by Gail Oust
“But not white chocolate or milk chocolate; only dark chocolate,” Monica repeated, kind enough to remind us lest we were woolgathering and failed to hear her the first time.
Monica once worked as the office manager for an internal medicine group. Even though Janine is a card-carrying registered nurse, Monica fancies herself the last word on anything—and everything—medical. Unless it’s a glaring case of misinformation, Janine, being a kind and gracious soul, humors her.
“A chocolate a day keeps the doctor away,” Polly cheerfully misquoted. Reaching into the candy dish, she withdrew a small handful.
“Well, maybe one for medicinal purposes,” Connie Sue said with a grin. An expression of pure bliss settled over her face as she savored the rich chocolate.
Taking my cue from Connie Sue, I offered the candy dish to Claudia. “Here, honey, take a couple. They’ll make you feel better.”
“Kate’s right, you know,” Monica said, jumping in, eager to impart another morsel of wisdom. She shoved a strand of brown hair behind one ear. “Chocolate—dark chocolate, that is—releases endorphins in the brain. That’s why it lifts a person’s mood.”
“Bring on the chocolate. I sure could use my spirits lifted.” Claudia’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Bad enough Lance is dead, but the sheriff’s acting as if I killed him on purpose.”
Hearing her say that, I made up a new rule right then and there. “Anyone who so much as mentions Sheriff Wiggins gets a whopping fifty points taken off their score. Ladies,” I said in my best NASCAR imitation, “start your engines. Let’s play bunco!”
Everyone scrambled to find a place at one of the three tables. I took a seat opposite Claudia at the kitchen table, which, by the way, I appointed head table. Claudia had remembered to bring the tiara she had won the last time the Babes gathered for bunco. Also at our table were Monica, who eyed the tiara with blatant envy, and Tara. Before ringing the bell to signal the start of the round, I refilled Claudia’s glass. She might have a headache in the morning, but I was going to guarantee her a good night’s sleep.
We rolled ones. It wasn’t long before the whiskey sours kicked in and made their contribution to our little party. Amid much giggling and laughter, we rolled twos, threes, fours, and fives. We outdid ourselves with jokes, witty repartee, and humorous anecdotes. We were ready for a spot on cable TV’s Comedy Central.
Polly’s face crinkled in confusion. “What are we rolling?”
“Pay attention, Mother, or I’m cutting off the booze,” Gloria chided. Mother and daughter had found themselves partners in the final round of the first set. “Sixes. We’re on sixes.”
“Hmph!” Polly sniffed. “I knew that. Just checking to see if you were paying attention.”
Gloria wagged her head, a martyred expression on her face. “I suppose you’re aware you just rolled a baby bunco.”
“I did?” Polly stared in amazement at the trio of deuces she’d just thrown. “I mean I did. Good for me, another five points.”
“Bunco!” Pam sang out.
Monica grinned like the Cheshire cat in heat. I’d have to be blind not to see she planned on taking the tiara home. The woman made no bones about her coveting the rhinestone-encrusted band. I’d be surprised if she didn’t wear it to church.
Claudia and I advanced to table two. I paused long enough to top off her glass.
“Shame on you, Kate. You’re going to make me tipsy.”
“What’re friends for? Besides”—I winked—“you have a designated driver tonight—Monica.” Monica was a teetotaler except in times of severe stress. Then she ordered bourbon—straight up.
The second set began amid a lot of good-natured bantering. We began shaking and tossing dice with more enthusiasm than finesse. This time Rita was my partner, with Claudia and Connie Sue completing the foursome. The dice made their way around the table with none of us having much luck. Ones seemed to have fallen off the planet.
“All right,” Claudia announced. “Enough of this. Let’s see if I remember any of the techniques I saw high rollers use in Vegas.” Cupping the dice in both her hands, she rattled them, blew on them for luck, then let them fly. Behold, a baby bunco appeared.
“You go, girlfriend,” Connie Sue said, cheering on her partner.
Rita and I glumly watched Claudia’s winning streak. “Never been to Vegas,” I mumbled. “Maybe I should go, learn a trick or two.”
