Murder is Dicey

by Gail Oust

  I spied a table for two in what I hoped was Beverly’s section and sat down. I guessed right, because Beverly headed in my direction and greeted me with a warm smile. “Back again, I see.”

  “It was either dinner here or frozen chicken potpie.”

  She handed me a menu. “Funny, somehow I didn’t take you for a liver and onions fan.”

  “I’m not,” I admitted, glancing over the menu. No sense flirting with fat grams and carbs on a night when lettuce would do just as well. “I’ll have a chef’s salad, ranch dressing on the side.”

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Just water.”

  Waiting for my meal to arrive gave me time to think about how best to approach Beverly with my questions about Vera without seeming obvious. I wondered if there was a text titled The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Interrogation.

  “There you go, hon.” Beverly set my salad in front of me along with a water glass. “I’ll check back in a few.”

  I took my sweet old time, daintily cutting strips of turkey and slicing wedges of tomato into bite-size pieces. Poured a little ranch dressing here, poured a little ranch dressing there. I chewed slowly, stopping frequently to take sips of water. My ploy evidently worked, because the café began to empty.

  “More water?” Beverly asked.

  “Sure, fill it up.” At this rate I’d be running relay races all night between bed and bathroom. But no sacrifice was too great. On Law & Order reruns, Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green were my role models. If they could sit through numerous stakeouts without complaining about full bladders, who was I to complain.

  “How’s it going, Beverly?” I asked.

  “I’m getting too old for this kinda work. Should’ve listened to my mother years ago and learned to type. All I’ve got to show for years on the job are bunions and varicose veins.”

  I wanted to say, “Sit down, take a load off.” A phrase I heard in those old James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart movies. Instead I said, “Still no Vera?”

  “Nope, and I’m still pulling doubles.” Beverly wandered off to clear a nearby table.

  I speared a cherry tomato and sent it skittering across the table and onto the floor. My interrogation technique definitely needed fine-tuning. I still hadn’t learned anything of value. I wasn’t about to leave until I found out something—anything. Even if it meant sitting here until Beverly kicked me out. It dawned on me I didn’t even know Vera’s last name. Once I knew that, I could find out where she lived then do a drive-by of her home. Maybe find a clue or two.

  I picked up my water glass, drained it, and signaled for more. Sacrifices had to be made. By my count I’d downed three glasses thus far. Hello, bathroom, I said to myself.

  But my bladder had limits. Time to quit procrastinating and get down to business. I gathered my meager supply of technique and appealed to Beverly’s vanity. “You’re much too young, Beverly, to have ‘senior’ moments like us older folk, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to recall Vera’s last name.”

  “It’s MacGillicuddy. Vera MacGillicuddy.”

  “MacGillicuddy! Of course! How silly of me to have forgotten.” I pretended to laugh at my stupidity, but secretly toasted my success. “With a name like that, I don’t suppose there are too many around.”

  Beverly picked up my empty salad plate. “Nope. Vera used to joke she’s the only MacGillicuddy in the phone book.”

  Feeling generous for someone on a pension, I left Beverly a hefty tip. Like Jim used to say, you get what you pay for.

  My need for a phone book superseded my need for a restroom. As much as I was tempted, I couldn’t very well ask Beverly for Vera’s address. Especially not on the heels of all my questions about her. Then the answer dawned on me.

  The rec center.

  I jumped in the Buick and drove the short distance. Fortunately the rec center was still open for late-in-the-day exercise junkies. I practically ran inside and asked the girl at the front desk if I could borrow a phone book. She looked at me rather strangely, but managed to produce one. I thumbed through the Ms, and there it was staring me smack-dab in the face: M. MacGillicuddy, 248 Jenkins Road. I committed the number to memory, thanked the girl at the desk, who, by the way, was still looking at me rather strangely, and hopped back into the Buick.

  I knew I’d seen Jenkins Road somewhere in my travels in and around Brookdale but wasn’t exactly sure where. A county map would’ve come in handy, but I didn’t have one. Map or no map, I was determined to find Vera’s house if it took all night. Leaving Serenity Cove Estates behind, I drove sedately along the highway.

