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suddenly just . . . went down.” The man shook his head sadly. “It really was almost like a bow or a curtsy.”
    Mother whispered to me, “That’s Fred Hackney. He constructs the sets and runs things backstage.”
    I nodded, then whispered back: “That’s Chad Marlowe, the grandson. Artistic director.”
    Digging out his cell phone, Chad was saying, “I’ll call for the paramedics.”
    Mother asked, “Do you have local paramedics, Mr. Marlowe?”
    He shook his head. “Next town over, fifteen miles away.”
    â€œThen that would be a waste of resources.”
    â€œWhat?”
    Rather bluntly, Mother said, “Who you should call, young man, is the county sheriff.”
    â€œThe sheriff?” Chad asked, frowning. “Lady, my grandmother was eighty-two. She had a bad heart. Took medicine for it. Obviously she had a heart attack.”
    Mother arched an eyebrow. “Did she, dear?”
    His frown deepening, Chad took a few steps toward her. “What are you implying?”
    â€œI’m not implying a single solitary thing, young man,” Mother answered. “But I have my reasons why I think someone with authority should be called here to . . . oversee. . . the aftermath of this tragedy.”
    And that someone would be Mother’s friendly adversary, Sheriff Rudder, since this was Serenity County and Old York was under his jurisdiction.
    Chad snapped, “Well I think that’s a waste of resources—isn’t he in Serenity? That’s sixty miles from here!”
    But Mother had turned away from him, walking downstage to make the call on her cell—she had the sheriff on speed-dial.
    Chad gaped at me. His long dark hair and angular face seemed appropriately theatrical as he gestured to the dead woman. “So my grandmother is . . . what? . . . just going to be left flung on the floor like a sandbag until the sheriff drives all the way here?”
    I said gently, “If my mother has reasons why Sheriff Rudder should come, I can assure you they’re valid.”
    Usually. Sometimes. Probably. Maybe.
    Fred, who’d remained mute through this exchange, touched Chad’s arm. “I can get her a blanket—there’s one in the dressing room.”
    Millie’s grandson sighed, then nodded.
    Fred exited stage left while Mother rejoined Chad and me, having completed her call.
    â€œWe’re in luck!” she said, inappropriately cheerful. “Sheriff Rudder is a mere twenty minutes away, working on something or other that’s undoubtedly less important than this. And if I know that man, and I do, he’ll be here sooner than later, because my calls are something he always takes seriously.”
    There had been a time when the sheriff routinely ignored Mother’s calls, but—thanks to her relentless persistence—Rudder had come to realize it was better to deal with them right now, and get it over with.
    Fred returned with the blanket. He began to spread it over Millie, then stopped, eyes going to Mother. The man sensed, correctly, that she was in charge.
    â€œI see no reason for her not to be comfortable,” she said, nodding approval.
    Chad’s back had been to this, but now he whirled to her. “Comfortable?” he mocked. “Maybe Grandmother would like a pillow ?”
    Shaking his head, he walked to the apron, jumped down, then took a front row seat, slumping there, arms crossed, his face long with sorrow and disgust.
    Mother dispatched me to go wait outside to meet Rudder, and I did so, taking Sushi with me. I put her down on a little patch of grass and she blissfully took advantage of new territory, wholly unaware of the tragic circumstances. Sometimes it is a dog’s life.
    According to my Chico’s watch, I had been waiting outside the theater doors for twelve minutes when Rudder’s light blue car with its Serenity County Sheriff’s door insignias pulled up.