The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  “What in the world . . . ?” I braked to a stop at the curb. Jumping out of my SUV, I raced across the lawn and saw the reason for the commotion. Polly was holding court in front of the same reporter I’d seen earlier at Eula’s. She’d dressed for the occasion in a yellow ensemble and purple blouse with a yellow and purple print scarf draped around her scrawny throat.

  “Kate!” Gloria rushed to meet me halfway. “Mother refuses to listen to me, but maybe you can talk sense into her. Sheriff Wiggins warned her not to talk to the media.”

  I’d received the same admonition. The sheriff wouldn’t be happy to learn that Polly was the star of Breaking News at 6. Sidestepping yards of cable, I approached an interview already in progress.

  “Viewers are grateful to Mrs. Polly Curtis for granting WRDW an interview. Take us inside your head and tell people what went through your mind the moment you discovered a skeleton hidden in a root cellar.”

  Widening her eyes, Polly dramatically placed her hand over her heart—a newly manicured hand, I noted, with fingernails painted purple to match her blouse. “It was awful, Marcia,” she said, addressing the reporter by her first name. “Just awful. The body was lying in a coal bin all peaceful-like. At first I thought it might’ve been a Halloween decoration. That’s when I noticed the hole in the skull.”

  “A hole in the skull?” Marcia, obviously not a newbie to television news, subtly motioned her cameraman closer.

  Polly nodded, causing her permed curls to dance. “It was a hole all right. The size of a burger on the Dollar Menu at McDonald’s. I was terrified. I tried to scream but no sound came out.”

  I chose that moment to make my move before Polly revealed any more damning details. Stepping forward, I firmly took hold of her arm. “Sorry, folks, this is a wrap. My patient is subject to hallucinations and it’s time for her meds.”

  With Gloria on one side and me on the other, we propelled an indignant Polly back toward the house. Glancing over my shoulder, I caught Marcia’s disgruntled expression at the aborted interview. From the look on Polly’s face, I knew she wasn’t happy either. This was yet another instance when she wanted to scream but no sound came out.

  Chapter 12

  The hour was late, but sleep was a stranger. Tammy Lynn had asked for my help, practically pleaded with me, but I felt useless. I wasn’t a detective or a deputy. I’m not even a lowly rookie, merely an amateur who happened to get lucky a few times. My alma mater wasn’t the police academy but rather the School of Curiosity. For textbooks, I studied The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating and Forensics for Dummies. I could’ve written a thesis based on Law & Order reruns.

  I sat propped up in bed, the television tuned to the Hallmark Channel’s annual Countdown to Christmas. Wholesome entertainment with a capital W. No cussing, no violence, happy endings guaranteed. The shows were my attempt to wean myself off the crime and punishment variety I gravitated toward. My mind, however, kept pinwheeling back to Eula Snow’s predicament. I happened to share Tammy Lynn’s conviction that Eula was innocent in the death of her husband. I simply couldn’t wrap my mind around the possibility. But I’d learned enough from programs such as Dateline and 20/20 to know that if new information wasn’t forthcoming, Eula would be upgraded from person of interest to primary suspect.

  A twenty-five-year-old murder—a cold case—would be difficult, if not impossible, to solve. It would take a whole lot of digging and even more luck.

  Motive, means, and opportunity, I’d learned, were the unholy triad in the commission of a crime. So far I hadn’t gotten to first base. There was no concrete evidence to suggest Waylon Snow was having an affair. And no hint that beneath her docile demeanor Eula harbored violent tendencies so, in my opinion, that ruled out his death as a crime of passion. But if Eula didn’t have a motive, who did?

  When I met Sharon Mayfield at the Piggly Wiggly, she’d mentioned that years ago Waylon and a fellow contractor by the name of Bud Sanders had nearly come to blows. Bud, she’d explained, had been a head case. If Bud was a contemporary of Waylon Snow, he must have been around eighty years of age, give or take, which meant it was unlikely he was still actively employed. By now he might’ve moved elsewhere or, like Waylon, could have passed on. Yet, it wouldn’t hurt to ask a few questions. Eula might know what became of her husband’s rival.

