by Gail Oust
I felt exhilarated at the notion of taking my detective skills out of mothballs. Just thinking of this made me feel almost giddy. And hungrier by the minute. I could identify with the cast of CSI, one of my favorite TV shows, who always seemed to enjoy a hearty breakfast when working a case. Nothing like a little murder and mayhem to stimulate the appetite.
Pam frowned at the menu. “What’re you having?” she asked, turning to me.
“My usual,” I told Vera, returning the menu unopened. “Eggs, scrambled, bacon crisp, hash browns, and wheat toast.”
Connie Sue shuddered when she heard my order. “Sugar, are you sure all that food’s a good idea knowin’ everyone’s scared witless worrin’ over food poisonin’?”
“But I’m starving.” My pronouncement sounded dangerously close to a whine.
“Me, too.” Once again, Pam proved to be a true blue friend, and much to Connie Sue’s consternation, ordered the same.
“I’ll have unbuttered toast, wheat, but I’ll skip the fruit cup this mornin’,” Connie Sue said primly. “And water with lemon, no ice.”
Monica tucked a wisp of dark hair behind one ear. “My stomach’s still a little queasy this morning. I’ll just have a cup of Earl Grey tea.”
“No one seems to have much of an appetite this morning,” Vera grumbled.
Glancing around, I noticed the café was virtually deserted. “Where is everyone?” I asked. “Are the four of us the only ones hungry?”
Vera shrugged. “Guess so. If business doesn’t pick up soon, the cook’s threatening to leave early.”
The instant Vera left to place our orders, Connie Sue leaned forward. “All right, sugar, tell us everythin’ that happened last night after you left us to go chase the ambulance. And don’t you dare leave out a teensy detail.”
What could I do? I took the only recourse open to me and recounted the events of the evening. And this time I left nothing out—I repeat, nothing—including the part where Sheila claimed someone deliberately tried to kill both her and Vaughn.
Monica shook her head in disbelief. “You must have misunderstood.”
“Nope,” I told her. “That’s what she said, all right.” I took a sip of coffee—my first of the day, heaven in the guise of Columbian caffeine—and sighed with bliss. Downright orgasmic.
“Kate, darlin’, I worry about you. You’re watchin’ far too many of those TV crime shows. They’re startin’ to soften your brain.”
A scowl marred Connie Sue’s brow. I didn’t want to mention it, but if she kept that up she’d need Botox to smooth out frown lines. “If you don’t believe me, ask Rita. She heard Sheila too.”
“Who’d want to poison Sheila?” Pam asked.
“This is Serenity Cove Estates, a retirement community.” Monica’s mouth tightened into a line. “How is any of this possible?”
I took another sip of coffee and let the questions swirl around me.
“Every single person at land aerobics swore it was food poisonin’,” Connie Sue remarked.
Looking across the table at my friend, I marveled at how the woman could look fresh as a daisy after a morning workout. Connie Sue represented a shining example of feminine engineering with nary a honey-blond strand out of place, her makeup always flawless, and with a stubborn refusal to admit the world is sometimes a bad place. It’s not easy to have a friend so perfect. I thought of Rita and her former college roommate, Sheila Rappaport. It couldn’t be pleasant hearing a friend the same age looked a decade younger. That was enough to make a saint envious. And Rita was no saint. Could envy have wormed its way into that friendship, making it rotten at the core?
“I know the whole thing sounds crazy,” I admitted, albeit reluctantly.
We were uncharacteristically quiet as Vera returned with our orders. When we failed to respond to her cheery banter, she sauntered off muttering something about a fresh pot of coffee.
Pam speared a bit of scrambled egg and avoided eye contact. “With everything she’d just been through, do you think Sheila might have been confused?”
I sighed. I had to confess Pam made a good point. “That’s what Rita seems to think.” We’d discussed the matter at some length on the drive home. Sheila, Rita had insisted, had always been somewhat of a drama queen and loved the limelight.
Monica dunked her tea bag up and down in her cup. “Sheila’s claim could possibly have been the result of the drugs she’d been given. Or it could be her electrolytes were off. Too much sodium or not enough potassium can do strange things to a person’s mind.”
