by Gail Oust
“Aren’t you forgettin’ somethin’?” he drawled.
“Um, I don’t think so.” I ran through a mental checklist of supplies: tuna sandwich on rye, thermos of coffee, bag of cookies, bottled water, crossword puzzle book, mystery novel. Then it occurred to me with blinding certainty. Breath mints. I’d forgotten breath mints, and now I was polluting the air in his office with halitosis. I pawed frantically through my purse, hoping to find a stick of gum, or piece of hard candy, to remedy the oversight.
His lips twitched in a rare glimmer of amusement at my discomfiture. Rocking back in his chair, he laced his fingers together over a trim waist. “I tend to get suspicious when folks act out of character. Reckon it goes with bein’ in the law-enforcement profession.”
“Me, acting out of character?” I asked indignantly. “How?”
“Not a single present in sight. No nice green plant to leak all over important documents. No two-months-old ‘Words of Wisdom’ calendar. No chocolate chip cookies or lemon bars. If I’ve offended you in some way, ma’am, I’m beggin’ your pardon right here and now.”
I felt strangely flattered he remembered my gift-giving habit. “Aw, Sheriff,” I crooned, “you had me fooled. All this time, I didn’t think you cared for my small tokens of esteem.”
“I didn’t; I don’t,” he growled, reverting to type. The crabby, surly type, I’d come to associate with him.
“You’re mistaken if you think I came empty-handed.” Reaching into my giant purse once more, I withdrew my cell phone and, with a small flourish, set it on the desk directly in front of him. I didn’t have long to wait for a reaction.
“A cell phone…what the blue blazes? You’re givin’ me a cell phone?” He recoiled back farther in his seat. “I should warn you, Miz McCall, a gift of this nature could be construed as bribin’ a public official.”
Well, golly gee. Slap me upside the head with a billy club. From the way he was carrying on, you’d think I’d just committed a capital offense. “Well,” I replied, nonplussed, “bribing a public official seems a step up the ladder from the usual obstruction of justice charge you’re forever threatening me with.”
“No call to be flip, Miz McCall. Just figured a friendly warnin’ was in order.”
He jabbed a kielbasa-sized finger at the cell phone. “S’posin’ we get down to business, and you tell me what this heah phone’s all about.”
“Heah” I’ve learned since moving south of the Mason-Dixon Line is Southern-speak for the Yankified “here.” It takes one’s ear a while to become attuned to the lazy vowels and slurred consonants. I’d dearly love to casually drop “y’all” into conversations with my children, but haven’t quite mastered the technique without sounding like a bad actor in a third-rate film.
“Stop your woolgatherin’, Miz McCall. My time’s awastin’.”
“Sorry.” I scooted up straighter, took a deep breath, and readied myself for battle. “As I mentioned, I’m here to help you solve yet another murder case.”
Did color actually leach from his dark skin? I wondered. Or was it a trick of the lighting?
Sumter Wiggins pinched the bridge of his nose. “Exactly what murder would you be referrin’ to?”
“Don’t play coy, Sheriff. I tried to convince you weeks ago that Dr. Bascomb and Dr. Rappaport were poisoned, but you remained a skeptic. At the time, it must’ve struck you odd that of all the people present at the banquet, all eating the exact same food, Vaughn and Sheila were the only ones to fall ill?”
He started to open his mouth, but I raised my hand and cut him off. “Now, I don’t disagree that Dr. Bascomb’s heart problems contributed to his death, but I’m convinced something triggered that irregular heartbeat. If it comes to light that an unsub deliberately put a poisonous substance into their food or drink then it’s a crime—plain and simple. Call it what you will—murder, manslaughter, or criminal negligence—but it’s a crime of some sort.”
“Unsub?” He did his one-eyebrow lift thingy designed to intimidate even the most hardened of criminals. “You been watchin’ more of that TV show you like so much—Murder and Mayhem?”
“No,” I bristled. “I’ve branched out on my TV viewing. ‘Unsub’ is a term the FBI profilers use on Criminal Minds. It stands for…”
Stifling a groan—just barely—he waved aside my explanation. “I know, I know—unsub stands for unknown subject. You’re forgettin’ I’m the sheriff.”
