Frowning, I drummed my fingertips against the tabletop and played Place the Face, but without success. I read, then reread the man’s bio. Guido, or whatever name he went by, was the reputed right-hand man of Bennie “the Thumb” Sisserone, a big-time Vegas mobster. According to the information on the poster, Guido was wanted for his role in connection with organized crime. Racketeering and extortion might have been mentioned, but played second fiddle to fifteen counts of murder. He was definitely not the type you’d want as a next-door neighbor.

I sneezed as I flipped through yet another binder and wished for the umpteenth time I’d taken an allergy pill. But at least, I consoled myself, I was doing something constructive.

I lost track of time until Tammy Lynn poked her head in the door. “Can I get you anythin’, Miz McCall, before I leave for the day?”

“Leave for the day?” A glance at my watch had me slamming binders shut. “I didn’t realize the time. Janine will kill me if I’m late.”

“Here, let me help.”

Between the two of us, we collected all the binders and stacked them on storeroom shelves. “I’ll be back Monday to go through the rest,” I told her.

“No problem. Just help yourself. If the interrogation room is in use, I’ll clear off part of my desk for you.”

“Thanks, honey. You’ve been a big help.”

Tammy Lynn gave me tentative smile. “Ah, ma’am, when you see Eric tonight, tell him Tammy Lynn Snow said, ‘Break a leg.’”

I smiled back. “I’ll do just that.”

Chapter 39

Monica accosted me the instant I stepped foot inside the rec center. “You’re late,” she scolded. “Janine wanted us here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Sorry,” I mumbled, making a beeline for the auditorium with Monica nipping at my heels.

“Honestly, Kate, I don’t know where your head is sometimes. What could be more important than being on time?”

Pam and Diane stopped setting up a ticket table long enough to wave. “Knock ’em dead,” Pam called after me.

I was relieved when Monica scurried off to bust someone else for a minor infraction. As I ran up the stage steps, I spied Bill, looking good with a tool belt slung low on his narrow hips. He was busily making last-minute adjustments to a set he’d built to resemble a drawing room. He must’ve been inspired by a visit to the Biltmore Estate in Asheville, because it looked like the real deal. He’s got talent, that man.

He gave me a thumbs-up as I passed. “Break a leg.”

Connie Sue spotted me as soon as I entered the dressing room. “C’mon, sugar. Let me put some color on those cheeks. You’re lookin’ a mite peaked.” Looping her arm through mine, she guided me toward the mirror, nudged me into a chair, and went to work.

There was enough makeup spread along the counter to stock a department store: wands of lipstick and mascara, pots of blush and eye shadow, brushes, big and little, fat and skinny, foundation in a variety of shades. Then there were hair products, spray, rollers, blow-dryers, curling irons, and flat irons. Connie Sue seemed perfectly at ease amidst all the paraphernalia; her comfort level probably came from her days as a reigning beauty queen.

Polly darted about, adding accessories to various costumes, a scarf here, a brooch there. “Here,” she said, presenting me with what at first glance appeared to be a dead skunk.

“Eeuww! What is that?”

“A wig, silly. Found it at the dollar store.” Not waiting for a response, she nudged Connie Sue aside and proceeded to tug the dang thing over my scalp. “This’ll go perfect with the orthopedic shoes and support hose.”

“Perfect,” I muttered in disgust.

“Wait ’til you see what else I found for you.” She dangled a contraption before my eyes that might have been used in the Middle Ages to torture heretics.

“What am I supposed to do with it?” I asked, dreading the answer.

“It’s a corset,” Connie Sue explained. “Meemaw had one just like it that she let us kids use to play dress-up. It’ll give your character a nice erect posture.”

“You’ll look like an authentic housekeeper once I’m finished with you,” Polly chortled with glee. “Don’t know when I’ve had this much fun. Probably not since before Gloria made me stop dressing up for Halloween.”

While I squirmed into ugly surgical stockings, I cast envious glances at Gloria, who played the secretary to Gus’s character, Troy. Except for wearing makeup, which, by the way, looked quite flattering on her, she was dressed in her usual drab polyester pantsuit and a long strand of pearls. Lucky girl, no orthopedic shoes, no support hose, no wig-and no danged corset. I didn’t expect Myrna to wear fishnet stockings and a miniskirt, but surely Polly could have found a compromise.

As soon as I was properly outfitted and made-up, I left the chaos in the dressing room to find a quiet spot backstage. It took only a split second to realize a quiet place didn’t exist. I blundered right into the middle of an argument between Bert and Ernie. Oops, I meant to say Mort and Bernie. I always confuse the pair with the Sesame Street duo.

“You moron, you never listen to me,” Bernie shouted. “I’m warning you: Do it that way and you’ll blow a fuse.”

Mort got right in Bernie’s face. “I blow a fuse, all right, every time I hear your bellyaching.”

“Only an idiot would take on a job when they don’t know beans about what they’re doing.”

“Butt out.” Mort’s face was an alarming shade of red. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Bernie gestured wildly toward a tangle of cords lying in a heap. “Any fool can see you’ve got too many electrical cords for a single outlet to handle.”

“If you don’t like the way I’m doing things, do it yourself,” Mort sneered. “I quit.”

“Gentlemen, please.” Rita, looking every bit the stage manager with her headset, caught hold of Mort’s arm before he could stalk off. “We need both of you if there’s any hope of pulling this off tonight. I’m asking you to put aside your differences and do your job.”

I marveled at Rita’s composure. She remained unflappable in a sea of chaos; steady as the Rock of Gibraltar. It took a lot to rattle that woman.

“Bernie,” she said, draping her arm over his shoulder, “I’d like you to go into the dressing room and help Gus get ready for act one. He needs help with his tie.” Now, Rita is a plus-sized gal, standing eye level with Bernie and outweighing him by a lot. She could probably go ten rounds with him without breaking a sweat. I knew that and, from his sheepish expression, Bernie knew it, too.

After Bernie trotted off, Rita turned to Mort. “In spite of what Bernie said, Mort, you’re doing a great job with the lights. Why don’t you check with Bill and see if he has an extra power strip that might help the fuse situation.”

“Sure thing, Rita. A power strip might do the trick.”

“And, Mort,” Rita called after him, “don’t forget to wear your headset so we can communicate throughout the show if we have to.”

The headsets, I’m proud to say, had been Bill’s idea. He found just what we needed at Radio Shack. I thought it made our little amateur production look very professional. Lance Ledeaux would’ve been proud.

From the rising noise level, I could tell the auditorium was starting to fill. When I peeked between a crack in the curtains, my stomach did a flip-flop. Tara and a friend from the day care center, programs in hand, ushered a steady stream of people down the aisle. If Claudia were here, she’d get a kick out of this. The pre-Lance Claudia, that is, not the post-Lance version.

I noticed Nadine Peterson near the front, looking in dire need of a smoke. From a distance she looked quite attractive with her dark hair, bright lipstick, and eerie green eyes. Tammy Lynn Snow, accompanied by a young man bearing a close family resemblance, took their seats in the next row. The young man was most likely her brother and Eric Olsen’s friend, I thought.