Keep putting one foot in front of the other, temporarily grounded TV star Marla Dane told herself in order to stay focused on her exercise routine. There might not be any acting gigs on the horizon, but she’d been in the business long enough to know she had to keep mind and body ready for the day that golden opportunity presented itself. Especially when that mind was in its mid-sixties and the body five-eight.
She’d forgotten that mantra after months had gone by without being offered any parts. After she’d trusted a compadre with financing for a project she could barely afford, only to see nothing materialize. After she’d spent months holed up in her Brentwood, California home not socializing, too humiliated to be seen. After she’d returned to her home state of Minnesota to stay with her sister and regroup, only to be engulfed in solving a murder that occurred on her doorstep.
But now she was back on track. And not just the one on this treadmill. On reflection, it was hard to believe a fictional TV PI could actually help uncover a real-life killer. Still, she’d pulled it off. But not without the support of her sister, Kitty Lovejoy; the local police chief and his wife; and Rex Alcorn, retired St. Paul, Minnesota, cop and fellow resident in her sister’s condo building. There’d been no script, just her own intuition, intelligence and a few memories of her alter ego from Carruthers on the Case, Letitia Carruthers, to guide her. Oh, and Rex’s sardonic advice.
Go figure. Her golden opportunity back in LA was still in the future, but the old Marla Dane, the self-confident woman with slightly graying red hair, had begun to reemerge. Even her blue-green eyes had regained most of their sparkle. And this Marla Dane knew as much as she hated exercise, she and this treadmill in the condo building’s fitness room were fated to be everyday companions.
Her late husband, Carson Grant, had installed a fitness room in their home years ago when she got her first starring role in a film so she could stay in shape. He didn’t like the idea of her fighting LA traffic even for the two-mile drive to the closest workout center. The room was set up just for her preferred machines and was located just off the shower/dressing room and near the entrance to the pool.
The equipment was more limited in this condo fitness room, but she only used the treadmill and stationary bike anyhow. The constant blowers kept her cool, and the air filtration system allowed her to breathe air that wasn’t cloying as it disguised the odor of sweating bodies. And she’d learned if she hit it around ten in the morning, she could have peace and quiet.
“Wouldn’t you rather get your exercise out in the fresh air?” a woman’s voice asked from behind her.
The voice belonged to Scottie Richards, another condo resident. Scottie had been the first to welcome Marla to Rambling Meadows Condominiums when she arrived a few weeks earlier. Locked out in the middle of a sudden rainstorm because Kitty had failed to pick her up at the airport, Marla had been a wet mess. Scottie had taken pity on her and admitted her to the secure building.
Marla kept up her measured pace on the treadmill. “I like it here. It’s private.”
“You, the successful TV star? I thought you thrived on having an audience,” Scottie said, sliding around to the front of the machine to be in Marla’s view, her off-to-the-side gray bangs a front drape today. Like Marla, she was in her mid-sixties.
“Not so much since I left the show.” She hoped her visitor would get the message and leave. Not that she had anything against the woman. Scottie had prevailed upon Rex Alcorn to let her into Kitty’s condo that fateful day of her arrival.
“Are you sure you want this much privacy?” Scottie pursued.
Why was Scottie so interested in how she was getting her exercise? There was more to this than just friendly concern. “Why are you really here, Scottie?”
Scottie’s lips folded in briefly before replying. “You saw through me. How ’bout you turn off this contraption long enough for me to make my pitch?”
At least she was willing to drop the pretense of being interested in her well-being. Marla hit the Stop button and waited for the belt to do the same. “Okay. Better?” She gripped each of the machine’s arms and leaned in. “What do you really want?”
Scottie released a breath before proceeding. “I need a teensy-weensy favor.”
“If I learned anything from my years in Hollywood, it’s never trust someone who says teensy-weensy.”
Scottie had the grace to make a face. “Sorry. Not the best way to start. I’ll try again.”
“Make it good. I still have ten minutes of my routine to go.”
“I have a chance to attend the Taylor Swift concert in Chicago this coming weekend. I apparently made a commitment to Eloise Wallace, the owner of a local PR firm, a few weeks back that I’d forgotten about. I need someone to substitute for me this Saturday so I can go. That would be you.”
Scottie had neglected to say what she needed a substitute for. That omission couldn’t be good. “Substitute for what?”
“You played tennis out in California, right? Everyone out there plays tennis.”
“You want me to play tennis for you?” It had been years since she’d walked on a court. Why would this woman think she could possibly play the game now? She must be really desperate.
