by Gail Oust
“There ought to be a rule against getting a bunco on your first throw,” Monica groused.
“It’s all a game of chance, sugar,” Connie Sue reminded her as she helped herself to veggies and dip on the way to table three in the den.
“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I still don’t think it’s fair.”
Monica, as I said, tends to be competitive. Anyone who thinks she’s a bad sport at bunco should see her on the golf course.
When play resumed, I found myself watching Claudia more closely. I could see that when it came to tossing dice, she had spent some time in Vegas honing her technique. Her style definitely had more pizzazz than before. The dice fairly danced across the table each time they tumbled out of her hand. Once or twice, one of the little buggers skittered right off the table and onto the floor.
“You’ve certainly improved your know-how when it comes to dice,” I told her, admiring the dramatic little wrist flip she had acquired.
“And it seems to be paying off,” she said with a grin as she rolled two—not one, but two—baby buncos in a row. Monica watched with undisguised envy as Claudia added ten more points to her score sheet, five points apiece for each baby. Baby buncos, by the way, occur when a player rolls three of any number except for the target number, which, as I already mentioned, is a whopping twenty-one points. I didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know that Monica was wishing Claudia, not I, were her partner.
“Bunco!” Claudia called out, then clanged the bell. The big smile she wore showed she was obviously enjoying her winning streak. “I spent a fair amount of time at the craps table,” she confessed to a disgruntled Monica. “Picked up a few pointers.”
“Were you this lucky in Vegas?” Megan asked, all perky innocence.
“Honey lamb, I broke the bank. Just wait ’til you see the prize I brought home.” She imitated Rita’s gesture, fanning a hand back and forth as if she needed to cool down.
Claudia’s luck held for the remainder of the evening. Gloria no sooner finished placing the coveted tiara atop Claudia’s flaming locks than the door chimes sounded.
“That must be Lance! Right on cue.” Claudia sprinted for the door as fast as a miniskirt and stilettos would allow.
“Suppose Lance Ledeaux is his real name?” Polly asked for the second time. For once, there were no reproving looks from her daughter.
We flocked together into the living room, a covey of peahens eager to catch our first glimpse of the peacock who’d just flown in from Vegas. From the foyer, we heard a giggle followed by a loud smooching sound. Polly craned her scrawny neck for a better look, almost falling off the sofa in the process.
After what seemed like an hour but was more likely only a minute, Claudia led her bridegroom across the foyer and into the living room. It was easy to see how this man could turn heads—and make sensible women do foolish things. He was tall, close to six feet, with sandy brown hair expertly styled and blow-dried and with just enough gray at the temples to give him a distinguished look. His tan screamed serious time spent in the sun. I placed him in his early fifties, younger than Claudia—no surprise.
Claudia smiled brightly and squeezed his hand. “Ladies, it gives me great pleasure to introduce my husband, Lance Ledeaux. Lance, these are the Bunco Babes, my best friends in the whole wide world.”
“Claudia, my dove, your description failed to do these fair ladies justice.”
Dove? Fair ladies? I wanted to stick my finger down my throat and make gagging noises.
Claudia proceeded to introduce each of us in turn. While I waited for the privilege, I gave myself a little pep talk. If Claudia had fallen head over heels for the guy, there had to be more to him than met the eye. I had to give Lance Ledeaux credit. He worked the room so well, he might’ve been running for public office. He greeted each of the Babes effusively, dispensing charm like candy on Halloween. I watched as the Babes seemed to succumb to his spell. Even Rita, the most levelheaded woman I know, was turning into a simpering female right before my very eyes. Was I the only one immune to polished good looks and smarmy charm?
Begrudgingly I gave the man points for his sense of style. He was a walking fashion plate in a three-button navy wool blazer over a blue-and-white-striped oxford shirt, open at the throat, and tan pleated chinos. Expensive-looking aviator sunglasses were hooked on to his breast pocket. Why, I had no idea. No one in their right mind needed sunglasses at this time of night. Yes, indeedy, Claudia’s jackpot could have posed for GQ. Not that my late husband, Jim, subscribed to that particular magazine, mind you. He was more the Sports Illustrated type.
