Whack 'n' Roll

by Gail Oust

  I’d take a lesson from Scarlett. As God is my witness, I’ll reform. Painful though it might be, I’ll cut back on my favorite TV shows. No more Law & Order marathons for me, no sirree. I’ll limit CSI to one episode per week. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics will be relegated to the top shelf of my bookcase. And most painful of all, I’ll turn Tools of the Trade into a sewing box.

  But my mind wouldn’t let the matter rest. I picked up the newspaper, then tossed it aside, wandering from room to room. Rosalie was a good bit older than Jeff-the-Dentist, but weren’t older women-younger men all the rage these days? Polly was forever regaling the Babes with stories from the tabloids. After seeing Rosalie and Dr. Hunk in the photos, anyone could tell the pair were more than mere friends. Why would the good doctor insist they hardly knew each other? Unless, of course, he wanted to keep their relationship secret.

  What did I know about the man other than the fact he was blessed with drop-dead good looks? I continued to pace. Continued to prowl. I also knew he was an avid golfer. Would frequent outings on the links make it easy for him to substitute one sand wedge for another? Was he the person who made the anonymous phone tip that led Sheriff Wiggins to search Earl’s golf clubs for the murder weapon?

  I paused in my relentless pursuit for answers to peer through the kitchen blinds. The Brubaker house across the way remained dark and deserted. Time was running out for Earl. Brick by brick, the sheriff was constructing an airtight case. It wouldn’t be the first time circumstantial evidence was deemed enough for an arrest.

  I gnawed my lower lip. In spite of well-meaning intentions, Earl’s arrest would be partly my fault. I’d been the one who told the sheriff that he and Rosalie had argued. Now I strongly suspected Rosalie had been having an affair with her dentist. I didn’t have to guess what conclusion the sheriff would draw once he knew this. Rosalie’d become a cheating wife killed by a jealous husband. A sad but tragic cliché. Garth Brooks, country music icon and philosopher at large, even wrote a song about that some time back. Something about Mama being in a graveyard while Papa’s in the pen.

  Heartsick, I plunked myself down on the sofa in the great room. Hoping for a distraction, I picked up an ankle-deep stack of catalogs that had been accumulating, and started sorting through them. It was already late October, and a steady stream of them arrived as a daily reminder the holidays were fast approaching. One pile I designated “recycle”; the other I set aside to page through at my leisure.

  I methodically went through the pile, stopping when Country Cuties caught my attention. Every year, the Bunco Babes and I do Secret Santa. This way, instead of gifting each and every one on birthdays and Christmas, we buy only for the person whose name we’ve drawn. A single gift instead of eleven. Simple and economical. Perfect for those on pensions.

  This year it had been my good fortune to draw Diane’s name. Unlike Monica or Connie Sue, Diane’s easy. She dotes on anything and everything country. Paper-towel holders, bird feeders, bookends shaped like owls, you name it, Diane loves it. I was halfway through Country Cuties when all thoughts of Christmas shopping fled. I paused, staring at a page featuring handcrafted wooden shelves.

  The shelves reminded me of those I had seen in the dentist’s office, but with a striking exception. In comparison, the shelves on the glossy page of the catalog were plain and functional. They lacked the artistic carving and scrollwork of Dr. Charisma’s. Those in his office had put me more in mind of Bill Lewis’s prettily carved cradle.

  I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the shelves. I remembered satiny smooth oak and gracefully curved brackets on either end with carvings of a palmetto, South Carolina’s state tree. They weren’t the run-of-the-mill kind found in a mail-order catalog. More the type crafted by a man skilled at woodworking. A man such as Bill.

  A man such as Baxter?

  Bill had an extensive woodworking shop at home. One with all sorts of tools. All types of saws. Did Baxter have a woodworking shop? And access to saws?

  I sat up straighter, my pulse racing. Suddenly the memory of what I had discovered in a Wal-Mart bag flashed in front of me. A man with Baxter’s background would possess ample knowledge of anatomy to perform the unspeakable. If Baxter did have a woodworking shop, I’d risk another anonymous phone call to Sheriff Wiggins. But before I made that phone call, I needed to know for sure. No way I was going to send the sheriff’s deputies on another wild-goose chase. Better a slow learner than a no-learner, as the nuns at St. Agnes Elementary used to say.

