Shake, Murder, and Roll

by Gail Oust

  Claudia laughed, but shook her head. “Polly, you’re asking the wrong person. I’ve sworn off men—for life.”

  Rita looked pointedly at her watch. “All right, ladies, we can chitchat while we play. Who are we missing?”

  I selected a foil-wrapped piece of chocolate from a candy dish—dark chocolate, of course, the kind loaded with antioxidants. I subscribe to the three squares a day rule of thumb when it comes to chocolate—dark chocolate, that is. “Megan offered to bring a friend to sub in Tara’s place.”

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than in walked blond, perky Megan Warner, Pam’s twenty-year-old daughter and the apple of her eye. “Hey, everyone, sorry we’re late.”

  My jaw dropped at the sight of Megan followed by none other than Tammy Lynn Snow. I don’t think I’d ever seen the girl outside the sheriff’s office. But outside or inside, Tammy Lynn was the same beige Tammy Lynn. Her face was makeup free, her dishwater-colored hair pulled back and fastened with a scrunchie.

  “I didn’t realize you two girls knew each other.”

  “Hey, Miz McCall.” Tammy Lynn ducked her head. “Nice place you have.”

  Megan gave me a friendly hug and waved at her mother. “Tammy Lynn and I got to be friends after Eric broke his leg,” she said, referring to the handsome, young Brookdale police officer who had suffered a nasty fall.

  “We’re happy to have you, Tammy Lynn,” I said, in an effort to make the girl feel welcome. “There are snacks on the island in the kitchen. Help yourself to wine or soda, and we’ll get started.”

  “I don’t drink spirits, ma’am, and I’m more nervous than hungry.” She cast a worried glance at a table with its dice and scorecards. “I’ve never played bunco before. Megan said there was nothin’ to it. That anyone with half a brain could play.”

  “Well, dear, half-brained describes our group pretty well.”

  Tammy Lynn flushed to the roots of her hair. “I—I didn’t mean…”

  “No offense taken, dear. Half a brain is better than no brain,” I said with a laugh, then clapped my hands to get the Babes’ attention. “All right, everyone, find a table and let’s get started.”

  “Wait up, y’all.” Connie Sue sprinted for her handbag, which she’d left in the great room. She returned with a glittery rhinestone tiara, which she proudly donned. “Now we’re ready.”

  The tiara had been Connie Sue’s idea, a holdover from her reign as Miss Peach Princess. The night’s winner at bunco takes home the tiara. It’s a silly ritual, I admit, some might even call it juvenile. But who decreed women had to act like grown-ups when it’s more fun to be a kid again?

  I tucked my arm through Tammy Lynn’s. “Why don’t you and Megan be partners for the first round? That way she can show you the ropes. And don’t worry about keeping score. Tonight let your partners do it since you’re new to the game.”

  Everyone managed to find a place and settle in. I’d set up a card table in the great room. The kitchen and dining room tables were also pressed into service. Three tables in all with four players each. I ended up at the head table, which happened to be the one in the kitchen, along with Megan, Tammy Lynn, and Connie Sue. I picked up the bell Pam had once paid twenty-five cents for at a garage sale and let it clang. “Ladies, let the game begin.”

  “What are we supposed to do now?” Tammy Lynn whispered anxiously.

  “Just watch and learn, sugar.” Connie Sue scooped up the dice, rattled them good, and let them fly. Magically a one appeared.

  “There are six rounds in each set of bunco,” I explained as Connie Sue continued to rack up points. “In each round, the player tries to roll the same target number as the set. The player scores one point for each target point. The round ends when partners at the head table—which controls play—accumulate a total of twenty-one points.”

  “Then is the game over?”

  Megan giggled. “That means we’re just getting warmed up. We roll ones in the first round,” she explained, continuing the tutorial, “twos in the next, threes in the third, and so on and so forth.”

  “We usually play six sets, or games, before totalin’ our scores. Winner takes home the tiara,” Connie Sue was quick to add.

  Uncertain, Tammy Lynn looked at each of us in turn. “You mean that’s all there is?”

