by Gail Oust
“It . . . ?” Strange way to think of a body part. Strange, but safe. Impersonal. Since I couldn’t readily come up with a better euphemism for a severed arm, I just shrugged. “Guess we’ll just have to keep our eyes peeled to see who’s walking around lopsided.”
“Kate!” Monica stared at me, aghast. “How can you be so . . . glib . . . at a time like this?”
“Times like this, one needs to be objective. I keep asking myself, what would Gil Grissom do?”
“Don’t think I know him.” Monica patted her face dry with the hem of her golf shirt. “Does he live here in Serenity?”
Monica doesn’t watch much TV. She reads. Not just fiction, mind you, but literature, the esoteric type. She’d deny under oath that she ever picked up a book by James Pat terson or Nora Roberts. Mention Danielle Steel, and she’d have palpitations.
I felt the absurd impulse to giggle. “No,” I replied, trying to keep my lips from twitching. “Gil is from Vegas.”
“Oh,” she murmured, tucking her shirttail back into her microfiber shorts.
Someday I’ll inform her that Gil Grissom used to be the main character in CSI, my very favorite TV show, but that could wait. I wasn’t in the mood for explanations.
I peered at my reflection in the mirror. My reflection peered back. I noticed the roots of my short, Lady Clairol ash blond locks were in need of a touch-up. Behind rimless glasses, my sage green eyes, which I usually consider my best feature, had lost their sparkle. Guess finding an arm in a Wal-Mart bag can do that.
I jabbed the button of the automatic hand dryer. Hot air burst out with enough gusto to make the skin on my hands ripple. Another sign of aging, I thought glumly. Everything either ripples, sags, or wrinkles. I’m not usually this pessimistic. In fact, as a rule I don’t mind getting older—as long as I don’t look it or feel it. Go figure how that makes sense. However, finding an unattached body part was having an adverse effect on my sense of optimism.
“Guess we ought to get out there,” I said, giving my hair a final fluff. “The authorities should be here by now. They’ll want us to describe what we found.”
Monica clutched her stomach, her face again that moldy olive green. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Head between your knees.” Placing my hand firmly on Monica’s dark brown head, I gave it a nudge. Who would have guessed Monica of all people would suffer from a queasy stomach? Never hesitant to voice her opinion, confident in a way I often envied, Monica always seemed the strongest of our little tribe. “Take a deep breath,” I ordered.
“OK, OK,” she said at last, her voice shaky.
“Showtime,” I said with false cheeriness, and shoved open the door of the restroom. One glance and I was tempted to turn tail and sequester myself in one of the stalls. Maybe even spend the night there until things settled down.
Monica grabbed my arm. “Oh, my God,” she whispered. “This place is a circus.”
News travels fast here in Serenity. Never let it be said that the residents turned down an excuse to party. Serenity Cove Estates, you see, is a community of “active” adults—very active, indeed, when it comes to socializing. Of course, some whisper, the little blue pill does its share in keeping the activity alive and well—if you catch my drift. Folks here don’t put off until tomorrow what they could do today. After all, one day you can be out on the course, the next, slip on a banana peel and end up awaiting a hip replacement.
The clubhouse grill, better known as the Watering Hole, strained at the seams to contain the multitude gathered to hear all the gory details. People lined the bar three-deep while the bartender along with one of the waitresses valiantly struggled to keep up with drink orders.
“Kate.” Pam waved at us from across the room. “Over here.”
Too late to turn back now. With Monica attached like a suction cup, I plowed through the crowd. I couldn’t help but notice the jerk from the eighth hole along with his buddy holding court in the center of the room. Their names came back to me. Mort Thorndike and Bernie Mason. Like many my age, I occasionally suffer temporary memory lapses. But not to worry, I’m told. Senior moments, nothing serious. Everyone in Serenity has them. It’s a downright epidemic.
“Yessir, we had our hands full dealing with a bunch of hysterical females back there,” Mort, jerk number one, said to everyone within hearing distance.
“You got that right.” Bernie, jerk number two, nodded his agreement. “Ladies looked like they would faint dead away any second, weren’t for us.”
