Whack 'n' Roll

by Gail Oust

  When my worst fears failed to materialize, I resumed my search. I dug deeper, ripping open a bulging plastic trash bag. I stuck my hand inside and fished around. I was about to give up when I encountered something wet and sticky. I quickly withdrew my hand and stared at it. My latex glove was smeared with a dark substance. Wet, sticky, and dark . . . red.

  Blood . . . ?

  Now what? An anonymous call? I didn’t want to make any foolish mistakes. What would Gil Grissom or Catherine Willows do in a situation like this? I closed my eyes and imagined a rerun from CSI. In it, Gil would frown, then nod sagely. Catherine would then ask, “Well, what do you think?” And Gil, ever the cool scientist, would raise his hand to his nose, sniff, and say . . .

  Spaghetti sauce.

  My eyes sprang open to find my gloved fingers an inch from my nostrils. The wet, sticky, icky substance on my gloves was nothing more than plain old garden-variety spaghetti sauce. And judging from the smell, not even one of the premium brands. Earl also needed to be enlightened about the wonders of basil and oregano and garlic.

  Just then something brushed against my leg. I stifled a scream and leaped back. My heart pounded like a trip-hammer. I glanced down at my feet to where a fat sassy raccoon systematically pawed through Tools of the Trade. Its tiny hands were absurdly human as it pulled out item after item. It gnawed the cover of my brand-new little black notebook, then flung it aside. My retractable tape measure was discarded in favor of the box of latex gloves.

  “Shoo, shoo.” I flapped my hands in a futile attempt to scare it off.

  “Hssss . . .”

  Its bright, beady eyes held a malevolent gleam as they stared up at me from its characteristic bandit’s mask. Then, the annoying critter turned tail, running across Earl Brubaker’s front lawn, leaving a trail of latex gloves in its wake.

  I sighed as I bent to retrieve them. Crime solving wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

  Chapter 15

  I decided to swing by the sheriff’s office after a stop at the Piggly Wiggly and check on his progress. Sheriff Wiggins needed a reminder that Rosalie was definitely MIA. Not to mention Claudia hadn’t been heard from and there was still no sign of Vera. I didn’t want to call on him empty-handed. My mother, God rest her soul, had drilled into me the nicety of always bringing your host, or hostess, a small gift. I tried to instill that same habit into my children and often wonder if I succeeded. I knew from past experience the sheriff wasn’t a sweets eater, so that ruled out bakery items. With this in mind, I had backtracked to the produce department. I looked over the display of fresh flowers and houseplants. The man didn’t strike me as the type to appreciate roses, so I decided on an ivy plant instead. Nothing like a little greenery to liven up a dreary office.

  The same girl was at the front desk when I arrived. Same lank brown hair and too-large glasses. Same good features. Given half a chance, Connie Sue could turn this girl into a beauty pageant knockout.

  I gave her my friendliest smile. “Tammy Lynn, isn’t it?”

  The girl looked up from her computer. “Miz McCall ... ?”

  I smiled wider at hearing my name. Clearly my last visit had left an impression. “I’m here to see the sheriff.”

  Tammy Lynn didn’t return my smile. In fact, if anything, she looked—I searched for the word—uncomfortable. She looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Ah, um . . . ma’am, Sheriff Wiggins is kinda busy at the moment.”

  “No problem, dear.” I plunked myself down in one of those molded plastic chairs best suited for pygmies. “I’ll wait.”

  I glanced around the waiting room. The dog-eared magazines dating back three years were still piled on a corner table. I was pleased to note that no new felons had been added to the bulletin board. No need for more when there were already enough as it was. Yes, I thought, this place could stand a houseplant or two to liven it up. Next time I called on the sheriff, I’d bring a fresh supply of reading material, too. Maybe some recent issues of Southern Living or Better Homes and Gardens.

  To help pass the time, I blew the dust from a three-year-old back issue of Field & Stream and settled in to learn the intricacies of bass fishing. As I perused a scholarly dissertation on fishing lures, I overheard Tammy Lynn inform the sheriff I was waiting to see him.

  “Ma’am . . . ?”

  “Yes, dear . . .”

