'Til Dice Do Us Part (5 page)

“Questions?” I mumbled, trying to collect my wits after overhearing the fight between Claudia and Lance. Now, I’m no relationship guru like Dr. Phil, but I’d bet my last bag of M&M’s this marriage was in trouble—big trouble. Lance Ledeaux seemed hell-bent on sucking Claudia’s nest egg dry. And Claudia wasn’t about to take the nest egg- sucking lying down.

“Hey, everyone.” Claudia turned and greeted us with a smile—a smile as phony as the creep she married. He was nothing more than a scam artist. I almost said “cheap” scam artist, but there was nothing cheap about someone set to rob you blind.

Lance looked spiffy in his fitted black jeans and yellow oxford cloth shirt with a black cashmere cable knit sweater artfully draped over his shoulders. The sweater alone probably cost a week’s worth of groceries for a family of four. He didn’t bother with a welcome but looked pointedly at his watch. Knowing his proclivity for the expensive, I wondered if the Rolex was real or a clever knockoff.

“As soon as everyone’s here, we’re going to run through act three, scene one,” he announced, doing his best commander-in-chief imitation. “No one leaves until we get it right.”

The announcement was met by a chorus of groans. The only good thing about that night’s rehearsal was that all the cast members didn’t have to subject themselves to Lance’s edicts. This meant that of the cast, only Claudia, Lance, Bernie Mason, and I needed to be present, in addition to a crew that included Monica, Rita, Bill, and his ever-present shadow, Gus. The remainder of the cast, Gloria, Megan, and Eric Olsen, a nice young man and a member of the Brookdale police force, had the night off. Lucky them. What a shame I wasn’t a tad younger; I would have tried out for Megan’s part—the role of ingénue.

All of us trooped up the steps to the stage.

Bill approached Lance, who was inspecting an array of props spread out on a table. “Ah, Lance, do you have a minute?”

Lance looked up with a scowl. If one didn’t know better, one would have thought he’d never laid eyes on Bill before. “Bill, isn’t it?”

For crying out loud, Bill was an easy name. Nothing complicated about it. How hard was it to remember the man who’d stepped up to the plate and graciously offered to build whatever set he wanted?

“Now?” Lance’s scowl darkened even more.

“Yes, now.”

I had to give Bill credit. He didn’t cave beneath Lance’s attempt at intimidation. Here was Lance all decked out in Ralph Lauren and Rolex. And then there was Bill in Levi’s and Timex. Do I have to come right out and say who won my vote?

“There’s a matter we need to discuss,” Bill said, all business.

“Can’t it wait?”

“Not if you want a set for opening night.”

Lance assumed a put-upon look. “Very well.”

“Gus and I spent all afternoon going over the diagram you gave us for the set.”

Lance rocked back on the heels of his polished loafers. “So what’s the problem? Too complicated?”

Bill’s color deepened at the implied insult. The rest of us eavesdropped shamelessly while pretending not to. Some leafed through the script; others developed a sudden interest in the display of props.

“I can build your damn set with my eyes closed. That’s not the trouble.”

“So, Bill, suppose you tell me just what the ‘trouble’ is so we can get on with rehearsal.”

“It all boils down to the matter of money. Who’s going to pay for materials? Lowe’s isn’t about to hand them over out of the goodness of their heart.”

Now it was Lance’s turn to redden as he seemed to sense all eyes fixed on him. Everyone ceased what they were doing in order to watch and listen to the minidrama being enacted right under their noses.

It was Claudia who broke the awkward silence and came to her bridegroom’s rescue. “I’ll give you my credit card, Bill. Lance can repay me from the proceeds.”

Lance rubbed his hands together. “Good. It’s settled, then.”

At that precise moment, the auditorium door swung open and Bernie Mason sidled through. If pressed to describe the man, I’d call him a string bean with a bad comb-over. He always put me in mind of Bert, the character from
Sesame Street
. Kind of tall, gawky, and slow on the uptake. Like Gloria, however, Bernie showed an uncanny knack for the dramatic. He made a perfect villain in Lance’s little drama.

“Good of you to grace us with your presence, Mr. Mason.” Lance’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Bernie ambled over, a hangdog expression on his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Car trouble.”

