Murder is Dicey

by Gail Oust

  “No hurry. I’ve got all night.”

  The instant the words were out, I wished them back. The poor woman looked dead on her feet. “Sorry. How insensitive of me. You probably can’t wait to lock up for the night.”

  “Take your time. Customers or not, management insists we stay open till nine.” She slowly made her way back toward the kitchen with a tray of dirty dishes.

  I took a sip of coffee and decided to take advantage of the situation. This would be the perfect opportunity for an impromptu investigation. I’d rest easier tonight knowing Vera was somewhere enjoying herself.

  “Looks like it’s been a long day,” I said when Beverly returned with my meat loaf.

  “You can say that again. I pulled a double.”

  I looked at Beverly more closely. She appeared to be in her mid-fifties with a liberal amount of gray mixed in with the brown strands. The smudges under her eyes were too dark to be hidden by concealer. I’d bet she’d like nothing better than to kick off her shoes and put up her feet. “I assume working a double means you pulled an extra shift?”

  “One of the girls who works breakfast and lunch needed time off. Left us short-handed.”

  I dipped my fork into the mashed potatoes. “You mean Vera?” I asked with studied innocence.

  “Yeah.” Beverly started collecting salt and pepper shakers from the various tables. “Vera didn’t give much notice, but since she’s been here the longest, management decided not to make a stink.”

  “My friends and I wondered what happened to her. The new girl, Marcy, kept mixing up our orders.”

  Beverly grunted. “Don’t surprise me none. Marcy isn’t cut out to be a waitress.”

  I heartily agreed, but didn’t voice my opinion out loud. With the kind of service Marcy provided, she’d starve to death if she had to depend on tips. I sampled a small piece of meat loaf and was pleasantly surprised. Not bad. Not as good as mine, but not bad. Or maybe I was hungrier than I thought.

  Beverly took a seat at an adjoining table and proceeded to refill the shakers. “Marcy said she’s looking for another job. Complains folks here are too fussy.”

  And I had a pretty good idea who she was calling fussy. “Maybe she’ll be happier in a job where she doesn’t have to deal with people on a regular basis.”

  “Now, take Vera, on the other hand,” Beverly went on. “She’s always saying how much she likes everyone. We sure miss her around here.”

  I phrased my next question with care. “Did Vera happen to say how long she’d be gone?”

  Beverly shrugged. “No one seems to know. Not long, I hope. Can’t take too many of these doubles. My dogs are barking.”

  I went back to cutting my meat loaf into small, bite-size pieces. “Well, my friends and I hope Vera’ll be back soon. Where did she go, by the way?”

  “Didn’t say.”

  My interrogation skills needed honing. But determination has to count for something, doesn’t it? “Did Vera take her family with her?” I had no idea if Vera even had a family, but what the heck. Throw out the question and see what happens, right? Cops do it all the time on TV.

  “Family?” Beverly screwed tops back on the saltshakers. “Nah. All Vera’s got is a daughter. Lisa’s pregnant and expecting her third kid next month.”

  A red flag went up. Why would a woman whose only daughter is eight months pregnant up and leave with no explanation? I didn’t like where this conversation was leading. “I don’t recall Vera ever mentioning a husband. What’s he like?”

  “Him?” Beverly practically spat the word. “That no-good so-and-so?”

  “I take it you don’t think much of him.”

  “If you ask me, he’s nothing but a lying, cheating scumbag.”

  Tell me how you really feel, I wanted to say, but didn’t. “Why is that?”

  Beverly glanced around to make sure no one could overhear. “Don’t know why Vera stayed with the rat as long as she did. I’da left him the first time he took a swing at me.”

  “He hit her?” I asked, genuinely shocked.

  Beverly nodded. “Over the years, she came in many a time with bruises she tried to cover up and make excuses for. She finally kicked the bum out. Smartest thing she ever did.”

  “They’re divorced then?”

  “Yep. I heard ol’ Mel wasn’t none too happy Vera got to keep the house. Got a small settlement, too. That really got Mel’s goat. Judge told him to pay up or else.”

