'Til Dice Do Us Part (13 page)

“No problem. That’s what BFFs are for.” Pam sounded inordinately proud at her use of teen jargon. “How’s your houseguest doing? You two bonding?”

I waited a beat, then dropped the bomb. “She’s pregnant.”

“She’s what?”

“You heard me. Preggers, knocked up, got a bun in the oven, with child, in the family way.” I recited my thesaurus.

“I get it, I get it! Well, that explains why she fainted. And why she’s so well endowed.”

“That and a boatload of silicone,” I replied. “Krystal’s what I’d call BBFBBM.”

“BBwhat? Kate, have pity on me. I’m texting impaired.”

I simply couldn’t keep myself from grinning. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied worrying over Claudia, I would have done my happy dance right there in the middle of the kitchen. Shows what surfing the Net can do to expand one’s vocabulary. “BBFBBM,” I informed her smugly, “stands for body by Fisher, brains by Mattel.”

I heard Pam moan from blocks away. “Kate, you are sooo bad!”

“I know, but you love me anyway.”

“By the way, how did your ‘date’ go with Bill last night?”

I never should have mentioned—however casually—that Bill was coming for dinner last night. “It wasn’t a date, Pam. It was more of a fiasco.”

I proceeded to tell her about Krystal’s feeding a stray cat my last can of tuna, then polishing off the lemon bars I’d intended for dessert. While giving Pam my sob story, I happened to glance out the window. I nearly dropped the phone when I saw a dark-haired woman get out of an expensive-looking silver gray automobile across the street, pop the trunk, and take out a set of expensive-looking luggage.
Expensive
being the operative word. And not just any dark-haired woman, but one who looked vaguely familiar.

“Pam, I think someone’s moving into the Brubaker house.”

“You sound a little . . . distracted. Anything wrong?”

I leaned forward for a better look, my nose brushing the glass. “Unless my eyes are deceiving me, the woman looks like the one I told you about. The one I spotted with Lance behind the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Promise you won’t do anything foolish—such as confront her and accuse her of murder.”

“Promise.” Confrontation would never do. The situation called for subtlety. “Gotta run.”

Confrontation vs. subtlety. After some thought, I decided subtlety probably wasn’t my strong suit. I tried to strike a balance and came up with a semisubtle plan for introducing myself to my new neighbor—and possible murder suspect. I appointed myself as a one-woman Welcome Wagon.

I hummed as I put chocolate-chip cookies, still warm from the oven, into a pretty flowered gift bag and added contrasting tissue. I’d even substituted macadamia nuts for the usual pecans. My neighbor ought to be impressed with my culinary skills, at least those in the cookie department. For a final touch, I tied the handles together with matching ribbon. After admiring my handiwork one last time, I picked up the bag and trotted across the street.

I rang the bell, prepared to don my friendliest smile. I was going to bond to Serenity Cove’s newest resident like Gorilla Glue, a glue that advertises to work when others fail.

I waited, then waited some more. Was the lady of the house indisposed? Deaf? Antisocial? I was about ready to give up and try a different tactic when the door opened. A fog of cigarette smoke drifted out like pine pollen on a spring breeze.

“Don’t know what you’re selling, but I don’t want none,” came a voice so deep and raspy, it was hard to tell if its owner was male or female.

I discreetly placed my foot between the door and sill. “I’m not selling a thing.” I smiled so sweetly, it might’ve induced a diabetic coma. “I just wanted to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

After a moment’s hesitation, the door opened wider, and I caught a good first look at my new neighbor. The woman was older than I initially thought, but then years of heavy smoking can cause premature aging. I know this because Monica lectured on the subject once during bunco. A network of fine lines fanned out from the corners of her eyes and striated her upper lip. In my opinion, her hair was way too dark to look natural. It put me in mind of aging male actors who dye their hair in a vain attempt to regain their youth. These men should take a tip from their female counterparts and go for the lighter, softer, kinder shades—not who-are-you-kidding black.

Enough said! Back to the subject at hand. My neighbor was also a little heavy-handed in the cosmetics department, especially when it came to eyeliner and mascara. In spite of the clumped lashes and black liner, her eyes, a pale watery green, were probably her best feature. She wore a red V-neck sweater with metallic stripes, snug black jeans, and gold hoop earrings the size of saucers.

