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“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I called as I hurried to answer the door.
The doorbell pealed repeatedly, each ring more insistent than the one before.
I saw the flash of red and blue through the sidelights even before I opened the door. My heartbeat revved into overdrive. Police? Fire? EMS? Had our bunco game grown so hot and steamy, it set the house ablaze?
I found Sheriff Wiggins on my doorstep. A quick glance at his face, and I knew it wasn’t a social call. He wasn’t dropping by to beg for more lemon bars. He looked official with a capital O. My guilty conscience kicked in. Was I about to be arrested for sins of omission?
“Sheriff…?” I tried to keep the nervous wobble out of my voice, but don’t think I succeeded. “What brings you here?”
“I’ve been informed Miz Ledeaux is here.”
I peeked around him, no easy task with a man the size of a moon crater, and saw he’d brought reinforcements. Deputy Preston stared straight ahead and didn’t meet my gaze. I spotted a second deputy, one I’d seen during a previous encounter with law enforcement. Sad to say, I didn’t know the man’s name-or whether he could be bribed with baked goods.
I fidgeted with the pendant I was wearing. “We’re right in the middle of bunco. Couldn’t this wait?”
“ ’Fraid not, ma’am. I have a warrant for her arrest.”
I gaped at him. “Surely this is a mistake. Claudia wouldn’t hurt a soul. She’s the epitome of kindness. Lance’s death was a horrible mistake.”
“Step aside, Miz McCall, and let us be about our business.” Strange that such a beautiful baritone could suddenly hit the wrong note.
While the fingers of my left hand twisted the slender silver chain at my neck, my right hand clutched the door handle until the knuckles gleamed white. “Lance and Claudia were newlyweds. What reason would she have to kill him?”
True, the cad was going through her money like water, but she’d have found a way to stop this without resorting to violence. Had the sheriff found out about Lance’s spending? The Super Bowl bet? The Jaguar?
“Miz McCall,” he drawled, “unless you want to be charged with-”
“Obstruction of justice?”
He frowned so deeply, his brows pulled together in a unibrow over the bridge of his nose. “I was about to say harborin’ a fugitive. Now kindly step aside.”
I think he just made up the harboring a fugitive part, but he didn’t look in the mood for a friendly debate. Wordlessly, I did as he asked and allowed him and his men to enter.
Reluctantly I led the sheriff and his deputies through the foyer. The sheriff stopped so abruptly on the threshold of the great room that I was surprised he didn’t leave skid marks on my tile. Preston and his fellow officer did likewise, their hands automatically resting on their holstered weapons.
The sound of a male voice, or maybe the fact I hadn’t yet returned, had drawn the attention of the rest of the Babes. Alarmed, they stared at the sheriff and his men in morbid fascination.
The sheriff’s cold-eyed stare zeroed in on the dice. “What’s goin’ on heah?”
I let out an impatient huff. “I told you-we’re in the middle of bunco.”
The man had a nasty habit of ignoring my explanations. Months ago I thought I’d made it clear that bunco was nothing more than a harmless dice game. Apparently he’d stuffed that bit of information into a file labeled RAMBLINGS OF AN OLD WOMAN.
“Well, well, did we interrupt some kind of illegal gamblin’ operation?”
“Illegal gambling?” Monica gasped, her eyes wide in disbelief.
“Men,” he ordered his deputies, “have yourselves a good look around. If you see any traces of unlawful gamin’ and bettin’, collect the evidence.”
“Here,” Polly said, offering Deputy Preston a trio of dice. “You want ’em, take ’em. Not having much luck tonight anyway.”
Preston ignored Polly’s outstretched hand. “Don’t see any money, Sheriff.”
I resented this invasion of my home and didn’t care if my irritation showed. “Is this a raid, Sheriff?”
“Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant?” Diane spoke up.
“Diane’s right, you know,” Pam said, jumping into the fray. “We’re not stupid; we watch TV.”
Our indignation must’ve been contagious, because one by one the Babes rose to their feet, arms folded across their chests, no longer intimidated but outraged.
“What next?” Janine asked. “Arrest school kids for playing Monopoly during spring break?”
Tara nodded in total agreement. “What about Yahtzee?”
“Yahtzee’s played with dice. Does that make it illegal?”
I stared in surprise to see sweet little Megan with her chin jutting defiantly. The child had definitely had her feathers ruffled.
“And then there’s dominoes,” Rita pointed out reasonably. “Are they going to be outlawed, too?”
The sheriff’s jaw hardened until I could see the muscle jump and twitch. He was clearly outnumbered-and out-maneuvered by twelve angry women. “I didn’t come tonight to interfere with your… recreation. I’ll take your word that no money crosses hands. That this is no high-stakes game.”
“The winner gets a tiara,” Polly volunteered. “That considered ‘high stakes’?”
Polly sounded innocent, guileless. Had it been me, I might’ve been tempted to inject a liberal dose of sarcasm into the question.
Sheriff Wiggins’s laser-sharp eyes swept over each of us in turn before settling on Claudia. “Miz Ledeaux, you’ll have to come with us. I’m placin’ you under arrest for the murder of your husband, Mr. Lance Ledeaux.”
All eyes turned to Claudia. She looked white faced and terrified.
“Preston, please escort Miz Ledeaux to the patrol car.”
Preston stepped forward and took Claudia by the arm. Claudia wasn’t about to go softly into that good night. She dug her heels into the Berber carpet and tried to jerk free. “I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t murder Lance.”
