Shake, Murder, and Roll Read online

  “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.’”

  Gracious! I recalled Pam and her husband, Jack, had spent a recent weekend there, but until now I didn’t realize she’d memorized the entire tourist spiel.

  Not wanting to be outdone in the pursuit of interesting but useless trivia, Polly jumped into the fray. “I heard on the radio that the new snack food in the South is batter-dipped, deep-fried butter.”

  “Ugh!” Sheila shuddered at the thought.

  Vaughn dug his hands deep into his pants pocket and tactfully changed the subject. “The dragon lady who holds the keys to the kingdom ought to be opening the flood-gates soon. In the meantime, if you ladies don’t mind, I think I’ll find a spot to sit down.”

  Sheila’s brows knit in a frown as she studied her partner’s pinched face. “You don’t look well, darling. Are you sure you’re all right?”

  He smiled wanly. “Too many hush puppies is all. Now, ladies, if you’ll excuse me…”

  We watched him wend his way through the crowd. I had to agree with Sheila. Vaughn definitely looked a little green around the gills. Where the devil was Rita with the ginger ale? Did she have to drive clear into Brookdale—five miles or so as the crow flies—for it? And what was taking Marietta Perkins so long to open up? I guess we were still in the part of the program the brochure labeled as a “meet and greet.” Heaven forbid Marietta veer from a set schedule.

  An awkward silence followed Vaughn’s departure.

  Feeling it my sacred duty to keep the conversational ball afloat, I gave it a poke. “We’re Rita’s closest friends. We call ourselves the Bunco Babes.”

  Sheila gave me an odd glance. “No offense, but aren’t you all a bit old to be considered ‘babes’?”

  Old? No offense? Those were put-up-your-dukes fighting words. “Babes,” I informed our esteemed guest, “are the sum of attitude, style, and grace. Age doesn’t enter into the equation.”

  Pam, always a diplomat, recognized the dangerous glint in my eye and stepped in to prevent a brouhaha. “What Kate was about to explain is that a group of us women get together twice a month to play bunco.”

  “Bunco?” The term spilled from Sheila’s tongue like a word in a foreign language. “Is that a card game?”

  “Dice,” Polly chirped. “We roll dice.”

  “Oh.” Sheila nodded. “Like craps?”

  Connie Sue shook her head. “Craps is different.”

  Gloria discreetly rechecked her watch. “Craps is only two dice. Bunco is three.”

  “And there’s no money involved,” I added for good measure, trying to fan a spark of interest.

  “Mmm,” Sheila murmured absently.

  Sheila’s eyes roamed the crowd, hoping, no doubt, someone would rescue her from women who toss dice for a hobby. Women with obviously too much time on their hands. I, too, wished a stranger would intercede with a pithy question about grubs or aphids. But no such luck. Folks seemed hesitant to approach her. Gee, I wonder why. Her personality, perhaps?

  Monica, who’s always up for a challenge, pasted on a bright smile. “The winner at bunco takes home a tiara.”

  Disinterested, Sheila continued to survey the throng that spilled out of the hallway and into the lobby.

  “There’s no strategy involved,” Connie Sue, usually adept in the small-talk department, plugged away.

  “No skill whatsoever,” Pam concurred.

  “What?” Sheila’s head snapped around at hearing this. “No wagers, no skill, no strategy? If you ask me, bunco sounds boring.”

  I wanted to remind her that no one had—asked her, that is. “It’s strictly social,” I explained. “Bunco is all about fun, food, and friends. Most important, we laugh a lot.”

  “Hmm.” Sheila shrugged a slender shoulder. “I don’t have the time or inclination for frivolous pursuits. Work is all that matters to me.”

  The Babes and I exchanged glances. I didn’t need to be a psychic to read their minds. It isn’t often all of us agree, but I’d wager on this occasion we were of one accord. Dr. Sheila Rappaport would never, ever, be invited to sub at one of our bunco sessions—regardless of how desperate we were.

  I went through a mental checklist for possible topics of conversation. Civil War versus War Between the States—check. Origin of hush puppies—check. Bunco—check. Yep, our supply of chitchat was depleted. Where in the world was Rita? I wondered. Maybe she took the easy route and ducked out the back door, leaving Sheila to fend for herself. Then inspiration struck. When all else fails, fall back on the old standby—blatant flattery.

  “My friends all rave about your TV show,” I said, mustering as much enthusiasm as possible without making myself nauseous.

  “I watch How Does Your Garden Grow? every afternoon.” Pam, bless her heart, rose to the occasion. I made a mental note to thank her later.

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Monica simpered.

  I couldn’t believe it, Monica actually simpered. Thank goodness George Clooney didn’t make a surprise appearance. We’d need EMTs standing by with paddles warmed and ready.

  Connie Sue jumped on the flattery band wagon. “How Does Your Garden Grow? happens to be my very favorite show on HGTV. Don’t y’all just love it?” Grinning broadly, she turned to us for support.

  “That’s very kind of you.” Sheila gave a practiced smile, lips curving upward, but no flicker of warmth in her eyes. The lady was one cool cucumber, as we used to say as kids.

