'Til Dice Do Us Part (33 page)

“Oh, dear,” I gasped, realizing how I must’ve sounded. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry if . . .”

Oops! This conversation had taken a decided turn for the worse. First, I acknowledged buying him cheap gifts. Next, I suggested he was lacking in the wisdom department. Then, to top it off, I questioned his competency. Good thing the man wasn’t the sensitive sort.

“Knowin’ how you like to play Nancy Drew, tell me everythin’ you found out about the dozens of folks lined up to off Mr. Ledeaux.”

That was all the encouragement I needed to launch into an account of what I’d learned about Nadine and Krystal and their relationship with Lance. “But,” I concluded, “I don’t think either of them killed him. I was just using them as an example of people who
might
want to harm Mr. Ledeaux.”

He dropped the casual pose, leaning forward, his huge hands folded on the desk in front of him. “I admire your efforts on behalf of your friend, but it’s not up to me to decide whether or not she’s guilty of murder. That’ll be up to a jury of her peers. Now, if there’s nothin’ else . . .”

I started to rise, when a thought occurred to me. Maybe I needed to heed my own advice and think outside the box; color outside the lines, so to speak. Whoever killed Lance had been clever and cunning—a real pro, not a rank amateur.

All this time, I’d conveniently overlooked—or ignored—the fact that there might be a real pro, an honest-to-goodness criminal, in our midst. The time had come to shift the focus of my investigation. If there truly was a cold-blooded murderer in Serenity Cove—and I shuddered at the thought—then I knew where to begin my search.

“Actually, there is one more thing,” I said.

Those pitch-black eyes of his rolled heavenward. I thought I heard a groan, but it might have been his chair squeaking.

“It occurred to me that any person living in Serenity Cove Estates or in the vicinity could be the guilty party. All the residents have access to the rec center. It would have been a simple matter to slip in or out. Marietta Perkins admitted to Connie Sue Brody that the place was so busy that night, she had a hard time keeping track of comings and goings.”

The sheriff sighed, a sound that started at the soles of his polished size-thirteen oxfords and worked its way up through six feet two inches of muscle and attitude. “I’m sure, Miz McCall, you’ll get to the point sooner or later. I’d prefer sooner if it’s all the same to you.”

I clutched the strap of my shoulder bag like a lifeline—which was exactly what I was trying to cling to in a last-ditch effort to save Claudia. “I wondered if you’d be kind enough, Sheriff, to allow me to look through your old Most Wanted posters. I know it’s a long shot, but you can never tell what might turn up.”

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.”

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.” Now, 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.