Whack 'n' Roll

by Gail Oust

  “Orchids!” Jen’s voice rose again. “What do orchids have to do with any of this?”

  “Growing orchids is tedious work. It requires patience and gentle loving care. Those are hardly the attributes I’d associate with a vicious killer.”

  “You lost me at vicious,” Jen said. “I’m getting a headache. I think I need an aspirin.”

  “No need to get upset, Jen. I’m perfectly fine.”

  “I wish you’d reconsider and let me book you a flight to LA. You could spend quality time with the girls.”

  Right. I’d no sooner step foot off the plane than she’d be setting up one of those interventions like I’d seen on TV where family and friends gang up on a poor, unsuspecting substance abuser.

  “What about the sheriff or the police? What are they doing? Are they just sitting by while this . . . this . . . maniac gets away with murder?”

  I blew out a breath. “Sheriff Wiggins has to build a stronger case before the judge will issue an arrest warrant.”

  “Well, I certainly hope he can do it without your assistance.”

  I winced upon hearing that. I may have overstated my role in helping the sheriff solve this case just a teensy bit. I’d hoped Jen had forgotten that portion of our last conversation. “If the sheriff wasn’t competent, dear, he wouldn’t keep getting reelected.” I had no idea whether competency had anything to do with reelection, but it sounded good when I said it.

  “What kind of sheriff needs help from an elderly woman?”

  Elderly? This was the second time my daughter had used that term to describe me. I didn’t care for it any more now than I did the first time. It had the same effect as chalk screeching on a blackboard. It set my teeth on edge. I struggled for forbearance. “Sheriff Wiggins needs more hard evidence before he can make an arrest.”

  “I thought you said they found the murder weapon in the man’s garage.”

  “We won’t know for sure if it’s really the weapon or not until the forensics report comes back from Columbia.”

  Jen heaved a sigh. “Mother, you worry me. Why can’t you stay home and bake cookies like other grandmothers? You’re much too old for this sort of thing.”

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “More’s the pity, dear. If I was younger, I’d seriously consider a career as a criminalist. Maybe it’s not too late to go back to school, take a few courses.”

  “Mother!” Jen fairly exploded.

  Ignoring her outburst, I continued in the same vein. “But math and science aren’t really my strong suits. I’d probably make a better detective than a criminalist.”

  “Now I’m more than worried, I’m scared. You’re losing touch with reality.”

  “Settle down, Jen,” I said with a laugh. “I was only kidding.” But what I didn’t tell her was that I was only half-kidding. The other half of me was dead serious.

  “Well, I don’t think it’s funny,” Jen huffed, then changed the subject. “By the way, have you heard from Steven lately?”

  “No, not since before his trip to . . . ?” The name of the place escaped me. Those darned senior moments always pick the most inopportune times. Here I was, trying to impress my daughter with my mental acuity, and I couldn’t remember which country my son had jetted off to in his eternal quest for gadgets.

  “Sri Lanka,” Jen supplied for me. “I got an e-mail from him yesterday. Said he’d be home next week at the latest.” She hesitated a second. “Steven wondered if you had received the information he forwarded.”

  “Oh, yes,” I replied, my tone subzero, “I received it all right.” I had not only received information on assisted-living centers but promptly placed it in a cylindrical file commonly called a trash can. What a waste of good paper, not to mention the cost of postage. Steven and I needed to have a talk about going green and the benefits of eliminating junk mail.

  “Have you had a chance to look it over?”

  I glanced at my watch and felt a wave of relief when I saw the time. “Hate to cut this short, honey, but I’ve got to run. Don’t want to be late for the dentist.”

  Megan sat at the receptionist’s desk, her face a portrait of sympathy and commiseration. “I felt so bad when you called. I know how much you hate coming here.”

  I gave her my best martyred look and shrugged. “Just one of those things.”

  “What happened?”

  “Car—” I started to say caramel, but caught myself in the nick of time. “Karma,” I amended. “Bad karma.”

  “I hate to tell you this, but Dr. Baxter’s running behind schedule.”

