by Gail Oust
Turning to me with a pained expression, she said, “Sheriff Wiggins said he’s finishin’ up a report. He’ll buzz when he’s done.”
I plunked myself down, prepared to cool my heels in this little waiting game we played. I leafed through a dog-eared issue of Guns & Ammo but, since I didn’t own a gun and didn’t intend to, it failed to capture my interest. And with no gun, there was no need for ammo. I put the magazine aside and picked up another.
“So, Tammy Lynn,” I said when Truck Trends didn’t fare any better as an attention grabber, “are you still seeing that nice young policeman, Eric Olson?”
The girl’s eyes looked suspiciously bright behind her too-large lenses. “Ah, no, ma’am, not since he came off his crutches. He’s workin’ patrol again and doesn’t have much free time.”
“I’m sure his job keeps him quite busy.”
“Yes, ma’am, it surely does. Eric’s very conscientious when it comes to law enforcement. He’s fixin’ to make sergeant someday.”
Tammy Lynn went back to her computer while I pretended interest in an article on monster truck rallies. It was a darn shame about Tammy Lynn and Eric. The two of them seemed to be hitting it off following Eric’s unfortunate accident in which he’d broken a leg. Tammy Lynn had hovered over Eric, a regular Florence Nightingale, while his leg mended. Now that the fracture was healed, it seemed Tammy Lynn had once again been relegated to the role of his best friend’s baby sister. A pity. The girl was clearly smitten, but from all appearances the attraction was a bit lopsided.
The intercom buzzed just then, startling me.
“The sheriff will see you now,” Tammy Lynn announced primly. “He’s in his office. I believe you know the way.”
I’m afraid I knew the way only too well. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I trudged down the hall.
“Miz McCall,” drawled the sheriff in a voice better suited to an American Idol contestant. “Long time no see.”
I narrowed my eyes and looked at him skeptically. Did I detect thinly veiled sarcasm behind the greeting? “It hasn’t been all that long,” I reminded him, mentally doing the math since our last encounter. According to my calculations, a little over a month had elapsed between visits. He hadn’t changed a whit. Skin still dark as Granny Ann’s mahogany chifforobe. His smile, which was a rare occurrence, would reveal a flash of teeth white enough to rival those of Tiger Woods.
Not expecting an invitation, I perched myself on the chair opposite his desk. A chair that might bear a RESERVED plaque with my name engraved on it.
Sumter Wiggins lounged back and eyed me coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your fine company?”
I shifted my weight—subtly, I hoped. I didn’t want to give the man the upper hand early on in our meeting. The sheriff possessed a God-given talent for intimidation. Some might attribute this to his imposing physique. Six foot two, if I were to judge, with shoulders that would make a linebacker weep with envy. Others might say attitude gave him an edge. The term “bad cop” could have originated with him.
I cleared my throat and began. “After our last case together, Sheriff, I’ve learned my lesson.”
“Our last case?” He gave me the one eyebrow lift thing he’d perfected. A gesture guaranteed to make a Methodist minister sweat buckets. A trick I often tried to imitate, but had yet to master.
“Ours,” I repeated firmly, determined not to let him browbeat me. “Ours as in law enforcement and concerned citizens working together.” I folded my hands in my lap, pleased with my little speech. Just goes to show it really does pay to have a battle plan.
“Hmm.” He leaned back farther. The springs of his chair squeaked in protest at being abused by two hundred plus pounds. “Kindly explain what lesson it is that you think you’ve learned.”
“The one about obstruction of justice,” I replied promptly. “Not to mention the one about withholding information. Or the part about sins of omission.”
“And all this time I didn’t think you were payin’ any mind.” Folding jumbo-sized hands across a trim and toned waist, he asked with exaggerated patience, “I’m certain Tammy Lynn mentioned my busy schedule, so if you don’t mind, let’s move this meetin’ along.”
“Right,” I said, clasping my hands a little tighter. “I’m sure you’ve heard what happened at the garden club lecture last night?”
“I’m assumin’ you mean the food poisonin’ incident?”
“Yes, that’s the one.”
