Roll Over and Play Dead Read online

  But I digress. The question of the day was why his Hugger Orange Camaro was parked next to a Dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly.

  I sat there, hands on the wheel, and pondered my next move. What was the harm in waiting awhile? I wasn’t exactly spying on Lance; I was only admiring the lines of his “classic” car. Lance should thank me for guarding his prized possession against the off chance a band of vandals was roaming the loading dock in search of empty boxes.

  I didn’t have long to wait before a silver-gray sedan whipped into the lot and squealed to a halt next to the Dumpster. Lance climbed out of the passenger side and exchanged what appeared to be angry words with whoever was driving. He then slammed the car door shut and stalked toward his Camaro. The driver of the sedan stomped on the accelerator and roared off. I caught only a quick glimpse of a dark-haired woman as she zoomed past.

  Lance was in an equal hurry to make his getaway. He slammed into reverse, backed out of his hiding place, and peeled off. Curious to see what he was up to, I shifted into gear and followed, hoping he wouldn’t glance into his rearview mirror and spot me. Both cars cleared the Piggly Wiggly lot at opposite ends and turned onto the highway. The dark-haired woman headed east; Lance took off in the direction of Serenity Cove.

  What was all that about? I wondered as I headed home. Who was the dark-haired woman? And why the secrecy?

  I wish I had gotten a better look at the driver of the sedan. It really was time for new glasses. I’d been procrastinating for months, but the time had come to make an appointment with the optometrist. However, even at a distance, and even needing new specs, I could tell from the body language that Lance had been furious. Bill recently made the observation that Lance had a way of ticking people off. Now someone had turned the tables.

  Paybacks are hell.

  Chapter 4

  As agreed upon the day before, Connie Sue, Pam, Monica, and I formed a committee in search of the perfect gift for the newlyweds. Our task was complicated by the fact that Claudia, if she wanted something, bought it. Bing, bang, boom, she’d whip out her credit card. The Babes had given the four of us a price range and charged us with finding something “appropriate” for a woman who had everything, including a shiny new husband.

  “I could have driven,” Pam said for the third time.

  “I know, sugar, but we can fit more into my Lexus than that little PT Cruiser of yours,” Connie Sue told her as she made a beeline for Macy’s. The rest of us tried to match her pace.

  All of us were aware of the importance of having enough room to accommodate purchases after a shopping spree. Augusta, Georgia, is home to the nearest mall of any size. It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump down the road from Serenity Cove, but a big hop, a big skip, and a very long jump. When we go, we take a list and make it into an outing. And no outing is complete without show-and-tell afterward.

  “Let’s find a wedding gift first,” Pam suggested. “Afterward we can separate.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said. “Where do we start?”

  Monica studied the store directory. “How about cookware?”

  I wasn’t fooled by Monica’s sly suggestion. She was Martha Stewart with dark hair and a fetish for tiaras. “What about home décor?” I asked innocently. “Lance can never have enough frames to hold all his photos.”

  “Kate, shame on you,” Pam said with a shake of her head. “We could check out bed and bath. Maybe get a nice set of towels.”

  “Sugar, there’s a time to be practical and a time to be extravagant.” Connie Sue tapped a French-manicured nail on the directory. “I was thinkin’ of somethin’ more along the lines of kitchen electronics.”

  Soon the four of us were in a heated debate over espresso machines—which, to the best of my knowledge, Claudia didn’t own. My head was starting to spin. Who would have guessed there would be so much to consider? Things like programmable, a one-year versus three-year warranty, and adjustable cup heights. After much discussion, we finally agreed on a particular model that boasted a three-in-one capability: coffee, espresso, and cappuccino. If I ever remarry—and that’s a pretty big if—I’m going to run straight for the nearest bridal registry and request one of these wonders. Imagine, cappuccino at my fingertips. I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.

  Mission accomplished, we sent the three-in-one wonder to package pickup and headed for the four corners of the mall. In keeping with the coffee theme, we arranged to meet at Starbucks to load up on beans and caffeine before heading home.

  “Are you single-handedly committed to reviving the economy?” Monica asked upon seeing Connie Sue’s amazing collection of shopping bags.

  “Everythin’ was on sale. What’s a girl supposed to do?” Connie Sue retorted, nonplussed.

  “I bought new towels,” Pam offered.

  Pam, in sharp contrast to Connie Sue, is frugal to a fault, but it’s these idiosyncrasies in our friends that make life interesting. When left to my own devices, I’d done a little shopping of my own, both the practical and the extravagant sort. I have a froufrou bag filled with freebie cosmetics, all sorts of tiny bottles filled with such things as moisturizer and exfoliator, along with a sample of a new designer fragrance. That goes to show my practical side. Problem was, I liked the new designer perfume so much, I bought one. I tried not to dwell on the price. And what’s more, I rationalized, I didn’t really buy it for myself; I bought it for Bill. The saleswoman claimed men found the scent irresistible. I could hardly wait to take it out for a test drive.