How typical of Monica. I bit my tongue to keep from asking her where she’d earned her medical degree.
Pam cut to the chase. “But who would want to kill her?”
I set my cup down more forcibly than I intended. It was déjà vu all over again. Like last night, concern centered around Sheila Rappaport and not her companion. Poor Dr. Bascomb. No one seemed to be overly concerned that he had died. “Don’t you mean who would want to kill them?”
Connie Sue looked crestfallen at the oversight. Reaching over, she patted my hand. “I’m sorry, sugar. Surely none of us meant to take his passin’ lightly.”
Pam and Monica nodded their agreement. “Dr. Bascomb’s death is a terrible tragedy. I only met the man once, but he’d seemed a decent sort,” Pam said.
“A little on the dull side—at least that’s how he came across on TV—but decent,” Monica hastened to add.
I felt ashamed of my little outburst. Blame it on lack of a good night’s sleep. Although our acquaintance was brief, I’d developed a certain fondness for Vaughn Bascomb. It’s hard to dislike a man with a weakness for hush puppies.
Pam toyed with her hash browns. If there’d been a dog around, she’d have slipped him some under the table. “What did the doctor say was the reason for Dr. Bascomb’s death?”
I munched a slice of bacon while I gave the matter serious thought. Last night seemed light-years away. “Um, if I recall correctly, he said it had something to do with his heart.”
“There you go, sugar.” Connie Sue smiled for the first time. “No reason to think the worst when the man died from natural causes.”
Natural causes hastened by a dose of cyanide? I wanted to ask.
Pam wagged her fork in my direction. “Kate, I hate to be the one to say this, but maybe you’re looking for crimes where they don’t exist. Think about it. Could you be getting some sort of vicarious thrill from playing detective?”
This…from my BFF? I could scarcely believe my ears. Just because I happened to be instrumental in solving several recent crimes committed here in Serenity Cove Estates didn’t mean I fancied myself Nancy Drew. Wait a minute…Nancy Drew? Wasn’t Nancy a teenager? At my more mature age, maybe I should liken myself to Jessica Fletcher of the Murder, She Wrote series. Jessica’s fine, but I distinctly refuse to be compared with the “elderly” Miss Marple, of Agatha Christie fame. “Elderly” isn’t a word in my vocabulary, as I try, with limited success, to make clear to my children.
“Pam’s right, you know, Kate,” Monica kindly pointed out. “And even if food poisoning isn’t involved, Sheila mentioned she and Vaughn weren’t used to deep-fried food. It’s no wonder their digestive systems rebelled. Vaughn probably already had a weak heart, and the whole thing was simply too much for him.”
I dove into my breakfast even though I was no longer hungry. In spite of arguments to the contrary, I simply wasn’t convinced Sheila’s shocking announcement had been the result of delusion, drugs, or too much sodium and not enough potassium. She had been lucid—and convincing.
Suddenly, I knew the course I had to take.
Ten minutes later, I was a certifiable member of the clean plate club. I needed to fortify myself for the ordeal ahead. I hoped Sheriff Sumter Wiggins had fortified himself as well.
Chapter 7
My resolve wavered after leaving the Babes. The more I thought of confronting the lion in his den—the lion in this case being Sheriff Sumter Wig
gins—the colder my feet got. Not that Sheriff Wiggins didn’t need to be informed he had a murder case on his hands, mind you, but the sheriff isn’t always—receptive, for lack of a better word—to help from concerned citizens such as myself. A lesser person could be downright discouraged by such a negative attitude.
Sumter Wiggins seems to have a selective memory when it comes to remembering all the assistance I’ve given him in the past. Honestly, by now he should offer to make me an honorary deputy. But I won’t hold that against him. Still, I needed a battle plan of sorts before barging into his lair—a lesson I’d learned the hard way. I may be slow, but I’m not stupid.
