Last Scene Alive at-7 Read online

  Just when I was getting drowsy, the phone rang. I leaned forward to check my caller-ID device. I picked up the phone, already smiling.

  Angel said, "I got a question to ask you."

  Angel and Shelby Youngblood were both very direct, Angel more so than her husband. Shelby, a Vietnam vet and one of the toughest men I'd ever met, had learned to approach certain topics sideways rather than straight on, something I didn't think would ever occur to Angel. Their little girl Joan was going to have to be one sturdy kid. Already, at nearly a year old, Joan seemed more independent than most babies her age. At least Angel told me so.

  "Shoot," I told her.

  "You mind if I work this movie? I got a call from a guy who asked if I wanted to do stunts."

  Everyone, everyone, wanted to work for the damn movie. I had a moment's flash of intense resentment, an irrational conviction that all the people of Lawrenceton should shun the movie and the moviemakers, not rent or sell to them, not be employed by them, and all for my sake, because I didn't want this film made.

  "Of course you ought to," I said calmly. "I know it's been years since you got any stunt work, and you must miss it."

  "Thanks," Angel said. She was so direct herself that it seldom occurred to her that people didn't exactly mean what they said. "If you're sure. We're trying to save up for a swimming pool for Joan."

  "Above ground?"

  "Nope, in-ground. So we got a ways to go."

  I silently exhaled. "Well, you better get to it. Bye, Angel."

  "See you soon, Roe."

  I thought it was the perfect cap to a perfect day. What could happen tomorrow, I asked myself rhetorically, that would make it any worse than today ?

  I should have known better than to ask myself any such a thing.

  Chapter Three

  I didn't have to work that Thursday, so I didn't get up until about seven-thirty. Catherine Quick, the maid, was supposed to be coming in that afternoon, so I didn't have to make my bed; she'd be changing the sheets. I trotted down the stairs to put on the coffeepot, and I popped an English muffin in the toaster before I went to the living room at the front of the house to look out. Though the air was chilly that morning, making me glad I'd pulled on jeans and a sweater before I came downstairs, it was going to warm up and be a beautiful day. The air was crystal clear, the sky so blue it almost sparkled. I told myself I wouldn't worry that day, wouldn't think about the movie at all. Maybe I would call Sally Allison to see if she could have lunch with me. Since she was a reporter, Sally always knew what was going on in Lawrenceton.

  The kitchen had two doors, the back one opening onto our patio, and the side one opening under the covered walkway leading to the garage. Madeleine's cat flap was in the patio door, and she made an entrance just about this time every morning, tired from her night's adventures and ready to eat her kibble. But this morning, though I filled her bowl and renewed her water, she didn't show. Maybe I'd see her when I went down the long driveway to fetch my newspaper.

  I opened the side door and made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a shriek. The young man sitting on the steps jumped up, dumping Madeleine off his lap in the process.

  "Hello, Aurora," he said, and in that moment I recognized him.

  "Hello, Barrett," I said, trying hard not to sound as anxious and angry as I felt. It was all I could do not to blurt out, "What do you want?" At six feet, Barrett was tall enough to cow me, and of course he was fit, since looking good was part of his stock in trade. His hair was a new color, a dark blond, and he was wearing glasses he didn't need.

  It's an accurate measure of our relationship that I wondered, just in a flash, if Barrett had come disguised so no one would recognize him in the police lineup after my body was discovered.

  "I didn't know you were in Lawrenceton," I said, my voice much more shaky than I liked.

  "Oh, yes. And I came to see you first thing, Stepmom."

  So it was going to be that way.

  As if it had ever been any other way.

  "Barrett, what are you doing here?" I was not stable enough emotionally to put up with all this parrying.

  "Just wanted to come check in on you, see how you were enjoying my dad's money," he said casually. The actor. I wondered how often he'd rehearsed tossing that line over to me.

  I sighed. I considered several responses, most based on my new policy of rudeness, but a sudden deep exhaustion quenched anything I might have said.