  Added to the quandary was the matter of the missing money. Had Waylon been engaged in something shady that led to his death? I tapped my fingers on the cover of a glossy magazine, one of a half dozen Christmas issues spread across the bed in hopes they’d birth a creative brainchild.

  And that led to the trio’s second item: means. Gauging from the crater in Waylon’s skull, the murder weapon was big, heavy, and had been administered with sufficient force to fracture bone. It could have been any number of objects, such as a rock, a baseball bat, or a cast iron skillet. That determination would have to be made by the medical examiner, not a sixty-something retiree in PJs.

  The music blaring from the television was reaching a crescendo, signaling the conclusion of a movie. I watched as the two lovebirds embraced and shared a kiss under gently falling snow. Reaching for the remote, I switched channels in time to hear the news anchor instruct viewers to stay tuned for an eyewitness account of a terrifying discovery.

  I squirmed my way through a string of commercials touting attorneys with big smiles and big promises of huge settlements for victims of injury accidents. Finally, my patience was rewarded and Polly’s face filled the screen.

  “I was terrified,” Polly explained for the benefit of her TV audience.

  “Before being hurried away by her caregiver,” Marcia What’s-her-face reported, looking ever so solemn, “the elderly senior citizen stated she had observed a gaping hole in the victim’s skull. When questioned about the victim’s head wound, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins refused to comment on possible cause of death.”

  I’d heard enough. Shoving the magazines into an untidy heap, I clicked off the remote, turned off the bedside lamp, and closed my eyes. Tomorrow promised to be another busy day.

  • • •

  I timed my visit to the home Tammy Lynn shared with her father so I’d have a chance to speak to Eula alone. Tammy Lynn would have already left for her job at the sheriff’s office. Her father, Dan, would also be at work. Retired after a stint in the army, Dan worked for a heating and cooling company to stave off boredom and supplement his pension. Father and daughter lived in a small brick ranch-style home on a tree-lined street. The driveway leading to a carport was empty, so I parked there and followed a walk bordered with holly and gardenia bushes.

  Eula answered the door promptly, and I cautioned her on the importance of checking first. No telling who might come knocking. The media was hungry for details and might resort to trickery.

  Eula merely nodded and smiled. “So nice of you to visit, Kate.”

  “I brought you a little something.” I handed her a foil-wrapped loaf of banana bread I’d baked the day before.

  Eula’s eyes lit up. “For me . . . ?”

  “Everyone has a sweet tooth when it comes to banana bread. May I come in?”

  “Of course you can,” she said, stepping aside. “Mercy, where are my manners? Why don’t I put on a fresh pot of coffee, then we can sit a spell. You do like coffee, don’t you?”

  “Almost as much as banana bread.”

  I followed Eula through a neat-as-a-pin living room toward the kitchen. I had the impression of stuck-in-the-eighties decor: wall-to-wall carpet, heavy drapes, and worn but comfy furniture.

  “Have a seat.” Eula motioned to the maple pedestal table in the breakfast nook. “This will only take a minute or two.”

  “No hurry.” While Eula busied herself measuring coffee into a Mr. Coffee machine, I gazed at my surroundings. Salt and pepper shakers along with a sugar bowl rested on a place mat in the center of the table. Paper napkins stood in a plastic holder nearby. From above the doorway, a black kitty-cat clock w
ith a grotesque grin gave me the evil eye.

  Eula took two mismatched mugs from the cupboard. “I hope the sheriff allows me to return home soon. It’s confusing not being in my own place and not knowing where things are kept.”

  I smiled sympathetically. “There’s no place quite like your own home.”

  “I’m going to miss my house something fierce once I move into Valley View Manor.” Eula picked up a dish towel and twisted it into a knot. “The staff seems friendly enough, and they said I can bring some of my furnishings from home to make it more comfortable.”

  “I’m sure you’ll soon make friends with the other residents,” I said, trying to reassure her. “On the bright side, you’ll no longer have to worry about what to cook for dinner, or do laundry or clean the house. Think of it as living in a resort.”