“It’s my understandin’ two people were transported to the hospital. One survived. The other, unfortunately, succumbed.”
Succumbed? A polite substitute for kicked the bucket? The remainder of my cockamamie battle plan sprouted wings and flew out the window. “What if it wasn’t food poisoning?” I asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty instead of beating about the bush. “What if it was the real deal?”
“The real deal bein’…?’
I huffed out a breath. The man was being deliberately obtuse. Did I have to spell it out for him? “Have you spoken with the survivor, Dr. Sheila Rappaport?”
He shrugged dismissively, his dark face impassive. “No reason to.”
“What if it wasn’t the potato salad? Or the deviled eggs?”
“Are you implyin’ what I think you’re implyin’?”
“Indeed, I am.” I had the satisfaction of seeing my missile hit the bull’s-eye.
Chapter 8
“Dr. Sheila Rappaport happens to be a friend of Rita Larsen, a close friend of mine and a fellow Bunco Babe. In fact, Sheila and Rita were once college roommates. Rita, however, had to be content with a bachelor’s degree in botany while Sheila went on for her PhD. Fortunately Rita had a business minor and was able to establish a career in banking. She ended her career as a branch manager,” I added proudly.
“I suspect this is all leadin’ to a point you’re hopin’ to make between now and suppertime?”
Focus, Kate, focus. Those words became my mantra. The sheriff had gone and done it again. Made me ramble on and on until I could have been kissin’ kin with the village idiot. The man seemed to have that kind of effect on me. “The point I’m trying to make is that Rita and I were both at the emergency room last night.”
“And…?”
“And just as we were about to leave, Sheila asked to speak to Rita. Naturally, I tagged along.”
“Naturally.”
I ignored the blatant sarcasm. “It was no easy task convincing Nurse Ratched I was Sheila’s sister from Spartanburg, especially when she failed to see a family resemblance. I improvised and told her we had different fathers, so she let me stay. I thought under the circumstances, it was wise to have an extra set of ears present. Rita, being a good friend and all, might have a difficult time being objective.”
“While you, on the other hand, would have no trouble at all.”
“Exactly,” I replied, grateful he recognized the logic behind my actions. He didn’t always. “I thought with two of us, there’d be less room for a misunderstanding. Anyway”—I lowered my voice and scooted to the edge of the seat—“Sheila told us she and Vaughn Bascomb had been poisoned.”
“Poisoned, eh?”
I nodded vigorously. “She said someone wanted both of them dead.”
The corners of his mouth twitched. “So you’re tellin’ me the poisonin’ was deliberate and not the result of ’em ingestin’ too much of our fine Southern cuisine?”
“Can’t put anything over on you, can I?” Guess it was my turn to inject a little sarcasm.
“Interestin’ how Ms. Rappaport sent you instead of callin’ me herself.”
“I don’t know why she didn’t call you. Maybe she didn’t think you’d believe her. Or take her seriously.” Just like he wasn’t taking me seriously. Whatever the reason, it was a shrewd move on Sheila’s part to delay the hot seat in the sheriff’s office as long as possible. “I know the story sounds off the wall, but what’s the old saying, ‘Truth is stranger than fiction’?”<
br />
“Don’t suppose she mentioned the name of the person or persons responsible for this dastardly deed, now, did she?”
“She claimed she doesn’t know.”
Leaning forward abruptly, he picked up a pen from the desk and tapped it against his blotter. Tap, tap, tap translated into drip, drip, drip, the old standby Chinese water torture. “What do you expect me to do with this bit of information?” he asked at last.
“Why, investigate, of course. It’s your sworn duty. I’d expect nothing less from an officer of the law. I’m afraid if you don’t…” My voice trailed off.
“Come now, Miz McCall, finish what you started to say. This isn’t the time to be bashful.”
He was right, of course. There were things that needed to be said. “I’m afraid if you do nothing people are going to overact. Do you want to have mass hysteria on your hands?” I was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop. “Why, just this morning, I happened to be in Piggly Wiggly. A sweet, little old lady named Wilma couldn’t even give away free samples of these.” I reached into my purse, pulled out a BAM!, and placed it on the desk in front of him.
