'Til Dice Do Us Part

by Gail Oust

  “Don’t be nervous,” I told Krystal as we pulled into the lot at the rec center.

  “I’ll be fine, Kate. No need to worry.”

  Since Krystal didn’t seem to be suffering from a confidence crisis, I did as she suggested and ceased playing mother hen. I couldn’t help but notice the large number of cars already there. Did they belong to late-in-the-day exercise fanatics? Or to a plethora of aspiring actors? My questions were answered the minute I stepped inside.

  “Have to make more copies of the script,” Rita said, rushing past us in the hall outside the auditorium. “We ran out.”

  I swung open the double doors and found a couple dozen people laughing and chatting. A few held scripts but, I surmised, most had come out of curiosity. No one—and I repeat, no one—in Serenity Cove Estates wants to be the last to hear a juicy bit of gossip. We pride ourselves on being well informed.

  I spotted Monica pacing in front of the prop table. Her lips moved as she read from the pages clutched in one hand. Intent on the script, she seemed unaware of the activity surrounding her. She was obviously out to challenge Krystal for Claudia’s role in the play. Too bad she didn’t know ‘Grease was the word,’ Grease in this case being synonymous with Krystal.

  The stage was no longer festooned with yellow crime scene tape, which our legion of bystanders probably found disappointing. I wondered if any had searched the boards for bloodstains. If so, some tech-savvy soul would probably post them on YouTube. Amazing how computer-literate some folks are—folks who grew up watching Howdy Doody and the Ed Sullivan Show on old black-and-white TVs. Guess it goes to prove you can teach old dogs new tricks. Not that I’m admitting to “old,” mind you.

  “Break a leg,” I told Krystal as I hurried to join Bill and Janine, the other two members of Auditions ’R Us who were seated behind a utility table set up at the foot of the stage. “Sorry, Janine,” I said. “I’m going to have to ask you to move.”

  She frowned at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tonight I’m Paula,” I explained. “Everyone knows Paula always sits on Simon’s right.”

  “Who’s Simon?”

  “I’m Simon,” Bill said in a British accent so atrocious it had me rolling my eyes.

  With a shake of her head, Janine switched places. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. If you’re Paula and Bill is Simon, I must be . . .”

  “Randy.”

  “Isn’t there a pretty brunette? And what about the new one?”

  “I thought we’d keep with the original three judges.”

  “OK, OK, I get it. Paula, Simon, and Randy have seniority.”

  I settled into the chair Janine vacated and rummaged through my purse for a notebook and pen.

  Janine leaned closer. “I wonder about you, Kate. First you fixate on all those crime and punishment shows on TV. Now it’s American Idol. Surely so much television can’t be good for a person. Maybe you should find another interest.”

  “Such as?” I could sense Bill following our conversation with interest.

  “Take genealogy as an example. Many people enjoy learning more about their ancestors. I’ve heard there’re some great software programs out there.”

  “I’ll take the matter under advisement,” I said, mimicking Sheriff Wiggins’s words from earlier that day.

  Genealogy vs. Idol? I’m not sure how finding out your great-grandfather was born in a country that no longer exists measures up against young hopefuls competing to become the nation’s new singing sensation. I took Janine’s advice with a grain of salt. I know she meant well.

  “Time to get down to business,” I said. “Janine, your part’s easy. Just keep using the expressions ‘yo dawg’ and ‘Hey, check it out, dude.’ ”

  “What about me?” Bill asked.

  “Just roll your eyes and shake your head after I give my opinion. Easy as pie, right?”

  Janine brought out a notepad and prepared to take notes. “After I check it out, dude, what exactly do you do?”

  I batted my eyelashes and simpered, “I tell everyone how nice they look. I want everyone to like me.”

  Bill gave me a nudge and whispered, “Remind me again why I let you talk me into this.”

  Rita, in her official capacity as stage manager, hustled over to our table. “Here,” she said, placing a sign-up sheet in front of us. “This is a list of the people auditioning. I thought it might be easier if we paired them up. You know . . . male and female. Claudia and Lance? Roxanne and Troy?”

  I skimmed the list and recognized most of the names. Krystal’s, it seemed, had been an add-on.