  "Frankly, Barrett, I don't enjoy much of anything." My voice was as weary as I felt. It was time to speak plainly, and end this if it was possible. I stepped back and said, "Come in, if you have to, and say whatever you have to say. I'm sorry we misunderstood each other so badly after your father died. I just wasn't at my most intelligent or sensitive."

  Barrett's face was already arranged to say something witty and cruel. But there was a subtle shift in his expression as he listened. He nearly relented, but at the last second his grievance settled back on his shoulders like a cape. "Did your lawyer tell you to say that?" he sneered.

  I could think of no response. "Do you want some coffee? Have you had breakfast yet?" When in doubt, fall back on being a lady, as my mother had always advised me—though truly, it would feel better to kick Barrett in the butt.

  Once again, Mother was proved right. Barrett had no idea how to pose himself. "I'd like a cup of coffee," he said after an appreciable pause. "I take it black." He looked around the kitchen with almost palpable surprise. What had he expected—marble countertops and a resident chef? It was just an ordinary kitchen. I got another cup from the cabinet and buttered my English muffin, which had popped up.

  "So, what are you doing here in Lawrenceton?" I asked. "I guess you came to visit your dad's grave? I got the headstone in about four months ago. It looks real nice." I took a deep breath, trying unsuccessfully to repress the tears that welled up. I grabbed a tissue and blotted my eyes. I glanced over at my stepson as I put his coffee on the table, to surprise a look of shame on his face.

  "You didn't even think of going out to the cemetery," I said out loud. I was truly stunned.

  "He's not really there," Barrett said, scrambling for a defense. He sat down at the table and looked sullen.

  "No, of course not," I said numbly. I put half my muffin in front of Barrett. "And I know I shouldn't have spent so much time out there at first, but somehow you just want to be close ... I know that's stupid." I shook my head. I could feel the trembles and weepies looming, like unpleasant relatives due for a visit.

  Barrett was staring at me like he'd never seen me before. He took a sip of his coffee. "You've lost weight," he said at last.

  I shrugged. "Maybe a little." It was my turn to drink some coffee. My eyes ached with tears. But this, too, would pass. "I suppose your check got to you all right?" Martin's will had finally been probated; of course, money was at the root of Barrett's rancor.

  "Yes," he said.

  The silence dragged uncomfortably. "I'm sorry, again, about the—about the misunderstanding after Martin died."

  "No," said Barrett sharply. "Let's not talk about that."

  Which was fine with me. In the turmoil after Martin's death, I had simply forgotten that Martin's adult son had been in the habit of receiving handouts from Martin when acting jobs proved few and far between. For one thing, the largesse had been irregular; Martin had always thought it would be an insult to give Barrett a steady allowance, as though Barrett were still a child. So he waited until Barrett called and hinted that he needed a "loan," and then Martin would mail a check. Once I'd become aware of this practice, I'd bitten my tongue to prevent myself commenting.

  Most importantly, it was none of my business. I had my own money, and Martin's checks to Barrett had not deprived me of anything at all. But in my opinion, if Martin thought it right to support an adult son, he should have made it a regular arrangement, so Barrett wouldn't have to ask.

  My lips were sealed even more tightly because Barrett loathed me and always
had. He'd dodged coming to our wedding, at family functions he never addressed me directly if he could avoid it, he'd only visited Lawrenceton when I was out of town, and he'd made it insultingly clear (out of his dad's hearing) that he thought I was marrying Martin for his money.

  So in the months immediately after my husband's funeral, Barrett's financial state had been the last thing on my mind. But one night Barrett had called me, when he'd held out as long as he could for his legacy. Probate often takes much longer than it has any right to, and in the case of Martin's estate, which was a little complicated because of his diverse holdings—real estate, stock, insurance payments, and the retirement fund of Pan-Am Agra—well, settling Martin's affairs was a drawn-out process. That night, Barrett had stiffly demanded I mail him the money he was accustomed to getting.

