The Twelve Dice of Christmas Read online

  “Okay, for starters there’s 48 Hours on CBS, 20/20 on ABC, and NBC has Dateline. If you’re looking to stay abreast on crime solving, you might want to check out Forensic Files and ID: Investigation Discovery on cable networks. Think of them as home schooling. You can learn a lot from watching these programs.”

  “Right, right, and some folk learn too much.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Let’s get back to the reason I called you in, shall we? From the get-go, you referred to the remains as he. Did you see more than the victim’s head?”

  “I might be curious, some might even call me nosy, but I’m not a pervert. That would’ve been an invasion of privacy.”

  “How well do you know Eula Snow?”

  “Not very well other than knowing she’s absentminded.” I drummed my fingers on the armrest of the chair. “We only met yesterday. According to Tammy Lynn, her grandmother’s going into a nursing home soon. In a weak moment, Eula volunteered to let the garden club use her home as part of their Holiday Home Tour. The Babes and I offered to help decorate.”

  “I see,” he said, his tone blander than a bowl of grits. And to use that analogy is blasphemy in the Deep South, where folks love their grits—grits drowning in butter, grits smothered in cheese, or grits topped with shrimp. “Don’t suppose Miss Eula mentioned her husband’s disappearance?”

  Frowning, I tried to recall Eula’s exact words. “She told us he’d been gone for twenty-five years. All of us assumed he’d passed away and that she was a widow. Surely you don’t think that sweet lady had anything to with her husband’s death?”

  “Too soon to be jumpin’ to conclusions. In the meantime, we’re treatin’ Miz Snow’s house as a crime scene.”

  I gulped. Yellow crime scene tape screaming Sheriff’s Line Do Not Cross plus a patrol car at the curb and a deputy stationed at the door spelled catastrophe for the Holiday Home Tour. Instead of an enchanted cottage in the woods, the garden club would boast an honest-to-goodness scene of a crime. “Will Eula’s home be off-limits for very long?”

  “Hard to say at this point. Need to give the evidence techs time to do a thorough check. No tellin’ what a forensics team might turn up even after all these years.” He gave a brusque nod and what passed for a smile. “Have a good one, Miz McCall.”

  I knew when it was time to make an exit. “Will you please notify me when the house is no longer off-limits?” I asked as I rose to my feet.

  “Sure thing,” he drawled. “If I have nothin’ better to do.”

  Chapter 7

  Upon seeing us enter the Cove Café, Monica made a point of staring at the clock mounted above the doorway. Connie Sue and Gloria kept their attention trained on the menus they were holding.

  “Hmph! It took the two of you long enough. I hope you have a good excuse for keeping the rest of us waiting.” Monica’s tone confirmed my suspicion that she would have made a good Mother Superior in a convent. Too bad she wasn’t Catholic. She would’ve kept the poor postulants in line with an iron hand.

  “I don’t see Pam.” Polly took the vacant seat next to her daughter, Gloria, while I squeezed in beside Connie Sue.

  Connie Sue handed me a menu. “Pam had an appointment with the eye doctor. She’ll join us later if she can.”

  The six of us, including Pam, who was probably having her eyes dilated at this very moment, comprised the Bunco Babes ad hoc committee relegated to the task of transforming a crime scene into a cozy Christmas tableau. The remaining gals promised to help out as their schedules permitted. Megan, Tammy Lynn, and Diane held day jobs. Janine was working for the county health department administering flu and pneumonia shots. As an officer in the garden club, Rita was up to her eyeballs supervising the event. And Claudia—well, Claudia was in a tizzy preparing for the cruise that her husband, BJ, had booked for the holidays.

  Gloria leaned closer. “I took the liberty of ordering a Diet Coke for you.”

  “Thanks.” I hooked the shoulder strap of my purse over the back of my chair.

  Polly waved her hand to attract the attention of the waitress, who was busy at another table. “After spending the morning being grilled by Sheriff Wiggins, I’m ready for some liquid refreshment.”

  “Mother!” Gloria scolded, sounding exasperated.