“You oughta.” Claudia’s run of luck over, she passed the dice to me. “Vegas is a happening place. Morning, noon, or night, walk into any of the casinos and you’ll hear the jingle of slot machines. It’s music to the ears.”
“Jack talked about going there for our twenty-fifth,” Pam commented from her spot at the head table. “Neither of us are gamblers, but I’d like to see what all the fuss is about. Maybe take in a couple shows.”
“Let my example serve as a warning,” Claudia told her. “Don’t bring anything home with you. Marrying Lance Ledeaux was the biggest mistake of my life. If I never hear the name Vegas again, it’ll be too soon. Think Vegas and I think Lance. Don’t know what came over me.”
Connie Sue reached across and patted Claudia’s hand. “There, there, sugar. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re not the first woman to fall for a pretty face. And you won’t be the last.”
“He was one handsome dude, all right,” Polly chimed from an adjacent table.
Claudia’s expression clouded. For a moment, I thought she was about to cry, but to my surprise she burst into laughter instead. The Babes and I looked at her worriedly, all of us probably wondering if she was about to have a meltdown.
“Yeah,” Claudia said, regaining control, “he was good-looking, all right, but should’ve been after all the time and effort he put into it.”
“He was tall,” Polly said. “I prefer my men tall. Lance must’ve been at least six feet.”
Claudia rolled a single one, then slid the dice to Rita. “Actually, Lance was only five feet ten. He wore lifts in his shoes.”
“Oh,” Polly murmured, obviously disappointed. “We rolling ones or twos?”
I recognized Gloria’s sigh. “Ones, Mother. We’re still rolling ones.”
Monica scowled at Megan when she failed to score. “Well, Lance certainly had a youthful appearance. Claudia, you know I’d never say anything to hurt your feelings, but he looked years younger than you.”
I cast a worried glance at Claudia. The rest of the Babes and I had been trying valiantly to raise Claudia’s spirits. Then along comes Monica, who practically accuses her of robbing the cradle. But instead of upset, Claudia looked almost . . . amused.
“Lance claimed he was fifty-four, but I recently found out he was sixty.” Claudia rolled a satisfying series of ones. “He confessed he’d had some cosmetic surgery done a couple years ago.”
“He must’ve taken after Ronald Reagan,” Polly commented.
“How’s that?” Claudia asked absently.
“Except for the temples, Lance didn’t have a single gray hair on his head. I know ’cause I notice these things.”
Her run of luck over, Claudia surrendered the dice and helped herself to a chocolate. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Polly, but he colored it.”
“No, you don’t say.”
Claudia nodded. “Shortly after we were married, I found an empty box of Clairol for Men in the wastebasket.”
Connie Sue’s luck picked up where Claudia’s left off. “I always admired Lance’s California tan. Not even Brad Murphy, our golf pro, has one to compare.”
I wondered if this round would ever end. It seemed to go on, and on, and on. How long would it take for those at the head table to rack up twenty-one points? At this rate, we’d be here ’til midnight. In the meantime, the Babes were dissecting a poor dead guy more thoroughly than the coroner.
“Lance’s California tan?” Claudia hooted. “The man was deathly afraid to go out in the sun.”
Janine’s nursing background came to th
e fore. “Worried about skin cancer?”
“Uh-uh.” Claudia’s picked up the dice and let them fly. “More like worried about wrinkles. Lance bought his tan in a can.”
“Don’t that beat all.” Polly shook her dead sadly. “Fake tan, dyed hair, and lifts in his shoes. Tell me, Claudia, Lance Ledeaux, that his real name or as phony as the rest of him?”
“Bunco!” Monica shouted, and I breathed a sigh of relief that the round finally ended.
The clanging of the bunco bell almost drowned out the sound of another bell—the doorbell. Almost . . . but not quite.
Chapter 18
“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I called as I hurried to answer the door.
The doorbell pealed repeatedly, each ring more insistent than the one before.
I saw the flash of red and blue through the sidelights even before I opened the door. My heartbeat revved into overdrive. Police? Fire? EMS? Had our bunco game grown so hot and steamy it set the house ablaze?
