by Gail Oust
“This better be good, sugar,” Connie Sue called from her seat. “Thacker didn’t buy into the notion of Tuesday being National Pot Roast Day.”
I tossed the dice before answering. Not a two in sight. “I was at the state park Saturday when the sheriff found remains.”
Polly looked at me quizzically. “Since when did you start camping?”
“I didn’t. I haven’t.”
The dice made the rounds. None of us seemed to be having much luck rolling twos.
“Kate, out with it.” It was Rita again. Of course. “How did you just happen to be at the state park when the remains were found? And don’t try to tell me it was coincidence.”
“I was loading groceries into my car at the Piggly Wiggly when I heard the sirens. I looked up and saw the sheriff’s cars racing past, so I decided to follow and find out what was going on.”
“And then what?” Pam was so busy listening to me that Rita had to remind her she had rolled a baby bunco and scored another five points.
“And then,” I continued as I watched Pam rack up even more points, “I hung around to see what was in the trash bag the dog had dug up.”
Polly leaned so far off her chair at an adjoining table I was afraid she’d fall and break her scrawny neck. “Did you see a body?”
Finally it was my turn. Zip, nada, nil. Not a two in sight. At least the other ladies at my table weren’t suffering from the same problem. “No body, just something zipped into a black vinyl bag.”
“Cool,” Polly said.
“Mother . . .”
“I mean how awful,” Polly quickly amended, though she didn’t sound the least bit remorseful.
“Bunco!” Janine’s voice boomed out for the second time.
With my dismal score, I stayed where I was while others rotated tables and partners. Once everyone settled again, Rita attempted to get us back on track. “Kate, are you trying to say that the reason for this emergency bunco game is to tell us you were there when the sheriff found the remains?”
I gave up all pretense of concentrating on the game. So did the rest of the Babes as they turned to listen to what I had to say. “Actually, I called all of you together to elicit your help finding Claudia and Vera.”
“Isn’t that the sheriff’s job?” Gloria asked.
“You heard Sheriff Wiggins this afternoon. He asked for our cooperation. Practically begged for our help.”
Diane idly rolled the dice between her palms lest they grew cold in the interim. “What can we do?”
“All we know for sure is that the victim is female. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m worried sick about Claudia and Vera. And if that isn’t enough, Rosalie’s been gone too long. I know I’ll sleep easier knowing they’re all okay.”
“Amen,” Pam murmured.
“Ladies, we have our work cut out for us.” I stood. Suddenly I felt like a general rallying his troops to battle. Eisenhower on D-day. Patton at the Battle of the Bulge. Custer at Little Big- horn. “The sheriff probably has dozens, maybe hundreds, of missing persons to track down. It could be days, or even weeks, before he starts checking into Claudia, Vera, and Rosalie. I thought we might speed things along. See if we can track them down ourselves.”
“How?” several of the Babes chorused in unison.
“We need to do an investigation of our own.”
I could see some nods, some frowns.
“Where would we start?” Tara ventured.
I looked from one worried face to another. “By chance, does anyone know how we might contact Claudia’s sons?”
“I know one’s a surgeon in Chicago,” Janine volunteered.
“The other’s an engineer,” Gloria said. “Seattle, I think.”
“We could start there,” Diane said in a burst of enthusiasm. “I worked the reference desk back in Florida. I’m good at research.”
“I’m good with computers,” Megan volunteered. “I’ll help Diane.”
“Great!” I wanted to clap my hands and applaud. Now who was behaving like a cheerleader? “That leaves Vera,” I continued, warming to my role of general. “I found out Vera recently divorced an abusive husband. I also learned that Lisa, her daughter, is expecting her third child soon.”
Tara looked thoughtful. “If her daughter has young children, maybe someone at the preschool knows her. I can ask around. Discreetly of course.”
“And I’ll take it upon myself to find out more about Rosalie—discreetly of course.” I sank back down and picked up the dice. The Bunco Babes had come through again. I knew they wouldn’t let me down.
