Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Ask any of my former houseguests and they’ll attest to my being an ideal hostess. I’d never dream of interfering with a guest’s privacy. After all, every person deserves their own space, and I respect that. This in mind, I picked up a stack of freshly laundered towels and headed for Krystal’s room.

And since I was already there, I decided I might as well look around.

I dutifully replaced the soiled towels with the fresh ones. I’d have to be blind as a bat not to notice the tubes of lip gloss, pots of blush, and wands of mascara strewn across the surface of the vanity.

Hitting PAUSE on sleuth mode, I strained my ears for any telltale sounds that might indicate Krystal’s return. The house was still. Thorough being my middle name, I tiptoed to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was no sign of Krystal’s car in the drive. If this were a movie, music would start to swell at this point, heightening the audience’s sense of suspense. I suppose I could have hummed a few bars, but I contented myself instead with tentatively sliding open the top drawer of the vanity.

I sucked in a breath. I’d struck pay dirt with the first shovel load. The entire drawer fairly exploded in a bonanza of hairbrushes, banana clips, headbands, and ponytail holders. My eyes rested on one elastic ponytail holder in particular that happened to be entwined with several long brunet strands of hair. Reaching for it, I accidentally knocked several of the brightly colored bands to the floor. As I replaced them, I noticed something dark and shiny shoved to the back of the drawer. I stared, fascinated, then slowly pulled the drawer out as far as it would go.

A dainty little handgun was nestled amongst the barrettes and headbands.

Next to it lay a box of bullets. They weren’t just any bullets, mind you, but, according to the bold black print on the box, the 9mm sort-the same caliber that killed Lance. I could feel my heart loudly knock against my ribs. I removed the box from the drawer, although it almost seemed to come of its own volition. As carefully as a bomb technician defusing a device that went ticktock, I slid off the cover…

The box was half empty.

Polly frowned at me from her spot on the sofa. “Since when are you an expert on guns?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what makes you so sure the bullets are nine millimeter?”

I smiled, feeling smug. “Because that’s what it said on the label.”

“Ohh… Good detective work.”

Polly took another sip of her margarita. She was already on her second, and I’ll confess, I was a little concerned. If our suspect didn’t show up soon, we’d both be schnockered and in no shape to collect evidence. “Don’t forget our plan once Nadine gets here,” I warned. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“Do cats have whiskers?”

Not only did they have whiskers, but I had firsthand knowledge of their voracious appetite for tuna. I don’t know if all cats were programmed that way, but Tang certainly was. That confounded feline also had a predilection for the strange and unusual in the gift-giving department. Just yesterday I’d found a dead mouse on my doorstep when I went to bring in the paper. Then there was the matter of the dead canary, its poor little head all twisted, but I can’t lay the blame on Tang. He hasn’t mastered the nicety of gift boxes.

Polly helped herself to some of the bar mix I’d set out. “Next thing you know, you’ll be joining the Rod and Gun Club.”

“Stranger things have happened.” I helped myself to bar mix as well. In honor of Plan A, as I’d come to think of it, I’d brought out a gourmet concoction of mini pretzels, salted nuts, and garlic chips I’d been saving for bunco, along with a requisite case of Bud Light.

“Sure Nadine’s coming?”

I shifted on the sofa and plumped a pillow. “She didn’t say for sure. Said she’d think about it.”

“You mean I’m risking my liver, and she might be a no-show?”

“She’ll show,” I said without much conviction. My mind busily worked on Plan B, which also hinged on an ample supply of beer.

I was nearly ready to concede defeat when I heard a knock at the side door. I jumped up to answer before my guest changed her mind. “Nadine…,” I cried with the enthusiasm usually reserved for BFFs. I slipped my arm through hers and drew her inside. “So glad you could join us for happy hour. We were afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Ah, well, I got a little bored sitting around. Dr. Phil was a rerun.”

Thank you, Dr. Phil, I said silently. Aloud I said, “Polly and I were just talking about you.”

She peered at me suspiciously. “Yeah, what about?”

“We’d like the chance to get to know you better.” I led her toward the great room where my partner in crime eagerly awaited.

“Almost did change my mind.” Nadine shrugged off her black leather jacket and slung it over a chair. “Never turn down a beer, but it don’t taste the same without a cigarette along with it.”

Right then and there, I knew the supreme sacrifice was called for. Even though it pained me, I broke one of my cardinal rules: no smoking in the house. Up until now, my home had remained a smoke-free environment, essentially a virgin to the tar and nicotine twins. But I was willing to lay down my principles for the life of a friend. This should win me the Purple Heart for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. “Go ahead,” I said with a smile that felt wooden. “Smoke if you want.”

Nadine looked at me oddly, then shrugged. “As long as you don’t mind…”

I handed her off to Polly. “Pardon me a sec. I’ll be right back with an ashtray and a beer. Want a glass?”

“Hell, no. Straight out of the bottle is best.”

Polly patted the cushion next to her. “Sit here. Take a load off.”

I scurried off to the kitchen. So far so good, I thought as I rummaged through a cupboard for an ashtray. I knew I had one of those darn things somewhere for the occasional smoker to use on the porch or out on the deck. I finally found one shoved way to the back of a cupboard behind the soup bowls. When I returned to the great room, I noticed Polly had topped off both our margaritas. Good thing I’d picked up extra mix. I only hoped my supply of tequila would hold out.

I took up a position on Nadine’s other side so that Polly and I flanked her on the sofa. “Here,” I said, setting down the ashtray and handing her an ice-cold brew. I slid the bowl of pretzel mix closer. I was operating under the theory that with the woman’s fondness for beer, she might have also developed a liking for bar food. “Help yourself.”

“So, Nadine,” Polly said, smiling the sweet grandmotherly smile she limits to infants and toddlers, “tell me more about striking it rich in the lottery. Never met an honest-to-goodness big-time winner before. Just between us girls, what’s it like?”

“Crazy, I tell you. Just plain crazy.” Nadine chugged her beer. “Reporters hound you day and night, always sticking a mike in your face and asking dumb questions. Things like what’re you gonna do with five million bucks? Duh! Any idiot knows the answer. Spend it, that’s what.”

“You don’t say,” Polly murmured. “Gotta be tough.”

“Damn right, it’s tough. Folks you went to grade school with and haven’t heard from since suddenly remember you’re their best friend. Then there’re the vultures, strangers, who start pestering. Invest in this, they say; invest in that. Go to hell, I tell ’em. I might not have a fancy education, but I’m no dummy.”

Careful not to spill a drop, Polly raised her glass and clinked it against Nadine’s bottle. “You go, girlfriend.”

I fought the temptation to roll my eyes. Next they’d be singing “Kumbaya” in two-part harmony.