“Ma’am,” Preston said, his voice low but firm, “if you don’t come quietly, the sheriff’s going to have me put you in handcuffs. You don’t want that, do you, in front of all your nice lady friends?”
Claudia’s gaze darted around frantically until she found me. “Kate,” she pleaded, “call Badgeley. Tell him what’s happened.”
Needless to say, bunco ended early. Seeing Claudia hauled off in the sheriff’s cruiser had a sobering effect on the Babes that not even a pitcher of whiskey sours could dispel. Fortunately, I was able to reach Badgeley Jack at home. He assured me he’d go at once to the sheriff’s office. He told me to get a good night’s rest-fat chance!-and call him in the morning for an update. I’d decided to go one better. I’d be waiting on the doorstep when his office opened.
Surprisingly, Krystal managed to sleep through the entire bunco game and ensuing brouhaha. I envied her. That kind of ability almost made me wish I were pregnant. Notice the word almost.
After driving Krystal to work at the Koffee Kup the next morning, I bided my time over coffee and a blueberry muffin. There was no sense driving all the way home, just to turn around again. Besides, muffins were a nice change from my usual bagel and cream cheese routine.
While savoring my second cup of coffee, I made a mental note to call Bill and have him put a bug in his friend’s ear. Krystal needed her car-and sooner rather than later. The problem was she had no money. In a moment of uncontrollable generosity, I’d offered to pay for the repairs. I used to lend money, but no more. I’ve found loaning money is the best way of destroying a friendship or blighting a relationship. Now I donate money, no strings attached. If I get paid back, great. If not, so be it.
A glance at my watch told me it was nine o’clock and time to leave. I left Krystal, who’d waited on me, a hefty tip. Maybe she’d use her tip money to repay me. Maybe pigs will fly.
Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s office was located three blocks down, across from the courthouse. The cornerstone of the two-story brick building bore the date 1887. His name was neatly stenciled on the door in gold letters. While the exterior may have been unimpressive, the same didn’t hold true for the interior. The minute I stepped foot inside, I felt as though I were in a Victorian parlor. A settee in ruby red velvet and several overstuffed chairs were grouped near a fireplace with a hand-painted tile surround. A gigantic Boston fern occupied the space usually reserved for logs. An Oriental rug in tones of ruby, sapphire, and emerald covered the hardwood floor. I don’t know much about antiques, but I’d wager the elaborately carved mahogany end tables were genuine and not reproductions. Bad Jack, it seemed, was a man with expensive tastes.
A woman with lots and lots of yellow hair piled high and sprayed within an inch of its life sat behind an enormous mahogany desk. The large flat-screen computer monitor was the only modern concession.
She turned to greet me, her round face wreathed in a friendly smile. “Mornin’. How y’all doin’?”
“Mornin’,” I returned, unintentionally imitating her lazy drawl.
“Name’s Aleatha Higginbotham. I’m BJ’s personal assistant,” she said with an irrepressible giggle. “Sounds much fancier that way than sayin’ I’m his secretary, don’t it now?”
I found myself instinctively warming to the woman. Ms. Higginbotham looked as soft and fluffy as one of those body pillows I’d seen on sale at Target-and just as comfy. She seemed to favor bright, splashy colors-pinks, purples, and reds-if her present outfit was any indication. Some might call her flowered polyester blouse gaudy, but I thought it suited her just fine.
“What can I do for you, hon?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Davenport. He’s representing a good friend of mine,” I added.
“I don’t suppose that person happens to be Ms. Claudia Connors Ledeaux, would it now?”
“Why yes, how did you guess?”
“I like to tell folks I’m psychic, but don’t think anyone believes me.”
I wasn’t sure quite how to respond, so I chose the easy route. “Is Mr. Davenport in?”
“He called to say he’s running a mite late. Shouldn’t be long. Why don’t you have a seat? Care for a soda? I’d be happy to put on some coffee.”
“Ah, thank you, but no.” I gingerly lowered myself onto the velvet settee. I bet even repeat offenders were careful not to crush the fabric.
“Had you pegged for a Yankee the minute you walked in. Almost offered you iced tea, but all’s I got is sweet tea. Most folks from up north don’t care for it. It’s an acquired taste.” She straightened a stack of mail on the edge of her desk, lining it up with military precision. “Sorry about your friend’s trouble. But she’s come to the right place. If anyone can help, it’s Badgeley.”
I couldn’t help but notice she referred to her employer by his first name. “Have you worked for Mr. Davenport long?”
“Heavens, yes,” she said with a laugh that set her ample bosom jiggling. “Ever since he got out of law school.”
“So he’s always had an office here in Brookdale?”
“Mercy, no. He had a thrivin’ practice over in Birmingham. Sold it and moved to Brookdale after the missus died. I had nothin’ keepin’ me in Alabama, so I packed up and came along. Real happy here, too. Guess both of us are small-town folks at heart. Where did you say you were from?”
“Toledo,” I replied. What the heck, it wasn’t exactly a state secret. Slick as ice, the woman had me answering a question that hadn’t been asked. Maybe I should take notes.
“Toledo? That in Indiana?”
“Ohio.”
“Right, Ohio. Never had cause to cross the Mason-Dixon Line. Like it fine here in the South. Did go to Vegas once, though. Isn’t that where your friend hooked up with Mr. Ledeaux?”
Our conversation ended when Badgeley Jack charged through the front door. “Sorry I’m late, Miz McCall. I went by the jail to see my client, then stopped at the courthouse. Her arraignment’s set for this afternoon at one.”