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card games, though some day I might try my hand at bridge. Then again, maybe not. Bunco is more my speed. At the risk of repeating myself, no skill, no strategy, strictly social. Can’t ask for more when it comes to a game.
    The kettle’s whistle startled me. If Monica could see me now, she wouldn’t accuse me of being calm. I felt restless, jittery. A delayed reaction, I suppose, to the events of the day. My hand wasn’t quite steady as I poured boiling water into a mug bearing the logo of a local bank. Water sloshed over the rim. Grabbing a dishcloth, I mopped up the spill.
    Slumping down in a kitchen chair, I waited for my tea to cool. My mind kept replaying what had happened that afternoon. If I hadn’t topped my drive, we might never have found the . . . it . And, let me tell you, it was not a pretty sight.
    As I already mentioned, along with cookies, chocolate, and CSI , Law & Order is another weakness of mine. The character Lennie Briscoe, played by the late Jerry Orbach, is a personal favorite. Lennie has a God-given talent for wisecracks no matter how gruesome the scene. How does Lennie do it? How can he and his cohorts be so nonchalant week after week?
    “Duh!” I muttered out loud, and resisted the urge to slap myself on the forehead. Could it be because Lennie and his cohorts are played by actors? Could it be because their crime scenes are make-believe? Could it be because the blood is really ketchup? Duh! If there was any lesson to be learned from yesterday afternoon, it was that mangled arms are one thing on TV, another entirely up close and personal.
    I took a sip of chamomile tea. Not bad, but definitely an acquired taste. Getting back to . . . it . If my ball hadn’t landed in the crud back on the eighth hole, it might never have been discovered. Those turkey buzzards would have picked it cleaner than a tray of free hors d’oeuvres at happy hour. And that would have been a real tragedy. The rightful owner of . . . it . . . deserved better. Deserved some dignity, some respect. Body parts, even those in Wal-Mart bags, shouldn’t be discarded like yesterday’s newspaper.
    If I live to be a hundred like Aunt Catherine, my mother’s oldest sister, I don’t think I’ll ever forget how that arm had looked. The mention of that word had me sitting up straighter and squaring my shoulders. There, I had gone and done it. I had said the forbidden. If I may paraphrase Shakespeare, an arm by any other name is still an arm. Not an it .
    Small wonder Pam had screeched like a banshee when that arm tumbled out. The best I could muster at the time was one pathetic little squeak. My vocal cords seemed paralyzed. Something that doesn’t happen often. If you don’t believe me, ask any of the Babes. Instead of hollering my head off, I had stared and stared and stared. The flesh—at least what was left—had been a swollen, mottled grayish black, the edges ragged. I shuddered. What kind of person could do that to another human being? Surely, as Connie Sue had pointed out at bunco, no one here would do such a thing. Serenity Cove Estates is much, much too civilized.
    I laced my fingers together and frowned into my tea-cup. Something nagged at me, but I couldn’t quite pin it down. Then it came to me. It . . . er, the arm . . . had been wearing a ring. Either a silver or white gold band had been nearly hidden by the engorged flesh at the base of one knuckle. If I closed my eyes, I could still picture it. Instead, I kept them open. Wide open. If I tried to picture that ghastly sight, I’d never get any sleep.
    I shoved my tea aside. Maybe a game of pinochle wasn’t such a bad idea after all. A glance across the way showed the Brubakers’ light still on. Earl and Rosalie had moved into Serenity Cove Estates about the same time as Jim and I. For a while, Rosalie and I were pretty good friends. That was until she discovered golf. Golf with a capital G . Where that game is concerned, we’re not in the same league. And I