While mulling over the best approach to a tricky situation, I decided to stop by the Piggly Wiggly. Nothing like browsing through aisles of canned goods and boxed dinners for inspiration. My thoughts kept circling back to Sheila lying in her hospital bed. The dear, she must be heartbroken at the loss of her significant other. Rita had mentioned Sheila and Vaughn had been an item for years, first as coworkers on a field assignment, then as friends who shared a common love of plants, and finally as lovers. Try as I might, however, my mind balked at thought of the pair in bed—naked.
Had I turned into a prude somewhere along the way? Couples didn’t stop having sex when Social Security checks started rolling in. Jim, my wonderful, loving husband of forty-plus years, and I had had a healthy sex life up until his untimely demise in a bowl of guacamole on Super Bowl Sunday some years back. I’ve since lost my taste for anything with avocados.
I was pushing my cart, er, buggy—I sometimes forget that the grocery cart was rechristened here in the South—through the produce department when an idea struck. Before leaving the ER last night, Dr. Michaels had assured Rita and me that, barring complications, Sheila would be discharged within a day or two. Why not make a big pot of chicken noodle soup to bring her after she was released? Nothing better than chicken soup for the soul. I think I even own a book by the same name. With this in mind, I added celery to my cart/buggy.
“Terrible about that guy dying, isn’t it?”
I turned and found Judy Sanders, a woman I’d sat next to during my one and only experiment with ceramics. The birdhouse I’d slaved over had made me the poster child for uneven brushstrokes.
“Hey, Judy.”
Judy seemed to be in a quandary over choosing a bag of lettuce. I have to admit sometimes I long for the old days when a head of iceberg was the only option. Now one has choices. Too many choices if you want my opinion. Mediterranean, American, Italian, or European. Romaine lettuce comes classic, chopped, or leafy. And if that isn’t confusion enough, there’s spring mix, spinach, and arugula. Whew! No wonder Judy looked discombobulated.
Sighing, Judy surrendered and went for unoriginal iceberg. “Everyone I’ve talked to this morning says it was food poisoning.”
“Is that right?” I murmured noncommittally, bestowing my undivided attention on the carrots. Not even carrots were an easy pick anymore. Baby, sliced, or julienne? They used to come in a bunch fastened together with a rubber band. I dropped a bag of babies into the cart and moved on to the fresh herbs with Judy right on my heels.
“I don’t even feel safe serving salad since that lettuce recall tested positive for E. coli,” she said.
“That was years ago, Judy. I think lettuce is pretty safe these days.” I tried to reassure her, but what did I know?
Grabbing a bunch of parsley, I continued down the aisle, leaving Judy to ponder what to serve for dinner that night. It seemed every couple feet along the way, I heard whispers of food poisoning and once the B word: botulism. Talk like that was designed to strike fear in the hearts of the fearless.
Intent on crossing noodles off my list of ingredients, I entered pasta land. It was here my head started to pound. Old-fashioned versus whole grain? Yolk-free versus the hearty egg variety? Fine, wide, or extra wide? Decisions, decisions, decisions. I closed my eyes, picked a bag from the shelf, and tossed it in my cart. If I didn’t get out of the Pig soon, I’d turn into a raving lunatic. My upcoming confrontation with the sheriff now seemed like a piece of cake.
In my mad dash to a checkout lane, I almost mowed down a tiny, snowy-haired lady wearing a royal blue smock emblazoned in yellow with BAM! A nametag pinned to her scrawny chest read WILMA.
“I’m terribly sorry, Wilma,” I said, apologizing profusely as I helped her straighten the items on a card table that had been set up with a display of some sort.
“No problem, dearie,” she replied cheerily. “You’re the most excitement I’ve had all morning.” She held out a pleated baking cup containing a chocolate-coated something. “Care to try a bite? They’re quite tasty.”
“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. It looked…interesting…but where I was concerned anything and everything covered in chocolate looked interesting.
“It’s BAM! The new energy bar,” she said, smiling. “BAM! is a wonderful source of protein and contains vitamins, minerals, and other dietary supplements. Sports nutritionists recommend BAM! to athletes.”
Athletes? Hmm…My interest piqued, I asked, “Does practicing tai chi several times a week qualify me as an athlete?”
