Shake, Murder, and Roll Page 7

  How many times had mothers around the world used that same phrase to comfort a child? A million? A billion? A trillion zillion? As banal as they sounded, the platitude seemed to bring about the desired effect because Sheila’s tears subsided.

  “I must look a fright.” Sheila dabbed at her eyes. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’m going to duck into the bathroom and freshen up before any of my fans see me like this.”

  Holding on to her IV pole for support, she swung off the bed and slid her feet into a pair of mules trimmed in pale peach marabou that matched her peignoir. She hadn’t taken more than two steps when she glanced up and realized she had another visitor.

  “Kel…?” she gasped.

  Upon uttering this, Sheila sank to the floor in a dead faint. Greta Garbo couldn’t have been more graceful.

  Chapter 9

  Quicker than you can say “Jack Robinson,” Betsy flew to the door screaming at the top of her lungs. Her cries brought a pair of nurses on the run.

  Sheila’s eyelids fluttered, then opened.

  The nurses quickly and efficiently took charge. The taller of the two wrapped a blood pressure cuff around Sheila’s arm while the other felt for a pulse.

  “BP’s ninety over sixty.”

  “Pulse thready.”

  “Wh-what happened?” Sheila asked dazedly.

  “You’re going to be fine, hon,” the shorter, dark-haired one assured her. “Milly and I are going to help get you back into bed.” She speared us with a no-nonsense glare. “All of you—out! Now! Visiting hours are officially over.”

  Well, I’ve been kicked out of better places—including one of Toledo’s finer dining spots, but that’s a story for another day—I thought as Rita, Betsy, and I shuffled out into the hall. I noticed Kel, the man responsible for Sheila’s swoon, standing a couple doors down, looking uncertain.

  “Better page the doctor on call,” I heard one of the nurses say as we left.

  “…and put her back on the monitor,” the other one added.

  What the devil had just happened? I wondered. Sheila had seemed fine one moment, then bam! Just like the power bar.

  “I don’t give a damn what those nurses said. They can call security if they want, but I’m not budging until I know Sheila’s all right,” Betsy declared as she took up a stand just outside Sheila’s room.

  “I’m sure she’ll be okay,” Rita told her, her tone matter-of-fact.

  Betsy, though, didn’t appear convinced. “I don’t know how Belle Beaute would manage if anything happened to her. Bascomb was expendable, but not Sheila. She’s the heart and soul of How Does Your Garden Grow? The show simply couldn’t exist without her.”

  There it was again, I thought. Bascomb was disposable—and not well liked. Sheila, on the other hand, was a candidate for sainthood.

  “Who is that man?” Betsy pointed a finger at Kel, who lingered by the elevator.

  “That’s Kel Watson,” Rita explained. “The county extension agent from Clemson.”

  Kel Watson? A name collided with the face. I should have recognized him by the ponytail alone. I’d seen him a time or two at various lectures I’d attended with Rita over the years. Clemson, like most universities specializing in horticulture, employ agents who share their expertise on matters relating to horticulture and agriculture. Need advice on topics ranging from beekeeping to ornamental shrubs, Kel was your guy. I studied the man in question. He seemed harmless enough. Tall, lanky, shiny bald pate and with what remained of his salt-and-pepper hair skinned back into a ponytail that trailed to his shoulder blades. His complexion had the leathery look of someone who spent most of his time outdoors.

  “Well,” Betsy huffed, “this whole thing is entirely his fault. Sheila was fine until he showed up.”

  “Hold on a minute, Betsy,” Rita snapped. “Don’t start the blame game. Sheila fainted before Kel even had a chance to say hello.”

  Something in Rita’s voice warned Betsy to back off. Instead of further argument, she fished her cell phone out of her purse and flipped it open. “I’d better call the president of Belle Beaute. He’ll want to know what’s going on.”

  Rita motioned to me. “C’mon, let’s blow this pop stand.”

  I craned my neck for a better look into Sheila’s room, but the older of the two nurses spotted me and slammed the door. I can take a hint. I know when I’m not wanted “But what about Sheila?” I protested, hating to miss out on the action.