“So,” Polly was saying in a conversational tone, “you ever meet Brad Pitt?”
Here I half expected her to ask him whether or not Lance Ledeaux was his real name, and instead she was grilling the dude about the celebrities he knew. I should have guessed Polly would go straight for the jugular.
After assuring Polly that Brad was every bit as handsome in person as he was on-screen and twice as nice, Lance turned toward me. “And you must be Kate, the brave detective. Claudia’s told me so much about you.”
Detective? Had the man actually called me a detective? Hmm . . . Maybe I was being hasty in my rush to judgment.
He took my hand and held it—a little too long.
Up close, his face was smooth and unlined, making me wonder just how much younger he was than Claudia. “Welcome to Serenity Cove Estates,” I said, gently extracting my hand from his grip. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”
“I’m certain I will be. In spite of being a small community, Serenity Cove Estates seems to have a lot to offer.”
He beamed down at me. His choppers were the dazzling white of toothpaste ads. In that instant, he did look vaguely familiar. Was he the actor I’d seen in denture commercials? Darn these senior moments!
“Someday soon,” he said, continuing to bestow upon me his mega-kilowatt smile, “maybe we can sit down, and you can tell me all about your, ah, let’s say your close encounter with a diabolical villain. It’s got the makings of a great screenplay.”
“A screenplay? Really?” I grimaced inwardly at hearing myself ask this in a breathy voice. Now who was simpering? My brain was turning into pudding.
“It’s got all the right elements, my dear Kate. Mystery, adventure, danger, and, of course, a lovely damsel in distress who saves the day.”
I nodded furiously in agreement. I was beginning to like Lance more and more each minute. No wonder Claudia was smitten.
Pam, in her role as hostess, brought Lance a glass of wine, which he accepted with alacrity. “Ladies, if you will, please have a seat. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Obediently as parochial school second-graders, we arranged ourselves on sofas and chairs about the living room. Lance remained standing.
He set his wineglass down on a nearby end table and rubbed his hands together. “I suspect Claudia mentioned I have a proposition for you.”
We nodded, twelve bobble-head dolls in the rear window of an old Chevy.
He let his smile slowly revolve around the room. “I’ve been working on a certain project for quite some time, and I think you ladies, the Babes, might be just the ones to help me pull it off.”
“Who? Us?”
The Bunco Babe chorus was worthy of American Idol. Are you listening, Simon Cowell?
Pull it off? I’m not quite sure I liked the way that sounded. Lance made it seem as if he were planning a bank heist and wanted our help in the caper. If so, I hoped Pam wouldn’t be assigned to drive the getaway car—unless the getaway car happened to be a golf cart. The dings and dents on her PT Cruiser speak for themselves. I, on the other hand, have been known to put the pedal to the metal and burn rubber. I’d be a much better choice for the driver of a getaway car. Not that I intended to rob a bank, of course, but I’m always up for an escapade.
I cleared my throat and asked tentatively, “Exactly what is it you have in mind?”
“I’ve written
a play, a murder mystery, and plan to produce it right here in Serenity Cove Estates. From everything Claudia’s told me about all of you, you’re just what I’ve been looking for. I see ‘star quality’ written across your faces. With your able assistance, my dear ladies, we can make this into a production residents here will never forget.”
Before we knew it, Lance was whipping out copies of his script, Forever, My Darling. “Let’s give this a quick run-through, shall we?” he said, smiling broadly.
By the time the evening ended, I think we were all suffering from shell shock. Claudia and, of course, Lance had the starring roles. Megan would play the ingénue. I was going to be Myrna, the housekeeper. Gloria had displayed a surprising knack for the theater and, to Monica’s chagrin, won the part of Lance’s secretary. The rest of the Babes had offered their services as well. Connie Sue would be responsible for hair and makeup—no big stretch for a former beauty queen and cosmetics rep. Polly practically foamed at the mouth for the chance to be in charge of costumes. Diane volunteered her expertise on publicity, and Tara said she’d work on programs. It was agreed that a couple minor parts could be cast later.
