by Gail Oust
He raised a brow. I always found it impressive how much the man could convey with the lift of a single eyebrow. Skepticism, intimidation, impatience. He was the grand master. “All righty then, Miz McCall, I’ll listen,” he finally relented. “But don’t think gettin’ lucky a couple times makes you a bona fide detective.”
As concessions go, it wasn’t much, but it was good enough. “I’m working under the theory that whoever killed Vaughn possessed an extensive knowledge of plant life. A number of people wanted Vaughn Bascomb out of the picture—permanently. In all probability, they may resent Dr. Rappaport as well.”
“S’posin’ for a minute that you’re right. Who might these people be, and why would they wish either or both of ’em dead?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I brought out my cell phone, complete with photos.
I ran through my list of possible suspects—Todd, Rog, Betsy, and Kel—quickly, succinctly. After all, the sheriff was a busy man. When he actually began scribbling in his handy-dandy black book, I knew he was taking me seriously. The only one in my collection of suspects that I didn’t have a picture of was Rita. But then, Rita’s my friend and only kills mealy bugs.
“I’ll do some background checks. Can’t promise more’n that.”
“Good enough,” I said. “Now, was that so painful?”
Not waiting for an answer, I got to my feet and left. As I closed the door behind me, I thought I heard another sneeze.
Chapter 24
Bunco rolls around like clockwork every two weeks.
Since tonight would be Tara’s grand send-off before her move to California, Rita had volunteered as hostess. I’d arrived early to offer my help. Wonderful smells assailed me the instant I stepped foot into the foyer.
Tara came out of the kitchen and gave me a great big hug.
“Going to miss you, honey,” I said, returning the embrace. “Sure you don’t have an unmarried sister for my son, Steven? You’re the type of young woman I’d like to see him with.” Steven had a tendency to keep mum about his love life. He seemed to favor friends named Sam or Joe. I’d love to have him settle down and give me more grandbabies. Maybe then I’d follow the sheriff’s advice and take up knitting.
“Sorry.” Tara laughed.
A pity, I thought. Guess, Steven was on his own. Tara’s a sweetheart. In the time she’d lived with Rita while her husband—Rita’s son—was deployed to Iraq, I’d grown very fond of the girl. I knew the other Babes felt the same. Soon we’d have to put our heads together and find a suitable replacement for her. Though it’s hard to imagine, not everyone loves bunco as much as we do. Some women prefer games where you have to be clever and employ strategy. We like bunco because neither is required.
“Kate, in here,” Rita called from the kitchen.
Arm in arm, Tara and I followed the sound of her voice.
“Wow!” I said. Trays and platters filled the countertops. “You’re pulling out all the stops.”
“I told her not to fuss, but she wouldn’t listen.”
Rita donned a pair of oven mitts before pulling a tray of appetizers from the oven. “I want tonight to be special.”
I eyed the tray of hot hors d’oeuvres, the platter of cheese and fruit, and another mounded with shrimp. “It’ll be even more ‘special’ tomorrow morning when I get on the scale.”
“Kate, I’m putting you in charge of the champagne. You’ll find glasses in the china cabinet.”
I had no sooner popped the cork on the first bottle of bubbly when the Babes started arriving. They came in pairs like Noah’s Ark. Diane and Janine entered first, still debating the merits of a recent bestseller. Monica and Pam tooled over with Pam at the wheel of her cherry-red golf cart. Next came mother and daughter. Polly must have been going for a Jackson Pollock look in a wildly printed knit top. A look better suited for a large canvas in a museum rather than a diminutive septuagenarian. Gloria was decked out in enough bling to compete with the jewelry counter at Macy’s. Connie Sue, regal in the rhinestone tiara she’d won last time, and Claudia were right behind. Judging from the exuberant greetings and laughter, you’d think we were a bunch of long-lost friends at a high school reunion. From the decibel level, no one would suspect we saw one another frequently even when we weren’t rolling the bones.
The door bell chimed, the sound nearly smothered by the commotion. “I’ll get it,” I called out, not that anyone was paying attention.
I mentally did a head count. Who were we missing? The Babes never bothered with doorbells; they walked right in. Not long ago, I’d answered the door just as I was doing now only to find Sheriff Wiggins on the doorstep with an arrest warrant. When he and his deputies left, they’d been escorting Claudia to the hoosegow.