Pompous fools! They remind me of that pair from Sesame Street, what’s-his-name and what’s-his-name. Mort, short and paunchy, and Bernie, his trusty sidekick, a string bean with a bad comb-over, were holding glasses of beer and obviously enjoying the limelight. Hysterical females, indeed! I wanted to set them straight right then and there, but bit my tongue. Time enough for that later.
Pam and Connie Sue were seated at a corner table. Someone had been thoughtful enough to provide each of them with a glass of wine. I could use one myself about now, but I didn’t want to take a Breathalyzer before speaking with the authorities.
“Here, sit.” Gloria Myers hastily vacated her seat at the table when she spied us. Janine Russell did the same. Nice ladies, Janine and Gloria. Both are fellow Bunco Babes as well as good friends. I first met them in a ceramics class, where I immediately became the poster child for uneven brushstrokes. Someday I’d return and finish the cookie jar I started months ago. No rush. Besides, everyone knows how fattening cookies are, and cookies are my weakness. Right up there next to chocolate. I blame them for the ten extra pounds I could stand to lose.
“You poor things,” Janine clucked. “How awful.” Janine, who could pass as actress Jamie Lee Curtis’s stand-in with her short, chic silver hairstyle and slim figure, was a former nurse and the nurturer of our little tribe of bunco gamesters.
“Can we get you something?” Gloria asked. “Water, iced tea, maybe a nice glass of wine?” The bracelets on Gloria’s wrist jangled as she motioned in the direction of the bar. Jewelry was Gloria’s one—and only—concession to fashion. Shoulder-length salt-and-pepper hair, brown eyes, square jaw, minimal makeup. No muss, no fuss—that was Gloria. Her mother, Polly, was another matter entirely.
“Bourbon, straight up.”
My eyebrows soared in surprise. This from Monica, a teetotaler?
“Good girl.” Connie Sue patted Monica’s hand. “Meemaw used to say nothing like a swig of bourbon for what ails you.” I learned early on in our acquaintance that in Southern-speak meemaw translated means grandmother. Connie Sue is the only dyed-in-the-wool Southerner in the Bunco Babes. It never ceases to amaze me that after thirty-some years in Milwaukee, Connie Sue hasn’t lost her accent.
I settled for my usual—iced tea, unsweetened, with lemon. Don’t know how anyone can drink sweet tea, the beverage of choice here in the South. Ask me, it tastes like maple syrup straight off the shelf at the Piggly Wiggly. Iced tea is only one of many differences I’ve discovered between Ohio and South Carolina.
After Jim died, the kids thought I should return to Ohio, but for me, there’s no going back. Don’t get me wrong. Personally, I have nothing against Ohio. In fact, Toledo holds many fond memories, but Serenity Cove Estates is where I want to stay. It was love at first sight when Jim and I first saw the place with its pretty lake, loblolly pines, and magnolias the size of dinner plates. Next day we signed on the dotted line.
My reverie stopped when a hush fell over the crowd. All eyes turned toward the door. A man stood framed in the entrance, six feet, two inches, two hundred twenty pounds of pure muscle. His beige uniform was crisp and spotless, the creases in his pants sharp enough to slice cheese. He wore a shiny black holster on his hip and sported a shiny gold badge on his chest. His skin was the color of Starbucks Breakfast Blend.
“All right, folks, listen up.” His deep voice, rich as molasses, bespoke a lifetime spent in the South. “I’m Sumter Wiggins, sheriff of this here county
. Would the ladies who found the . . .” He paused. Clearing his throat, he started over. “Would the ladies who found . . . it . . . kindly step forward.”
I guess “it” was the euphemism of choice. Monica gulped down her bourbon. Connie Sue and Pam did likewise with their wine. Was I the only one worried about a Breathalyzer? Heads turned our way, and everyone watched as we slowly rose to our feet.
Sheriff Sumter Wiggins herded us down a short hallway and into the manager’s cramped office. After ordering one of the staff to bring in a couple more chairs, he closed the door on the gawkers lining the hall. No one wanted to be last to know what was going on. Can’t say I blame them. I’m the curious sort myself.
A couple men brought in folding chairs along with a lot of clanging and scraping. Once they left, closing the door behind them, we, the four amigos, sat perched on the edge of our seats like sparrows on a clothesline.