  Rita started down the hall without me. “Does a cat have nine lives? Don’t worry about Sheila, she’ll be fine.”

  I hurried to catch up. I’d half-expected to find Kel Watson waiting alongside the bank of elevators, but he’d disappeared. This left me feeling vaguely disappointed—and more than a little curious.

  “Kate, can you do me a huge favor and switch bunco dates with me?” Rita asked when she called the following afternoon. “I’m busy helping Tara get ready to move. Mark just found out that when he returns to the States he’s being assigned to Camp Pendleton.”

  “That’s wonderful news! Tara must be ecstatic that his tour is over, and they’ll return to California.” Tara’s been living with Rita while her husband—Rita’s son—served in Iraq. She put on a brave front, but we all knew Mark was never far from her thoughts. I was happy for the couple even though it meant losing one of our regular bunco players.

  “She’s over the moon. Now they can finally start the family they both want.”

  “And what about you? You must feel so relieved—and grateful—Mark’s deployment is over and he’s safe.” I couldn’t pretend to imagine a mother’s fear knowing her son is in a war zone. My respect for these women knows no bounds. Through it all, Rita had remained calm and stoic, but I sensed it was only an act. Mark was never far from Rita’s thoughts for long either. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Thanks, Kate, but I think I’ve got things under control. You agreeing to host bunco is one item I can cross off my to-do list.”

  “Sure, no problem,” I said. “I’ll see if I can round up a sub.”

  “Great! In all the commotion over Sheila, I haven’t given Tara much help. She’s flying out the day after tomorrow to look for a place to live.”

  “Speaking of Sheila, how’s she doing?”

  “The hospital discharged her this morning. I spoke with her on the phone, but haven’t been over to see her yet. I suppose that makes me a terrible friend.”

  “I think I’ll stop by, pay her a visit. I made some chicken noodle soup and, if I say so myself, it’s pretty darn good. As a matter of fact, it’s so good that if I don’t deliver it soon, there won’t be any left. By the way, is Betsy Dalton still here?”

  “Sticking like glue.”

  I chuckled at her wry tone. “I take it you’re not overly fond of the woman.”

  “What’s to like? The woman’s a barracuda in designer clothes.”

  “Well, even barracudas might have a soft spot for homemade soup.”

  After getting the address of Sheila’s rental, we hung up. Since this was as good a time as any for a sick call, I hopped in the Buick and drove straight over. Minutes later, I was ringing the doorbell of an attractive, beige stucco ranch-style home. It took so long for someone to answer the door that I was beginning to think I’d scribbled down the wrong address when Betsy finally appeared.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, giving me the evil eye formerly reserved for door-to-door salesmen peddling encyclopedias. The kind of purchase my father once made much to my mother’s chagrin. In my youth I’d spent many an hour poring through random volumes, soaking up trivia. At the time, I’d been determined to be the darling of Sister Agnes. And the smartest kid in class. Do people even buy encyclopedias since the advent of the Internet? Britannica? World Book? Americana? Do they still exist? I’d have to check this out with Diane, our resident librarian and fellow bunco-tere.

  “I said, can I help you?” she repeated, sounding annoyed.

 
; I’d check into the fate of encyclopedias later; right now I was on a mission. “Remember me? I’m Kate McCall. We met at the hospital the other night. I thought I’d stop by and see how Sheila’s feeling.”

  “She’s resting. I’ll tell her you were here.” Betsy started to close the door.

  If she thought I could be turned away this easily, she was mistaken. I placed my foot on a strategic spot on the sill. As I did so, I heard Sheila call out, “Betsy, who’s at the door?”

  “Guess naptime’s over.” I smiled as I pushed past her into the foyer.

  Sheila emerged through the French doors of an adjacent room. Seeing her, no one would suspect she’d had a near brush with death. On closer inspection, however, she was still a trifle pale, but on her pallor was becoming. Again she reminded me of a heroine—tragic yet beautiful—in one of those lavish films of the thirties. Greta Garbo in Camille. Or Bette Davis in Dark Victory. Vintage movies, I confess, are my newest addiction. They came in second only to my fondness for crime and punishment shows. CSI, Law & Order, Bones, Criminal Minds. Bring ’em on. The more the merrier.