  I hadn't reacted well. I could tell how difficult it was for Barrett to call, but in my view, he should have been man enough to manage on his own rather than phone me. At the same time, I admit I was aware that Barrett must truly have his back to the wall financially to be driven to such a measure. But I was just too mired in my personal hell to care about Barrett's problems. He could have helped me in many ways when Martin had died—just being civil would have been a good way to start—and he had chosen not to do so. Now, I chose not to help him. I'd told him so, frankly and at length, being unable to think beyond the moment and see this from any other angle than the one in front of my face.

  The next day I'd woken up sorry, but not because I hadn't solved Barrett's financial problems. I'd been sorry because Martin had loved Barrett, and would have wanted me to send the money—no matter what it said about Barrett that he'd even asked me for it. So without calling or writing a note to enclose, I'd FedExed Barrett a check— my own money—for what he'd needed.

  I'd never heard a word from him after that, until this moment. I'd sent him his share of Martin's estate when it had all been settled. I had not deducted what I'd already given him. That would have been businesslike, but he would have taken it as petty. I just didn't want to struggle with Barrett any more.

  So here we were, not talking about the incident that lay between us, as big and smelly as a dead fish.

  I cleared my throat and asked after his mother and aunt. Cindy's florist shop was doing well, Barrett said. In fact, Cindy and her partner were expanding the shop to include gifts and home-decorating items. "They took out a loan," Barrett made a point of telling me, I guess so I'd realize he couldn't have turned to his mother for money. "She and Dennis plan to get married."

  "I'm glad for them," I said, not caring one little bit.

  "Aunt Barby has been keeping Regina's baby for a week or two, while Regina and her husband are on vacation in New York."

  While I was indifferent about Cindy, I actively disliked Martin's sister Barby and her daughter Regina, who was on her second marriage. I was confident that Regina would someday be on her fourth. Probably she would have had a few more babies along the way.

  "Why didn't you and Dad have any children?" Barrett asked me. The question came from out of the blue and lodged in my heart.

  "I can't have children," I said. "We talked about it a little, before we found out that I had some fertility problems. I sure wanted a baby, and sometimes he did too. But he was a little wary of starting a new family at his age." I saw Martin, so clearly, leaning over Regina's baby when I'd placed him beside Martin on our bed. Tears trickled down my cheeks. I lowered my face and wiped it with a napkin. "Can I get you some more coffee?" I asked politely.

  "No, thank you. I need to be getting back." Barrett and I both stood up. He scrabbled through his pockets for the car keys, and looked uncertain, not a normal Barrett state of mind.

  He looked as though he were going to make some kind of pronouncement, but in the end, all he said was, "Thanks for the coffee." It wasn't until I watched his car turn onto the county road that I realized he'd never told me why he was in Lawrenceton.

  It didn't take long for the other shoe to drop. While I was upstairs covering up the circles under my eyes and brushing my hair, it suddenly occurred to me that Barrett was in town because he had a part in the movie. I couldn't imagine why I hadn't made the connection earlier. He would be a natural choice for the cast, as the stepson of one of the real-life figures in our local drama. He'd even visited Lawrenceton before, when I'd been gone with my mother to a real estate convention in Orlando.

  I collapsed ungracefully on the delicate peach-colored chair in the corner of the bedroom and further considered this likelihood. Barrett was an up-and-coming actor, whose longest running part had been on a popular soap. I think he played a seductive chauffeur. Since I never watch daytime television, I'd never seen him in it—which, now that I came to examine my conduct, was just as much stubbornness as his refusing to come to our wedding—but several women who knew of our connection had told me how good he was. They'd had their tongues hanging out as they said it, too.

  I wondered what role Barrett would have. I wondered, for the first time, what the script was like; how close the movie would come to the reality.

  I wished I hadn't hung up on Robin Crusoe.

  Moved by an impulse I didn't even want to analyze, I decided to go shopping that morning. My friend Amina Day's mother owned a women's clothing store called Great Day. If I bought anything in Lawrenceton, rather than going to my favorite store in Atlanta, I bought it at Great Day. To my pleasure, Mrs. Day had a younger partner now, and the selection had really improved as a result.

