by Gail Oust
Someday, I promised myself, I was going to organize an excursion to Aiken that didn’t involve shopping. The Babes and I would dress up in our Sunday finery, wide-brimmed straw hats and all, and attend one of the polo matches that were held here. We’d have ourselves a tailgate party to end all tailgate parties. We’d sip mimosas and nibble crackers and pâté. Since Monica was resident teetotaler, I’d appoint her designated driver.
Today, however, I had more important things on my mind than horses and polo. The light changed, and I glanced at my watch as we crossed the street. I quickened my step. “We better hurry if we’re going to meet up with everyone for the ride home.”
“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pam cautioned. “This could be another blind alley.”
“I can feel it, Pam.” I looked at the map in my hand, then up at a neat redbrick building with white trim, black shutters, and a dark green awning with WHIT’S END scrawled across it. I shoved open the door. “Here goes.”
The only person in the shop was a tall, well-groomed woman in her forties who was busily attacking the shelves with a feather duster. She put down her duster when she saw us and gave us a friendly smile. “May I help you?”
I decided to skip the appetizer and go straight for the entrée. “Is Mr. Kincaid available? If so, we’d like to speak with him for just a moment.”
“I’m sorry.” The woman’s smile shifted from friendly to apologetic. “Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are in Charleston for the weekend. It’s their anniversary.”
Disappointment shot through me faster than a speeding bullet. Couldn’t the Kincaids have stayed home on their anniversary and just gone out for a nice dinner? I’d tried not to pin all my hopes on Mr. Whit Kincaid, but I’d been so optimistic we were finally on the right track. I’m old enough to know better than to put all my eggs in one basket, but guess I’m a slow learner.
“It’s their fortieth,” the clerk confided.
Pam nudged me in the ribs. “Go ahead, show her.”
Halfheartedly, I pulled out the sketch, which by now was looking a bit grungy, and handed it to the woman. I went into my song and dance about how I wanted a similar ring made in a friend’s memory.
Vertical frown lines appeared between the woman’s brows as she studied my crude drawing. “It looks like Mr. Kincaid’s work, but I can’t say for sure,” she said, returning it. “I only work here part-time. My youngest started college—USC in Columbia—and I was suffering from empty-nest syndrome.”
“Yes, that can be a difficult time,” I commiserated, tucking the sketch back into my purse. “After my daughter, Jennifer, left for college, I volunteered as a teacher’s aide at the local grade school.”
I always marvel how easily a casual conversation with a perfect stranger can take a personal turn. Another of those eccentricities here in the South. It hadn’t taken me long to fall into the pattern.
“If you like,” the woman continued, “I could make a copy of your sketch and show it to Mr. Kincaid when he returns on Monday.”
“That would be wonderful!” I said, brightening at the prospect. Maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe small talk did pay off. I didn’t question my good fortune. Digging out the drawing, I scribbled my name and phone number at the bottom. “Here, give this to Mr. Kincaid and ask him to call if he remembers the ring.”
I was unusually quiet on the drive home, but Gloria and Polly picked up the slack. I had to content myself knowing I had done my best to solve a homicide. I wondered if Nancy Drew ever felt discouraged.
Chapter 35
The morning was gloomy, just like my mood. Sullen gray clouds blanketed the usually cornflower blue Carolina skies. The threat of rain hung in the air, the result of a tropical depression that hovered over the coast. I hoped Tai Chi would lift my spirits. I needed to tap into calm and relaxed. Needed to rid myself of the restless, edgy feeling that had nagged me all weekend. It was Monday. If I didn’t hear from Whit Kincaid by nighttime, I’d hoist the white flag of surrender.
Pam had gotten to the rec center ahead of me and was already running through a series of warm-up exercises. I set my purse down, took off my jacket, and tried to slip into the place next to her as unobtrusively as possible.
“Kate!” Marian cried, spotting me. “Nice of you to come. We missed you Friday.”
The rest of the class turned toward me as if to say “We were here. Where were you?” So much for being unobtrusive. I could feel my face growing warm. A mini hot flash or embarrassment, it was hard to say.
“We went shopping.” It was Pam, dear sweet Pam, coming forward to supply the alibi.