The game resumed where we left off. We rolled our way through a series of fours, fives, and sixes. I eventually worked my way up to the head table along with Connie Sue, Polly, and Megan.
“C’mon, baby. Mama needs a new pair of shoes.” Connie Sue blew on the dice for luck. Megan grinned when she failed to score.
“Don’t know about the rest of you, but I got the shivers when the sheriff said the perp had access to power tools. Yuck!” Polly grimaced.
“Hey, sugar, how about turning on the ceiling fan?” Connie Sue loosened a button on her blouse. “I’m having another of those hot flashes.”
I got halfway out of my chair before I remembered. “Sorry, Connie Sue, but I can’t. It’s broken.”
“Did you ever get hold of Bill?” Pam called from the neighboring table.
“He dropped by yesterday afternoon. Told me it was the motor. Said I needed to buy a new fan, and he’d install it for me.”
“Bunco!” Megan rang the bell.
Nancy got up to refill her glass with soda. “Bill Lewis?”
“That’s right.” I noticed most of the girls were sticking with soft drinks tonight. The wine went mostly untouched. Shows how serious they were about finding our missing friends.
“Bill’s in the Woodchucks with my husband,” Rita commented. “Dave said he just got reelected president. Says he has every power tool known to man. Even more than Bob Vila on This Old House.”
Access to power tools? The sheriff’s words flashed across my brain like a neon sign at a cheap motel. I glanced around the table, but no one made eye contact. The Babes didn’t have to be psychic to read one another’s minds. Not only Bill, but every man who owned so much as a simple saw was suspect.
We were unusually silent as we played the final round and tallied scores. Janine was the night’s big winner with over seven hundred points. She wore the tiara with queenly aplomb.
“Everyone’ll be able to spot me two aisles away at the Piggly Wiggly,” she said, winking at me as she left.
As the ladies began to file out, Megan, sweet little Megan, gave me a hug. “Love you, Kate.”
Polly and Gloria were the last to leave. It might have been my imagination, but Polly’s smile didn’t beam its usual wattage. In fact, it seemed a bit strained. “Be careful, dear,” she said as she lowered her voice and patted my arm. “There’s a killer on the loose.”
• • •
Now that everyone had finally gone home, the house seemed unusually quiet. I jumped when the phone rang, and ran to pick it up. It always makes me a little nervous when the phone rang at this hour.
“Mother, how are you?” It was Jennifer, our daughter—or should I say my daughter now that Jim’s dead? I’m never quite sure—calling from California.
“I’m fine, dear.” I used to be “Mom,” but apparently got promoted to “Mother” after Jen’s move to the West Coast. After Jim died, both Steven and Jennifer thought I should return to Ohio. Mind you, neither of the kids still lives in Ohio. No way. They couldn’t wait to leave Toledo. Not even the lure of Tony Packo’s famous Hungarian hot dogs could keep them there. From the time they entered college, they yearned for bigger and better. Somewhere more exciting. Big cities and sprawling suburbs beckoned with an appeal impossible to ignore.
“I forgot about the time difference,” Jen said apologetically.
“It’s always good to hear
your voice, honey. Regardless of the time.”
And I meant it.
After marrying her college sweetheart, Jason Jerrard, Jennifer moved to California. They have two little girls, Juliette and Jillian. The “Four Jays,” as I refer to them, live in Brentwood, the same place O. J. Simpson used to live. Jennifer and Jason own a big house with an even bigger mortgage.
I always thought Jason was somewhat of a geek. Not much to look at, but then I always told my girl not to judge people by appearances. Jennifer didn’t. She’s a smart girl, my Jen. She saw beyond the nerdy glasses, poor posture, and mismatched clothes. It’s amazing what contact lenses, confidence, and Armani can do for a man. Jason is now a high-priced attorney with a long list of celebrities as clients. He spends his days creating contracts and clauses Hulk Hogan himself couldn’t break.