I may have been giving her the once-over, but she was doing the same with me. It was probably a good thing neither of us could read minds. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Kate McCall. I live across the street.” I held up the bag of goodies. “I brought you a little something.”

From the way she suspiciously eyed the gift, I wondered if she was the long-lost white sheep of the Wiggins family. Her look made me feel like one of those maligned door-to-door vacuum cleaner salesmen. I shifted from one foot to the other. I’d half a notion to return home and eat the cookies myself. “Chocolate-chip cookies are my specialty,” I said in a last-ditch effort as Welcome Wagon hostess.

She took them reluctantly. “Thanks.”

Just as she was starting to close the door, inspiration struck—or perhaps it was desperation in the guise of inspiration. “Do you play bunco?”

“Bunco? You mean the dice game?”

“Yeah, that’s the one. It’s been around for ages.”

The woman shrugged diffidently. “Used to play a long time ago . . . when my daughter was little. Why do you want to know?”

“A group of us get together a couple times a month to play. Rosalie, the woman who used to live here, subbed occasionally. Since you’re new to Serenity Cove Estates, I wondered whether you’d like to fill in sometime if we’re short a player. Give you a chance to meet some of us.”

“Name’s Nadine, Nadine Peterson.” The woman cracked a smile, an honest-to-goodness smile. “Just made a fresh pot of coffee. Care to join me?”

“Sure, I’d love to.” I breathed a sigh of relief. My friendly overtures weren’t a flop after all.

“Place is a mess. Wasn’t expecting company,” she said, leading me through the house.

I peeked into the living room as I trailed after her. Except for the absence of framed photos, nothing much had changed since my last visit months ago. I couldn’t help but wonder if anyone had informed the new tenant that the previous occupant had been murdered.

Nadine motioned to countertops cluttered with bags and boxes. “Warned you the place was a disaster.”

I picked a box off a kitchen chair and placed it on the floor. “Didn’t know Earl had the house on the market.”

“He doesn’t, or at least not yet. I’m renting until I make up my mind whether I want to move here permanently.” She began opening and closing cupboards.

“If you’re looking for cups, the one on the right.”

She turned to me with a frown.

“Rosalie, the old owner, and I used to be friends,” I explained. “We’d get together for coffee every now and then.”

“
Used
to be friends? You’re not anymore?” She pulled two mugs down from a shelf.

This was proving a tad awkward. Hadn’t anyone mentioned parts of Rosalie had been dispersed in and around Serenity Cove Estates? Since body parts don’t mix well with coffee and cookies, I opted for the easy way out. “Ah, Rosalie died rather unexpectedly,” I said.

It occurred to me that as far as the information highway went, I was giving out more than taking in. What I really wanted to learn was whether Nadine Peterson was the one I’d seen skulking around with Lance behind the Piggly Wiggly. Yet Polly was certain she’d seen Lance with Krystal. We couldn’t both be right. Or could we? Nah, what were the odds of Lance being involved with two brunettes? Besides, brunettes weren’t his type. I clearly remember Claudia’s saying Lance was partial to redheads such as Marg Helgenberger on
CSI
. Polly must have been mistaken. The woman I’d seen him with drove a late-model silver sedan, not a beat-up Honda Civic, a car I’d come to associate with Nadine.

Time to get on with my investigation. Best to start with the easy questions and go from there. My recently arrived text,
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating
, had advised that to get people to talk, first get them to like you; become their friend; be charming and witty.

“So, Nadine, what brings you to Serenity Cove Estates?” I asked in my most charming and witty manner. “Do you have friends here?”

Nadine set a jar of Cremora and packets of sweetener on the table along with two mugs of coffee. “Don’t know a soul in this place,” she confessed, sitting opposite me.

Don’t know a soul? Not even Lance Ledeaux, actor and playwright?
Was I mistaken and not Polly? Or was the woman an accomplished liar? Time would tell.

I took a cautious sip, careful not to burn my tongue. “There are dozens of retirement communities all over the South. How did you happen to settle on this one?”

