'Til Dice Do Us Part

by Gail Oust

  I was proving to be a menace to myself. After putting a load of unwashed clothes in the dryer and the orange juice in the cupboard, I gave up trying to be productive. My pacing had practically worn a path in the ceramic tile. I fairly fizzed with nervous energy but couldn’t seem to concentrate. It was already ten fifteen and there hadn’t been a single word from BJ. He hadn’t bothered to return my call last night even though I asked him to regardless of the hour. I’d called his office promptly at nine and spoken with Aleatha. She was sweet as pie, but not very helpful. In fact, she was so downright sweet, I didn’t realize how unhelpful she was until after disconnecting. Tricks like that probably make for a great secretary.

  I darted another look at the clock. Were the hands even moving? Maybe we’d had a power outage—one of those glitches that last a split second but necessitate resetting every darn clock and appliance in the entire house. Narrowing my eyes, I squinted at the big hand. Darn, I saw it move a smidge.

  The phone rang, finally, and I made a mad dash to answer, fumbling the handset in my haste.

  “Kate? That you?” It was Bill. “You sound out of breath. Everything all right?”

  I sank down at the kitchen table. “I’m fine, Bill. I was just expecting a call from Claudia’s attorney.”

  “Bad Jack, eh. What’s up?”

  I felt like wringing my hands, which is a little hard to do when holding a phone, so I opted for a sigh instead. “On his way home from the golf committee last night, Pam’s husband saw Claudia being led off in handcuffs.”

  Bill let out a low whistle. “Sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help?”

  “Not at the moment, but thanks for offering.” I knew I could count on Bill. He’d supply a shoulder to lean on, an ear to listen, or lend a handkerchief if need be. Sturdy, dependable, sensible. A true friend. That pretty well summed up Bill Lewis. Of course, he’d never replace Pam as my BFF, but then Pam didn’t inspire the same fluttery feeling in my tummy as Bill did.

  “I wanted to let you know my buddy just dropped off Krystal’s car. It’s purring like a kitten.”

  Mention of a kitten had me glancing around, half expecting to spot Tang lurking nearby and eavesdropping on my conversation. Of late, I’d seen Krystal coax him into the house. Sneaky little bugger, that cat. One look at me, he’d vanish under Krystal’s bed never to be seen again, at least not by me. My tuna, my house, I wanted to scream at the silly critter. I added “ungrateful” to my list of grievances.

  “I know you don’t want to miss BJ’s call, so I won’t keep you. I’ll be happy to drop the car off tonight, provided someone gives me a lift home.”

  “No problem,” sayeth Kate McCall, mistress of understatement. “Krystal has rehearsal, but I’d be happy to give you a ride. She’ll be thrilled to get her car back.” And so would I. This meant no more getting up early to drive her to the diner. Selfish, I know, but to me retirement means no more alarm clocks. Even when I was an early riser, I wasn’t an early riser. I’m just not hardwired that way.

  “Let me know when you hear something about Claudia. And, Kate . . .” He paused. “Don’t let yourself get too upset. It can’t be good for you. See you later.”

  Aw shucks, Bill sounded worried. I smiled a little at hearing that. It’s been a while since a man fussed over me—not since Jim—and I rather liked the notion. I’d been tempted—almost—to invite him for dinner, to lure him into my man trap with beef stew or chicken pot pie, but I stopped myself in the nick of time. I didn’t want to seem like a pushy broad. There’s nothing more pathetic, to my way of thinking, than a woman who sets her cap for an attractive single man and will stop at nothing to gain his affection. My thoughts circled back to Claudia. Is that what she’d done with Lance? If so, look where her machinations had landed her—free room and board at the county jail.

  Another glance at the clock confirmed the electricity was still coursing through wires, conduits, and whatever, although the hands plodded along with painful slowness. Weary of waiting for the phone to ring, I grabbed a light jacket and my purse and headed out the door.

  Fifteen minutes later I found myself in BJ Davenport’s office. Aleatha stopped pecking away at her keyboard, and her round dumpling of a face creased into a smile. “Hey, Miz Kate.”

  “Morning, Aleatha. Is BJ in by any chance? I need to talk to him.”

