by Gail Oust
“Bunco!” Rita, a tall, full-figured brunette, called from the head table. We switched tables and changed partners.
Polly helped herself to a Hershey’s Kiss. “I forget. What are we rolling?”
“Fours,” Gloria said on a sigh. “Pay attention, Mother.”
“Always do,” Polly replied with customary cheerful-ness.
“Regardless of who . . . it . . . belongs to, I’m sure it’s no one we know.” Rita, a commanding presence at nearly six feet tall with a matronly figure, picked up the subject along with the dice.
“Serenity Cove is far too civilized for something like that to happen here,” Connie Sue volunteered from an adjacent table.
Janine clucked her tongue. “Poor soul. Probably a transient or hitchhiker.” When she failed to roll a four, she slid the dice to Diane on her left.
Diane, an attractive woman with short chestnut brown hair and hazel eyes, is somewhat younger than most of us at forty-something. Diane works as the librarian in Brookdale, the small town down the road. She likes to brag about how she can multitask. She proved it now by talking and throwing dice at the same time. “Transient or hitchhiker, the ‘poor soul,’ as you just said, didn’t cut off his, or her, own extremity.”
A temporary lull settled over us. The only sound was the click and tumble of dice.
“Maybe it wasn’t cut off,” Polly ventured at last. “I saw this show on TV once where—”
“Mother!” This time Gloria didn’t try to hide her exasperation.
“Bunco!” Tara sang out as she rolled three fours, ending the round. I like Tara. Pretty and levelheaded, she’s the sort of girl I’d pick for my son, Steven. For a moment, I let myself drift. How I wish Steven would settle down. I worry and wonder about him. Oh, he has friends, lots of them, but from what I can tell his friends are mostly male.
Again everyone rearranged themselves. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Polly refill her margarita glass. Rita helped herself to more of the chili dip and tortilla chips. Connie Sue, who’s perpetually on a diet, sneaked a handful of M&M’s.
The discussion continued the minute the dice started to roll. “George and I wondered about the same thing, Polly.” Nancy, the redhead from down the block who was subbing for our friend Claudia, jumped into the fray.
I craned my neck for a better look at Monica, seated at the head table alongside Pam. In my opinion, she looked a little pale, but maybe it was the overhead lighting. I hoped she was done vomiting and fainting. I just had the carpets cleaned last week. Carpet cleaning costs a small fortune these days. One has to watch pennies when one’s on a fixed income.
“George,” Nancy continued, giving a little flip of the wrist to add more pizzazz to her toss, “said it could have been chewed off by a wild animal. He said he saw a coyote the other day.”
Suddenly my ears were filled with a loud clanging. At the head table, I saw Pam, her tiara now askew, ringing the bell with all the gusto of a town crier in days of old.
“Bunco!” she hollered.
Saved by the bell. Or was I? Rita and I won that run. I jotted down my score and started toward the head table. Uh-oh, I thought, glancing at Monica. I had seen that moldy-olive color on her face before. I raced for the ginger ale and soda crackers I had set aside for just such an emergency.
Alas, I was too late.
For the first time in the history of the Bunco Babes, the game ended after the first set. As my guests departed, we promised one another we’d meet again next week for a makeup game. Same time, same place. Different conversation.
Now, some people count sheep to fall asleep. Not me. Before Jim passed, I used to count his snores. The record for a sleepless night was 763. I’m considering buying one of those handy little devices guaranteed to lull a person to sleep listening to sounds of chirping birds, crashing waves, or the gentle patter of rain on the roof. Maybe if I search real hard, I can find one that emits snores—the deep, guttural, shake-the-bed kind of snores. Jim’s kind.
Bright green numerals, large enough for me to see without trifocals, showed one a.m. on the clock I keep on the nightstand. Might as well give up. I had been tossing and turning since Jay Leno signed off. Normally the two margaritas I had at bunco would have left me sleepy. Not tonight. Kicking back the covers, I got out of bed and headed for the kitchen. Maybe a nice cup of herbal tea would settle me down.