  Tammy Lynn held the phone against her chest, her expression anxious. “The sheriff said he’s very busy right now.”

  “Well, of course he’s busy,” I agreed pleasantly. “He holds a very important office with a great deal of responsibility.”

  Tammy repeated my words into the phone in a hushed tone. “Sheriff Wiggins said to tell you he has a meeting with the mayor in ten minutes.”

  I was grateful I didn’t have dairy products spoiling in the trunk of my car. “I’m in no rush. I can wait until after his meeting with the mayor.”

  She turned away, relayed my message, then turned back to me. “He said to ask you the nature of your business.”

  “Tell the sheriff I’m here to discuss our case, but not to worry if he’s in the middle of something. I’ll just wait out here and keep you company. I have all afternoon.” I went back to studying the colorful fishing lures guaranteed to attract the largest bass in the kingdom.

  The he-said, she-said game between the sheriff and his receptionist had reached an impasse. Tammy Lynn spoke into the phone once again, then glanced over in my direction but seemed reluctant to meet my gaze. “Sheriff Wiggins asked me to send you in.”

  I didn’t question my good fortune, but picked up the ivy and scurried down the short hallway and toward his office. Spending an afternoon in that dreary waiting room would have tested the disposition of a saint. Poor Tammy Lynn.

  Sheriff Wiggins was ensconced behind his desk, appearing every bit as substantial as a giant redwood. Judging from the scowl he wore, he was none too happy to see me. An injection or two of Botox would smooth those lines right out.

  “Have a seat, Miz McCall. I’m sure Tammy Lynn explained I’m very busy. I’d appreciate if you just stated your business and let me be about mine.”

  “Of course, Sheriff.” I sat down in my usual seat without waiting for an invitation. “Your dedication should be applauded. Come election time, I’ll be sure to mention it to my friends.”

  “You do that, ma’am. I’m much obliged.”

  Funny, he didn’t sound the least bit obliged. He needed to lighten up. Maybe my gift would do the trick. I plopped the ivy down on his desk. “Nothing like a houseplant to make an office a little less . . . institutional.”

  “Institutional . . . ?” He drew the word out in that melodious voice of his. “Sorry, ma’am, but most government offices tend to be . . . institutional.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “but does that mean they have to be quite so drab? Decor goes a long way to influence a person’s state of mind.”

  He studied the plant I had brought him, then drilled me with a look from eyes like shiny black onyx. “Most folks that pass through here have more pressin’ matters to worry about than the decor.”

  “Oh, I don’t disagree, but those are the folks that would benefit most from a cheerful environment.”

  He sighed from way down deep. A sound that started in his toes and worked its way up. And let me tell you, that’s a long trip for a man six feet two. “Suppose, Miz McCall, you just tell me what urgent business brought you here today.”

  “Very well.” I could tell he was in no mood for chitchat, so I cut to the chase. “Three friends have disappeared without a trace. As long as I was in town, I thought I’d stop by and see if you made any progress on locating their whereabouts.”

  He arched a dark brow. I have to admit the overall look was quite effective. I’d have to give it a try. It’s easy to raise both brows simultaneously, but to lift one and not the other required some practice.

  I could read his mind. He was telling me to get on with it, so I did. “The Babes and I have tak
en it upon ourselves—as concerned citizens, naturally—to help you out.”

  “Exactly who are these Babes who have decided law enforcement is in need of their assistance?”

  “We call ourselves the Bunco Babes.” I squirmed a bit, discomfited by that stare of his. “We . . . er . . . play bunco.”

  “Bunco?”

  “You know . . . the dice game.” Clearly the sheriff’s lack of knowledge about bunco was on par with his lack of knowledge about Nancy Drew. “There are twelve of us altogether including Claudia, but Nancy’s been filling in as a sub till she gets back.”

  He glanced at his watch, a not-too-subtle reminder minutes were ticking away. “This Claudia . . . she’s the one you said is missing?”

  “The one and the same,” I replied cheerily, grateful we were at last on the same page. “Diane, who happens to be the librarian here in Brookdale, is a whiz on the computer. She’s trying to locate Claudia’s sons to see if they’ve heard from their mother. Tara, who works at the day care center, is going to see if she can get a lead on Vera.”

