by Gail Oust
As seemed to be our pattern, we filled our plates, filled our glasses, and found ourselves a place at one of the tables.
“Let the game begin,” I announced from my seat at the head table.
Rita rang the bell. Play commenced. We rolled for ones till she rang the bell a second time, signaling the end of the first round.
We rearranged ourselves and settled down to shake, rattle, and roll those dice. I was eager to get down to the real reason for tonight’s game. Not even Diane’s fortified tropical drink could take the edge off my nerves. But if the rest of the Babes could keep their cool, who was I to quibble?
Twos were scarcer than hens’ teeth. How did that cliché originate? Who makes up these things? What does it matter if hens’ teeth are scarce or cheaper by the dozen? I corralled my wayward thoughts and tried to concentrate on the game. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Monica eyeing Janine’s tiara. No question where her thoughts were.
“Come on, Kate. I need some help here,” Monica urged plaintively. “Roll some twos.”
A friend in need is a friend indeed. Right? Apparently I’m alive and thriving here in Clichéville. I picked up the dice, shook them till the spots nearly fell off, and let them fly. One, six, and a three equal no score. I passed the dice to Rita.
Gloria’s bracelets jingled merrily as she gave a little flip of the wrist and a careless toss. Lo and behold three twos magically appeared. “Bunco!”
Monica shot me a look, clearly indicating I’d let her down. Well, to paraphrase a once-popular country-western song, I never promised her a bunco. I only promised not to discuss body parts—and did that with my fingers crossed.
I held my head high as Monica and I made the transition from head table to lowly table three. From the way Monica carried on, we might as well have had Loser tattooed on our foreheads. Along the way, I stopped to fortify myself with more of Diane’s delicious tropical punch. Apparently I wasn’t the only one in need of fortification. The pitcher was half empty.
Play resumed, this time everyone hoping to roll threes. Rita, I noticed, was still seated in the very same spot at the head table. From the smile on her face, she was obviously enjoying a run of good luck.
“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Polly piped up, “but if Diane doesn’t hurry up and tell us why she called an emergency bunco, I’m going to explode.”
“Me, too,” Tara called from the kitchen.
Instantly, the dice ceased rattling. All heads turned toward Diane, who along with Megan sat with Polly and Nancy at table two.
“Let’s make that unanimous,” I said. “C’mon, Diane, stop torturing us. Haven’t we been patient long enough?”
Diane stood so we could all see her and hear what she had to say. “I asked you here tonight to tell you that I finally contacted one of Claudia’s sons.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Indignant, Polly shook her head hard enough to make her dangly earrings dance.
Diane held out her hands, palms up. “Just be patient. I think I’d better start at the beginning.”
Polly squirmed in anticipation. “Hurry up, girl. I’m already on Medicare and not getting any younger.”
Gloria sent her mother a reproving look. “Take your time, Diane.”
Diane and Megan exchanged meaningful glances. “Do you want to start or do you want me to?” Diane asked Megan.
Megan nodded her encouragement. “Go ahead.”
“If you recall, Megan and I agreed we’d try to locate Claudia’s sons. This turned out to be a lot more difficult that we first thought since no one seemed to know their real first names.”
“Claudia,” Megan interrupted, “always referred to the son who’s an engineer as Butch.”
“And,” Diane continued, “she called her son the surgeon Bubba.”
“What’s so strange about that?” Connie Sue asked. “Most folks have at least one Bubba in the family. Bubba is a perfectly fine name.”
“Perfectly fine for someone born south of the Mason-Dixon Line,” Pam pointed out.
“I wasn’t in South Carolina twenty-four hours when I met my very first Bubba,” Gloria reminisced. “He came to read the water meter.”
“I met my first Bubba at the hardware store,” Janine volunteered.
Rita rapped sharply on the table, making the dice dance in place. “Ladies, ladies! I’m sure we all remember our first Bubbas, but let’s stay on point.”
“Rita’s right,” I agreed. “Get on with your story, Diane.”