  I sat back to digest this bit of gossip. Seeing as how I had pushed my plate aside, Beverly wandered off to get my check. It was nearing the bewitching hour of closing time, and she was eager to quiet her barking dogs.

  Well, I thought to myself as I drained my second cup of decaf, the meat loaf special was worth every penny. I silently congratulated myself. My interrogation techniques weren’t so bad after all. I had learned Vera not only had an abusive husband but an angry one as well.

  Chapter 10

  Bill Lewis was a rare find. Especially here in the South. It’s not easy to come across a repairman who actually shows up, not only on the day he says he will but at the appointed time as well. I’ve often thought there ought to be a separate zone called Southern time. I remember once being assured by the cable guy that he’d come first thing in the morning, only to have him ring the bell just as Jim and I were sitting down to dinner. I did what any Yankee would do. I invited him to join us. And he did. When it comes to Southern hospitality, I’m a fast learner.

  “I’m not too early, am I?” Bill asked, almost apologetically.

  I glanced at my watch. Actually he was ten minutes early. What a strange concept. If I wasn’t careful, Bill Lewis would spoil me for the whole lot of handymen and subcontractors all rolled into one. I’d have to remember to call Pam later and thank her for passing along Bill’s number.

  “You must be from up North,” I said by way of a greeting.

  “Battle Creek, Michigan,” he returned with an easy smile. “That’s right about here.” He held his hand up, palm out, and pointed to a spot somewhere near the middle. I’d seen other Michiganders perform this little trick to explain exactly where they hailed from. It must be handy to have a state shaped like a mitten. Try that with any other state and see what happens.

  “Thanks for coming, especially on a Sunday,” I said as I led him down the short hallway, past the laundry room, and into the kitchen.

  “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner. Nice place you have here,” he said, looking around.

  “Thank you. Jim and I like it.” There I slipped and did it again. Went and used the wrong tense when it comes to speaking about my late husband. Old habits die hard when you’re married as long as we were.

  Bill started speaking before I had a chance to correct my error. He pointed to the defunct object in question. “If I remember correctly, this fan here’s the culprit.”

  “I have no idea what’s wrong with it. It worked just fine last time I used it.” I hated hearing the damsel-in-distress undertone in my voice. Maybe I should have noticed something. A warning of sorts. Sparks flying? A funny odor, or a grinding noise. Something . . . ?

  He shrugged. “Most times these things just happen. Work fine one minute, break the next.”

  Bill was definitely my kind of guy. No finger-pointing. Just it works, or it doesn’t work. Simple as that. And if that wasn’t enough to recommend him, he came with a full head of silver gray hair. No mean accomplishment for a man over sixty. I hadn’t noticed this in all the hubbub at the golf course. Either Bill had worn a ball cap or my powers of observation were as kaput as my ceiling fan.

  “Don’t suppose you have a ladder handy?” he asked.

  “There’s a stepladder in the garage. Will that do?”

  “Perfect, just the thing. I’ll get it and be right back.”

  Yes, indeed, Bill Lewis was a fine-looking man. The combination of silver gray hair and Paul Newman baby blues were enough to make my heart flutter. Most of all, I liked his smile, ki
nd of sweet, a little shy. I could feel a hot flash coming on. Or a power surge, as the Babes call them. Shame on me for noticing such things at my age. And Jim gone less than two years.

  When Bill returned minutes later carrying the stepladder, I noticed he had strapped on a tool belt. There’s something about men and tool belts. Whatever it was, it was nudging my dormant hormones back into life.

  “Is the switch off?”

  My switch was definitely on—and humming. But I gathered that’s not the one he meant. “Ah . . . yes,” I stammered after double-checking the wall plate to make sure.

  Bill climbed the ladder and began tinkering. A screwdriver here, and a wrench—or maybe it was a pliers—there. Always had trouble keeping the two straight. I wasn’t sure what I should do next. Make myself scarce or stick around and watch? I elected to stay—in case he needed help of course.

  “Hate to give you bad news, but looks like the motor shorted out.” Bill had climbed down to give me the bad news face-to-face. “Only thing you can do is replace it with a new one.”

