by Gail Oust
When he looked undecided, I dangled a carrot. “Besides, that will keep me out of your hair for hours, possibly days or even weeks.”
“Sure thing,” he said, brightening at the prospect. “I’ll have Tammy Lynn set you up in the interrogation room.”
Good as his word, the sheriff followed through on his offer. Minutes later I found myself ensconced in the drab and dreary windowless room where I’d been warned about sins of omission.
“Here you go, ma’am.” Tammy Lynn plunked an arm-load of dusty binders on the table in front of me.
I eyed the heap with grim determination. I’d no idea how daunting the task would be. It’d keep me busy all right, clear into the next millennium.
“Holler if you need anythin’ else,” Tammy Lynn said as she departed.
Heaving a sigh that rivaled the sheriff’s, I got down to business. Felons, as I’ve previously noted, came in all sizes, shapes, and colors. I was happy to discover that the FBI had very thoughtfully had age enhancement done on some but not all of the fugitives. Makeovers are always a hit—even when done at the government’s behest. Bald or thinning gray hair, medium build, average height. The social security crowd of felons, I discovered, would seamlessly blend into any retirement community in the country.
My eyes lingered on one photo in particular that looked vaguely familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t think why. Blame it on one of those danged senior moments. It was the caption underneath the picture, however, that really caught my attention. Loves to leave a calling card, often in the form of a dead animal. Were dead canaries or snakes considered dead animals? I wondered.
Frowning, I drummed my fingertips against the tabletop and played Place the Face, but without success. I read, then reread the man’s bio. Guido, or whatever name he went by, was the reputed right-hand man of Bennie “the Thumb” Sisserone, a big-time Vegas mobster. According to the information on the poster, Guido was wanted for his role in connection with organized crime. Racketeering and extortion might have been mentioned, but played second fiddle to fifteen counts of murder. He was definitely not the type you’d want as a next-door neighbor.
I sneezed as I flipped through yet another binder and wished for the umpteenth time I’d taken an allergy pill. But at least, I consoled myself, I was doing something constructive.
I lost track of time until Tammy Lynn poked her head in the door. “Can I get you anythin’, Miz McCall, before I leave for the day?”
“Leave for the day?” A glance at my watch had me slamming binders shut. “I didn’t realize the time. Janine will kill me if I’m late.”
“Here, let me help.”
Between the two of us, we collected all the binders and stacked them on storeroom shelves. “I’ll be back Monday to go through the rest,” I told her.
“No problem. Just help yourself. If the interrogation room is in use, I’ll clear off part of my desk for you.”
“Thanks, honey. You’ve been a big help.”
Tammy Lynn gave me tentative smile. “Ah, ma’am, when you see Eric tonight, tell him Tammy Lynn Snow said, ‘Break a leg.’”
I smiled back. “I’ll do just that.”
Chapter 39
Monica accosted me the instant I stepped foot inside the rec center. “You’re late,” she scolded. “Janine wanted us here fifteen minutes ago.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled, making a beeline for the auditorium with Monica nipping at my heels.
“Honestly, Kate, I don’t know where your head is sometimes. What could be more important than being on time?”
Pam and Diane stopped setting up a ticket table long enough to wave. “Knock ’em dead,” Pam called after me.
I was relieved when Monica scurried off to bust someone else for a minor infraction. As I ran up the stage steps, I spied Bill, looking good with a tool belt slung low on his narrow hips. He was busily making last-minute adjustments to a set he’d built to resemble a drawing room. He must’ve been inspired by a visit to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, because it looked like the real deal. He’s got talent, that man.
He gave me a thumbs-up as I passed. “Break a leg.”
Connie Sue spotted me as soon as I entered the dressing room. “C’mon, sugar. Let me put some color on those cheeks. You’re lookin’ a mite peaked.” Looping her arm through mine, she guided me toward the mirror, nudged me into a chair, and went to work.
There was enough makeup spread along the counter to stock a department store: wands of lipstick and mascara, pots of blush and eye shadow, brushes, big and little, fat and skinny, foundation in a variety of shades. Then there were hair products, spray, rollers, blow-dryers, curling irons, and flat irons. Connie Sue seemed perfectly at ease amidst all the paraphernalia; her comfort level probably came from her days as a reigning beauty queen.