“In Aiken,” I added.
“Well, we’re glad you decided to join us this morning.”
Sometimes I think Marian dislikes me. She has a habit of singling me out for minor infractions. Granted, I’m not the most graceful person in the class, but I’m faithful. That should count for something.
Marian pressed a button on the boom box, and the sounds of a babbling brook filled the room. Along with the rest of the class, I repulsed the monkey, parted the wild horse’s mane, and grasped the bird’s tail. It wasn’t until I waved hands like clouds that I felt that first tingle of well-being. My arms swayed rhythmically as I stared up at the ceiling envisioning fluffy clouds drifting across the acoustic tiles.
That sense of peacefulness lasted throughout breakfast at the Cove Café, where Pam and I met up with Connie Sue and Monica. Unfortunately my good humor dissipated about midafternoon while I was wondering if the phone would ring.
In spite of attempts to distract myself, my mind kept revisiting the jeweler’s shop in Aiken. Would the clerk remember to give my sketch to her employer? And if she did, would Whit Kincaid recognize the ring as Rosalie’s? It was a conundrum—one about to drive me nuts.
Thinking my long-postponed pot of chili might be just the thing on a gray, dreary day. I chopped a green pepper, diced an onion. The phone rang as I waited for them to brown. I rushed to answer it, praying whoever was on the other end of the line wouldn’t hang up before I got there.
“Hello,” I said, a bit out of breath after my mad dash.
“Kate, it’s Bill.”
Any other time I’d have been overjoyed to hear his voice, but not today. Today I was disappointed. It was nearly five o’clock, and I had hoped the caller would be the jeweler.
“Bill . . . hi. How are you?”
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”
Judging from the uncertainty in his voice, my lack of enthusiasm must have carried across the wires. “No, nothing important. Just making chili.”
“It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other or talked. I, ah, just wondered how you were doing.”
“I’m fine, Bill. And you?”
“Fine, fine. I’m just fine.”
How lame was that? Here we were, two adults in the prime of life, acting like a couple of middle schoolers.
“I, uh, thought maybe you’d like to go see a movie with me.”
I blinked at hearing him name a particular film. “Are you sure that’s the one you want to see? It’s a chick flick.”
“Don’t know much about movies anymore. I read about it in the paper, and thought it sounded good. Maybe we can go out for a bite to eat afterward?”
I lowered myself into a chair. Dinner? A movie? This sounded suspiciously like a date. The notion was unsettling. And scared me half to death. I hadn’t gone out on a first date since Jim asked me to a football game when I was barely twenty. I could feel my heart race. If this was any indication what a genuine date did to my cardiovascular system, I’d have to add one of those portable defibrillators to my Christmas list.
“I, uh, maybe this wasn’t such a great plan after all. I realize it hasn’t been all that long since your husband died. Chalk this up to a bad idea. See you around.” And Bill disconnected.
I continued to sit where I was until the whiff of burning onions roused me from my stupor. “Damn, damn, damn,” I muttered, bo
lting to turn off the stove.
Between Bill’s call and the burnt offerings, I no longer had a taste for chili. Bill was such a nice man. I wouldn’t hurt his feelings for the world. I was scraping crispy bits of onion stuck to my no-stick pan when the phone rang again. I snatched it up on the first ring, prepared to fix whatever was broken. “Bill, I’m sorry—”
“Hey, Kate. It’s me, Pam.”
I pretended I wasn’t disappointed at the sound of my best friend’s voice. Cradling the phone between my ear and shoulder, I ran soapy water into the sink and dropped the pan in to soak. “Hey, yourself. What’s up?”
“Have you heard the news?”
“News? What news?” I stood at the kitchen counter and idly flipped open a catalog that had arrived that afternoon.
“Everyone’s talking about it. I was sure you must’ve heard by now.”
I stopped scanning pictures of high-tech camping gear and mountain bikes. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to beat it out of you?”
“No need for threats,” Pam chuckled. “I sent Jack to the Piggly Wiggly for ice cream to go along with an apple pie I made for dessert. He said the town’s buzzing with news that the forensics report on the golf club found at Earl’s came back from the crime lab in Columbia.”