Nadine dumped nondairy creamer into her cup, then added two packets of sweetener. I was beginning to wonder whether or not she was going to answer. She might think I was just plain nosy. Imagine!

“An acquaintance recommended this place,” she answered at last in that raspy smoker’s voice, “so I thought I should check it out. If I don’t like it here, I’ll head farther south, maybe Tampa or St. Pete.”

I wondered whether that acquaintance could have been Lance. If so, judging from the little scene I’d witnessed, the reunion hadn’t been a happy one. I took another sip of coffee and considered my next move. My guidebook had warned against breaking an established bond with the interviewee. Rather than chance that happening, I took a slight detour.

“As much as Serenity Cove Estates loves gossip, I suppose you’ve heard about the director and star of our play getting shot during rehearsal.”

She reached for a pack of Marlboros nearly hidden behind a sack of canned goods. “Mind if I smoke?” She didn’t wait for an answer before pulling out a cigarette.

Actually I did mind, but detectives have to make sacrifices to solve their cases. I noticed Nadine’s hand trembled, and I took this as a clue I was on to something.

She cursed under her breath when her Bic lighter failed after several flicks. Successful at last, she took a long drag, then blew a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Yeah,” she muttered, “I heard people talking in the checkout line at the grocery store.”

“Such a shame,” I murmured sorrowfully. “He was quite a famous actor, you know.”

“You don’t say.”

“You’d probably recognize him if you’d seen him. He’s had bit parts in some movies and been on TV.”

In my humble opinion, Nadine Peterson seemed visibly upset, but she was trying to hide it. I needed to know why. I’d be relentless if I had to. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins, beware; I’m giving notice.

She tapped ash into a saucer I recognized as part of Rosalie’s good china. I tried not to cringe. “What did you say the guy’s name was?” she asked.

“I didn’t, but it’s Lance. Lance Ledeaux. Ever heard of him?”

“Nope, can’t say I have,” she said, taking another deep drag on her cigarette.

I smothered a cough. “Lance played a corpse once on
CSI
. When he was shot, we all thought he was faking it—trying to impress us with his acting ability.”

Smoke belched out of her mouth at her harsh bark of laughter. “How much ‘acting ability’ does it take to play a dead guy?”

“He was pretty convincing.”

“Has the person who shot him been arrested?”

“My friend Claudia shot him, but it wasn’t her fault,” I explained, standing to leave. “No way Claudia would kill someone. It was an accident.” I was still in denial and reluctant to admit that someone had deliberately put a live round into the chamber, knowing Claudia would fire the gun at Lance. “In due time, the facts will come to light and prove her innocent. And,” I added, “if it wasn’t an accident, all we have to do is find out who might have wanted Lance dead. Piece of cake, right?”

Even though I’d caught only a glimpse of her, I felt reasonably certain Nadine Peterson was the same woman I’d seen with Lance behind the Piggly Wiggly. Why would she deny knowing him? The question plagued me as I slowly walked home. I vowed to find the answer.

That night was bunco. I hoped the evening’s game would be a distraction. It’d been more than a week since Lance was shot. Instead of being reassuring, the extended radio silence from the sheriff’s department was making me increasingly jittery.

The Babes’ powers of persuasion had been taxed to the max. We’d coaxed, cajoled, and threatened, and in the end Claudia agreed to join us. She’d been in a funk ever since that fateful night—understandably, given the circumstances. But we were determined to do our darnedest to cheer her. At times like these, you needed to surround yourself with girlfriends.

My home was the designated site for the “intervention.” I’d spent all afternoon preparing for the event. While going through my recipe file earlier that day, I’d come across an old tried but true recipe for whiskey sours. This had been our friend Pete’s specialty drink. He and my husband, Jim, had once worked together, and the two men had remained friends into retirement. It helped that Pete’s wife, Elaine, and I also got along famously. I’d smiled as I concocted a batch and stuck them in the freezer. Pete’s whiskey sours had the reputation for putting everyone in a happy mood.

Next, I’d pulled out the recipe Rosalie had once given me for her favorite appetizer—Asiago cheese toast. All that was left to do was pop it under the broiler until brown and bubbly.