Dumpster Dicing (Bunco Biddies Book 1)

by Julie B. Cosgrove

  Janie arched a penciled-in eyebrow. “Would that be Lyndon Baines Johnson or Andrew Johnson?”

  “Very funny.” Betsy Ann scrunched her forehead. “Wait, shouldn’t we be saying a prayer or something?”

  “I guess.” Janie shrugged. “Even though nobody liked him.”

  Ethel waggled her finger. “Don’t speak ill of the dead, my dear. You’re right, Betsy Ann. We should.” She bowed her head.

  The other two did the same. A few minutes of silence followed, despite the commotion in the background near the club house.

  After a moment Betsy Ann whispered, “Amen.” She crossed her chest with a reverent sigh and then reached over to pitty-pat Janie’s arm. “Your daughter married well. Detective Johnson is such a nice man.”

  Janie sighed. “I suppose. He’ll never be as good of one as my late husband Jack, but then few ever could be.”

  “Man or detective?”

  Janie’s eyes gleamed with pride. “Both.”

  Betsy Ann shot Ethel a smirk. Anyone who spoke with Janie for more than five minutes learned how amazing a police detective Jack Manson had been. Let her jabber for another ten, and she relayed three of his most notorious cases, four if she drank too much caffeine. Janie’s Texas drawl revved to rival a New Yorker’s fast-paced delivery after the third cup.

  Blake turned to the three ladies’ direction and wiggled his finger for them to approach. As a policeman and two firefighters rummaged through the dumpster for the rest of Edwin, a latex-gloved medic placed the leg, arm and head on a gurney and covered them with a thick, black plastic sheet. Murmurs and groans waved through the community’s gawkers.

  The three widows traipsed as proud as peacocks toward the crime scene, knowing all eyes of their fellow Sunset Acres neighbors, and a few reporters, rested on them.

  Janie winked. “We’ll be the talk of the town for at least a week.”

  “I know. Isn’t this fun?” Ethel giggled.

  “Girls, please.” Betsy Ann clucked her teeth. “A man has been brutally killed.”

  Her friends’ smiles dissipated.

  However, Betsy Ann’s eyes twinkled. “But, you’re right.” She pressed her lips to keep from grinning like a cat after catching a lizard.

  Janie lifted her nose a bit higher. “Well, we’re bound to gain some notoriety if we help Blake solve this mystery. Poor man is spread too thin. He needs us, whether he realizes it or not.”

  Ethel gasped. “Do you think we can?”

  “We have every right. After all, this happened in our neighborhood. I’ve lived here for six years. Betsy Ann, you signed on as one of the first residents eight years ago as I recall.”

  “True.”

  “And Ethel, people trust you, so they tell you their life stories. Together, we three can glean more information in one day than the police could scrounge up in three weeks.”

  The other two women eyed each other. Ethel pushed her mouth to one side. “She has a point.”

  Betsy Ann sighed. “Very well. I for one won’t sleep knowing a killer is on the loose, so the sooner they get him, the better.”

  Janie set her jaw. “Good. Then it’s settled. Let’s meet over tea and lemon poppy seed cake at my place in half an hour. What ya say?”

  Ethel let out a giggle. “Oooh, I can’t wait.”

  Chapter Three

  Janie hummed as she got out her grandmother’s high tea set along with slices of fresh cake and a bowl of strawberries dipped in sugar. Pencils and pads of paper perched on the edge of the table. A pitcher of ice water sweated droplets onto a trivet set upon the china bureau. She placed three goblets in a triangle, and with one more eye-sweep, clasped her hands in approval as two quick raps pounded on her front door. Janie shuffled to peek through the peephole even though she recognized Betsy Ann’s woodpecker-like tap. “Come in, come in.”

  Now in more appropriate street attire, Ethel and Betsy Ann set their purses on the sofa and made themselves at home around Janie’s Queen Anne dining room table. The three widows lived within close walking distance in the condo section of Sunset Acres. Ethel lived in a three-bedroom unit at 125 Sunburst Court. Betsy Ann and Janie resided in the two bedroom models one block over at 131 and 134 Sunny Ridge Blvd.

  “Oh, strawberries, too. My favorite.” Betsy Ann plopped one on her mouth. “Yum.”