  “Yes, I suppose that’s true.” Eula nodded slowly. “Best of all, my family won’t have to worry about me setting the house on fire or forgetting to eat. I hate knowing they worry about me. Truth is, I worry about myself. I used to have such a good memory and now . . .”—her voice broke—“and now it’s like Swiss cheese.”

  My heart ached for the woman who desperately wanted to remain independent but was no longer able. The coffee maker burbled noisily, letting us know the coffee was ready. Eula stopped torturing the poor dish towel long enough to slice the banana bread and put it on plates. “Just take this morning, for example,” she said. “There I was, trying my best not to be a burden to my son and granddaughter, and what did I go and do? I refilled the sugar bowl, only instead of sugar I filled it with salt. You should have seen the expression on my son’s face when he tasted his coffee. He must think I’m crazy as a Betsy bug. Funny thing is, I don’t even remember doing it.”

  “You’re under a lot of strain, Eula. Anyone could have made the same mistake.”

  “I suppose, but still . . .”

  The sound of the front door opening and closing was followed by a female voice. “Eula, you home? Who does that car in the driveway belong to?”

  Cora Prentiss entered the kitchen toting a large shopping bag. “Oh, Kate, it’s you. I didn’t realize that was your vehicle.”

  Eula set another mug on the table. “Kate brought me a loaf of homemade banana bread. Wasn’t that sweet of her? We were just about to have a piece.”

  I gestured at the bag Cora carried. “Looks like this is Eula’s day for gifts.”

  Cora reached into the bag and removed a large box. “I bought a blender to use during her stay at Dan’s. I’ve been making my sister smoothies every day. As you’re probably aware, smoothies are an excellent source of vitamins. And that’s not all I’ve brought.” Triumphantly, she brought out a leather-bound photo album. “I thought going through old family photos would be a timely distraction and bring back some happier memories.”

  I sampled a small piece of my banana bread. “I confess I had an ulterior motive for coming here this morning. I wanted to test your memory, Eula.”

  Eula poured each of us a cup of coffee, then joined us at the table. “Ask away, but I warned you my memory isn’t so hot.”

  I fiddled with the handle on my coffee mug. “Eula, a person recently told me about a fellow contractor of your husband’s, a man by the name of Bud Sanders. Do you happen to know where he might be?”

  “Bud Sanders? Heavens! I haven’t thought of him in years.” She added a heaping spoonful of sugar to her cup. “Bud was an ornery cuss. He and Waylon had words on more than one occasion. The two sure could butt heads.”

  “So the two didn’t like each other?”

  “That’s putting it kindly,” Cora confirmed. “Bud hated Waylon, and I think the feeling was mutual.”

  Eula took a dainty sip of coffee. “The pair of them always seemed to be bidding on the same projects. Oftentimes, when jobs were scarce as hen’s teeth, bids became competitive. Waylon had a way about him. He could charm the birds out of the trees once he set his mind to it. Bud, on the other hand, tended to have a short fuse.”

  “Short fuse,” Cora snorted. “Bud was downright abrasive.”

  Eula frowned thoughtfully. “Last I heard, Bud was confined to a wheelchair.”

  “Serves the old buzzard right, if you ask my opinion.”

  “You might want to check out Valley View Manor. It’s the only nursing home in the area.”

  “I might just do that.” Smiling, I broke off another bite of banana bread. Abrasive? Short fuse? The women’s comments were interesting. Bud Sanders sounded like a man with anger issues.

  Angry enough to bash in the head of a rival? The notion bore further investigation.

  Chapter 13

  Bud Sanders had been surprisingly easy to locate. I hit pay dirt on my first try. It seemed he’d been a resident at Valley View Manor Nursing Home for some years now and, after a brief conversation with the receptionist, I came away with the impression that he and the staff were well acquainted.

  Valley View Manor sat perched on a rise at the center of a long, circular drive. Additions jutted from either side of the sprawling one-story brick building like angel’s wings. I parked in the small gravel lot in a space reserved for visitors. I pressed a button and the automated door opened into a lobby. Directly across the tile foyer was an information desk and beyond that a glass-enclosed cubicle, which I assumed was the nurses’ station.