  “Showtime!” Rita clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “All of you take a seat until your name is called.” She consulted a copy of the list. “Monica, you’ll read with Ed Beckley.”

  Considering the debacle of her earlier audition, I confess to being surprised Monica was giving this another shot. I guess she aspired to greater heights than being the prop princess. I had to hand it to her, though; she had grit. But no matter how hard you tried, grit wasn’t spelled t-a-l-e-n-t.

  Monica and Ed ran through the scene. They had their lines down pat, but infused as much emotion as someone reading the phone book. Next up were Trixie, a gal I knew from golf clinics, and Jerry Buckner, another Serenity Cove resident. Trixie was already complaining that rehearsals would take time away from golf. In spite of her whining, she gave a commendable performance as Roxanne. Jerry, on the other hand, was just this side of terrible.

  “Well,” Bill whispered, “what do you think?”

  “Yo, dude!” Janine growled, getting into the swing of things. “For me that was a little pitchy.”

  Bill’s lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile. “And you, Kate, er, Paula?”

  Smiling demurely, I propped my chin on my folded hands. “Dare to follow the path of your dream.”

  Bill frowned. “I don’t understand a word of what you said.”

  I smiled vacuously and gave his shoulder a playful jab. “Precisely.”

  We—Paula, Simon, and Randy—rocked on through a series of readings. At last, Rita called Krystal front and center. I was shocked, no better word for it, when I heard Gus Smith’s name called as her partner.

  Just as I’d anticipated, Krystal blew away the competition with her rendition of Roxanne. She literally breathed new life into Lance’s insipid dialogue and made the show come alive. Gus, however, caught me totally unaware. The guy was as opposite as a guy could be from Lance Ledeaux. Where Lance was handsome, Gus was, well, plain. Lance commanded attention; Gus blended into the woodwork. But onstage, Gus underwent a metamorphosis. His voice deepened, his paunch melted, he stood taller. He turned into a credible Troy.

  When auditions were over, the decision was unanimous. Krystal and Gus were the reincarnated version of Claudia and Lance pretending to be Roxanne and Troy.

  Rita thanked everyone for coming for tryouts. “It’s a wrap.”

  But it wasn’t a wrap for me—far from it. I kept thinking about Krystal’s previous experience onstage. Could acting have been her link with Lance? And just how well had they known each other? How odd that her arrival coincided with Lance’s departure.

  Curious and curiouser.

  Chapter 23

  It was like old times. Almost.

  Claudia and I lounged in the comfy, chintz-covered wicker chairs in her four-seasons room overlooking the fifteenth fairway, enjoying a cup of hot chocolate—not just your run-of-the-mill hot chocolate, but Godiva’s finest. There’s nothing like hot chocolate on a chilly afternoon to cure what ails you.

  I glanced over at Claudia, curled like a giant tabby in a corner of the settee. She reminded me of Tang, that dad-blame cat Krystal was determined to tame. I have to admit that the girl was making progress coaxing him inside, using my albacore tuna as bait. The silly animal was as picky about people as he was about his diet. He showed a distinct preference for Krystal while pointedly ignoring me.

  “I wish
you had kicked me in the shin at the sheriff’s office,” Claudia murmured.

  “The Claudia of old would have kicked back.”

  “BJ warned me to keep my big mouth shut. But did I listen? Instead, I spouted off about what a jerk Lance turned out to be. I might as well wear a big letter M on my chest for ‘motive.’ ”

  “Everyone knows you’d never hurt a flea.”

  “Everyone but Sheriff Wiggins.” Claudia stared out the window. “He’s bound and determined to send me to prison—or worse.”

  Worse, I knew, meant the death penalty. I shivered, cold in spite of my turtleneck. It would mean the sheriff would have to upgrade the charge from manslaughter to first-degree homicide. But first he needed to build a stronger case.

  For a while neither of us spoke. Instead, we sipped our hot chocolate, which had grown lukewarm, and avoided looking at each other.

  “I haven’t told this to a soul, Kate,” Claudia admitted, “but Lance and I were having serious problems.”

  “Problems?” I repeated putting on an innocent act. I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear this, but what kind of girlfriend would I be if I didn’t listen? In some instances knowledge may be power, but in this case knowledge might be incriminating.