  I quickly formulated a plan to lure the good doctor away from home while I performed my reconnaissance. I didn’t want any nasty surprises lying in wait. Proud of my creativity, I checked my supply of caramels before dialing Pam’s number. Caramels had worked like a charm once; hopefully they would again. I was relieved when Megan answered the phone.

  “Hi, Megan. It’s Kate.”

  “Hey, Kate. Mom’s not here. Dad took her out to a movie.”

  “It was you I wanted to talk with anyway, not your mom. I, um, I’m worried about that temporary filling coming loose again. I don’t suppose Dr. Baxter ever sees patients after hours at his office?”

  “Sure. He’s always available for emergencies, but he’s out of town.”

  “Out of town?” I repeated. I could scarcely believe my good fortune.

  “Dr. Baxter and his wife are in Hilton Head,” Megan said. “He’s playing in a pro-am tournament this week. I can give you the name of the dentist in Augusta who’s covering for him.”

  “No, no, that won’t be necessary. I’m just being a wor rywart. I’m sure the temporary is just fine.”

  I disconnected and grabbed the telephone directory, where I found a home address listed for Baxter, Jeffrey, DDS. The road he lived on was a short drive from Serenity Cove Estates—ten minutes max. Just one quick look, I promised myself. In and out like a flash. Grabbing car keys and purse, I headed for the door. Putting my earlier resolution on hold, I grabbed Tools of the Trade for one last outing before its conversion into a sewing box.

  The area surrounding the Baxter home reminded me much of Vera’s with houses set on large tracts of land. But unlike those on Jenkins Road, homes here were bigger, much bigger, and looked considerably more expensive. I double-checked the address to be sure, but the two-story white brick home with dark shutters belonged to Dr. and Mrs. Jeffrey Baxter. Except for a single porch light, the house was dark. All the better for my little foray.

  I pulled into a gravel turnaround partially hidden by a copse of sweet gum just beyond their drive. I sat for a moment, marshaling my courage. It was now or never. If I turned tail and ran, I’d forever be plagued by what-ifs. I repeated my promise like a mantra: One quick look, then leave, one quick look, then leave.

  Drawing a deep breath to settle my nerves, I opened the car door and stepped out into the night. The air was cool and crisp, the sky lit by a smattering of stars and a crescent moon. I stood statue still and listened. Cicadas and tree frogs greeted me with an off-key chorus. Taking the flashlight out of my jacket pocket, I aimed the beam along the ground. A low split-rail fence separated the Baxters’ from their neighbor’s. Switching off the light, I followed the fence line toward the back of the property, all the while keeping one eye on the house for any sign of activity. Like I mentioned, I wasn’t in the mood for any nasty surprises.

  I skirted the house. It was then I noticed the pole barn at the far edge of the property. The building appeared well maintained and fairly new. Could it be a storage shed for a riding mower and various lawn equipment?

  Or a woodworking shop?

  My palms grew slick with sweat. I crept closer, careful to stay in the shadows. The front of the building boasted a single, double-hung window and an overhead door. I cautiously rounded the side and found an offset entry door—locked, of course—and yet another window. Rising on tiptoe, I pressed my nose against the glass, thumbed on the flashlight, and peered inside.

  The beam of light illuminated a trademark
yellow and green John Deere lawn tractor hunkered near the overhead door. I angled my flashlight a little to the left. And sucked in my breath.

  The remainder of the pole barn was devoted to a woodworking shop that would make even Bill drool with envy. I was able to make out several workbenches, a desk in one corner, and utility shelves neatly stacked with lumber. Occupying center stage, however, was a table saw. Even to my untrained eye, it appeared top grade, state-of-the-art. Its metal teeth gave off an evil reflection in the flashlight’s glare. The thought of those jagged fangs ripping through flesh and bone sent a shiver down my spine. Should I leave now and call the sheriff? I wondered. Common sense said yes. Curiosity said no.

  Curiosity won.