Polly darted about, adding accessories to various costumes, a scarf here, a brooch there. “Here,” she said, presenting me with what at first glance appeared to be a dead skunk.
“Eeuww! What is that?”
“A wig, silly. Found it at the dollar store.” Not waiting for a response, she nudged Connie Sue aside and proceeded to tug the dang thing over my scalp. “This’ll go perfect with the orthopedic shoes and support hose.”
“Perfect,” I muttered in disgust.
“Wait ’til you see what else I found for you.” She dangled a contraption before my eyes that might have been used in the Middle Ages to torture heretics.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” I asked, dreading the answer.
“It’s a corset,” Connie Sue explained. “Meemaw had one just like it that she let us kids use to play dress-up. It’ll give your character a nice erect posture.”
“You’ll look like an authentic housekeeper once I’m finished with you,” Polly chortled with glee. “Don’t know when I’ve had this much fun. Probably not since before Gloria made me stop dressing up for Halloween.”
While I squirmed into ugly surgical stockings, I cast envious glances at Gloria, who played the secretary to Gus’s character, Troy. Except for wearing makeup, which, by the way, looked quite flattering on her, she was dressed in her usual drab polyester pantsuit and a long strand of pearls. Lucky girl, no orthopedic shoes, no support hose, no wig—and no danged corset. I didn’t expect Myrna to wear fishnet stockings and a miniskirt, but surely Polly could have found a compromise.
As soon as I was properly outfitted and made-up, I left the chaos in the dressing room to find a quiet spot backstage. It took only a split second to realize a quiet place didn’t exist. I blundered right into the middle of an argument between Bert and Ernie. Oops, I meant to say Mort and Bernie. I always confuse the pair with the Sesame Street duo.
“You moron, you never listen to me,” Bernie shouted. “I’m warning you: Do it that way and you’ll blow a fuse.”
Mort got right in Bernie’s face. “I blow a fuse, all right, every time I hear your bellyaching.”
“Only an idiot would take on a job when they don’t know beans about what they’re doing.”
“Butt out.” Mort’s face was an alarming shade of red. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”
Bernie gestured wildly toward a tangle of cords lying in a heap. “Any fool can see you’ve got too many electrical cords for a single outlet to handle.”
“If you don’t like the way I’m doing things, do it yourself,” Mort sneered. “I quit.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Rita, looking every bit the stage manager with her headset, caught hold of Mort’s arm before he could stalk off. “We need both of you if there’s any hope of pulling this off tonight. I’m asking you to put aside your differences and do your job.”
I marveled at Rita’s composure. She remained unflappable in a sea of chaos; steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. It took a lot to rattle that woman.
“Bernie,” she said, draping her arm over his shoulder, “I’d like you to go into the dressing room and help Gus get ready for act one. He needs help with his tie.” No
w, Rita is a plus-sized gal, standing eye level with Bernie and outweighing him by a lot. She could probably go ten rounds with him without breaking a sweat. I knew that and, from his sheepish expression, Bernie knew it, too.
After Bernie trotted off, Rita turned to Mort. “In spite of what Bernie said, Mort, you’re doing a great job with the lights. Why don’t you check with Bill and see if he has an extra power strip that might help the fuse situation.”
“Sure thing, Rita. A power strip might do the trick.”
“And, Mort,” Rita called after him, “don’t forget to wear your headset so we can communicate throughout the show if we have to.”
The headsets, I’m proud to say, had been Bill’s idea. He found just what we needed at Radio Shack. I thought it made our little amateur production look very professional. Lance Ledeaux would’ve been proud.
From the rising noise level, I could tell the auditorium was starting to fill. When I peeked between a crack in the curtains, my stomach did a flip-flop. Tara and a friend from the day care center, programs in hand, ushered a steady stream of people down the aisle. If Claudia were here, she’d get a kick out of this. The pre-Lance Claudia, that is, not the post-Lance version.
