Whack 'n' Roll (12 page)

We were unusually silent as we played the final round and tallied scores. Janine was the night’s big winner with over seven hundred points. She wore the tiara with queenly aplomb.

“Everyone’ll be able to spot me two aisles away at the Piggly Wiggly,” she said, winking at me as she left.

As the ladies began to file out, Megan, sweet little Megan, gave me a hug. “Love you, Kate.”

Polly and Gloria were the last to leave. It might have been my imagination, but Polly’s smile didn’t beam its usual wattage. In fact, it seemed a bit strained. “Be careful, dear,” she said as she lowered her voice and patted my arm. “There’s a killer on the loose.”

 

Now that everyone had finally gone home, the house seemed unusually quiet. I jumped when the phone rang, and ran to pick it up. It always made me a little nervous when the phone rang at this hour.

“Mother, how are you?” It was Jennifer, our daughter (or should I say
my daughter
now that Jim’s dead? I’m never quite sure) calling from California.

“I’m fine, dear.” I used to be “Mom,” but apparently got promoted to “Mother” after Jen’s move to the West Coast. After Jim died, both Steven and Jennifer thought I should return to Ohio. Mind you, neither of the kids still lives in Ohio. No way. They couldn’t wait to leave Toledo. Not even the lure of Tony Packo’s famous Hungarian hot dogs could keep them there. From the time they entered college, they yearned for bigger and better. Somewhere more exciting. Big cities and sprawling suburbs beckoned with an appeal impossible to ignore.

“I forgot about the time difference,” Jen said apologetically.

“It’s always good to hear your voice, honey. Regardless of the time.”

And I meant it.

After marrying her college sweetheart, Jason Jerrard, Jennifer moved to California. They have two little girls, Juliette and Jillian. The “Four Jays,” as I refer to them, live in Brentwood, the same place O. J. Simpson used to live. Jennifer and Jason own a big house with an even bigger mortgage.

Personally I always thought Jason was somewhat of a geek. Not much to look at, but then I always told my girl not to judge people by appearances. Jennifer didn’t. She’s a smart girl, my Jen. She saw beyond the nerdy glasses, poor posture, and mismatched clothes. It’s amazing what contact lenses, confidence, and Armani can do for a man. Jason is now a high-priced attorney with a long list of celebrities as clients. He spends his days creating contracts and clauses Hulk Hogan himself couldn’t break.

“I hope you weren’t asleep.”

“No, your timing’s perfect. The girls just left.”

“The girls? Oh, you mean the women you gamble with.”

Jen just couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of a nonsensical dice game like bunco. I had tried to explain it on numerous occasions, but obviously my explanations fell short. “Bunco isn’t gambling, dear. It’s simply a . . . game.”

“I’d hate to think you were gambling away your pension.”

“There’s no money involved, Jen. You make it sound almost illegal.”

“Isn’t bunco what the high rollers do in Vegas? Only there they have another name for it . . . craps, I think.”

“Playing bunco with the girls is nothing at all like rolling craps in Vegas,” I said with asperity. Actually I’ve never been to Vegas, so my knowledge is rather limited. But I do watch movies. And I’ve seen those tacky T-shirts that read WHAT HAPPENS IN VEGAS STAYS IN VEGAS. You can bet that slogan exists for a mighty good reason.

“Craps, bunco, whatever. It’s nice you found a hobby. Jason and I worry you might be bored in a community with all those elderly people.”

Elderly?
I bit my tongue before correcting her distorted view of active adult communities. “People here in Serenity Cove Estates believe age is a state of mind,
not
a date on a driver’s license.”

Jen continued, nonplussed. “It’s dangerous to become inactive. Studies show that mental exercise reduces the risk of getting dementia.”

Dementia?
As if
elderly
weren’t insulting enough, now I’m getting senile? Oh! The arrogance of the young. “Jen, you must be the one who’s bored if you’re reading studies on aging. For heaven’s sake, join a book club.”

“Playing dice games may be fun, Mother, but you need mental stimuli to retard the aging process.”

“Honey, there’s too much happening in Serenity Cove Estates to ever get bored.”

I heard Jen stifle a yawn. “Really?”

“Really,” I replied, determined to set her straight. “Take right now, for instance. I bet I’m getting enough mental stimuli for a woman half my age.”

