Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Claudia rose to her feet, her voice shrill. “How many times do I have to tell you I never intended to kill Lance? Why can’t you believe it was all a terrible accident? That somehow a bullet left in the chamber went unnoticed?”

“Miz Claudia, please,” BJ remonstrated.

Claudia jerked free of his attempt to catch her sleeve. “I planned to divorce the bastard. Not kill him.”

The sheriff didn’t blink, didn’t miss a beat. “So you admit to havin’ marital problems with the deceased?”

I heard a collective intake of breath.

Claudia, my friend, what have you done?

BJ sprang to his feet. “My client admits no such thing. Even a blind man could see the dear woman’s overwrought as a result of your constant badgerin’.”

Claudia flung her head back and laughed. “I’m done mourning the son of a bitch. Should have known better than to marry a man as phony as his dyed hair and fake tan.”

BJ turned to his client. “Unless you plan to find another attorney, Miz Ledeaux, I advise you not to say another word.”

Claudia seemed about to object, but one look at her attorney and she wisely kept silent. Right before our very eyes, Badgeley Jack Davenport IV changed from affable to formidable. For the first time in our brief acquaintance, I could see how the man had earned the sobriquet Bad Jack. If I ever accidentally shot and killed a sleazy con man, he’d be first on my list of lawyers.

Bad Jack tucked his gold ballpoint into the inner pocket of his suit. “Finished, Sheriff?”

“For now.” Sheriff Wiggins flipped his notebook shut but made no move to rise. He pinned us in our places with a hard, penetrating stare. “Accordin’ to the evidence from the state crime lab, I could consider y’all suspects along with Miz Ledeaux. Y’all had means and opportunity. Only thing lackin’ is motive. Once I find that, the case is pretty well sewed up.”

Motive? Oh, boy! Claudia was up the proverbial river without a paddle. Up the river, in this case, being the state pen.

I’d eaten my margherita pizza in blissful solitude. I’d invited Krystal to join me, but she wanted to read her scene a final time before the audition. She’d vanished into her room with the script in one hand, a sleeve of soda crackers in the other. I’d no sooner put the last of the dinner dishes in the dishwasher than the phone rang.

“Kate, it’s for you,” Krystal yelled from down the hall after picking up the extension. “Some woman wants to sell you something. Want me to tell her you’re not home?”

The thought was tempting. Ever since I’d written a check to the college alumni association, they’d been pestering me for another on a daily basis. They’d zeroed in on the most inopportune times: dinnertime, nap time, bathroom time. Patience, I reminded myself. The caller was likely some hapless student trying to earn beer money.

“I’ll take it.” I sighed the sigh of the martyred, ready to be polite but firm as I picked up the phone. “Hello.”

“Mother, is that you?”

“Yes, dear, whom did you expect?” My daughter, Jennifer, lives in California. Not just California, mind you, but Brentwood, home to stars and celebs. She lives there with her husband and former nerd, Jason Jarrod. Jason discovered contacts and Armani shortly after certain powers that be discovered he could forge a contract more binding than Cheddar cheese in a nursing home. Jen and Jason, along with my two adorable granddaughters, Juliette and Jillian-the Four Jays as I call them-lead a charmed life. At least, they do if listening to Jennifer is any indication.

“You sound strange, Mother. Who answered the phone, one of your gambling buddies?”

I’ve tried, but without success, to explain bunco to my daughter. She equates a simple dice game with a den of iniquity involving high-stakes gambling. She fears I’ll lose my retirement pension and end up on the street as a bag lady. “No, sweetheart. It was Krystal, my houseguest.”

“I don’t remember your having any friends named Krystal. Do I know her? What’s her last name?”

Jen was firing more questions than I had the time-or inclination-to answer. “Krystal is someone I’ve recently met. She’s staying with me temporarily until she gets back on her feet.”

“Feet? What’s wrong with her feet? Is the woman crippled?”

Even as a child, Jen had an overactive imagination. Her close proximity to Hollywood seems to have aggravated the condition.

“There’s nothing wrong with Krystal’s feet, dear. It was only a figure of speech.” I lowered my voice, not wanting Krystal to overhear. “The young woman’s been having a run of bad luck. I asked her to stay with me while her car is being repaired and until she earns enough money for a fresh start in Myrtle Beach.”

“I can’t believe you invited a perfect stranger into your home.”

I chuckled. “Trust me, Jen, Krystal’s far from ‘perfect.’ ”

“You know what I mean, Mother. This woman could turn out to be a serial killer, preying on elderly women.”

“I thought we agreed the term ‘elderly’ doesn’t apply when you’re talking about me,” I reminded her sternly. Between Jen’s referring to me by the E word and Steven’s sending me literature on assisted living centers, a lesser person might actually begin to feel old. How that felt, I haven’t a clue.

“Besides, Jen,” I continued, “it’s a well-known fact most serial killers are men.” There, that tidbit was designed to make her feel better about my roommate.

“Sorry, that salient point slipped my mind.”

“No need for sarcasm, Jennifer Louise.” She knows I mean business whenever I resort to using her middle name. She absolutely hates the name Louise, which happened to belong to Jim’s mother. I console her by telling her we could have named her Bertha after my mother. That usually stops further complaints.

Clear across a continent, I heard a sigh. “You worry me, Mother. Inviting a stranger into your home doesn’t show sound judgment on your part.”

“Everything’s fine, dear. No need to worry.” I glanced at the clock, which showed six fifteen. “I can’t talk long, honey. Auditions are scheduled for seven.”

“For that little show you and your friends are putting on? I thought auditions had finished a long time ago.”

Did I hear a yawn in the background? Time to wake her up. “We need to replace both leads because Claudia shot Lance.”

“Shot? As in shot dead?”

“Claudia’s been a wreck even though she’s out on bail.” I smirked. Jennifer wasn’t yawning now. Knowing my daughter’s penchant to overreact, I’d purposely avoided mentioning the incident unless provoked. I hoped I hadn’t gone and put my foot in my mouth, but it was too late now. “The whole thing was an unfortunate accident.”

Do wishes really come true? Or were those simply song lyrics?

“Bill and I were just saying the other day…”

“Bill! Who is Bill?” Jen’s voice rose. “Mother, are you seeing someone?”

Where my children are concerned, I’d kept Bill under wraps so to speak-along with Lance’s untimely demise. After all, I’m a grown woman. I don’t need to report my love life to my children. Take my son, for example. Ask Steven about his dating life, and I get the deep freeze. He’s entitled to his privacy-and I’m entitled to mine. Quid pro quo. The eternal question: Why do some things work in theory only?

“Bill Lewis happens to be a friend of mine. A good friend,” I added.

“A boyfriend!” Jennifer wailed. “Mother, you have a boyfriend? How could you let another man take Daddy’s place?”

“No one will ever take your father’s place, sweetie,” I soothed. “Bill is simply a friend.”