  “He walked in not more ’n a minute ago.” Maybe I was coming down with a case of acute paranoia, but Aleatha’s smile didn’t seem to beam quite as brightly as before. “Sorry, hon, but he doesn’t want to be disturbed. He’s busy workin’ on a case. You know how it is.”

  Maybe I did; maybe I didn’t, but I did know I wasn’t in the mood to be put off. Aleatha sounded as though she’d taken a page from Tammy Lynn Snow’s manual, How to Protect Your Boss from Nosy Women. BJ didn’t want to be disturbed? I’d show her disturbed if it meant calling in reinforcements. And by reinforcements I was referring to the Babes—armed and dangerous and full of attitude.

  I planted my feet firmly in front of her desk and folded my arms over my chest. “I’m not leaving until I speak with him.”

  Aleatha looked at me long and hard, then chuckled. “Like I always say, girlfriends are like bras. They’re there to give support.” She pointed a fuchsia-painted nail at a closed door. “He’s in his office, but if he asks, tell ’im I was away from my desk. Say I must’ve been on a potty break.”

  “Gotcha.” Turning on my heel, I charged into BJ’s office like a locomotive gathering speed.

  He never looked up from the papers strewn across his desk. “Dammit, woman! Didn’t I warn you—”

  “We need to talk—now.”

  This got his attention. It got mine, too, since I’m usually the candidate most in need of an assertiveness-training seminar. “I demand to know what’s going on with Claudia.”

  BJ’s ever-present bow tie, a wild affair in bright yellow and orange, was askew, the top button of his shirt undone, and his sleeves rolled to the elbows. He hurriedly ran a hand over his snowy mane and almost tipped over his coffee mug in the process. “Miz Kate,” he apologized, “please excuse my attire. Aleatha failed to inform me of your presence.”

  “Aleatha’s in the john,” I stated baldly. “I want some answers, BJ.”

  He tossed down his pen and shoved aside the legal pad. From the resigned expression on his pink, wrinkle-free face, I could tell he knew I wasn’t going to budge until I got some answers. “Forgive me, dear lady, where are my manners? Please make yourself comfortable.”

  I perched like a sparrow on a clothesline at the edge of the comfy-looking client chair he indicated. “The Babes and I are the closest thing Claudia has to family here in South Carolina. And families stick together . . . no matter what.”

  “True, true. Can’t argue with that logic.” He folded his hands over his rotund belly and stared at me across the cluttered desktop. “’Fraid the news isn’t good, Miz Kate; not good at all.”

  My stomach twisted into a knot big enough to hold an ocean liner in port. “Just how bad is it?”

  He pursed his lips, studying me for a long moment, sizing me up no doubt to see if I was a fragile flower or a steel magnolia. “The charge against Miz Claudia has been changed.”

  “Changed to what?” I heard a fragile-flower quaver in my voice.

  “Murder. First degree.”

  His words held me spellbound, unable to move, almost unable to think. I needed a moment to process that Claudia stood accused of murder in the first degree.

  Eventually I became aware of BJ regarding me strangely. He had a should-I-ring-for-the-smelling-salts look on his face. I stiffened my spine and sat up straighter. I’d become a steel magnolia or die trying. “What happens now?”

  “Apparently Sheriff Wiggins convinced the prosecutor that Claudia had a strong motive to kill her husband.”

  “First degree?” I echoed. “Isn’t that premeditated?” Cell by cell, the synapses in my brain started firing again. I shuffled
through my mental filing system of old Law & Order episodes, wishing I’d taken notes instead of simply watching. Maybe I should learn Microsoft Excel and design a spreadsheet. I’d enter such items as criminal charges, clues, and evidence. I’d be so organized, the FBI would beg to study my method.

  BJ continued, his cool gray eyes never wavering from my face. “The fact Bill Lewis and Monica Pulaski both swear the chamber of the Smith and Wesson was empty at the beginning of rehearsal that night means someone—the killer—deliberately and with malice aforethought brought the bullet to the scene and placed it in the weapon. Hence, premeditation.”

  I felt heartsick.

  “Miz Claudia was rearraigned this morning before Judge Blanchard and a bond hearing was held.”