  Just because a man owns a wicked-looking table saw doesn’t justify a search warrant. I might not know much about the law, but I had learned at least that much in my stint as wannabe detective. Motive, weapon, and opportunity. Those are the three buzzwords I hear bandied about on TV when it comes to solving a murder. As for opportunity, I’d leave that to the experts. But if Dr. Handsome and Rosalie were having an affair, and one of them wanted to break it off, it could supply motive. That left only weapon. According to the rumor mill, Earl’s sand wedge had been positively identified as the murder weapon.

  But Rosalie’s arm didn’t just fall off.

  Still I needed a good excuse for dialing 911.

  Lowering my heels to the ground, I looked around for something to stand on. Since the front and side of the pole barn were clear of debris, I went around back. The rear of the building wasn’t nearly as neat. Clay pots, a half-empty bag of potting soil, and a wheelbarrow with a rusted-out bottom caught my eye before my attention fell on a discarded window box. The paint was chipped and peeling, and it no longer held flowers, but it looked sturdy enough to support my weight. I dragged it around the side and tested it gingerly. Perfect. All I needed was one quick glance. Afterward I’d call the sheriff and give up sleuthing once and for all.

  Always be prepared. I pulled a couple latex gloves from my pocket and slipped them on. Once a Girl Scout, always a Girl Scout, I guess. I didn’t know much about the legality of what I was about to do, but didn’t want to leave any incriminating evidence behind. I wasn’t going to enter the building, just poke my head inside. Technically, I don’t think this could be construed as breaking and entering. Plus, I had no intention of taking anything that didn’t belong to me. I just wanted a look. To the best of my knowledge, looking wasn’t a crime. As to the matter of trespassing, my mind refused to go there. I’d plead temporary insanity.

  Once perched on the window box, I employed a technique I practiced when washing windows, and popped off the screen. I gave the window a push, and much to my surprise, it slid upward. An owl shrieked just then, causing my blood pressure to rocket into the stratosphere. I nearly dropped the flashlight that I still held in one hand, but recovered it before it slipped to the ground.

  I stuck my head through the partially opened window. Instantly, my nostrils were assailed with the smell of paint and the lingering odor of chlorine. Fresh paint? Bleach? I swept the light around the interior. The metal walls appeared newly scrubbed, so clean they fairly sparkled. The floors were pristine under a coat of battleship gray paint. Bill was meticulous, yet not even his woodworking shop was this spotless. No self-respecting shop was ever this spotless. My eyes automatically zeroed in on the table saw.

  I itched for a closer look, to get down on my hands and knees and search for telltale signs that a crime had been perpetrated here. If I were a CSI tech, I’d spritz my magic chemical on a Q-tip and swab for traces of blood. But, alas, I wasn’t a CSI tech, or any other kind of tech. It was time to go. I shut off my flashlight and started to pull my head back.

  “Stop right where you are,” an all-too-familiar voice commanded.

  Startled, I cracked my skull against the window frame with enough force to send fireflies dancing in front of me. Busted! Dr. Too-Handsome-for-His-Own-Good had caught me red-handed.

  That was my last coherent thought before I lost consciousness.

  Chapter 37

  When I came to, I found myself lying on a cold cement floor. Instantly I knew where I was—Baxter’s woodworking shop. I blinked against the harsh glare of a fluorescent light, then blinked again. But no amount of blinking in the world could dispel the sight of the gun Baxter held in his right hand.

  “I’m tempted to shoot you right here and now,” he said, his tone conversational.

  He stepped closer, in no apparent hurry, the pistol aimed at my chest. “I’d claim I’d shot a prowler out to rob me blind. Man has a right to defend his property.”

  My head throbbed. I didn’t know whether it was from whacking my skull against the window frame or if the not-so-nice doctor had added to my misery. Wincing, I turned my head slightly and found myself staring at the underside of the table saw occupying the center of the shop. Dark splotches marred the shiny steel undercarriage. Blood? I wondered. Rosalie’s blood?

  I eased up on one elbow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Hilton Head?” I asked, stalling for time.

  His mouth curled in a humorless smile. “Checking up on me, were you?”

  “For what little good it did.” I fingered the lump on my head. It felt the size of a lemon, but in reality was probably more the size of a walnut. In any case, definitely larger than a peanut.