  “I need a smoothie,” Connie Sue announced, piling her bags on a nearby vacant chair. “Be right back.”

  While waiting for her to return, we huddled around a small table that gave us a view of the mall traffic. As it often did these days, talk centered on Lance Ledeaux.

  “I can’t believe we let him talk us into this,” I complained for the umpteenth time.

  Pam sipped her coffee. “Remember this all sounded like a great idea at the time. No one held a gun to our heads and made us agree to go along with this play of his.”

  “Not simply a play, sugar,” Connie Sue said, returning with smoothie in hand in time to overhear Pam’s comment. “A theatrical production.”

  Monica nodded grimly. “A theatrical production he’s written himself.”

  “And plans to star in,” Pam added. “As well as produce and direct.”

  I frowned, not caring if I might need Botox down the road. “Don’t know much about the theater, but even to an amateur such as myself, it sounds overly ambitious.”

  Monica blew on her herbal tea to cool it. “Since we’re all involved, maybe the marquee should read ‘Babes on Broadway.’”

  “Great idea, sugar, but I’m afraid it’s already been done.” Connie Sue took a long pull on the straw of her pink smoothie.

  We stared at her.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, finding us looking at her strangely. “Most everyone knows Babes on Broadway was a musical, back in the forties I think, with Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney.”

  I shook my head in wonderment. “Connie Sue Brody, sometimes you amaze me. When did you turn into the trivia queen?”

  She shrugged prettily. “I declare, sweetie, growin’ older is gettin’ harder and harder. Some nights I can’t catch a wink, so I end up watchin’ old movies on one of those cable networks.”

  “Getting back to the matter at hand,” I said, stirring my cinnamon-laced cappuccino, “the deal breaker came when Lance promised opening night proceeds would benefit Janine’s favorite cause, Pets in Need.”

  “Especially since she’s the newly elected president.” Pam nodded her agreement. “You know how she’s always talking about a new animal shelter.”

  Monica absently tucked a brunet strand behind one ear. “I have to admit Lance is a phenomenon to behold. He certainly didn’t let any grass grow under his feet getting the ball rolling.”

  “He’s a silver-tongued devil all right,” Connie Sue chuckled.

  I
agreed with both Monica and Connie Sue. Seeing Lance in action had made me a believer. In the blink of an eye, he’d turned bunco night into a casting call. By the time we left Pam’s, none of us knew what had hit us. One by one, we had voluntarily and of our own free will consented to participate in one manner or other in what he referred to as his proposition.

  Monica’s dark eyes snapped with irritation. “Imagine me—of all people—the prop princess!”

  “That’s mistress—not princess,” I corrected.

  None of us wanted to remind her she’d tried out for Gloria’s part and failed miserably. Not even Janine, the casting director, could ignore that Monica didn’t have a theatrical gene in her entire body. Instead, Lance had diplomatically convinced Monica that with her attention to detail, she’d be the right person to collect and organize props. Rita, by the way, had been awarded the plum job of stage manager.

  “Enough doom and gloom,” Pam scolded. “Just think, this play could be a lot of fun.”

  That’s Pam, my BFF—“best friend forever” in texting jargon, which I’m learning to impress my granddaughters. Pam tends to look on the bright side of things, though sometimes her Pollyanna attitude can be downright annoying.

  Batting her eyelashes, Connie Sue placed her hand over her heart. “Forever, My Darling,” she drawled in her best Scarlett O’Hara imitation. “Really, girls, do you think Lance could have found a cheesier title? Sounds like one of those trashy romance novels.”

  Now it was my turn to scold. “Connie Sue Brody, bite your tongue. You know you’re addicted to romance novels, and there’s nothing trashy about them.”

  “Well, sugar, I have to admit they’re a heap better’n watchin’ all those dreadful crime shows you’re so fond of.”

  “I’ll have you know, my crime shows aren’t dreadful. They’re educational.”

  “They’re also interesting and informative.” Pam jumped to my defense. I was well aware that her addiction to Law & Order and CSI was nearly as bad as mine. If we got any worse, the Babes would need to stage an intervention.

  “Those ‘dreadful’ shows, as you call them, helped hone my skills when we were trying to find out who murdered Rosalie,” I pointed out.

  “And almost got you killed in the process.” Connie Sue slurped up the last of her smoothie and started gathering her packages. “Now, we’d better get a move on if I want to have a hot meal on the table for Thacker.”

  We did likewise.

  I heard Monica grumble under her breath about being the prop princess.

  “It’s not that bad, Monica,” I told her as we hustled toward the escalator. “You’ll do a terrific job.”

  “Wish I could be as sure as you are, Kate. I don’t have a clue what I’m supposed to do. Especially since one of the props happens to be a handgun.”

  Chapter 5

  Rehearsal was scheduled for seven o’clock sharp Monday evening. I arrived early, hoping to spend some “quality time” with Bill. There were names for women like me, brazen hussy being one of the nicer ones.