“I’m not exactly sure what tai chi is, dearie, but these bars are a great addition to a healthy diet. They’re a convenient and easy way to limit portion control.”
I had to hand it to Wilma. She’d obviously done her homework and had her lines down pat. I took a small bite, then another. “Umm, good,” I mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, peanut butter, and nuts.
“Business has been slow today. Help yourself.” She held out the tray of treats. “Take two or three.”
So I did. Too bad someone didn’t patent a way of making broccoli taste this good. “Business is slow, you said?” I asked, making conversation as I sampled.
Wilma shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid so, dearie. No one even wants to make eye contact. Why, one woman actually backed away when I offered a BAM! You’d think I was trying to poison her.”
“Imagine that!” I commiserated.
“I’m afraid my sales manager is going to be sorely disappointed when he returns and discovers I haven’t sold a single box of product. I’m usually his best food demonstrator. My reputation will be ruined.”
I’d certainly hate for this nice woman’s reputation to be ruined. Besides if these energy bars worked wonders for athletes, just think what they could do for a housewife on a fixed income. They could cut vacuuming time in half. “I’ll take a box. Matter of fact, I’ll take two,” I said and was rewarded for my impulsive deed with a broad smile.
I left Wilma looking much happier at having made her first sale of the day. I peeled the wrapper from a BAM! as I settled into the Buick and headed off for my meeting with the sheriff. I’d need all the energy I could rustle up.
The Brookdale County Sheriff’s office was located on a side street just off the town square. The sight of it never failed to elicit a flicker of disappointment. The single-story brick building was a clone of brick bungalows all over the country. If I had my druthers, I’d have chosen architecture that better reflected life in the South. Nothing as grand as Tara in Gone With the Wind, mind you, but at least one of those sweeping porches with a couple rocking chairs. A pillar or two would’ve been a nice antebellum touch, but one has to be practical.
As luck would have it—and not necessarily good luck—I found a parking spot right out front. Purple and yellow pansies in clay pots flanked either side of the entrance. Now that danger of a hard freeze was over, these would soon be replaced by more summery petunias or million bells. There you have it, folks, the sum total of my gardening expertise.
I approached the sheriff’s office with some trepidation and when I got to the front door, I stood outside for a moment and gave myself a pep talk. Put on your big girl panties, Kate, and deal with it. Drawing in a deep breath, I shoved open the door.
Tammy Lynn Snow, the sheriff’s gal Friday, sat behind a huge metal desk.
She stopped pecking at a computer keyboard and looked up as I entered. Her tentative smile faded before it ever bloomed. I tried not to take it personally.
“Morning, Tammy Lynn,” I said by way of greeting. “You’re looking…fit.”
Fit as can be considering the girl would give wall-flowers a bad rep. Her lank, mousy-brown hair framed an oval face with delicate features. Her countenance was scrubbed clean and without a trace of makeup. Dressed in clothes that all but screamed thrift store, she could have blended into the woodwork and never been missed. Our little Brookdale County Cinderella was in dire need of a fairy godmother.
“Ah, er, if you’re here to see the sheriff, ma’am, he’s real busy,” she said, shoving oversized glasses higher on the bridge of her small nose.
Gee, where had I heard that refrain before? Oh yeah, I remember. It was the last time I’d entered this office. Each and every time to be precise. “No problem, dear, I’m prepared to wait. I need to catch up on back issues of Guns & Ammo.”
I’d tried repeatedly to improve the level of reading material at the sheriff’s office, but to no avail. Copies of Southern Living and Good Housekeeping continually disappeared, giving way to more manly periodicals. Apparently felons and felons-in-training weren’t interested in getting in touch with their softer, more feminine sides. It was disheartening, to say the least.
“I’ll let Sheriff Wiggins know you’re here.”
Tammy Lynn spoke into the intercom in a hushed voice. I tried to resist, but the urge to eavesdrop was too strong. I caught whispered phrases such as “it’s too late,” “she’ll wait,” and “I did try. ” The words “sorry, sorry, sorry” punctuated their conversation. I wondered if Tammy Lynn turned to booze when her shift ended. Couldn’t blame the girl if she hit the bottle.