  “It wasn’t bad enough Lance turned out to be a phony, but he was slowly killing me financially.”

  Killing? I shuddered inwardly at her poor choice of words.

  “At the rate he was going, it wouldn’t take long. The bank called to inform me Lance withdrew thirty thousand dollars. When I confronted him, he claimed it was for a surefire bet on the Super Bowl.”

  “Wow!” I blew out a breath. “Thirty thousand? That’s a huge chunk of change.”

  Claudia nodded, her expression glum. “You can say that again. The icing on the cake was getting a call from the manager of a car dealership regarding an order for a Jaguar.”

  “Jaguar, hmm.” I toed off my loafers, stretched my legs out on the ottoman, and wiggled my stocking feet. “I thought Lance loved his vintage Camaro.”

  “He claimed a Camaro no longer fit his image, whatever the hell that meant.” Her lips twisted into a bitter smile. “His hopes were set on being discovered by some hotshot in Atlanta with Hollywood ties. He was convinced Forever, My Darling would be snatched up and optioned for a screenplay—starring none other than Lance Ledeaux, of course.”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “It irked Lance to be called a ‘has-been,’ or ‘second banana. ’ He yearned to be a leading man. Said he was tired of people remembering the face, but never the name.”

  I sipped my no-longer-hot hot chocolate. “Yeah, it must’ve been rough on his ego.”

  “His ego knew no bounds.” Claudia nodded thoughtfully. “He was happy only when in the limelight—or gambling.”

  “You mentioned the Super Bowl. Was he into sports gambling?”

  “You name it; he bet on it. Vegas was his version of heaven on earth.” She set her cup down on the glass-topped table. “That’s why I was surprised when all of a sudden he wanted to leave Vegas and come here.”

  “Whatever the reason, all of us were glad you came home.”

  I stared out the wall of windows overlooking the fairway. The green, green grass of summer had changed into the brittle beige of winter. The afternoon had turned overcast with the high only in the low fifties. Only a few hardy duffers, bundled in fleece jackets and hats with earflaps, braved the course. I have to admit I haven’t played much golf since four of us Babes made a grisly find on the eighth hole some months back. Maybe this spring . . .

  “I’ve always loved this spot,” Claudia said, looking around at the profusion of greenery that rimmed the room, the same Boston ferns and various houseplants I manage to murder on a regular basis. Suddenly she lowered her head into her hands and burst into tears. “Kate, I don’t know what I’m going to do if I’m sent to prison and have all this taken away.”

  I went over, put my arms around her, and patted her back. “There, there, Claudia, everything’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”

  When her sobbing finally subsided, I handed her a box of tissues.

  “I didn’t deliberately kill Lance. I could never kill anyone.” Sniffling, she blotted her tears. “I’ve thought about that night over and over again. There’s only one explanation, one person to blame.”

  “Who’s that, sweetie?”

  “Bill Lewis.”

  “Bill . . . ?” I echoed, stunned by the accusation.

  “Think about it, Kate. Bill didn’t like Lance. Remember how the two argued just before Lance was shot? You can’t deny Bill knows his handguns. Polly told me he’s the newly elected president of the Rod and Gun Club. And,” she concluded, “it was his Smith and Wesson.”

  After leaving, I drove around aimlessly. Claudia certainly couldn’t have meant my Bill Lewis. Not my sweet, shy hunk of a handyman with the killer blue eyes. Yet she seemed convinced he was responsible for Lance’s death—either accidentally or accidentally on purpose. Was Bill equally convinced the chamber was empty when he’d loaned Lance his gun?

  And if Bill wasn’t responsible, who was?

  I wouldn’t be able to rest until I knew the answer. Before I lost my nerve or changed my mind, I decided to pay Bill a visit. I spotted his pickup in the drive and parked behind it. I felt a little nervous as I traipsed to the front door and rang the bell.

  Though I’d been there before, I wasn’t in the habit of dropping by unannounced. Did this make me a shameless, man-chasing trollop? Back in the day—my day—it was taboo for a woman to even phone a man. A lady waited for the gentleman to call her. She might grow old and wrinkled in the process, but she never, ever, phoned him. Times may have changed, but I’m still on the low end of the learning curve.