  “Kate!” Sheila welcomed me with a smile. “It’s so kind of you to visit.”

  “I thought you might like some chicken soup.” I held out the take-and-go container I carried.

  “How thoughtful.”

  Betsy snatched the soup from me. “I’ll put it in the fridge.”

  “And, Betsy,” Sheila called after her, “while you’re at it, be a dear and bring us some tea.”

  I didn’t put a lot of stock in the food poisoning theory, but after glimpsing the expression on Betsy’s face just then I wouldn’t mind having an official food taster myself. When Betsy returned with the tea, I’d let her take the first sip.

  “Let’s talk, shall we, while Betsy fixes tea.”

  I followed Sheila into what was obviously the library. Not the hodgepodge room that served as den/study/library at my house, but a real honest-to-goodness library complete with floor-to-ceiling cherry bookshelves filled with books and tasteful art objects. A sleek flat-panel computer monitor sat atop a credenza, also of cherry, that snugged one corner. A sofa and matching chair-and-a-half with ottoman in butter-soft leather completed the room’s furnishings. I felt envy rise up and take a bite. I wanted a room like this.

  Sheila curled up in a corner of the sofa like a giant tabby cat and patted the spot next to her. “I took an instant liking to you, Kate. Something that doesn’t happen often at first meetings. I hoped we’d get a chance to become better acquainted.”

  I cautiously sank into the cushions alongside her. For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine why a nationally known botanist would want to get to “better acquainted” with a woman whose houseplants made suicide pacts on a regular basis

  “Rita mentioned you were instrumental in solving two murders,” she began.

  I shrugged, not sure where this conversation was leading. “Rita may have exaggerated a wee bit.”

  “Rita never exaggerates. And neither do I.” Sheila lowered her voice to a whisper. “Vaughn’s death wasn’t an accident, Kate. He was murdered. And whoever did it tried to kill me as well.”

  I tried not to look surprised, but don’t think I managed to quite pull it off. I’ve never been known to have what gamblers call a “poker face.” “I…er…” I cleared my throat and tried to assemble my scrambled thoughts. “Poison…you mentioned poison. Why do you think you were poisoned?”

  “Really, Kate.” She huffed out a sigh. “I thought you more astute.”

  Somehow I felt I’d disappointed her. Should I explain I tended more toward “dense” than “astute”? Or should I let her find out for herself? I voted for the latter.

  “Don’t you see, it’s the only logical explanation for what happened? Out of the all the people at the banquet, all consuming the same greasy food, Vaughn and I were the only two affected. And if that isn’t enough,” she continued, “if you do your homework, you’ll discover our symptoms were a textbook case of poison victims.”

  “Why are you telling me this? You should be talking to Sheriff Wiggins, not me.”

  She snorted, a very unladylike sound, not at all like one belonging to Greta Garbo or Bette Davis. “You think he’d believe me? He’d think I was crazy, delusional, paranoid. Once toxicology reports come back from the lab, it’ll be another matter, but for the time being…”

  Part of me wanted to object. Insist the sheriff would easily be convinced. But that part of me shut up, remembering I’d already gone that route. Sheriff Wiggins had all but laughed me out of his office. No, the man wasn’t about to buy into the poisoning theory without something substantial to back it up. Substantial being lab reports bearing words such as arsenic or cyanide.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Keep your eyes and ears open. Let me know if you observe anything suspicious. Do what you do best, Kate. You’re a puzzle solver. If my suspicions are correct, whoever it was will make another attempt. Next time I might not be as lucky.”

  “But…”

  She darted a glance toward the open French doors leading onto the foyer. “Please, Kate. I need a friend, a real friend, someone I can trust. I don’t have many women friends. I don’t know why,” she said, shaking her head sadly, “but I’ve never been good at developing relationships with other women.”

  What to do, what to do? Outwardly Sheila Rappaport had it all—beauty, brains, and success. But no women friends? No one to laugh or cry with, no one to complain or whine with? How lonely. How utterly tragic. A wave of sympathy threatened to swamp me. Reaching over, I gently squeezed her hand. “No promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

  Her eyes looked moist as she squeezed back. “Thanks, Kate. I can’t tell you how much this means to me.”