  I had a closet full of good clothes already, but I needed something new, some voice deep within me advised. My coloring—brown hair, brown eyes, fair complexion—was pretty neutral, so my color field was wide open. As Barrett had noticed, I'd lost weight I'd never regained when Martin died, so my involuntarily smaller size was another excuse for shopping.

  As I got out of my car at the strip mall that housed Great Day, a cluster of people emerged from the Crafts Consortium next door. Homemade quilts, candles, and all kinds of "country" stuff formed the bulk of the store's goods, and crowds were not something I'd ever seen there. The center of the group seemed to be a short, thin, very young woman with artistically disheveled blond hair who was wearing the highest heels I'd ever seen on a woman who wasn't standing on a street corner. And these high heels were worn with jeans, the tightest jeans I'd ever seen. No, wait; Nadine Gortner had worn some just as tight to one of the Pan-Am Agra picnics, and her zipper had popped.

  As if the heels and jeans weren't enough to mark her out, this woman had lips outlined in the darkest possible shade of red while the lipstick she'd filled in with was a creamy pink. She looked like a bee had been at her.

  The people accompanying this creature were not as eye-popping, which was a relief. An older, grizzled man who might be from almost anywhere was carrying a bag (which I had to believe belonged to The Creature). A slightly less ornate woman in a modified version of The Creature's outfit was scrabbling in her outsize purse with fingernails like a Chinese emperor's. She pulled out some car keys, and immediately reached out to steady her flamboyant friend, who had stumbled on the irregular surface of the parking lot. No wonder, in those heels.

  After absorbing this trio in a comprehensive glance, I passed them with my eyes straight forward. That was why I noticed Miss Joe Nell standing in the glass door of Great Day making an elaborate face at me, jabbing her finger vehemently in the direction of the little group. It was hard to keep a steady course forward, since Amina's mom was doing her best to get me to stop, turn, and stare.

  "That was them!" she said excitedly, as soon as I came through the door. Miss Joe Nell and her partner, Mignon Derby, were flushed and practically panting.

  "Them?" I said, trying not to sound as irritated as I felt.

  "The movie people!" Without ever thinking that I might not be delighted to have come in close proximity with some "movie people," the two women began speaking all at once. Miss Joe Nell and Mignon (who, at twenty-eight, had the kind of skin
most women only dream of) were extremely revved up about the trio's just-concluded visit to Great Day, where the Starlet Lite (as opposed to the spike-heeled Full Starlet) had bought a white linen shell.

  "I don't know what Celia Shaw bought at Crafts Consortium," Mignon babbled. "I'm gonna go call Teal and find out!"

  So that had been Robin's girlfriend, at least according to the magazine article. I was almost proud for despising her before I had known. Then I was angry with myself for my lack of charity. This was not my day to be pleased with the way I conducted my life.

  I am not exactly poker-faced, so Miss Joe Nell was picking up on my lack of enthusiasm.

  "Well, that was fun, but we know who's going to be around when the movie people are gone," she said, smiling. "What can I show you today, Roe?"

  Since I didn't know what I wanted, I felt even grumpier. I was rapidly getting to be the town killjoy. At that moment, I was sure I was the only person in Sparling County who wished everyone associated with the movie project would fall into a big hole.

  I calmed down as I shopped, the familiar ritual and the renewed attentiveness of Mignon and Miss Joe Nell combining to make me feel once again that I had a legitimate place in the world.

  Hmmm. Was I just full of sour grapes at not being Top Dog? Was I way too used to having people treat me with a little deference and a little extra attention because I was well-heeled and a widow?

  Just could be.

  A life unexamined is not a life lived, I reminded myself, and resolved to be a little less stuffy and a lot less grudging about the excitement the filmmaking was bringing to Lawrenceton. Maybe, despite my legitimate gripes about the movie's being made at all, what I was really doing was... pouting. Hmmm, indeed.