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. Just 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 peered 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 MacGillicudy’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 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.”
“OK, 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 applecart.
“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 stand.” 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 OK. 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.
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 promised only 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, palm up. “Just be patient. I think I’d better start at the beginning.”