I switched on the light, then reached into a cupboard for the still-unopened box of chamomile tea I had purchased at the Piggly Wiggly for just such an emergency. Wasn’t that what Mrs. Rabbit always gave poor little Peter after he foraged in Mr. McGregor’s garden? Even Mrs. Rabbit would agree that finding an arm in a Wal-Mart bag had to be more upsetting than eating too many cabbages.
While I waited for water to boil, I stared out the kitchen window. Black as ink out there. Only light to be seen came from the window of a house catty-corner to mine. The Brubakers’. I live on Loblolly Court. Earl and Rosalie Brubaker live on the corner of Shady Lane and Loblolly. Nice to know someone else is awake at this hour. Probably Rosalie. She’s the night owl, not her husband. Earl lives by the credo “Early to bed, early to rise.” Wonder if Rosalie would be up for a friendly game of pinochle? Just kidding. Never been much for card games, though some day I might try my hand at bridge. Then again, maybe not. Bunco is more my speed. At the risk of repeating myself, no skill, no strategy, strictly social. Can’t ask for more when it comes to a game.
The kettle’s whistle startled me. If Monica could see me now, she wouldn’t accuse me of being calm. I felt restless, jittery. A delayed reaction, I suppose, to the events of the day. My hand wasn’t quite steady as I poured boiling water into a mug bearing the logo of a local bank. Water sloshed over the rim. Grabbing a dishcloth, I mopped up the spill.
Slumping down in a kitchen chair, I waited for my tea to cool. My mind kept replaying what had happened that afternoon. If I hadn’t topped my drive, we might never have found the . . . it. And, let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight.
As I already mentioned, along with cookies, chocolate, and CSI, Law & Order is another weakness of mine. The character Lennie Briscoe, played by the late Jerry Orbach, is a personal favorite. Lennie has a God-given talent for wisecracks no matter how gruesome the scene. How does Lennie do it? How can he and his cohorts be so nonchalant week after week?
“Duh!” I muttered out loud, and resisted the urge to slap myself on the forehead. Could it be because Lennie and his cohorts are played by actors? Could it be because their crime scenes are make-believe? Could it be because the blood is really ketchup? Duh! If there was any lesson to be learned from yesterday afternoon, it was that mangled arms are one thing on TV, another entirely up close and personal.
I took a sip of chamomile tea. Not bad, but definitely an acquired taste. Getting back to . . . it. If my ball hadn’t landed in the crud back on the eighth hole, it might never have been discovered. Those turkey buzzards would have picked it cleaner than a tray of free hors d’oeuvres at happy hour. And that would have been a real tragedy. The rightful owner of . . . it . . . deserved better. Deserved some dignity, some respect. Body parts, even those in Wal-Mart bags, shouldn’t be discarded like yesterday’s newspaper.
If I live to be a hundred like Aunt Catherine, my mother’s oldest sister, I don’t think I’ll ever forget how that arm had looked. The mention of that word had me sitting up straighter and squaring my shoulders. There, I had gone and done it. I had said the forbidden. If I may paraphrase Shakespeare, an arm by any other name is still an arm. Not an it.
Small wonder Pam had screeched like a banshee when that arm tumbled out. The best I could muster at the time was one pathetic little squeak. My vocal cords seemed paralyzed. Something that doesn’t happen often. If you don’t believe me, ask any of the Babes. Instead of hollering my head off, I had stared and stared and stared. The flesh—at least what was left—had been a swollen, mottled grayish black, the edges ragged. I shuddered. What kind of person could do that to ano
ther human being? Surely, as Connie Sue had pointed out at bunco, no one here would do such a thing. Serenity Cove Estates is much, much too civilized.
I laced my fingers together and frowned into my tea-cup. Something nagged at me, but I couldn’t quite pin it down. Then it came to me. It . . . er, the arm . . . had been wearing a ring. Either a silver or white gold band had been nearly hidden by the engorged flesh at the base of one knuckle. If I closed my eyes, I could still picture it. Instead, I kept them open. Wide open. If I tried to picture that ghastly sight, I’d never get any sleep.
