Chapter 22

I’d eaten my margherita pizza in blissful solitude. I’d invited Krystal to join me, but she wanted to read her scene a final time before the audition. She’d vanished into her room with the script in one hand, a sleeve of soda crackers in the other. I’d no sooner put the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher than the phone rang.

“Kate, it’s for you,” Krystal yelled from down the hall after picking up the extension. “Some woman wants to sell you something. Want me to tell her you’re not home?”

The thought was tempting. Ever since I’d written a check to the college alumni association, they’d been pestering me for another on a daily basis. They’d zeroed in on the most inopportune times: dinnertime, nap time, bathroom time. Patience, I reminded myself. The caller was likely some hapless student trying to earn beer money.

“I’ll take it.” I sighed the sigh of the martyred, ready to be polite but firm as I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Mother, is that you?”

“Yes, dear, whom did you expect?” My daughter, Jennifer, lives in California. Not just California, mind you, but Brentwood, home to stars and celebs. She lives there with her husband and former nerd, Jason Jarrod. Jason discovered contacts and Armani shortly after certain powers that be discovered he could forge a contract more binding than Cheddar cheese in a nursing home. Jen and Jason, along with my two adorable granddaughters, Juliette and Jillian-the Four Jays as I call them-lead a charmed life. At least, they do if listening to Jennifer is any indication.

“You sound strange, Mother. Who answered the phone, one of your gambling buddies?”

I’ve tried, but without success, to explain bunco to my daughter. She equates a simple dice game with a den of iniquity involving high-stakes gambling. She fears I’ll lose my retirement pension and end up on the street as a bag lady. “No, sweetheart. It was Krystal, my houseguest.”

“I don’t remember your having any friends named Krystal. Do I know her? What’s her last name?”

Jen was firing more questions than I had the time-or inclination-to answer. “Krystal is someone I’ve recently met. She’s staying with me temporarily until she gets back on her feet.”

“Feet? What’s wrong with her feet? Is the woman crippled?”

Even as a child, Jen had an overactive imagination. Her close proximity to Hollywood seems to have aggravated the condition.

“There’s nothing wrong with Krystal’s feet, dear. It was only a figure of speech.” I lowered my voice, not wanting Krystal to overhear. “The young woman’s been having a run of bad luck. I asked her to stay with me while her car is being repaired and until she earns enough money for a fresh start in Myrtle Beach.”

“I can’t believe you invited a perfect stranger into your home.”

I chuckled. “Trust me, Jen, Krystal’s far from ‘perfect.’ ”

“You know what I mean, Mother. This woman could turn out to be a serial killer, preying on elderly women.”

“I thought we agreed the term ‘elderly’ doesn’t apply when you’re talking about me,” I reminded her sternly. Between Jen’s referring to me by the E word and Steven’s sending me literature on assisted living centers, a lesser person might actually begin to feel old. How that felt, I haven’t a clue.

“Besides, Jen,” I continued, “it’s a well-known fact most serial killers are men.” There, that tidbit was designed to make her feel better about my roommate.

“Sorry, that salient point slipped my mind.”

“No need for sarcasm, Jennifer Louise.” She knows I mean business whenever I resort to using her middle name. She absolutely hates the name Louise, which happened to belong to Jim’s mother. I console her by telling her we could have named her Bertha after my mother. That usually stops further complaints.

Clear across a continent, I heard a sigh. “You worry me, Mother. Inviting a stranger into your home doesn’t show sound judgment on your part.”

“Everything’s fine, dear. No need to worry.” I glanced at the clock, which showed six fifteen. “I can’t talk long, honey. Auditions are scheduled for seven.”

“For that little show you and your friends are putting on? I thought auditions had finished a long time ago.”

Did I hear a yawn in the background? Time to wake her up. “We need to replace both leads because Claudia shot Lance.”

“Shot? As in shot dead?”

“Claudia’s been a wreck even though she’s out on bail.” I smirked. Jennifer wasn’t yawning now. Knowing my daughter’s penchant to overreact, I’d purposely avoided mentioning the incident unless provoked. I hoped I hadn’t gone and put my foot in my mouth, but it was too late now. “The whole thing was an unfortunate accident.”

Do wishes really come true? Or were those simply song lyrics?

“Bill and I were just saying the other day…”

“Bill! Who is Bill?” Jen’s voice rose. “Mother, are you seeing someone?”

Where my children are concerned, I’d kept Bill under wraps so to speak-along with Lance’s untimely demise. After all, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need to report my love life to my children. Take my son, for example. Ask Steven about his dating life, and I get the deep freeze. He’s entitled to his privacy-and I’m entitled to mine. Quid pro quo. The eternal question: Why do some things work in theory only?

“Bill Lewis happens to be a friend of mine. A good friend,” I added.

“A boyfriend!” Jennifer wailed. “Mother, you have a boyfriend? How could you let another man take Daddy’s place?”

“No one will ever take your father’s place, sweetie,” I soothed. “Bill is simply a friend.”

“Y-you need to protect yourself.”

Was she thinking protection as in protection? I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation.

“I assume you’re not foolish enough to think of remarrying,” Jen continued. “If that even crosses your mind, I’ll have Jason draw up a prenup. His are absolutely the best. No one can touch them. Don’t make the same mistake as a lot of women your age and rush into things. Remember, Mother, no fool like an old fool.”

This old fool had heard enough. “Sorry, dear, gotta run. Don’t want to be late.”

“B-but, Mother…”

I disconnected.

“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.