  Janie laced her hands to her chest. “Do y’all want peach or green tea?”

  “Peach.” Betsy Ann slid the floral napkin into her lap and reached for a piece of cake.

  “And you, Ethel?”

  “Did you drink up the raspberry tea I gave you for Christmas?”

  “Quite a few weeks ago during that freakish cold snap when the weather lingered in the forties for days on end right after Easter. I greatly appreciated its flavor and warmth.”

  Ethel pressed her lips together as a rosy tint pushed into her cheekbones. “Peach, then.”

  Janie tipped the teapot over each cup, the not-quite boiling water swirling soft plumes of steam. “Okay. Let’s get down to business. I want each of you to write down what you remember about the scene. Give at much detail as...”

  Betsy Ann huffed. “Yes, Janie. I wrote a column each week for the Alamoville Weekly Gazette for almost thirty years. I know how to report.”

  Ethel cocked her head as her hen scratch scraped against the paper. “On flowers, vegetables, and open houses. Not on crime. I, on the other hand, can access a vast storehouse of information about murder.” She tapped her temple.

  Janie blew on her tea. “Yes, yes. And I was married to a detective for forty-three years. Of course he started out with a beat, but...” She took a sip and set her cup back in its saucer. “I mean to say we are all qualified to sleuth. Which is why, ladies, we can be of valuable help to my poor over-worked son-in-law. After all, as I said, this is our community. I don’t cotton to murders tainting our peaceful surroundings.”

  Ethel inched her shoulders to her ears. “But this does get the blood flowing, doesn’t it?”

  Betsy Ann clunked her pencil onto the table. “Ethel!”

  The woman’s cheeks crimsoned deeper than before. “Sorry, bad pun.” She shifted in her chair, but a glint of humor still shone in her eyes. “Besides, that mean ol’ Mr. Newman would never fit in anyway. Lots of us own pets. I am surprised the association didn’t screen him better.”

  Betsy Ann chomped on another square of lemon poppy seed cake and wiped the crumbs off the edge of her mouth with her pinkie. “Mmm hmmm.”

  Janie snapped her fingers. “I’ve got an idea. Wait here.” She scampered away, her rubber soles squeaking across the linoleum floor. None of the condos were carpeted to make it easier for residents to maneuver orthopedic equipment. She returned with several pieces of copy paper and a roll of tape. She secured the edges together until the sheets almost filled the tabletop. “Okay let’s draw the layout of Sunset Acres.”

  Within a few minutes, she’d sketched a fairly accurate bird’s-eye view rendition. In the east, she placed their four blocks of condos, grouped in clusters of six, three to each side of a common sidewalk leading to the street in one direction and a gated alley in the other toward assigned carport parking. To the south, she added the winding four streets housing the thirty-two garden homes where Mildred and the late Mr. Newman resided. To the east lay the one- and two-bedroom apartment complex in a U shape surrounding a pool and recreation facility. Beyond lay the ten-acre assisted living grounds with a four-story facility to the south of a strip center with a beauty parlor, barber shop, post office, small library, and day clinic. Next, she outlined the tennis courts, two more swimming pools, and the nine-hole golf course, all encased by a meandering walking path which lead to the parking lot where the tell-tale dumpster stood.

  Ethel tapped a section of the paper. “Don’t forget the club house, Janie.”

  Janie rolled her eyes. “Yes, the crime scene. I’m getting to it.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  She got up and pressed he
r hands to her lower back. “Done. Now we can each take a section and start interrogating...uh, I mean talking with our neighbors. Find out who saw Mr. Newman last and when.”

  Ethel sat straighter in her chair. “I’ll start with the garden homes on Solar Boulevard and spread out. I want to visit Mildred to make sure she is able to come to Bunco on Thursday. You know how protective she is of Poopsy.”

  Betsy Ann nodded rapidly. “Indeed she is. Hovers over that doggie. I hear she hasn’t left the house since the incident.”

  Ethel shifted her gaze to the side bureau. “Janie, may I take her a plate of strawberries? I hate to go empty-handed. My mother didn’t raise me that way.”

  Janie opened the bottom door of the hutch and handed her friend a plastic plate which mimicked cut crystal. “Sure. Here you go. Use this so she doesn’t need to wash and return anything. I’ll get the plastic wrap.”

