Pam, in her role as hostess, brought Lance a glass of wine, which he accepted with alacrity. “Ladies, if you will, please have a seat. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Obediently as parochial school second graders, we arranged ourselves on sofas and chairs about the living room. Lance remained standing.
He set his wineglass down on a nearby end table and rubbed his hands together. “I suspect Claudia mentioned I have a proposition for you.”
We nodded, twelve bobblehead dolls in the rear window of an old Chevy.
He let his smile slowly revolve around the room. “I’ve been working on a certain project for quite some time, and I think you ladies, the Babes, might be just the ones to help me pull it off.”
“Who? Us?”
The Bunco Babe chorus was worthy of
American Idol
. Are you listening, Simon Cowell?
Pull it off?
I’m not quite sure I liked the way that sounded. Lance made it seem as if he were planning a bank heist and wanted our help in the caper. If so, I hoped Pam wouldn’t be assigned to drive the getaway car—unless the getaway car happened to be a golf cart. The dings and dents on her PT Cruiser speak for themselves. I, on the other hand, have been known to put the pedal to the metal and burn rubber. I’d be a much better choice for the driver of a getaway car. Not that I intended to rob a bank, of course, but I’m always up for an escapade.
I cleared my throat and asked tentatively, “Exactly what is it you have in mind?”
“I’ve written a play, a murder mystery, and plan to produce it right here in Serenity Cove Estates. From everything Claudia’s told me about all of you, you’re just what I’ve been looking for. I see ‘star quality’ written across your faces. With your able assistance, my dear ladies, we can make this into a production residents here will never forget.”
Before we knew it, Lance was whipping out copies of his script,
Forever, My Darling.
“Let’s give this a quick run-through, shall we?” he said, smiling broadly.
By the time the evening ended, I think we were all suffering from shell shock. Claudia and, of course, Lance had the starring roles. Megan would play the ingénue. I was going to be Myrna, the housekeeper. Gloria had displayed a surprising knack for the theater and, to Monica’s chagrin, won the part of Lance’s secretary. The rest of the Babes had offered their services as well. Connie Sue would be responsible for hair and makeup—no big stretch for a former beauty queen and cosmetics rep. Polly practically foamed at the mouth for the chance to be in charge of costumes. Diane volunteered her expertise on publicity, and Tara said she’d work on programs. It was agreed that a couple minor parts could be cast later.
What next? I wondered as I left Pam’s that evening. Broadway?
Chapter 3
Great—first I was late, and now I was early. I staked out a corner table at the Cove Café and prepared to wait.
Vera MacGillicudy, the Babes’ all-time favorite waitress, came over and poured me a cup of coffee. “You alone this morning?”
“No,” I said sourly. “I overslept. Pam is meeting me here after Tai Chi. Connie Sue and Monica will be along after land aerobics.”
Vera, being a wise woman, obviously sensed I needed caffeine more than conversation and wandered off. I took my first sip of Colombian dark and sighed in bliss. I could feel my mood begin to lighten already. Almost, that is . . .
It had been a week since Lance dropped his bombshell, aka proposition. For the life of me, I didn’t know why I’d agreed to go along with his outlandish idea. I didn’t know beans about acting, yet I’d volunteered to play the part of the housekeeper, Myrna. What was I thinking? Had the time finally come to get my head examined?
I drank more coffee, then signaled for Vera to top off my cup. I happened to glance toward the door, half expecting to see my friends appear, but I saw someone even better—Bill Lewis.
As usual, my heart did a little tap dance inside my chest at the sight of my favorite handyman. He’d had that effect on me ever since the day he came to repair a broken ceiling fan. Maybe it was the tool belt; maybe it was the Paul Newman baby blues, but whatever it was sent my no-longer-dormant hormones into overdrive.
Bill spotted me at the same time and gave me that hesitant, shy smile of his.
I held my breath, hoping he’d join me. At one time this would have been a given; these days I wasn’t so sure. Pam used to insist Bill was sweet on me. But he’d changed. He’d recently returned to Serenity Cove Estates after nursing his brother, Bob, through a triple bypass and then staying on to see Bob through cardiac rehab. We hadn’t seen much of each other since he’d come home—at any rate, not nearly as much as I would’ve liked. Our friendship/relationship seemed to have cooled during his absence—not on my part, but his. If I were a microwave, I would’ve set the dial to reheat.