I shoved my tea aside. Maybe a game of pinochle wasn’t such a bad idea after all. A glance across the way showed the Brubakers’ light still on. Earl and Rosalie had moved into Serenity Cove Estates about the same time as Jim and I. For a while, Rosalie and I were pretty good friends. That was until she discovered golf. Golf with a capital G. Where that game is concerned, we’re not in the same league. And I mean that both literally and figuratively. We’re still on good terms, and she occasionally subs for bunco, but our paths seldom cross anymore. Maybe now was the time to renew acquaintances. Before common sense had a chance to kick in, I hightailed it out the door.
Chapter 4
To my chagrin, Earl Brubaker, not Rosalie, answered my knock. It was clear from his rumpled khakis and a once-upon-a-time-navy golf shirt that he hadn’t been to bed yet.
“Kate!” Earl gaped at me in surprise. “What the hell are you doing here this time of night?”
I gaped back. The seconds ticked past. Earl had posed a good question. Too bad I didn’t have a good answer. Or, for that matter, any answer at all. I shifted from one foot to the other. “I couldn’t sleep and happened to notice your light was on. What’s that old saying, ‘Misery loves company’?”
“And your point is . . . ?”
“I’m the company.” I beamed him my brightest smile.
Judging from the man’s dour expression, my feeble attempt at humor went right over his head. He stood planted in the doorway like a mighty oak, unsmiling, silent. The man always put me in mind of a basset hound with his sad, brown eyes and droopy face. Tonight was no exception.
I frantically scanned my limited repertoire for a plausible excuse for my late-night/early-morning visit. “Could I borrow a cup of sugar?” I winced at hearing those words pop out of my mouth. How lame can you get?
“Sugar?”
Sugar seemed a foreign word to Earl. Maybe I should have tried a simpler request. Maybe flour or, simpler yet, salt. But I was on a roll now. I had regained my footing. “Yes, sugar,” I ad-libbed. “I thought I’d bake a nice batch of chocolate-chip cookies for Sheriff Wiggins and his men. They couldn’t have been nicer this afternoon.”
He dragged a hand the size of a catcher’s mitt over his stubbled jaw. “Sure, I guess,” he mumbled. “Come on in.”
“Thanks.” As I followed him to the back of the house, I glanced around, nonchalantly I hoped, but saw no sign of Rosalie. At least I hadn’t disturbed her with my sudden need for nocturnal companionship. She wasn’t as gullible as her husband. She would have seen through me in a flash.
Earl switched on the kitchen light. Dirty dishes were piled high in the stainless steel sink. The granite countertops were cluttered with newspapers and stacks of mail. Strange, I thought. This wasn’t like Rosalie. She might not have been much of a cook, but the woman kept her kitchen spotless. My sense of uneasiness crept up a notch. What the heck was I doing in Rosalie’s kitchen with her husband in the middle of the night?
Earl shuffled across the room. “Who did you say you were baking cookies for?”
“Sheriff Wiggins and his deputies. They were awfully patient with us this afternoon.” I clutched my robe tighter around my neck. What had I been thinking to head over here in my pajamas at this ungodly hour? Heaven knew, if Jim were still alive, he’d have had a conniption fit at my calling on a neighbor in my nightclothes.
“What happened this afternoon?” Without waiting for an answer, Earl poked his head inside the pantry and began rummaging around.
“You didn’t hear?”
“Hear what?”
I let out a sigh. Surely he must be the only person within a fifty-mile radius that hadn’t heard the news. “My friends and I found an . . .” I fumbled for a suitable word. While I could call a spade, a spade, and an arm, an arm, not everyone had my fortitude. “We found an odd . . . part . . . on the golf course this afternoon.”
“Found some art?”
Please, Lord, not again, I prayed. Not another man in need of a hearing aid. Maybe I should go into the business. Probably make a fortune. I sighed and took the easy way out. “That’s right, Earl. We found some art.”
He emerged from the pantry triumphantly clutching a half-empty bag of sugar and handed it to me. “No need to get all worked up.”
Now that I had the sugar I really didn’t need, it was time to go. “Well, thanks for the loan. I’ll replace it next time I’m at the Piggly Wiggly.” As eager as I’d been earlier to trot over to the Brubakers’, I was now even more eager to trot back home.
I turned and headed for the door with Earl trailing behind. “Sure glad I didn’t wake Rosalie,” I said over my shoulder. “Tell her I said hello.”