  I pushed open the doors of the auditorium and stepped inside. Only the stage was illuminated, leaving the rest of the cavernous space in relative darkness. Lance had flashed his charm and charisma at Serenity Cove Management and secured the rec center’s auditorium for our use—or should I say his use. Cast and crew were merely the means to an end. Lest we forget, he was quick to remind us this was a Lance Ledeaux Production.

  Lance and Claudia, unaware of my presence, occupied center stage.

  “I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal over this,” Lance complained.

  “Maybe it’s because thirty thousand dollars happens to be a big deal. Especially when it’s a cash advance against my credit card,” Claudia fired back.

  “Claudia, dove, no need to get all upset. You’re not exactly in the poorhouse.”

  Lance reached out to draw Claudia closer, but she jerked away. “That’s exactly where I will be if this spending of yours keeps up. I’ve overlooked the new wardrobe, the laptop with every bell and whistle known to mankind, the fancy iPhone, but this . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  I stepped back until I felt the door handle jab me between the shoulder blades. I hoped they were rehearsing a new scene from Lance’s masterpiece. But I knew better. This argument was the real McCoy.

  Claudia presented her back to Lance, then whirled to face him. “When were you going to tell me?” Her voice rose. “Did you think I wasn’t going to find out?”

  “Claudia, my pet, you need to trust me.” He pressed his hands together and held them to his chest. The expression on his handsome puss was a page straight from Sincerity 101—so saccharine in its sweetness, I wanted to barf. “This is a sure thing, darling. I know what I’m doing. I promise I’ll pay back every cent . . . with interest . . . since money is such a big deal with you.”

  She advanced on him. In her tight black pants and animal-print top, she looked like a lioness moving in for the kill. Only the pointy-toed ankle boots with three-inch heels spoiled the effect. I clutched my shoulder bag tighter, scarcely daring to breathe. I don’t know how Lance felt, but this was scary serious. I’d never seen Claudia this angry.

  “While we’re on the subject of money”—she poked him in the ribs with a fingertip lacquered bloodred—“I happened to get a call from the Jaguar dealer in Augusta just as I was leaving the house. The salesman claimed you placed an order for a new car—a seventy-five-thousand-dollar new car.”

  I smothered a gasp at hearing the amount. So much for Lance’s pretending to love his “classic” Hugger Orange Camaro.

  “Seventy-five thousand?” Lance waved his hand dismissively, but even from a distance I could see perspiration sheen his brow. “That’s a drop in the bucket, sweetheart, compared to what my Super Bowl winnings are going to be.”

  I felt a sharp stab in the region of my heart. I never hear “Super Bowl” mentioned without being reminded of my late husband. Two years ago, Jim, the poor dear, landed facedown in the guacamole dip after suffering a fatal coronary during halftime. He never knew he’d won fifty bucks in the football pool.

  “And if there are no Super Bowl winnings?” Claudia continued her tirade. “What then? Write another check out of my money market account to pay for it? Drain my account down to nothing? Lance, this has to stop!”

  Lance adopted a new approach, his tone faintly mocking. “After watching you at the roulette table in Vegas, I never took you for such a tightwad. I’m seeing a whole new side of you, sweetheart—a very unattractive side.”

  In her fury, Claudia’s face was turning as red as her hair. “I’m seeing a new side of you as well. I won’t stand for this kind of behavior, Lance. This has to end—and I’m prepared to do whatever it takes to see that it does.”

  “Is that a threat?” he asked, feigning outrage.

  I wasn’t overly impressed with Lance’s theatrical ability. At this point if I were a casting director, I’d have yelled, Cut!

  “No, Lance.” Claudia’s voice dropped so low I had to lean forward to better hear her response. “It’s not a threat; it’s a promise.”

  “You’re my meal ticket, babe. It’s going to cost you a pretty penny if you want to get rid of me.” At last the kid gloves were off. Lance was showing his true colors: black with a white stripe down the center of his back.

  “Over my dead body, you two-bit actor,” Claudia snarled. “I’ll find a way to get you out of my life—one way or another.”

  From the hallway outside came the sound of people talking and laughing. I nearly fell into Bill’s arms when he opened the auditorium door.

  “Whoa,” he said, steadying me.

  Unsettled by the argument I’d overheard, I blurted, “You’re late.”

  “Looks like you’re early,” he countered. This time not even Bill’s smile was able to cheer me.

  I stood aside while Bill flicked the light switch next to the door. Monica and Rita entered, too engrossed in their con
versation about props to give me the time of day. Gus, Bill’s brand-new buddy, gave me a friendly nod as he shuffled by. The only one who hadn’t made an appearance yet was Bernie Mason, who was to play the part of the villain in Lance’s magnificent production.

  Bill matched his pace to mine as I trailed the others toward the stage. “Gus and I spent all afternoon taking measurements and making lists of materials we need before starting on the set. We didn’t realize the time and thought we’d better duck out for a quick bite before rehearsal. Besides,” he added, “I need to ask Lance a couple questions.”

  “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 out 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 tonight’s rehearsal was that all the cast members didn’t have to subject themselves to Lance’s edicts. This meant 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.