'Til Dice Do Us Part (22 page)

I stood, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Just because Lance was a freeloader doesn’t mean Claudia killed him. You admitted yourself that he was a gambler. Anyone could have put a bullet in that gun.”

“Who’d know Ledeaux would step into the role of villain that particular night and insist they use props?”

“It could’ve been anyone at rehearsal. Everyone heard Lance announce he was going to take Bernie’s place after our break. It was his idea that Claudia use the gun to make the scene more realistic.”

“Who else wanted him dead?” He tapped his pen against the table and regarded me thoughtfully.

“Lance wouldn’t have won a congeniality award if he was the only contestant. Why, that very afternoon, I saw him having what appeared to be an argument with a dark-haired woman behind the Piggly Wiggly. I think the woman happens to be my new neighbor, Nadine Peterson. And my friend Polly saw Lance chummy with a dark-haired woman she swears is my houseguest, Krystal Gold. So you see, Sheriff, there are plenty of persons of interest.”

I strode toward the door, pleased with myself for having fired an answering salvo. One problem lingered, however. I paused, my hand on the knob. “Are you certain your source had his facts straight when he told you Lance bet ten thousand on the Super Bowl?”

The sheriff stopped jotting notes and looked up. “Yeah, why?”

“If you check bank records, you’ll find Lance made a withdrawal for
thirty
thousand, not ten.”

He shuffled through a pile of papers until he found the one he wanted. He ran his finger over the page until he found the entry he searched for. “Says here, ten grand to the bookie; another ten grand found on the body.”

“I’m no math whiz, but ten and ten add up to twenty. That leaves another ten thousand unaccounted for.” I hitched my purse higher. “Follow the money, Sheriff. Follow the money.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You still watchin’ those cop shows on TV?”

“Never miss
Law & Order
. That bit of advice courtesy of Cyrus Lupo, homicide division.” I smiled for the first time since entering. “Good detective, but the man needs a shave.”

As I left the office, I gave a fleeting glance out of habit to the Most Wanted posters tacked near the door. I’m always on the lookout for a familiar face. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.

 

It was rather nice having the house to myself for a change—not that Krystal was a nuisance; just the opposite. She kept pretty much holed up in her room along with Tang, that darn orange cat forever following her. The two seemed to have formed a connection of some sort over my albacore tuna. Tonight Janine had picked Krystal up after dinner and the two headed for rehearsal. Apparently my services weren’t required. Janine said she wanted to concentrate on the scenes involving Krystal’s and Gus’s characters and bring them up to speed. She wanted them to get
into the space
, whatever that meant.

I decided to make the most of my solitude. I settled on the sofa with a dish of rocky road ice cream in one hand,
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating
in the other. I hoped to glean a shred or two of wisdom from the book. Sheriff Wiggins clearly needed all the help he could get—whether he admitted it or not. At times the man couldn’t see past the end of his nose. He was so set on Claudia’s being guilty, he wasn’t even trying to apprehend the real culprit. Fortunately, he had the help of the Babes.

Leafing through the book, I wondered if perhaps the situation warranted an emergency bunco session. Maybe if all of us put our heads together we could find out who really killed Lance. With all the hullabaloo about the play and rehearsals, bunco had been shoved to a back burner. We needed to bring it forward and crank up the heat.

The phone rang just as I finished scraping the last spoonful of ice cream from the bottom of the bowl. After the day I’d had, I really wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but I quickly changed my mind when I heard the caller’s voice.

“Steven!”

“Hi, Mom.”

Jim always liked to boast that our son inherited his brains and my looks. I’d have been happier if he’d inherited an urge to call his poor widowed mother more often. Steven’s calls are sporadic at best. I know, I know. He’s busy. But I ask you, how many times do I have to remind the boy of how long I was in labor?

“Great to hear your voice, honey. Where are you this time?” Steven has an important job buying do-dads and gizmos for a well-known chain based in New York City. His work takes him all over the globe—to places only a few can locate without the help of Google.

“I’m still at the office,” he said. “I was about to meet some friends for a drink, but I wanted to call first.”

