Free 'Til Dice Do Us Part by Gail Oust Page B

Her moods shifted between morose and manic. One minute she’d be sobbing and sad, then shift into defiant and angry. The sobbing and sad I could understand. I wasn’t too sure about the defiant and angry. In some obtuse way, she seemed to blame Lance for what had happened. But I knew that beneath the crying, beneath the ranting, she was terrified—terrified she’d spend her golden years locked in a jail cell because of some freak accident.
    I managed to get her ready with enough time left to swing by my home for a quick shower and change of clothes. I delivered Claudia into Tammy Lynn’s capable hands minutes before her lawyer arrived, briefcase in hand.
    He gave us both a broad smile. “Don’t y’all worry about a thing. They don’t call me Bad Jack for nothin’. I earned that title. And I’m damn, pardon the expression, proud of it.”
    I gave Claudia’s shoulders a pat before Bad Jack hustled her down the hall toward the sheriff’s office to meet her doom. Doom? A slip of the tongue. I meant meet her fate.
     
    My BFF, Pam, was waiting when I arrived at the Koffee Kup, where she had secured the large corner booth at the back of the diner. “Claudia OK?” she asked by way of a greeting.
    I slid in next to her. “As OK as anyone can be after shooting her husband ‘deader ’n a doornail,’ to quote ferret-faced Bernie.”
    “Ferret-faced? Kate, cut the poor guy some slack,” Pam admonished. “Please tell me the man didn’t really say that.”
    I solemnly drew a giant X across my chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”
    “Figures. He can be such a jerk at times.”
    “At times? You mean all the time, don’t you?”
    Glancing around, I noted the diner was filled to capacity. The owner had taken its cue from the popular Cracker Barrel restaurant chain when it came to décor. Antique kitchen utensils, farm tools, and photos of long-lost relatives in ornate frames hung on the walls. Tables covered in red-checkered cloths held small vases of plastic flowers. The diner featured old-fashioned home cooking, reminiscent of Sunday dinner at grandma’s, with classic offerings such as meat loaf, mac and cheese—a staple here in the South—catfish, and, of course, finger-lickin’-good Southern-fried chicken. And pies. Pies here at the Kup were phenomenal—pecan, key lime. My hands-down favorite was the lemon meringue with its meringue mounded mile high. But I’m wandering off course. We weren’t here to talk food, but how to save Claudia’s butt.
    “Where’s everyone?” I asked. “Did you stress that this is a matter of life and death?”
    “Connie Sue’s having her mammogram. Said she’d call later to see what she could do.”
    “What about Monica?”
    “Monica’s a nervous wreck worrying about meeting the sheriff later today. She said the mere mention of food nauseates her.”
    I picked up a menu but didn’t open it. “Did you call Rita?”
    Pam nodded. “Rita said the sheriff instructed her not to discuss the case until he talked with her.”
    The sheriff, it seemed, was a busy man. I wondered if I was on his hit list. I wasn’t sure if I should feel relieved or disappointed not to have heard from him. But on the bright side, since I hadn’t heard from him, I was free to talk about the case with whomever I chose.
    Pam spread her napkin on her lap. “All I could muster on short notice were Janine and Gloria.”
    “If Gloria comes, so will Polly. No way she’ll miss the excitement.”
    No sooner were the words out of my mouth than the bell over the front entrance jangled. I looked up to see Janine trailed closely by Gloria and Polly. Janine’s pretty face wore a worried frown. Gloria looked somber in a gray turtleneck and a gray and burgundy plaid polyester pantsuit with a flotilla of gold chains around her neck. Polly’s face crinkled into a smile when she spied us. She’d dressed for the occasion in a marigold yellow knit top emblazoned with the