'Til Dice Do Us Part (12 page)

“Something wrong, Kate?”

I wanted to scream but didn’t want to frighten Krystal. This was a disaster of the worst kind. How does one make tuna noodle casserole without the star ingredient? I needed tuna. I needed it now!

“The tuna fish. I-It’s gone.” I felt as if I were losing it. I took a deep breath to quiet my burgeoning hysteria. I wasn’t usually this easily upset. Maybe it was a delayed reaction to seeing a man killed. Maybe it was seeing my hopes of a cozy evening with Bill the Tool Man dashed. Or perhaps—plain and simple—I was going bonkers.

Krystal rose abruptly and left the kitchen. I heard the door leading onto the deck open, then close. She returned a moment later carrying a small cereal bowl. “I’m sorry, Kate. There’s nothing left. It’s all gone.”

Save for one tiny telltale scrap of tuna, the dish had been licked clean. I stared at it in dismay. “What? Who . . . ?”

“He was so scrawny. I felt sorry for him.”

“He . . . ?” I struggled to wrap my mind around the problem before I unraveled completely. Had a beggar in dire need of tuna shown up on my doorstep? And the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What to do about Bill’s dinner? A tuna noodle casserole minus the tuna equals a noodle casserole. Oh, yum!

I shot a glance at the clock. Bill was due any second. No time to run to the Piggly Wiggly. Immediately my mind went to Plan B, only to discover I didn’t have a Plan B. I didn’t have a Plan C either. Drat! I hate when that happens.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill’s pickup turn into my drive. My panic ratcheted up a notch—or three. It wasn’t bad enough there was no dinner; I didn’t have time to primp. I needed to run a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spritz on pricey designer perfume guaranteed to make me a femme fatale.

As if on cue, the doorbell pealed. Frantic, I raced to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of vanilla extract from the shelf, and dabbed some behind each ear. Krystal gazed at my antics in wide-eyed fascination.

“Kate, you’re scaring me. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I added an extra dab of vanilla to the valley between my breasts. I saw this trick recently on one of those morning talk shows. An expert on something or other claimed men found the scent of vanilla irresistible. As an added bonus, it saves buying pricey perfume.

“Then you’re not angry with me?”

The bell rang again.

“There isn’t time,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried toward the foyer. “Angry will have to wait ’til later.”

I flung open the door. “Bill!”

I must have sounded surprised—or out of breath or both—because he looked at me quizzically. “Kate, you all right? You were expecting me, weren’t you?”

“Of course, of course.” My laugh was a nervous fluttery sound. I stepped aside to let him enter. “Come in, come in.” I kept repeating myself but couldn’t seem to stop. My speech pattern mimicked echoes down a canyon.

“I know how much you like Riesling,” he said, handing me a bottle of my favorite white wine.

He looked . . . great! He wore a navy Windbreaker over a blue chambray shirt, which emphasized the color of his eyes, and freshly pressed Dockers. The man didn’t need a tool belt to make my heart dance a samba.

Collecting my wits, I led him into the kitchen, where Krystal stood clutching the empty cereal bowl and looking anxious. I made the introductions and explained Bill had a friend willing to take a look at her Civic but he needed her car keys.

Bill shrugged out of his jacket. “Planned to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper when you called. Couldn’t turn down your offer of tuna noodle casserole.”

At the word
tuna
, Krystal burst into tears.

Bill’s eyes widened in alarm. “Whoa! What did I do?”

I took the bowl from Krystal’s hands and offered her a tissue from the box on the counter. “There’s been a last-minute change in tonight’s menu.”

“I’m s-sorry, Kate,” Krystal blubbered. “He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.”

“Krystal, you’re not making any sense. Who hadn’t eaten in days?”

“The c-cat. The orange cat.” She sniffed noisily. “I saw him prowling around your backyard. He looked half starved, so I fed him the tuna.”

Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The cat I had assumed as feral was always on the lookout for food. “Tang,” I said by way of an explanation. “That’s the cat’s name. He’s been coming around for handouts for months, but seems to be people-shy.”

Bill frowned. “Tang? Like the orange-flavored drink the astronauts used in the space program?”

