The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  Tammy Lynn blew a wisp of hair out of her eyes. “Meemaw keeps askin’ when she can return home. She’s havin’ a hard time sleepin’ in a strange house and in a strange bed. The other night, she got up to go to the bathroom and wandered into Daddy’s room by mistake. Daddy almost had a heart attack when he woke from a sound sleep to find Meemaw starin’ down at him. He hollered loud enough to wake the dead,” she said, then caught herself. “Sorry, ma’am. Poor choice of words.”

  “Are you and Eric going to the tree lighting?”

  “Eric has to work. Sheriff Wiggins wants a police presence in town tonight—especially since you found what was left of my granddaddy. The sheriff said folks need to see that their taxpayer dollars are well spent.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if Tammy Lynn blamed me—even a tiny bit—for her grandmother’s troubles. If I hadn’t found a skeleton in a coal bin, life would have continued uninterrupted by possible homicide charges.

  Tammy Lynn carefully realigned the stapler and paper clip holder along the edge of her desk. “Eric and I haven’t been seeing much of each other lately.”

  “Oh, no. I hope you two didn’t have a fight.”

  “No,” Tammy Lynn said with a sad shake of her head. “Eric and I seldom argue. He says with everything happenin’ right now, it’s best if we take a break from each other—at least temporarily. Claims our relationship could be considered a conflict of interest.”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  Tammy Lynn let out a long sigh. “Since Meemaw is a suspect in a crime Eric’s investigatin’, he says he has to remain impartial and not let our friendship influence him in any way, shape, or form.”

  “I see,” I said, although I wasn’t sure if Eric wasn’t using that as an excuse to break up with Tammy Lynn. The two had seemed to be getting pretty serious. Perhaps the young man was merely suffering a case of cold feet and wanted to distance himself. Then I brightened as I recalled the reason for my visit. “I’m here to discuss a piece of information that might shed fresh light on your grandmother’s situation. Is the sheriff in his office?”

  “New information?” Tammy Lynn perked up at hearing this. “In that case, go right on in. If Sheriff Wiggins wants to know why I let you in unannounced, tell him I’m in the ladies’ room.”

  “Gotcha.” With a nod, I marched toward his office. I’d learned to come empty-handed on my visits. In the past, however, it was a different story. I’d always brought the sheriff little tokens of hospitality that went unappreciated. My gifts ran the gamut from cookies, house plants, and energy bars. How was I to know he never ate sweets? How could I foresee a recently watered house plant would leak all over important papers? Not a single gift had elicited even a sliver of gratitude. I’d given up trying to be a people pleaser. Better a slow learner than a no learner, I always say.

  Sheriff Wiggins looked up from a stack of reports he’d been studying when he heard his office door open. I’d caught him wearing a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses, which he promptly removed. “Why, Sheriff, I’ve never known you to wear cheaters.”

  “Readers. I call ’em readers. Didn’t see a need to take out an ad in the paper,” he said, sounding a trifle defensive to admit to a flaw. “Shouldn’t you be down at the Methodist church with the rest of the ladies?”

  “I plan to drop by after I finish my business here.”

  “Surely, Miz McCall, you can find better ways of usin’ your time than comin’ to pester me.” He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Tammy Lynn should know better than to let you back here without givin’ me a heads-up.”

  I plunked myself down in the chair reserved for visitors, resting my folded hands on my purse. “Tammy Lynn needed to use the ladies’ room. I think it might be her time of the month.”

  “Hrmph!” He cleared his throat. “Well, then, state your business so I can be about mine.”

  “Tsk, tsk,” I admonished with a shake of my head. “That’s no way to treat a conscientious citizen who is doing her best to assist law enforcement fight crime.”

  He shook his head wearily. “You sound like one of them public service announcements. You can best assist this poor, beleaguered law enforcement official by statin’ your case then makin’ yourself scarce.”

  So, very well, down to business it was. “I have another name to add to the persons of interest list in the Waylon Snow case.”

  “And who might this person be?”

  Sheriff Wiggins rocked back in the desk chair with the squeaky springs. I bit my tongue to keep from informing him that a drop or two of WD-40 would eliminate that pesky problem. Men, I’d discovered in the course of my marriage to Jim, didn’t like women telling them how to fix mechanical things. “The man’s name is Bud Sanders,” I said.

