Free 'Til Dice Do Us Part by Gail Oust

should have stuck my fingers in my ears and turned tail. But no, not I. I stayed, shamelessly eavesdropping on a very private conversation. Was it too late to make a New Year’s resolution to mind my own business?
    “Can we go? Please,” Monica begged piteously. “I’m afraid I’m going to be sick again.”
    Sheriff Wiggins pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Anythin’ else anyone wants to add before I send y’all home for a good night’s sleep?”
    Apparently not, because a lengthy silence ensued.
    He tucked his little black book away. “This isn’t over, folks, not by a long shot. Expect to hear from me in the near future. After I get the reports back from Columbia, we’ll have ourselves a nice chat.”
    Turning on his heel, he marched out. We filed out of the meeting room, a solemn, subdued little group of thespians, just as the coroner and his assistant were wheeling Lance out in a body bag.
    “Oh my God,” Claudia moaned. “I can’t believe I killed him.”
    “Hush, Miz Ledeaux,” Bad Jack admonished. “No more talk like that while the sheriff’s within earshot.”
    She shuddered violently, but I think she heard him because she said no more.
    “It’s going to be OK, honey.” I wrapped my arm around her and led her toward the exit.
    Rita came up alongside us. “Kate,” she said in a low voice, “Claudia shouldn’t be alone tonight. Can you stay with her? I’ll see that Monica gets home safely.”
    “No problem. That’s what friends are for.” Claudia had no family close by. One son, whom she teasingly called Bubba, was a surgeon in Chicago. Her other son, Butch, was an engineer in Seattle. When the chips were down, the Babes took care of their own.
    I felt Bill’s hand at the small of my back. I looked up at him, and he summoned a smile—not a happy smile but a smile all the same. “If you give me your car keys, I’ll drive you and Claudia home. Gus can follow in my pickup. Tomorrow someone can arrange to get Claudia’s car to her.”
    “Thanks, Bill,” I said with a nod. His was a good plan. So much for coffee and lemon bars. They’d have to wait for another time—a time without bright red bloodstains on a yellow oxford cloth shirt.
     
    In Claudia’s house I gave her a sleeping pill from a bottle I found in her medicine cabinet. Then I tucked her into bed as I used to do with my children and pulled the covers up to her chin. Minutes later she was sound asleep. I tiptoed out, leaving the bedroom door open a crack.
    I stood for a moment, debating where to spend the night. The guest room beckoned with its fluffy duvet and mounds of pillows, but I opted for the living room sofa. I wanted to be close in case Claudia woke during the night. I burrowed down on the sofa under a wooly throw but couldn’t fall asleep.
    Though my body was weary, my brain was wide-awake, replaying Lance’s fatal shooting over and over again. Motive, means, and opportunity whirled like a merry-go-round inside my head. The means had been Bill’s handgun. Lines that read, Take that! And that and that! provided the opportunity. And motive? Well, I’d overheard enough motive for several murders.
    But in this instance, motive, means, and opportunity didn’t add up to Claudia’s being a cold-blooded killer. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. She’s my friend, and my friends don’t kill people.
    Rolling onto my side, I punched the cushion. How did a real bullet get into the gun’s chamber? Could Bill have been careless? No, that wasn’t the answer either. Bill wasn’t the careless type. Not only was he a seasoned hunter but he was also the most safety-conscious person I knew. Most likely the cause would turn out to be a malfunction of some sort, and Claudia would be fully exonerated.
    I shifted onto my back and stared at the ceiling. A wide-bladed fan hovered above me like the Goodyear blimp. An ugly question reared its head. What if money matters weren’t the only