  A couple miles outside of Brookdale, I passed a white clapboard Baptist church. The marquee out front read: Walmart is not the only saving place. Another Walmart connection. I took this as an omen and continued down the road. Another half mile or so and cattle grazed in a farmer’s field. Shadows were lengthening. A reminder I didn’t have much time before dark. I slowed as I came to a crossroads and squinted at the street sign. Jenkins Road. I had found it. When you’re good, you’re good.

  I turned left onto a narrow county road. The few houses and double-wide trailers I passed were widely spaced, each sitting on large tracts of land. I slowed to a crawl in order to read the weatherworn numbers posted on the mailbox at the end of each drive.

  At last I found 248. Scraggly stands of pampas grass stood on either side of the driveway. I turned in and bumped my way down the dirt and gravel rut-filled drive. With each jolt, my bladder felt ready to burst. At the end of the drive was a modest ranch-style home with dingy vinyl siding. Two cheap plastic lawn chairs sat on a porch that ran the width of the house. Porches, I had observed since my move South, usually came equipped with chairs of one variety or another.

  I shut off the engine and sat staring at the house. I really hadn’t given much thought as to what I was going to do next. I pondered my choices. Should I march up to the front door and ring the bell? And then what? Claim I was a census taker? Tell Vera I was taking some sort of survey to see who was minus an arm?

  Or should I be more subtle?

  The longer I sat there, the more I realized the dingy little house with its weed-choked yard had a deserted, closed-up air. Feeling braver by the minute, I got out of the car for a better look. If Vera was home, I’d simply tell her I was in the neighborhood and stopped by to use her bathroom. As one woman to another, she’d understand the havoc time wreaks on female bladders.

  Impatiens drooped in pots near the front steps, their leaves withered and brown. I interpreted the dead flowers as a clue that Vera MacGillicuddy was still MIA. When I got one of those little black notebooks like Sheriff Wiggins, I intended to jot this down with a big star in front of it. Stars in my little black book would be synonymous with clue.

  My heart raced as suspense built. What would I find? Miscellaneous body parts? Bloodstains? Footprints? I approached the porch cautiously, all my senses alert. I realized then I had left Tools of the Trade at home. I had none of the necessary paraphernalia with me that was required for my career as a detective. Just goes to show I was a rank amateur in the sleuth department.

  Climbing the steps, I tiptoed across the porch. One of the floorboards creaked under my weight, and I jumped at the sound. My heart danced a tango inside my chest. I knocked on the door, not really expecting anyone to answer, so wasn’t disappointed when no one did. The blinds were drawn in all the windows, but I didn’t let that impede my investigation. Cupping my hands, I pressed my nose against the glass and peered inside.

  “Can’t see a darn thing,” I muttered out loud.

  Not to be deterred, I went around the rear of the house. A small concrete slab with wrought iron rails served as a back porch. Loropetalum bushes in dire need of pruning nearly obscured the steps. I pushed the bushes aside and went up the stairs for a better look. To be on the safe side, I knocked again—and again, no answer. No surprise there. Using the same technique as before, I cupped my hands around my eyes, pressed
my nose to the glass door, and peeked between a slit in the curtains. I could make out light-colored smudges of a washer and dryer, but nothing else. No body parts, no bloodstains, nothing.

  Feeling bolder, I turned the door handle and found it locked. Again, no surprise. I had secretly hoped the door would have opened. Not only could I have gone in search of clues, but I could have found the bathroom as well. Surely Vera wouldn’t have minded.

  Don’t know why I guzzled all that water back at the café, then bolted out of there without making a pit stop. I still had much to learn about crime solving. If I ever had to sit for hours on a stakeout, I’d need a Porta Potti close by.

  Undecided what to do next, I looked around. The woods behind the house cast long shadows. My gaze swept over the yard and settled on a rusty metal storage shed at the edge of the property. My pulse picked up a beat. I had come this far, and couldn’t turn back unless I checked this out, too. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right? I picked my way across the weed-choked yard. If I found anything incriminating, I’d call the sheriff. Matter of fact, I wished I had his number programmed into my cell phone this very minute—just in case.