  A white-haired woman in a pink sweatsuit toddled past me using a walker with neon green tennis balls attached to its legs. “Are you Mary?” she asked. When I shook my head no, she wandered off down a corridor.

  The middle-aged woman at the front desk stopped chatting with a young blond coworker and glanced up. “Can I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Bud Sanders. I called a while ago and was told he was a patient here.”

  “Are you a relative?” asked the woman, whose badge read Janet Brown, Desk Clerk.

  “Um . . . no. You might say I’m an acquaintance.” I neglected to add that I was an acquaintance he hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting.

  Janet consulted a file system that looked almost obsolete. “Mr. Sanders is in 214 West. You need to sign the guest register first, then follow the signs.”

  Her companion, Debbie according to the badge pinned to her scrubs, gave me the once-over. “Mr. Sanders doesn’t usually get visitors. Matter of fact, in all the time I’ve worked here, I’ve never known him to have a single one.”

  Janet broke into a grin. “Can’t imagine why.”

  The two women giggled like schoolgirls.

  “Must be his charming personality that keeps people away in droves,” Janet said, still laughing.

  “The staff insists they rotate whoever is assigned to him on a daily basis,” Debbie confided.

  A woman dressed in business attire emerged from an office adjacent to the front desk. “Is there a problem, ladies?”

  The two employees caught gossiping suddenly remembered other tasks that demanded their attention. The blonde grabbed a portable blood pressure monitor and wheeled it down the hall. Janet reached for a requisition pad from a rack nearby and started writing.

  “Patient confidentiality is of prime importance at Valley View Manor. Breaking HIPAA rules and regulations are grounds for dismissal. Janet and Debbie have been reprimanded before.”

  I took a closer look at the woman in the pantsuit. Her name tag read Lisa Jessup, Nurse Administrator. I wasn’t surprised at her title since she had an authoritative air about her. “I was only asking the room number of one of your patients.”

  “Residents,” Lisa Jessup corrected me. “We refer to them as residents. The word patient sounds too institutional. We like to think of them in a more dignified term.”

  “Sorry, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Which one of our residents are you here to visit?” Ms. Jessup said as I turned to locate the west wing.”

  “Bud Sanders.”

  Ms. Jessup frowned. “A word to the wise,” she said in a low voice. “Approach Mr.
Sanders with caution. He can be a bit . . . testy.”

  Apparently HIPAA rules and regs took a backseat to warning potential victims of an angry old man. Squaring my shoulders, I went in search of my prey.

  In for a dime, in for a dollar. During the course of my life, I’ve encountered more than one testy male. Heeding Janet’s advice, I followed the signage toward room 214 West. The first room I passed was a large airy dining room. Lunchtime must have recently concluded because the kitchen crew was busy clearing the last of the dishes. The dining room boasted a faux fireplace draped in greenery against the far wall and an artificial Christmas tree in one corner. Valley View Manor was leaps and bounds ahead of the Bunco Babes when it came to decorating for the holidays.

  As I progressed down the hallway, the smell of disinfectant grew stronger and the atmosphere more depressing. Walls, painted a boring beige, were scuffed and scarred from countless battles with wheelchairs and gurneys. I noted containers of hand sanitizer outside each patient’s—er, resident’s—room. Most of the rooms had snapshots of the residents taped to the doors. Some bore crude crayon drawings made by loving grandchildren. I dodged an empty wheelchair and a nurse pushing a medicine cart.

  Room 214 was at the end of the hallway, the last room on the left. The door to Bud Sanders’s room was bereft of photos or drawings, mute testimony of the lonely, grumpy old man who resided within. I felt a pang of sympathy for the man I was about to meet. Then I reminded myself he was a possible murderer. I drew upon a breathing technique I’d learned in tai chi to promote relaxation. Inhale, then exhale through the nose, aiming for a long, continuous breath. Once, twice, then three times. I was as ready as I was ever going to be.