I noticed Nadine Peterson near the front, looking in dire need of a smoke. From a distance she looked quite attractive with her dark hair, bright lipstick, and eerie green eyes. Tammy Lynn Snow, accompanied by a young man bearing a close family resemblance, took their seats in the next row. The young man was most likely her brother and Eric Olsen’s friend, I thought.
Polly tugged at my sleeve. “Wait ’til you see Gus. I convinced him to wear a hairpiece. It occurred to me that anyone named Troy ought to have a full head of hair.”
“And he went along with the idea?”
She grinned wickedly. “Well, I used a little cajolery. Told him how handsome he looked. Insisted it took ten or fifteen years off his age. Gotta check on Krystal and Megan one last time before the curtain goes up. Break a leg!” she said as she scurried off.
“All right, everyone.” Janine, looking arty dressed head to toe in black, motioned us into a huddle. “This is it, the big night. Knock ’em dead.”
Rita spoke into her headset to Mort, and the house-lights dimmed. The acrobat I seemed to have swallowed executed a series of somersaults and backflips in my stomach. Feather duster in hand, I stepped onto the stage.
By the time we got to act three, I was actually beginning to relax and enjoy myself. So far so good; in spite of numerous invocations, none of us had broken a leg—or even sprained an ankle. I wished my kids were present to witness my glorious stage debut, though I doubted they’d recognize their own mother in the getup I wore. I scarcely recognized myself. I looked more like the Mama character Vicki Lawrence once played in the old Carol Burnett skits than Kate McCall, amateur sleuth. I never thought at my age I’d be bitten by the acting bug. Perhaps I should give up my fantasy of becoming a crime scene investigator and make a career out of playing middle-aged, frumpy house-keepers. After all, life ain’t no dress rehearsal.
Both Krystal as Roxanne and Gus as Troy were doing a bang-up job—a couple of pros. I felt nerves flutter anew as the shooting scene drew near. I should have been used to this. It happened every time we got to the part where Claudia shoots Lance. It didn’t require much imagination to envision Lance’s inert body lying center stage, a bloodred boutonniere on his yellow oxford cloth shirt.
Drawing a deep breath, I entered, announced the arrival of the villain, ably played by Bernie Mason, then exited stage right to watch the rest of the scene unfold. I braced myself for the part where Krystal/Roxanne tells Bernie’s character, Take that! And that, and that!
As the tension mounted, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Glancing across the stage, I chanced to find Gus Smith watching me, a strange expression on his face. Our eyes happened to meet and a weird thing happened. Maybe it was the brightly striped red and yellow tie he wore that triggered my memory; I’ll never know. But whatever it was, I suddenly remembered the rhyme about the snake.
Red touch black, friend of Jack. Red touching yellow, kill a fellow.
Gus Smith was the snake—a poisonous one at that. I was staring into the face of Guido, “the Killer Pimp,” one of the FBI’s most wanted. My mind flashed back to the volumes of mug shots I’d stared at for the better part of the afternoon. I now knew why one of the faces had looked so familiar. Even though the man in the photo hadn’t been smiling, his lips had been slightly parted—parted just enough to reveal a gap between the top two incisors. It was the exact same gap I was seeing now.
Chapter 40
Guido . . . ? I mouthed.
The final piece of the Rubik’s Cube clicked into place. Strange as it may sound, viewing the man from a distance brought everything into sharper focus. Admittedly, the stage makeup and hairpiece helped. The time I’d spent examining Most Wanted posters at the sheriff’s office and the post office paid off in aces. I was staring at an honest-to-goodness hit man. I was face-to-face with Guido, “the Killer Pimp.”
Claudia had admitted Lance had a gambling problem. They’d had to leave Vegas early. What if Lance had gotten in over his head with Bennie, “the Thumb”? What if Bennie had wanted to make an example of Lance and ordered a hit? This made perfect sense. I’d read enough mysteries, seen enough movies, to make the connection.
But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question remained: Did Guido suspect I was on to him?
