Or he could try to silence me for good.

“What do you want me to do?”

I glanced about frantically. There’s never a sheriff around when you need one. Then I remembered Eric Olsen. He might not be a flinty-eyed sheriff, but he was law enforcement. Any port in a storm, right? “Eric, where’s Eric?”

Bill peered over his shoulder. “Right now he’s onstage.”

I groaned inwardly. No help from that quarter. This was Eric’s big moment, where he confronts Krystal/Roxanne about shooting the villainous Bernie. I made an executive decision. “Call the sheriff. Tell him what I just told you and for him to get out here RN.”

“RN?” Bill was clearly perplexed.

“Right now!” I fairly exploded. Sheesh! Were Polly and I the only ones into texting?

I heard a rumble of applause signaling the end of the play. I saw Rita in the wings, pulling the ropes to close the curtain.

“Places, everyone,” Janine sang out. “Curtain call.”

“Kate, I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” Monica berated me. Grasping my arm, she herded me toward the curtain to take a bow along with the other cast members. Not that I deserved one, but…

I caught Gus watching me, and I read his mind like a book. He knows that I know all right, and he isn’t happy about it.

Janine jabbed me between the shoulder blades. “Take your bow, Kate.”

Gloria and I went onstage to take our bows. Even my half-baked performance drew a rousing cheer. Next came Eric and Megan, hand in hand, followed by Bernie. Last, but by no means least, came Krystal and Gus, who drew a standing ovation. There was nothing like a packed house of mostly friends and relatives to boost the morale.

The cast joined hands for a final bow, then stepped back as the curtain closed a final time. Backstage was Ring-ling Brothers come to town. I tried to spot Bill amidst the confusion and felt a sharp prick in my lower rib cage.

Startled, I turned to find Gus at my side, a phony smile plastered on his face. He slid an arm around my waist. “Keep moving,” he growled. “One peep out of you and this knife will wind up in your left ventricle.”

I decided it prudent not to argue. The FBI had declared him armed and dangerous, skilled with a knife. This wasn’t the time to test the accuracy of their information.

“You can’t kill me with all these people around,” I said with false bravado. “You’ll never get away with it.”

He chuckled as if he found my words amusing. Granted, my protest wasn’t particularly original, but it’s hard to be witty with a knife-wielding hit man holding you captive.

“Keep moving,” he said in a low voice as we wound our way through the throng of well-wishers. “When they find your body, everyone will think it’s an accident. I’m good when it comes to staging accidents-some call me a virtuoso.”

I saw Bill in a corner, his back partially turned, speaking urgently into his cell phone. From the scowl on his face, I assumed he wasn’t having an easy time convincing the sheriff to get his butt out here. And where was Eric? Weren’t guns and handcuffs standard police equipment?

As if by magic, Eric came into my line of sight. He stood not far from us, his arm draped over Megan’s shoulder, talking and laughing with Tammy Lynn and the young man I took to be her brother.

Guido followed the direction of my glance. “Unless you want to see someone else hurt, don’t think of calling for help.”

I sucked in a sharp breath at another spurt of pain in my rib cage. For the first time tonight, I was grateful for the boned corset Polly had forced me to wear as part of my costume. Would metal stays deflect the blade of a knife? I hoped I wouldn’t learn the answer to that question.

At that precise moment, the lights went out.

“Dammit, Mort,” Bernie swore loudly. “How many times do I have to tell you not to overload a circuit?”

“Aw, stuff a sock in it, Mason,” came the angry retort.

I used the diversion to break free, twisting sharply to the right, relieved to no longer feel a knife jammed against my ribs. “Help!” I screamed. “Grab Gus. Someone stop him. He killed Lance.”

My words galvanized a flurry of activity. I heard banging and crashing coming from every direction. I groped about for a weapon and opted for the only thing at my disposal.

“Careful!” I hollered at the top of my lungs. “He’s got a knife.”

My warning was accompanied by a bone-jarring thud as something heavy hit the floor not far from me, followed by a cry of pain and an expletive I don’t care to repeat.

The lights flickered and, just as suddenly as they’d gone out, came back on.

An amazing sight greeted cast and crew. I straddled Guido, “the Killer Pimp,” who lay sprawled headlong on the floor, brandishing an orthopedic shoe over his head like a mallet. Gloria stood beside us, her long necklace at the ready like a lasso. Connie Sue and Janine were both on cell phones, ostensibly alerting the authorities. Bill came forward, pointing Eric’s gun directly at Guido.

“You can get up now, Kate. I’ve got him covered.”

I slowly levered myself off Gus/Guido. Now that the adrenaline rush had subsided, I was feeling a bit shaky. Just then a low moan caught my attention. I glanced over to see Eric Olsen, holding his leg and rocking back and forth in agony, caught in a tangle of electrical cords. Tammy Lynn Snow was at his side.

“I told you, you’d trip someone with all these cords lying around,” Bernie berated his buddy, Mort. “But do you ever listen…”

Satisfied with how the evening had gone, I tuned out their bickering. Not only did we break a leg, but we knocked ’em dead.

Chapter 41

“Yoo-hoo, everyone! I’m baaack!” Claudia burst into the room, wearing a grin a mile wide.

Life just didn’t get any better, I thought as I gazed around at my friends. The Babes were gathered at Monica’s for our bimonthly bunco game. Just that very morning, Badgeley Jack Davenport IV called to inform me that all charges against Claudia had been dropped. BJ, bless his heart, knew how worried we all were about Claudia. Orange was definitely not her color. And as we all know, jumpsuits went out of vogue years ago.

The esteemed sheriff, Sumter Wiggins, had also called to confirm the news. Apparently the investigation into Lance Ledeaux’s death had been reopened with the capture of Gus Smith, aka Guido, “the Killer Pimp,” a frequent flier on the FBI’s elite list of crooks and felons. Through FBI contacts-I’m thinking snitches and bookies and such-it had been discovered Lance was in debt up to his waxed eyebrows to Bennie “the Thumb,” a situation the Thumb didn’t take lightly. After all, a mobster has nothing without his reputation. Bennie decreed Lance was going to be an example for those who welshed on their debts. It was pay up or else. Gus/Guido was hired to supply the or else.

The question remained: Why hadn’t Lance repaid Bennie? The Babes and I concurred Lance was a gambler through and through. Some thought Lance bet on Bennie’s being unable to catch up with him. I thought Lance craved one more toss of the dice that would result in a big payoff on Super Bowl Sunday. Whatever his reason, he took a chance-and rolled snake eyes.

Sheriff Wiggins confessed the case was practically a slam dunk since the state crime lab in Columbia discovered on the shell casing a partial print that was identified as Gus/Guido’s. This hadn’t been part of the original investigation, he explained, sounding a tad defensive, since a half-dozen people had witnessed Claudia pull the trigger.

Still another question puzzled me: Why didn’t Gus leave Serenity Cove after killing Lance? Why hang around? Bill had supplied the most plausible explanation. He said Gus had recently joined the ranks of retirees and had been looking for a place to settle down; a place where he could blend in. What better choice for a middle-aged man of average build, slight paunch, and thinning hair to blend into than a retirement community where three-fourths of the male population fit the same description; a place where a golf handicap mattered more than whether you’d been a CEO, ditch digger, or hit man. Who knows? Maybe Gus had unfinished business in Serenity Cove or perhaps he just wanted to bask in anonymity. After all, he thought he was safe here and far too clever for the FBI to ever find. Far be it from me to guess what goes on in the mind of a hit man.