Roll Over and Play Dead Page 4

  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 mini-drama 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, chitchatted, 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. “Okay.”

  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 dra
wer 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.

  Chapter 6

  “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 bona fide 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. “Okay, 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?”

  Claudia knelt down and jiggled his shoulder. “All right, Lance, stop pretending. Everyone’s impressed.”

  “He don’t look so hot.” Gus tugged on an earlobe. A hairy earlobe. Eeuww!

  But earlobes aside, I had to agree with Gus. Lance didn’t look so hot. Under his Vegas tan, his skin seemed a bit grayish, a bit waxy. This playacting of his had gone on way too long—even for an experienced corpse. Not even Michael Phelps could hold his breath that long.

  Lance couldn’t really be hurt, could he?

  Of course not, I promptly answered my inner demon. Serenity Cove Estates had already had its one random act of violence. And only one was allowed. Surely all the residents would agree with me on that score. I’ve always said that denial is a wonderful thing—one of the best defense mechanisms God ever invented. But denial was quickly deserting me as reality took its place.

  Lance looked . . . dead.

  Apparently the same thought crossed Bill’s mind. He crouched down next to Lance’s inert figure. “If Lance taped three dye packs to his chest, why did only one go off?”

  “Who knows?” Claudia swallowed, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Maybe he didn’t do it right. He said it was the job of the special effects people. That’s why he said he needed practice.”

  As all of us looked on, scarcely daring to breathe, Bill placed his fingers along Lance’s neck, palpating for a pulse. I bit my lower lip to keep it from quivering, but I already knew the truth.

  Lance was dead.

  I knew it for a fact even before Bill said the words.

  Everything after that seemed to happen all at once. In spite of dropping my cell phone, not once but twice, I managed to dial 911 and summon the sheriff. Monica became hysterical and threatened to barf. Someone, Bernie I think, but it could have been Gus or even Rita, found a blanket and covered the body. I heard the scrape of the prop table being shoved aside to make room for EMTs, law enforcement, and the coroner. Bill dragged an overstuffed chair from the phony living room and gently eased Claudia into it. Claudia’s face was the color of kindergarten paste. One glance at it had me racing for the nearby ladies’ room to fill a cup with water. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed something shiny on the floor near my feet. An earring? Stooping down, I picked up a gold hoop and slipped it into the pocket of my cardigan before rushing to Claudia’s side.

  I knelt on the floor and handed her the cup, but her hands were shaking so violently that water sloshed over the rim. She managed a small sip, then absently wiped her wet hands on her slacks to dry them. Wanting to comfort her, but not knowing how, I set the cup down and took both her hands in mine. They were like chunks of ice. I rubbed them absently to restore circulation.

  None of us said much while waiting for the sheriff and his men to arrive.

  Climbing to my feet, I stood next to Claudia’s chair. I was worried about her. She still hadn’t uttered a word. Clearly in shock, she resembled an escapee from Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. Her eyes were glassy as a mannequin’s. Her red hair and lips contrasted garishly against her pale skin. Poor Claudia; I felt so sorry for her. What does one say to a woman who’s accidentally killed her husband?

  Accidentally?

  Surely it was an accident. Horrible and tragic, but nothing more. Then I recalled the argument I’d overheard—and wished I hadn’t. Claudia had told Lance she’d take the necessary steps to end his spending spree. She’d used phrases such as whatever it takes and one way or another. My mind struggled to make sense of what had just occurred. One thing was clear,
however. No way would Claudia have pointed a loaded gun at her husband and pulled the trigger—no way at all. She was my friend, and my friends didn’t shoot people. It was that simple.

  My musings were interrupted by sirens wailing in the distance. The sound grew louder with each passing second. A pregnant pause followed, then all hell broke loose.

  The double doors of the auditorium crashed open. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins swept into the room like a tornado mowing down a cornfield. He stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the scene, all six feet two inches of muscle and attitude. His skin was the color of pricey Colombian coffee, his eyes hard and shiny as black onyx.

  His gaze swept over the small gathering before settling on me. “Miz McCall,” he drawled in a rich-as-molasses baritone, “might’ve known I’d find you here.”

  “Sheriff.” I bobbed my head in acknowledgment.

  The sheriff and I are old pals. We joined forces a few months back to find the murderer of Rosalie Brubaker, my friend and neighbor. At least I’d assumed we’d formed a partnership of sorts, ’til he informed me in no uncertain terms to butt out of police business. Apparently the sheriff liked to work alone. I suspect the man might’ve been an only child and wasn’t used to sharing.

  Close on the sheriff’s heels was Deputy Preston. I never did learn the man’s Christian name. The deputy and I are acquainted, too. We first met during the investigation into Rosalie’s death. Unbeknownst to the sheriff, who probably eats raw meat for breakfast, Deputy Preston owned up to a fondness for my chocolate-chip cookies. I caught his eye and waggled my fingers at him. He started to wave back, but a stern look from his boss had him clearing his throat instead. So much for my friendship with law enforcement.

  Sheriff and deputy moved aside to allow a flood of EMTs to pour into the room. One of the EMTs, a wiry, brown-haired man with the tanned leathery skin of an outdoorsman, knelt down alongside Lance. He placed his hand along Lance’s neck just as Bill had done earlier and shook his head.