  “That’s it, sugar.” Connie Sue grinned. “A game can’t get any simpler, but that’s why we like it. Bunco’s strictly social. We’d hate to have thinkin’ interferin’ with our talkin’.”

  “Or our drinking,” Polly called from the great room.

  When her turn came around again, Tammy Lynn cupped the dice, gave them a shake, and let them fly. Three ones appeared as if by magic.

  “Bunco!” Megan hollered as she reached for the bell.

  “What?” Tammy Lynn stared at her perplexed.

  I took pity on the girl. Maybe bunco was a trifle more complicated than we had led her to believe. “Sorry, Tammy Lynn, I forgot to mention that three of the target number equals twenty-one points—a bunco.”

  As the Babes got up from their tables and started to circulate, I gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Since you and Megan are the winners, stay where you are but switch partners. The losers, in this case Connie Sue and myself, go to table three. The winners from table three move up to table two.”

  “And the winners from table two advance to table one,” Megan said, shifting seats.

  Tammy Lynn rolled her eyes. “This game is downright confusin’.”

  “Sugar,” Connie Sue drawled, “switchin’ tables is often the hardest part of playin’ bunco—especially if the hostess is servin’ booze.”

  “Y’all are never gonna ask me to play again,” Tammy Lynn moaned.

  Megan’s lips twitched in amusement. “None of us can keep it straight, Tammy Lynn. That’s why directions are printed across the bottom of the score sheet. We call it our ‘cheat sheet.’”

  On my way to lowly table three, I paused to top off my wine and grab a handful of M&M’s. They might not be loaded with antioxidants, but as far as I was concerned, they were comfort food. Fortified, I slid into the seat across from Monica.

  The instant the bell sounded, Monica snatched the dice and threw them. When they failed to produce a two, she glared at them as though she’d like to pulverize them. “Don’t know why I bother with this stupid game,” she grumbled.

  Who was she kidding? All of us Babes knew Monica was a fierce competitor—even in a nonsensical dice game. We also knew Monica coveted the sparkly band of rhinestones. Once I had stopped by to return a book she had loaned me and caught her wearing the tiara while mopping the floor.

  “Are you going to Vaughn Bascomb’s memorial service tomorrow?” Gloria asked, passing the dice.

  I nodded. “I feel sorry for Sheila. She doesn’t know many people here, but she’s trying hard to do the right thing for Vaughn. The man deserves a proper send-off.” My brief run of luck over, I shoved the dice toward Connie Sue.

  “I wonder why the rush,” Gloria mused. “Surely his memorial service could wait until she’s fully recovered from the ordeal. After all, she nearly died herself.”

  “No reason to put it off, I guess. The body’s already been cremated.”

  Connie Sue nodded sagely. “Sheila probably needs closure.”

  “Closure” seemed to be the catchphrase these days for “an end to.” At least it is on Dr. Phil.

  Monica absently tucked a dark brown strand of hair behind one ear. “Why is Sheila responsible for funeral arrangements? Doesn’t Dr. Bascomb have family?”

  “According to Rita, he has a sister in California, but they’ve been estranged for years. Apparently he left a will stating he wanted to be cremated, and his ashes scattered in a botanical garden.”

  “Pay attention, Kate,” Monica scolded. “You just rolled a baby bunco.”

  “Well, how about that?” I murmured. I stared at a trio of fours in mild surprise. Baby buncos, in case I forgot to mentio
n, occur when a player rolls three of any number other than the target number and count for a whopping five points.

  “Bunco!” Tammy Lynn’s voice sang out from the head table. The girl was certainly catching on fast.

  In spite of my baby bunco, Monica and I lost out to Connie Sue and Gloria by one measly point. I ignored Monica’s scowl and scooted to an adjacent chair relieved someone else would be her partner this round. Rita and Megan joined us at what I deemed the losers’ table.

  Play resumed, and Rita picked up the dice. “So, Kate,” she began, simultaneously talking and tossing. I envy folks who can multitask. I used to be able to multitask myself, but seem to have lost the knack somewhere between Social Security and Medicare. “The garden club is planning to visit a nursery in Georgia next week. Guests and prospective members are invited. You interested?”