“I hope you weren’t asleep.”
“No, your timing’s perfect. The girls just left.”
“The girls? Oh, you mean the women you gamble with.”
Jen just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of a nonsensical dice game like bunco. I had tried to explain it on numerous occasions, but obviously my explanations fell short. “Bunco isn’t gambling, dear. It’s simply a . . . game.”
“I’d hate to think you were gambling away your pension.”
“There’s no money involved, Jen. You make it sound almost illegal.”
“Isn’t bunco what the high rollers do in Vegas? Only there they have another name for it . . . craps, I think.”
“Playing bunco with the girls is nothing at all like rolling craps in Vegas,” I said with asperity. Actually I’ve never been to Vegas, so my knowledge is rather limited. But I do watch movies. And I’ve seen those tacky T-shirts that read: What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. You can bet that slogan exists for a mighty good reason.
“Craps, bunco, whatever. It’s nice you found a hobby. Jason and I worry you might be bored in a community with all those elderly people.”
Elderly? I bit my tongue before correcting her distorted view of active adult communities. “People here in Serenity Cove Estates believe age is a state of mind, not a date on a driver’s license.”
Jen continued nonplussed, “It’s dangerous to become inactive. Studies show that mental exercise reduces the risk of getting dementia.”
Dementia? As if elderly wasn’t insulting enough, now I’m getting senile? Oh! The arrogance of the young. “Jen, you must be the one who’s bored if you’re reading studies on aging. For heaven’s sake, join a book club.”
“Playing dice games may be fun, Mother, but you need mental stimuli to retard the aging process.”
“Honey, there’s too much happening in Serenity Cove Estates to ever get bored.”
I heard Jen stifle a yawn. “Really?”
“Really,” I replied, determined to set her straight. “Take right now for instance. I bet I’m getting enough mental stimuli for a woman half my age.”
“Mother, are you in some sort of trouble?”
From her sharper tone, I knew I had succeeded in grabbing her attention. Elderly? Demented? I’d show her. “I’m helping the sheriff solve a murder,” I said, sounding a trifle smug.
“You’re what!”
“You heard me, dear. Along with the rest of the Bunco Babes, I’m helping Sheriff Wiggins solve a murder.”
“Murder? Who’s murder?”
“I’m afraid we won’t know that until we discover who the arm belongs to.”
“Arm? What arm?”
“Who’s on first; what’s on second,” I wanted to tell her. Once again that old Abbott and Costello routine ran through my mind. I wanted to say “I-Don’t-Know’s on third,” but was afraid Jen would fail to see the humor. Instead I said, “Relax, honey, there’s nothing to worry about.”
I heard her draw a calming breath. “Mother, I’m going to sit down now. Then I think you had better start from the beginning.”
And so I did.
Dead silence followed my account of the last few days. The quality of long-distance calls has vastly improved since my youth, but still I never trust them one hundred percent not to lose the connection. “Jen, honey, are you still there?”
“Mother,” she said, her voice shaky, “I take back everything I ever said about Serenity Cove being boring.”
I smirked; I couldn’t help it. I got a lot of satisfaction from hearing her admission.
“That . . . that place simply isn’t safe. Pack your suitcase. As soon as we hang up, I’m going to call the airlines and book you a flight out of there first thing tomorrow.”
Apparently I had smirked too soon. “There’s no need to get upset, dear,” I tried to placate her. “Serenity Cove is perfectly safe. Why, only today Sheriff Wiggins reassured everyone at a town hall meeting. He said law-enforcement feels this was an ‘isolated incidence of violence.’” I was proud of myself for using the sheriff’s direct quote. Emboldened, I took my new acronym out for a stroll. “He’s already called in SLED.”
“Sled? Mother, you’re not making any sense.” Jen’s voice was rising again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Perhaps Jen lives too close to Hollywood for her own good. Even as a child she tended to overdramatize.