  Now, normally I love shopping as much as the next woman, but that doesn’t include home-improvement stores. Looking through aisle after aisle of electrical and plumbing gadgets bores me to tears. Given a choice between Macy’s and Lowe’s, I’ll take Macy’s in a heartbeat. Maybe I’d feel differently if Lowe’s and Home Depot had preferred-customer sales. I’d whip out my Visa so fast it would make heads spin.

  “What exactly am I supposed to do with the fan once I bring it home?” I asked, hearing the damsel-in-distress note back in my voice.

  “That part’s easy.” He gave me that shy smile that I found so endearing. “All you need to do is give me a call. I’ll come right over and hook it up for you.”

  “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.” I smiled back. “Don’t know what’s come over me, I completely forgot to ask how much you charge. What do I owe you?”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll find my prices reasonable.” He tucked the screwdriver and wrench/pliers back into slots on his tool belt. “I don’t do this for the money so much as it gives me something to do with my time.”

  “Hope I haven’t kept you too long.” The words came out in a rush. I needed to keep my mind on business or else I’d have another of those hot flashes.

  “No problem. Happy I could help.”

  “I don’t want to keep you,” I said, even though I did—want to keep him, that is. “Your wife probably has dinner waiting and doesn’t want it getting cold.” Could I be any more obvious? I employed a trick all women learn in infancy. I looked at his left hand—discreetly, of course—to see whether he wore a wedding band. He didn’t.

  Bill’s expression clouded. “There is no wife. Not anymore, that is. Margaret died before I moved here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No way you could,” he said. “She got cancer just before I was set to take an early retirement. After she passed away, I decided a change of scenery would do me good.”

  The moment seemed right to set matters straight. “Jim, my husband, died almost two years ago. Had a massive coronary right in the middle of the Super Bowl.” I toyed with the end of a dish towel that was sitting on the counter. “Poor Jim. He never lived long enough to find out he had won fifty dollars in the football pool. I’m still getting used to his being gone. It’s lonely at times.”

  Bill nodded sympathetically. “Know what you mean. I try to keep myself busy. I ranger part-time at the golf course, do odd jobs, have some hobbies.”

  “What sort of hobbies?” Did that sound pathetic or what? I definitely needed a refresher course in Flirtation 101.

  Fortunately Bill didn’t seem to notice. “Woodworking mostly. I just got reelected president of the Woodchucks.”

  Were woodchucks the same as groundhogs? Cute furry little things? “Woodchucks?”

  Bill chuckled at my obvious puzzlement. “That’s what the woodworking club here in Serenity Cove Estates calls itself, the Woodchucks. I’m nearly done making a cradle for my son and his wife. They’re expecting their first baby in the spring.”

  “A cradle, how lovely! I’d love to see it when it’s finished.” The words were no sooner out of my mouth than I felt a blush warm my cheeks. He must think me a brazen man-chasing hussy. Here I scarcely know the man, and I was inviting myself over to his place. Funny what a pair of pretty blue eyes and a full head of hair can do to a woman’s common sense. Not to mention the tool belt.

  I stole a glance his way and could swear he was blushing, too. Here we were, two mature adults who should know better, acting like a couple teenagers.

  “I’d appreciate you giving it a once-over. I could use a woman’s opinion. Soon as I give it a final coat of varnish, I’ll give you a call.” With that, he picked up the stepladder and returned it to the garage. A minute later he was back. “Ah, Mrs. McCall . . . ?”

  “Kate,” I interrupted before he got any further. “Friends call me Kate.”

  His Paul Newman blue eyes swept over my kitchen before pinning me like a butterfly to a mat. “What I’d like to do, Kate, is apologize for the other day at the golf course.”

  I could’ve pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about, but why play coy? “There’s nothing to apologize for, Bill.” I liked the fact that we were now on a friendlier, first-name basis. “Don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to see a ranger on the course as I was then. You couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time.”

  “Well, I’m embarrassed about what happened next. I’ve been a hunter all my life, and no one’s ever accused me of being squeamish.”

  “You weren’t the only one who lost their lunch that day,” I said, recalling Monica’s reaction. “My friend threw up all over the brand-new FootJoys she had to special order. She ended up tossing them in the trash.”