“I searched and searched, but couldn’t find a single surgeon named Bubba Connors in Chicago, or for that matter, the entire state of Illinois. So I expanded my parameters. The only Dr. Bubba Connors I managed to find turned out to be a vet in Alabama who specialized in rare bovine diseases.”
“How udderly awful,” Polly quipped.
Everyone groaned, including Diane.
Megan spoke, her face flushed, making her look even younger than her years. “I tried every which way, but couldn’t find a Butch Connors who works as an engineer in Seattle.”
“So if neither of you could locate her sons, how will I explain to Thacker that he missed pot roast for nothing?” Connie Sue whined.
Megan and Diane exchanged conspiratorial smiles.
Diane’s smile turned into a grin. “We hit pay dirt.”
“Pay dirt?” My voice rose a notch. “What kind of pay dirt?”
“I narrowed my search to surgeons with the surname of Connors in the Chicago area between the ages of thirty and forty and started making calls. Naturally, only office numbers were listed. When I called Friday, the doctors were all in the ORs, so I asked to speak with the office managers. I asked if any of them happened to know the name of the doctor’s mother. Finally one admitted she thought the mother’s name was Claudia and that she lived somewhere in the Carolinas.”
By now the Babes were hanging on to Diane’s every word. I was no exception.
“Bubba Connors, whose real name happens to be Charles, was at a surgical conference in Baltimore and not expected back till late Sunday. His office manager went on to say Dr. Connors had a full day of surgery scheduled Monday, but she would have him call me at the end of the day.” Diane paused for effect, then continued, “Seems like Charles, aka Bubba, Connors is Claudia’s son, all right.”
Questions popped up like dandelions.
“What did he say?”
“Don’t keep us in suspense.”
“Is Claudia okay?”
“How can you be so calm at a time like this?”
“Did you ask Bubba if he’s heard from his mother?”
Diane held up her hands for silence. Working in a library like she does, she probably gets plenty of practice asking people to hush. And, I must admit, she’s good at it, since the house became so still you could have heard a pin drop.
“Oh, he’s heard from her all right.” Smile is too mild a word to describe Diane’s ear-to-ear grin. “Claudia called him a couple nights ago with the news he has a new daddy. Seems like Claudia and this guy she met on the Internet eloped to Las Vegas.”
You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Claudia ran off and got married?”
“Yep.” Diane nodded. “Told Bubba they got married at one of those wedding chapels by an Elvis impersonator.”
Polly shook her head, making the galaxy of purple stars in her ears sway. “Well, don’t that beat all?”
And that about summed it up.
Chapter 24
One missing person down, one to go. And Rosalie’s killer still unaccounted for.
After Diane’s bombshell last night, bunco was abandoned in favor of a celebration. Claudia was not only safe and sound, but married! Goodness! That had come as a shock. Next time I see her, I’m giving her a piece of my mind for worrying us half to death. Then, I’m going to give her a great big hug.
Lord knows Claudia deserves some happiness. Her auto-exec husband had left her for a floozy in a short skirt
when their sons were barely out of diapers. Claudia had gotten her real-estate license and raised those two boys all on her own. This was her time to enjoy life. And no one enjoyed life better than Claudia. She was quite a character.
Diane must have shared those thoughts, too, because she brought out a sheet cake decorated with a plastic figure of a bride and groom. While the rest of us put away the dice and tossed the score cards, she whipped up another batch of her special blend, which by the way, packed quite a wallop. By the time the evening ended, everyone—even Monica, who had fussed a bit that Janine still retained the tiara—was in high spirits.
Over cake and punch, I had recounted my experience at 248 Jenkins Road. I endured a lecture from Rita on the folly of going there alone and unprotected—a repeat of Pam’s previous sermon. Polly, not surprisingly, begged me to take her along next time. All in all, it had been a great evening.
As I waited for my bagel to toast, I planned my day. I needed to stock up on groceries. I debated whether or not to drop by the sheriff’s office afterward. Of course, the sheriff didn’t think he needed our help, but I knew otherwise.