“Any special reason for the call, dear?” Hope springs eternal for the mother of a son who’s still single at thirty-something. I keep wishing he’d meet a nice girl, someone like Tara, perhaps, settle down, raise a family. So far he’s married to his job. Occasionally I hear references to friends—friends named Sam or Joe. I’d rather hear about friends named Kimberly or Ashley. But what’s a mother to do?

“I’ll get right to the point, Mom. I talked to Jen last week.”

I mentally tried to recall the gist of my conversation with my daughter. No red flags waved in the breeze. I was home free. “It’s nice to know you and your sister keep in touch.”

“Jen’s worried about you, and so am I.”

“Whatever for? I’m perfectly fine.” Or at least I thought I was before picking up the phone. Now I was starting to have doubts.

“Jen told me you were involved with some man out for your money, your pension.”

I blinked. Man, what man? Did Lance have an evil twin? “Steven, what on earth are you talking about?”

“Jen said you’re seeing some gigolo by the name of Bill Lewis. She asked me to check up on him. See if he was on the up-and-up.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Bill, a gigolo? If I weren’t so angry, I would have laughed. “Steven James McCall, shame on you!”

Using my son’s middle name never had the same effect on him as it had on our daughter, but it had been worth a try. Maybe instead of James it should’ve been Louise.

“Jen and I are only looking out for your best interests, Mom. One can’t be too careful these days. There are a lot of guys looking for a free ride.”

I thought of Lance and kept my mouth shut.

“So,” Steven said, “I did what any concerned son would do. I did a background check.”

“You what! Please, tell me you did no such thing.”

“It’s no big deal, Mom. You don’t have to thank me.”

“Thank?
Spank
would be more like it.”

“No need to get upset. It’s not good for your blood pressure.”

“You had no right to pry into my personal affairs.” Oops! Wrong choice of words. I
wasn’t
having an affair. “I meant my personal
business
.”

“You’re being emotional. Background checks are commonplace these days.”

I drew a deep, calming breath. And then another. “Steven, dear, with an attitude such as yours, it’s no wonder you can’t find a wife. Where’s your spirit of romance? What about love and trust?”

“The gang’s waiting for me, Mom. I don’t have time for a lecture. Getting back to the subject—”

“By all means,” I cut in. “Let’s get back to your snooping into my privacy.”

“You’ll be pleased to know this Bill Lewis is who he says he is. His credit rating is good. Other than a mortgage, he has no outstanding debts. He was married only once. His wife, Margaret, is deceased. He has one child, a son living in Ohio. Records show no lawsuits or criminal record. He has never filed for bankruptcy, and there are no liens against his property. Seems like he lived most of his life in Battle Creek, Michigan, which, by the way, is where they make breakfast cereal. And one last thing—he isn’t listed on either the terrorist watch list or as a sex offender.”

“Well,” I said when he finally ran out of breath, “that’s certainly very comforting, but much more than I needed to know.” Whatever happened to the concept of invasion of privacy?

“If you want, Jen or I could fly out, look this guy over, give you our opinion.”

“Absolutely not!” I clutched the phone ’til my knuckles shone white. “Bill happens to be a friend—a very good friend. How would you feel if I started doing background checks on your friends Sam or Joe?”

“This is different,” he answered after a lengthy pause. “You’re a senior citizen.”

“Age has nothing to do with it. I’m not senile.”

“Of course not, Mom. I didn’t mean to suggest you were.”

I detected a hint of condescension in his voice, but before I could take him to task, he mumbled something about having to run, and then he disconnected.

I was still fuming later when I heard Krystal’s key turn in the front door. The sound was followed by an ear-piercing shriek. Instantly I ran to see what was wrong.

“Krystal . . . ?”

She stood on the threshold, her eyes wide in horror, staring down at the doormat. Pointing a shaking finger, she managed to gasp, “It’s . . . it’s . . .”

I followed the direction in which she pointed. A container the size of a shoe box rested on my welcome mat. I forced myself to pick it up when instincts dictated I squeal like a sissy. A dead bird lay inside, its poor little head bent at a forty-five-degree angle. I stared at it in morbid fascination. I couldn’t seem to help it.