  “Polly, isn’t ‘grilled’ a little . . . harsh? She’s exaggerating,” I explained to the group. “Since we were the first ones to find the . . . remains . . . Sheriff Wiggins had us write a statement. And asked each of us a few questions.”

  “Spoilsport.” Polly narrowed her eyes and scowled at me from across the table. “I’ve never been in a police department before. I was aiming for some drama.”

  “Haven’t we had enough drama to last awhile?” Monica said crossly.

  “Okay, then”—Polly tossed her menu aside—“let’s get back to the subject of liquid refreshment. I’d like a double Scotch.”

  Gloria, the queen of bling, shook her head, causing the colorful stones in her drop earrings to sparkle in the light. “If you get a double anything, it’ll be a double decaf. The doctor said you needed to cut back on caffeine and alcohol.”

  “What does he know?” Polly’s mouth tightened. “All that fuss just because my blood pressure was a little bit high.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Polly,” Monica snapped. “It’s common knowledge high blood pressure can lead to heart attacks and stroke.”

  “Polly, sweetie, it’s important we take care of our bodies—especially as we age,” Connie Sue said in an attempt to smooth ruffled feathers.

  “Connie Sue is right,” Gloria said. “Parts wear out, break down.”

  “Joints ache, cellulite congregates,” Monica added. “It’s a vicious cycle.”

  I nodded solemnly. “A slippery slope. Getting old isn’t for sissies.”

  “I’m certain that if Janine were here she’d agree with us.” Connie Sue gently placed her hand over Polly’s. “Why don’t you come with me to a yoga class sometime? Yoga has a long list of health benefits.”

  “Better yet,” I suggested, “you should sign up for tai chi. It’s not only great for balance but helps relieve stress. Except for the times my yin and yang are at odds, I love it. Pam does, too.”

  Before Polly could refuse our offers, Vera MacGillicuddy, our favorite waitress, approached with a tray loaded with drinks. “I’ll give y’all a minute or two for the newcomers to look over the specials before taking your orders.”

  Monica handed Vera the menus along with the list of specials. “We already know what we want. Kate and Polly can order last.”

  Monica, I noted, seemed wound even tighter than usual. I dreaded having to deliver the bombshell news that the Snow house was being treated as a crime scene until further notice. Then I’d be the one in need of a double anything.

  Vera went around the table, jotting orders on a pad while I debated my options. I had a hankering for a juicy cheeseburger with all the trimmings and a side order of onion rings. Unfortunately, in times of stress—and as far as I was concerned, finding a skeleton while searching for Christmas ornaments constituted stress—instead of losing my appetite, I developed a craving for comfort food. And a big patty of ground beef topped with gooey cheese, along with a heaping of hot, crispy onion rings, spelled comfort in capital letters.

  About to throw caution to the wind, I opened my mouth to order a burger but caught Connie Sue’s disapproving scowl. I hate when friends know your bad habits as well as you do. “A chef’s salad,” I said, resigned to overcome my baser instincts. “Dressing on the side.”

  “Vera’s looking mighty fine these days,” Polly commented as she watched Vera disappear with our orders. “She still dating her mystery man?”

  Gloria took a sip of her iced tea. “Last I heard the two of them were planning a trip to Vegas.”

  “Sure hope she doesn’t come back married to a con artist like our Claudia did awhile back. We all know how that turned out,” Connie Sue added for good measure. Claudia’s c
lose encounter with an actor by the name of Lance Ledeaux had nearly resulted in an episode of Orange Is the New Black for our fellow Bunco Babe.

  “So, Kate, what did you learn, if anything, from your visit to the sheriff?” Monica said, getting down to business.

  “And how is Tammy Lynn, bless her heart, holdin’ up?” Connie Sue asked. “Y’all know how fond she is of her meemaw.”

  “All things considered, she’s coping as best she can,” I said, grateful for a momentary reprieve.

  But Monica wasn’t one to stray off course for long. “That’s all well and good, but what about our plans for decorating Eula’s home?”

  I fiddled with the cutlery and kept my gaze averted. “Sheriff Wiggins said the house is being considered a crime scene.”

  “Crime scene?” Monica gasped. “Whatever for?”