  “You’re pretty sassy for a nosy old broad who’s about to die.”

  My blood ran cold. I’ve heard that expression numerous times, but never, until this very moment, had I actually experienced it.

  “Just couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you, Kate?”

  I slowly pushed to my feet. The pole barn seemed to do a full rotation before resuming its original position.

  Baxter didn’t seem to notice my unsteadiness. Or didn’t care. “I told Gwen you were dangerous. That with you asking so many questions someone was bound to figure out what happened to Rosalie.”

  “Gwen?” My voice came out barely more than a squeak.

  He flashed his pearly whites in a parody of friendliness. “That’s right, Gwen. My wife, Gwendolyn ‘Moneybags’ Baxter. I don’t believe you two have met, but I have a sneaky feeling that’ll be remedied before the evening’s over.”

  I swallowed. No easy feat with a mouth as dry as burned toast. “Why bring your wife into this?”

  “Because, my dear Kate, I think it’s only fair you know the whole truth before you die.”

  Was it fair, I wanted to scream, that my children would blame themselves for not shipping me off to a home for slightly demented and foolish elderly women? Was it fair I learned the truth, but no one else would? I tried to form a plan of action, or any plan at all, but my brain stubbornly refused to cooperate. Like the time I tried to crank the engine of the Buick with a dead battery. Zip, zilch, nada.

  Dr. Murder-on-His-Mind made a casual gesture with his gun hand. “Shooting would be the easiest way to dispose of a busybody, but messy. My wife and I just finished cleaning up an even bigger mess. It was a lot of hard work. A task we’re not anxious to repeat. No,” he said, “I have something else in mind.”

  I ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them. “You said you were going to tell me everything. About how you killed Rosalie.”

  “Therein lies the real kicker.” He chuckled. “I didn’t kill Rosalie. Gwen did.”

  I shook my head to clear it. I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

  He smiled at my confusion, but his eyes were cold, lifeless. The smile of a sociopath. The type I imagined Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer gave their victims right before killing them.

  “I—I don’t understand,” I stammered.

  “My wife has an awesome temper. Rosalie and I planned to take a weeklong cruise to the Bahamas. She told that stupid oaf of a husband she was going to Poughkeepsie to visit their daughter. I, in turn, told Gwen I was headed for a dental convention in Cleveland. Since it was Gwen’s bridge-club night
, just like tonight, we arranged to rendezvous here. Somehow Gwen got wind of our plans. As luck would have it, I had an emergency and was running late. Gwen was waiting here when Rosalie arrived. They argued—things got . . . heated. According to Gwen, Rosalie, after flaunting the ring I’d given her, turned her back to leave. Gwen lost it. She picked up a golf club I’d just finished regripping and struck her with it. Rosalie, poor dear, died instantly.”

  I took a baby step toward the door. If I could distract him, I’d make a run for it. Anything was better than just standing here, an easy target. “But I still don’t understand. If Gwen killed her, where do you fit in? From what you just told me, you weren’t even here.”

  As if on cue, Gwen Baxter stepped through the doorway and into the workshop. The photos I’d seen of her didn’t do her justice. Tall and slender, she was strikingly attractive in tailored black pants and a cherry red jacket that flattered her brunet beauty. Her face was narrow, her features sharp and foxlike. Her eyes were a brown so dark they appeared almost black.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded, taking in tableau-in-a-woodshop.

  “Hello, darling. Bridge finish early?”

  “What’s she doing here? Isn’t she a little old for you?”

  If I weren’t in dire straits, I’d object to being called old.

  “You’re timing’s impeccable as always, my love,” Baxter replied, never taking his eyes—or the gun—off me. “I found the biddy snooping around. I was about to explain how we work as a team.”

  “Yes, we’re quite a pair.” Gwen joined her husband’s side. “I have the money. You have the charisma.”

  “Following her little . . . altercation . . . with Rosalie, Gwen made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: She transfers a cool million to my personal account, and I help dispose of the body. I have to hand it to her. Gwen’s a great gal. And clever, too, not to mention gutsy. She was the one who came up with the idea of replacing Brubaker’s sand wedge with the murder weapon. She made the switch herself when no one was looking.”