Deadly Dues Read Online Free PDF

fridge, a needy dog and an overwhelming need to be alone with my thoughts.
    In ten minutes I was on Rockvale Drive, heading to the condo that I couldn’t afford anymore. Although, I reminded myself, with Stan gone . . . Stop that, Lu, stop that. Not nice .
    The landscaping along the condo complex entrance was soothing, with bushes flanked by fading flowerbeds, leaves rustling in the street and, prominently, a giant carved boulder, which served as the Rockvale Estates sign. A bit pretentious, given the reality of the complex, which was more a mid-scale condo development and as much like an estate as Paris Hilton resembles Meryl Streep, but, hey, I enjoyed it.
    I loved my condo. I had bought it as soon as the first cheque from Bow Wow hit my mailbox. I knew I had arrived. To me, as an actor, to have a two-storey townhouse with a dishwasher and a recycling service as part of the package was heaven. I had furnished it with flea market finds, garage sale treasures and a bonanza of bargain shopping, and I loved every cluttered inch of it.
    I pulled into Rockvale Gardens, where ten condos were grouped in a cul-de-sac, like friends linked in a chain. Realistically, my only friend in the area was the ancient Mrs. Lauterman, who lived in an apartment condo building in the neighbouring seniors complex. By leaning over her balcony, which overlooked my townhouse, she could wave greetings to me and keep tabs on my social life.
    The Sunfire churned up the driveway, giving a pathetic groan. I put it out of its misery by turning it off. It gave a little chug of thanks. I hauled myself out of the car, and my back creaked, another reminder that my handbag was putting on weight.
    Soon I would have to invest in a lighter cell phone. Life was easier when all I had to do was check my answering machine and pretend that I hadn’t been home if I had to deal with a particularly annoying message—for example, a contract negotiation that I needed to forward to Mitzi. Or an unpleasant call from the bank. Now cell phones ruled the world. Especially with actors, who needed to be on call day and night for the unexpected, but mostly welcome, audition. And even more happily, the call to the set.
    I also brooded briefly on the thought that my battered Sunfire was depreciating the property value of the cul de sac unless I hid it in the garage. So, like a good girl, I walked back, started it up and drove into the garage. It gave another little sigh of relief. Maybe it was embarrassed to be out in public, attracting the sneers of my neighbours, who mostly drove BMWs and Lexus, except for Mrs. Lauterman, who steered a high-tech walker.
    I checked for muggers, closed the garage and trudged up my walk, trying not to hyperventilate about the events of the evening.
    The light in front of my door was out. I never remembered to change the bulb unless I was coming home in the dark, and after I got into the condo I forgot all over again. Until a year ago, I had been able to afford a handyman who turned up on call, flailed about with screwdrivers, hammers and drills, and fixed whatever household mysteries needed attention. Those days were gone. I knew I had to haul out my ancient stepladder and put in a new bulb, but other things, like watching Law & Order or reading the latest Janet Evanovich, always got in the way. Why couldn’t I be like Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum, with hot men at my beck and call?
    The only man at my beck and call was my plumber, Jake. He is six foot two and three hundred pounds, with a wisp of a moustache and a sweet smile. He charges an alarming amount per hour. I tried to be sincere in my congratulations when he told me he had just bought two vacation properties in the mountains, one for himself and his wife, and one as an investment. To his credit, he invited me out for his house-warming. “After all, Lu,” he said, “you helped me buy it.” This was one of the thoughts that flitted through my mind sometimes when