I found Sheriff Wiggins on my doorstep. A quick glance at his face and I knew this wasn’t a social call. He wasn’t dropping by to beg for more lemon bars. He looked official with a capital O. My guilty conscience kicked in. Was I about to be arrested for sins of omission?
“Sheriff . . . ?” I tried to keep the nervous wobble out of my voice, but don’t think I succeeded. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve been informed Miz Ledeaux is here.”
I peeked around him, no easy task with a man the size of a moon crater, and saw he’d brought reinforcements. Deputy Preston stared straight ahead and didn’t meet my gaze. I spotted a second deputy, one I’d seen during a previous encounter with law enforcement. Sad to say, I didn’t know the man’s name—or whether he could be bribed with baked goods.
I fidgeted with the pendant I was wearing. “We’re right in the middle of bunco. Couldn’t this wait?”
“’Fraid not, ma’am. I have a warrant for her arrest.”
I gaped at him. “Surely this is a mistake. Claudia wouldn’t hurt a soul. She’s the epitome of kindness. Lance’s death was a horrible mistake.”
“Step aside, Miz McCall, and let us be about our business.” Strange that such a beautiful baritone could suddenly hit the wrong note.
While the fingers of my left hand twisted the slender silver chain at my neck, my right hand clutched the door handle until the knuckles gleamed white. “Lance and Claudia were newlyweds. What reason would she have to kill him?”
True, the cad was going through her money like water, but she’d have found a way to stop that without resorting to violence. Had the sheriff found out about Lance’s spending? The Super Bowl bet? The Jaguar?
“Miz McCall,” he drawled, “unless you want to be charged with—”
“Obstruction of justice?”
He frowned so deeply his brows pulled together in a unibrow over the bridge of his nose. “I was about to say harborin’ a fugitive. Now kindly step aside.”
I think he just made up the harboring a fugitive part, but he didn’t look in the mood for a friendly debate. Wordlessly, I did as he asked and allowed him and his men to enter.
Reluctantly I led the sheriff and his deputies through the foyer. The sheriff stopped so abruptly on the threshold of the great room that I was surprised he didn’t leave skid marks on my tile. Preston and his fellow officer did likewise, their hands automatically resting on their holstered weapons.
The sound of a male voice, or maybe the fact I hadn’t yet returned, had drawn the attention of the rest of the Babes. Alarmed, they stared at the sheriff and his men in morbid fascination.
The sheriff’s cold-eyed stare zeroed in on the dice. “What’s goin’ on heah?”
I let out an impatient huff. “I told you—we’re in the middle of bunco.”
The man had a nasty habit of ignoring my explanations. Months ago I thought I’d made it clear that bunco was nothing more than a harmless dice game. Apparently he’d stuffed that bit of information into a file labeled Ramblings of an Old Woman.
“Well, well, did we interrupt some kind of illegal gamblin’ operation?”
“Illegal gambling?” Monica gasped, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Men,” he ordered his deputies, “have yourselves a good look around. If you see any traces of unlawful gamin’ and bettin’, collect the evidence.”
“Here,” Polly said, offering Deputy Preston a trio of dice. “You want ’em, take ’em. Not having much luck tonight anyway.”
Preston ignored Polly’s outstretched hand. “Don’t see any money, Sheriff.”
I resented this invasion of my home and didn’t care if my irritation showed. “Is this a raid, Sheriff?”
“Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant?” Diane spoke up.
“Diane’s right, you know,” Pam said, jumping into the fray. “We’re not stupid; we watch TV.”
Our indignation must’ve been contagious, because one by one the Babes rose to their feet, arms folded across their chests, no longer intimidated but outraged.
“What next?” Janine asked. “Arrest schoolkids for playing Monopoly during spring break?”
Tara nodded in total agreement. “What about Yahtzee?”
“Yahtzee’s played with dice. Does that make it illegal?”
I stared in surprise to see sweet little Megan with her chin jutting defiantly. The child had definitely had her feathers ruffled.
“And then there’s dominoes,” Rita pointed out reasonably. “Are they going to be outlawed, too?”
The sheriff’s jaw hardened until I could see the muscle jump and twitch. He was clearly outnumbered—and outmaneuvered by twelve angry women. “I didn’t come tonight to interfere with your . . . recreation. I’ll take your word that no money changes hands. That this is no high-stakes game.”
