“Gus and I spent all afternoon going over the diagram you gave us for the set.”

Lance rocked back on the heels of his polished loafers. “So what’s the problem? Too complicated?”

Bill’s color deepened at the implied insult. The rest of us eavesdropped shamelessly while pretending not to. Some leafed through the script; others developed a sudden interest in the display of props.

“I can build your damn set with my eyes closed. That’s not the trouble.”

“So, Bill, suppose you tell me just what the ‘trouble’ is so we can get on with rehearsal.”

“It all boils down to the matter of money. Who’s going to pay for materials? Lowe’s isn’t about to hand them over out of the goodness of their heart.”

Now it was Lance’s turn to redden as he seemed to sense all eyes fixed on him. Everyone ceased what they were doing in order to watch and listen to the minidrama being enacted right under their noses.

It was Claudia who broke the awkward silence and came to her bridegroom’s rescue. “I’ll give you my credit card, Bill. Lance can repay me from the proceeds.”

Lance rubbed his hands together. “Good. It’s settled, then.”

At that precise moment, the auditorium door swung open and Bernie Mason sidled through. If pressed to describe the man, I’d call him a string bean with a bad comb-over. He always put me in mind of Bert, the character from Sesame Street. Kind of tall, gawky, and slow on the uptake. Like Gloria, however, Bernie showed an uncanny knack for the dramatic. He made a perfect villain in Lance’s little drama.

“Good of you to grace us with your presence, Mr. Mason.” Lance’s voice dripped sarcasm.

Bernie ambled over, a hangdog expression on his face. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Car trouble.”

Monica nudged me in the ribs. “Likely story. Guy probably can’t tell time.”

“Be nice,” Rita whispered.

“Places, everyone,” Lance barked. “Get ready to run through act three, scene one.”