Would Rita be next? My heartbeat quickened as I swung the door open.
“Tammy Lynn!” I gasped.
The poor thing looked decidedly ill at ease standing alone under the porch light. She nervously shoved her oversized glasses higher on the bridge of her small nose. “I, ah, Megan couldn’t make it. She asked me to sub.”
“Welcome. C’mon in.” I put my arm around her shoulders and drew her inside.
She balked on the threshold of the kitchen. “Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” she whispered.
“Nonsense.” I clapped my hands for attention. “Everyone, Miss Tammy Lynn Snow will be joining us this evening in Megan’s absence.”
She was greeted with a flurry of hellos and welcomes and gradually some of the tension faded from her expression.
Connie Sue waved her hand. “Can I have y’all’s attention?”
We quieted while Claudia ducked out and returned with a large box wrapped in fancy paper and sporting a big bow. “Tara, honey,” she said, “this is a little something to help you remember us.”
Tara’s eyes grew suspiciously bright as she accepted the gift. “As if I could ever forget any of you.”
“Open it,” Polly urged. “Show us what you got.”
Tara unwrapped the package and pulled out a glazed candy dish divided into three sections and adorned with—what else?—ceramic dice.
“The different sections make it perfect for entertaining,” Pam pointed out.
Monica moved in for a closer look. “And the dice are changeable with the seasons.”
“Look inside the box,” Connie Sue instructed. “You’ll find a Santa for Christmas.”
“And a heart for Valentine’s Day,” Claudia added, causing me to look at her sharply. Did I detect a wistfulness in voice? I’d thought after her recent fiasco, she’d be content as a bachelorette.
“Or an anniversary,” Janine piped up. She was still raving about the recent anniversary cruise. From her description, one would think they’d set sail aboard the Love Boat. If I sound a teensy bit envious, it’s only because I am.
Polly peeked inside the box. “I see a turkey for Thanksgiving and bunny for Easter. Wonder if they come with little martini glasses.”
“Thanks so much everyone.” Tara dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “If we don’t start bunco soon, I’m going to turn into a slobbering mess.”
Rita tapped a glass with a spoon to get our attention. I’m not a cowgirl, never even been at a dude ranch, but I swear getting the attention of eleven women must be trickier than roping a calf at a rodeo. No sooner get the attention of one, and another wanders off. “Ladies”—Rita raised her voice and tapped some more—“before we start, let’s raise our glasses in a toast to Tara, an honorary Bunco Babe.”
“Here, here,” the Babes echoed, raising their glasses high.
I glanced at Tammy Lynn, who frowned into her glass of champagne.
“Anything wrong?” I asked in a low voice.
“No, ma’am. I never touch spirits, but…”
“But…?”
“It’s just that I’ve always had a hankerin’ to taste champagne. Somehow it sounds so…so…sophisticated.”
“Well, sweetie, now’s your chance.” I gent
ly clinked my glass against hers. “Drink up.”
We heaped our plates with snacks, refilled our glasses. I gravitated to a seat in the dining room across from Tammy Lynn, who appeared painfully timid and out of place. “Let’s be partners, shall we, for the first round. I’ll keep score,” I added when I noticed she’d topped off her champagne.
Pam and Polly joined us as the rest of the Babes settled at tables in the living and family rooms. Diane rang the bell from her place at the head table, signaling the start of play. I picked up the dice and let them fly. Nada, nil, zippo, my usual luck—or lack thereof. I slid the dice clockwise toward Polly. When she failed to score, she passed them to Tammy Lynn.
“What’s up with Megan?” I asked idly as Tammy Lynn nonchalantly rolled point after point. Do I know how to pick the right partner or what?
“Megan’s at a Kenny Chesney concert at the BI-LO Center in Greenville,” Pam said. “She won tickets on a radio show.”
Polly crossed her scrawny arms over her even scrawnier bosom. “She didn’t win those tickets fair and square. They should’ve been mine.”
“Polly!” Pam paused in the middle of a dice toss. “Are you implying my daughter cheated?”