  He had probably allotted too little time for patients to admire his glow-in-the-dark smile. “No problem.”

  It seemed like I had barely settled into a chair in the waiting room when Caitlin called my name and asked me to follow her. “I don’t know what could’ve gone wrong,” she said, apologizing profusely for my misfortune. “This almost never happens with Dr. Baxter’s patients. His tem poraries are the best.”

  “These things happen.”

  The minute Caitlin left the exam room, I hopped out of the chair and started poking around. I inspected the various plaques, studied the photos. A glossy of Phil Mickel son, sporting the coveted green jacket from his win at the Masters, smiled down at me. His pearly whites were impressive, but couldn’t compete with those in the photo of Tiger Woods in the adjoining room.

  The walls were lined with more of the handsomely crafted shelves I had admired on my previous visit. Like the others, these held trophies interspersed with plastic models of dentures and a high-tech vibrating toothbrush. My respect for Dr. J.’s golfing prowess climbed a notch or two when I realized he often placed in the top ten in tournaments for such notable causes as Habitat for Humanity, United Way, and Juvenile Diabetes. One photo in particular caught my attention. I stepped closer for a better look. There, in the gallery of fans clustered around the winner’s circle, I thought I spotted a familiar figure.

  “Afternoon, Kate.” Dr. I’m-a-Hunk came into the room. He stopped in midstride when he found me out of the chair and perusing his memorabilia. “Didn’t realize you were all that interested in the game.”

  “This golf course.” I tapped my finger against the picture frame. “Is it around here somewhere?”

  He gave it a cursory glance and motioned me back in the chair. “No, that was taken last spring when I played in a pro-am tournament in Myrtle Beach.”

  “Do many people from Serenity Cove come out to watch you play?” I asked as I obediently returned to the dental chair.

  “No.” He reached for a pair of gloves and tugged them on. “Why do you ask?”

  I might have only imagined it, but it seemed his smile dimmed a kilowatt or two. “No special reason. It’s just that the woman in the background—the one wearing the red shirt—looks a lot like Rosalie.”

  “Rosalie?” He picked up the temporary I had “accidentally” dislodged and started scraping off remnants of the bonding agent.

  “Rosalie Brubaker,” I said. “I believe you two were partnered in the His and Hers Classic once upon a time.”

  “No offense, Kate, but you strike me as a curious woman with too much time on her hands. Megan mentioned you were recently widowed. Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should find yourself a hobby.”

  Was he really telling me to mind my own business? Were my questions making him uncomfortable? And if so, why?

  He continued to clean residue from the temporary filling. His brows drew together as he encountered traces of a sticky substance buried in one of the crevices. “Hmm,” he muttered, then leaned so close I could see the pores in his face. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly how this came off?”

  Uh-oh. I drew as far away as the headrest would permit. Once again the scene from Marathon Man flashed through my mind. In it, I could hear a wary Dustin Hoffman whisper, “Is it safe?”

  It was déjà vu all over again, to quote my favorite philosopher, Yogi Berra. Only this time I was prepared. Th
e shrill bloodcurdling shriek came just as I was about to drift off to sleep. Even with the Sandman filling the bedroom with the sound of rippling waves, the cry penetrated every corner of the room. Leaping out of bed, I grabbed the flashlight off the bedside stand, raced across the room, and flung open the French doors. I swept the beam around the deck and stifled a scream when I practically stepped on a blob of gray fur.

  What was it? Or rather, what had it been? A squirrel? A rabbit perhaps? Maybe a mouse? And how did it get there?

  Whatever it was, I didn’t need the crime lab in Columbia to tell me it wasn’t human. Flashlight clutched in one hand, the other pressed against my chest to contain my bounding heart, I ventured farther out onto the deck. Just a few ceramic pots of purple pansies, but nothing out of the ordinary. Next, I swept the beam across the lawn toward the woods beyond.

  And there I spotted it.