I nodded. “The one and the same.”

“The space program?” Krystal sniffed.

“If memory serves, NASA first used it during the Gemini missions.”

Bill was a font of information. I wondered if he ever considered being a contestant on
Jeopardy!.
If there were a
Law & Order
or
CSI
category, I might consider it myself.

“Gemini?” Krystal brightened, wiping away the last of her tears. “I’m a Gemini. My birthday’s June thirteenth.”

“The space missions I’m referring to took place in the mid-sixties,” Bill explained patiently.

“Oh,” Krystal said. “That was way before my time. I wasn’t even born yet.”

Bill and I exchanged smiles, then shook our heads. Ah, the innocence of youth.

“Well,” I said briskly, “no sense crying over spilled milk, as the saying goes. Grilled cheese sandwiches sound like the winner. Think I might have some tomato soup to go along with them. And,” I added with a smile, “we have lemon bars for dessert.”

“I’m s-sorry, Kate.” Krystal broke into a fresh bout of weeping. “I ate them.”

I stared at her in disbelief. “All of them?”

She bobbed her head, sniffling and snuffling. “Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I’ve been craving lemon ever since I found out I’m pregnant.”

The sight of cheese sandwiches grilling in a pan sent Krystal flying out of the kitchen. I heard a muffled, “Sorry, morning sickness.” Then a bedroom door slammed.

Bill watched her sudden departure with a befuddled expression. “Morning sickness, this time of day?”

I nodded and turned toward the stove. “Good thing Krystal’s not working the evening shift.”

“From the expression on your face just now, I’d venture this is the first you’ve heard of the woman’s pregnancy.”

“It’s my own fault,” I said, giving the tomato soup a stir. “I should have guessed she was pregnant the second I spotted her with a box of soda crackers.”

“You’ve taken on more than you bargained for, haven’t you? How much do you know about her?”

I shrugged. “Not much. Her real name was Krystal Weindorfer. She changed it to Krystal Gold after she got out of high school. Said she’s originally from Iowa. That’s about it. Oh, yes, one more thing. She’s a sucker for scrawny orange cats with a yen for tuna.”

“And she craves anything lemon,” Bill added.

Both of us chuckled at the reminder of our almost-dessert. It felt good to laugh—nearly like the old, pre-Michigan days.

Over soup and sandwiches, we talked about this and that, impersonal things, keeping the conversation light until our plates and bowls were empty.

“What do you think will happen to Claudia?” I broached the subject we’d avoided thus far.

“It doesn’t look good,” Bill responded. “Any way you cut it, she was the one holding the smoking gun.”

“Just the same, it makes me nervous to see the way Sheriff Wiggins is pursuing the case. Can’t he understand that it was just a dreadful accident?” There I go again using the
A
word. I found it ever so much more palatable than murder and manslaughter. Or worse yet—homicide.

“I’m sure he’ll consider that everyone backstage had access to the gun. It wouldn’t have been all that difficult to slip a bullet into the chamber after Lance announced he was going to read the part of the villain.”

We weren’t talking the
A
word now. We were talking cold-blooded and calculated. Once again my mind balked at the notion. “Who would want Lance dead?”

Other than Claudia
, I wanted to add but didn’t. She didn’t really want him dead as much as wanted him to leave his mitts off her life’s savings. There was a big difference—at least to my way of thinking.

“Ledeaux didn’t seem the sort to make friends easily; quite the opposite. He had a God-given talent for rubbing folks the wrong way.”

Like the brunette I’d seen him with? Even Lance and the usually even-tempered Bill had had a minor altercation before rehearsal. How many others had Lance antagonized?

“What do you suppose the gunshot residue test and fingerprinting will prove?”

“Hard to say. Somehow I don’t think the sheriff will wind up with much more information than he has now.”

I rose from the table and refilled our coffee cups. “I only wish Claudia’d never heard of Internet dating. I don’t know what possessed her to run off and marry a virtual stranger.”

“Hope she had the good sense to have him sign a prenup.”

“Monica said the same thing over breakfast the other day.”

Bill stared into his cup, his expression glum. “My brother said prenups are the only way to go for people our age.”