He needed to be told about Claudia. And I needed to be told about the Bone, as I had come to think of it. Surely he should have gotten a report back from the lab in Columbia by now. I wondered how much scientists could determine from the specimen I’d provided. Could they even be certain if it belonged to a man or a woman?
My bagel popped up, and I smeared it with cream cheese. While I ate, I kept wondering who could’ve possibly killed Rosalie. The sheriff had called it an “isolated” incident. But was it? I wish I could be as certain as he seemed to be.
Breakfast over, I did a few chores around the house, then headed off to the Piggly Wiggly with shopping list in hand.
I hit the produce aisle first. I selected lettuce, a couple zucchini, and small bunch of green bananas and placed them in my shopping cart. I said it before and I’ll say it again, I’ll never get used to calling it a buggy like they do here in the South. Say “buggy” and I immediately think baby carriage.
I was wandering through the frozen-food section when I happened to glance toward a woman who was rounding the corner at the far end. If I didn’t know better, it could have been Vera’s younger, more attractive sister. I shook my head to clear it. I was spending so much time thinking about the woman that my eyes had started to play tricks on me.
Canned goods were next on my list. Now that October was almost here, a nice pot of chili sounded like a good idea. But if I intended to make chili, I needed tomatoes. Sauced, pureed, or stewed? Whole or diced? These days picking the right can was almost as complicated as choosing a ripe melon. I reached for a can of each. A pantry can never have too many tomatoes. Now I needed to backtrack to the produce. Chili called for a green pepper. I whipped my car—er, buggy—around and collided with Vera MacGillicuddy’s look-alike.
I stared. I simply couldn’t help myself. This woman looked years younger than the one who served me hash browns and scrambled eggs. Her hairstyle was different, too, the cut stylish with blond highlights and lowlights. Nary a single trace of salt-and-pepper gray. Instead of the polyester that I associated with Vera, this woman had on cotton Capris and a striped V-neck top.
“Mercy, Miz McCall. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Aptly put. That’s exactly how I felt. “Vera . . . ?”
“The one and only.”
I tried to collect myself. “Vera . . . you look, well, you look wonderful. I hardly recognized you.”
And I meant this—both figuratively and literally. Vera looked better than I’ve ever seen her look. Well rested . . . and pretty. From the smile on her face, she was obviously pleased with my reaction. At close range, I could see fading bruises hidden beneath skillfully applied makeup. The new and vastly improved Vera had had some work done. A tweak here, an eyelid lift there. The results were truly amazing. She looked a good ten years younger. I was tempted to ask the name of her plastic surgeon.
“All the girls have been worried sick about you. Marcy said you just up and left. No one seemed to know where you were.”
“It’s sweet of y’all to worry, but as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“Yes, I can see that.” Fit as a fiddle? Hell’s bells. She was as fit as the entire string section of the Augusta Symphony. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is to know you’re safe. Considering everything that’s been going on around here, the Babes and I have been scared silly thinking about what might have happened to you.”
“Didn’t mean to worry nobody. I had sick time coming and decided to take it. I let the manager know what was going on and when I’d be back. I asked him not to breathe a word to the rest of the girls.” Vera gave me a sheepish smile. “I wanted to watch their reactions when they saw me.”
I’d like to be there myself. It would be worth the cost of admission. “Well, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. You look like a different person.”
“My aunt died a couple months back and named me beneficiary of her insurance policy. I had a hard time making up my mind between a vacation in Hawaii or having plastic surgery. In the end, I decided the surgery lasts longer than two weeks on Maui.”
“Good thinking.” I started to untangle my cart from hers.
Vera appeared unconcerned and in no particular hurry. “I feel like a different person. I’ve got a whole new lease on life. It’s high time I live a little. Make some changes. Life’s too short, and I’ve already wasted a good share on a no-account husband.”
“I hope your plans don’t include leaving the Cove Café?” Visions of Marcy raced through my head. In my imagination, she bore a close resemblance to the Wicked Witch of the West.
“Time will tell.” Vera smiled, then lowered her voice. “There’s a new man in my life.”