  I narrowed my eyes to study her more closely. I wondered how many glasses of wine she’d consumed, but she appeared stone sober. Rita, better than anyone, knew my God-given knack for killing all things living and green. I was growing weary of being the target of her thinly disguised condescension—spelled p-i-t-y. “Surely you’re not serious?”

  “Are you looking for anything particular on your trip?” Monica asked as the dice made the rounds. “We had a tree removed recently. I’m thinking oleander might work to fill in the spot.”

  “Oleander?” Megan wrinkled her nose. “Isn’t that poisonous?”

  “Yes, it is, but that’s probably why deer leave it alone.”

  Poison? My ears perked up.

  Monica, the expert on everything, gave Megan a smug smile. “Honey, half the plants in your mother’s yard are poisonous. That includes not only oleander, but Carolina jessamine and even her pretty pink hydrangea.”

  Hmm. My interest was definitely humming. It all but sang a rendition of the hallelujah chorus. Poison. Plants. Botany. Gardening. Was there a correlation? Or did the words merely belong to categories on Jeopardy!?

  I feigned a casualness I didn’t feel. “You know what, Rita? Not only will I go to the nursery with you, but I’ve been meaning to join the garden club. It’s high time I learn a thing or two about plants and flowers.”

  Chapter 11

  The clasp on my favorite bracelet was getting harder and harder to fasten. Who designs these things anyway? These darn clasps were intended for those with twenty-twenty vision. What about the millions of people who wear trifocals? Maybe it was time the AARP stepped in, took a stand.

  Just when I almost—and I repeat, almost—had the clasp conquered, the phone rang. One small distraction and—bingo!—once again I failed to connect the two ends. Tossing the bracelet aside in frustration, I rushed to answer the blasted telephone. Was I in a tizzy or what?

  “Hello,” I barked.

  “Kate?”

  “Bill…” My irritability melted like a Popsicle at a Fourth of July picnic.

  “Is this a bad time?”

  It was never a bad time for Bill Lewis, my honey of a handyman, to call. But I’d never tell him that. Bill, you see, tends to be a bit on the shy side, and I don’t want to scare him. Bill is Serenity Cove’s version of Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor of TV fame as played by comedian Tim Allen—minus the numerous trips to the emergency room. Bill not only owns every tool stocked at Lowe’s, but knows how to use them. Ever since he showed up on my doorstep to replace a faulty ceiling fan, he’d become my personal blue-eyed devil in sawdust-covered jeans.

  “Sorry, if I snapped at you,” I apologized. A glance at the kitchen clock told me I still had a half hour before Vaughn’s memorial service was scheduled to begin.

  “I’ve done some rough calculations on those bookshelves you want me to build. I’m thinking it might be a good idea if we drove down to Augusta together to look at materials. You might change your mind about wanting cherry once you see the price.”

  I’d had my heart set on cherry bookshelves ever since seeing the library in Sheila’s rental, but being on a fixed income, one has to be practical. “Well, I suppose that makes sense,” I acquiesced.

  Bill cleared his throat. “Are you busy this afternoon?”

  “I’d love to, Bill, but Vaughn Bascomb’s memorial service is at two o’clock. Can we make it another day?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be attending the service, since you didn’t really know the man.”

  “Granted, we met only the one time, but he seemed quite charming. Besides,” I continued, “I feel sorry for the guy. His only sister refuses to come, says she can’t afford to take time off from her job. Since Rita’s an old friend of Sheila’s, the Babes and I have decided on a show of support.”

  Actually, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to attend the service. I was worried, however, that if I told Bill my plan, he’d try to change my mind. Some things are better kept to oneself.

  “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said. “Maybe after checking out a lumberyard or two, we could take in a matinee? I’ll let you pick the movie. I don’t mind if it’s one of those girlie ones you seem to like. Now that I’m getting used to them, they’re not half-bad.”

  Bill was my kind of guy, all right. He refused to let a chick flick threaten his masculinity. “Throw in some buttered popcorn, and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

  “And, Kate, after the movie I thought we could grab a bite to eat at Bubba’s Buffet Barn? I know how much you love their fried shrimp.”