“They may be practical, but they don’t seem very romantic. Marriage should be based on love and trust. If you can’t trust the person you’re about to marry, whom can you trust?”

Bill smiled that sweet, shy smile I loved to see. “I told my brother exactly the same thing.”

Nice to know we were in total agreement on the subject of matrimony at least. But I refrained from saying this out loud. Lots of men get nervous at any mention of marriage. Some, I’m told, even break out in hives. What I didn’t want to do was send my mild-mannered tool guy running for cover.

“And what did your brother have to say to that?” I asked.

Bill’s smile vanished. “He said, ‘No fool like an old fool.’ Bob’s convinced people our age should exercise caution and common sense before entering into a relationship with someone they barely know. He said if feelings are real, they’d still be there.”

“Hmm. Interesting.” I sipped my coffee while pretending to give the matter serious consideration. But a different notion plagued me. Was Bill’s brother responsible for the distance between us since his return? Had Bill been brainwashed by brother Bob? How was that for a fine example of alliteration? Too bad I couldn’t find humor in it.

I began gathering the dinner dishes. “How is your brother, by the way?” I asked, careful to keep my tone neutral “Has he fully recovered from his bypass surgery?”

“Bob called to tell me he signed up at a gym.” Bill got up from the table and started loading the dishwasher. “Said he goes every day and walks two miles on the treadmill.”

In some respects Bill and I are like an old married couple. We’re as comfortable as an old pair of shoes, yet often-times there’s a certain zing to our friendship/relationship. Right now, I was ready to add a dash of chili powder to the mix. Problem was, I was afraid too much spice might give Bill heartburn, figuratively speaking. I deliberately turned my thoughts from hot to cold.

“Unless Krystal raided the freezer, we should have enough ice cream for dessert. There’s still some of that good hot fudge sauce you brought back from Michigan.” For months, I’d listened to Bill rave about Sanders Milk Chocolate Hot Fudge Sauce, a Michigan delicacy. I’d found a jar on my doorstep along with a brief note after his return. How sweet, pardon the pun, I’d thought at the time. Later, I wondered why he preferred leaving it rather than giving it to me in person. Now I wondered whether Bob was to blame.

“I feel sorry for Janine now that the play is on hold,” I said as I got ice cream dishes down from the cupboard.

Bill eased the door of the dishwasher closed. “How’s that?”

“Janine’s the new president of Pets in Need. If you recall, opening night proceeds of
Forever, My Darling
were going to benefit the shelter they planned to build. The group’s really disappointed the funds won’t be forthcoming.”

“That’s a shame,” Bill commiserated. “Speaking of being newly elected, I forgot to mention I’m the president of the Rod and Gun Club. One of my first projects will be a seminar on gun safety.”

A little like locking the barn door after the horse ran off, I wanted to tell him. No way will a gun safety class benefit Lance Ledeaux—or Claudia. I couldn’t rid myself of the notion that time was running out for her to be a free woman.

 

I kept going over and over everything Bill had said the night before. The bullet didn’t get there by itself. That fact was indisputable. If Claudia didn’t place it there, someone else did. But who? Why? I’d tossed and turned half the night pondering these questions.

I drove into Brookdale and dropped Krystal off at the diner, reminding her I’d be back later to pick her up. I’m not by nature a morning person. The alarm on my body’s clock doesn’t buzz until at least eight; on rare rainy days, even later. Nothing I like better than to snuggle under the warm covers and listen to the patter of rain on the roof. I didn’t know how many of these early mornings I could take. I only hoped Bill’s friend wasn’t just a good mechanic but a fast one.

Home again, I brewed a pot of high-test Colombian coffee. Once the caffeine started circulating through my veins, I picked up the phone and dialed Pam.

“It’s up to the Babes to save Claudia,” I said without preamble.

“Good morning to you, too,” she returned cheerily. “What do you propose we do?”

“If I knew the answer, I wouldn’t be asking for help.” I grabbed the pot and topped off my cup. “Unless we do something, I’m afraid she’s going to be charged with manslaughter.”

“You’ll come up with a plan, Kate. You always do.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly. I wished I shared her confidence. Right now my bag of tricks was running on empty.