  No one seemed to be home. I rang the bell a final time and was just about to leave when the front door opened. And there he stood, my own personal version of Mr. February. A pair of safety goggles dangled around his neck; a tool belt hung low on his narrow hips. A gray waffle-weave Henley peeked from a plaid flannel shirt, and a spattering of sawdust covered his faded jeans. Suddenly I felt transported back to fourth grade and my first school-girl crush on Joey Trapani. I still have the Valentine he gave me at recess tucked away somewhere.

  “Kate!”

  Bill actually sounded happy to see me. I took this as a good omen. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come. I can see I’m interrupting your work.”

  “Nonsense. Feel free to interrupt anytime.” He held the door wide. “Come in, come in.”

  Still feeling a bit nervous, I trailed after him through the foyer. I glanced around, unobtrusively I hoped, but didn’t see any changes since his return from Michigan. Simple and uncluttered. Neat as a pin. Some might even call his style of decorating Spartan. A card table and four folding chairs made up his dining room set. A leather sofa, recliner, and flat-screen TV were the only furnishings in the great room. It was a home in dire need of a woman’s touch. I bit my tongue to keep from volunteering. Down, shameless hussy, down!

  “How about I put on a pot of coffee?”

  “Sounds perfect.”

  “Great. May I take your coat?”

  “I’ll just keep it here,” I replied. Shrugging out of my lightweight jacket, I draped it over the back of a kitchen bar stool. “Looks like you’re in the middle of another of your woodworking projects.”

  “I’m making a gun rack.” He tugged off his safety glasses and tossed them on the counter. “The guys in the Rod and Gun Club asked me to make one as a sample for them.”

  Making a gun rack? Swell. A perfect segue. “Do you own a lot of guns?” I asked with the studied casualness worthy of a seasoned detective—at least my version of a seasoned detective. I’m no Lennie Briscoe from Law & Order, but I’m learning.

  Bill moved about the kitchen, his movements efficient and economical. He filled the carafe with water, then carefully measured coffee. “I have a rifle for hunting and a couple handguns
I use for target shooting.”

  “Including the one you loaned Lance?”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a concealed weapons permit. Took a class the sheriff’s department offered.” He took a partially empty bag of Oreos from the cupboard and heaped them on a plate, which he set in front of me.

  Now, some men might ply women with alcohol, but they should take a page from Bill’s book. I say, ply them with chocolate, gentlemen. They’ll be putty in your hands. First hot chocolate at Claudia’s, now Oreos with Bill; the chocolate gods were smiling on me. I must have been a good girl to rate this kind of treatment.

  “Bill,” I said, nibbling a cookie, “there’s something I need to ask.”

  “Shoot.”

  Shoot as in bang-bang? Another segue I couldn’t ignore. “Since you brought up the subject of shooting, is it possible you might’ve left a bullet in the gun you gave Lance?”

  He turned, looking as unhappy as I’d ever seen him, a half-filled mug in his hand. Oh dear. Was I about to hear a confession? If so, what next? Turn him in to the sheriff? Wave as he was hauled away in a squad car?

  “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself the same question,” he said at last.

  The cookie in my mouth turned tasteless. “Is there even a remote possibility?”

  “I’ve gone over this a thousand times, Kate.” Resuming his role of host, he finished filling a mug for me, then poured another for himself. “As I told the sheriff, I cleaned the gun that morning before handing it over to Ledeaux. If there was a bullet in the chamber, there’s no way I could have missed it.”

  “You’re positive?”

  “Very positive.” He sat down beside me at the breakfast bar. “I’ve been around guns since I was a kid. No way I’d be that careless. Face it, Kate. This was no accident. Someone wanted Lance dead.”

  “But who?”

  Ever since the shooting, I’d had trouble wrapping my mind around the notion that Lance had been murdered. The word accident seemed safer, less frightening. As I said before, denial is a wonderful thing; best defense mechanism God ever created. But time had come to take my head out of the sand and face facts. Bill was absolutely certain he hadn’t left a bullet in the chamber. And the only place Claudia would’ve killed Lance was in a divorce court.