  Gloria hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “I have you to thank for saving my gardenias when their leaves started yellowing. Who would have thought that a mix of vinegar and water would green them up instead of some pricey concoction sold at a nursery?”

  Sheila inclined her head, accepting the compliment like royalty. “I like viewers to know there’s often simple solutions to pesky problems.”

  “And your advice on mealy bugs,” Monica gushed. “I’ve
never had a problem with them since I listened to your show.”

  “Bugs!” Polly exclaimed loudly. “You had bugs?”

  “Shh!” Monica hissed, glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone had overheard.

  Mercifully, just then Marietta Perkins deemed our wait over, and the doors to the auditorium swung open. The crowd surged forward, jostling and shoving in their haste.

  Seemingly out of nowhere a petite brunette in a cherry-red dress barreled through the masses. Rudely nudging me aside, she looped her arm through Sheila’s. “Sorry I’m late, darling,” she said, sounding out of breath. “My plane was delayed getting in from New York. Then I had to rent a car and drive God only knows how many miles to get here.”

  “Relax, Betsy.” Sheila patted the woman’s hand. “You’re here now, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Tsk, tsk.” Betsy clucked her tongue in disapproval. “Darling, you’re looking a bit washed out. Luckily for you, I brought along my little bag of tricks, courtesy of Belle Beaute. I’ll have those cheeks blooming like roses with a couple swipes of my magic brush.”

  “I see a side door. Let’s get away from this madness.”

  “Did you hear that?” Connie Sue whispered, almost beside herself with excitement, as the two women slipped away.

  “Hear what?” I asked, scanning the rapidly filling auditorium for a row that held six vacant seats.

  “This Betsy person must work for Belle Beaute. Her company is the sole sponsor of How Does Your Garden Grow? Take it from a former Miss Peach Princess, sugar, their cosmetics are the best! The very best. Rumor has it they’re comin’ out with a new product…”

  I listened with half an ear while Connie Sue rattled on, spouting a lot of R words. Words such as retexturize, revitalize, and rejuvenate. If those products took years off my age as they seemed to for Dr. Sheila, I intended to try some on my next trip to the mall.

  “Rita must be pleased with tonight’s turnout,” Pam commented as we scooted into our seats.

  Leaning across her mother, Gloria said, “Rita told me that the editor of Sheila’s book, as well as the producer of her TV show, are expected to be here.”

  “Hush, y’all,” Connie Sue cautioned. “The program’s about to start.”

  The lights dimmed, and Rita stepped up to the podium and addressed the audience. “Before I tell you about tonight’s speaker, I’d like to introduce some special guests in the audience.”

  I craned my neck for a better view of those in the front row. Along with the board members of Flowers and Bowers, I noticed Betsy of the cherry-red dress, Vaughn Bascomb, and two gentlemen I assumed were Sheila’s editor and her producer.

  Rita, in fine fettle as mistress of ceremonies, introduced the illustrious guests. Betsy turned out to be Betsy Dalton, vice president of Belle Beaute, Sheila’s cosmetic sponsor. The gentleman on Betsy’s right was Roger McFarland, senior editor of a prestigious university press that specialized in horticulture. McFarland, a pudgy, carrot-haired individual wearing horn-rimmed glasses, looked like an aficionado of down-home Southern fried. The man on Betsy’s left was Sheila’s producer, Todd Timmons. Timmons, a small, intense young man with a high forehead and close-cropped brown curls, favored the unshaven look currently popular with male TV stars. Unfortunately for Timmons, he looked like a Chia Pet.

  “Last but by no means least,” Rita continued, “it’s my privilege to introduce Dr. Vaughn Bascomb. Many of you may recognize Dr. Bascomb from his frequent guest appearances on How Does Your Garden Grow?”

  Enthusiastic applause followed. Vaughn Bascomb, dabbing at his mouth with a folded handkerchief, rose to his feet and turned to the audience. He looked paler than Jacob Marley’s ghost, I noted, but that could be a trick of the lighting. The man certainly needed to exert more self-control around hush puppies.

  Rita forged ahead in her role as mistress of ceremonies. “Serenity Cove Estates garden club, Flowers and Bowers, is honored to host…”

  Blah, blah, blah…. I stifled a yawn, wishing I was home channel surfing for Law & Order reruns.

  “…I could go on and on about tonight’s guest,” Rita paused, “but I won’t.” She smiled, waiting for the polite laughter to fade. “I know you’re not here to listen to me, but to Dr. Sheila as she’s known to her legion of fans. Ladies and gentlemen, it gives me great pleasure to introduce my esteemed friend, Dr. Sheila Rappaport.”

  After what seemed a lengthy pause, Sheila teetered out from the wings. Was she drunk? The thought flashed through my mind; then I noticed the rictus of a smile pasted across her ashen face and a slender hand pressed to her abdomen.

  Chapter 3

  Sheila’s entrance from the wings was met with wild applause. The audience, so it seemed, was willing to forgive minor imperfections in their idols.