What next? I wondered as I closed the door on the last of my guests. Broadway?
Chapter 3
Great, first I was late, and now I was early. I staked out a corner table at the Cove Café and prepared to wait.
Vera MacGillicuddy, the Babes’ all-time favorite waitress, came over and poured me a cup of coffee. “You alone this morning?”
“No,” I said sourly. “I overslept. Pam is meeting me here after Tai Chi. Connie Sue and Monica will be along after land aerobics.”
Vera, being a wise woman, obviously sensed I needed caffeine more than conversation and wandered off. I took my first sip of Colombian dark and sighed in bliss. I could feel my mood begin to lighten already. Almost, that is . . .
It had been a week since Lance dropped his bombshell, aka proposition. For the life of me, I don’t know why I agreed to go along with his outlandish idea. I didn’t know beans about acting; yet I’d volunteered to play the part of the housekeeper, Myrna. What was I thinking? Had the time finally come to get my head examined?
I drank more coffee, then signaled for Vera to top off my cup. I happened to glance toward the door, half expecting to see my friends appear, but I saw someone even better—Bill Lewis.
As usual, my heart did a little tap dance inside my chest at the sight of my favorite handyman. He’d had that effect on me ever since the day he came to repair a broken ceiling fan. Maybe it was the tool belt; maybe it was the Paul Newman baby blues, but whatever it was sent my no-longer-dormant hormones into overdrive.
Bill spotted me at the same time and gave me that hesitant, shy smile of his.
I held my breath, hoping he’d join me. At one time this would have been a given; these days I wasn’t so sure. Pam used to insist Bill was sweet on me. But he’d changed. He’d recently returned to Serenity Cove Estates after nursing his brother, Bob, through a triple bypass and then staying on to see Bob through cardiac rehab. We hadn’t seen much of each other since he’d come home—at any rate, not nearly as much as I’d like. Our friendship/relationship seemed to have cooled during his absence—not on my part, but his. If I were a microwave, I’d set the dial to reheat.
I let out a pent-up sigh as he ambled toward my table. “Hey, Bill,” I said, smiling in spite of my misgivings. He had that kind of effect on me.
“Hey, yourself.” He tucked his hands into the pockets of his Windbreaker. “You managing to keep warm during this cold spell we’re having?”
It was hard to find a more neutral topic than the weather. Okay, I thought, two could play this game. We’d keep it light, keep it simple. “After all my years in Toledo,” I told him, “I can handle this kind of ‘cold.’ It’s hard to believe it’s actually winter with planters of flowers everywhere.”
Bill nodded. “My camellias are blooming like crazy.”
“The deer ate mine.”
“Those buggers eat anything and everything this time of year,” he commiserated. “Did you spray them with deer repellant like I suggested?”
“Oh, yeah.” I nodded. “Problem was, it was windy. I ended up with more spray on me than on the bushes. It took two showers before I could get rid of the smell. That stuff reeks to high heaven.”
“That’s why the deer stay away from the camellias.”
For the first time, I noticed a man dressed in rumpled khakis and a faded brown sweatshirt hovering near the entrance. When he saw me look his way, he ducked his head. Bill followed the direction of my glance and motioned the man over.
“A friend of yours?”
Bill made the introductions. “Kate, this is Gus Smith. He’s new to Serenity Cove Estates.”
“How do you do,” Gus mumbled, extending his hand but avoiding eye contact.
Knowing the Babes would want a full report on any newcomer, I gave Gus the once-over. He was average height and a little lumpy around the middle, like many men his age, which I took to be sixty-something. His hair was mostly gray, mostly gone, also like many his age. Except for a prominent nose, his features were unremarkable. He’d blend perfectly into the male population of any retirement community in the country.
“Nice to meet you, Gus.” Odd guy, I thought, but any friend of Bill’s was a friend of mine. “What brings you to Serenity Cove?”
He shrugged. “I, ah, moved down here from a small town in northern Michigan. Got tired of all the snow.”
