'Til Dice Do Us Part (2 page)

Rita, big and buxom, fanned her face with her hand. “He’s gorgeous. I feel a power surge coming on.”

A bevy of
ooh
s and
aah
s and
isn’t he handsome
s followed the picture from one set of hands to another. Claudia beamed, basking in Lance’s reflected glory. “He’s something, all right. My own personal hunka-hunka burnin’ love.”

“Not bad for an older guy,” Megan Warner concurred.

“Watch your tongue, child.” Claudia gave Megan’s arm a playful swat. “Didn’t your mama teach you to respect your elders?”

Pam rushed to her daughter’s defense. “When you’re only twenty, Claudia, even Justin Timberlake is getting a little long in the tooth.”

Perky, blond, blue-eyed Megan happens to be the darling of the Warner family. She’s currently taking online classes and working part-time as a receptionist for the new dentist in town while trying to decide what to do with the rest of her life.

Finally it was my turn to worship at the Altar of Lance. “You gals are right. Lance Ledeaux is one hot dude.” That is if one’s taste ran to the superficial. Not mine. Personally, I’ll take Bill Lewis, my handyman charmer in a tool belt, any day of the week over movie-star handsome. I passed the glossy to Janine, the Babes’ very own Jamie Lee Curtis look-alike with her slender build and cap of short-cropped silver hair. A registered nurse, Janine is our go-to person for all things medical.

Janine’s brows puckered in a frown. “His face looks familiar. I swear I’ve seen him before, but I can’t place him.”

Tara, the other youngster of the group at thirty-one, scooted closer for another look. Tara is Rita’s daughter-in-law. She’s staying with her in-laws while her husband, Mark, is deployed to Iraq. “Now that you mention it, he does look familiar.”

“Of course he does, sweetie,” Claudia cooed. “He’s an actor. A well-known actor, I might add.”

“An actor?” we exclaimed in perfect eleven-part harmony.

“That’s right. Did I forget to mention I married an actor?”

Claudia’s expression was guileless as a cherub’s. But I wasn’t buying the innocent act. She had deliberately withheld this little tidbit, going for shock value instead. And judging from the awed looks on our faces, her ploy had worked.

“Lance has appeared in dozens of TV shows and had bit parts in a score of movies. He’s what they call a ‘character actor.’ The play he was in in Atlanta had just ended its run when we happened to meet.”

“Let me see.” Polly snatched the picture from Janine and, bringing it closer to her nose, squinted at it. “Yeah, sure, now I recognize him. Didn’t he do one of those commercials for men who can’t get it up?”

Claudia’s face reddened as she retrieved the photo and stuffed it back into her handbag.

“You know the kind I mean,” Polly continued, unfazed. “In the commercial, the guy takes a pill of some sort. Next thing you know, he’s leading a woman off to the bedroom.”

“Lance has done all sorts of work,” Claudia replied stiffly. “He’s quite talented but never got his big break. He plans to drop by after bunco. He’s got a proposition for you. . . .” She paused for effect, then smiled a cat-with-a-canary smile before continuing. “It’s a very important proposition.”

“One more question,” Polly chirped. “Lance Ledeaux? That his real name?”

I poured Claudia a glass of wine. She looked like she needed one.

No amount of prying, coaxing, or bribing could loosen Claudia’s tongue about this so-called “proposition.”

“It’s classified information,” Claudia insisted. “Lance swore me to secrecy.”

After a brief discussion, we’d agreed to shorten the night’s bunco in favor of meeting Lance Ledeaux. We’d play only three sets of six rounds instead of our usual six sets.

“OK, ladies, let’s play bunco!” Pam announced.

Fortified with glasses of wine, we scrambled to find places. There were three tables of four for a total of twelve players. Each table was outfitted with three dice, score sheets, pencils, and the mandatory dishes of snacks. A bell Pam had found once at a garage sale occupied center stage on the head table, which for tonight was in the living room.

Glass in hand, I migrated to the head table and sat down opposite Claudia. Pam and Connie Sue joined us.

“Who has the tiara?” Monica demanded from the adjacent dining room.

“Got it,” Gloria called from her spot in the den.

