Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“You know this for a fact, or are you making it up as you go along?”

“You’ve never been around cats much, have you, Kate?”

“No, my husband was allergic.” I stored the empty plastic grocery bags with the other items I recycle. It’s the creed I live by. I’m a firm believer in the three Rs: reduce, reuse, recycle. Right about now, I was wishing I could recycle my houseguest to Myrtle Beach.

“Kate, I, ah…” Krystal struck a hand-on-hip pose reminiscent of vintage World War II posters I’d seen. Rita Hayworth and Lana Turner sprang to mind.

I stopped what I was doing and gave her my full attention. “Out with it, girl.”

“I was wondering if it’d be OK if I tried out for a part in the play.”

Well, Krystal’s question certainly explained the posturing. The part of Roxanne, Claudia’s former role, was that of femme fatale. My command of French is practically nonexistent, but even to my untrained ear, fatale sounds too much like fatal. And fatal reminds me of Lance sprawled deader ’n a doornail, as Bernie so eloquently phrased it.

“Well…?”

Krystal’s voice jerked me back to the present. “No, of course not,” I said. “It’s an open audition.”

“Great,” she replied, breaking into a smile. “I wondered if it was only for residents of Serenity Cove. Since technically I’m only a visitor and not a resident…”

“By all means come. You’re welcome to try out for the part.” I found a spot for the expensive-and unappreciated-pet food on a pantry shelf. “Besides, you won’t be the only nonresident in the play. Eric Olsen, that nice young policeman from Brookdale, is playing the part of detective. Do you have acting experience?”

Krystal busied herself rearranging the stack of mail lying on the counter. “Ah, I was in the drama club in high school. And I had a small part in a road show of Grease.”

“Grease?” I nearly knocked over a box of Cheerios. “As in John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John? The ‘grease is the word’ kind of Grease?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.” She shrugged. “I was Marty Maraschino.”

“Wow!” I said, truly impressed. “With those credentials, maybe we don’t even need an audition. You’ll be a shooin.”

“That wouldn’t be fair. I don’t want people saying I won the role just because I’m staying with you.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Who would have guessed Krystal would turn out to be a genuine actress in the guise of a pregnant waitress and resident cat lover? “I know my friend Monica is determined to read for the part.”

“Monica? You mean Mrs. Pulaski?”

“The one and only.” One Monica is quite enough, thank you very much.

“Then it’s all set. Can I hitch a ride with you tomorrow night?”

“Sure.” I was beginning to feel like a soccer mom ferrying Krystal back and forth. Maybe I should bribe Bill’s buddy with a batch of cookies to work faster on her Honda. It was worth a try.

“Guess I’ll go to my room and read over the script one more time.” She started to leave but turned back. “I forgot to mention I turned off the ringer on the phone. And, while you’re at it, you might want to check your answering machine. I think I heard someone leave a message.”

“Right, thanks.”

Groceries stored and kitchen tidy, I entered the room I tentatively refer to as the library. Its name had gone through a series of changes during the time I lived there-den, study, and finally, library. The word seems a trifle ostentatious for a room boasting a humble magazine rack. Once the play is over, I’m going to ask Bill to build some bookshelves. And while he’s at it, I’ll apply my feminine wiles. Poor guy will never know what hit him.

The little red light on the answering machine flashed impatiently. Pressing the button, I heard not the voice of an aspiring actor, but that of Tammy Lynn Snow.

Miz McCall, drawled the familiar voice, I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon. Sheriff wants you in his office first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp, he said. The message clicked off.

I glanced at the clock. It was too late to call now to learn the reason for the summons; Tammy Lynn had probably left for the day. If nervous tension caused weight loss, I’d be skinny as a rail come morning.

I decided to bide my time at the Koffee Kup after giving Krystal a ride to work the following morning. There was no sense going home only to turn around for my meeting with the sheriff. I instructed her to keep my tank-I mean cup-topped off with high octane. None of that decaf for me. I needed every spare molecule of caffeine I could swallow.

“And, Krystal, bring a slice of lemon meringue pie to go along with the coffee.”

She looked at me oddly. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for pie?”

“Just bring it.” So much for being skinny as a rail. Guess nervous tension can work in one of two ways. At this rate, I’d be round as a Teletubby before the appointed hour. I didn’t care if all the other early birds were chowing down on eggs and grits; I needed fortification. And for me fortification came in the form of lemon pie heaped mile high with fluffy white meringue.

I glanced up as the door of the diner swung open and Bill sauntered through. My heart went into its familiar tap dance at the sight of him. Flap-brush-step. Flap-brush-step. My, oh, my. Our eyes met. He smiled; my heart cheered. I may be getting a little old for such a robust cardiovascular workout, but I’ll die happy.

He wove through the tables, working his way toward my booth. I racked my brain for witty repartee-or even mediocre repartee. “Hey, Bill,” I said, and winced inwardly at the inane attempt.

“Hey, yourself.”

Not sure whether I mentioned this, but here in the South, hey replaces its northern counterpart, hi. It’s one of the few Southernisms I’ve adopted. I’ve been dying to sprinkle y’all into conversations with my children, but I haven’t found a way to do it without sounding hokey. Y’all coming from a Yankee loses something in the translation.

“Mind if I join you?” Bill asked.

Mind? Was he kidding? “No, of course not,” I said, trying to sound offhand. Bill slid into the booth opposite me. Krystal returned, coffeepot in one hand, pie in the other. “Hey, Mr. Lewis. What can I get you?” she said, beaming a bright smile at him.

Bill beamed right back. “I’ll have what Kate’s having.”

“Pie versus grits?” I said when Krystal left after filling Bill’s cup. “We’re starting a trend.”

“No contest.” He sipped his coffee. “I once let a waitress bully me into trying grits. Damned if I didn’t catch her watching to see if I ate them or not. Might as well have been eating wallpaper paste far as I was concerned.”

“Many of the finer restaurants feature shrimp ’n grits on their menus. It’s considered a delicacy.”

“I’ve noticed. Maybe someday I’ll give it a try-or not.”

The subject of grits exhausted, we lapsed into companionable silence.

“What brings you into town this early? Aren’t you usually at Tai Chi about now?” Bill asked.

Tai Chi would certainly have been preferable to being skewered by Sheriff Wiggins. He’d put me through the paces faster than Marian, our Tai Chi instructor. A tiny part of me warmed at the knowledge Bill was aware of my habits. Another part, not quite so tiny, was reluctant to tell him about my summons to the sheriff’s office. I didn’t have the foggiest notion why the man wanted to see me, but it couldn’t be good.

“Ah, I, er, have an appointment this morning,” I managed to stammer. “What about you?”

“Me, too, have a meeting, that is.”

Before I could decide to pursue or abandon the topic of meetings, Krystal returned with Bill’s pie. She presented the perfectly centered slice of lemon meringue as regally as a cupcake to the queen. She flashed another bright smile at him, and, I swear, batted her eyelashes. “Here you go. Anything else I can get you?”