding hokey. Y’all coming from a Yankee loses something in the translation.
“Mind if I join you?” Bill asked.
Mind? Was he kidding? “No, of course not,” I said, trying to sound offhand. Bill slid into the booth opposite me. Krystal returned, coffeepot in one hand, pie in the other. “Hey, Mr. Lewis. What can I get you?” she said, beaming a bright smile at him.
Bill beamed right back. “I’ll have what Kate’s having.”
“Pie versus grits?” I said when Krystal left after filling Bill’s cup. “We’re starting a trend.”
“No contest.” He sipped his coffee. “I once let a waitress bully me into trying grits. Damned if I didn’t catch her watching to see if I ate them or not. Might as well have been eating wallpaper paste far as I was concerned.”
“Many of the finer restaurants feature shrimp ’n grits on their menus. It’s considered a delicacy.”
“I’ve noticed. Maybe someday I’ll give it a try—or not.”
The subject of grits exhausted, we lapsed into companionable silence.
“What brings you into town this early? Aren’t you usually at Tai Chi about now?” Bill asked.
Tai Chi would certainly have been preferable to being skewered by Sheriff Wiggins. He’d put me through the paces faster than Marian, our Tai Chi instructor. A tiny part of me warmed at the knowledge Bill was aware of my habits. Another part, not quite so tiny, was reluctant to tell him about my summons to the sheriff’s office. I didn’t have the foggiest notion why the man wanted to see me, but it couldn’t be good.
“Ah, I, er, have an appointment this morning,” I managed to stammer. “What about you?”
“Me, too, have a meeting, that is.”
Before I could decide to pursue or abandon the topic of meetings, Krystal returned with Bill’s pie. She presented the perfectly centered slice of lemon meringue as regally as a cupcake to the queen. She flashed another bright smile at him, and, I swear, batted her eyelashes. “Here you go. Anything else I can get you?”
The green-eyed monster opened its mouth and took a bite. Was Bill frequenting the diner for more than pastries? Maybe to admire Krystal’s Barbie-doll bosom? Jealousy? At my age? I quickly squashed the thought as unworthy.
“No, thanks, Krystal,” he said.
She went off, but not before I noticed the wink she gave him. Sheesh! How was a card-carrying member of AARP supposed to compete with a woman half her age? And a pregnant one to boot.
Oblivious of any undercurrents, Bill dug into his pie. “So, tonight’s the big night.”
I stared at him blankly before it dawned on me. “Right,” I said, relieved to have my mind functioning again. “The audition.”
“Suppose we’ll have a big turnout?”
I shoved my empty plate aside. “If my phone’s ringing off the hook is any indication, we will. News about Lance has drawn a lot of attention. Gotten folks curious.”
“I don’t know the first thing about judging auditions. How do you propose we go about this?”
“I thought we’d take our cue from American Idol. You can be Simon.”
Bill looked at me over his coffee cup. “Is he the good-looking, popular one?”
“That’s the one. You have until seven p.m. to brush up on a British accent. Since I hate giving anyone bad news, I’m appointing myself Paula. I’ll just tell everyone how great they look.” I held up my hand to ward off any objections. “I know, I know. She’s no longer on the show, but she was always my favorite.”
“What about Janine? Who’s she supposed to be?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “She’s going to be Randy Jackson.”
Bill polished off the last of his pie. “Isn’t Randy a man?” “Yeah.” I drained the last of my coffee. “And to complicate matters further, he’s black. Janine’s going to have to ad-lib.”
I glanced at my watch. “Gotta run.”
“Me, too.” Bill dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then reached for his wallet, extracted some cash, and tossed it on the table. And I thought I was a generous tipper. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Guess so,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door. Unless, that is, the sheriff threw me in the slammer for withholding evidence, aiding and abetting, or the old standby, obstruction of justice.
Chapter 21
It was silly to drive to the sheriff’s office when I could have just as easily walked. Since I skipped Tai Chi, I could’ve used the exercise. I was afraid, however, that if I left my car parked near the diner, I might’ve been tempted to return for more fortification in the form of lemon meringue pie.
I happened to look into my rearview mirror and watch as Bill pulled into the parking space behind me. As I opened the car door, I spotted Monica and Rita approaching from the opposite direction. Rita waved when she saw me. Monica merely grimaced. It appeared we were all headed for the same destination. Did that mean we were all going to be charged with a laundry list of felonies? Could we choose our cell mates?
Bill, always the gentleman, held the door open as we filed in.
Bernie Mason looked up from a dog-eared issue of Field & Stream as we entered. “What’re you guys doin’ here?”
Gus Smith was present, too, but he merely grunted.
Tammy Lynn, drab as usual, dressed head to toe in beige, rose from her desk and did a head count. “Sheriff asked me to show y’all down the hall to the interview room.”
Nervous looks bounced back and forth between us like banked shots off a pool table.
Rita assumed the no-nonsense expression that probably worked well in her former position as branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. “I, for one, would like to know what this is all about,” she demanded.
To her c
redit, Tammy Lynn didn’t falter. She was no shrinking violet about to default on a loan. “Ma’am, the sheriff will explain everythin’. Kindly be patient.”
“Patient?” Monica huffed. “I want to know why we’re being treated like a bunch of criminals when we haven’t done anything wrong.”
“The sheriff will explain,” Tammy Lynn repeated, holding open the door of the interview room.
I was surprised to step inside and find Claudia along with BJ Davenport seated side by side at the battered metal conference table. It was the Claudia of old—almost. Gone was the fire-engine red hair and back was the softer, strawberry blond shade I’d always admired. But gone still were her sparkle and zest.
“Hey, Claudia,” I said by way of greeting, taking the chair next to her.
She mustered a smile. “Hey, yourself.”
We were freshmen assembled for the class I’d come to think of as Inquisition 101. I peered into the corners for telltale torture devices. No thumbscrews in plain sight. No stakes piled high with kindling. But I didn’t trust wily Sheriff Wiggins. As for stakes and kindling, the ever-efficient Miss Tammy Lynn Snow probably kept a supply handy in the storeroom.
The door banged open. At least, it sounded like a bang because it had that kind of effect. We straightened in our seats, our spines erect, our nervous systems on full alert. The sheriff’s entrance seemed to elicit that kind of reaction, even for the pure of heart. This trick was even more impressive than the one-eyebrow lift thingy he’d perfected.
“Mornin’, y’all,” said the Grand Inquisitor himself.
We seemed to be suffering from an epidemic of lockjaw. Even BJ held his tongue.
The sheriff dragged out the chair left vacant at the head of the table and lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. “Suppose y’all are wonderin’ why I called y’all here. . . .”
My case of lockjaw subsided. Unable to stand the strained silence another second, I piped up, “Not counting you, Sheriff, we have eight people here. Just the right number for two tables of bunco. Anyone bring dice?”