  Bill’s expression remained glum. “Sure was a sight. For a minute there, I wasn’t sure what I was looking at. Couldn’t believe my eyes.”

  I shuddered at the memory, then banished it from my mind.

  “Sorry,” Bill said, sounding contrite. “I shouldn’t have brought that up. I just didn’t want you thinking I was some sort of shrinking violet—a wuss, as the younger folks say.”

  “Never.” I made a series of pleats in the dish towel I fiddled with. “Your reaction showed you have a sensitive, caring nature.”

  “Suppose the sheriff will ever discover who . . . it . . . belonged to?”

  “Hmm . . .” I pondered the question. For all I knew the sheriff hadn’t made a lick of progress solving the case. If he had, news would have traveled throughout Serenity Cove with the speed of a California wildfire. In my humble opinion, the poor man could use some help. “I don’t know,” I said at last, deciding to cut the sheriff some slack. “At this point, it’s probably hard to tell if . . . it . . . belonged to a man or a woman.”

  Bill turned to leave. “Don’t think I’ll ever forget that smell. First thing I did when I got home was take a hot shower. Not that it helped much.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” I admitted. And I did. Upon returning home from the course, I had debated whether to put the golf outfit I was wearing into the trash. At the last minute I decided against it. My shirt and shorts were practically brand-new. I ran them through an extra wash cycle instead.

  “Guess I’d better be on my way.” Halfway through the door, he stopped and turned. “Lowe’s or Home Depot would be good places to start looking for a new fan. Then there’s always Sears at the mall. Just call whenever you get it. I’ll be right over to install it for you. Shouldn’t take long.”

  I smiled when the door closed behind him. Golf course ranger, handyman, and widower. All wrapped up in one neat package. Quite a guy!

  Chapter 11

  After Bill left, I couldn’t seem to settle down. I couldn’t stop thinking about . . . body parts. Not when Claudia and Vera were still absent without leave. And then there was the matter of Rosalie, who st
ill hadn’t returned. After agonizing over the situation for hours, I concluded extraordinary times called for extraordinary measures. Measures such as an emergency session of Bunco Babe Crime Solvers.

  “I know it’s late, Connie Sue.” I glanced at the kitchen clock. It read nine p.m. Who goes to bed at that hour? Or should I rephrase? Who besides Thacker Brody and Earl Brubaker goes to bed at that hour? “I wouldn’t call if this wasn’t important.”

  I could hear Connie Sue sigh from Magnolia Lane two blocks away. “Out with it, sugar. What’s so dad-blame important it couldn’t wait ’til tomorrow?”

  “I’m calling an emergency bunco game.”

  “Honey, tomorrow’s Monday,” Connie Sue quickly pointed out.

  “I know that.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. Actually I’d lost track of what day of the week it was. With “arms” and “remains” cropping up all over the place, the days all seemed to run together.

  “What’s wrong with Monday?” I said, probably sounding a trifle defensive. “My place. Same time.”

  “Thacker expects pot roast Monday night.”

  My, my, Thacker was certainly a creature of habit. To bed at nine. Pot roast on Monday. It made me wonder what else in the Brody household was done according to schedule. Somehow I didn’t want to go there.

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “Use your imagination, Connie Sue. Tell Thacker the government just declared Tuesday National Pot Roast Day.”

  “Well, I don’t know . . .”

  “Connie Sue, tell Thacker whatever you want. Just be there. I need you—the Babes need you.”

  “Okay, sugar. No need to get your panties in a twist. See you tomorrow.”

  Rita was next on my list. “Emergency bunco? Kate McCall, you’re going to have to tell me more than that if you expect me to cancel bridge.”

  Bridge is Rita’s true passion. The fact that she plays bunco never ceases to amaze me. Rita used to be a branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. In other words, she’s good with numbers. Bridge satisfies her talent for skill and strategy, but bunco . . . ? Bunco is purely a roll of the dice. Leave skill and strategy at the doorstep. But who knows? Maybe bunco is a nice change of pace. Gives those brain cells a night off.