“Actually, the show you’re thinking of isn’t Murder and Mayhem. It’s called Law & Order.” He was being deliberately obtuse, and it irked me. I’d gone to all the trouble of ordering him a DVD of classic Law & Order episodes, hoping it would bring him up to speed on how big-city cops operate. He’d probably stuffed it into his sock drawer without ever watching.
“Why can’t you be one of those grandmas who stays at home and bakes cookies?”
“I take it that’s a rhetorical question?” Not waiting for a reply, I forged ahead. “Sheila—Dr. Rappaport—told me the lab’s preliminary findings show no evidence of either E. coli or botulism. Is that right?”
“You tell me. You’re lead detective on this investigation.”
Lead detective? Wow! I’d been promoted from Nancy Drew wannabe to lead detective. I knew the man was being facetious, but I allowed myself a moment to savor the fantasy. Then back to reality. Rifling through my purse, I extracted my little black book, which coincidentally bore a close resemblance to the sheriff’s little black book, and a pen. “What else did the lab rule out?”
He looked pained. “Can I take back the crack about you bein’ lead detective? I don’t want to be givin’ you delusions of grandeur.”
“Sorry, too late. Besides, whether you want to admit it or not, we work well together.”
He mumbled something under his breath I didn’t quite catch, then with obvious reluctance reached over and pulled a file from a stack on his desk and flipped it open. “Lab ruled out most common bacteria and salmonella. No trace of staphylococcus.”
I scribbled furiously. I could correct misspelled words later. “What else did toxicology report?”
“Have you gone and taken some mail-order course on how to be a detective in six lessons?”
“Didn’t have to,” I replied, not looking up. “There’s a new invention. It’s called the Internet.” I couldn’t believe I was actually sassing the sheriff. Then I remembered a phrase Colleen, a former coworker, used to say: Be old and bold. She had other sayings, too, but I have a certain image to uphold. “What else, Sheriff? Remember, time’s a-wastin’.”
He sighed; he scowled, but eventually he acquiesced. “The lab ran a tox screen for the usual suspects to rule out heroin, cocaine, PCP, meth, and alcohol. None of them turned out positive.”
“So what’s next?” I asked. “I assume toxicology will test the usual—blood, urine, and stomach contents. And what about slides from Vaughn’s liver? According to the Internet, the liver’s the organ most heavily involved in drug metabolism.”
“I gotta be losin’ my edge.” He rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Why am I even havin’ this discussion with a civilian?”
“Because, Sheriff”—I leaned forward and picked up my cell phone—“this civilian has a head start on compiling a list of murder suspects. In fact, I have their pictures right here.”
“Unbelievable,” he muttered.
I shoved the phone toward him. “I took these at Vaughn Bascomb’s memorial service—and ought to be congratulated on my foresight. It’s a known fact in the world of law enforcement that murderers often attend the funerals of their victims. That’s why plainclothes detectives usually fill the back pew and are told to keep their eyes peeled. Now, during the age of cell phones, their job has become simplified.”
“For the sake of conservin’ your time and my energy, who are these suspects?”
“I have four so far.” I wiggled to the edge of my seat, eager to expound on my theory. “First of all, there’s Betsy Dalto
n. She’s vice president of Belle Beaute, the sponsor of How Does Your Garden Grow? She intensely disliked Vaughn, but I don’t know why—yet. Next there’s Roger McFarland, editor of Sheila and Vaughn’s coffee table book. Roger claims Vaughn interfered with his vision of the finished product. And I recently learned someone—could be either Sheila or Vaughn—beat him out of a position he thought he deserved.”
The sheriff, I was pleased to note, hauled out his little black book and was making notes, albeit not happily.
“Then there’s Todd Timmons. Todd’s producer of How Does Your Garden Grow? He’s extremely ambitious. Wants to move from cable to a major network. He blamed Vaughn for the show’s drop in ratings. I have their pictures right here on my cell phone.”
