I idly stirred my tea. “What ever happened to the old adage, ‘The show must go on’?”

Lunch forgotten, the women stared at me as if I’d suddenly sprouted wings.

Janine was the first to recover. “The show could go on!” she exclaimed, more animated than I’d seen her in days. “We could pull it off. I know we could.”

“You bet!” Rita leaned forward, eager to reclaim her job as stage manager. “How hard can it be?”

Now I was the one who stared. “I was kidding, ladies. I didn’t expect to be taken seriously. We don’t know the first thing about putting on a play. That was Lance’s job, remember?”

Gloria ignored my outburst. “Who would we get to replace Lance? He wasn’t only the star, but the director.”

“I don’t think Claudia’s keen on returning to the stage.” Polly added a dollop of sour cream to her last bite of quesadilla. “What if the sheriff hauls her off on opening night? We’ll be in a worse fix than we are now.”

“So we’ll hold an audition,” Pam said, warming to the notion. “We’ll find a replacement for both leads. That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. My BFF siding with the enemy? Wait ’til I got her alone. “Who’ll direct?” I asked, hoping to sprinkle reality dust over this harebrained idea.

Connie Sue thoughtfully munched a grape. “The director ought to be someone already familiar with the play. That would make things a whole lot simpler.”

Polly blotted her lips with a napkin. “I’m willing to give it a shot.”

“But, Mother,” Gloria protested, jumping in to make the save, “we need you in charge of costumes.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot. I already got me an important job.”

We let out a collective sigh of relief. I squirted a blob of ketchup onto my plate, then dredged a fry through it. The notion of resuming production of Forever, My Darling seemed to be taking on a life of its own.

And I had only myself to blame.

“I’ve got the perfect solution,” a little imp prompted me to say. “Who’s better qualified than someone who was in charge of casting from the get-go? Someone familiar with both the script and the roles.” Smiling sweetly, I raised my iced tea. “I nominate Janine for director.”

“Here, here!” Connie Sue lifted her water glass high. “Y’all, let’s toast Janine Russell, brand-new director of Forever, My Darling.”

Rita clinked her cup against Gloria’s. “I vote we dedicate the play to Claudia Connors Ledeaux.”

The show might go on, I vowed amidst all the chatter, but I intended to keep my eyes peeled for anyone with more than a passing interest in the prop table. And this time the gun would be the best money could buy-at the dollar store.

Chapter 20

Notices of the upcoming audition were plastered on bulletin boards from Serenity Cove Estates clear to Brookdale five miles down the road. No place was exempt: the Piggly Wiggly, the rec center, the Koffee Kup, and the pro shop at the golf course. We’d even chipped in for a small ad in the Serenity Sentinel. Date and time were set for the following night.

The role of director fit Janine more snugly than OJ’s glove. She’d wasted no time appointing Bill and me as her assistants in recasting the two leads. Personally, I think it was revenge for nominating her as director. She also made it known she preferred her title changed to artistic director as opposed to plain old director. Well la-di-da, I said to myself. She could call herself anything she pleased as long as she got the show on the road.

Meanwhile, I kept busy with mundane tasks. At least I could cross grocery shopping off my to-do list. I swear it had taken twice as long with people at every turn wanting to stop and talk. The topic of Lance’s death-I still stubbornly refused to call it murder-had been hot, hot, hot in the frozen food aisle at the Pig. I was surprised the freezers hadn’t sprung a leak with temperatures soaring skyward. What a mess that would’ve been with soggy vegetables and melting ice cream. Ugh! I grimaced at the thought.

I was lugging in the last of the groceries when Krystal, dressed casually in gray sweats, accosted me. “It’s my day off,” she complained. “I haven’t even been able to take a nap. That blasted phone’s been ringing nonstop ever since you left.”

“Sorry, Krystal,” I said, nudging the door closed with an elbow. “Probably folks wanting to ask about the audition.”

“I guess.” She started to help unload the grocery bags, then paused, holding up a can of pet food for my inspection. “What’s this?”

Did the girl need glasses? Any fool could plainly see it was premium-brand cat food, the kind advertised on TV. I was sick and tired of sharing my tuna with an ungrateful feline. Besides, I didn’t want to chance the possibility of another tuna-free casserole like on the night I’d invited Bill to dine. “I wasn’t sure which one Tang would like, so I bought a selection: tuna select, choice of the chick, and veal-beef medley. I thought we could serve any leftovers creamed over toast points for dinner some night.”

From the frown on her face, Krystal failed to see the humor in my little joke. “Tang doesn’t like the fancy canned food,” she said.

I stopped shoving vegetables into the bin. “Tang told you this?”

Krystal gave a head toss, sending her long dark hair flying over her shoulder. “He prefers regular tuna, not pet food-albacore is his favorite.”

I rolled my eyes and resumed placing lettuce, carrots, and celery in the crisper. The silly cat wouldn’t come within ten feet of me, but here he was, having heart-to-hearts with Krystal.

“I tried feeding him one of those fancy brands the other day, but he just turned up his nose and stalked off.” Krystal continued to unload grocery items onto the counter.

“What happened to the old phrase, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers’?”

“Never heard it before. Certain things he likes; certain things he doesn’t, just like people at the diner. Tang has certain expectations when it comes to food.”

“You know this for a fact, or are you making it up as you go along?”

“You’ve never been around cats much, have you, Kate?”

“No, my husband was allergic.” I stored the empty plastic grocery bags with the other items I recycle. It’s the creed I live by. I’m a firm believer in the three Rs: reduce, reuse, recycle. Right about now, I was wishing I could recycle my houseguest to Myrtle Beach.

“Kate, I, ah…” Krystal struck a hand-on-hip pose reminiscent of vintage World War II posters I’d seen. Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner sprang to mind.

I stopped what I was doing and gave her my full attention. “Out with it, girl.”

“I was wondering if it’d be OK if I tried out for a part in the play.”

Well, Krystal’s question certainly explained the posturing. The part of Roxanne, Claudia’s former role, was that of femme fatale. My command of French is practically nonexistent, but even to my untrained ear, fatale sounds too much like fatal. And fatal reminds me of Lance sprawled deader ’n a doornail, as Bernie so eloquently phrased it.

“Well…?”

Krystal’s voice jerked me back to the present. “No, of course not,” I said. “It’s an open audition.”

“Great,” she replied, breaking into a smile. “I wondered if it was only for residents of Serenity Cove. Since technically I’m only a visitor and not a resident…”

“By all means come. You’re welcome to try out for the part.” I found a spot for the expensive-and unappreciated-pet food on a pantry shelf. “Besides, you won’t be the only nonresident in the play. Eric Olsen, that nice young policeman from Brookdale, is playing the part of detective. Do you have acting experience?”

Krystal busied herself rearranging the stack of mail lying on the counter. “Ah, I was in the drama club in high school. And I had a small part in a road show of Grease.”

“Grease?” I nearly knocked over a box of Cheerios. “As in John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John? The ‘grease is the word’ kind of Grease?”