He eyed it with blatant suspicion. “What’s this?”
“It’s a new energy bar. Full of protein, vitamins, and other supplements. Folks at the Pig were afraid to take a bite less they suffer the same fate as Vaughn and Sheila. Until a report comes back on the cause of Vaughn Bascomb’s death, no one in Brookdale or Serenity Cove Estates will have peace of mind—or accept treats from sweet old ladies.”
He growled something under his breath that I didn’t care to hear him repeat.
Rising, I hefted my purse onto my shoulder. I made a mental note to find a smaller purse or lighten this one up. If I didn’t, I’d either wind up with rotator cuff surgery or become permanently lopsided. Neither option appealed to me.
“All I ask, Sheriff, is that you check into it. Find out if it was indeed a simple case of food poisoning—or something more sinister. Don’t be surprised to learn that you have a homicide and an attempted murder on your hands.”
I glanced over my shoulder as I beat a dignified retreat. I saw the sheriff tear the wrapper from a BAM! and take a huge bite. From the grim expression on his dark face, he might as well have been chewing nails.
While chicken soup simmered on a back burner, I called the hospital to check on Sheila’s condition. I was informed she was no longer in ICU but had been transferred to a room on the medical floor. Next I phoned Rita. We agreed to pay Sheila a visit that evening.
Rita was ready and waiting with a lovely bouquet of pink and white flowers when I pulled into her drive. “Pretty,” I said.
“Just something from the yard,” she replied offhandedly.
“Something” from my yard would have been a couple spindly branches off a shrub of which I no longer remembered the name. If I was feeling especially creative, I might’ve added a twig of holly. But Rita was a master gardener, and I was…Well, I just wasn’t.
I carefully maneuvered my way out of Rita’s winding drive. Reverse has never been my favorite gear. I’ve gained the reputation of someone who’s been known to run over some of those fancy lights folks use to line the edge of their driveways. As far as I’m concerned they might as well have targets drawn on them. That’s how good my aim has become. “Have you spoken to Sheila since last night?” I asked to divert Rita’s attention away from my deplorable lack of reverse gear expertise.
“No, I’ve been busy.”
I nodded. We were headed out of town before I broke the silence. “Do you think Sheila was telling the truth last night about someone trying to kill her?”
Rita shrugged. “I doubt it. Sheila tends to over-dramatize. She thrives on being the center of attention. She was probably just confused after everything she’d been through.”
“Mmm, I’m not so sure,” I murmured. “She sounded pretty convincing.”
“Sheila’s state of mind could have been the result of medication, dehydration, or stress. Maybe all three. I wouldn’t obsess over it if I were you, Kate.”
I wished I could be as certain as Rita. I slowed while passing through a town smaller than many shopping malls. Once I’d forgotten that the speed limit dropped like a rock from fifty-five to thirty-five and received a hefty fine. I swear the policeman would have given his own mother a ticket—and smiled while doing it. Ever since then, I’ve been careful to heed the posted speed, real careful.
“Well, drama queen or not, it’s nice the two of you have remained friends all these years,” I remarked as I began to accelerate now that I was out of the danger zone.
“Not really,” Rita admitted. “Years passed without any contact between the two of us whatsoever.”
“Not even at Christmas?” I asked, appalled by the notion.
“Nope, not even a card.” Rita stared out the window as farmland flashed by. “I once asked why the radio silence. Sheila blamed the lack of communication on traveling. Her work takes her all over the world. Besides, what does a globe-trotting botanist have in common with a lowly bank manager?”
I elected to ignore the bitterness in her voice. “How did the two of you happen to reconnect?”
“She called out of the clear blue one day. Said she was working on a book about perennials in the Southeast and asked if I could recommend a quiet place for her and Vaughn to stay while they completed it. She’d researched the area in and around Serenity Cove Estates and thought it would be ideal. I contacted a Realtor friend, and voilà!”
Rita’s story didn’t sound all that farfetched. I’d occasionally had calls out of the blue myself since moving south. Mostly old friends looking for a cheap place to stay during Masters Week. Augusta, Georgia, home to the famed golf classic, books up quickly. What better time for me to renew an acquaintance with a grade school buddy who happens to have a coveted ticket but not a hotel room? Something, however, sounded fishy about Rita and Sheila’s relationship. They sounded more like rivals than friends.
