The Twelve Dice of Christmas Read online

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Twelve Dice of Christmas

  Gail Oust

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Gail Oust.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-946069-90-0

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Recipes

  Books by Gail Oust

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “I don’t believe this!” Rita Larsen tossed her pencil down on the pile of score sheets scattered across Connie Sue Brody’s kitchen table.

  Pam Warner, my BFF, and I exchanged worried glances. “What’s wrong?”

  The Bunco Babes, as we called ourselves, had just completed two sets of our favorite game: bunco. No brains, no skill required—my kind of game. After a lot of rolling and tossing dice, a lot of laughter, a glass or two of wine, and, of course, plenty of chocolate, the Babes and I were ready to call it a night. We had started gathering our belongings while waiting for Rita to tally the scores and award the prize money. Considering each of us only put two dollars into the kitty, there was no danger that the money would put us in a higher tax bracket. Still, winning was a nice bonus to an evening spent with eleven of your dearest friends. Winning, in fact, was almost as good as going home with the coveted rhinestone-studded tiara, a relic from Connie Sue’s reign as a beauty queen.

  Rita shook her head in disbelief. “In all the times we’ve played, Tammy Lynn has never come in with the lowest score.”

  Her statement had a ripple effect. Chatter stopped; the room grew silent.

  “That can’t be right.” Monica pursed her lips. “Recheck your math.”

  “Uh-oh,” I whispered to Pam. “I sense trouble brewing.” I swear, Monica Pulaski must’ve been napping when God dispensed the tact gene. Outspoken and opinionated best describe Monica. She tends to barge in where angels fear to tread.

  Rita, not exactly a stranger to the outspoken and opinionated department, leveled a cold stare at Monica. “Are you insinuating I can’t add?”

  “I’m sure that’s not what Monica meant, sugar,” Connie Sue said in an attempt to smooth things over with her patented Southern charm.

  I cleared my throat and tried my version of charm—Yankee-style. “Rita, we know you used to be branch manager of a bank. Your math skills are right up there with . . . with . . .” My recollection of math wizards deserted me.

  “Bill Gates?” Polly, our group’s septuagenarian, leaped into the breach.

  Gloria Meyers, Polly’s long-suffering daughter, smoothed her shoulder-length salt-and-pepper bob. “Are you sure you’re not thinking of Stephen Hawking?”

  Claudia Connors snatched the last foil-wrapped chocolate from a crystal dish. “Whenever I think of genius, Albert Einstein comes to mind.”

  “If I recollect, Thacker proclaimed Jeff Bezos a ‘mathematical wizard,’” Connie Sue drawled, quoting her husband, Thacker, whom I secretly referred to as St. Thacker of Macon. In Connie Sue’s estimation, Thacker was the be-all and end-all when it came to finance. She paid homage to his savvy by preparing him pot roast every single solitary Wednesday night.

  “Jeff Bezos?” Monica frowned. “The guy from Amazon?”

  “Jeff’s got my vote.” Polly nodded so vigorously her permed yellow curls bounced. “Why else would his company be worth a gazillion dollars if he wasn’t brilliant? Besides, he’s a cutie.”

  Gloria rolled her eyes.

  “What, what?” Polly demanded. “I happen to find bald men sexy.”

  “Sorry to dispute your choices, ladies.” Diane Delvecchio slipped on her lightweight jacket. “Experts argue that Archimedes was the greatest mathematician of all time. Others are convinced it was Pythagoras.”

  “That’s our resident librarian for you.” Janine, a Jamie Lee Curtis look-alike with her slender figure and cap of silver hair, collected the empty wineglasses while Rita continued rechecking scores. “I told Diane that she should try out for Jeopardy! With her memory, none of us stand a chance when we get together for Trivial Pursuit.”

  “Speaking of trivia,” I said, “who’s hosting bunco next time?”

  Rita glanced up from divvying money into appropriate categories. “It’s my turn. I suggest we do a Christmas cookie exchange.”

  “Count me in.” Connie Sue smiled as she began loading the dishwasher. “Y’all, I found a great recipe for low-cal, low-fat cookies that I’ve been wantin’ to try.”

  “Perfect,” Pam said, but her voice lacked enthusiasm. She probably felt the same as I did. Low-cal, low-fat usually equaled less flavor.

  Suddenly, Polly clapped her hands together. “Why not kick our cookie exchange up a notch. Let’s turn it into an ugly Christmas sweater contest, too.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Monica demurred.

  “Oh, come on, you guys,” Polly chided. “Where’s your sense of adventure? It’ll be more fun than a barrel of monkeys.”

  Claudia reached into her Kate Spade handbag, pulled out her iPhone, and scrolled through her messages. “Personally, I always thought a barrel full of monkeys was overrated,” she muttered.

  “Polly’s right,” Janine said. “Bunco, Christmas cookies, and ugly sweaters. Think of it as a trifecta.”