“Mother, are you in some sort of trouble?”

From her sharper tone, I knew I had succeeded in grabbing her attention.
Elderly? Demented?
I’d show her. “I’m helping the sheriff solve a murder,” I said, sounding a trifle smug.

“You’re what!”

“You heard me, dear. Along with the rest of the Bunco Babes, I’m helping Sheriff Wiggins solve a murder.”

“Murder? Whose murder?”

“I’m afraid we won’t know that until we discover who the arm belongs to.”

“Arm? What arm?”

“Who’s on first; what’s on second,” I wanted to tell her. Once again that old Abbott and Costello routine ran through my mind. I wanted to say “I-Don’t-Know’s on third,” but was afraid Jen would fail to see the humor. Instead I said, “Relax, honey, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I heard her draw a calming breath. “Mother, I’m going to sit down now. Then I think you had better start from the beginning.”

And so I did.

Dead silence followed my account of the last few days. The quality of long-distance calls has vastly improved since my youth, but still I never trust them a hundred percent not to lose the connection. “Jen, honey, are you still there?”

“Mother,” she said, her voice shaky, “I take back everything I ever said about Serenity Cove being boring.”

I smirked; I couldn’t help it. I got a lot of satisfaction from hearing her admission.

“That . . . that place simply isn’t safe. Pack your suitcase. As soon as we hang up, I’m going to call the airlines and book you a flight out of there first thing tomorrow.”

Apparently I had smirked too soon. “There’s no need to get upset, dear,” I tried to placate her. “Serenity Cove is perfectly safe. Why, only today, Sheriff Wiggins reassured everyone at a town hall meeting. He said law enforcement feels this was an ‘isolated incidence of violence.’ ” I was proud of myself for using the sheriff’s direct quote. Emboldened, I took my new acronym out for a stroll. “He’s already called in SLED.”

“Sled? Mother, you’re not making any sense.” Jen’s voice was rising again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Perhaps Jen lives too close to Hollywood for her own good. Even as a child she tended to overdramatize.

“I’m fine, dear,” I assured her. “
SLED
stands for
South Carolina Law Enforcement Division
.” How could she not be impressed with that bit of information? That should prove beyond a doubt that my brain cells were getting plenty of stimuli.

Jennifer switched tactics. “Jason and I would both love to have you visit. And the girls would be delighted. You could drive them to all their activities. They both take ballet and tap. Just last week, I enrolled Jillian in soccer and gymnastics. Juliette started violin lessons and needs someone to listen to her practice. You’d love it.”

Listening to an eight-year-old practice violin wasn’t exactly my idea of a vacation. And though I’d dearly love to observe a dance class or soccer game, the thought of being a chauffeur in heavy California traffic didn’t appeal to me. “Save your money, sweetheart. I don’t need a plane ticket. I have no intention of going anywhere right now.”

“I wish you’d reconsider, Mother. I worry about you in
that
place.”

I assured her again I was perfectly all right in Serenity Cove Estates, then changed the subject. When the phone conversation ended fifteen minutes later, I made a mental note to be more careful of what I told my daughter in the future—no matter what the provocation.

Chapter 13

I thought about the previous evening as I waited for my bagel to toast. I was glad the Babes had agreed to pitch in with the investigation. I could hardly wait to do my part and grill—I think that’s the term cops use—Earl about the disappearance of his wife. I’d look closely for beads of sweat to appear along his hairline—at least what was left of it. And I’d watch his eyes. Did they dart? Did they dilate? No detail, no matter how small, was going to escape my attention.

My bagel popped up, and I slathered it with cream cheese. The reduced-fat variety. In spite of what some might think, I do make healthy choices now and again. After pouring a cup of coffee, I plopped down in the nook and began planning my day.

I needed to drive into town to stock up on groceries. My cupboards were beginning to resemble Old Mother Hubbard’s.

I took a bite of bagel and grimaced. Pain sharp as an ice pick stabbed my lower jaw. Gingerly I felt around the area with the tip of my tongue and encountered a rough edge that hadn’t been there before. My molars were at it again. I tried a sip of coffee and winced. That dad-blamed tooth was also sensitive to heat. Time for a trip to the dentist. I had ignored similar symptoms once before and lived to regret it.