“Gus owned a place up near where I used to hunt,” Bill explained.
Bill’s originally from Michigan, too—Battle Creek to be precise; cereal capital of the world. I remember his pinpointing the exact spot using the palm of his hand, a neat trick if you’re from a state shaped like a mitten. Not so easy for those of us from Ohio, much less for those who happen to hail from New Jersey. But whether from Michigan or Ohio, Bill and I were both transplanted midwesterners. After my husband, Jim, died of a massive coronary, I decided to remain in the “active” adult retirement community we had fallen in love with. I’ve never regretted the decision.
“He’s temporarily leasing a small house with an option to buy,” Bill continued since Gus was apparently a man of few words. “It’s just down the street from me. The owners moved back to Pennsylvania to be closer to their kids. The place comes fully furnished but could use some updating.”
“I heard about the woodworking club, the Woodchucks,” Gus volunteered reluctantly. “Thought I could pick up a few pointers.” He dipped his head toward Bill. “That’s where we met. Bill offered to show me around. Introduce me to some folks.”
“Gus fits right in.” Bill slapped his new friend on the shoulder. “Soon as I told him about this play we’re putting on, he offered to take charge of lighting and sound. Didn’t even have to twist his arm.”
Another falls prey to Lance’s grandiose scheme. The more the merrier? Or should it be “Misery loves company”?
“Well, we gotta run,” Bill said. “I’m giving Gus the grand tour. Next stop, the rec center.”
“I hope you’ll be happy here, Gus,” I said, infusing my voice with Welcome Wagon sincerity. “Serenity Cove’s a great place to live.”
“Yeah, thanks.” Gus smiled for the first time, revealing a pronounced gap between yellowing front teeth. “It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for.”
Gee, where had I heard words to that effect? Lance maybe?
After breakfast with the girls, I ran into town to stock up on groceries. Since I was there already, I asked the store manager if he had any empty boxes to spare. It turned out I was in luck. The manager instructed me to drive around back and help myself.
All week long, when I wasn’t memorizing my lines, I’d been cleaning out closets. I wanted to give myself a pat on the back. It was a New Year’s resolution I’d actually kept. Every year, it seems, I make the same three resolutions: lose weight, exercise more, and clean out the closets. This year
I was determined to make good on at least one of them. Closets looked the most promising. Now the clothes needed to be packed up and donated to Goodwill.
In spite of the hundreds of times I’d shopped at Piggly Wiggly, I’d never had reason to visit the loading dock. Produce department, frozen foods, canned goods aisle, yes, but not the loading dock. I drove around the rear of the store and spied a bonanza of boxes practically calling my name.
The sight of all those empty boxes set my pulse thrumming. Lofty plans to revamp every single closet in my home danced in my head. Every useless object, every trace of clutter, would somehow magically disappear. A little elbow grease and I’d be able to find everything I owned without the aid of a GPS. Voilà! I’d be organized.
I backed the Buick alongside the loading dock, jumped out of the car, and proceeded to fill my trunk. I confess I may have gotten a little carried away at the prospect of all those cardboard boxes; I could barely fit them into the trunk. I was about to drive off with my newly acquired bounty, when I spotted something unusual.
There, partially concealed behind a giant green Dumpster, was Lance Ledeaux’s ’69 Camaro. Normally I can’t tell one car from another; four tires and a steering wheel, and they all start to look alike. Once I even lost my Buick at the mall, but that’s another story. Lance’s Camaro, however, was an exception. Only a blind person could miss his car. I may wear trifocals, but I’m not blind, I assure you.
I’d commented only a few days ago that it was the same red-orange as in a box of Crayola crayons. Lance quickly informed me the correct term for the car’s original paint color was Hugger Orange. Lance then proceeded to get a little hot under his Brooks Brothers collar when he heard me refer to his car as “old.” He wasted no time setting me straight. It wasn’t “old,” he said. It was a “classic.” Well, la-di-da! I’d said, but not out loud. Old, orange cars seemed a touchy subject.