I sensed a rumble. The Sharks and the Jets kind of rumble straight out of West Side Story. Pam, my even-tempered friend had definitely had her feathers ruffled. She wasn’t about to let any harm befall Megan, her still-in-the-nest chick. But Polly was one tough cookie. She might be our group’s septuagenarian, but she never let age be a handicap. I wasn’t sure on whom to place my bet. Quiet spread over bunco-land like a virus. A peek over my shoulder confirmed everyone had ceased play to watch and listen.
Polly’s blond Clairol curls bounced as she cocked her head to one side, her attitude just shy of belligerent. “Megan and I were on our way home from the mall—you know we shop at the same stores—when the DJ on Whistle 100, 100.5 on the dial, announced they were having this contest. The first caller to know Kenny’s birthday would win concert tickets.”
“So…?” Pam challenged.
“Naturally we both grabbed our cell phones and called the station. I got through first. Problem was I mistook the twenty-six in the article I’d just read about Kenny for a twenty-eight.” Polly’s lower lip jutted in a pout. “Megan won the tickets and didn’t invite me along.”
“Ah, no wonder you’re upset. Megan invited Eric Olsen instead.” Pam resumed rolling the dice, promptly throwing a baby bunco for an extra five points.
Polly wasn’t easily placated. “Folks at People magazine ought to use better ink,” she fussed. “Switch to a kind that don’t smear so much.”
“Admit it, Mother,” Gloria called from an adjacent table. “The ink wouldn’t have smeared if you hadn’t been eating greasy potato chips.”
My turn again. Tammy Lynn and I made a good team. She racked up points; I kept score. “Since when have you been a country and western fan, Polly?”
Polly sniffed as she rolled a series of ones. “Ever since I accidentally tuned into the CMA awards and gotta eyeful of Kenny in a tight pair of jeans.”
Oh, yeah. It so happened I caught the same CMAs—Country Music Awards—show myself and have to admit Kenny Chesney looked fine, mighty fine indeed, in those snug, faded blue jeans.
“’Fess up, Polly.” Pam smiled, her good humor restored. “You finally realized what you’ve been missing all these months by postponing cataract surgery.”
“Bunco!” Monica yelled from the family room.
When round five came along, I found myself sitting with Connie Sue, Claudia, and Rita at table two. That, by the way, is another one of bunco’s perks. Every round we rotate players and tables. This gives us a chance to socialize with everyone instead of being stuck with a single partner for an entire evening. Now I’m not mentioning anyone by name, but some people are liked better in small doses.
“Did you enjoy Sheila’s cocktail party, Saturday?” I asked Claudia as I shoved the dice toward her. I saw Rita’s mouth tighten at this and realized she hadn’t been on the guest list. Too late now. I’d gone and put my foot in my mouth.
“Sheila certainly knows how to throw a party. BJ and I had a great time.”
There it was again, a certain note in Claudia’s voice that had me scrutinizing my friend more closely. “I thought you weren’t going to date until hell froze over—or words to that effect.”
“I didn’t…I wasn’t,” she amended, keeping her eyes on the dice. “But BJ’s, well, BJ’s…different. He’s become a really good friend. Plus, he’s loads of fun.”
Mmm.
Connie Sue’s hands were in constant motion, scooping, shaking, tossing. When her run of luck ended, she slid the dice to Monica. “Rita, you’re a close friend of Sheila’s. Did you know Vaughn was once engaged to Betsy Dalton?”
Rita helped herself to a foil-wrapped chocolate. “She bragged about it once, but I wasn’t surprised. Sheila’s been stealing other women’s boyfriends ever since she hit puberty. Betsy probably hates her guts.”
As we began our second set, Tammy Lynn and I found ourselves at a table with Diane and Monica. Tammy Lynn’s eyes were bright, her face flushed, her manner more animated than usual. When I spied her nearly empty champagne glass, I knew the reason. The bell rang, and the rattling of dice commenced.
“By the way, Tammy Lynn,” I said offhandedly, “did the sheriff send those plants off to the lab?” Was I a bad person for taking unfair advantage of the girl’s inebriation?
“He surely did, ma’am—I mean Kate—but he wasn’t smilin’.”
