Fit to Die by Joan Boswell Page A

she and Marion would win the rubber and be up 3,140 points. That was as many points in one hand as I usually made in a whole afternoon of bridge.
    My partner, Emily, stared at her cards as if wondering why she’d ever had the temerity to double Laurene’s bid, then gazed out my living room window at the log booms in the rain-lashed inlet and beyond to the Coast Range. The view of forested mountains apparently offered no inspiration, for she sighed and examined her cards again.
    Laurene was always full of herself, but when she made a doubled contract, she crowed so much that I wanted to take a dull knife to her tongue. There can be grace in winning as well as losing, but Laurene’s grace was restricted to her perfectly coiffed blonde hair, her perfectly matched ensembles and herperfectly kept house. Oh yes, and her expertly brewed coffee and exquisitely baked brownies.
    â€œIt’s your lead, Emily,” I said. “And don’t worry. We’re not playing for money.”
    Emily led the deuce of hearts. Marion laid out the dummy’s hand, shoved her chair back and rose.
    â€œWhere are you going?” Laurene demanded.
    â€œBathroom break.” Marion’s smile was strained. She hated listening to Laurene brag as much as Emily and I, but she usually managed to be gracious.
    â€œCome and see what I have in my hand,” Laurene said, “and watch how I handle the play. You need to learn more about strategy.”
    Marion, the youngest at forty, pushed her red hair back over her shoulders, smoothed her silk shirt over the hips of her Levis and went dutifully to stand behind her partner’s chair, too gracious even to thumb her nose at the back of Laurene’s head.
    Laurene paused after each trick, whispering to Marion about the clever play she’d just made and the even cleverer play she intended to make next. Emily and I knew because she’d done the same thing to us, more times than we wanted to remember. The hand seemed to go on forever.
    â€œIf you’ve got all the tricks, why don’t you lay your hand down and claim?” I asked.
    â€œThat would be a waste of a good teaching hand, dear. I want to play it right through to the end, so Marion can see how to do a squeeze play.”
    In fact, she simply wanted to torture us. We all knew how to do a squeeze play, a simple matter of playing all your winners and forcing the defence to discard until they could no longer protect their good cards and had to discard those as well.
    Laurene made the grand slam, of course. Her bridge wasimpeccable, like her life. She wrote the 3,140 points on her score pad, beaming as though she’d won a lottery, and said to Emily, “What on earth possessed you to double me?”
    â€œThe bidding indicated that you could be missing an ace and I thought Barbara might have it.” Emily, at seventy-three, was the senior member of our foursome, her speech as precise as her tweed suit and severe chignon of grey hair. A true lady, my husband often said.
    â€œAnd you had nothing in your own hand that could take a trick? Really, Emily! You must base your bids on logic, not wishful thinking.” Laurene rose. “Barbara, do you want help in the kitchen?”
    â€œNo, no,” I said hastily, “everything is ready.” The last place I wanted her was in my messy kitchen, finding out I’d purchased the dessert from a bakery. Emily is a lady, Marion is gracious, I am a slob.
    I brought the tray of coffee and brownies, and we moved to easy chairs to nibble and rehash the three rubbers we’d played.
    As usual, Laurene took centre stage. She swallowed a delicate bite of her brownie, wiped her mouth carefully so as not to smudge the rose pink lipstick that matched her pant suit and said, “Ladies, I’ve said this before but it bears repeating. To play bridge properly, you must keep your minds fit, just as you should exercise and diet to keep your bodies