“I would, but Rosalie isn’t here.”
I stumbled to a halt, nearly tripping over the sill. “Isn’t here?” The possibility hadn’t occurred to me.
Earl’s hand was on the door, poised to close it. “She’s in upstate New York visiting the grandkids. Should be back next week or so.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t go with her.”
“I’m not big on little kids,” Earl admitted grumpily. “Last time our daughter visited, her youngest picked all my prize orchids for a bouquet. Sure hope by their next visit he’ll be old enough to tell the difference between a dandelion and a phalaenopsis.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Phalaenopsis? Give me a break. Most adults, much less children, probably had never even heard the word. Poor child. No wonder Rosalie left a curmudgeon like Earl behind when she took off to visit the grandkids.
Home again, I dumped my chamomile tea, which had grown stone-cold in my absence, down the drain. So much for it being as soothing as a field of wildflowers.
Feeling as restless as ever, I wandered into the library. Calling the small room a “library” always seemed ostentatious. When I think of a library, I think large. Large and filled floor to ceiling with books. That hardly describes a room the size of a guest bedroom with a solitary magazine rack. Our builder kept correcting me whenever I referred to this space as a den. Dens, he insisted, were passé. Family rooms, he informed me, were now called great rooms. And every new home, he had said, absolutely must have a master bedroom suite.
“Well, la-di-da,” I had said.
Besides the aforementioned magazine rack and Jim’s recliner, the library/den is also where we keep the computer. Now that Jim isn’t always sitting in front of it playing solitaire, I’ve learned how to surf the Net. Who knows? Someday I might even have my own MySpace page. Wouldn’t my granddaughters, Jillian and Juliette, be impressed? They’d think their grandmother was “hip.”
Do youngsters still use that expression? Here in Serenity mention hip and people instantly associate it with replacement .
I powered up the computer and surfed until I found just what I was looking for. A honey of an electronic marvel called the Sandman. Clinically tested, the Sandman is a device guaranteed to help people achieve deeper states of sleep and relaxation. It emits sounds. Waves on a beach, rain on the roof, wind in the willows. It can even be programmed to sound like a thunderstorm. Not exactly Jim snoring, but I’d wager it’s a close second.
Satisfied with my purchase, I stifled a yawn and turned off the computer. As I made my way through the darkened house, I noticed a light still burned at the Brubakers’. And once again, I thought this odd for a man who liked to retire early.
Chapter 5
I zigged r
ight when I should have zagged left. I zagged left when everyone else in class zigged right. Flowing Chi definitely wasn’t flowing this morning. My dantien was nowhere to be found. I sneaked a peek at Pam. Her Tai Chi moves seemed as smooth and graceful as ever. But Pam can dance the Electric Slide with the best of them, while I watch from the sidelines. I envy her sense of rhythm. I’m a klutz when it comes to coordination. That’s the reason you’ll never find me on a tennis court. I took tennis lessons—once. Never made it past the serve. A pity because I loved those cute little outfits all my friends wore. No, Tai Chi is more my speed. Concentration, flexibility, balance. To my way of thinking, these are more useful to a senior citizen than a killer backhand.
“Next we’ll do Fighting Tiger,” Marian, our instructor, crooned in that soft singsong she uses to lead us through our paces. “Step out to the left.”
Normally Fighting Tiger is one of my favorites. It makes me feel like Chuck Norris about to kung fu one of the bad guys on a rerun of Walker, Texas Ranger. I brought up my shoulder, made a fist, shifted my weight, and, once again, zigged when I was supposed to zag. I felt the heat of Marian’s glare. Her look reduced me to the only six-year-old in a ballet recital who was out of step. I could almost hear the audience snicker.
Finally class was over. We performed the closing ritual, stepping back out of Tai Chi with the left foot. I started to use the right but, thank goodness, caught myself in the nick of time. Don’t want Marian to have a hissy fit. Or irritate the Tai Chi gods. That reminds me of another reason I love bunco: You don’t have to be coordinated.
Pam gathered up her belongings. “I told Connie Sue and Monica we’d meet them for breakfast. Hope that’s OK. Don’t take this the wrong way,” she said, turning and giving me the once-over, “but you look awful.”