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.
“Break a leg,” I told Krystal as I hurried to join Bill and Janine, the other two members of Auditions ’R Us who were seated behind a utility table set up at the foot of the stage. “Sorry, Janine,” I said. “I’m going to have to ask you to move.”
She frowned at me. “What are you talking about?”
“Tonight I’m Paula,” I explained. “Everyone knows Paula always sits on Simon’s right.”
“Who’s Simon?”
“I’m Simon,” Bill said in a British accent so atrocious it had me rolling my eyes.
With a shake of her head, Janine switched places. “Don’t tell me. Let me guess. If you’re Paula and Bill is Simon, I must be…”
“Randy.”
“Isn’t there a pretty brunette? And what about the new one?”
“I thought we’d keep with the original three judges.”
“OK, OK, I get it. Paula, Simon, and Randy have seniority.”
I settled into the chair Janine vacated and rummaged through my purse for a notebook and pen.
Janine leaned closer. “I wonder about you, Kate. First you fixate on all those crime and punishment shows on TV. Now it’s American Idol. Surely so much television can’t be good for a person. Maybe you should find another interest.”
“Such as?” I could sense Bill following our conversation with interest.
“Take genealogy as an example. Many people enjoy learning more about their ancestors. I’ve heard there’re some great software programs out there.”
“I’ll take the matter under advisement,” I said, mimicking Sheriff Wiggins’s words from earlier that day.
Genealogy vs. Idol? I’m not sure how finding out your great-grandfather was born in a country that no longer exists measures up against young hopefuls competing to become the nation’s new singing sensation. I took Janine’s advice with a grain of salt. I know she meant well.
“Time to get down to business,” I said. “Janine, your part’s easy. Just keep using the expressions ‘yo dawg’ and ‘Hey, check it out, dude.’ ”
“What about me?” Bill asked.
“Just roll your eyes and shake your head after I give my opinion. Easy as pie, right?”
Janine brought out a notepad and prepared to take notes. “After I check it out, dude, what exactly do you do?”
I batted my eyelashes and simpered, “I tell everyone how nice they look. I want everyone to like me.”
Bill gave me a nudge and whispered, “Remind me again why I let you talk me into this.”
Rita, in her official capacity as stage manager, hustled over to our table. “Here,” she said, placing a sign-up sheet in front of us. “This is a list of the people auditioning. I thought it might be easier if we paired them up. You know… male and female. Claudia and Lance? Roxanne and Troy?”
I skimmed the list and recognized most of the names. Krystal’s, it seemed, had been an add-on.
“Showtime!” Rita clapped her hands to get everyone’s attention. “All of you take a seat until your name is called.” She consulted a copy of the list. “Monica, you’ll read with Ed Beckley.”
Considering the debacle of her earlier audition, I confess to being surprised Monica was giving this another shot. I guess she aspired to greater heights than being the prop princess. I had to hand it to her, though; she had grit. But no matter how hard you tried, grit wasn’t spelled t-a-l-e-n-t.
Monica and Ed ran through the scene. They had their lines down pat, but infused as much emotion as someone reading the phone book. Next up were Trixie, a gal I knew from golf clinics, and Jerry Buckner, another Serenity Cove resident. Trixie was already complaining that rehearsals would take time away from golf. In spite of her whining, she gave a commendable performance as Roxanne. Jerry, on the other hand, was just this side of terrible.
“Well,” Bill whispered, “what do you think?”
“Yo, dude!” Janine growled, getting into the swing of things. “For me that was a little pitchy.”
Bill’s lips twitched as he tried to hide a smile. “And you, Kate, er, Paula?”
Smiling demurely, I propped my chin on my folded hands. “Dare to follow the path of your dream.”
Bill frowned. “I don’t understand a word of what you said.”
I smiled vacuously and gave his shoulder a playful jab. “Precisely.”
We-Paula, Simon, and Randy-rocked on through a series of readings. At last, Rita called Krystal front and center. I was shocked, no better word for it, when I heard Gus Smith’s name called as her partner.
Just as I’d anticipated, Krystal blew away the competition with her rendition of Roxanne. She literally breathed new life into Lance’s insipid dialogue and made the show come alive. Gus, however, caught me totally unaware. The guy was as opposite as a guy could be from Lance Ledeaux. Where Lance was handsome, Gus was, well, plain. Lance commanded attention; Gus blended into the woodwork. But onstage, Gus underwent a metamorphosis. His voice deepened, his paunch melted, he stood taller. He turned into a credible Troy.
When auditions were over, the decision was unanimous. Krystal and Gus were the reincarnated version of Claudia and Lance pretending to be Roxanne and Troy.
Rita thanked everyone for coming for tryouts. “It’s a wrap.”
But it wasn’t a wrap for me-far from it. I kept thinking about Krystal’s previous experience onstage. Could acting have been her link with Lance? And just how well had they known each other? How odd that her arrival coincided with Lance’s departure.
Curious and curiouser.