by Gail Oust
“Thanks,” I muttered. “What are friends for if they can’t be honest?” I tried to shrug off Pam’s comment. But deep down I wondered if sometimes honesty wasn’t a bit overrated. Who needs to be told they look like a hag?
“The girls said they’d meet us at the café.”
“Lead the way.” I picked up my purse, which weighs a ton, and slung it over my shoulder. Actually the fact that it weighs so much eliminates my need to visit the workout room. At least that’s how I rationalize it. Someday I plan to schedule an appointment with the personal trainer, but what’s the rush? The fitness room isn’t going anywhere.
I followed Pam outside and climbed into her cherry red golf cart. Pam always travels by golf cart whenever possible. Since it’s electric, it saves on the cost of gasoline. Personally I think Pam enjoys tooling around in a vehicle she can park without scraping fenders. Not that she’s a bad driver, just a bad parker.
The Cove Café is located right around the corner from the Recreation and Fitness Center. All one has to do is follow one of the many asphalt pathways that wind throughout Serenity Cove like a spool of ribbon.
Monica and Connie Sue were seated at our favorite table when we arrived.
“Good heavens, Kate, you look terrible,” Monica said the moment she spotted us.
I tried not to wince. When Jim and I first started dating, I could stay up half the night and still look fresh as a daisy the next morning. Now one sleepless night, and friends line up to tell me I look like something the cat dragged in.
“Not to worry, sugar,” Connie Sue drawled, “I’ve got just the thing.” She dug through her bag and produced a small, expensive-looking gold vial. “It’s the latest rage. Dab a little of this under your eyes. It’ll work wonders on those dark circles.”
“Fine,” I said, knowing I sounded more grumpy than grateful. When it comes to health and beauty tips, there’s no one better than Connie Sue. Lest we suffer a senior moment, Connie Sue is quick to remind us she was once a reigning beauty queen. To this day, she wages a valiant battle against the ravages of time. From all appearances, she is holding ground. Thanks to the help of a skilled colorist, her hair is still the same honey blond it was the day the rhinestone tiara that we now use for bunco was placed on her head. Countless hours in land aerobics and tennis keep her figure a trim size eight. If I didn’t love her so much, she’d be easy to hate.
“Trouble sleeping last night?” Monica asked.
I nodded. Unless tortured, I wasn’t going to volunteer any information about my middle-of-the-night sojourn to the Brubakers’. I offered a silent prayer of gratitude that Rosalie hadn’t been present to witness my foolishness.
“Me, too,” Monica sighed. “I took one of the sleeping pills the doctor prescribed for Fred after his prostate surgery. Wasn’t for that, I couldn’t have slept a wink either.”
“I know exactly what y’all mean,” Connie Sue confided. She leaned forward as though imparting a state secret. “This whole place is simply buzzing about . . . it.”
“It can’t possibly belong to anyone here in Serenity,” Monica said in her usual matter-of-fact manner, rehashing what the Bunco Babes had talked about the night before.
Pam and I exchanged glances. We had watched too many episodes of Law & Order not to know that crimes were full of quirky little twists and turns.
“Thacker thinks it probably belongs to a person from somewhere miles from here. Myrtle Beach, or maybe Charleston.” Connie Sue has a habit of quoting her husband’s opinions on a variety of subjects. To her way of thinking, Thacker Brody might as well have been a Supreme Court justice handing down life-altering decisions. To my way of thinking, Thacker Brody is a pompous fool. But Connie Sue adores him, so we all tolerate him the best we can.
A waitress I had never seen before appeared with menus tucked under one arm and holding a coffeepot in the other. Marcy was written on a piece of masking tape fastened to a borrowed name tag. Her frizzy brown hair looked overpermed, and her disposition, judging from her scowl, underdeveloped. “Y’all want coffee?”
We exchanged glances. Where was Vera? I sensed the four of us were all asking ourselves the same question. Without a doubt Vera was our favorite waitress at the Cove Café. Not that I’m boasting, but I’m equally certain we were her favorite customers. Vera wouldn’t have had to ask what we wanted to drink. She’d know.