  “Vera . . . ? Another of your missing ladies?”

  I nodded my approval that he was keeping up with me. “And that brings us to Rosalie.”

  “Rosalie . . . ?”

  “Rosalie Brubaker, my neighbor. She’s been away an unusually long time. Supposedly she’s visiting grandkids in upstate New York. Poughkeepsie to be exact. Her husband, Earl, admitted he hasn’t heard a word from her since she left Serenity Cove.”

  “So . . .” He pursed his lips.

  “I think it would be a good idea if you bumped Rosalie up a notch or two on your missing-persons list. I’m getting bad vibes about her. Brad Murphy, the pro at the club, told me she’s chairperson of the member-member tournament and hasn’t even posted a sign-up sheet yet. That isn’t like Rosalie. She’s very organized.”

  Those big thumbs of his began to circle each other. “Miz McCall, people, women in particular, visit grand-babies all the time. Nothin’ unusual in that. To my way of thinkin’, be more unusual if they didn’t.”

  “Except . . .” I paused for effect. “Except,” I began again, “her husband hasn’t gotten so much as a single phone call. Earl claims they had some kind of argument before she left and—”

  “An argument . . . ?”

  He stopped twiddling his thumbs and sat up straighter. Something I said had actually piqued his interest. Finally. But before I finished congratulating myself, I wanted to take back my words. Good grief! What had I gone and done? Now the sheriff probably thought Earl had something to do with his wife’s disappearance. Wasn’t that how it usually went in these cases? The husband, or significant other, whichever, was always the prime suspect.

  I tried to backpedal. “Their little spat was probably nothing at all. Earl wouldn’t harm a flea.”

  “To the best of my recollection, it wasn’t a flea that got itself harmed.”

  I surged to my feet and slung my purse over my shoulder. “Well, I’ve already taken up too much of your time. I trust you’ll keep Rosalie Brubaker on the list?”

  Sheriff Wiggins made a show of jotting her name in his little black book. Just as I was about to leave his office, I detected a slight problem. At least I hoped the problem was slight. The ivy plant I’d brought to liven up his office had leaked. Water seeped from holes at the bottom of the plastic container. A tiny rivulet ran along the desk to pool near a neat stack of papers.

  “Oops,” I muttered.

  The sheriff followed the direction of my stare.

  “Oops,” I muttered again for lack of a better word. I frantically dug through my purse for the packet of tissues I always carry. As luck would have it, it had settled in the nether regions of my shoulder bag, wedged beneath my checkbook and day planner. Grabbing a handful of tissues, I tried to mop up the mess.

  Sheriff Wiggins reached for the intercom. “Tammy Lynn, would you please bring in some paper towels.”

  Glancing down at the wad of soggy tissues in my hand, I decided to cut my losses and get the heck out of Dodge.

  In the outer office, Tammy Lynn stood with her back to me. She held a roll of paper towels in one hand and pressed the intercom button with the other. She was so intent on relaying a message into the speaker, she didn’t notice me standing there. I eavesdropped shamelessly while I pretended to search my bag for car keys.

  My curiosity was rewarded a minute later when Sheriff Sumter Wiggins barreled out of his office, issuing orders as he went. He never even noticed little ol’ me standing off to the side, my head practically buried in my large handbag.

  “Have Sam and Mitch meet me at the recyclin’ center,” he barked. “Notify SLED. Have ’em send their man down ASAP.”

  And then he disappeared out the door.

  SLED? I was all ears. The car keys magically leaped into my hand. Before you could say supercalifragilisticex-pialidocious, I was once again the caboose in a train of official-looking vehicles headed down the highway.

  The recycling center was located behind a chain-link fence off a little-used county road not far out of town. Technically since the recycling center is outside Brookdale city limits, it falls under the sheriff’s jurisdiction. I slowed as we approached, flipped on my turn signal, and followed the car ahead of me. Well, at least I attempted to follow the car ahead of me. The drive was blocked by Brookdale police, who I assumed were first to appear on the scene.