  “So she’s out on bail?”

  He shook his head. “Sorry to say that’s not exactly the way things went. Judge Blanchard happens to be, pardon the expression, a hard-ass. Miz Claudia’s bond was revoked. She’ll be a guest of the county until she comes up for trial.”

  Claudia in jail? This ship was definitely going down, all hands lost at sea. “Why didn’t you call me?” I cried, my voice sharp with anger. “My friends—the Babes—and I would have been there to offer moral support, if nothing else.”

  “I tried to convince her y’all would want to be there, but Miz Claudia was adamant. She made me promise not to call any of you. Said she didn’t want y’all to see her sent to jail. Sorry, Miz Kate, but I was obligated to honor my client’s request.”

  “Of course,” I murmured. “Can I visit her?”

  Glancing around, I understood why Brookdale County Jail wasn’t listed as a tourist attraction. I’d never been inside the county jail before—or, for that matter, any other kind of jail. I’d hoped to keep my record unsullied. Before being allowed into the visitors’ room, I’d been patted down, wanded for weapons, and had my purse searched for contraband by a prison guard who bore a striking resemblance to Jabba the Hutt.

  All dingy green cinder block and worn brown linoleum, the place, in my humble estimation, was in dire need of a serious makeover. Air freshener would also have been a boon. It reeked of stale—stale sweat; stale hope. A waist-high partition and sheet of grimy Plexiglas separated the visitors from the inmates. I took a seat on a hard-backed wooden chair and prepared to wait.

  Eventually a door buzzed open on the opposite side. I barely recognized the woman who emerged in the rumpled orange jumpsuit. It broke my heart to see Claudia this way, bereft of makeup, her hair combed but not curled, and with dark circles under her eyes. She was followed into the room by an armed guard, a fortysomething female whose ample figure strained the seams of her beige and brown uniform. The guard took up a post just inside the door in case Claudia wanted to make a break for it.

  “Hey,” I said, mustering a smile.

  “Hey, yourself,” she answered. “I almost told the guard to send you away.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t.” I started to rest my hands on the counter between us, but jerked them away when I encountered something sticky. Cooties? I folded my hands in my lap instead. “I want you to know your friends haven’t deserted you. Don’t think for a minute any of us believes you’re guilty.”

  “God, Kate, how did I ever get into this mess?” Claudia closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head. “What will my sons think?”

  “Surely they need to be told what’s going on. Want me to call them?”

  “Not yet. I’d like to wait a while longer.” She drew a shaky breath and tried to smile. “Maybe the miracle I’m praying for will happen, and I’ll wake up from this horrible nightmare.”

  “You’ve got the best trial attorney around. Surely that must be some comfort.”

  “Of course, it is. BJ’s been wonderful.” She glanced over her shoulder at the guard who looked to be asleep with eyes wide-open, then dropped her voice. “The prosecutor convinced Judge Blanchard that the sheriff has a strong case against me. Things don’t look good.”

  I tugged on my lower lip, debating how much—or how little—to say. Go for it, Kate, I counseled. Things can’t get much worse. “Claudia, hear me out. I’ve given the matter a great deal of thought, and I agree with Sheriff Wiggins on one point. The bullet didn’t get into the chamber all by itself. Someone had to have put it there.”

  “But who?”

  “Bill swears the gun wasn’t loaded when he gave it to Lance, and I believe him. Monica said she checked it herself exactly the way he showed her, but saw only blanks in the cartridge.”

  “I swear on my mother’s grave, Kate, it wasn’t me.”

  “I know, honey, but think hard. Do you know of anyone who might have wanted Lance dead? Any enemies he might’ve had?”

  Her forehead crinkled in concentration. “None that I know of.”

  Ignoring the stickiness, I tapped my fingers impatiently against the worn wooden counter. “You mentioned Lance was fond of gambling. That he placed a good-sized bet on the Super Bowl. You also once said you left Vegas sooner than planned. Could that be because of any gambling debts he might’ve had?”