“No coffee for me,” Monica said with a vigorous shake of her head. “I’ll have Earl Grey.”
The waitress stifled a yawn. “Who’s he?”
“It’s not a he,” Monica huffed. “It’s tea.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Marcy shrugged diffidently. “Can’t expect me to know everything.”
“Just water.” Connie Sue’s smile seemed a bit forced. “Lemon, no ice.”
I eyed the pot Marcy was holding with anticipation. “Coffee, and lots of it.”
“Me, too,” Pam echoed.
“No wonder y’all can’t sleep at night,” Connie Sue scolded after Marcy left to fetch Earl Grey and ice-water-lemon-no-ice. “Too much caffeine isn’t good for a body.”
“She’s right, you know. I just read the results of a recent study—”
“Enough about coffee, y’all,” Connie Sue interrupted Monica before she went off on one of her tangents. “There are serious matters here that need discussing.”
Pam picked up the thread of our previous conversation. “In all likelihood, it might even belong to someone from out of state. Maybe Georgia, or possibly Florida.”
“I agree,” Monica said, nodding in agreement. “Serenity Cove Estates simply isn’t the type of place where that type of thing could possibly happen. People here are much too friendly—too civilized.”
“Thacker said,” Connie Sue continued, “no one in their right mind would commit such a crime, then leave the evidence right in their own backyard, so to speak. He said whomever did such a horrible act would want to get anything incriminating as far away as possible.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at hearing Saint Thacker’s name mentioned repeatedly. We were quiet until Marcy returned with beverages for Connie Sue and Monica. However, the tea she set in front of Monica bore the name Lipton on its tag, not the earl’s. Connie Sue’s glass held more ice than water with no lemon wedge in sight. But Pam and I lucked out as Marcy topped off our cups.
“This is Lipton’s.” Monica pointed an accusatory finger at the tea bag.
Marcy deflected Monica’s stare with one of her own. “This is all we got.”
The dueling stares ended in a draw. Connie Sue took up the challenge as she picked up her glass and handed it back to Marcy. “I asked for water, lemon, and no ice.”
“Whatever . . .” With a put-upon sigh, Marcy trudged off in the general direction of the kitchen.
“If I were you, I’d make sure she doesn’t spit in your glass,” I advised Connie Sue. “I saw a movie once when a waiter did that after a customer ticked him off. The guy got some terrible disease and nearly died.”
“Really, Kate,” Connie Sue scolded. “The things that come out of your mouth.”
“Like yesterday,” Monica quickly chimed in as if we actually needed her opinion, “when you asked Sheriff Wiggins about taking fingerprints from a corpse. It’s all your fault I passed out. Thank goodness I came to before someone dialed nine-one-one.”
“Kate has an inquiring mind.”
Pam, bless her heart, rose to my defense. I reminded myself to thank her later. Maybe give her some of those chocolate-chip cookies I intended to bake for the sheriff. I’ve even seen Connie Sue sneak one or two of my cookies when she thought no one was watching. No fooling me, no sirree. I can spot a fellow chocoholic a mile away.
The waitress returned, plunked down a water glass only two-thirds full. A shriveled slice of lemon clung to the side like lichen to a rock. She pulled out a pad. “You ladies ready to order?”
We perused the menus while Marcy waited, pencil poised. I don�
�t know why we waste time with these little rituals when we always order the exact same thing. I suppose there’s a certain comfort in going through the motions.
Snapping her menu shut, Monica was the first to order. “I’ll have an egg white omelet with extra veggies.”
Connie Sue’s forehead scrunched the way it always did when she was deep in thought. Once, after a second glass of wine, she whispered to me that she was considering Botox. When she realized what she had said, she swore me to secrecy.
“I’ll have my usual, wheat toast unbuttered and the fruit cup,” she said at last.
That should have been my choice. Nice, sensible, low-cal, low fat. But instead I heard myself say, “Two eggs scrambled, bacon crisp, toast, and hash browns. No grits.”
“I’ll have the same,” Pam said, shooting Connie Sue and Monica a defiant look.