  I regarded her in frank disbelief. How could the woman be so dense? I should’ve thought the reason was obvious, but denial is a powerful defense mechanism. I’ve seen it cause folks to call the ugly mole in the middle of their foreheads a beauty mark. “It’s a crime scene, Monica, because a crime may have been committed there.”

  “Really, Kate, you’re always a glass-half-empty person. Did it cross your mind that not every skeleton is necessarily a victim of murder? Some people die from natural causes even though their bodies aren’t found right away. Perhaps Waylon simply got tired and took a little rest down in the root cellar where it’s nice and cool.”

  “In a coal bin?”

  “Men can sleep anywhere.” She waved aside my objection. “Fred once fell asleep in the middle of a production of Mama Mia at the Peace Center in Greenville. Everyone else was dancing in the aisle, and there he was, snoring away.”

  Polly nodded sagely. “You’d better keep an eye on Fred. A man who can sleep through Mama Mia could fall asleep in a coal bin.”

  “I asked the sheriff to keep me posted,” I said, omitting the man’s sarcastic response. “Hopefully, this will only be a temporary setback.”

  “Well, then,” Connie Sue said, taking out her notepad. “Let’s use this lull to our advantage. One can only pray we’ll have enough time to get everything done that needs to be done.”

  “Amen,” we chorused.

  By the time Vera served our lunches, contingency plans were set in motion. All of us were charged with scouring our homes, top to bottom, and listing items that might be useful. Connie Sue and Monica were responsible for deciding what needed to be purchased. Everything that could be done ahead of time would be done. Once the sheriff gave the all clear, we’d descend on the house like boll weevils in a cotton field.

  Monica finished the last bite of her fish taco and blotted her lips with a napkin. “If push comes to shove, we ought to be able to complete the project in two or three days.”

  “More would be better, but we’ll do what we can to make Miss Eula proud.” Connie Sue reached for her water glass.

  Monica looked up from her notes. “And, Kate, since the two of you get along so well, I’ve assigned you as liaison with the sheriff.”

  No longer hungry after hearing this, I pushed aside what was left of my salad and groaned. “Gee, thanks.”

  “There you go again, being a pessimist,” Monica chided. “Look on the bright side. Think of all the free publicity this will generate for the Holiday Home Tour. People will come from far and near to see the place where a skeleton was found. The garden club couldn’t afford to do this much advertising.”

  “Glad to know there’s a bright side,” Gloria said quietly.

  I was about to expound on how I felt on the subject of free publicity when Vera returned with our checks. “I happened to catch the noon news on TV,” she said. “It nearly knocked my socks off when I heard about the dead body in Eula Snow’s root cellar.”

  “It wasn’t a body,” Monica corrected primly. “Only a skeleton.”

  “Whatever.” Vera doled out the individual checks as ably as a blackjack dealer. “Camera crews from Augusta are already on the scene. The reporter said there’d be an update on the six o’clock news tonight.”

  I extracted my wallet from my purse and pulled out my VISA card. “Bad news sure travels fast.”

  “Wonder how they found out so quickly.” Gloria indicated to Vera that she was paying the lunch tab for both her and her mother.

  “Tammy Lynn’s furious,” I said. “She told me someone phoned in an anonymous tip.”

  “At least Eula has her sister, Cora, to help her through this ordeal.” Connie Sue brought out a compact and reapplied her lipstick.

  “Cora?” Vera paused in the act of collecting the checks. “I heard she was back in town but our paths haven’t crossed as yet.”

  “You know her?” I asked.

  “We went to high school together. Cora Spencer—that was her maiden name—was a couple years ahead of me. I’m surprised she moved back here after all these years. There was a spell she couldn’t wait to see Brookdale in her rearview mirror.”

  “I’m afraid we don’t know a lot of the townsfolk,” Gloria explained. “We assumed Cora always lived here.”

  “What can you tell us about her?” I persisted.

  Vera raised a shoulder shrug and let it fall. “Not much,” she admitted. “Soon after graduation, Cora took off for one of them big cities up north. New York or maybe Philadelphia. Far as I know, she’s been married and divorced two or three times.”