Problem was, I was picky when it came to dentists. The dentist I had been seeing had just retired to Hilton Head, and I hadn’t gotten around to replacing him. As usual, I turned to my favorite go-to person for a recommendation and dialed Pam.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure. What’s up?”

“Seems like I’m in need of a new dentist. I know Megan works part-time as a receptionist for one in Brookdale. Is he any good?” What I really wanted to know was if he was going to hurt me. I have a severe case of dental phobia dating back from childhood. I’m still waiting to grow out of it. Maybe by the time I hit eighty.

Pam laughed. “Kate, you’re such a baby.”

“Hmpph!” I sniffed. “Only when it comes to dentists. The rest of the time I’m big and brave.”

“His name is Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. Megan says all his female patients are in love with him.”

“I don’t want to fall in love. I just want a dentist who believes in Novocain—and lots of it. Every time I hear that drill, I get flashbacks to a movie I saw years ago about an evil dentist torturing the good guy to find out where the diamonds are hidden.”

“Oh, yeah,” Pam murmured. “I vaguely recall a movie like that. What was the name again?”

“Was it
Man of La Mancha
?”

“That doesn’t sound right.”

“Could it have been
The Manchurian Candidate
?”

“That doesn’t sound right either.”

“Darn! I hate these senior moments.” These sudden memory gaps make playing Trivial Pursuit next to impossible. I’ll wake up with answers in the middle of the night, but by then can no longer remember the questions. Jennifer would think I’m demented for sure.

“Hey, I hate to cut you off,” Pam said, “but I’ve got to run. I’ve got a hair appointment in twenty minutes.” She rattled off the number for Dr. Jeffrey Baxter, and then disconnected.

No sense putting off the inevitable. I refilled my coffee mug and took another swallow, careful to avoid the troublesome molar, then dialed the number Pam had just rattled off.

“Good morning. Dr. Baxter’s office,” Megan answered, her voice irritatingly cheerful.

“Hi, Megan. It’s me, Kate.”

“Hi, Kate. Sorry, but if this is about bunco, I can’t talk right now. The office is hopping. We just got an emergency root canal.”

“Wait, Megan, don’t hang up.” If she hung up on me now, it might take weeks, or an emergency root canal, to get me back on the line. “I need an appointment to see Dr. Baxter. Your mother said he’s good.”

“All the patients love him,” Megan giggled.

Lordy! What in the world was going on? Women seemed to be falling in love all over the place. Good looks and a little charm turned women into putty. Where was their backbone? Where was their pride? Then I thought of Bill Lewis and shut up.

Megan cleared her throat and turned professional again. “Unless this is an emergency, Mrs. McCall, the doctor is booked solid for the next two weeks.”

I reexplored the worrisome molar with my tongue. No twinges, tingles, or stabbing pain. “No emergency,” I said. “Just give me a date and time, and I’ll be there.”

I hung up, pleased at my bravery. And even more pleased that I had been granted a two-week reprieve. I said it before, and I’ll say it again: I’m a dyed-in-the-wool procrastinator. Especially when it comes to dentists.

 

Dinner over, I tried to relax in front of the TV, but couldn’t seem to concentrate. The sitcom seemed more silly than funny, the laugh track forced. I finally clicked off the remote and prowled the great room, rearranging a stack of magazines, plumping pillows that were already plump. All day I had dithered and dallied, trying to think of the right approach for my interrogation of Earl Brubaker. It certainly would be nice to cross at least one person off my missing-persons list—that is, if Rosalie was actually in Poughkeepsie.

I stopped prowling and stared out the window. The night was still young. Time to quit procrastinating. As long as I was in sleuth mode, I might as well check things out.

In spite of the Brubaker house being just across the way, I hadn’t seen any activity there in days. Had Earl become as reclusive as Howard Hughes? Maybe he had fallen and couldn’t get up. I had watched those commercials on TV where a little old lady lay helpless for countless hours until rescued by a kindly neighbor. What are neighbors for if they can’t be helpful?

I was halfway to the door when I hesitated. What if Earl was his usually surly self? Or worse yet, what if he thought I’d developed the hots for him? I’d feel pretty foolish without a plausible excuse for another nocturnal visit. Then it came to me like that proverbial bolt out of the blue. I’d return the sugar I had borrowed. But this time I’d be fully clothed—not in my bathrobe.