Death Rolls the Dice Read online

  Cover

  Death Rolls the Dice

  When it comes to gardening, Kate McCall is known for having a brown thumb, but when the Serenity Cove garden club hosts an event featuring a celebrity botanist—who’s also a former college roommate of Kate’s friend Rita—she plants herself in the audience with all the other Bunco Babes. Before the evening can even get off the ground, though, the guest speaker and her boyfriend are rushed to the hospital with food poisoning, where he eventually dies.

  Convinced that her boyfriend’s death was no accident and that she too was meant to die, the famous botanist begs Kate to investigate. Glad to have a chance to use her newly acquired detective skills, Kate starts digging for clues—even when that means adding Rita to the list of suspects. And as the trail grows more tangled and treacherous, Kate realizes she’ll have to weed out the killer quick, before she’s the next thing they plant in the ground.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  Copyright © 2015 by Gail Oust.

  This is a revised edition of a book previously published as Shake, Murder and Roll, copyright © 2011 by Gail Oust.

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-940846-67-5

  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.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the elite of the McCormick Garden Club for your help making my plot blossom and grow. Special mention goes to Carol Mavity, a dear friend, who faithfully rides to my rescue whether with answers to dumb questions, a coffee cake, or an unscheduled trip to the dump. Joyce Isaacson, it’s been a pleasure to discover a devious mind lurking beneath your kind heart. Mary Ann Beyer, you’re a true gem. Your attention to detail makes me envious. I’m grateful you’re a pack rat. Jean Randall and her assistants (Bet, Barb, Janet, and Pat) at the Friends of the McCormick County Library, have I have told you how much I appreciate your efforts on my behalf? You host the best book signings ever! Sandy Mahoney, RN and First Responder, your experience added verisimilitude. As always, to Bob, husband and friend, for being my sidekick through thick ’n’ thin. I can’t write a book about yards and gardens without thanking our personal Shrub Patrol. Stouffer’s, Montgomery’s, Beyer’s, and Byron, you made our house look like home again.

  And last but by no means least, my heartfelt thanks to my superlative agent, Jessica Faust of BookEnds, LLC, and my wonderful editor at New American Library, Sandy Harding, for your unstinting patience, support, and caring. Sometimes words just aren’t enough.

  Dedication

  To Greg, my warrior son.

  The universe rewards courage.

  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

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Books by Gail Oust

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  “Honestly, Kate, I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

  A little cheese to go along with the whine? Cheddar or Gouda? I wanted to ask, but I bit my tongue instead.

  Monica, bless her heart, could be such a whiner. If anyone was entitled to whine, it should be me, Kate McCall. Along with the rest of the Bunco Babes, I’d voted to forgo our bimonthly bunco game in favor of a lecture on, of all things, gardening. Gardening! Imagine me and gardening. The two go together like John Dillinger and the FBI. Friends from Serenity Cove Estates to Toledo know my thumb isn’t green. It’s brown, brown, brown!

  “Y’all, isn’t this excitin’.” Connie Sue Brody fairly bubbled with enthusiasm. Connie Sue is our resident beauty queen and a former cheerleader. And once a cheerleader, always a cheerleader. “Just think, a real celebrity right here in Serenity Cove Estates!”

  “I even went to the mall and bought a new outfit—in case there were photographers present,” Polly, our group’s septuagenarian, piped. “I hear bright colors show up best.”

  Bright? More like neon, I thought, eyeing Polly’s pink and lime-green ensemble. But who said one needs to act one’s age? Sometimes it’s a heckuva lot more fun to kick up your heels and be a youngster again. In a retirement community for “active” adults such as Serenity Cove Estates, age is relative. Here a youngster is anyone ineligible for Medicare. Sixty is the new forty.

  Gloria Meyers, Polly’s long-suffering daughter, glanced at her watch. “It’s almost time. Shouldn’t they be opening the doors soon? It’ll take a while for all this many people to settle.”

  Tonight’s crowd congregated to witness a mind-boggling PowerPoint presentation on drought-resistant perennials—I’m being facetious about the mind-boggling—were scrunched together like sardines in the hallway outside the auditorium of the rec center. Those who showed no desire to be sardines milled aimlessly about the lobby, waiting for Marietta Perkins, the assistant manager, to fling open the auditorium doors and admit the masses.

  “I hope this isn’t going to be a waste of time,” Monica fussed. “You know how I hate to miss bunco.”

  “Hush, sugar. It won’t hurt just this once. Isn’t that right, Kate?” Connie Sue turned to me for validation.

  I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Absolutely,” I lied.

  Wild horses couldn’t drag it out of me, but secretly I agreed with Monica. I’d much rather be rolling the bones than listening to a botanist—even a glitzy, semi-celebrity cable TV botanist—expound on plants that didn’t have the sense to wither when the thermometer read ninety-five in the shade. Yawn, yawn, and triple yawn.