Sheriff Wiggins lowered himself onto the edge of the desk, arms folded across an impressive chest. “From what I’ve heard, ladies, y’all have had yourselves an interestin’—lackin’ a better word—round of golf.”
None of us said a word. Not a single word. What was this world coming to?
The sheriff scowled down at us. “Ladies, no one is ac cusin’ you of anythin’. I just need to ask y’all if anyone noticed anythin’ out of the ordinary while you were on the course this afternoon?”
“You mean in addition to finding . . .” I caught myself just in time. If everyone was using euphemisms, I certainly wasn’t going to swim against the tide. I rephrased my question. “You mean in addition to finding it?”
The sheriff’s scowl deepened. In a good-cop, bad-cop scenario, my money would ride on him as bad cop. Sumter Wiggins didn’t look the sort to tolerate fools or put up with nonsense. And he didn’t seem the sort to call a dismembered arm by anything other than what it was—a dismembered arm.
“Let’s try this again,” he said. “One by one just tell me in your own words what happened this afternoon.”
Our stories were all pretty much the same except for Monica’s—she left out the part about my ruining her chances to par the eighth hole. Shows the state of shock she was in. In her usual frame of mind, she would have put that tidbit in the Serenity Sentinel, our weekly newsletter.
The sheriff listened, occasionally pausing to scribble something in his little black book. I was pleased to note that this was just how it was done on Law & Order. When we finished, he snapped the notebook shut and shoved it into his shirt pocket. “Don’t suppose y’all might have a clue who . . . it . . . might belong to?”
Again, silence as thick as Jell-O.
“Anythin’ else y’all want to tell me before I let you go?” Wiggins drawled, giving us a cold-eyed once-over.
Suddenly I was back in the second-grade classroom of Sister “Hail Mary.” My hand shot up of its own volition. “Sheriff . . . ?”
“Ma’am?”
Curiosity overcame temerity. “Can you really get fingerprints off a corpse?” Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Monica’s face turning that odd shade of green.
“Kate,” Pam protested feebly, but I knew she’d like to hear the answer, too. Both of us watched CSI, as well as the spin-offs, religiously every week.
“Really, Kate . . .” It was Connie Sue’s turn to register an objection.
To his credit, Sheriff Wiggins didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, ma’am, it’s true that you can get fingerprints off a corpse,” he said in that smooth-as-molasses voice of his, “but only when there are fingers attached to the limb. Seems like wild animals made the discovery before you ladies did.”
Before I could shove her head down a second time, Monica passed out cold.
Chapter 3
In all the excitement, I had almost forgotten tonight was my turn to hostess our bimonthly bunco get-together. Adrenaline gushed through me like a burst from a fire hose. I raced around the house like a lunatic. I should never have let Pam talk me into a round of golf. In an hour, eleven ladies would descend, filling my house with chatter, laughter, and . . . questions. Lordy, they were sure to have questions galore about what the four of us had found on the golf course.
I stopped running around long enough to answer the phone. It was Monica.
“I’ve been thinking. Maybe you should find a sub for me. My stomach’s still a little queasy.”
I grasped the receiver tighter. “Monica, you can’t do this to me. How am I supposed to find a sub at the last minute? We—I—need you.”
“Well, I don’t know. . . .”
“C’mon, Monica,” I cajoled. “Just put on your big-girl panties and deal with it.” I confess I’m not exactly sure what this means. I saw the slogan on a T-shirt once and for some reason it stuck in my head. All this time, I’ve been waiting for just the right moment to use it.
“OK,” Monica agreed, albeit reluctantly. “See you in a bit.”
“Great.”
After hanging up the phone, I dragged the card table and folding chairs from the hall closet and set them up in the great room. The card table along with two other tables, one in the kitchen, one in the dining room, usually worked well for bunco. Twelve players, three tables of four. Next I placed three dice on each table along with score sheets and pencils. Since the kitchen table would be the designated head table, I put the bell Pam had once found at a garage sale in the center.