As Marcy strolled off in the direction of the kitchen, Monica turned to Pam. “You’ve been awfully quiet on the subject. Who do you think it might belong to?”
I’d had enough. “For crying out loud, ladies, can we please stop calling it an it? It’s not an it. It’s an arm!”
Monica glanced over her shoulder to see if any of the other diners might have overheard my mini-explosion. If anyone had, they pretended not to notice.
Connie Sue picked up her glass, stared into it, then set it down again without drinking. Maybe she had taken my warning to heart after all. No telling what an irate waitress might do when she thought no one was looking.
Pam reached over and patted my hand. “You’re absolutely right, Kate. It’s time we stop treating arm as though it’s a dirty word.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled, feeling mollified and foolish all mixed together.
Monica and Connie Sue, looking properly chastened, murmured their agreement. After clearing her throat, Monica returned to the subject at hand. “All right, Pam, you’ve been awfully quiet. Give us your take on the subject.”
Pam toyed with the handle of her coffee cup. “I can’t believe something that awful might have happened to someone we know—someone from Serenity. Guess I have to go along with the notion that it was brought here by a person from somewhere else in an attempt to hide their crime.”
I suppressed a shudder. The image of a wild-haired maniac flinging various and sundry body parts about as he, or she, traveled through the countryside made me cringe. It conjured the notion of guests happily tossing rice at a wedding. Did wedding guests still toss rice? Or was that now politically incorrect? Later, I’d consult an etiquette book. Or, better yet, ask my daughter. Whether Martha Stewart or Julia Child, Jen always does everything by the book. She takes after Jim’s side of the family in that respect.
“This kind of talk surely can’t be good for the digestion. Let’s change the subject, shall we, girls?” Connie Sue said, smoothing her always-perfect honey blond locks. “Has anyone heard from Claudia?”
We cast expectant glances around the table. Claudia Connors is another member of the Bunco Babes and the most outrageous by far. Claudia, a divorcée, has recently taken up online dating. That was how she met Lance—whom, by the way, none of us has yet so much as caught a glimpse of. And this Lance person persuaded Claudia to join him on an RV trip out west. Names like Yellowstone, Yosemite, and the Grand Canyon had flowed from Claudia’s lips as easily as the lyrics of her favorite Beatles tune. All the Babes tried to talk her out of taking off with a man she scarcely knew, but there was no reasoning with her.
“Any of you ladies receive a phone call from her?” I asked hopefully. “Or maybe a postcard or e-mail?”
“I haven’t heard a word from her—not a single, solitary word,” Connie Sue said after a lengthy pause.
“Neither have I,” Pam admitted.
“Well, as we all know, Claudia always forgets to turn on her cell phone.” Monica’s tone implied a mental defect of some sort. Truth be told, I often suffer from the same malady as Claudia. But, coward that I am, I took the path of least resistance and held my tongue.
The fact of Claudia’s prolonged radio silence struck home. Uneasy glances flitted from one to the other. None of us wanted to voice our mutual worry out loud. But all of us, I’m sure, shared the same concern. Claudia was unaccounted for. No phone calls, no postcards, no e-mails. Where was she?
And was she all right?
Marcy appeared just then bearing a tray with our breakfast orders. Her mouth thinned in an uncompromising line, she set Monica’s omelet down in front of Pam and my scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns in front of Connie Sue.
“You’re new here, aren’t you, dear?” Connie Sue deftly switched plates.
Monica was more to the point. “Where’s Vera?” she asked.
“Gone.” Marcy shrugged, nonplussed. “She just up and left.”
What was this, I wondered, an epidemic of missing women? Claudia, and now Vera. Not to mention Rosalie Brubaker’s prolonged absence. I toyed with my eggs, no longer hungry.
Chapter 6
I was still miffed an hour later. Leave it to Monica to push my buttons. I didn’t think my question to the sheriff about taking fingerprints off a corpse was so out of line. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why Monica was in such a snit.
I filled an entire cookie sheet with neat little balls of dough before I realized my mistake. I wanted to both laugh and cry when I realized my blunder. In my current state of discombobulation, I had neglected to add the key ingredient—the chunks of mouthwatering dark chocolate that make my cookies special. Stupid, stupid, stupid! I felt like banging my head on the counter. A mind is a terrible thing to lose.
