Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“Ten thousand?”

Something in my tone must have alerted him. His brows knit in a frown. “Lot of folks argue over lesser amounts.”

I mentally replayed my earlier conversation with Claudia. The amount she’d mentioned was considerably more than ten thousand, though I have to agree with the sheriff on one point: Ten thousand is a heap of money.

“I’ll admit I did hear them talk about a Super Bowl bet. Lance, it seems, had a gambling problem, but you know that already, so why am I here?”

“Any other financial problems you’re aware of?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Lance had expensive tastes and a limited budget. My friend, Mrs. Ledeaux, told him she’d had enough of his spending.”

“Was that all she said?”

“Ah, not exactly.” I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. Criminals probably confessed just so they could find a softer chair.

The sheriff leaned back, folding his arms over a line-backer-sized chest. “S’pose you define ‘not exactly.’”

I stared down at my folded hands. I could use a manicure, I noted. I could use a good stiff drink even more. How far would I get if I made a run for it? I recalled BJ’s advice: Come clean and don’t embellish. I hauled in a deep breath and let it rip. “I heard Claudia tell Lance she’d find a way to get him out of her life. I think she planned to divorce the low-down, nest egg-sucking snake.”

“She mention divorce?”

“Not in so many words.” I took one look at that lifted brow and those hard-as-drill-bit eyes and knew I was going to sing like a canary. “She might have said something along the lines of, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ ”

He made a note of this.

I felt like pond scum. No need for thumbscrews. Just call me Tweety Bird. “I suppose you know about the Jag?” I asked in a small voice.

“As in Jaguar… the expensive automobile?”

I nodded miserably. “Lance ordered one from a dealer in Augusta.”

The sheriff let out a low whistle. “Man sure had good taste.”

Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Through my most grievous fault. Forgive me, Claudia, I have caved. At this point in the interrogation hardened felons, repeat offenders, even psychopaths, probably broke down and confessed to stealing crayons from the five-and-dime as youngsters. Sheriff Wiggins, alias the Grand Inquisitor, had that kind of effect once he shifted into “official” mode.

“That’s it. Am I free to leave?”

“It would’ve saved us both time and effort if you’d told me all this at the beginnin’,” he drawled lazily. “Wouldn’t have had to call you back, but now you know the difference between an interview and an interrogation.”

I stood, slinging my purse over my shoulder. “Just because Lance was a freeloader doesn’t mean Claudia killed him. You admitted yourself that he was a gambler. Anyone could have put a bullet in that gun.”

“Who’d know Ledeaux would step into the role of villain that particular night and insist they use props?”

“It could’ve been anyone at rehearsal. Everyone heard Lance announce he was going to take Bernie’s place after our break. It was his idea that Claudia use the gun to make the scene more realistic.”

“Who else wanted him dead?” He tapped his pen against the table and regarded me thoughtfully.

“Lance wouldn’t have won a congeniality award if he was the only contestant. Why, that very afternoon, I saw him having what appeared to be an argument with a dark-haired woman behind the Piggly Wiggly. I think the woman happens to be my new neighbor, Nadine Peterson. And my friend Polly saw Lance chummy with a dark-haired woman she swears is my houseguest, Krystal Gold. So you see, Sheriff, there are plenty of persons of interest.”

I strode toward the door, pleased with myself for having fired an answering salvo. One problem lingered, however. I paused, my hand on the knob. “Are you certain your source had his facts straight when he told you Lance bet ten thousand on the Super Bowl?”

The sheriff stopped jotting notes and looked up. “Yeah, why?”

“If you check bank records, you’ll find Lance made a withdrawal for thirty thousand, not ten.”

He shuffled through a pile of papers until he found the one he wanted. He ran his finger over the page until he found the entry he searched for. “Says here, ten grand to the bookie; another ten grand found on the body.”

“I’m no math whiz, but ten and ten add up to twenty. That leaves another ten thousand unaccounted for.” I hitched my purse higher. “Follow the money, Sheriff. Follow the money.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You still watchin’ those cop shows on TV?”

“Never miss Law & Order. That bit of advice courtesy of Cyrus Lupo, homicide division.” I smiled for the first time since entering. “Good detective, but the man needs a shave.”

As I left the office, I gave a fleeting glance out of habit to the Most Wanted posters tacked near the door. I’m always on the lookout for a familiar face. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.

It was rather nice having the house to myself for a change-not that Krystal was a nuisance; just the opposite. She kept pretty much holed up in her room along with Tang, that darn orange cat forever following her. The two seemed to have formed a connection of some sort over my albacore tuna. Tonight Janine had picked Krystal up after dinner and the two headed for rehearsal. Apparently my services weren’t required. Janine said she wanted to concentrate on the scenes involving Krystal’s and Gus’s characters and bring them up to speed. She wanted them to get into the space, whatever that meant.

I decided to make the most of my solitude. I settled on the sofa with a dish of rocky road ice cream in one hand, The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating in the other. I hoped to glean a shred or two of wisdom from the book. Sheriff Wiggins clearly needed all the help he could get-whether he admitted it or not. At times the man couldn’t see past the end of his nose. He was so set on Claudia’s being guilty, he wasn’t even trying to apprehend the real culprit. Fortunately, he had the help of the Babes.

Leafing through the book, I wondered if perhaps the situation warranted an emergency bunco session. Maybe if all of us put our heads together we could find out who really killed Lance. With all the hullabaloo about the play and rehearsals, bunco had been shoved to a back burner. We needed to bring it forward and crank up the heat.

The phone rang just as I finished scraping the last spoonful of ice cream from the bottom of the bowl. After the day I’d had, I really wasn’t in the mood for conversation, but I quickly changed my mind when I heard the caller’s voice.

“Steven!”

“Hi, Mom.”

Jim always liked to boast that our son inherited his brains and my looks. I’d have been happier if he’d inherited an urge to call his poor widowed mother more often. Steven’s calls are sporadic at best. I know, I know. He’s busy. But I ask you, how many times do I have to remind the boy of how long I was in labor?

“Great to hear your voice, honey. Where are you this time?” Steven has an important job buying do-dads and gizmos for a well-known chain based in New York City. His work takes him all over the globe-to places only a few can locate without the help of Google.

“I’m still at the office,” he said. “I was about to meet some friends for a drink, but I wanted to call first.”

“Any special reason for the call, dear?” Hope springs eternal for the mother of a son who’s still single at thirty-something. I keep wishing he’d meet a nice girl, someone like Tara, perhaps, settle down, raise a family. So far he’s married to his job. Occasionally I hear references to friends-friends named Sam or Joe. I’d rather hear about friends named Kimberly or Ashley. But what’s a mother to do?