Aha! A new man? Well, that certainly explained the hairstyle, the clothes, and the nip and tuck.
“Never thought I’d want a man after living with Mel all those years, but . . .”
“I heard your ex has a temper. Don’t you worry about him?”
“I would if he was close, but Mel’s brother offered him a job in construction once he got off probation. Last I heard, Mel packed his pickup and headed for Dallas.”
“We—the Bunco Babes and I—are just glad you’re safe, that’s all.”
“You ladies are so sweet to worry about me. Next time you’re in the café, the coffee’s on me.”
“It’s a deal.”
“Gotta run.” Vera started on down the aisle. “I promised my daughter I’d stop by and drop off bread and milk. Baby’s due soon. Poor girl, her feet are swollen the size of water balloons.”
I watched Vera disappear around a corner. Scratch one more name off the missing-persons list, I thought. And then there was none. Unless the bone left on my deck proved otherwise, this marked the demise of my serial-killer theory.
Chapter 25
I was still mad as a wet hen by the time I returned from town. The sheriff had gone and done it again. Made me feel like a bumbling fool. And I didn’t like being made to feel like a bumbling fool. He had even worn a condescending smirk when I casually mentioned my serial-killer theory. “Miz McCall,” he had drawled in that velvety baritone that was beginning to grate on my nerves, “it’s kind of you to take an interest in law enforcement, but best all around if you leave crime solvin’ to the professionals.”
The nerve of the man! He might as well have told me to stay home and take up knitting.
“My department was able to locate Ms. Claudia Connors’s next of kin. We learned she was alive and well at a blackjack table at Caesar’s Palace. As for your other missin’ person, Vera MacGillicuddy, the manager of the Cove Café told us she had scheduled time off. We left a message for her to call us when she got back to town. Which she did, by the way—last night.”
Well, those little snippets certainly had taken the wind out of my sails. Then, suddenly, a fresh gust had filled them u
p again. “But what about the bone I found?”
“Ah, yes, the bone.” He’d leaned back in his chair, folded his hands on the desk, and interlaced his fingers. “The lab confirmed what Deputy Preston suspected all along. It’s an animal bone, not a human one—deer most likely.”
“I heard a scream. It woke me up.”
He shrugged his linebacker-size shoulders. “Most likely an animal . . . or maybe one of your neighbors havin’ a wild party.”
“Most likely,” I said, not trying to hide my sarcasm as I rose to leave his office.
“Don’t suppose you know anythin’ about an anonymous call to my department a few nights back?”
About to leave, I’d frozen with my hand on the knob.
When I didn’t answer immediately, he went on, “Seems like some concerned citizen took it upon themselves to report a suspicious-smellin’ trash can at the MacGillicuddy residence.”
“Mmm . . . uh . . .” I’d stalled. Seemed like the sheriff was missing the whole point of an anonymous call.
“That call had my deputy siftin’ through a trash can full of rottin’ compost. Deputy Preston sustained serious grass stains on his brand-new uniform pants. He’s none too pleased.”
I forced a smile. “Be sure to have him check the Piggly Wiggly. I hear there are some marvelous new products on the market for getting out stains.”
And that’s the gist of our entire conversation. No one can say I didn’t try to go through proper channels and cooperate with the sheriff’s department. And where had it gotten me? Exactly nowhere! From now on, he was on his own.
But that doesn’t mean for one minute I’m going to stop trying to figure out who killed Rosalie. No, siree. The monster needed to be brought to justice.
• • •
Hours later I was still fuming. My meeting with Sheriff Wiggins had left me little choice but to resort to drastic measures. Drastic measures for me sometimes took the form of comfort food. Tuna noodle casserole has always been one of my favorites. Jim never cared much for casseroles, so I used to make it for the kids and myself when he was off on one of his business trips. Now that he’s gone, I have it often. Sometimes I pretend he’s off on one of his trips and will be home in a day or two. We had a good life together, and I miss him. I wonder what he’d think about the kids trying to ship me off to someplace “safe.” Probably we’d share a good laugh, then threaten to disinherit the both of them.
