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 happened 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 drifted 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.

“The guy’s a goner.”

No kidding! I wanted to blurt. What gave it away? Lack of a pulse? The fact that the man wasn’t breathing? Or the bullet hole smack dab in the middle of his chest? I swallowed down the hysterical giggle that sometimes tries to escape during times of stress. I find the reflex irritating and often downright embarrassing, especially at funerals.

The sheriff focused his attention on the case at hand. “Seal off the crime scene,” he instructed. “Notify the coroner.” He turned to his deputy. “Preston, get these people out of heah. Find a place for them to wait until I take their statements.”

Heah? Is that Southern-speak for here? I pondered. Exactly how does one spell such a word? In Toledo, where I hail from, here has only one syllable. South of the Mason-Dixon Line, it acquires a second.

Then came the moment I’d been dreading. The sheriff turned his attention to the cast and crew of Lance’s extravaganza. “Before my deputy ushers y’all out, anyone care to tell me jus’ what happened heah?”

Apparently none of us were eager to fill in the blanks or connect the dots. We glanced furtively from one to another, shuffled our feet, and avoided the sheriff’s piercing gaze. A lengthy silence ensued.

“I’m waitin’. Y’all care to enlighten me?”

Bernie raised a bony finger and pointed straight at Claudia. “She did it! She shot her husband deader ’n a doornail.”