Chapter 23

 

“Bunco? Tomorrow?”

I was so surprised by the request I nearly dropped the phone. This time it wasn’t me but Diane who summoned the emergency session. My internal radar beeped so loud it nearly deafened me. Did this have anything to do with my serial-killer theory? Claudia and Vera were still missing. And not a single word from the sheriff’s department about the bone I had found. “Fess up, Diane. What’s going on?”

“No way, Kate.” Diane is a calm, methodical person, not usually given to theatrics. But she sounded more animated now than I’d ever heard her. “Besides, I won’t get the real lowdown until tomorrow afternoon. Just say you’ll be there.”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.” How was I supposed to catch a wink of sleep tonight wondering about Diane’s big secret?

“We can meet at my house,” Diane continued. “Norm’s working the four-to-midnight shift again, so we’ll have the place to ourselves.”

“Great. Can I bring anything?” I knew Diane worked a forty-hour week at the library. It wasn’t always easy rushing home to get ready for bunco.

“Thanks, but I’ve got it under control. There is one thing, though . . .”

“Sure, just name it.”

“Do you suppose we could split the call list? The football game’s about to start. The Jaguars are playing the Texans. Norm and I like to watch it together.”

“No problem.” I squeezed my phone between ear and shoulder while I dug through my junk drawer for pad and pencil.

“Think you could call Connie Sue, Monica, Janine, and Nancy?”

“Consider it done.”

“Good. I’ll call Gloria, Rita, and Pam. Seven o’clock sharp. My place.”

“Gotcha.”

And she had gotten me. Gotten me good. Diane had conveniently chosen what I refer to as the two-for-ones. Call Pam and she’d bring Megan. Call Rita, she’d tell Tara. Call Gloria, and Polly would be planning what outfit to wear. Oh, well, I thought, not much else to do on a Sunday afternoon. Unless I wanted to watch two teams I’d never heard of pummel the living daylights out of each other on the gridiron.

I started with Janine.

“No, Diane wouldn’t say what it was about,” I explained in answer to the first words out of her mouth. “My gut feeling is that Diane wants to tell us something she found out about either Claudia or Vera.”

“Did Tara ever learn how to contact Vera’s daughter?”

“Not that I know of, but we can ask her tomorrow night.”

“Okay, see you then.”

Never-Say-No Nancy was next on my list. “Sure, I’ll sub,” she agreed the instant she heard the b word. “You know me. I’m always up for bunco. Why don’t I pick you up?”

“Fine,” I said. “See you then.”

Monica was a harder sell. “You’re not going to talk about body parts, are you? My stomach can’t stand any more talk about body parts.”

I rolled my eyes. “No, Monica. Think of it as a committee meeting of sorts where Diane gives us an update on locating two friends. And, naturally, a chance to play bunco.”

“Oh, all right. I would like to win the tiara. Want me to drive?”

“Nancy said she’d drive. I’ll ask her to swing by and pick you up. While she’s at it, we might as well pick up Connie Sue and Janine.” Diane lives in an old farmhouse set on five acres of land halfway between Serenity Cove Estates and Brookdale. Not far, but far enough to warrant carpooling.

“Sure she won’t mind . . . ?”

“If she does, we’ll offer to chip in for gas.”

“Remind Janine not to forget the tiara,” Monica added lest I suffer one of those annoying senior moments. “And before I hang up, Kate, I want your solemn promise there will be no mention of body parts.”

I crossed my fingers. “Promise.”

Connie Sue was last on my list. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking the news that Diane had called an emergency gathering of Bunco Babes Crime Fighters. I knew Mondays were pot roast nights at the Brody home, and I was once again about to upset the apple cart.

“Well, I don’t know,” Connie Sue drawled when I explained the reason for my call. “Thacker’s a creature of habit. He gets upset with changes in his routine.”

I heaved a sigh. Did Thacker know something the rest of the world didn’t? Did pot roast really taste better on Mondays? “Look, Connie Sue, Thacker’s eaten pot roast on Tuesday and lived to tell the tale.”

“I’m not sure . . .”

“Connie Sue, it’s time to take a stand.” I was close to losing patience. “Which is more important? The lives of two friends—or a slab of beef?”

