The Gardens of Digby Green: Poker Night
Ray Wilkinson opened the back door, and switched on the kitchen light. He pulled a plate of left over tuna casserole from the fridge, and stuffed it into the microwave, but didn’t start the machine. A shower came first.
Soap and water never rinsed away autopsy memories, but at least he wouldn’t reek so much like the morgue when the guys arrived to play Texas Hold’em.
He set up the poker table while the microwave hummed and the washing machine chugged away in the basement. Beep. Heat penetrated the oven mitt and lingered on his fingers after he set the plate on the counter.
The noodles, peas, and sauce were pasty on his tongue, and the tuna stuck to his teeth. Ray gulped his iced tea, stood, and scraped the rest of his plate into the garbage disposer. He stuck the scraped plate, fork, and tea glass into the dishwasher.
Cars pulled into the driveway. and Ray opened the front door for the guys. Frank balanced two large pizza boxes, and the aroma of pepperoni reached Ray from five feet away. His stomach rumbled.
Four hands into the session, the stacked poker chips in front of Ray was half again as tall as usual. He reached for the police chief’s chips, to pull them across the table, but the telephone rang.
“Let it go to voice mail, Ray,” Frank urged. “It’s my turn to win a hand.”
“What makes you think that’s gonna happen? Two thirds of those chips in front of him are mine.” The city clerk swigged the last of a beer, and set the empty bottle on the floor.
Ray pushed back his chair and stepped over to the phone. “Hello?”
“This is Rosalie Hilliard. Is your wife ill? She hasn’t arrived to play Bunco.”
“No, Mrs. Hilliard. Not that I know.”
“She never forgets our game and movie night, and she didn’t leave me any messages. I’ve called her phone, but she doesn’t answer.”
The Gardens of Digby Green is a short story in multiple parts which will post on Fridays until the story is complete.
Next week, part seven, Like Nobody Else.
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