Gloria may favor serviceable polyester when it comes to clothing, but bling is her thing. She fairly sparkles in gold chains and bangle bracelets. The tiara literally was the icing atop her salt-and-pepper do.

The tiara had been Connie Sue’s idea—go figure—a relic from her days as beauty queen. Each time we meet, the night’s high roller is awarded the tiara. It’s that person’s to keep until the next time we play. Then, after scores are tallied, the reigning diva relinquishes the tiara to the new winner. It’s childish, I know, like little girls playing dress-up, but we love the silly ritual—especially Monica, even though she’d die rather than admit it. Monica’s determined to bring home the tiara at the end of each and every bunco night. But then Monica tends to be a bit on the competitive side.

Pam rang the bell and play commenced. I picked up the dice and, miracle of miracles, rolled a succession of ones. When my string of luck—my very short string—ran out, I passed the dice to Connie Sue on my left.

Now, rules of bunco vary somewhat from group to group. Your grandmother may have played the game one way, and your mother another. Allow me to explain the Bunco Babes’ way. We decided early on that we’d play six complete sets before calling it a night. In each round, players try to roll the same number as the round. For instance, in round one, players attempt to roll ones; in round two players attempt to roll twos, and so on and so forth. One point is awarded for each target number rolled successfully. Bunco occurs when a player rolls three of a kind of the target number, for which she scores the grand total of twenty-one points. A player continues to roll as long as she’s racking up points. The round ends when someone at the head table—which controls play—reaches a total of twenty-one, rings the bell, and hollers, “Bunco!”

Connie Sue didn’t fare much better than I. Disgusted with her lack of success, she shoved the dice toward Claudia. Scooping up the dice, Claudia rattled them as though trying to shake the spots loose. Then with a flourish she let them fly. Instantly three ones appeared. “Bunco!”

Pam rang the bell, signaling the end of the round. Claudia’s cry of triumph was met with moans and groans of despair. Since everyone gets at least one roll, Pam tossed the dice, but, failing to roll a one, tallied the score.

“That’s not fair,” Monica whined. “I only have six points.”

Amidst good-natured grumbling, we totaled points—most of which were in the single digits thanks to Claudia’s instant bunco. The winners advanced tables, except for Claudia and me, who remained at the head table.

I half stood to swap partners, but Claudia motioned me back to my seat. “Stay where you are. I’ll change places. I just want to refill my wineglass.”

A little red flag popped up at hearing this—or at least a tiny pink flag. Claudia wasn’t much of a drinker. She rarely had more than one glass of wine, and if she did, it was certainly much later than in the first round. Had Vegas corrupted her? Or was something else afoot?

“There ought to be a rule against getting a bunco on your first throw,” Monica groused.

“It’s all a game of chance, sugar,” Connie Sue reminded her as she helped herself to veggies and dip on the way to table three in the den.

“Yeah, yeah, I know, but I still don’t think it’s fair.”

Monica, as I said, tends to be competitive. Anyone who think she’s a bad sport at bunco should see her on the golf course.

When play resumed, I found myself watching Claudia more closely. I could see that when it came to tossing dice, she had spent some time in Vegas honing her technique. Her style definitely had more pizzazz than before. The dice fairly danced across the table each time they tumbled out of her hand. Once or twice, one of the little buggers skittered right off the table and onto the floor.

“You’ve certainly improved your know-how when it comes to dice,” I told her, admiring the dramatic little wrist-flip she had acquired.

“And it seems to be paying off,” she said with a grin as she rolled two—not one, but two—baby buncos in a row. Monica watched with undisguised envy as Claudia added ten more points to her score sheet, five points apiece for each baby. Baby buncos, by the way, occur when a player rolls three of any number except for the target number, which, as I already mentioned, is a whopping twenty-one points. I didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know that Monica was wishing Claudia, not I, were her partner.

“Bunco!” Claudia called out, then clanged the bell. The big smile she wore showed she was obviously enjoying her winning streak. “I spent a fair amount of time at the craps table,” she confessed to a disgruntled Monica. “Picked up a few pointers.”

“Were you this lucky in Vegas?” Megan asked, all perky innocence.

“Honey lamb, I broke the bank. Just wait ’til you see the prize I brought home.” She imitated Rita’s gesture, fanning a hand back and forth as if she needed to cool down.