  Any of the Babes would gladly cut off their right arms, cheerfully surrender a kidney, or happily donate a gallon of blood, but ask us to give up bunco and you can expect to h
ear some grumbling. Bunco, for the initiated, is a silly, mindless dice game. No skill, no strategy required. Just shake, rattle, and toss. Strictly social. We munch; we imbibe; but most important, we laugh. Bunco is our therapy.

  Pam Warner, my BFF, hopped aboard my train of thought. “Bunco wouldn’t have been as much fun tonight anyway. For one reason or another, half the group couldn’t make it. For Rita’s sake let’s make the best of the situation.”

  “Pam’s right,” I concurred. “Isn’t that what girlfriends are for, to support one another?”

  “Y’all, this is quite a coup for Rita.” Connie Sue fluffed her always perfect honey-blond locks. “What better way to end her term as president of Flowers and Bowers, Serenity Cove’s very own garden club? Imagine, her college roommate, none other than Dr. Sheila Rappaport.”

  “I never miss How Does Your Garden Grow?” Gloria confessed.

  “I’d watch, too,” Polly said, “but it comes on the same time as The Young and the Restless. Y and R’s got some hot new dudes.”

  Knowing it would only irritate Gloria, I tried not to smile. Out of the corner of my eye I caught Pam hiding a grin behind her program.

  “Did y’all know you should cut back lantanas in February and cover ’em with mulch?” Connie Sue asked, taking out her compact and inspecting her makeup. “You can learn a lot from watchin’ Dr. Sheila.”

  Maybe I’d develop a better knack for growing things if I stopped watching Law & Order reruns and switched to HGTV. Merely thinking of such a sacrifice made me want to weep. Law & Order and CSI helped mold me into the woman I am today. A woman versed in the crime-solving trinity of motive, means, and opportunity. A woman who can rattle off acronyms like a reformed alcoholic does the twelve steps. Acronyms like DOA, COD, and GSR. I know TOD isn’t a man’s name but time of death. And I’m well aware CODIS and AFIS aren’t the names of a movie star’s twins.

  “Oh, look, there she is—Dr. Sheila.” Gloria Myers pointed toward a striking couple standing somewhat apart from the rest of those assembled. The movement caused her many bracelets to jangle. What Gloria lacks in a trendsetter wardrobe she makes up for with jewelry. She sparkles and shines. She glows. Bling is her thing.

  “She’s even better-lookin’ in person than on TV,” Connie Sue remarked after scrutinizing the woman. What better judge of beauty than our very own former Miss Peach Princess?

  I half turned to study the subject under discussion. Sheila Rappaport was perhaps five foot seven, slender as a reed, her body tight and toned beneath a silk wrap dress. Her blond hair, sporting both highlights and lowlights, was cut in an asymmetrical style, leaving the right side to swing free and follow the curve of her jaw. I had to agree she looked . . . smokin’. At least I think that’s the current term for hot enough to steam bifocals.

  “And isn’t that . . . ?” Monica whispered.

  “Dr. Vaughn Bascomb,” Pam supplied. “I recognize him from his guest appearances on Dr. Sheila’s show.”

  Vaughn Bascomb, I’d learned from Rita, was Sheila Rappaport’s significant other. They’d been an item for nearly five years but never married. They say opposites attract and, in this instance, it appeared true. While Sheila exuded glitz and glamour, her partner was pleasantly plain and rumpled. Bascomb was slight of build with slouching shoulders, and when it came to hairlines, well, let’s just say the tide had definitely left the shore. Yet there was something oddly appealing about the man. I couldn’t quite put my finger on whether it was his slightly perplexed expression or his scholarly persona. I wondered why botany was his chosen field. At first glance, the man seemed more suited for a classroom than digging in the dirt.

  “Here you are,” Rita Larsen’s voice boomed from behind us. Intent on putting the team of Rappaport and Bascomb under the microscope, we hadn’t noticed her approach. No mean accomplishment considering Rita’s nearly six feet tall and built like a running back for the Carolina Panthers. “Thanks for coming tonight. It means a lot to me.”

  “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Monica gushed.

  I narrowed my eyes and studied Monica. Now I may suffer senior moments now and again, those annoying little lapses of memory that plague the golden years, but I swore only minutes ago Monica was bellyaching about having to miss bunco. Yet here she was, oozing “nice” like an Oklahoma oil well. I wanted to ask, Who are you and what have you done with the real Monica Pulaski?

  Polly didn’t waste time satisfying her curiosity. “Were you and Sheila really college roommates?”

  I caught Gloria giving her mother a cautionary elbow in the ribs. Knowing Polly, however, she might well have saved herself the effort.

