Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

The green-eyed monster opened its mouth and took a bite. Was Bill frequenting the diner for more than pastries? Maybe to admire Krystal’s Barbie-doll bosom? Jealousy? At my age? I quickly squashed the thought as unworthy.

“No, thanks, Krystal,” he said.

She went off, but not before I noticed the wink she gave him. Sheesh! How was a card-carrying member of AARP supposed to compete with a woman half her age? And a pregnant one to boot.

Oblivious of any undercurrents, Bill dug into his pie. “So, tonight’s the big night.”

I stared at him blankly before it dawned on me. “Right,” I said, relieved to have my mind functioning again. “The audition.”

“Suppose we’ll have a big turnout?”

I shoved my empty plate aside. “If my phone’s ringing off the hook is any indication, we will. News about Lance has drawn a lot of attention. Gotten folks curious.”

“I don’t know the first thing about judging auditions. How do you propose we go about this?”

“I thought we’d take our cue from American Idol. You can be Simon.”

Bill looked at me over his coffee cup. “Is he the good-looking, popular one?”

“That’s the one. You have until seven p.m. to brush up on a British accent. Since I hate giving anyone bad news, I’m appointing myself Paula. I’ll just tell everyone how great they look.” I held up my hand to ward off any objections. “I know, I know. She’s no longer on the show, but she was always my favorite.”

“What about Janine? Who’s she supposed to be?”

I shrugged nonchalantly. “She’s going to be Randy Jackson.”

Bill polished off the last of his pie. “Isn’t Randy a man?” “Yeah.” I drained the last of my coffee. “And to complicate matters further, he’s black. Janine’s going to have to ad-lib.”

I glanced at my watch. “Gotta run.”

“Me, too.” Bill dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then reached for his wallet, extracted some cash, and tossed it on the table. And I thought I was a generous tipper. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”

“Guess so,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door. Unless, that is, the sheriff threw me in the slammer for withholding evidence, aiding and abetting, or the old standby, obstruction of justice.

It was silly to drive to the sheriff’s office when I could have just as easily walked. Since I skipped Tai Chi, I could’ve used the exercise. I was afraid, however, that if I left my car parked near the diner, I might’ve been tempted to return for more fortification in the form of lemon meringue pie.

I happened to look into my rearview mirror and watch as Bill pulled into the parking space behind me. As I opened the car door, I spotted Monica and Rita approaching from the opposite direction. Rita waved when she saw me. Monica merely grimaced. It appeared we were all headed for the same destination. Did that mean we were all going to be charged with a laundry list of felonies? Could we choose our cell mates?

Bill, always the gentleman, held the door open as we filed in.

Bernie Mason looked up from a dog-eared issue of Field & Stream as we entered. “What’re you guys doin’ here?”

Gus Smith was present, too, but he merely grunted.

Tammy Lynn, drab as usual, dressed head to toe in beige, rose from her desk and did a head count. “Sheriff asked me to show y’all down the hall to the interview room.”

Nervous looks bounced back and forth between us like banked shots off a pool table.

Rita assumed the no-nonsense expression that probably worked well in her former position as branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. “I, for one, would like to know what this is all about,” she demanded.

To her credit, Tammy Lynn didn’t falter. She was no shrinking violet about to default on a loan. “Ma’am, the sheriff will explain everythin’. Kindly be patient.”

“Patient?” Monica huffed. “I want to know why we’re being treated like a bunch of criminals when we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“The sheriff will explain,” Tammy Lynn repeated, holding open the door of the interview room.

I was surprised to step inside and find Claudia along with BJ Davenport seated side by side at the battered metal conference table. It was the Claudia of old-almost. Gone was the fire-engine red hair and back was the softer, strawberry blond shade I’d always admired. But gone still were her sparkle and zest.

“Hey, Claudia,” I said by way of greeting, taking the chair next to her.

She mustered a smile. “Hey, yourself.”

We were freshmen assembled for the class I’d come to think of as Inquisition 101. I peered into the corners for telltale torture devices. No thumbscrews in plain sight. No stakes piled high with kindling. But I didn’t trust wily Sheriff Wiggins. As for stakes and kindling, the ever-efficient Miss Tammy Lynn Snow probably kept a supply handy in the storeroom.

The door banged open. At least, it sounded like a bang because it had that kind of effect. We straightened in our seats, our spines erect, our nervous systems on full alert. The sheriff’s entrance seemed to elicit that kind of reaction, even for the pure of heart. This trick was even more impressive than the one-eyebrow lift thingy he’d perfected.

“Mornin’, y’all,” said the Grand Inquisitor himself.

We seemed to be suffering from an epidemic of lockjaw. Even BJ held his tongue.

The sheriff dragged out the chair left vacant at the head of the table and lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. “Suppose y’all are wonderin’ why I called y’all here…”

My case of lockjaw subsided. Unable to stand the strained silence another second, I piped up, “Not counting you, Sheriff, we have eight people here. Just the right number for two tables of bunco. Anyone bring dice?”

I had hoped to inject a little humor, break the ice so to speak, but not even a coast guard cutter could have broken through tension this thick.

The sheriff shot me a look. If his eyes had been lasers, I’d have been ash. “Let’s start over again-before the interruption,” he drawled. “S’pose y’all are wantin’ to know why I asked y’all here this mornin’.” he repeated for the benefit of the deaf, feebleminded, or terminally irreverent amongst us.

We nodded in agreement. Our movements were so coordinated, I wondered if the others would be game to form a synchronized swim team. Senior Olympics, here we come. Then the image of Bernie Mason in a swimsuit popped into mind, and I scrapped the notion.

“I won’t waste your time or mine any longer.” Sheriff Wiggins slapped a manila envelope on the table and slowly withdrew a report. “Got the results back from the lab in Columbia. Y’all remember bein’ tested for GSR and fingerprinted?”

BJ adjusted his bow tie, this time a polka-dot affair. “I assume since you called all of us here, the evidence incriminates more than just my client.”

“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” Bernie surged to his feet, his face an alarming shade of fuchsia. “I object to being lumped in the same category as the one who pulled the trigger and killed her husband-”

“Deader ’n a doornail,” I muttered, louder than I intended.

Bernie gave me a fish-eyed stare. “I was about to say,” he said, sounding miffed, “deader ’n a skunk.”

“Well, excuse me all to pieces.” Take that, Bernie Mason.

If Sumter Wiggins had had a gavel, he would have banged it. The glare he sent us served just as well. In another life, he’d have made a good nun. He tapped a forefinger the size of kielbasa on the pages in front of him. “This came in yesterday. I found it interestin’, to say the least, that so many of you had managed to test positive. Some of you in both categories.”