“Actually, this is a newer version of the game. Less strenuous, especially for those of us on the other side of fifty. Ever heard of pickleball?”
Pickleball? That’s what this was about? “In passing. It’s been in vogue in California a few years, although until recently I was always too busy to try it myself.” She didn’t mention that she would’ve had the time more recently since being let go by the producers of Carruthers on the Case.
Scottie took another big breath. “I need you to step in for me at my pickleball game this Saturday.”
“Step in, as in play in your place?” Surely she wasn’t serious.
“Play? No. I couldn’t expect you to learn how to play in just a few days. My job is to provide water to anyone who wants it.”
“You want me to be water girl?” Marla didn’t bother to disguise her repulsion.
“I prefer to call myself Hydration Manager,” Scottie replied.
Marla restrained the belly laugh she’d been about to unleash at the thought of someone calling herself a hydration manager. Scottie was serious about this. “Don’t most people have their own fancy water bottles these days?” she asked. “Why can’t the team members depend on those for hydration?”
“They can and they do. In fact, I don’t get called upon to give out water very often. But apparently some of the larger, better-funded teams bring their own water person. Eloise pays attention to appearances, so she insists her team have one too.”
Marla stared her down. “You may have been conned by Drake Elliot initially, but you saw through him and called things off before giving him any money. How does someone so smart and self-assured agree to give up her Saturdays just to give out water?”
Scottie rubbed the back of her neck before replying. Looking for a way to justify her action? “Now I see why you were able to catch Elliot’s killer. You see through people and persist in questioning them until you get an answer.”
“Just answer my question.”
“I want to go back to work. I’m fixed financially, but I need something to keep me busy. Clubs and charities are fine but not fulfilling. I’ve watched how you’ve bounced back from a terrible setback in your life out on the West Coast by helping the police. I don’t have that kind of chutzpah, but I am creative and clever. I thought PR might be my bag. Even if on a part-time basis.”
Marla fought to keep up. “How does handing out water relate to PR?”
“Eloise told me she’d consider bringing me in on a consulting capacity if I’d do this favor for her.”
Who was this Eloise? Her arrangement with Scottie seemed kind of one-sided to her. But that was for Scottie to decide. “How long does this favor last?” she asked instead.
“In your case, just this coming weekend,” Scottie replied. “For me, the rest of the season, I guess.”
Good thing winter wasn’t that far off. Did they play pickleball off-season?
“You’ll need to get the water on your own, but the team will reimburse you afterwards,” Scottie said.
“Bottled water?”
Scottie chuckled, seemingly amused by Marla’s hesitation. “You like specifics, don’t you? Yes, bottled water. Chill it beforehand. Two or three large bottles should do it.”
“Where do I take all this?” Marla asked.
“The court, of course. It’s part of the Rambling Meadows complex behind our building.”
“Okay. I haven’t gotten over there yet. But I’m sure I can find it. What time?”
“Ten in the morning. Should take a few hours. So? You’ll do it?”
“Just this once, right?” Marla said firmly, only willing to commit to one week. At least until she got a better idea about this pickleball.
“Right.”
“Okay. One time. This Saturday.”
A gleeful Scottie clapped her hands. “Terrific! Thank you, thank you, thank you. I owe you one.”
She was gone before Marla could think further about what she had agreed to.
Showered, with the day’s stint on the treadmill completed, Marla settled herself in front of her notepad computer at Kitty’s kitchen island. Even though Kitty told her to use the desk in her study anytime she wanted, Marla had gravitated to this spot whenever she needed to check something online. It might be less private, but it was also less formal. She didn’t mind Kitty looking over her shoulder occasionally, unless she was checking out entertainment news.
Right now, she needed to learn all she could about pickleball before Saturday so she could give the appearance she had some idea what was going on. Old habit when taking on a new role or when Carruthers on the Case involved an unfamiliar angle.
Pickleball apparently was similar to tennis in that it involved serving with a paddle, albeit one different from a regulation tennis racket. Players hit a ball that was slightly different from a tennis ball, more like a Wiffle ball, over a net that ran between the two sides of the court. Besides the rackets and balls, it differed in that the ball had to bounce twice, once on each side, before it could be volleyed back and forth. There was also a “no-bounce” area seven feet from the net on each side. This was referred to as the kitchen. The ball could not bounce there or it ended the volley. Another contrast: The serve was underhanded as compared with the overhand serve in tennis.