  I watched in morbid fascination as the renowned botanist tottered toward center stage. I tried not to be judgmental. I’d probably wobble too if I attempted to wear stiletto heels. Or worse yet, I’d probably fall and break my fool neck. Though it pains me to admit, all my pretty high heels are relegated to plastic shoe boxes at the back of my closet. Someday I’ll part with them, but the time hasn’t come when I’m ready to trade peep-toe pumps for orthotics.

  Hanging on to her facsimile of a smile, Sheila grasped the podium with both hands and looked out over an auditorium packed with her admirers. Each person was ready to hang on to her every word, swallow her every syllable. Each eager to explore the mysteries of drought-resistant perennials.

  “Sheila’s complexion still looks a bit washed out,” Connie Sue said, keeping her voice low. “Those roses Betsy promised to put into her cheeks failed to bloom.”

  I nodded sagely. “Hope she kept her receipt. Maybe she can get a refund.”

  Connie Sue looked at me strangely, obviously failing to appreciate my veiled attempt at humor. “Her receipt for the roses that failed to bloom. Get it…?”

  Giving me an eye roll, she turned her attention back to the stage.

  “Ladies and gentlemen…” Sheila began, her voice resonating through the microphone. She stopped speaking and stared off into space, then, blinking several times, she cleared her throat.

  “She drunk, or what?” Polly asked, forgetting to keep her voice down.

  Gloria shot her a look. “Mother, please.”

  Sheila collected herself and began anew. “Ladies and gentlemen…”

  Then the elegant, the sophisticated Dr. Sheila Rappaport, the darling of HGTV, author of a soon-to-be-published coffee table book, clutched her abdomen and spewed the contents of her stomach all over the stage.

  As one, the audience gasped in horror. Vaughn Bascomb sprang to his feet and surged toward the stage, but before he could offer any assistance, he halted abruptly. Half-turning, he emitted a strangled cry. His eyes rolled back in his head. Then seconds later, he collapsed and began flopping around like a lake trout minus the lake.

  Pandemonium broke out. The crowd rose to its feet, everyone talking at once.

  As I watched in indecision, Sheila slumped to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut.

  “Is there a doctor in the house?” Rita screamed into the mike. “Someone call nine-one-one.”

  Automatically I reached for my purse and started digging for my cell phone. I had to yell at the EMT dispatcher in order to make my voice heard above the din. “Hurry,” I shouted.

  I was sorely tempted to yell, “We need a bus,” à la Mariska Hargitay, who plays tough cop Olivia Benson on Law & Order: SVU. Mariska/Olivia always manages to look sleek and exotic in black leather. Too bad as a Medicare card–carrying maven I can’t pull off that look with the same aplomb.

  I felt Connie Sue’s nails dig into my arm. “They’re goin’ to be all right, aren’t they, sugar?” she asked.

  “Sure, they’ll be fine,” I assured her, lying through my teeth. I’d repent later.

  A few brave souls hovered around Sheila and Vaughn, unsure what protocol to follow. Vaughn had
ceased convulsing, but his body remained inert. Sheila was beginning to stir, but appeared disoriented. I found myself wishing for Janine, another of our band of buncoettes. Janine was a licensed RN and our go-to person for anything medical. If she were here, she’d know what to do. But she wasn’t. No, Janine was in Barbados probably sipping margaritas and dancing in the sand, happily celebrating her wedding anniversary. Some people have no sense of timing.

  Polly tugged my sleeve. “Do you think greasy food made them sick? Fried chicken’s a favorite of mine. Suppose I should give it up?”

  “I don’t know, maybe…” I muttered, peering over my shoulder, hoping the EMTs would magically appear.

  Behind her trifocals, Polly’s faded blue eyes held a worried gleam. “Sheila’s friend kept talking about all the hush puppies he ate. Suppose I should give up hush puppies, too?”

  “Polly might be onto something,” Pam said quietly. “This could be a case of food poisoning.”

  A commotion in the back of the room kept me from answering. I let out a humongous sigh of relief as a team of first responders, fluorescent orange bags in hand, rushed forward. Two of them knelt alongside Vaughn and turned him onto his side as he began to seize again. Another pair, led by a woman I knew only as Sandy, raced up the steps to the stage and wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sheila’s arm. I felt gratified to observe that Sandy had donned latex gloves. With all the germs around these days, one can’t be too careful.

  Once—for about sixty seconds—I’d entertained the notion of being trained as a first responder, then promptly dismissed the idea. As a mother of two, I’d cleaned up my share of blood and barf and wasn’t eager to do it again. Thank goodness not everyone shared my squeamishness. These efficient and dedicated individuals are first on the scene and arrive prepared for any emergency. Suddenly I no longer minded that Janine was in Barbados. Vaughn and Sheila were in capable hands.

  Within minutes EMTs hurried in, and the first responders stepped aside to allow them access. Rita hovered in the background, looking more shaken than I’d ever seen her. Usually she’s a rock. Gibraltar personified. But not tonight. It was one thing to see paramedics working on a stranger, another thing entirely when the victim was a friend.