  A length of chain was woven through the door handles of the storage shed and secured with a sturdy padlock. I went around the side. Junk surrounded the shed. A beat-up wheelbarrow with a broken handle, an old push-type lawn mower—and a plastic trash bin. I couldn’t resist. I had to know what was inside the bin. Gingerly, I raised the lid and peered into the depths.

  “Ee-yew!” I cried. A noxious smell assaulted my senses, making me reel. It was the same sickeningly sweet odor I associated with decay.

  Dropping the lid back on the bin, I beat an undignified retreat. This was a job for the sheriff’s department. The instant I was safely inside the Buick, I locked the doors and fumbled through my purse for my cell phone. My fingers hesitated before dialing. How was I going to explain why I was snooping through Vera MacGillicuddy’s trash can? Would that make me guilty of trespassing? Could I be arrested? If so, and Jennifer found out, I’d be deported from Serenity Cove Estates to babysit in Brentwood. There, I’d spend the rest of my days chauffeuring young children to soccer, ballet, tap, gymnastics, and violin lessons. I shuddered at the thought.

  I knew I had to be careful. Very, very careful. I put the car in reverse and backed down the drive. It wasn’t until I turned off Jenkins Road and onto the highway leading back to Brookdale that I formed a plan. I don’t know if cell phone calls can be traced but didn’t want to take the chance.

  I soon discovered finding a pay phone is even trickier than finding a phone book. I drove all the way to Brookdale before spotting one outside a convenience store a block from the sheriff’s office. Lowering my voice in an attempt at disguise, I told the dispatcher she had better get a man out to check the trash can near the storage shed at 248 Jenkins Road. I hung up when she asked my name, then, for good measure, wiped the phone clean with a crumpled tissue I found in my pocket. I made a note to add alcohol wipes to my growing list of detective supplies.

  Nothing more to do than get back in the car and wait. Mother Nature chose that moment to remind me of other urgent matters that needed attention. I squirmed in my seat like a toddler who hasn’t quite mastered potty training. Luckily my wait was brief. Minutes later, I watched a sheriff’s cruiser speed down the road, lights flashing. I pulled away from the convenience store, proud I hadn’t shirked my civic duty.

  Chapter 23

  “Bunco? Tomorrow?”

  I was so surprised by the request I nearly dropped the phone. This time it wasn’t me but Diane who summoned the emergency session. My internal radar beeped so loud it nearly deafened me. Did this have anything to do with my serial-killer theory? Claudia and Vera were still missing. And not a single word from the sheriff’s department about the bone I had found. “Fess up, Diane. What’s going on?”

  “No way, Kate.” Diane is a calm, methodical person, not usually given to theatrics. But she sounded more animated now than I’d ever heard her. “Besides, I won’t get the real lowdown until tomorrow afternoon. Just say you’ll be there.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” How was I supposed to catch a wink of sleep tonight wondering about Diane’s big secret?

  “We can meet at my house,” Diane continued. “Norm’s working the four-to-midnight shift again, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

  “Great. Can I bring anything?” I knew Diane worked a forty-hour week at the library. It wasn’t always easy rushing home to get ready for bunco.

  “Thanks, but I’ve got it under control. There is one thing, though . . .”

  “Sure, just name it.”

  “Do you suppose we could split the call list? The football game’s about to start. The Jaguars are playing the Texans. Norm and I like to watch it together.”

  “No problem.” I squeezed my phone between ear and shoulder while I dug through my junk drawer for pad and pencil.

  “Think you could call Connie Sue, Monica, Janine, and Nancy?”

  “Consider it done.”

  “Good. I’ll call Gloria, Rita, and Pam. Seven o’clock sharp. My place.”

  “Gotcha.”

  And she had gotten me. Gotten me good. Diane had conveniently chosen what I refer to as the two-for-ones. Call Pam and she’d bring Megan. Call Rita, she’d tell Tara. Call Gloria, and Polly would be planning what outfit to wear. Oh, well, I thought, not much else to do on a Sunday afternoon. Unless I wanted to watch two teams I’d never heard of pummel the living daylights out of each other on the gridiron.