  Betsy Ann raised her hand. “I’ve got a beauty appointment in forty-five minutes. I’ll see what I can find out. Tongues like to wag while under the hair dryer or waiting for their perms to set.”

  “Getting a rinse?”

  “No, of course not.” She spoofed her russet curls. “This is my natural color. My grandmother went to her grave at eighty-nine with hardly any—”

  Ethel and Janie finished in sync, “—strands of gray.”

  “We know, Betsy Ann. Just ribbing you.” Janie had her doubts though. Yet Betsy Ann’s hairdresser, who rented a booth at Sunset Acres’ in-house salon every Tuesday and Thursday for the past three years, couldn’t be bribed to state otherwise.

  Betsy Ann snitched a third piece of cake. “I’m only trying to help.”

  Janie reached over and squeezed her shoulder. “Yes. Sorry. You go cock an ear. Great idea.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll ask if Mrs. Jacobs needs someone to sit at the Newman house until the family arrives. That way, I can do some snooping inside.” Janie gave them both a wink. “She trusts me. Her grandmother and my aunt were sorority sisters at the university in Austin. What a pleasant surprise to learn she managed this community. One of the main reasons I agreed to sell the house and move here.”

  Ethel confessed. “I deemed her to be trustworthy as soon as I learned her name. Angela, like the actress in Murder She Wrote.” She lifted an arthritic finger. “Not a coincidence. Providence, I say.”

  “As the hymn says, ‘God works in mysterious ways, His wonders to be performed.’” Betsy Ann dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “Do you think she’ll let you?”

  “I imagine Blake ordered uniformed men to search through the vic’s things. But, it’s worth a try.” Janie thumped the eraser against her chin.

  Betsy Ann nabbed another strawberry before Ethel covered the batch in clear wrap. “Aren’t we going to finish drawing the crime scene?”

  Ethel wriggled her brow. “We need to scoop and snoop while the murder’s still fresh.”

  “Right.” Janie snatched her house keys. “We’ll meet up again at the dining hall for lunch, 12:30 sharp. Come on, ladies.”

  Janie ushered the women out the door. A brisk breeze whipped in from the north, along with a near-distant rumble. Springtime in Texas. The weather changed with a snap of the fingers. She dashed back in to grab her umbrella, just in time to catch her ten-year-old cat crouched on the dining room bureau licking the lemon frosting from the last slice of poppy seed cake.

  Janie shooed her off. “Shame on you, Mrs. Fluffy.”

  The tabby sauntered out of the room with her tail high.

  Chapter Four

  Ethel stood on the sidewalk, scanning up the street and then down. Which way to go? She sighed. Should she bring her pug along for a stroll? People always seemed to be friendlier when her Pugsy panted alongside her and wagged her back end to show off her queued stub of a tail. Nonsense. She had every reason to meet her neighbors instead of always having her nose in a book. After all, they called this a community, right?

  Janie’s correct. People do open up to me when given the chance. I can do this. She adjusted her blouse and walked on, her chin up. The sun enveloped her shoulders like a heating pad on high despite the thunder rippling on the breeze off to the east. Time to get summer booties to protect Pugsy’s tender pads from the hot concrete. She’d buy them when the community van went on the weekly Outlet Mall excursion on Friday—if she remembered.

  She decided the garden home with the pink petunias would be a good place to begin. With a tippy-tap on the knocker, Ethel waited and practiced her most neighborly smile. No answer. She dropped her shoulders a half inch and strolled to the next home.

  Again, no one came to the door. A ruby-colored cardinal landed with a chirp on the dangling limb near the front porch. Betsy Ann addressed him with a pout. “Don’t bother, little one. No one’s home to sprinkle bird seed.”

  Oh, how she wanted to do well and prove her love for sleuthing to be more than a mere reader’s hobby. She felt somewhat outside the circle, having not witnessed the body. However, she’d never seen real blood and guts before. With a shudder as if she sucked a lemon, Ethel shoved the memory of the gruesome gurney image away. Perhaps I’m lucky I didn’t. The pecan syrup-drenched blueberry pancakes she pampered herself with for breakfast would have ended up on the pavement. Even now, the remnants turned to concrete in her stomach, along with the extra helping of strawberries and lemon poppy seed cake.