I let out a pent-up sigh as he ambled toward my table. “Hey, Bill,” I said, smiling in spite of my misgivings. He had that kind of effect on me.
“Hey, yourself.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker. “You managing to keep warm during this cold spell we’re having?”
It was hard to find a more neutral topic than the weather. OK, I thought, two could play this game. We’d keep it light, keep it simple. “After all my years in Toledo,” I told him, “I can handle this kind of ‘cold.’ It’s hard to believe it’s actually winter with planters of flowers everywhere.”
Bill nodded. “My camellias are blooming like crazy.”
“The deer ate mine.”
“Those buggers eat anything and everything this time of year,” he commiserated. “Did you spray them with deer repellant like I suggested?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “Problem was, it was windy. I ended up with more spray on me than on the bushes. It took two showers before I could get rid of the smell. That stuff reeks to high heaven.”
“That’s why the deer stay away from the camellias.”
For the first time, I noticed a man dressed in rumpled khakis and a faded brown sweatshirt hovering near the entrance. When he saw me look his way, he ducked his head. Bill followed the direction of my glance and motioned the man over.
“A friend of yours?”
Bill made the introductions. “Kate, this is Gus Smith. He’s new to Serenity Cove Estates.”
“How do you do,” Gus mumbled, extending his hand but avoiding eye contact.
Knowing the Babes would want a full report on any newcomer, I gave Gus the once-over. He was average height and a little lumpy around the middle like many men his age, which I took to be sixtysomething. His hair was mostly gray and mostly gone, also like many his age. Except for a prominent nose, his features were unremarkable. He would blend perfectly into the male population of any retirement community in the country.
“Nice to meet you, Gus.” Odd guy, I thought, but any friend of Bill’s was a friend of mine. “What brings you to Serenity Cove?”
He shrugged. “I, ah, moved down here from a small town in northern Michigan. Got tired of all the snow.”
“Gus owned a place up near where I used to hunt,” Bill explained.
Bill’s originally from Michigan, too—Battle Creek, to be precise, cereal capital of the world. I remember his pin-pointing the exact spot using the palm of his hand, a neat trick if you’re from a state shaped like a mitten. Not so easy for those of us from Ohio, much less for those who happen to hail from New Jersey. But whether from Michigan or Ohio, Bill and I were both transplanted Midwesterners. After my husband, Jim, died of a massive coronary, I decided to remain in the “active” adult retirement community we had fallen in love with. I’ve never regretted the decision.
“He’s temporarily leasing a small house with an option to buy,” Bill continued since Gus was apparently a man of few words. “It’s just down the street from me. The owners moved back to Pennsylvania to be closer to their kids. The place comes fully furnished but could use some updating.”
“I heard about the woodworking club, the Woodchucks,” Gus volunteered reluctantly. “Thought I could pick up a few pointers.” He dipped his head toward Bill. “That’s where we met. Bill offered to show me around. Introduce me to some folks.”
“Gus fits right in.” Bill slapped his new friend on the shoulder. “Soon as I told him about this play we’re putting on, he offered to take charge of lighting and sound. Didn’t even have to twist his arm.”
Another falls prey to Lance’s grandiose scheme. The more the merrier? Or should it be, “Misery loves company”?
“Well, we gotta run,” Bill said. “I’m giving Gus the grand tour. Next stop, the rec center.”
“I hope you’ll be happy here, Gus,” I said, infusing my voice with Welcome Wagon sincerity. “Serenity Cove’s a great place to live.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Gus smiled for the first time, revealing a pronounced gap between yellowing front teeth. “It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
Gee, where had I heard words to that effect? Lance maybe?
After breakfast with the girls, I ran into town to stock up on groceries. Since I was there already, I asked the store manager if he had any empty boxes to spare. It turned out I was in luck. The manager instructed me to drive around back and help myself.