  Polly continued unfazed, “Seeing the two of you, no one would guess you’re the same age.”

  An awkward silence fell over our little band of bunco players. No one likes to hear they’re growing old—especially not from a friend.

  “What Mother meant was . . .” Gloria began.

  Rita waved aside the apology. “I know what you meant, Polly, and I happen to agree. Sheila looks . . . fabulous.”

  Did I detect a note of envy in Rita’s voice? If so, I could hardly blame her. Sheila Rappaport could easily have passed for forty.

  Connie Sue leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Sneak into her bedroom, sugar. Find out what kind of beauty products she’s usin’.”

  Rita feigned outrage, pressing a hand against her impressive set of forty DDs. “Connie Sue Brody, are you asking me to spy on a friend?”

  “You’re darn tootin’, sugar.” Connie Sue grinned, unabashed. “If that fails, find out the name of the surgeon who did her work. And while you’re at it, see if she’s got his card.”

  “Let me introduce all of you before the doors open.” Raising her hand, Rita beckoned to the guest of honor, who was now circulating through the crowd.

  Sheila spotted Rita instantly—not that spotting Rita took special skill. Arm in arm with her significant other, Vaughn Bascomb, the esteemed botanist made her way toward us, doling out charm and glamour along the way like Halloween candy.

  “Sheila, Vaughn, I’d like you to meet my best friends,” Rita said, and then proceeded with the introductions.

  If Sheila Rappaport was attractive from a distance, she was even more so up close and personal. I found myself marveling at her flawless complexion. Even at sixty-something, it appeared smooth and nearly wrinkle-free, giving her an ageless look. Now I ask you, why do some faces get wrinkly and saggy and others don’t? Why do some waistlines stay trim while others get thick and lumpy? Two of life’s greatest mysteries. Some things just aren’t fair.

  Introductions over, Sheila lay a hand on Rita’s forearm. “Rita, would you be a dear and find me some ginger ale? My stomach’s a bit queasy.”

  “Sure thing,” Rita told her. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  “Rita, if you don’t mind, would you bring one for me as well,” Vaughn asked tentatively, then turned to us, his tone apologetic. “Ever since lunch, I’ve been feeling a little under the weather. Must’ve been something I ate.”

  Chapter 2

  “It’s all that fried food,” Sheila stated unequivocally. “No wonder this region of the country is considered the Stroke Belt.”

  We shuffled our feet and looked elsewhere. None of us, it seemed, knew quite how to respond to this allegation, including Polly, who for once kept her comments to herself.

  Finally Monica cleared her throat. “Actually, many possible causes for the high stroke rate have been investigated, but the reasons still haven’t been determined.”

  For once, and perhaps the only time, I greeted Monica’s love of quoting recent studies with enthusiasm. You go, girl, I silently applauded.

  But Monica didn’t need my applause, she was just warming up. “There are many hypotheses. However . . .”

  “Nonsense,” Sheila cut her off. “Take tonight for instance. The menu was a perfect example of Southern-fried indigestion. The meal consisted of fried chicken
, fried catfish, fried okra, macaroni and cheese, and fried green tomatoes.”

  “You’re forgetting the hush puppies,” Vaughn ventured.

  “I may have forgotten, but you didn’t. I noticed you helped yourself to seconds.”

  For those unfamiliar with Southern cuisine, hush puppies are small balls of cornmeal dough that have been—yep, you guessed it—deep-fried.

  Sheila was obviously unfamiliar with Monica’s fondness for trivia. Once started on a tangent there was no stopping her. “There are a variety of legends on how the name ‘hush puppies’ originated,” she expounded. “One such legend dates back to the Civil War.”

  Connie Sue wagged a French-manicured fingernail at her. “True Southerners, such as myself, will tell you that there was nothin’ whatsoever civil about that war.”

  “They prefer to call it the War Between the States,” Rita explained for Sheila and Vaughn’s benefit.

  “When we were in Charleston, I heard a tour guide refer to it as the ‘late unpleasantness,’” Pam added.

  “Meemaw,” Connie Sue said, “called it the War of Northern Aggression.”

  My, my, I thought, we were off and running, trying to impress not one but two celebrities with our wit and wisdom. Connie Sue had even quoted her meemaw, Southern-speak for grandmother, to add to her authenticity.

  “Hey, you guys,” Polly interrupted, “let’s get back to the subject at hand—hush puppies.”

  With a nod, Gloria picked up the conversational thread. “Folklore has it that Southern soldiers, who were gathered around a cook fire, sensed the presence of Northern troops and tossed their barking dogs fried cakes with the command to “hush, puppies.”

  “I learned a different version in Charleston,” Pam went on to explain. “The tour guide mentioned that slaves carrying their master’s food from the outdoor kitchens to the house would throw the batter balls to the barking dogs, telling the puppies to hush.”