I was still a novice when it came to taking photos on my cell so was slow retrieving them. I sensed Sheriff Wiggins’s growing impatience, which made it hard to concentrate. I hit MENU, then CONTACTS.
Oops! False start. Better try again.
“You said there were four names. Who’s the fourth?”
“Kel Watson, the county extension agent. Do you know him?” I tried the MENU button again, scrolled down, then selected MESSAGING. Drat! Still no luck. Apparently picture-taking on the cell phone wasn’t as easy as it seemed.
“Yeah, I know Kel. How’d his name get on this list of yours?”
I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine. The man was making me nervous. “Sheila thinks Kel has it in for her—professional jealousy or some such. She fainted dead away at the sight of him when he visited her in the hospital. And if that’s not enough, his appearance at the reception following Vaughn’s memorial service sparked quite a scene.”
“That doesn’t make the man a killer,” he commented, his tone mild tone.
“You’re the sheriff,” I snapped. “Do I have to do all the work?”
I know I took the darn pictures. Why couldn’t I find them? I gnawed my lower lip in frustration and started the process all over again. MENU, scrolled through the options, this time selecting PICTURES and pressing OK. Instant relief flooded through me. I felt vindicated, free to shed the label of imbecile.
But my relief was short-lived. The screen was blank.
I shook the phone angrily, hoping the photos would magically appear. No such luck. The screen remained blank. Disheartened, I slumped back in my seat, staring dejectedly at the electronic gizmo in my hand. “I know I took the pictures,” I said in a small voice.
“Don’t s’pose you pressed SAVE after you took ’em?”
My head jerked up, and I stared at him in dismay. “No. Was I supposed to?”
Chapter 21
After yesterday’s fiasco at the sheriff’s office, my morale needed a boost. Hopefully today’s special program with Flowers and Bowers would be just what the doctor ordered to snap me out of my funk. Rita had reminded me yet again that I’d be considered a provisional member until I’d served volunteer hours at the club’s ongoing beautification project and attended a minimum of three regularly scheduled meetings. Piece of cake, she’d said, speaking in her official capacity as chairman of the membership committee.
I ran around in a dither, trying to get ready. I had dressed for the day in garden club chic—or how I imagined garden club chic should look. Jeans, denim shirt, starched and ironed to the max, over a snowy white T-shirt with a flower motif. One of those crushable straw hats completed my botanical ensemble. I loaded supplies into a canvas tote bag: sunglasses, sunscreen, water bottle, insect repellent, wallet, checkbook. I bumped into the coffee table as I rounded a corner and swore softly. Why hadn’t I gotten everything together the night before like a sane person? As I rubbed my aching shin, it all came back to me. I hadn’t done any of this because I’d fallen asleep watching Law & Order reruns and woken up to The Tonight Show. To add insult to injury, I’d forgotten to set the alarm clock.
I heard a car engine and, glancing out a window, saw Bill pull into my drive. Was he early, or was I running late? Bill, bless his heart, had offered me his truck for the day since the trunk of a Buick can’t compete with the bed of a pickup when it comes to hauling plants and shrubs. If need be, Bill could always use my car. Rita and I were to meet the rest of the group in the parking lot of Brookdale United Methodist Church.
I raced to the door. “Hi,” I said, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Hi, yourself.” He gave me that gentle smile I found so endearing. “You’re looking cute as a button in that getup.”
I felt my cheeks get warm. Aw shucks, I wanted to stammer, t’weren’t nothin’. “C’mon in,” I managed to choke out.
“Ready for your big adventure?”
“Getting there. I have a nagging feeling I’m forgetting something.” Darn those senior moments that plague the golden years. “Help yourself to the coffee. It’s still fresh.”
“Hope you’re not worrying about driving my truck,” he said as he headed for the kitchen and the coffeepot. “It’s an automatic so shouldn’t be any different than driving your car. Plus, you’ll have room for plenty of plants.”
I snapped my fingers. “Notebook!” The elusive object popped back into my mind. I was about to embark on a crash course in horticulture. I intended to ask tons of questions and take copious notes. But to do this, I needed pencil and paper. “Be right back,” I called out as I hustled off to locate said items.