All week long, when I wasn’t memorizing my lines, I’d been cleaning out closets. I wanted to give myself a pat on the back. It was a New Year’s resolution I’d actually kept. Every year, it seems, I make the same three resolutions: lose weight, exercise more, and clean out the closets. This year I was determined to make good on at least one of them. Closets looked the most promising. Now the clothes needed to be packed up and donated to Goodwill
In spite of the hundreds of times I’d shopped at the Piggly Wiggly, I’d never had reason to visit the loading dock. Produce department, frozen foods, canned goods aisle, yes, but not the loading dock. I drove around the rear of the store and spied a bonanza of boxes practically calling my name.
The sight of all those empty boxes set my pulse thrumming. Lofty plans to revamp every single closet in my home danced in my head. Every useless object, every trace of clutter, would somehow magically disappear. A little elbow grease and I’d be able to find everything I owned without the aid of a GPS. Voilà! I’d be organized.
I backed the Buick alongside the loading dock, jumped out of the car, and proceeded to fill my trunk. I confess I may have gotten a little carried away at the prospect of all those cardboard boxes; I could barely fit them into the trunk. I was about to drive off with my newly acquired bounty, when I spotted something unusual.
There, partially concealed behind a giant green Dumpster, was Lance Ledeaux’s ’69 Camaro. Normally I can’t tell one car from another; four tires and a steering wheel, and they all start to look alike. Once I even lost my Buick at the mall, but that’s another story. Lance’s Camaro, however, was an exception. Only a blind person could miss his car. I may wear trifocals, but I’m not blind, I assure you.
I’d commented only a few days ago that it was the same red-orange as in a box of Crayola crayons. Lance quickly informed me the correct term for the car’s original paint color was Hugger Orange. Lance then proceeded to get a little hot under his Brooks Brothers collar when he heard me refer to his car as “old.” He wasted no time setting me straight. It wasn’t “old,” he said. It was a “classic.”
Well, la-di-da!
I’d said, but not out loud. Old orange cars seemed a touchy subject.
But I digress. The question of the day was why his Hugger Orange Camaro was parked next to a Dumpster behind the Piggly Wiggly.
I sat there, hands on the wheel, and pondered my next move. What was the harm in waiting awhile? I wasn’t exactly spying on Lance; I was only admiring the lines of his “classic” car. Lance should thank me for guarding his prized possession against the off chance a band of vandals was roaming the loading dock in search of empty boxes.
I didn’t have long to wait before a silver gray sedan whipped into the lot and squealed to a halt next to the Dumpster. Lance climbed out of the passenger side and exchanged what appeared to be angry words with whoever was driving. He then slammed the car door shut and stalked toward his Camaro. The driver of the sedan stomped on the accelerator and roared off. I caught only a quick glimpse of a dark-haired woman as she zoomed past.
Lance was in an equal hurry to make his getaway. He slammed into reverse, backed out of his hiding place, and peeled off. Curious to see what he was up to, I shifted into gear and followed, hoping he wouldn’t happen to glance into his rearview mirror and spot me. Both cars cleared the Piggly Wiggly lot at opposite ends and turned onto the highway. The dark-haired woman headed east; Lance took off in the direction of Serenity Cove.
What was all that about? I wondered as I headed home. Who was the dark-haired woman? And why the secrecy?
I wished I had gotten a better look at the driver of the sedan. It really was time for new glasses. I’d been procrastinating for months, but the time had come to make an appointment with the optometrist. However, even at a distance, and even needing new specs, I could tell from the body language that Lance had been furious. Bill had recently made the observation that Lance had a way of ticking people off. Now someone had turned the tables.
Paybacks are hell.
Chapter 4
As agreed upon the day before, Connie Sue, Pam, Monica, and I formed a committee in search of the perfect gift for the newlyweds. Our task was complicated by the fact that Claudia, if she wanted something, bought it. Bing, bang, boom, she’d whip out her credit card. The Babes had given the four of us a price range and charged us with finding something “appropriate” for a woman who had everything, including a shiny new husband.
“I could have driven,” Pam said for the third time.
“I know, sugar, but we can fit more into my Lexus than that little PT Cruiser of yours,” Connie Sue told her as she made a beeline for Macy’s. The rest of us tried to match her pace.