Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

The previous night’s dress rehearsal had been a disaster of epic proportion. Think Titanic; think Hindenburg; think Katrina. Think opening night and sell-out crowd. Translated, think laughingstock. There’s good news and bad news about appearing before an auditorium filled with friends and acquaintances, folks you run into in the doctor’s office, library, post office, and the Piggly Wiggly. The good news is they’ll laugh at the jokes and applaud until their hands sting. The bad news is they’ll never let you forget if you make a fool of yourself.

Why had rehearsal been so terrible? Take Gloria, for instance, who was playing the secretary. She kept suffering “senior moments” and exiting stage left instead of stage right and stage right instead of stage left. For my big scene, I accidentally brandished a poker instead of a feather duster and nearly gave Gus a concussion. He was very gracious, considering the amount of bloodshed. He insisted he didn’t need stitches, but I’m not so sure. And last, but by no means least, Bernie kept missing his cues and muffing his lines while his buddy, Mort, snickered backstage. Bernie lost his cool, not that he has much to begin with, and threatened to punch Mort’s lights out. Bill had to physically interject himself between the pair to keep them from coming to blows. Things finally settled down after Eric Olsen reached for his handcuffs and threatened to arrest the two of them.

Krystal Gold, the former Miss Marty Maraschino, was the only one to remain unruffled. She assured us a bad dress rehearsal was a good sign, but I don’t think anyone believed her. Good or bad, the show had to go on.

Tonight Forever, My Darling would play to a packed house.

Seeing as I was out of bagels, I dropped a couple slices of cinnamon bread in the toaster and shoved down the lever. I suppose I should have felt excited-or nervous. But truthfully I felt… depressed. Two viable suspects, and we were still no closer to finding out who wanted Lance dead. I’d tried really hard to persuade myself that Nadine or Krystal could be our perp. But my gut feeling was that while both had fallen prey to Lance’s faux charm, I didn’t believe either of them capable of murder. Of revenge maybe, even blackmail, but not murder in the first degree. And where did that leave me?

Empty-handed without a single person of interest in sight.

No wonder I was feeling a little down, a bit discouraged. At this point, many people would resort to antidepressants. But I was made of sterner stuff.

When the toast popped up, I slathered it with butter. Typically I use low-fat substitutes, but seeing as how I was depressed, I opted for the real deal. If I didn’t watch it, I’d be hauling out rocky road ice cream for breakfast. I poured a second cup of coffee, then went out to collect the morning newspaper-and let out a shriek that could be heard clear across the street.

I’d nearly stepped on a snake. I hate snakes. I loathe and despise snakes. Snakes terrify me. What was the rhyme Rita once told me about how to distinguish poisonous ones from nonpoisonous? It had something to do with colors touching. Red and black or yellow and red? This was one heck of a time to have a senior moment.

As I inched backward, I realized the snake was either dead or sound asleep. Another observation struck me just then. The snake lay perfectly centered on my welcome mat, coiled as neatly as Great-grandma Elsie’s bun; too neatly to be one of Tang’s tokens of affection. It was almost as if someone had deliberately placed it there. A shiver raced down my spine. Could this be another warning for me to mind my own business? I shot a final look at the snake. It hadn’t budged.

Shuddering, I slammed the door and twisted the dead bolt. If the snake was indeed alive and woke up from its nap on my doorstep, it could slither away. In the event it was dead, I’d worry about disposing of it later-much later.

Between bites of toast and gulps of coffee, I answered the phone, which rang incessantly. Polly asked if I had a mink stole for Krystal to wear in the final scene. Connie Sue was rounding up every bit of blue eyeliner she could get her hands on. Who uses blue? I wondered irritably. Didn’t blue eyeliner go out with disco? Pam invited me to go with her and Megan for pedicures. Pedicures were the last thing on my mind. I decided to visit Claudia instead. She could use some cheering up, and maybe in the process, I could cheer myself up as well.

The Plexiglas separating us looked as impenetrable as kryptonite. Claudia, if anything, looked even worse than the last time I’d seen her. When this misunderstanding was resolved once and for all, I was going to urge her to book a week at a spa. She desperately was in need of a little pampering-manicure, pedicure, massage, aromatherapy, hydrotherapy, the works.

“Hey,” she said, greeting me with a wan smile.

“Hey, yourself.”

“You didn’t have to come. I know tonight’s the big night.”

“Thought you might like some company.” I mustered a smile of my own. “Besides, it was either visit you or hang around and watch Janine implode.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Actually, it’s worse, so I came here to get away from all that depressing stuff.”

She flung out a hand to encompass the dingy gray-green walls and dung brown floor. “Well, if this place doesn’t cheer you up, nothing will.”

Claudia’s feeble attempt at humor was almost my undoing. We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. I blamed it on the ambiance. The visitors’ room of the county jail was a far cry from the cozy seating arrangement in Claudia’s four-season room. No cushy wicker chairs; no droopy ferns-just a droopy prison guard posted inside the door.

Unable to withstand the silence any longer, I resorted to the old standby, “You’re looking good.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. If anything, Claudia looked used up. Translated, that meant lookin’ tired, lookin’ old, as if all the spark had been snuffed out.

“Has Judge Blanchard set a trial date yet?” I stuck my hands inside my jacket pockets to avoid contact with the sticky, germy countertop.

“BJ expects her to do that next week or so.”

I nodded, unsure if I should rejoice or burst into tears at the news.

She tucked a strawberry-blond-gray-at-the-roots strand behind one ear. “Both my boys insist on coming next week. I tried to talk them out of it, but…”

“I’m sure they’re worried sick over you. They’ll rest easier after meeting your attorney and knowing you’re in good hands.”

“Bubba had a lawyer friend run a background check on BJ. Wanted to find out how high up the ladder he finished on the bar exams.”

Background check? I winced, but Claudia didn’t seem to notice.

“Bubba,” she continued, “concluded anyone with the nickname Bad Jack gets it for a damn good reason.”

Bubba, the Babes and I discovered some months back, is her son, Charles, a vascular surgeon in Chicago. Her other son, whom she refers to as Butch, is an engineer in Seattle. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard his given name.

“God, Kate”-she put her head in her hands-“what are my boys going to think seeing their mother behind bars?”

All I wanted to do at that moment was put my arms around her and console her. If anyone was ever in dire need of a hug, it was Claudia. I cast a look in the guard’s direction. No help there. He didn’t look the type to dispense lollipops to curly-haired toddlers, much less hugs to women charged with murder one.

I tried to distract her by relating everything I’d learned about Nadine Peterson and Krystal Gold. She shook her head when I asked if Lance had ever mentioned either woman.

Our time together wound to a close. I left with a promise to return soon.