  Dinner and a movie? This sounded like a bona fide date. I wanted to quote the line from Jerry Maguire, “You had me at hello, ” but didn’t. Once again I didn’t want to frighten the guy.

  “Sounds great, Bill. See you tomorrow.”

  After agreeing on a time, we disconnected. Another glance at the clock told me I’d better get a move on if I wanted to make it to the chapel on time. I wanted to do a little victory shimmy, but it would have to wait.

  In spite of my good intentions, I was the last of the Babes to arrive at the memorial service. Except for Tara in California and Megan and Diane, who had to work, we were out in force. Nine out of twelve ain’t bad, considering Vaughn was a virtual stranger.

  Sheila had secured the use of a small, private chapel at the mortuary/crematorium where she’d had Vaughn’s body sent. Sunlight streamed through a stained-glass window, spreading a kaleidoscope of color over a pedestal supporting an ornate urn that I assumed contained Vaughn’s remains. A simple lectern stood off to one side. Oak pews could accommodate several dozen mourners, but other than the Babes, only a handful of people were present.

  I squeezed into a pew near the rear next to Monica, Pam, and Connie Sue. Polly and Gloria occupied the row in front of us. To my left, I spotted Claudia and Janine. Sheila occupied the front pew. She was flanked by Betsy on one side, Rita on the other. Considering their disdain for Vaughn Bascomb, I was surprised to find Todd Timmons and Roger McFarland also in attendance. Had they undergone a change of heart? Could I have underestimated them? Nah…

  “You’re late,” Monica scolded.

  “Sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low.

  Polly turned in her seat and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t mind her. You haven’t missed the good part.”

  The good part? What in the world did Polly consider the “good” part of a memorial service? Before I could come up with a plausible explanation, canned organ music blared through a speaker set high on the wall, playing a hymn I didn’t recognize.

  Time to put my plan into action.

  Now, it’s a well-known fact amongst investigative aficionados such as myself that killers always return to the scene of the crime. It’s equally well known that murderers often attend the funeral—or in this case, a memorial service—of their victims. I’d watched enough crime and punishment shows throughout the years to know this to be SOP—standard operating procedure. Sumter Wiggins, in his capacity as sheriff of Brookdale County, should be on the scene scoping out the situation. But in his absence, I’d step up to the plate.

  I discreetly
slid my cell phone from my purse. Flipping it open, I made a production out of checking for messages while unobtrusively pressing the camera icon. Instantly the back of Gloria’s head popped into the viewfinder.

  Satisfied I had command of the situation, I leaned forward to compliment Polly on her subdued ensemble. “Nice threads,” I said.

  Click! Just like that, I’d captured Todd Timmons’s profile for posterity. If I had to say so myself, it’d make a great mug shot. Now all I needed to complete my photo array of Mr. Timmons was a frontal shot.

  With cell phone clutched tightly in my hot little hand and intent on my subject, I angled my body and leaned as far to the right as gravity would allow. Just as my thumb hovered above the TAKE button, I lost my balance. Fortunately, Monica grabbed on to my suit jacket and saved me an embarrassing tumble into the center aisle. Unfortunately, however, my cell phone clattered to the floor. The back flew off, landing two feet away. Not even the canned organ music could drown out the noise. Heads swiveled in my direction.

  Heat crept up my neck. I felt a bead of perspiration trickle down my spine. This wasn’t good, said a small voice in the back of my brain. I haven’t had a hot flash—commonly referred to as a power surge—in years, but this flush was a vivid reminder. Cheeks burning, I crept out of the pew and retrieved my phone and its back. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, unable to suppress a nervous giggle, which earned me an angry glare from Monica.

  Seated again, I fumbled, trying to reassemble the confounded bit of electronic wizardry.

  Before I could master the technique, Monica snatched it from my hands and united Part A with Part B. “Kate, for pity’s sake, sit still!” she hissed under her breath. “You’re going to give me a migraine with all that bouncing around.”

  “Sorry,” I murmured again. Chastened, I sat quietly. I decided to wait until later to take the rest of my snapshots.

  A slender man with a narrow face and slicked-back hair entered the chapel through a side door. Judging from his solemn demeanor and dark suit, I guessed him to be the mortician, John Dobbs.