I stood back to take inventory. Something was missing. Something . . . From out of nowhere, panic attacked me. Snacks! I had completely forgotten about snacks. Bunco Babes can’t survive without their munchies. I’d be kicked out of the group if I let that happen. I wondered whether I should hyperventilate, but decided there wasn’t time.
Early on, the Babes and I—except for a couple who fancy themselves Martha Stewart—voted to keep it simple and just do snacks. I glanced at my wristwatch. It was too late for the crab spread that, before the hullabaloo, I had planned to whip up after golf. What to do? What to do?
Praying for inspiration, hoping for a miracle, I began rummaging through the kitchen cupboards. I found a can of chili sans beans nearly hidden on a shelf behind the soup. A survey of the refrigerator yielded a block of cream cheese perfectly intact without a hint of mold. An unopened bag of tortilla chips completed the bonanza. Voilà! Add a dash of hot sauce, and chili dip, my old standby, would be ready in a jiff.
Next I poured my stash of peanut M&M’s and Her shey’s Kisses into dice-shaped candy dishes and placed them on the individual tables. Now came the hard part. Usually I offer wine—both red and white, since I don’t discriminate—as well as soft drinks to my guests. But tonight called for something special. Something a tad stronger. It had been a day to end all days. This in mind, I hauled out the blender and the margarita mix.
And not a minute too soon. The ladies arrived right on time. From the way they carried on, you’d think no one had seen one another in years. Let me tell you a little about ourselves. The Bunco Babes are a diverse group, ranging from blond and bubbly Megan, Pam’s youngest, who at twenty is living with her parents while taking online college courses and figuring out what to do with the rest of her life, to Polly, our septuagenarian. Polly lives with her daughter, Gloria, whom I’ve already mentioned, in her own specially designed mother-in-law suite. Tara is our other “youngster.” Tara is staying with her in-laws, Rita and Dave Larsen, until her husband, Mark, returns from Iraq. Rita suggested Tara as a replacement for one of our original members who decided to abandon Serenity Cove for a yacht in the Bahamas. Imagine! Like I said, we’re a diverse bunch.
A frosty pitcher of margaritas and plenty of chocolate. Can’t ask for a better combination, to my way of thinking. Judging by their response, the rest of the Bunco Babes seemed to think so, too. My spicy chili dip seemed to be a hit with the Martha Stewart crowd. After everyone had munched their fill and had drinks in hand, we took our seats around the tables.
Pam, tiara perched proudly atop her short reddish blond hair, rang the be
ll at the head table, signaling the game was about to begin.
Mind you, rules of bunco vary from group to group. Some rules might date back to your grandmother’s time, others from the days you were changing diapers back in Toledo. One thing never changes, and that’s no previous experience required. Just shake, rattle, and toss those dice.
For the uninitiated, there are six rounds in each set of bunco. The Babes and I play six complete sets before calling it a night. In each round, players try to roll the same number as the round. For instance, in round one, players attempt to roll ones; in round two, players attempt to roll twos, and so on and so forth, if you get my drift. One point is awarded for each “target” number rolled successfully. A player continues to roll as long as she scores one or more points. The round ends when someone at the head table, which controls play, reaches a total of twenty-one points and calls out, “Bunco!”
At first, all of us, by some unspoken agreement, tried to act as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired that day. We were, after all, adults. Mature, sensible adults who strove to maintain a certain sense of decorum. We rolled a round of ones, then a round of twos, but by the time we started rolling threes, the margaritas kicked in.
“So, who do you think . . . it . . . belongs to?” It shouldn’t have surprised me that Polly was the first to broach the heretofore unmentioned subject. Polly likes to remind anyone who will listen that at her age she has earned the right to say and do as she pleases. And she does.
“Mother, really,” Gloria protested.
Polly proceeded to roll a series of threes. “Well . . . ?”
I had to hand it to her. Polly was persistent.
Next to me, Megan rolled three fives. “Baby bunco,” she called out, and kept tossing the dice. Megan has an uncanny knack for winning the prize for the most baby buncos. Unfortunately she never seems to roll them when I’m her partner. “Baby buncos,” by the way, occur whenever a player rolls three of a kind of any number except the target number, and count for five points. A bunco, on the other hand, occurs when someone rolls the three target numbers, and scores a whopping twenty-one points.