  Diane dug her car keys out of her jacket pocket. “All right, let’s give it a whirl.”

  Rita rang the bell we used to signal the end of each round to get our attention. “Listen up, ladies. I’ve checked and double-checked the scores—and with the same results. First place for highest score goes to Dia
ne.”

  Amidst applause, Rita announced the winners for second place, most buncos, and most baby buncos and handed out the prize money. “Last but not least,” she said, waving two one-dollar bills, “Tammy Lynn Snow had tonight’s lowest score.”

  “Tammy Lynn? Where is she?” I wondered aloud.

  “And where’s Megan?” Pam scanned the faces of the women clustered in Connie Sue’s kitchen but didn’t spot her daughter.

  “There they are.” Claudia pointed at the youngest members of our group, who sat huddled on a sectional in the farthest corner of the living room. “Hey, you two,” she called out, beckoning them closer.

  Slowly, almost reluctantly, they rose to join us. Tammy Lynn’s expression was downcast. It wasn’t like the sweet little blonde to take bunco so seriously. In a gesture of solidarity, Megan placed her arm around her friend’s shoulders. Both girls seemed unusually solemn, which caused alarm bells to sound inside my head. Whatever was bothering them was bigger than Tammy Lynn rolling a low score in a silly dice game.

  “Tammy Lynn, are you okay?” I asked.

  “Y’all didn’t break up with that nice beau of yours, now did you?” Connie Sue inquired.

  Janine, who was a registered nurse and worked part-time for the county health department, did a quick assessment of the girl’s pale face, then held out a chair. “Here, Tammy Lynn. Why don’t you take a seat?”

  Pam shot a questioning look at Megan, then went to the sink for a glass of water.

  Janine sank down opposite Tammy Lynn and patted her hand. “If you tell us what’s wrong, maybe we can help?”

  Leave it to Janine, I thought with a mix of envy and admiration. She was always able to tune in whenever feelings were concerned. It’s probably one of the traits that made her such a good nurse. Her easy manner had a way of quickly putting people at ease.

  Megan sighed unhappily. “Tammy Lynn is worried sick about her meemaw.”

  Meemaw, I’d learned over the years, is a Southernism for grandmother. Though I’d never met the woman, I’d heard Tammy Lynn mention her with affection often.

  “Eula Mae Snow?” Diane asked. “Mrs. Snow came into the library just last week to return an armload of books. I didn’t have the heart to tell her they were months overdue. Rather than hurt her feelings, I paid the fine out of my own pocket.”

  Tammy Lynn grimaced. “Meemaw’s been awful forgetful of late. Soon as the holidays are over, she’s agreed to enter a nursin’ home—Valley View Manor. Aunt Cora convinced her it’s for the best. In Meemaw’s present state, it’s not safe for her to be livin’ alone.”

  Janine nodded gravely. “It’s always a difficult—and sad—situation when an elderly person has to leave their home to enter a facility, regardless of how nice it may be.”

  “And that’s not the half of it,” Megan said. “Tammy Lynn’s meemaw gave the garden club ladies permission to use her house for the Holiday Home Tour.”

  “Aunt Cora had an absolute conniption fit when she found out,” Tammy Lynn added mournfully.

  “That’s not so bad,” I soothed. “All your grandmother has to do is tell them she’s had a change of heart. Surely they’ll understand once they learn the circumstances.”

  “Whoa! Not so fast.” Raising her hand in a fair imitation of a traffic cop, Rita pushed to her feet. “You have no idea what’s involved in planning the home tour. As past president of Flowers and Bowers Garden Club, I know how this works. First of all, it isn’t easy finding people willing to allow a steady stream of strangers to parade through their home—”

  “You got that right,” Polly interrupted. “A certain lady friend, who shall remain anonymous, makes it a personal mission to check out the homeowners’ medicine cabinets to find out what kind of pills they’re taking. She claims it’s her duty to fight the opioid epidemic and report any violations to authorities.”

  Gloria raised a brow askance. “I hope the ‘lady’ you’re referring to isn’t the one who lives under the same roof as I do.”

  “Hmph!” Polly did her best to look affronted. “What a thing to say! Gloria Jean, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Secondly,” Rita continued, nonplussed, “the program for the home tour has already been sent to the printers. Changes at this stage would be costly. And before you ask how I know this, I happen to be treasurer. We need every penny of the profits to purchase playground equipment for the Children’s Home. Eula’s house was selected because it’s a perfect example of a Southern cottage. At any rate, it’s too late for the club to locate a replacement.”

  “To make matters even worse, Meemaw doesn’t know the first thing about decorating. She’ll be a laughingstock after folks see all the other houses on the tour.” Tammy Lynn’s eyes filled with tears. “Meemaw’s idea of Christmas decorations is a sorry-lookin’ artificial tree in the front window and an even sorrier-lookin’ wreath on the front door.”