Monica nudged me in the ribs. “Likely story. Guy probably can’t tell time.”

“Be nice,” Rita whispered.

“Places, everyone,” Lance barked. “Get ready to run through act three, scene one.”

This was the part where all the action took place—the part where Claudia’s character, Roxanne, confronts the villain who brags he just killed her lover and tells her she’ll be his next victim unless she goes along with his blackmail scheme. She does what any red-blooded woman would do—she shoots him. At least that’s what happens in Lance’s version of what a red-blooded woman caught up in those circumstances would do.

“Let’s go through the scene first without props, then a second time with them.”

Claudia, Bernie, and I took our places.

As I mentioned, I played the part of Myrna, the housekeeper. Putting on what I imagined to be my best housekeeper countenance, I entered the pretend living room and announced that the lady of the house had a visitor. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill give me the thumbs-up as I exited stage right.

Claudia ran through her lines, but her heart clearly wasn’t in her performance. Bernie Mason was even worse. He kept flubbing his dialogue. When Lance berated him, Bernie admitted he’d been spending most of his time on the golf course instead of memorizing lines.

Lance, obviously frustrated, ran his fingers through his hair. No amount of spray could help a hairstyle withstand that amount of torture. If Lance happened to glance in a mirror, he’d scare himself. His usually smooth blow-dried style stood up in spikes. “How hard can it be, people, to inject a little emotion? Didn’t anyone believe me when I said we’re going to stay until we get this right—even if it takes all night?”

Rita and Monica exchanged looks. Neither looked happy at Lance’s decree. Bill and Gus kept their heads bent over a set of blueprints. There was no telling what they were thinking—probably calling Lance a big fat jerk like the rest of us.

“Let’s take five, everyone. Then we’ll run through the scene again. Bernie, you stand aside and watch while I show a bunch of amateurs how it’s supposed to be done. Maybe using the props will inject some life into this scene.”

“Take five” always sounds so . . . so . . . theatrical. But I quickly learned that in reality the five invariably turns into ten—and occasionally fifteen. We milled about, chitchat-ted, took bathroom breaks, and complained about Lance. No one seemed to like the guy.

“The man’s an idiot,” Bill said in a low voice. “A complete and total idiot.”

“Let’s hope Claudia comes to her senses before it’s too late,” I said, remembering the argument I’d overheard.

Bill’s look sharpened. “What do you mean?”

I glanced over my shoulder and saw Lance look at his probably fake Rolex. The take-five break was over. I needed to confide in someone, but this was not the time or place. “Later,” I told Bill. “Why don’t you stop over for coffee and lemon bars?” Do I know how to play the seductress, or not?

He thought about it for a second, then nodded. “OK.”

We resumed our places onstage.

“Claudia”—Lance pointed a finger at her—“I want to see you put some fire into your lines.”

Tightlipped, Claudia gestured at the table holding the props. “Is the gun real?”

“Of course,” Lance snarled. “What did you think we were going to use—a cap pistol?”

“I didn’t know . . .” Her voice trailed off.

“Don’t be such a wuss. Just remember what I told you earlier, and you’ll be fine.”

Monica jumped to perform her duty as prop princess. Oops! I meant prop mistress. She gingerly placed the gun on a small table temporarily substituting as a desk, then retreated to the sidelines.

Claudia assumed her place center stage. “One more time, Lance. Then I’m calling it quits.”

“That’s for the director to decide, and, in case you’ve forgotten, that happens to be me.”

“Will you two stop bickering?” Rita folded her arms across her impressive bosom, a disgusted look on her face. “Can we please get on with rehearsal?”

Lance huffed out a breath. “Remember, people, this is the scene where Roxanne, Claudia’s character, confronts the man who brags he murdered her soul mate. I don’t want puppets. I want action. I want drama. I want emotion!”

I cleared my throat, then nodded to Monica, who pressed a buzzer serving as a doorbell. Our esteemed producer-director-writer-star wanted drama? Wanted emotion? Would my character, Myrna, be more interesting as a bipolar housekeeper—one who forgot to take her meds? Would Lance applaud my portrayal and nominate me for best actress in a supporting role? Or should I play it straight? Knowing the limitations of my acting ability, I played it straight. I entered, recited my lines, and exited, leaving Lance, subbing for Bernie, and Claudia-Roxanne to their big scene.