  The Buick crunched to a stop on the gravel drive. I craned my head for a better look. Large metal bins, lined up like boxcars in a railroad yard, were marked with specific designations: PAPER, GLASS, PLASTIC, ALUMINUM CANS, CARDBOARD. I started to inch forward, but was stopped by a uniformed policeman barely old enough to shave.

  “Ma’am, I’m afraid this is as far as you can go. The recycling center is closed.”

  “Closed?” I stared at a large sign hanging from the gate. I took a wild guess and assumed it contained the hours of operation. For all I knew, it could have been a recipe for oatmeal cookies. They really ought to make signs trifocal friendly. “But, Officer, doesn’t that sign over there say the center is open nine to five, six days a week?”

  “Sorry, ma’am. You’ll have to come back another time.”

  “It’ll only take a minute.” I crossed my fingers and got creative. “I’ve got a big bag of aluminum cans in the trunk of my car. And a huge stack of newspapers,” I added for good measure. It wasn’t a total lie. I did have a bag of aluminum cans and a stack of newspapers, but they happened to be in my garage, not in the trunk of my car. A little white lie, not a big black one.

  “It’ll have to wait for another day, ma’am. Sheriff’s orders.”

  I peered around the steering wheel, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on. It was hard to tell with a half dozen uniformed men blocking my view. I thought some idle small talk might buy me extra time before I was shooed away. “I’m going green,” I announced.

  The youthful policeman’s eyes widened. He looked at me as though he expected me to change color right then and there. “Excuse me?”

  “I’m going green,” I repeated. “I think everyone should, don’t you?”

  “Hmm . . .” He looked a bit uncertain. Probably wondering if I was off my meds.

  “It’s up to us to save the planet, you know.”

  Before he could reply, the coroner’s van pulled up behind me, and was motioned through. Something was up. Something was definitely up. Surely no one could expect me to leave just when things were starting to get interesting. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the mean old sheriff evicted me, so I had to make the most of the time I had left.

  “People need to become eco-friendly if we want to take stress off the planet,” I said, expanding on my ecology lecture. “Personally I believe all of us should practice the three Rs.”

  He scratched his head. “Reading, writing, and ’rithme tic? If you don’t mind my asking, how’s that going to save the planet?”

  “Son, get wit
h it,” I scolded. “This is the twenty-first century. The three Rs have changed since your grandmother’s time.” I said this with a straight face. Mind you, I’m well aware I’m a grandmother myself. This young man should thank me for updating his education. “The three Rs stand for reduce, reuse, and recycle.”

  “Is there a problem, Olsen?” one of the sheriff’s deputies called over. He had probably noticed my Buick semi-permanently parked at the entrance.

  “No, sir,” Olsen called over his shoulder. “This nice lady was just leaving.”

  At the mention of “nice lady,” Sheriff Wiggins’s head whipped around. I waggled my fingers at him. A friendly gesture, which, by the way, he didn’t return.

  “Olsen,” he growled, “kindly review the meanin’ of obstruction of justice for the ‘nice lady.’ She seems to have forgotten.” After giving me the evil eye, he turned back to business.

  Keeping my gaze fastened on the sea of uniforms, I shifted into reverse. I watched as a man in jeans, T-shirt, and ball cap gestured repeatedly at a large bin marked PLASTIC. I was about to ease my foot off the brake when I noticed the bottom of the bin had rotted away. A dark icky liquid oozed out of a hole in one corner. I squinted, trying to see what had captured the men’s attention.

  I couldn’t be one hundred percent positive from this distance, but if I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it looked like string. Long, dark string mixed with gooey liquid. But why would string have the sheriff bringing in SLED? And the coroner?

  I squinted so hard my eyes nearly crossed. I berated myself for not making an appointment for an eye exam. String wasn’t quite the right word for what I was seeing. This was finer. More like thread—or hair.

  “Ma’am? If you don’t want to get on the sheriff’s bad side, it’s best that you leave.”

  I nodded absently, my mind busily computing. SLED wasn’t called if someone accidentally dumped aluminum cans in a bin reserved for glass bottles. Or for improperly disposing of flashlight batteries. Body parts were another matter, however.