  Claudia seemed to consider this, then shook her head sadly. “I wondered about that myself, but I don’t think so. I checked my bank statements pretty carefully, but didn’t come across any large withdrawals, except for the thirty grand I told you about. I think Lance just wanted to remove himself from temptation. Besides,” she continued, “he’d just finished Forever, My Darling and was eager to get it into production. He was convinced Serenity Cove Estates’ close proximity to Atlanta would be a big plus—the perfect place to stage his masterpiece.”

  “The sheriff mentioned they’d found another ten grand on Lance’s body. Even in my math-challenged mind, ten and ten add up to twenty. Do you have any idea where the other ten thousand could have gone?”

  Claudia thought it over, then shook her head. “No, not a clue.”

  My line of questioning seemed to have reached a dead end. We sat, neither of us speaking, while I searched for another approach. None of my favorite TV detectives would’ve given up this easily, and neither would I. “Think back, if you will, to the night of the shooting.” There, that sounded like an oft-scripted line. Regardless of what some people, such as Monica, try to tell you, a person can learn lots from watching TV. “Is there anything that stands out in your mind?”

  Throwing back her head, Claudia closed her eyes. “I remember how loud the last shot sounded. So loud it made my ears ring.”

  Hmm. Now that she’d mentioned it, I’d noticed, too. With each utterance of Take that in the script’s line, Take that! And that and that! the sound of gunfire had seemed to grow progressively louder until the final ear-shattering blast. A fitting conclusion, I’d thought at the time.

  “Anything else?” I prompted.

  Claudia opened her eyes, then rubbed her temples; whether she was deep in thought or fending off an impending migraine I couldn’t tell. “There is one more thing. . . .”

  At some point in our conversation, I should’ve brought out my little black notebook and taken copious notes. I could have kicked myself for the oversight. Details like that could cause me to flunk Private Investigating for Wannabe Detectives.

  “The gun kicked as I fired the last shot. I almost dropped it right then and there.”

  “That it?”

  She nodded, looking exhausted—exhausted and old. “It all happened so quickly, but just for an instant I imagined surprise crossed Lance’s face.” Blinking back tears, she added, “I may have wanted him out of my life, Kate, but I didn’t want him dead.”

  Chapter 29

  “Coffee?”

  “Decaf?”

  “Does a cat have nine lives?” I winced at my choice of words. Cat, kitten, tuna, they all reminded me of the same orange feline.

  Bill settled onto a stool at the breakfast bar. “If I drink regular coffee after six, I turn into a frequent flier on the old movie channel at all hours of the night. Must be a sign of getting ol
d.”

  “Mmm . . . I love old movies. Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland.” I filled two mugs with decaf and took the stool next to Bill.

  “Bogart and Bacall.”

  “Hepburn and Tracy. They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  True to his word, Bill had come by with Krystal’s car. His mechanic friend had even washed and waxed the little Honda Civic until it gleamed. I hadn’t said a word to Krystal about her car’s being returned. I wanted to surprise her.

  Bill took a cautious sip of coffee. “How come Krystal’s at rehearsal and you’re not?”

  “There’s something to be said for having a bit part.” I cradled the coffee mug in both hands, savoring its warmth. “Janine wanted to focus on act one. I have to hand it to Krystal. She never seems to mind all the time spent in rehearsals. She’s a real pro. Did I tell you she had a part in the road company of Grease in Atlanta?”

  “Atlanta?” Bill raised a brow. “Say, wasn’t Lance there in a play of some sort when he and Claudia hooked up?”

  “You’re right, he was. You don’t suppose . . . ?”

  Bill considered the possibility, then shook his head. “Nah, too much of a coincidence. What are the chances?”

  For an instant, I thought we might be on to something. Disappointment left a bitter taste in my mouth. “Atlanta is huge,” I admitted grudgingly. “Lots of theatrical stuff going on in a place that size.”

  But just in case it wasn’t happenstance, I made a mental note to swing by the library and ask Diane if she’d come across anything interesting when she Googled Lance. “Not to change the subject,” I said, “but I visited Claudia this afternoon.”

  Bill paused, peering at me over the rim of his half-raised coffee mug. “How’s she holding up?”

  I shrugged. “As well as can be expected, I guess, for someone with a first-degree murder charge hanging over their head. I know in my heart she’s innocent, Bill. I’m not going to rest until I find out who’s responsible.”