  Monica handed Vera her check along with some cash. “Where is Cora staying if not with her sister?”

  “According to a mutual friend, she’s renting the apartment above Su Me, the Chinese restaurant on Main Street.” Vera chuckled. “This must be quite a comedown for the former Cora Spencer.”

  Snapping her compact shut, Connie Sue dropped it back into her Kate Spade handbag. “Why do you say that?”

  “The Cora I remember was never satisfied. She always wanted what someone else had, and then as soon as she got it, she tired of it. But maybe she’s matured over the years.”

  Our planning session over, I stood and lifted my purse from the back of the chair. “People do change. The Cora we met yesterday seems devoted to her much older sister. Eula is fortunate to have her close by.”

  Chapter 8

  Since the chef’s salad failed to satisfy my craving for red meat, I planned to swing by the Piggly Wiggly on my way home. Nothing like a nice meat loaf to brighten up a dreary December day. But first I’d take a slight detour and drive past the Snow residence. It would be interesting to see if it was still decked out in crime scene tape, and I’d give Eric Olsen a big wave if he was stationed out front in his squad car.

  The instant I turned onto Adams Street, I hit the brakes and barely avoided rear-ending an SUV. The narrow residential street was clogged with traffic in both directions. A traffic jam in Brookdale? Unheard of—until now. I inched along as people rubbernecked to see the small house garnering all the attention. A boxy blue van with red and white lettering idled at the curb. I recognized the logo belonging to the CBS affiliate out of Augusta, Georgia, fifty miles down the road and across the Savannah River.

  As I eased past the van, I did my share of rubbernecking, too. I immediately spotted the familiar face of a female reporter who was inspecting her reflection in a handheld mirror. Blond hair in place, makeup runway perfect, she was camera-ready in my humble opinion. I’d seen the woman reporting breaking news on numerous occasions, but, for the life of me, I couldn’t recall her name. Chalk the memory lapse up to one of those senior moments.

  I slowly cruised past the patrol car staked out in front of Eula’s house. The deputy, not Eric but rather a heavyset man with a florid face, stood guard nearby, his thumbs hooked in his utility belt. I caught him casting a wistful glance in the cameraman’s direction. His expression almost telegraphed, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille,” the famous line uttered by Gloria Swanson in an old black-and-white favorite of mine, Sunset Boulevard.

  I felt a pang of sympathy
for befuddled Eula Snow. Surely she didn’t want her home besieged by reporters hungry for headlines. She certainly didn’t want to star on Breaking News at 6. Instead, she was sequestered in her son’s home blocks away from microphones and TV cameras.

  Sighing at the capricious nature of fate, I eased on down the road. The parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly seemed more crowded than usual. I circled the lot twice before finding a spot between a pickup and a Jeep. Inside the store, I snagged the last available cart—or buggy, as they’re called here in the South—and proceeded down the produce aisle. Lettuce, tomatoes, and a green pepper went into the cart before I headed toward the meat counter. I stood there, pondering my choices and longing for the days ground beef was simply labeled ground beef. Now fat content was given a wide range. Ground beef can mean chuck, round, or sirloin. All the possibilities made my head swim. Finally, I opted for the package stamped Today’s Special.

  Intent on escape, I whirled my cart around and collided with another woman who seemed to be facing an equally challenging meat dilemma.

  “Sorry,” we said in perfect two-part harmony.

  “Guess my mind is wandering, what with all the commotion going on in town,” the woman said. “I feel sorry for Miss Eula. She’s such a sweetheart.”

  My attention sharpened at the comment. Except for a fine network of laugh lines, the face beneath the shoulder-length gray hair looked deceptively youthful. She was what some referred to as pleasingly plump and dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt that proclaimed What happens in Myrtle Beach stays in Myrtle Beach. “So, you know Eula Snow?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.

  “My husband, Grady, took over Waylon Snow’s construction business after he disappeared. I pray that the skeleton doesn’t turn out to be Waylon Snow, but who else could it be?” She gave me an appraising look. “Do I know you? Have we met?”

  “No, I don’t believe so,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m Kate McCall.”