“Since you put it that way, sugar, deal me in. Want me to drive?”

“No, that’s okay. We’ll pick you up.”

What was it with everyone wanting to drive? I never should have told the girls about my last speeding ticket. I suppose I should have noticed the police car parked behind that McDonald’s billboard, but no one’s perfect.

My phone calls completed, I flopped down on the sofa in the great room and flipped through a magazine. Tomorrow’s bunco would also be a good time to tell the Babes about my little excursion to Vera’s the other night. I had kept my ear to the ground, so to speak, and combed the local papers, but the grapevine had grown dormant.

So far, not a single solitary word about any unusual findings on Jenkins Road had leaked out. And so far, to my knowledge, no more women had been reported missing.

And Rosalie’s murder wasn’t any closer to being solved.

 

• • •

 

We all converged on Diane’s doorstep at the same time. The decibel level in that old clapboard house went straight through the roof. Good thing Norm’s working the afternoon shift at the mill and doesn’t have to put up with the commotion. Most husbands are smart enough to clear the premises when the Babes gather. On bunco nights, they band together like castaways on Gilligan’s Island to play poker or shoot pool.

The kitchen and dining room tables as well as a card table in the converted bedroom/den had been readied for play. A tray of fresh fruit—strawberries, kiwi, and pineapple—along with a yummy dip sat on the kitchen counter. Next to this was a frosty pitcher of some tropical drink that tasted so good it was downright sinful. Usually Diane doesn’t fuss when it’s her turn to host bunco. I took the fact that she had gone all out as an omen of important things to come.

For all intents and purposes, it seemed like a typical bunco night. Except for a certain tension in the air. This was, after all, a covert meeting of Bunco Babes—Crime Fighters.

As seemed to be our pattern, we filled our plates, filled our glasses, and found ourselves a place at one of the tables.

“Let the game begin,” I announced from my seat at the head table.

Rita rang the bell. Play commenced. We rolled for ones till she rang the bell a second time, signaling the end of the first round.

We rearranged ourselves and settled down to shake, rattle, and roll those dice. I was eager to get down to the real reason for tonight’s game. Not even Diane’s fortified tropical drink could take the edge off my nerves. But if the rest of the Babes could keep their cool, who was I to quibble?

Twos were scarcer than hens’ teeth. How did that cliché originate? Who makes up these things? What does it matter if hens’ teeth are scarce or cheaper by the dozen? I corralled my wayward thoughts and tried to concentrate on the game. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Monica eyeing Janine’s tiara. No question where her thoughts were.

“Come on, Kate. I need some help here,” Monica urged plaintively. “Roll some twos.”

A friend in need is a friend indeed. Right? Apparently I’m alive and thriving here in Clichéville. I picked up the dice, shook them till the spots nearly fell off, and let them fly. One, six, and a three equal no score. I passed the dice to Rita.

Gloria’s bracelets jingled merrily as she gave a little flip of the wrist and a careless toss. Lo and behold three twos magically appeared. “Bunco!”

Monica shot me a look, clearly indicating I’d let her down. Well, to paraphrase a once-popular country-western song, I never promised her a bunco. I only promised not to discuss body parts—and did that with my fingers crossed.

I held my head high as Monica and I made the transition from head table to lowly table three. From the way Monica carried on, we might as well have had Loser tattooed on our foreheads. Along the way, I stopped to fortify myself with more of Diane’s delicious tropical punch. Apparently I wasn’t the only one in need of fortification. The pitcher was half empty.

Play resumed, this time everyone hoping to roll threes. Rita, I noticed, was still seated in the very same spot at the head table. From the smile on her face, she was obviously enjoying a run of good luck.

“I don’t know about the rest of you,” Polly piped up, “but if Diane doesn’t hurry up and tell us why she called an emergency bunco, I’m going to explode.”

“Me, too,” Tara called from the kitchen.

Instantly, the dice ceased rattling. All heads turned toward Diane, who along with Megan sat with Polly and Nancy at table two.

“Let’s make that unanimous,” I said. “C’mon, Diane, stop torturing us. Haven’t we been patient long enough?”