I swallowed hard. The man hadn’t avoided capture all these years by being stupid. His slitty-eyed, hard-mouthed stare was making me uneasy. I took that look as a yes. He was on to me big-time. I thought of the three a.m. phone call, the canary that used to sing, the snake on my doorstep. Next time he might not be so subtle. I was suddenly terrified. Even surrounded by others, I was no match against a certified killer. My mouth went dry; my heartbeat revved. Was EMS standing by with a defibrillator?
“Psst.” Rita poked me in the ribs. “Kate, wake up. You’re on.”
I gazed at her blankly. “On? On what?”
Janine prodded me toward the stage and whispered, “Was that a shot . . . ?”
A shot? It took me a moment to comprehend what she was saying. It gradually occurred to me she was feeding me my line.
I wandered onto the stage. That’s the only way to describe my entrance, considering the stupor I was in. “Was that a shot . . . ?” I mumbled and felt daggers from Rita and Janine in the wings.
Krystal saw me falter, and being the pro she was, picked up the slack. I’m sure more lines followed, but for the life of me I couldn’t remember them, so I took the only option open to me—I improvised. “I think I’ll bake some cookies,” I declared in my best theatrical persona.
From the surprised expressions of my fellow cast members, I sensed cookies had nothing whatsoever to do with the scene. Krystal shot me a dirty look, then valiantly forged onward toward the conclusion. Gloria, Gus/Guido/ Troy’s secretary, made a premature entrance, no doubt confused by the script change. “W-was that a shot I just heard?” she stammered.
In the wings, I glimpsed Rita’s stricken expression as Forever, My Darling began to unravel. Janine and Monica looked equally appalled.
At this point Gus/Guido entered and, true to the script, uttered his lines of dialogue proclaiming to an overjoyed Krystal/Roxanne that he hadn’t been killed, but only wounded.
“I’ll empty the dishwasher,” I announced, projecting my voice like Janine had instructed.
Again the glitch, the awkward pause, as the entire cast struggled to incorporate my odd behavior into the context of the play. Only Gus Smith and I seemed to be on the same page—a page invisible to everyone but us.
“You stepped on my lines,” Krystal hissed angrily as I exited stage right.
The second I was offstage I ran to find Bill. I found him standing next to Mort at the light board. A jumble of electrical cords covered the floor like vines in an Amazon rain forest. Normally, I have a
proclivity for men in tool belts—especially ones with pretty blue eyes—but tonight I ignored my libido. I had other things on the agenda.
Bill looked up when he saw me, his eyes full of concern.
I yanked him aside, not wanting Mort to overhear. “G-Gus,” I said, unable to keep the quaver from my voice. “Gus murdered Lance.”
He drew me back even farther. “That’s a pretty serious charge,” he said in a hushed voice. “What makes you so sure?”
“I saw his picture in the sheriff’s office—on a Most Wanted poster.” My words tumbled over one another in their haste to be said. “He’s Guido, ‘the Killer Pimp,’ hit man for crime boss Bennie ‘the Thumb’ Sisserone.”
“You’re certain he’s the same man?”
“Yes . . . no, maybe.” I wrung my hands, something I’d never done before in my entire life, but there’s a time and place for everything. “With the hairpiece, he looks exactly like the guy I saw in the mug shot. He’s one and the same, right down to the gap between his front teeth.”
Bill raked a hand through his hair. “Jeez, Kate, even if he is this Guido person, why would he kill Lance?”
I latched on to his shirt front with both hands and shook him. “Work with me, Bill! Work with me! I don’t have time for lengthy explanations. Guido is on to me. The play is in the last scene before the final curtain. The minute it’s over, he’s going to split, and we’ll never see him again. Claudia will be up a creek without a paddle. We can’t let that happen.”
Or he could try to silence me for good.
“What do you want me to do?”
I glanced about frantically. There’s never a sheriff around when you need one. Then I remembered Eric Olsen. He might not be a flinty-eyed sheriff, but he was law enforcement. Any port in a storm, right? “Eric, where’s Eric?”
Bill peered over his shoulder. “Right now he’s onstage.”
I groaned inwardly. No help from that quarter. This was Eric’s big moment, where he confronts Krystal/Roxanne about shooting the villainous Bernie. I made an executive decision. “Call the sheriff. Tell him what I just told you and for him to get out here RN.”
