Sudden Death by Rita Mae Brown

with Jane’s sunglasses. “How do I look?”
    “I looked better. Here, you take Mickey Mouse.” Jane handed her a blue pair of kiddie sunglasses.
    “Thank you.”
    “Susan knows one thing.”
    “What, MizJane?”
    “She knows that Carmen can take trouble on the court but not in her life.”
    “Carmen does have a propensity to stick her head in the sand.”
    “Or run away.” Jane peered through her Donald Duck glasses. “You know, she’s in a world that formalizes conflict and protects her from everything except tennis. That’s not exactly preparation for life’s continual assault on one’s narcissism.”

    Wearing enough gold to qualify as the legendary El Dorado, Lavinia Sibley Archer in a crescendo of bad taste held court in Los Angeles. Although she fancied herself to be above such tripe, she adored mingling with movie stars. Movie stars liked to be seen at sporting events. Movie stars liked to be seen, period. Everybody got what they wanted: attention. Lavinia fluttered over an aging male star with barely a body part left to call his own. He’d just completed another spy movie. He reposed in the box of honor, and soon Lavinia dumped herself down next to him and listened with exaggerated fascination to tales of his meager tennis ability. Her false eyelashes bowed as before a king.
    The star graciously asked about the upcoming match. Was it really true that Carmen Semana and Susan Reilly hated one another?
    “Hate? Let’s say they have no love lost.”
    “Weren’t they doubles partners? I know I’ve been on location for every major tournament for the last ten years, deary, but I seem to remember them being doubles partners a couple of years back.”
    “All the girls are like a set of junior high school kids. There’s cliques, friendships, broken friendships. A tempest in a teapot.”
    “We live in the same teapot over at Warner Brothers.”
    “Saw your last film.” She registered proper enthusiasm. “Very heaven.”
    “Thank you, but it takes more than one person to make a film, Mrs. Archer.”
    “Please, call me Lavinia. While it may take more than one person to make a film, it takes a star to bring in the public.”
    He shrugged in manly nonchalance over what he believed to be a total truth. The conversation was cut short by the usual parade of officials, ball boys, and ball girls in the required forest green.
    “Excuse me, Mr. Ridgeback, I’ve got to be on court for a few moments.”
    “I shall eagerly await your return.” He rose and guided her out of the box.
    Once in front of the microphone, Lavinia displayed her loquaciousness. During this monologue, Harriet and Miguel positioned themselves in a local sponsor’s box. Again, Miguel was asked to stand by a seemingly overjoyed Carmen. Miguel was getting into being a star-once-removed. After that touch of manufactured family love, Lavinia returned to her theme of the old days.
    Finally the match began. Miranda Mexata steadied herself in the chair. Which way would the wind blow today?
    Susan served deep and followed the serve into the net. Her strokes were fluid and solid. Susan was never a graceful player, but she was exciting. She moved well.
    Carmen was far more graceful. She hurried only on those occasions when she was pulled wide or caught wrong-footed. Susan could destroy an opponent’s rhythm, but today Carmen was loose. She’d eaten her usual breakfast and teased Harriet about another cat novel from the inexhaustible pen of Baby Jesus:
Catnip
, Great Catnappings in the Feline World. Both women ignored Miguel, the prematch tension, and their feelings about Susan.
    Carmen had moments where she went into what Harriet called The Zone. Carmen, the Ozone Cookie, could float off into her own world. She did this when things really bothered her or when she was tired. Oftentimes, the higher Carmen’s spirits, the more worried she was at a subconscious level.
    Today, the escape worked. She was playing out of her head. Susan played well,