“And . . .”
“Seems like Earl’s sand wedge is the murder weapon.”
“Are they positive?”
“Jack heard it from Bootsy, who heard it from Shirley Buckner. Apparently, Shirley’s manicurist is the niece of a woman who cleans Judge Blanchard’s office. She overheard the judge talking to the sheriff. She heard the words hair, blood, and DNA all used in the same sentence as golf club.”
“Everyone knows clubs are routinely left on golf carts while people are in having lunch or a drink at the Watering Hole. Anyone could have slipped that sand wedge into Earl’s bag when no one was watching.”
I heard Pam sigh. “Yes, but . . .”
“A lot of clubs look alike.” I knew I was being obstinate, but didn’t care. “Remember the time Connie Sue accidentally picked up my nine iron and put it in her bag. It took her a week to notice she had an extra club and return it.”
“C’mon, Kate. Admit it isn’t looking good for Earl.”
I picked up a ballpoint and doodled on a page of Outdoor Adventures. Even as my mind rejected the notion, I knew Pam had a point, yet I couldn’t let it rest. “Just because they found the murder weapon doesn’t necessarily mean Earl killed Rosalie. Were there fingerprints?”
“That’s the amazing part,” Pam said. “According to Bootsy, the club had been wiped clean. Odd, isn’t it, that whoever wiped away fingerprints missed a bunch of telltale evidence?”
I stopped doodling as a scenario sprang to mind. “Unless the murder weapon was planted . . .”
“Kate, what are you getting at?”
“Don’t you see? If someone else murdered Rosalie, that would explain why Earl’s prints weren’t found. The killer wiped the club clean, but deliberately left hair and blood, then framed Earl by putting the club in his bag.” I could feel enthusiasm begin to bubble as my theory took shape. “What if it isn’t even Earl’s club? Don’t many sand wedges look so much alike as to be interchangeable? Has Earl been arrested?”
“Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.”
We talked a bit more about Earl and the case before the conversation veered onto other topics.
“Hey,” Pam said. “Before we hang up, tell me why you thought I was Bill when you answered the phone.”
I stared down at the curlicues I’d drawn. They bore an uncanny resemblance to Rosalie’s ring. Guess there is something to be said for the subconscious at work. “Bill called and invited me for dinner and a movie.”
“A date . . . ?” I could hear excitement creep into Pam’s voice. “What did you tell him?”
“While I was fending off an anxiety attack, he took my hesitation for a no and hung up. I’ll probably never hear from him again.”
Pam sighed, loud and clear. “Maybe it’s for the best, Kate. Until we know for sure who killed Rosalie it might be wise to err on the side of caution. Remember, even though you might not want to admit it, Bill is a possible suspect.”
“Well,” I replied, continuing to draw an elaborate series of loops and swirls, “knowing the sand wedge is the real murder weapon eliminates Bill’s Louisville Slugger as the culprit.”
Pam hung up to feed her hungry husband beef stew and apple pie. I opened cupboard doors and stared at refrigerator shelves, trying to decide what to fix for dinner now that chili was no longer an option. A peanut butter sandwich vied with grilled cheese. I used to be a beef-stew and apple-pie wife, too, but it’s no fun cooking for one. Bill Lewis struck me a man who would enjoy home cooking. But, as far as Bill was concerned, I had probably burned my bridges right along with the onions.
The phone rang again—for the third time—and snapped me out of the pity party where I was guest of honor.
“Mrs. McCall?” asked an unfamiliar male voice.
“Yes, this is she.” A glance at the clock told me it was well after six. Dinnertime. The hands-down favorite hour for telemarketers. My house didn’t need aluminum siding, my magazine rack was filled to overflowing, and my carpets were clean enough, thank you very much. I intended to hang up the instant the caller launched into his sales pitch.
“This is Whit Kincaid of Whit’s End in Aiken,” the voice continued smoothly. “Emily mentioned you’d been in last week, and showed me your sketch.”
“Yes, thank you for getting back to me.” Was I finally going to piece together the puzzle? I pressed a hand against my chest as if that could quiet my racing heart. I don’t know how much defibrillators cost, but maybe the kids could chip in for the gift.