Sounded like an interesting game, although there was no way she’d ever play. Even though it was gaining a lot of popularity with seniors, this sixty-something senior was content to limit her participation in the sport to being Water Girl. Or Hydration Manager, to borrow from Scottie.
She’d agreed to do something she had no idea how to handle. Like when did she show up? Who was her team? Who did she report to? Was there a captain? Or did they call whoever was in charge something else?
Why hadn’t she thought of these questions when Scottie was still in begging mode, when she would’ve been ready to take whatever time was needed to fill Marla in?
“Why is your face screwed up like that?” Kitty asked from where she lounged against the kitchen doorframe.
“I agreed to be the substitute water person at a pickleball game this weekend, and I have no idea what pickleball entails. I’m surprised Scottie didn’t ask you first.” Then it hit her. “She did, didn’t she? And you must’ve turned her down. How? Did you invent some reason, or is your dance card already full on Saturday morning?”
Kitty didn’t reply right away. Instead, she stuck her head in the fridge and emerged with a yogurt cup. “Is that what she was hinting around about? She never did tell me what she wanted because I told her I was judging a pie-baking contest on Saturday.”
This was news. But then, Kitty’s schedule was more complicated than the president’s. “Don’t take this personally, but are you even qualified to judge someone’s skill at pie baking?”
Kitty raised her brows. “How could I not take that personally? Are you implying my knowledge of pie baking is not what it should be to judge someone else’s pies?”
“As far as I know, your pie-baking skills suck.”
“Don’t worry about hurting my feelings,” Kitty replied.
“But I’m right, though, aren’t I? How did you get recruited for this job?”
Kitty swept a hand through her shoulder-length locks. “I was asked.”
“Really? By whom?”
Her sister drew up her shoulders, her go-to mode for defensiveness. “I’m offended you’d even question how I got involved.”
“You’re also not answering. Spill.”
Kitty pouted briefly. “Hub Sherman is the local marketing VP for Prairie Harvest Flour. He dreamed up this contest to gain more attention for his product. He needed volunteers and turned to me.”
“Hub Sherman? That’s a new name for me. I don’t suppose you’re seeing him socially?”
“Why do you jump to that conclusion anytime I mention a man’s name?”
“Because it usually means you are.”
Kitty sniffed. “Just a lucky guess. I happened to meet him at a cocktail party hosted by Delphine Rambling last week.”
“Rambling as in Rambling Meadows Condominiums?” Marla asked. How did Kitty know the bigwigs who had developed this property on the family farm a few years back?
“Right. Can you believe it? And for once it wasn’t because she wanted to meet my celebrity sister. At least your name never came up when we talked. Then.”
Marla had been so pleased for her sister until that last word. “Then? That means I was mentioned at another time. What did you commit me to?”
Kitty brought her yogurt over to the island and planted herself in a chair next to Marla. “I did something I hope you’ll interpret as my protecting your privacy. Apparently word has gotten around that you are living here in this building. Delphine, who’s the honorary chair of this pie-baking event, tried to get hold of you, but no one had your number or email. She got resourceful and called me.”
“That’s when she invited you to her party?”
“I explained that you were keeping a low profile while you’re visiting and I suspected you’d turn her down. Some might have said thank you and left it at that, but she was gracious enough to invite me, since the subject had already been raised.”
Marla had to laugh. Instead of trying on the few pieces in her big sister’s wardrobe that had come from Carruthers even though she was two inches shorter than Marla’s five foot eight, now Kitty was stepping in socially for her. But that was okay. Kitty might as well benefit from what remained of Marla’s fame. “And you don’t mind acting as my stand-in?”
Kitty’s eyes fluttered momentarily, like her brain was shifting into gear. “When it gained me entrée to the famous Rambling Mansion? No. Plus I met Hub that way.” A few beats went by while Kitty must be considering her next words. “You don’t mind, do you? I was going to tell you. Really. I, uh, was waiting for the right time.”
“Which is now, since I called you out on it.” Marla offered Kitty a loving, sisterly smile so Kitty would know she wasn’t upset with her. She was aware that Kitty had at times traded on Marla’s name, but that had been before Marla arrived in town, and, from as much as Marla knew, simply to impress her friends. Accepting an invite in lieu of Marla was a step up. Marla wasn’t concerned, but she did file the scenario away in her head.
Although people here in Minnesota were aware she’d been let go from the show, they weren’t aware of the extent of her depression resulting from the lack of new projects. Her celebrity was still viable, meaning she and Kitty needed to have a serious discussion, soon, about the degree to which Kitty could trade on it.