Claudia’s luck held for the remainder of the evening. Gloria no sooner finished placing the coveted tiara atop Claudia’s flaming locks than the door chimes sounded.

“That must be Lance! Right on cue.” Claudia sprinted for the door as fast as a miniskirt and stilettos would allow.

“Suppose Lance Ledeaux is his real name?” Polly asked for the second time. For once, there were no reproving looks from her daughter.

We flocked together into the living room, a covey of peahens eager to catch our first glimpse of the peacock who’d just flown in from Vegas. From the foyer, we heard a giggle followed by a loud smooching sound. Polly craned her scrawny neck for a better look, almost falling off the sofa in the process.

After what seemed like an hour but was more likely only a minute, Claudia led her bridegroom across the foyer and into the living room. It was easy to see how this man could turn heads—and make sensible women do foolish things. He was tall, close to six feet, with sandy brown hair expertly styled and blow-dried and with just enough gray at the temples to give him a distinguished look. His tan screamed serious time spent in the sun. I placed him in his early fifties, younger than Claudia—no surprise.

Claudia smiled brightly and squeezed his hand. “Ladies, it gives me great pleasure to introduce my husband, Lance Ledeaux. Lance, these are the Bunco Babes, my best friends in the whole wide world.”

“Claudia, my dove, your description failed to do these fair ladies justice.”

Dove? Fair ladies?
I wanted to stick my finger down my throat and make gagging noises.

Claudia proceeded to introduce each of us in turn. While I waited for the privilege, I gave myself a little pep talk. If Claudia had fallen head over heels for the guy, there had to be more to him than met the eye. I had to give Lance Ledeaux credit. He worked the room so well, he might’ve been running for public office. He greeted each of the Babes effusively, dispensing charm like candy on Halloween. I watched as the Babes seemed to succumb to his spell. Even Rita, the most levelheaded woman I know, was turning into a simpering female right before my very eyes. Was I the only one immune to polished good looks and smarmy charm?

Begrudgingly I gave the man points for his sense of style. He was a walking fashion plate in a three-button navy wool blazer over a blue and white striped oxford shirt, open at the throat, and tan pleated chinos. Expensive-looking aviator sunglasses were hooked onto his breast pocket. Why, I had no idea. No one in their right mind needed sunglasses at this time of night. Yes, indeedy, Claudia’s jackpot could have posed for
GQ
. Not that my late husband, Jim, subscribed to that particular magazine, mind you. He was more the
Sports Illustrated
type.

“So,” Polly was saying in a conversational tone, “you ever meet Brad Pitt?”

Here I half expected her to ask him whether Lance Ledeaux was his real name, and instead she was grilling the dude about the celebrities he knew. I should have guessed Polly would go straight for the jugular.

After assuring Polly that Brad was every bit as handsome in person as he was on-screen and twice as nice, Lance turned toward me. “And you must be Kate, the brave detective. Claudia’s told me so much about you.”

Detective? Had the man actually called me a detective? Hmm . . . Maybe I was being hasty in my rush to judgment.

He took my hand and held it—a little too long.

Up close, his face was smooth and unlined, making me wonder just how much younger he was than Claudia. “Welcome to Serenity Cove Estates,” I said, gently extracting my hand from his grip. “I hope you’ll be happy here.”

“I’m certain I will be. In spite of being a small community, Serenity Cove Estates seems to have a lot to offer.”

He beamed down at me. His choppers were the dazzling white of toothpaste ads. In that instant, he did look vaguely familiar. Was he the actor I’d seen in denture commercials? Darn these senior moments!

“Someday soon,” he said, continuing to bestow upon me his mega-kilowatt smile, “maybe we can sit down, and you can tell me all about your, ah, let’s say, your close encounter with a diabolical villain. It’s got the makings of a great screenplay.”

“A screenplay? Really?” I grimaced inwardly at hearing myself ask this in a breathy voice. Now who was simpering? My brain was turning into pudding.

“It’s got all the right elements, my dear Kate. Mystery, adventure, danger, and, of course, a lovely damsel in distress who saves the day.”

I nodded furiously in agreement. I was beginning to like Lance more and more each minute. No wonder Claudia was smitten.