  An animal, orange in color with translucent green eyes, stared back at me. At first I thought it might be a fox, but reconsidered as I continued to watch. It was too small for a fox, more the size of a house cat. Then it dawned on me. It was a cat all right—a feral cat. I’d heard of them—helpless animals that had been abandoned along the roadside to roam wild—but I’d never actually seen one before. This little creature was a sorry sight. Scrawny and battered, it looked as though it had gone ten bouts with the world’s welterweight champion and lost. But judging from the “gift” on my doorstep, it had a generous and giving nature. It also explained, to my mind at least, how the bone happened to come into my possession. Like the blob of fur at my feet, it was another present, another bid for attention.

  The wild thing looked half-starved. I thought of the canned tuna sitting on a pantry shelf, and got down on my haunches. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I crooned.

  Turning tail, the cat turned and disappeared into the woods.

  Chapter 34

  The day for our outing finally arrived. Aiken, beware: The Bunco Babes are armed and dangerous and primed to shop.

  After much debate, we ended up taking two cars. It would be a disaster of epic proportions if we didn’t have ample room to store our spoils for the trip home. I opted to drive with Pam, as did Polly and Gloria. I had offered to play chauffeur, but Pam insisted it was her turn. As much as I love her, I hate driving with her. To be brutally honest, she’s better at navigating a golf cart than she is her PT Cruiser. Her poor car has the dings and dents to prove it.

  Aiken, South Carolina, one of my favorite towns, is situated a little more than a half hour’s drive northeast of Augusta, Georgia. I make it a point to visit at least a couple times a year. Known for its mild winters and early springs, Aiken once attracted movers and shakers of the Gilded Age. Notables such as Vanderbilt, Whitney, and Astor built cozy sixty-nine-room cottages here. Today, while the main drag, Whiskey Road, offers a plethora of chain restaurants, a mall, and megastores, it’s the downtown area that draws me. Specialty shops, restaurants, and galleries line a section of Laurens Street. After finding parking stalls—not always an easy task—the Babes and I agreed to go our separate ways and compare notes over lunch.

  We scattered. Some went north; some went south. Shopping, however, wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. I’d bigger fish to fry. I’d drawn a sketch of the ring I recalled Rosalie wearing at bunco—the one that had been on her hand when she was killed.

  While the rest of the Babes shopped, I planned to make some discreet inquiries from store owners and jew elers. Since the ring’s design was unique, I hoped someone would recognize it. Since Pam was on a self-imposed austerity program since splurging on golf clubs, she readily agreed to accompany me.

  Pam and I concentrated on the boutiques that sold unique jewelry. There, I’d ask to see the owner or manager and whip out my sketch. I’d then go into my spiel about wanting to duplicate the ring in memory of a dear friend who had recently passed away. Everyone listened sympathetically, but alas, the ring remained a mystery. Along the way, Pam forgot about her austerity plan and bought a sterling-silver charm bracelet.

  “I guess this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” I admitted as we headed toward the restaurant to meet the rest of the Babes for lunch.

  “Even if we did find the jeweler who made the ring, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’ll lead us to Rosalie’s murderer,” Pam pointed out.

  “I know.” I couldn’t help but feel discouraged. If this didn’t work, my stint as a detective was over. Sheriff Wiggins, I sensed, was getting ready to arrest Earl. I was convinced the person Rosalie was having an affair with was the person who gave her the ring. Find him, find a viable murder suspect.

  I glanced up and saw Janine and Monica heading toward us. We met them at the door of the restaurant about the same time Connie Sue and Rita joined us from the opposite direction. Gloria and Polly had arrived early and had already been shown to a table. Everyone except me talked a mile a minute, exchanging information about where they shopped, what they bought, and what they almost bought.

  Finally, Connie Sue held up her hand for silence. “One at a time, y’all. I don’t want to miss a teeny-tiny detail.”

  Conversation swirled around me. Janine and Monica took turns raving about their wonderful time exploring Hitchcock Woods, a two-thousand-acre tract preserved for the exclusive use of people on foot or on horseback. Connie Sue went on and on about the perfect gift she found for Thacker’s birthday. Gloria was pleased as punch with some new cookware to add to her already impressive collection. Rita had discovered the garden shop and had already made a trip to the car with the squirrel-proof bird feeder she’d purchased. Last, but by no means least, Polly showed off chandelier-type earrings suitable for the Academy Awards.