  I started with Janine.

  “No, Diane wouldn’t say what it was about,” I explained in answer to the first words out of her mouth. “My gut feeling is that Diane wants to tell us something she found out about either Claudia or Vera.”

  “Did Tara ever learn how to contact Vera’s daughter?”

  “Not that I know of, but we can ask her tomorrow night.”

  “Okay, see you then.”

  Never-Say-No Nancy was next on my list. “Sure, I’ll sub,” she agreed the instant she heard the b word. “You know me. I’m always up for bunco. Why don’t I pick you up?”

  “Fine,” I said. “See you then.”

  Monica was a harder sell. “You’re not going to talk about body parts, are you? My stomach can’t stand any more talk about body parts.”

  I rolled my eyes. “No, Monica. Think of it as a committee meeting of sorts where Diane gives us an update on locating two friends. And, naturally, a chance to play bunco.”

  “Oh, all right. I would like to win the tiara. Want me to drive?”

  “Nancy said she’d drive. I’ll ask her to swing by and pick you up. While she’s at it, we might as well pick up Connie Sue and Janine.” Diane lives in an old farmhouse set on five acres of land halfway between Serenity Cove Estates and Brookdale. Not far, but far enough to warrant carpooling.

  “Sure she won’t mind . . . ?”

  “If she does, we’ll offer to chip in for gas.”

  “Remind Janine not to forget the tiara,” Monica added lest I suffer one of those annoying senior moments. “And before I hang up, Kate, I want your solemn promise there will be no mention of body parts.”

  I crossed my fingers. “Promise.”

  Connie Sue was last on my list. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that Diane had called an emergency gathering of Bunco Babes Crime Fighters. I knew Mondays were pot roast nights at the Brody home, and I was once again about to upset the apple cart.

  “Well, I don’t know,” Connie Sue drawled when I explained the reason for my call. “Thacker’s a creature of habit. He gets upset with changes in his routine.”

  I heaved a sigh. Did Thacker know something the rest of the world didn’t? Did pot roast really taste better on Mondays? “Look, Connie Sue, Thacker’s eaten pot roast on Tuesday and lived to tell the tale.”

  “I’m not sure . . .”

  “Connie Sue, it’s time to take a sta
nd.” I was close to losing patience. “Which is more important? The lives of two friends—or a slab of beef?”

  “Since you put it that way, sugar, deal me in. Want me to drive?”

  “No, that’s okay. We’ll pick you up.”

  What was it with everyone wanting to drive? I never should have told the girls about my last speeding ticket. I suppose I should have noticed the police car parked behind that McDonald’s billboard, but no one’s perfect.

  My phone calls completed, I flopped down on the sofa in the great room and flipped through a magazine. Tomorrow’s bunco would also be a good time to tell the Babes about my little excursion to Vera’s the other night. I had kept my ear to the ground, so to speak, and combed the local papers, but the grapevine had grown dormant.

  So far, not a single solitary word about any unusual findings on Jenkins Road had leaked out. And so far, to my knowledge, no more women had been reported missing.

  And Rosalie’s murder wasn’t any closer to being solved.

  • • •

  We all converged on Diane’s doorstep at the same time. The decibel level in that old clapboard house went straight through the roof. Good thing Norm’s working the afternoon shift at the mill and doesn’t have to put up with the commotion. Most husbands are smart enough to clear the premises when the Babes gather. On bunco nights, they band together like castaways on Gilligan’s Island to play poker or shoot pool.

  The kitchen and dining room tables as well as a card table in the converted bedroom/den had been readied for play. A tray of fresh fruit—strawberries, kiwi, and pineapple—along with a yummy dip sat on the kitchen counter. Next to this was a frosty pitcher of some tropical drink that tasted so good it was downright sinful. Usually Diane doesn’t fuss when it’s her turn to host bunco. I took the fact that she had gone all out as an omen of important things to come.

  For all intents and purposes, it seemed like a typical bunco night. Except for a certain tension in the air. This was, after all, a covert meeting of Bunco Babes—Crime Fighters.