Diane stood so we could all see her and hear what she had to say. “I asked you here tonight to tell you that I finally contacted one of Claudia’s sons.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Indignant, Polly shook her head hard enough to make her dangly earrings dance.

Diane held out her hands, palms up. “Just be patient. I think I’d better start at the beginning.”

Polly squirmed in anticipation. “Hurry up, girl. I’m already on Medicare and not getting any younger.”

Gloria sent her mother a reproving look. “Take your time, Diane.”

Diane and Megan exchanged meaningful glances. “Do you want to start or do you want me to?” Diane asked Megan.

Megan nodded her encouragement. “Go ahead.”

“If you recall, Megan and I agreed we’d try to locate Claudia’s sons. This turned out to be a lot more difficult that we first thought since no one seemed to know their real first names.”

“Claudia,” Megan interrupted, “always referred to the son who’s an engineer as Butch.”

“And,” Diane continued, “she called her son the surgeon Bubba.”

“What’s so strange about that?” Connie Sue asked. “Most folks have at least one Bubba in the family. Bubba is a perfectly fine name.”

“Perfectly fine for someone born south of the Mason-Dixon Line,” Pam pointed out.

“I wasn’t in South Carolina twenty-four hours when I met my very first Bubba,” Gloria reminisced. “He came to read the water meter.”

“I met my first Bubba at the hardware store,” Janine volunteered.

Rita rapped sharply on the table, making the dice dance in place. “Ladies, ladies! I’m sure we all remember our first Bubbas, but let’s stay on point.”

“Rita’s right,” I agreed. “Get on with your story, Diane.”

“I searched and searched, but couldn’t find a single surgeon named Bubba Connors in Chicago, or for that matter, the entire state of Illinois. So I expanded my parameters. The only Dr. Bubba Connors I managed to find turned out to be a vet in Alabama who specialized in rare bovine diseases.”

“How udderly awful,” Polly quipped.

Everyone groaned, including Diane.

Megan spoke, her face flushed, making her look even younger than her years. “I tried every which way, but couldn’t find a Butch Connors who works as an engineer in Seattle.”

“So if neither of you could locate her sons, how will I explain to Thacker that he missed pot roast for nothing?” Connie Sue whined.

Megan and Diane exchanged conspiratorial smiles.

Diane’s smile turned into a grin. “We hit pay dirt.”

“Pay dirt?” My voice rose a notch. “What kind of pay dirt?”

“I narrowed my search to surgeons with the surname of Connors in the Chicago area between the ages of thirty and forty and started making calls. Naturally, only office numbers were listed. When I called Friday, the doctors were all in the ORs, so I asked to speak with the office managers. I asked if any of them happened to know the name of the doctor’s mother. Finally one admitted she thought the mother’s name was Claudia and that she lived somewhere in the Carolinas.”

By now the Babes were hanging on to Diane’s every word. I was no exception.

“Bubba Connors, whose real name happens to be Charles, was at a surgical conference in Baltimore and not expected back till late Sunday. His office manager went on to say Dr. Connors had a full day of surgery scheduled Monday, but she would have him call me at the end of the day.” Diane paused for effect, then continued, “Seems like Charles, aka Bubba, Connors is Claudia’s son, all right.”

Questions popped up like dandelions.

“What did he say?”

“Don’t keep us in suspense.”

“Is Claudia okay?”

“How can you be so calm at a time like this?”

“Did you ask Bubba if he’s heard from his mother?”

Diane held up her hands for silence. Working in a library like she does, she probably gets plenty of practice asking people to hush. And, I must admit, she’s good at it, since the house became so still you could have heard a pin drop.

“Oh, he’s heard from her all right.” Smile is too mild a word to describe Diane’s ear-to-ear grin. “Claudia called him a couple nights ago with the news he has a new daddy. Seems like Claudia and this guy she met on the Internet eloped to Las Vegas.”

You could have knocked me over with a feather. “Claudia ran off and got married?”

“Yep.” Diane nodded. “Told Bubba they got married at one of those wedding chapels by an Elvis impersonator.”

Polly shook her head, making the galaxy of purple stars in her ears sway. “Well, don’t that beat all?”

And that about summed it up.