Claudia looked decidedly more animated this run-through. Lance read Bernie’s lines, in which he brags to Roxanne that he killed her lover and now intends to blackmail her.

I watched from the wings along with the others while she opened a pretend desk drawer and pulled out a gun.

She took aim at the villain’s chest. “Take that! And that and that!” she cried as she fired three rounds.

Lance fell to the floor. A single red blossom stained the front of his yellow oxford cloth shirt.

“He’s not moving.”

Claudia dismissed Rita’s concern with a wave of her hand. “Of course not, silly. He’s a pro, bent on showing us mere
amateurs
a thing or two about acting.”

And then it dawned on me.

Suddenly my brain cells fired on all cylinders. “Was Lance ever on
CSI
?” I asked.

Claudia shrugged. “Yeah, he had a bit part a couple years ago.”

A distant image floated across my memory bank and crystallized. “I think I remember the episode. Did he once play a corpse?”

Memory is a strange thing. At times I can recall the smallest, most insignificant details. Other times I suffer senior moments—those irritating lapses when you remember a face but not the name; times you hope your children never know about. They’d send you packing to Assisted Living ’R Us in a New York minute.

“Yes, he did.” Claudia let loose a harsh bark of laughter. “Let me tell you, I’m sick and tired of hearing about sexy Marg Helgenberger, who plays Catherine Willows on the show. Marg’s the reason I dyed my hair this color.”

Respect for Lance inched up a notch. I might not like the guy personally, but he had talent. Real talent. Anyone who can lie on a stainless steel table, a Y incision plainly visible on his torso, while a camera hovers overhead wins my sincere admiration. Not a single twitch. Not a blink. No slight rise and fall of the chest. Yes, sirree, someone who could play a corpse on
CSI
was truly gifted.

Rita edged closer. “You mean Lance is just pretending he’s dead?”

Monica’s dark brows drew together in a frown. “If he’s faking, why’s there blood on his shirt?”

Hmm. Monica posed a good question—a very good question.

Claudia’s mouth twisted into a humorless smile. “Because it’s not blood. It’s dye.”

“Dye?” Monica repeated, obviously in need of convincing. “Why would Lance ruin a perfectly good shirt?”

“He wouldn’t.” Claudia huffed out a breath. “Especially if it’s Ralph Lauren. Lance claimed the dye is biodegradable. Guaranteed not to stain.”

I studied Lance’s supine figure, sprawled across the floorboards. He still hadn’t moved a muscle or fluttered an eyelid. Let me be the first to say this: Lance Ledeaux could have won an Emmy for his portrayal of a dead guy.

“So what’s the deal with the dye?” Bill asked.

“It’s a Hollywood thing. I’ll show you.”

Rita took the gun from Claudia and returned it to the table that held the props.

“Are you sure we should just leave him here?” I wondered out loud.

“Don’t worry about Lance, he’s fine. He’s just showing off.”

We took our cue from Claudia and followed her, eager to make our acquaintance with a bonafide piece of Hollywood trivia. She picked up what appeared to be a miniature plastic pillow and held it between her thumb and forefinger for our inspection. “These are dye packs. He got them from a guy he knew in special effects at one of the studios.”

“Interesting,” I murmured. “They remind me of the things I use in my dishwasher.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” Rita ventured. “The all-in-one kind. They’re so much more convenient than those messy powders.”

“I like them, too,” Monica chimed. “I switched after I heard Janine mention them.”

Bill picked up one of the dye packs and turned it over in his fingers. Gus peered over his shoulder. “How are these things supposed to work?”

“Lance taped three of them to his chest,” Claudia explained. “He rigged them in such a way they’d activate with a handheld remote.”

I glanced over my shoulder at Lance sprawled inert on center stage. “He hasn’t budged.”

We deserted the prop table and trooped over to study the still form.

Bill nudged him with the toe of his shoe. “OK, Ledeaux, you can get up now. You’ve had your fun.”

Rita folded her arms over her ample bosom and scolded, “All that talk, Ledeaux, and now you’re the one holding up rehearsal.”

A nervous sound halfway between a laugh and a bray came from deep within Bernie’s throat. “What did you do, Claudia? Kill the guy?”