No sooner had I returned to the kitchen than the phone rang. I accepted a mug of coffee from Bill and picked up the receiver, expecting to hear Rita on the other end of the line. “I’m ready if you are.”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
It took a split second to switch gears and realize the voice belonged not to Rita, but to my son, Steven. “Hi, sweetie. Everything okay?”
“Hi, Mom. Things couldn’t be better on my end.”
“Steven,” I mouthed to Bill, lest he think I had another “sweetie” waiting in the wings.
“I got into the office early,” Steven went on, “so thought I’d give you a call while the place was still quiet.”
“It’s always wonderful to hear your voice, but I’ve only got a few minutes.” Usually, this line was reversed and Steven the one with only minutes to talk. Though based in New York City—Manhattan, where else?—Steven was constantly on the go to places with exotic names like Zimbabwe or Kuala Lumpur. Forever in the search for gadgets and do-gee-bobs for a fancy housewares chain. You’d recognize the name instantly, but it’s not my nature to brag.
“Where are you off to this early?” Steven asked. “Your martial arts class?”
“Right, dear. I’m working on my black belt.”
Bill just looked at me and shook his head.
“Black belt?” Steven repeated.
Hmph…as if there even was such a thing in tai chi. Serves Steven right for never paying attention when I’m talking to him. It would do the boy good to think his mother was learning to kick butt. Give him a reason to scratch his head and wonder.
“You’re getting up there in age, Mom. Careful you don’t hurt yourself, or you could wind up in one of those assisted living places yet.”
I huffed out a breath. Recently Steven had put my name on the mailing list for every assisted living facility on the East Coast. When my recycle bin got too heavy to lift, I finally had to put my foot down. My children can’t seem to get it through their heads that I’m not ready for a rocking chair and the weather channel.
“Friends refer to me as Kung Fu Kate.” I was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop. “Bill prefers to call me Karate Kate.”
Bill’s brows shot up at hearing this, and he laughed out loud.
“Mom.” Steven’s tone sharpened. “Is someone with you? A man?”
“Just Bill, dear.”
A lengthy silence ensued. A silence some novelists describe as a pregnant pause.
“You’ve heard me mention Bill before,” I finally said, taking a sip of coffee in the hope the caffeine would jump-start my brain.
&n
bsp; “Do you realize what time it is?”
I glanced at the kitchen clock. I was about to answer his question when I caught myself. Steven had just adopted the same aggrieved tone I used when he was a teenager who’d broken his curfew. I’d come full circle—and didn’t like it. “No need for that tone of voice, young man,” I scolded. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“Mother, please tell me you’re not sleeping with the man.”
The switch from “Mom” to “Mother” was duly noted. Clearly not a promotion, judging from the coolness in his voice. For a moment, I was tempted to lead him on. Let him think I’m a Social Security Salome. But I caught myself in the nick of time. If I wasn’t careful, he’d be down here in a flash. Serenity Cove Estates would top his list of exotic locales.
“What’s that…Bill…person doing at your house this early in the morning?” he asked, his voice redolent with accusation.
As much as I wanted to let his imagination run rampant, I felt a motherly obligation to set the record straight. “I’m going on an excursion with the garden club this morning. Bill was kind enough to loan me his Ford pickup for the day.”
“Oh…” I heard Steven exhale from an office high above Madison Avenue. “Since that’s the case, let me get to the real reason for my call. I spoke with Jen last night. She’s worried about you.”
“Whatever for, dear? I’m perfectly fine.” I cast a quick peek at the clock. I wouldn’t be fine, if I didn’t hurry. It won’t do to keep the garden club members waiting on my very first event.
“Jen said there was a food poisoning epidemic where you live.”
“No need to worry, sweetie. Sheriff Wiggins ruled out food poisoning.” I absently skimmed the checklist I’d left on the kitchen counter. “We’re treating this as a murder and attempted homicide. We’re still waiting, however, for toxicology results from SLED to confirm COD.”
“SLED? COD? What the hell does that mean?” Steven shouted. “Have you joined a cult? Are you speaking in tongues?”