Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Surprisingly, Krystal managed to sleep through the entire bunco game and ensuing brouhaha. I envied her. That kind of ability almost made me wish I were pregnant. Notice the word almost.

After driving Krystal to work at the Koffee Kup the next morning, I bided my time over coffee and a blueberry muffin. There was no sense driving all the way home, just to turn around again. Besides, muffins were a nice change from my usual bagel and cream cheese routine.

While savoring my second cup of coffee, I made a mental note to call Bill and have him put a bug in his friend’s ear. Krystal needed her car-and sooner rather than later. The problem was she had no money. In a moment of uncontrollable generosity, I’d offered to pay for the repairs. I used to lend money, but no more. I’ve found loaning money is the best way of destroying a friendship or blighting a relationship. Now I donate money, no strings attached. If I get paid back, great. If not, so be it.

A glance at my watch told me it was nine o’clock and time to leave. I left Krystal, who’d waited on me, a hefty tip. Maybe she’d use her tip money to repay me. Maybe pigs will fly.

Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s office was located three blocks down, across from the courthouse. The cornerstone of the two-story brick building bore the date 1887. His name was neatly stenciled on the door in gold letters. While the exterior may have been unimpressive, the same didn’t hold true for the interior. The minute I stepped foot inside, I felt as though I were in a Victorian parlor. A settee in ruby red velvet and several overstuffed chairs were grouped near a fireplace with a hand-painted tile surround. A gigantic Boston fern occupied the space usually reserved for logs. An Oriental rug in tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald covered the hardwood floor. I don’t know much about antiques, but I’d wager the elaborately carved mahogany end tables were genuine and not reproductions. Bad Jack, it seemed, was a man with expensive tastes.

A woman with lots and lots of yellow hair piled high and sprayed within an inch of its life sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. The large flat-screen computer monitor was the only modern concession.

She turned to greet me, her round face wreathed in a friendly smile. “Mornin’. How y’all doin’?”

“Mornin’,” I returned, unintentionally imitating her lazy drawl.

“Name’s Aleatha Higginbotham. I’m BJ’s personal assistant,” she said with an irrepressible giggle. “Sounds much fancier that way than sayin’ I’m his secretary, don’t it now?”

I found myself instinctively warming to the woman. Ms. Higginbotham looked as soft and fluffy as one of those body pillows I’d seen on sale at Target-and just as comfy. She seemed to favor bright, splashy colors-pinks, purples, and reds-if her present outfit was any indication. Some might call her flowered polyester blouse gaudy, but I thought it suited her just fine.

“What can I do for you, hon?”

“I’m here to see Mr. Davenport. He’s representing a good friend of mine,” I added.

“I don’t suppose that person happens to be Ms. Claudia Connors Ledeaux, would it now?”

“Why yes, how did you guess?”

“I like to tell folks I’m psychic, but don’t think anyone believes me.”

I wasn’t sure quite how to respond, so I chose the easy route. “Is Mr. Davenport in?”

“He called to say he’s running a mite late. Shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you have a seat? Care for a soda? I’d be happy to put on some coffee.”

“Ah, thank you, but no.” I gingerly lowered myself onto the velvet settee. I bet even repeat offenders were careful not to crush the fabric.

“Had you pegged for a Yankee the minute you walked in. Almost offered you iced tea, but all’s I got is sweet tea. Most folks from up north don’t care for it. It’s an acquired taste.” She straightened a stack of mail on the edge of her desk, lining it up with military precision. “Sorry about your friend’s trouble. But she’s come to the right place. If anyone can help, it’s Badgeley.”

I couldn’t help but notice she referred to her employer by his first name. “Have you worked for Mr. Davenport long?”

“Heavens, yes,” she said with a laugh that set her ample bosom jiggling. “Ever since he got out of law school.”

“So he’s always had an office here in Brookdale?”

“Mercy, no. He had a thrivin’ practice over in Birmingham. Sold it and moved to Brookdale after the missus died. I had nothin’ keepin’ me in Alabama, so I packed up and came along. Real happy here, too. Guess both of us are small-town folks at heart. Where did you say you were from?”

“Toledo,” I replied. What the heck, it wasn’t exactly a state secret. Slick as ice, the woman had me answering a question that hadn’t been asked. Maybe I should take notes.

“Toledo? That in Indiana?”

“Ohio.”

“Right, Ohio. Never had cause to cross the Mason-Dixon Line. Like it fine here in the South. Did go to Vegas once, though. Isn’t that where your friend hooked up with Mr. Ledeaux?”

Our conversation ended when Badgeley Jack charged through the front door. “Sorry I’m late, Miz McCall. I went by the jail to see my client, then stopped at the courthouse. Her arraignment’s set for this afternoon at one.”

The Babes and I presented a united front at Claudia’s arraignment, filling the entire first row of the courtroom. Diane, Tara, and Megan had managed to finagle time away from work. Diane agreed to stay an hour later at the library. Tara, brave soul, traded nap time for playtime with a coworker at the day care center. Megan arrived at the last minute in pink dental scrubs after bribing a friend to switch lunch hours. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill slip into a seat at the rear. Eric Olsen, out of uniform in jeans and a polo shirt, slid in beside him in a show of support for a fellow actor. I noticed he gave Megan a friendly wink as she hurried past. Um, interesting… I wondered if more than friendship had blossomed between the pair.

Promptly at one o’clock, Judge Rochelle Blanchard entered and took her seat on the bench. She was an attractive woman I estimated in her mid-forties with skin the color of café au lait. Her tall figure made an impressive sight in the flowing black robe with its starched lace collar. The stern, unsmiling expression on her face had me wondering if she was related to Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.

Just then a side door of the courtroom opened. Claudia, accompanied by Badgeley Jack Davenport, stepped out and approached the bench. My heart wrenched at the sight of her. She looked drawn and pale after a night in jail. She still wore the same outfit she had at bunco, but the wool slacks and sweater were wrinkled and no longer looked fresh. Although she had run a brush through her hair and applied lipstick, no amount of makeup could conceal the dark circles under her eyes.

“I hate to see her like this,” I whispered to Pam.

“Me, too,” Pam said, giving my hand a squeeze.

“Suppose she knows we’re here?” Gloria wondered, her voice hushed.

“She knows,” Janine answered. “I saw her glance our way.”

The judge banged her gavel, and we lapsed into silence. A slight man with thinning hair and stooped shoulders-the prosecutor, I assumed-joined Claudia and her attorney. The bailiff read the charge of involuntary manslaughter.

Polly leaned across her daughter to ask, “What’s that mean?”

“Shh, Mother.”

Polly’s lower lip jutted out, clearly not happy at being shushed. Believe me, it isn’t a pretty sight when a septuagenarian pouts like a two-year-old.

Judge Blanchard leveled a look at Claudia. “How does the defendant plead?”