  Janine turned to me, puzzled. “What about you, Kate? You’re awfully quiet.”

  “We mostly window-shopped,” Pam said, answering for me. “Let me show you the bracelet I bought Megan. It’s going to be a Christmas gift.”

  “Who wants to split a dessert?” I asked. There was no better distraction for the Bunco Babes than a dessert menu. The ploy worked like a charm—as always.

  After lunch, we decided on a final shopping blitz before heading home. Once again we separated. Janine and Rita went off in search of a bookstore. Connie Sue and Polly wanted to check out a boutique the waitress had mentioned. Gloria thought she might like a bird feeder like the one Rita had bought. The kitchen specialty shop beckoned to Monica.

  “Game for one more try?” I asked Pam.

  “How about the place where Polly found those fabulous earrings?” she suggested. “I think she said it was called Art on the Park.”

  I nodded agreement. “Lead the way.”

  Art on the Park was my kind of place. Open, airy, it practically begged us to browse. Polished hardwood floors and overhead track lighting provided a stunning showcase for the work of local artisans. Jewel-colored art glass, unique pottery, and some interesting sculptures were strategically arranged around the gallery. Pam and I paused to admire handcrafted one-of-a-kind jewelry in a display case.

  “Don’t you dare let me buy a single thing,” Pam instructed, lowering her voice. “If you see me take out my credit card, you have my permission to smack my hand.”

  “Isn’t that a beauty?” I pointed to a handsome carved wood bowl of burled cherry on a nearby pedestal. “It would look great in your dining room.”

  Pam ran her hand over the bowl’s smooth finish. “Kate McCall, I swear you’re a bad influence on me. I promised myself I’d cook dinner every night for a month instead of eating out to make up for the fortune I spent on those new clubs.”

  “I don’t know why you’re always so worried. If Jack were here, he’d tell you that if you like something, then buy it.”

  “I know,” Pam said on a sigh. “It’s just that I still remember how I struggled after my divorce and before I met Jack.”

  “But you did meet Jack.”

  “Yes, and he’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

 
; I felt a lump in my throat. I envied Jack and Pam their closeness. Pam had been a single mom with two young children when she met Jack, a confirmed bachelor. It had been love at first sight. At age forty she discovered she was pregnant with Megan. She claims she didn’t know who was happier, her or Jack.

  A gray-haired clerk approached wearing a polite smile. “Can I help you, ladies?”

  I jerked my attention back to the task at hand. Pulling out the sketch of Rosalie’s ring, I went into my monologue.

  “Hmm.” The clerk’s brows knit in concentration.

  “My friend had this specially made. Now that she . . . passed . . .” I let my voice trail off for dramatic effect. “Passed” is my euphemism of choice for dying. As an alternative, I could have used “entered into eternal rest,” as do some of the newspapers. Euphemisms, I wholeheartedly believe, make death so much more palatable than the bald truth. I haven’t tested my theory, understand, but I assumed people might react differently if I told them my friend’s death had been hastened by a blow to her head with a sand wedge.

  “It’s quite striking.” The clerk continued to examine the sketch, which I took as a good sign. “I can’t be certain, of course, but this looks like the work of Whit Kincaid. Whit owns and operates a small boutique jewelry shop nearby.”

  “Could you tell us how to find him?” A little spark of hope fanned into a raging forest fire.

  “He calls his shop Whit’s End. Here, let me draw you a map.” She used the back of a brochure to draw a quick diagram and wished us luck.

  Thanking her profusely, Pam and I left the gallery. As we stood at the corner waiting for the traffic light to change, I noticed an oddity. The crossing buttons were on two levels: one set for pedestrians, a second, higher set for those on horseback or carriage. I recalled reading once that in Aiken horses have the right-of-way. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but it gave credence to Aiken’s love for everything equestrian.