“I’m fine, dear,” I assured her. “SLED stands for South Carolina Law Enforcement Division.” How could she not be impressed with that bit of information? That should prove beyond a doubt that my brain cells were getting plenty of stimuli.
Jennifer switched tactics. “Jason and I would both love to have you visit. And the girls would be delighted. You could drive them to all their activities. They both take ballet and tap. Just last week, I enrolled Jillian in soccer and gymnastics. Juliette started violin lessons and needs someone to listen to her practice. You’d love it.”
Listening to an eight-year-old practice violin wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation. And though I’d dearly love to observe a dance class or soccer game, the thought of being a chauffeur in heavy California traffic didn’t appeal to me. “Save your money, sweetheart. I don’t need a plane ticket. I have no intention of going anywhere right now.”
“I wish you’d reconsider, Mother. I worry about you in that place.”
I assured her again I was perfectly all right in Serenity Cove Estates, then changed the subject. When the phone conversation ended fifteen minutes later, I made a mental note to be more careful of what I told my daughter in the future—no matter what the provocation.
Chapter 13
I thought about last evening as I waited for my bagel to toast. I was glad the Babes agreed to pitch in with the investigation. I could hardly wait to do my part and grill—I think that’s the term cops use—Earl about the disappearance of his wife. I’d look closely for beads of sweat to appear along his hairline—at least what was left of it. And I’d watch his eyes. Did they dart? Did they dilate? No detail, no matter how small, was going to escape my attention.
My bagel popped up, and I slathered it with cream cheese. The reduced-fat variety. In spite of what some might think, I do make healthy choices now and again. After pouring a cup of coffee, I plopped down in the nook and began planning my day.
I needed to drive into town to stock up on groceries. My cupboards were beginning to resemble Old Mother Hubbard’s.
I took a bite of bagel and grimaced. Pain sharp as an ice pick stabbed my lower jaw. Gingerly I felt around the area with the tip of my tongue and encountered a rough edge that hadn’t been there before. My molars were at it again. I tried a sip of coffee and winced. That dad-blamed tooth was also sensitive to heat. Time for a trip to the dentist. I had ignored similar symptoms once before and lived to regret it.
Problem was, I was picky when it came to dentists. The dentist I had been seeing had just retired to Hilton Head, and I hadn’t gotten around to replacing him. As usual, I turned to my favorite go-to person for a recommendation and dialed Pam.
“Got a minute?”
“Sure, what’s up?”
Pam laughed. “Kate, you’re such a baby.”
“Hmpph!” I sniffed. “Only when it comes to dentists. The rest of the time I’m big and brave.”
“His name is Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. Megan says all his female patients are in love with him.”
“I don’t want to fall in love. I just want a dentist who believes in Novocain—and lots of it. Every time I hear that drill, I get flashbacks to a movie I saw years ago about an evil dentist torturing the good guy to find out where the diamonds are hidden.”
“Oh, yeah,” Pam murmured. “I vaguely recall a movie like that. What was the name again?”
“Was it Man of La Mancha?”
“That doesn’t sound right.”
“Could it have been The Manchurian Candidate?”
“That doesn’t sound right either.”
“Darn! I hate these senior moments.” These sudden memory gaps make playing Trivial Pursuit next to impossible. I’ll wake up with answers in the middle of the night, but by then can no longer remember the questions. Jennifer would think I’m demented for sure.
“Hey, I hate to cut you off,” Pam said, “but I’ve got to run. I’ve got a hair appointment in twenty minutes.” She rattled off the number for Dr. Jeffrey Baxter, and then disconnected.
No sense putting off the inevitable. I refilled my coffee mug and took another swallow, careful to avoid the troublesome molar, then dialed the number Pam had just rattled off.
“Good morning, Dr. Baxter’s office,” Megan answered, her voice irritatingly cheerful.
“Hi, Megan. It’s me, Kate.”
“Hi, Kate. Sorry, but if this is about bunco, I can’t talk right now. The office is hopping. We just got an emergency root canal.”