“The winner gets a tiara,” Polly volunteered. “That considered ‘high stakes’?”
Polly sounded innocent, guileless. Had it been me, I might’ve been tempted to inject a liberal dose of sarcasm into the question.
Sheriff Wiggins’s laser-sharp eyes swept over each of us in turn before settling on Claudia. “Miz Ledeaux, you’ll have to come with us. I’m placin’ you under arrest for the murder of your husband, Mr. Lance Ledeaux.”
All eyes turned to Claudia. She looked white-faced and terrified.
“Preston, please escort Miz Ledeaux to the patrol car.”
Preston stepped forward and took Claudia by the arm. Claudia wasn’t about to go softly into that good night. She dug her heels into the Berber carpet and tried to jerk free. “I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t murder Lance.”
“Ma’am,” Preston said, his voice low but firm, “if you don’t come quietly, the sheriff’s going to have me put you in handcuffs. You don’t want that, do you, in front of all your nice lady friends?”
Claudia’s gaze darted around frantically until she found me. “Kate,” she pleaded, “call Badgeley. Tell him what’s happened.”
Needless to say, bunco ended early. Seeing Claudia hauled off in the sheriff’s cruiser had a sobering effect on the Babes that not even a pitcher of whiskey sours could dispel. Fortunately, I was able to reach Badgeley Jack at home. He assured me he’d go at once to the sheriff’s office. He told me to get a good night’s rest—fat chance!—and call him in the morning for an update. I’d decided to go one better. I’d be waiting on the doorstep when his office opened.
Surprisingly, Krystal managed to sleep through the entire bunco game and ensuing brouhaha. I envied her. That kind of ability almost made me wish I were pregnant. Notice the word almost.
• • •
After driving Krystal to work at the Koffee Kup the next morning, I bided my time over coffee and a blueberry muffin. There was no sense driving all the way home, just to turn around again. Besides, muffins were a nice change from my usual bagel and cream cheese routine.
While savoring my second cup of coffee, I made a mental note to call Bill and have him pu
t a bug in his friend’s ear. Krystal needed her car—and sooner rather than later. The problem was she had no money. In a moment of uncontrollable generosity, I’d offered to pay for the repairs. I used to lend money, but no more. I’ve found loaning money is the best way of destroying a friendship or blighting a relationship. Now I donate money, no strings attached. If I get paid back, great. If not, so be it.
A glance at my watch told me it was nine o’clock and time to leave. I left Krystal, who’d waited on me, a hefty tip. Maybe she’d use her tip money to repay me. Maybe pigs will fly.
Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s office was located three blocks down, across from the courthouse. The cornerstone of the two-story brick building bore the date 1887. His name was neatly stenciled on the door in gold letters. While the exterior may have been unimpressive, the same didn’t hold true for the interior. The minute I stepped foot inside, I felt as though I were in a Victorian parlor. A settee in ruby red velvet and several overstuffed chairs were grouped near a fireplace with a hand-painted tile surround. A gigantic Boston fern occupied the space usually reserved for logs. An Oriental rug in tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald covered the hardwood floor. I don’t know much about antiques, but I’d wager the elaborately carved mahogany end tables were genuine and not reproductions. Bad Jack, it seemed, was a man with expensive tastes.
A woman with lots and lots of yellow hair piled high and sprayed within an inch of its life sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. The large flat-screen computer monitor was the only modern concession.
She turned to greet me, her round face wreathed in a friendly smile. “Mornin’. How y’all doin’?”
“Mornin’,” I returned, unintentionally imitating her lazy drawl.
“Name’s Aleatha Higginbotham. I’m BJ’s personal assistant,” she said with an irrepressible giggle. “Sounds much fancier that way than sayin’ I’m his secretary, don’t it now?”
I found myself instinctively warming to the woman. Ms. Higginbotham looked as soft and fluffy as one of those body pillows I’d seen on sale at Target—and just as comfy. She seemed to favor bright, splashy colors—pinks, purples, and reds—if her present outfit was any indication. Some might call her flowered polyester blouse gaudy, but I thought it suited her just fine.