Disgusted at my oversight, I dumped the entire pan load of cookie dough back into the mixing bowl. No wonder I couldn’t concentrate. I was worried sick about Claudia.
Claudia has an adventurous streak I’ve always admired. She’d single-handedly raised two sons after her auto-exec husband left her for his busty, twentysomething secretary. A cliché, I know, but it happens. By dint of hard work and determination, she became a top-selling Realtor in Oak-land County, Michigan, while seeing her boys through college. One of her sons is a successful surgeon somewhere in Chicago, the other an aeronautical engineer in Seattle. After years of putting her boys first, Claudia decided it was time to kick up her heels. She sold her home in Farmington Hills, bought a house here in Serenity Cove Estates, and settled down to enjoy the good life.
I dumped enough chocolate into the mixing bowl to induce a diabetic coma. No need for an electric mixer, I thought as I whipped the spatula through the cookie dough at high speed. Still, I couldn’t get Claudia out of my mind. Wild and wacky, Claudia is the Bunco Babe version of Auntie Mame. Drama Club, Novel Nuts, and the Serenity Singers—Claudia dived into these activities with abandon. Recently, however, she had discovered a new interest. Internet dating. Claudia, being Claudia, embraced this new hobby with her usual zest. Now, on a whim, she had gone off with a man she barely knew—a virtual stranger. She had pooh-poohed warnings from the Bunco Babes, insisting she knew what she was doing.
But did she?
I remember reminding Claudia that Ted Bundy seemed like a perfect gentleman, too, until women started showing up dead. Claudia had been gone over a week without a single word to any of us. I needed to make sure Sheriff Wiggins put Claudia’s name at the top of his missing-persons list.
For the second time that morning, I rolled perfect little balls of dough and lined them on the baking sheet like good little soldiers. And if Claudia weren’t worry enough, there was also the matter of Vera’s unexplained absence.
Vera always struck me as the sensible and down-to-earth sort. Definitely not the type to just up and leave a perfectly good job as waitress at the Cove. Granted, I didn’t know much about the woman’s personal life, but I promised myself to find out more next chance I got.
I glanced out the window and watched Earl Brubaker back down his drive. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen Rosalie, but couldn’t seem to recall how long
it’d been. I wondered if I should add her to my missing-persons list.
With concerned citizens such as myself, there’d be no need for a hotline. Why, the sheriff would probably be downright grateful for my assistance. And even more grateful once he got a taste of the treats I was bringing him. I smiled at the thought.
Just as I was about to pop the pan of cookies into the oven, the kitchen filled with smoke.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I swore aloud, glad no one was around to hear me.
I cracked open the oven door and immediately spotted the problem. With all the goings-on, I had forgotten to clean the spills from an apple pie that had baked over. Apparently a self-cleaning oven doesn’t just clean itself.
My eyes watered from the smoke. I cranked the kitchen window wide, then flipped the switch for the overhead fan. I waited for the blades to whirl and clear the air, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I flicked the switch a couple times for good measure. Still nothing.
“Damn, damn, damn,” I swore again, louder this time. I always feel so helpless when things around the house need attention. In all our years together, I had depended on Jim to fix things. He could unclog a drain, repair a dishwasher, or install a ceiling fan. You name it, Jim could do it. Of course, in the process, he made my limited use of swear-words seem amateurish.
Thank goodness for double ovens, I thought. While waiting for the convection oven to preheat, I reached for the phone. Why let your fingers do the walking when you have friends like Pam? Pam has been in Serenity Cove the longest of any of my friends. She’s the go-to person when I want information. Looking for carpet cleaners, a window washer, or a landscaper—Pam is the person to ask.
Pam picked up on the third ring.
“I have a problem,” I explained, getting straight to the point. “The fan in my kitchen just committed suicide. Do you happen to know a good handyman?”
“Give me a sec.” I could hear the rustle of pages at the other end of the line. Pam rattled off a number. I scribbled it down. “You’ll like him. He’s a real gem.”