“Too bad.” I marked down the points Diane had scored. “If the man smiled more often he could pose for a recruiting poster. Instead that frown of his scares everyone away.”
“What kind of plants?” Diane asked, sorting through the mixed nuts. Not finding a cashew, she settled for a hazelnut.
“Oleander and hydrangea. I can’t help but wonder if a plant or shrub made Vaughn and Sheila sick.” I watched as Tammy Lynn rolled points like nobody’s business. When it came to bunco, the girl was a natural.
“They’re both toxic,” said Monica the omniscient. “Did you know small children have died from mistaking Carolina jessamine, the state flower, for honeysuckle and sucking its nectar?”
“Many plants are toxic, but not all of them are deadly,” Diane pointed out reasonably. She let the dice fly and earned two points. “If you like, Kate, I can do some research at the library.”
“Thanks, Diane. I’m trying to narrow the list of possible culprits,” I told her. Diane happens to be a whiz with computers and a superwhiz at research.
Tammy Lynn effortlessly rolled a series of ones that left us agog. “Meemaw,” she continued once her extraordinary run ended, “has foxglove in her side yard. She said that’s where heart medicine comes from.”
Monica nodded. “Digitalis.”
Foxglove? I made a mental note to check that out, especially in view of the fact Vaughn suffered heart problems.
“My meemaw”—Connie Sue’s head swiveled in our direction—“had castor beans along her back fence. Used to threaten us kids with a dose of castor oil if we misbehaved. Kept us in line, let me tell you. These days the old dear would be charged with child endangerment.”
Monica scanned her score sheet, pleased with the points she and Tammy Lynn were accumulating. “Did you know castor beans contain ricin, which is five hundred times deadlier than cyanide?”
I snapped to attention in midtoss. “How do you know that?”
She shrugged as if to say “no big deal when you’re as smart as I am.” “I watched a documentary not long ago about a political dissident—Russian, I think. It was called The Case of the Lethal Umbrella. The man was jabbed in the leg by a stranger with an umbrella while crossing a bridge. A couple days later, he was dead.”
I leaned back, trying to process all this. “Diane, how soon can you get me the info?”
“Give me a couple days,” she said absently, focusing on
the game.
“Can you put a rush on it?”
“Drop by tomorrow. I’ll ask one of the volunteers to shelve books.”
The bell sounded the end of the round
When scores were tallied at the end of the evening, no one was surprised that Tammy Lynn was the big winner. Connie Sue smiled broadly as she placed the glittery rhinestone tiara atop the girl’s mousy brown hair. “There you go, sugar.”
Tammy Lynn tentatively touched her crown. “I feel like a princess.”
Connie Sue tilted her head to one side, studied the girl, then stuck out her hand. “Honey lamb,” she drawled, “meet your fairy godmother.”
Chapter 25
The following day, Diane handed me a thick manila envelope. “I found quite a bit of material.”
“I owe you,” I said.
“Not me, the library. That’ll cost you fifteen cents a copy—library policy.” Diane held out her hand. “Consider it a donation to the new children’s playground.”
I dug money from my wallet and gladly paid the fee—er, donation. “By the way, thanks for giving Tammy Lynn a lift home last night. Her brother brought her by this morning so she could get her car.”
“Glad to do it. It wasn’t much out of my way.”
“The poor girl has absolutely zero tolerance for alcohol. Except for her first glass of champagne, Rita switched her over to sparkling cider, which is…”
“…alcohol free.” Diane grinned. “Polly, on the other extreme, can drink a stevedore under the table. The sparkling cider was Gloria’s idea.”
“I guess the margarita incident is still fresh in her memory.” Recently, Polly had assisted me in crime solving. The episode we’re referring to involved beer, cigarettes, and tequila.
Behind me, someone harrumphed loudly. Unbeknownst to me a line had formed. Glancing over my shoulder, I found patrons loaded with books, DVDs, and books on tape. It was time to get a move on.
I was eager to study the material Diane had unearthed. I could’ve gone home, but it was hard to concentrate over the buzz of a saw and the whine of a drill. Could’ve stayed at the library, too, but the library didn’t serve coffee or lemon meringue pie. Besides, I deserved a treat. I’d rationalize this later, but right now my taste buds were set on autopilot.