“Sorry to be calling this late. I tried a couple times earlier, but your line was busy. Thought I’d try once more before locking up for the night.”
“No problem.” I made a mental note to call the phone company tomorrow and sign up for call-waiting. I took a deep breath and popped the question. “Did you, by any chance, recognize the ring from my drawing?”
“It’s my work all right. No doubt about it.”
I ordered myself to remain calm. Too bad I needed one hand to hold on to the phone, or I’d raise both arms and wave hands like clouds. Where was Tai Chi when I needed it? I cleared my throat and asked, “Do you remember, by any chance, who you sold it to?”
“Let me assure you, Mrs. McCall, there’s nothing wrong with my memory. I was once a contestant on Jeopardy!”
Well, whoop-de-do! While the rest of us mere mortals are lamenting senior moments, this man is boasting a memory bank worthy of Alex Trebek. “I’m impressed,” I cooed, all saccharine sweet. “Mr. Kincaid, do you recall the person who purchased the ring?”
A lengthy pause followed, then finally, “I, um, don’t know how ethical it would be for me to divulge such information. But I can tell you, it was one of a kind. The purchaser designed the ring himself.”
Himself? Hmm, just as I suspected. Rosalie hadn’t bought the ring for herself; a man had purchased it for her.
“Did . . . Emily . . . happen to mention that my friend recently passed away? I’d dearly love to have one like hers as a memento of sorts.”
“I’m sorry to hear about your friend’s passing, but I’m still not sure I can disclose the customer’s name.” His tone was polite, but firm.
I wanted to scream—to let out an ear-piercing shriek of frustration worthy of the feral cat I had seen. Then an idea popped into my head. Memory Man seemed to enjoy games, so I dredged up one from childhood called Twenty Questions. “Since you can’t tell me his name, let’s see if I can guess. Was the purchaser of the ring under the age of sixty?”
“Why, yes, he was.”
Score a point for my side. That ruled out both Bill and Earl. “Was this person tall?”
“Yes, the person in question was quite tall.”
Another point for my side. Apparently Whit Kincaid was up for my little game of wits—pardon another bad pun. Since no one in his right mind would ever describe Bill or Earl as tall, much less “quite” tall, both were home free once again. Only Brad Murphy and Dr. Too Good-looking were left to eliminate. I took a wild guess. “Does this person have unusually white teeth?”
“Amazing, Mrs. McCall,” Whit Kincaid praised. “Yes, indeed, he does.”
“Is the purchaser Dr. Jeffrey Baxter, a dentist from Brookdale?”
“Right again!” He congratulated me with far more enthusiasm than Alex Trebek ever shows contestants after “Final Jeopardy!” “How did you guess it was Dr. Baxter?”
“Just a stab in the dark.” I flinched. Not exactly a stab. More like a blow to the head.
“Dr. Baxter—Jeff—and I were partners in a member-guest tournament a while back. We got talking, and when he found out I was a jeweler, he asked if I could make a ring he designed for his wife. He even supplied the gold.” He hesitated, then asked, “Is Mrs. Baxter the deceased friend you referred to?”
I heard worry seep into his tone and hastened to reassure him. “No, you can rest easy; it wasn’t Mrs. Baxter who died. You’ve been a great help, Mr. Kincaid.” I thanked him again and hung up before he could ask any more questions.
I had found out everything I needed to know and then some. Only problem was—what did I do with the information?
Chapter 36
I paced. I prowled. If there was one thing of which I was certain, it was that I was losing my mind. If I knew a good shrink, I’d get my head examined. Why couldn’t I stop obsessing over Rosalie and Dr. Dreamboat? Why couldn’t I let the matter rest?
Maybe time had come for a reality check. My friends and daughter were probably right. I had gotten too caught up in all this. I’d been lured by the mystery, the excitement, and a misplaced sense of duty. Standing there in the middle of my kitchen, I had an epiphany. A scene from my beloved Gone with the Wind flashed before my eyes: Scarlett, bowed but not broken, raised her fist to the sky and proclaimed, “As God is my witness . . .”