“It’s just a dead bird,” I said, stating the obvious. “Tang must’ve left it there. I’m told cats are notorious for doing such things—bringing gifts and offerings of affection.”

Krystal gazed at me as though I had taken leave of my senses. “I never heard of a cat putting his offerings in a gift box. All Tang lacked was a ribbon and a bow.”

The girl had a point. I took a closer look. There was something else strange about this picture. It wasn’t just any bird—a wren or finch—but a canary. A dead canary.

Visions of mobsters in vintage black-and-white films—Cagney, Raft, and Robinson—danced in my head. Didn’t they use dead canaries as warnings to folks who talked too much? Was the real murderer starting to get worried? I continued to stare at the dead canary. It was an omen, I decided.

But definitely not a good one.

“Have you heard the news?”

Pam was the first to arrive for bunco. The others would be along shortly. Actually, it was Janine’s turn to host bunco, but she asked me to trade since being artistic director was taking up so much of her spare time.

“What news?” The cork came loose with a satisfying
pop!
Tonight I was serving a nice pinot grigio—the Babes’ white wine du jour. We’d already sampled our way through a wide variety of chardonnays and Rieslings. I set the wine aside and started to dole out the sweets.

“Claudia”—Pam paused for maximum effect—“has been rearrested.”

Now it was my turn to pause, Peanut M&M’s in one hand, dice-shaped candy dish in the other. “What do you mean—‘rearrested’?”

Pam perched on a stool at the breakfast bar. “Jack, my Jack, happened to be driving by her place after golf committee. He saw a deputy lead her away in handcuffs.”

“Oh my God!” I moaned. “This is terrible.”

M&M’s spilled all over the counter as I threw the bag down and rushed for the phone. I dialed Claudia’s “bad” attorney, but my call went to voice mail, so I had to be content with leaving a message. I felt sick to my stomach at the thought of Claudia’s being arrested a second time.

“This is my fault for being a stool pigeon,” I wailed.

“Don’t blame yourself, Kate.”

Pam picked up the scattered M&M’s and returned them to the dish. I couldn’t bear to look at them. The candies might as well have MOTIVE and MEANS printed on them

“If I hadn’t sung like a canary, none of this would be happening.” Needing to lighten my guilty conscience, I confessed to Pam, my BFF, that I’d spilled my guts to the sheriff during a brutal interrogation.

Pam scooted off the stool and gave me a hug. “Nonsense. You’re giving yourself entirely too much credit. Sooner or later, facts were bound to surface. It’s hardly classified information Lance Ledeaux was an unemployed actor who’d been spending money like crazy ever since he married Claudia.”

“It’s the last of the Big Three,” I muttered disconsolately.

“Ford, GM, and Chrysler?”

Yet another person from Michigan. I mustered a smile. “No, silly, the Big Three as in motive, means, and opportunity. Lance’s extravagant spending goes to supply motive. She already had means and opportunity.”

News Claudia had been taken into custody made my pre-bunco agenda even more imperative; more urgent. For this reason I’d lied—an itsy-bitsy white lie—and told Nadine our game started at seven thirty instead of seven. The Babes and I needed time to discuss Claudia’s case and form a plan of action. Since Nadine was unofficially a “person of interest,” she wasn’t privy to our little discussion.

“Anyone home?” Polly sang out. Not waiting for an invitation, she strolled into the kitchen, resplendent in her version of grunge chic in a tie-dyed shirt and jeans—not just any jeans, mind you, but ones that came premade torn and frayed; the kind no self-respecting wife would allow her husband outside to mow the lawn in for fear of what the neighbors might think; the kind of jeans that cost mega-bucks in upscale department stores.

“Mother’s been shopping,” Gloria explained lest we’d been struck blind by Polly’s dazzling array of colors. Gloria, as though trying to counteract her mother’s flamboyancy, was dressed conservatively in gray slacks and a sweater. The forest of gold chains around her neck supplied the only hint of color.

Monica and Connie Sue were next to arrive, followed in short order by the rest of the Babes. From the noisy greetings and number of hugs, a casual observer would have thought we hadn’t seen one another in an age.