At the hospital, I parked the Buick in the visitors’ lot. By the time Rita and I reached the fourth floor, nurse’s aides were efficiently collecting dinner trays from patient rooms.
As we approached Room 424, I stepped aside and let Rita enter ahead of me. Sheila’s room contained more flowers than a state funeral for a former president. I also spotted a stack of glossy magazines, a wicker basket filled with fresh fruit, and a terrarium large enough to accommodate a rainbow trout. Rita’s bouquet looked paltry compared with the larger, more elaborate arrangements. Sheila lay propped in bed oozing glamour and looking fabulous in a silk peignoir the shade of ripe apricots. Her near-death experience obviously agreed with her. The only concession to her status as a hospital patient was an IV dripping into one arm.
“Rita! Kate!” Sheila exclaimed upon seeing us. “So good of you to come.”
Now that I wasn’t distracted by all the frills, I noticed we weren’t the only visitors. Betsy Dalton, chic in a sapphire-blue cashmere twinset and tailored slacks, had staked a claim on the room’s only comfortable chair.
“Oh look, Betsy,” Sheila exclaimed. “I bet Rita picked these lovely flowers in her very own backyard.”
“They’re the last of my camellias.” Rita glanced over the crowded hospital room, then frowned. “Let me check at the nurses’ station for something to put these in.”
“Here,” I said, handing Sheila a BAM!
Sheila eyed the bar with obvious distaste. “I never eat candy. It’s fattening.”
“It isn’t candy. BAM! is the energy bar of athletes. I figured with everything you’ve been through lately you could use all the energy you could get.”
“How thoughtful. Isn’t it, Betsy?”
“Thoughtful,” Betsy parroted. I could tell she wasn’t impressed—or maybe she didn’t like being upstaged by an energy bar.
I gave Betsy a friendly smile, determined to outnice her. A little well-placed guilt can work wonders on the disposition. I stuck out my hand. “I don’t b
elieve we’ve been introduced. I’m Kate McCall. A friend of a friend of Sheila’s.”
Betsy shook hands, but I caught her surreptitious glance at a container of hand sanitizer.
“And I’m the friend,” Rita announced as she returned carrying the camellias in a turquoise plastic water pitcher. “Rita Larsen. Nice to meet you.”
“Oh yes, Rita, the old college chum.” Betsy favored Rita with a polite smile. “I’m Betsy Dalton, vice president in charge of new products at Belle Beaute.”
Well, la-di-da! Ignoring Miss I’m-more-important-than-you, I turned my attention back to Sheila. “You look vastly improved since the last time we saw you.”
Sheila waved a dismissive hand, but I could tell she was pleased at the compliment. “If I do, I have Betsy and Belle Beaute to thank for putting the color back in my cheeks. Betsy’s a veritable wizard with her magic wands and potions.”
“It’s all part of the job, sweetie,” Betsy declared airily.
Betsy Dalton was indeed a wizard when it came to makeup artistry. Instead of trying to disguise the pallor that still lingered after Sheila’s ordeal, she had accentuated it. The result was that Sheila looked as frail and ethereal as Greta Garbo when she played the tragic Camille in a vintage movie of the same name.
“How long do you plan to stay in Serenity Cove Estates, Ms. Dalton?” I asked.
“Call me Betsy,” she said, “and to answer your question, Kate, I plan to stay however long it takes until Sheila is once again the glowing picture of health.”
“I offered Betsy my guest room,” Sheila said. “Having someone stay with me will help now that Vaughn…” Tears rolled down her cheeks at the mention of his name.
I had to give the woman credit. Not only did she look pretty, she cried pretty. No loud blubbering, no runny nose, no puffy eyes. Just delicately quaking shoulders while tears streamed silently.
“Forgive me,” she sniffed, accepting the tissue Betsy proffered. “I still can’t believe Vaughn’s gone.”
Rita patted her hand awkwardly. “There, there, it’s going to be all right.”