  A slight creak broke her thought pattern. “May I help you?”

  Ethel turned to spot a white-haired couple peering through the half-cocked door. They resembled Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum. Married for decades, no doubt. She read in a magazine husbands and wives begin to look more and more alike after years of marriage. Proof the Book of Genesis proclaimed the truth. The two do become one. Now why did she think of that, and why did she stand on their stoop? Oh, yes...

  “Hello. I’m Ethel MacDaniels. I live a block over.” She indicated with her hand in the direction of the condos. “Did you hear about the, er, dumpster incident this morning?”

  The two eyed her, glanced at each other, and shrugged.

  “Oh, well. Maybe you never met Edwin Newman. He only moved in last Friday. Do you own a dog?”

  The man raised his bushy eyebrows. “What?”

  Ethel tucked her lip into her lower teeth. This hadn’t begun well. She acted as klutzy as a one armed juggler. “He—Edwin that is, was—well...murdered. And people said, or rather hinted, he hated dogs. Mine is a pug. Cute little thing. Name’s Pugsy. Always well behaved, except she likes to bark at...”

  “And you are here because…?” The man’s face puckered. His wife slid a few inches behind his shoulders, though her eyes never left Ethel.

  Ethel mopped her brow with the back of her hand. “Oh, never mind. We are hoping someone spotted something early this morning. But,” she scanned them up and down, noticing their protruding tummies still tucked under their bathrobe sashes, “I guess you haven’t been out and about yet today.”

  The man started to close the front door when his wife’s hand wrapped around the edge. “Wait. Is he the one who threw a mug at Poopsy?”

  “Who?” The man turned to face her.

  “Mildred’s Yorkie.”

  His face softened. “Yes, that’s right. Cute pooch. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  His wife edged though the triangular opening, her other hand clutching the crisscross folds of her cover-up. “I know the man you are talking about. Mrs. Jacobs introduced us when she showed him the library. Rude man. Jumpy, with shifty eyes as if he robbed the U.S. Mint and feared someone would find out.”

  The man sighed through his nostrils, making a slight whistle. “Now, sugarplum...”

  His wife ignored his gesture. “I’m Eleanor and this is Jonathan. We’re the Franks, and we moved in a few months back.” She extended a still elegant hand with elongated, slender fingers despite the slight bulges of arthritic knuckles and liver spots. “Come inside and have a cuppa. I made some raspberry tarts earlier this morning.”


  Frank moved out of the doorway and motioned for Ethel to enter.

  “Oh, how kind. Don’t mind if I do.” She gave the couple a sugary smile but her starch-laden stomach screamed, No. No more sweets. “I guess one tart couldn’t hurt.”

  Eleanor’s face brightened and a pixie grin slid across her thin lips. “Come, come. Kitchen’s this way.”

  Ethel followed, making sure to mention how that painting or this knick-knack enhanced their decor perfectly.

  When she sat at their kitchen dinette set, her elastic waistband tugged. I can walk it off as I canvas the rest of the block—unless, of course, each household offers me food as well. Oh, dear.

  * * *

  Betsy Ann sighed with pleasure as the blast from the air conditioned salon slapped her face. “Whew. It’s hot enough to fry an egg on the asphalt.”

  Nancy, one of the assisted living residents, crinkled her nose. “Who’d want to do that? Don’t y’all like the food around here? This morning, they served eggs Benedict and waffles.”

  Sue Lin, the hairdresser, shook her head as she teased another strand of silver curl. “Nancy, it’s only a saying.”

  The octogenarian bounced her head, loosening another hot roller. “Oh. I get it.”

  The stylist arched an eyebrow. “Hope we get some rain. Looks promising off to the east.”

  Nancy jutted her chin. “Better not. I paid good money for this hair-do. I don’t want the damp air to ruin it.”

  Betsy gave Sue Lin a sympathetic grin. “I’m early. I’ll read up on the latest Hollywood glamour gossip.” She browsed through several magazines, most of them dog-eared, and decided on one with a pregnant supermodel in a Brazilian bikini on the cover. “Humph. Back in my day, you wore mu-mus. If you left the house in your third trimester, that is.”