  My imagination began to run rampant. Visions of magazine-worthy photos of rooms decked out in winter-wonderland style kaleidoscoped through my mind’s eye. Rooms straight from the pages of Southern Living, Better Homes & Gardens, and HGTV. “Wouldn’t it be lovely if Mrs. Snow’s final Christmas in her own home was a memorable one?” I mused. Then, inspiration struck like the proverbial bolt out of the blue. “I’ve got a great idea! What if we put our heads together and help make it special. If we all did just a little bit, surely we could pull it off. How hard can it be?”

  “Sort of like paying it forward?” Claudia asked.

  “Exactly!” I said, caught up with my own idea.

  Pam gave me a wary look. “Kate, do you realize what you’re proposing? Last time I checked, you didn’t possess a single arts and crafts bone in your entire body. Remember the ceramics class we took? You were the poster child for uneven brushstrokes.”

  “My granddaughters made prettier birdhouses when they were in preschool,” Connie Sue pointed out, not unkindly.

  “And I once tried to teach you how to crochet,” Gloria reminded me. "You managed to get the yarn wrapped around your fingers so tightly we needed a scissors to cut them free.”

  I brushed aside their concerns with a flick of the wrist. “I might not be as talented as some of you, but I’m talking about the combined efforts of the Bunco Babes to make Christmas special for Tammy Lynn’s sweet grandmother.”

  “Some of us hold full-time jobs,” Diane pointed out. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to be retired. I’m working overtime as it is since the head librarian is out after back surgery.”

  Pam was next to voice her concern. “When Megan isn’t working as a receptionist at the dentist’s office, she’s preparing for her biology exam at the community college. And remember, Tammy Lynn is Sheriff Wiggins’s gal Friday.”

  Claudia waggled her left hand, making the huge diamond on her third finger catch the light. “BJ’s taking me on a Caribbean cruise so I’ve been busy shopping and such, but I’ll do what I can to help. He’s telling folks it’s our second honeymoon.”

  “Hmph!” Monica sniffed. “If memory serves, your first honeymoon—Paris—was only months ago.”

  Claudia smiled broadly. “A girl can never have too many honeymoons.”

  “Let’s get back to helping Tammy Lynn’s meemaw, shall we?” I could feel my brainstorm beginning to lose momentum. Time to get this train back on track. “Who is willing to step up?”

  “Let me check my calendar.” Rita reached for the large tote she was seldom without and consulted her day planner. “I’ve already been assigned to oversee the Hopkinses’ house, but I’ll help out when I can.”

  “Very well,” Monica said. “Someone has to take charge. Since I have a knack with interior décor, I’m the obvious choice.”

  Connie Sue smiled sweetly. “That’s very generous of you, dear. Who better than a born and bred Southerner to decorate a charmin’ cottage-style home. Not to mention my exquisite taste. I’ll make Miss Eula proud.”

  Monica bristled until I
could almost see her dark brown hair stand on end. “People are always telling me how much they admire my home—the color scheme, the fabrics, the furnishings. I’m a natural. Not to mention my superior organizational skills,” she added for good measure.

  All of us looked at one another, but no one wanted to interfere. Monica and Connie Sue had often been at loggerheads. It was simply a matter of waiting to see which one prevailed. The two women continued to glare at each other.

  Finally, I jumped into the fray. “Ladies, there’s no need to argue. You’re both very talented. I suggest you act as co-chairwomen of the Eula Mae Snow Christmas Home Tour Beautification Project. I’m certain that together Monica and Connie Sue will make a fabulous team.”

  Monica and Connie Sue were stunned into momentary silence. My little pronouncement had apparently taken the starch out of their sails. “And,” I added, pleased as punch with the results, “those of us who can will work as your assistants.”

  How hard could it be? I wondered again.

  Chapter 2

  Monica, the possessor of “superior organizational skills,” had decreed the ad hoc committee meet at Eula Snow’s for a scouting expedition. We needed to look the place over, she insisted, and make a list of what needed to be done. Pam and I were on our way to Eula’s home in Brookdale, which was the nearest town to Serenity Cove as well as being the county seat. The others would meet us there. The others in this case consisted of Polly, Gloria, and our fearless cochairs, Connie Sue and Monica.

  Brookdale practically oozes small-town charm. It has a Disneyesque vibe right down to the town square and stately brick courthouse. As Pam drove down Main Street, I noted that all the shops were decked out in their holiday finery. Posters advertising the Holiday Home Tour were prominently displayed almost everywhere I looked.

  My idea, which had seemed so brilliant last night, faded in the bright light of day. Doubts had taken root overnight and now burst into full bloom. “I swear, Pam,” I said, “I don’t know what came over me. Lordy, I must need my head examined. I’m not even safe with a glue gun in my hand. Let’s hope no one expects me to make bows. Mine always wind up looking like a bunch of knots.”