  At the click of high heels on tile, Sheila held a finger to her lips and shot me a warning glance. “Not a word of this to Betsy,” she whispered.

  Umm, I thought. The plot thickens.

  Oblivious of the tension in the room, Betsy entered the library and, using the ottoman as a coffee table, set down the tray she carried holding a teapot along with cups and saucers. “I assume Sheila mentioned Vaughn’s memorial service is planned for Friday?”

  “N-no.” The question caught me off guard.

  Betsy nodded briskly. “I tried to convince her there’s no need to rush, but Sheila insisted.”

  “I didn’t see any reason to delay.” Sheila accepted the teacup Betsy offered. “Vaughn’s body’s already been cremated.”

  It wasn’t until after returning home that it dawned on me that I hadn’t asked Sheila who would want both her and Vaughn dead. I also realized belatedly that Sheila hadn’t volunteered the information. A fine detective I was…not.

  Chapter 10

  I hummed to myself as I readied the house for bunco. After popping the blue cheese and bacon appetizer I intended to serve into the oven, I did a final inventory. Score cards: check. Pencils: check. Three dice on each table: check. Peanut M&Ms: check. I was good to go.

  Tonight, we were one player short what with Tara flying off to California. As luck would have it, dear, sweet Megan volunteered to bring a friend to fill in. I’d failed to ask the friend’s name, but I’m not going to quibble. A warm body is a warm body. All that was required was some wrist action. Shake, rattle, and roll them bones. Bunco couldn’t be simpler.

  I peeked at the appetizer. It was starting to bubble and smelled heavenly. No sooner had I taken it out of the oven and set it on a trivet than my guests began to arrive. Between all the chatter and hugs, one would think we hadn’t seen one another in ages.

  “Hmm, honey lamb.” Connie Sue sniffed the air appreciatively. “Somethin’ smells good.”

  Monica sniffed, too. “Bacon, do I smell bacon?”

  I raised my hand to forestall a lecture on fat grams. “Yes, it’s bacon, and I don’t want to hear another word. It’s a recipe from Southern Living.”

  “How was your cruise, Jan
ine?” Pam tactfully changed the subject.

  I could have hugged her for running interference. I was not in a mood to listen to monounsaturated fat versus polyunsaturated. I’d heard it all before.

  “Wonderful!” Janine Russell, the Babes’ very own Jamie Lee Curtis look-alike, enthused. She and her husband had just returned from a Caribbean cruise to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. “We’ve already booked another one for next year.”

  “Did you go to one of them nude beaches?” Polly asked. Tonight she wore a black T-shirt with BUNCO DIVA spelled out in rhinestones. “I heard that’s where you can see all the hot dudes. You know, the ones with six-packs.”

  Gloria, Polly’s long-suffering daughter, helped herself to crackers and spread and pretended not to hear.

  “Where’s Claudia?” Diane Delvecchia asked. Diane, a striking brunette in her midforties, is a librarian in nearby Brookdale and the computer guru of our group.

  Right on cue, Claudia Connors burst into the room. “Yoo-hoo, everyone. I’m baaack.”

  Claudia was back, all right. Claudia’s the Babes’ answer to Auntie Mame—bold, brassy, and with a heart of gold. Thanks to a no-good scumbag, her life had recently taken a downward spiral, but that was all in the past. Claudia had learned the hard way that what happens in Vegas should stay in Vegas.

  “Hey, Claudia,” I said. I gave her a big hug, then stood back to admire her new sassy strawberry-blond do. “You look like a new woman after a week at the spa.”

  “It was fantastic!” she gushed. “I’m telling you, Kate, we need to go there as a group sometime. We’d have a blast. It would be such fun! After a hectic day of facials, massages, and aromatherapy, we could sit around the fireplace every night and play bunco. And the food”—she rolled her eyes—“to die for. I gained three pounds.”

  “Gained?” Connie Sue repeated, appalled. “I thought the object was to lose weight, not gain it.”

  “Sign me up,” Polly said. “Do they have good-looking dudes to give massages?”