  Not even a flicker of recognition registered on the sheriff’s dark countenance. “Bud Sanders was a contemporary of Waylon Snow,” I elaborated. “Both men were general contractors who owned and operated competing businesses. Waylon consistently outbid Bud for the same jobs. Bud is of the opinion Waylon deliberately undermined him by oozing charm and personality.”

  “That it?”

  “No.” I huffed out a breath. “From what I gather, Bud’s wife had a crush on Waylon and constantly compared the two men, which made Bud furious. When I spoke with him at Valley View Manor Nursing Home, Bud made no secret of the fact that he hated Waylon Snow. He stated they nearly came to blows on numerous occasions.”

  “I see,” he said, clearly unimpressed by my sleuthing skills. “By my calculations, this Mr. Sanders must be pushin’ eighty if he’s a day. From what you said, you’re of the belief that he’s still in full possession of his faculties.”

  “Yes, how else would I have discovered this information?” Leaning forward in my seat, I jabbed an accusatory finger at a yellow legal pad on his desk. “Aren’t you going to write this down?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled in that rich as molasses baritone well suited for TV voice-overs. Picking up a pen, he made a show of scrawling Bud Sanders’s name on the top sheet of the pad.

  I stood, having said my piece. “One word of caution, Sheriff. Should you interview him, Mr. Sanders has quite a temper. In fact, he yelled and told me to get out of his room.”

  Sheriff Wiggins nodded solemnly. “That’s all the proof I needed to hear.”

  “Proof of what?” I asked warily.

  “That the man in question is in full possession of his faculties. Have a good afternoon, Miz McCall.”

  And just like that I found myself out in the hallway.

  • • •

  As long as I was in town, I might as well pop over to the craft fair at the Methodist church. I could smell the baked goods soon as I descended the stairs to the basement. A bevy of women in cheery red aprons manned the first booth on the right. An amazing array of goodies was spread across two long tables. Cakes, pies, breads, and cookies vied for my attention and reminded me it was past lunch time. I bought a loaf of cranberry nut bread from a woman wearing a Santa hat, then, unable to resist, added a dozen gingerbread men to my order.

  I strolled up and down the aisles, pausing here and there to admire handcrafted jewelry or a piece of pottery. I purchased a stunning, one-of-a-kind necklace made of river rock that I knew my daughter would love. I was examining a series of crocheted zoo animals suitable for Bill’s new grandson when a woman bumped into me.

  “Kate! Don’t tell me you’re expecting another grandchild.”

  I laughed at seeing Diane, a fellow Bunco Babe, standing next to me. “I should be so lucky. Jen’s girls are growing up too quickly. There’s nothing I’d like better than having another little one to spoil.”

  “I’m on my lunch break,” Diane explained, picking up a crocheted elephant with floppy pink ears. “I grabbed a sandwich at Subway and thought I’d head over for a look around. A local children’s author is supposed to be here signing her books. I wanted to get one for my niece.”

/>   I selected an elephant, a giraffe, and a lion, then paid the crafter. “I’ll walk with you.”

  Diane lowered her voice. “You won’t believe some of the rumors going around town.”

  I paused at a booth to examine a gourd painted to resemble an elf. “What have you heard?”

  “One of the patrons at the library asked if it was true that the victim had been dismembered. It’s his theory a serial killer was responsible.”

  “Gruesome.” I shuddered at the possibility and moved to the next booth.

  Diane kept pace. “Another person heard it was the body of a soldier dating back to the Civil War—a Yankee.”

  “Don’t tell me, let me guess.” I shook my head, both bemused and distressed at the plethora of theories. “This dead Yankee had been poisoned with oleander tea by a genteel Southern belle.”

  “You must have read the same novel I did.” Diane snorted a laugh then sobered. “Unfortunately, Kate, the consensus is that the bones belong to Waylon Snow—and his wife is guilty as sin.”

  My desire for shopping vanished like a puff of smoke in a stiff breeze. Diane had just supplied me with all the more reason to find Waylon Snow’s real killer.

  Chapter 16

  “Please say it isn’t so,” I whined, sounding like a cranky two-year-old, but I couldn’t help myself. I’d been in the process of searching through my wardrobe for warmer clothes to wear for the night’s festivities when the phone rang.

  “Sorry, hon,” Bill said in a voice so scratchy I scarcely recognized it. “I hate like the devil to cancel our date tonight but, the way I feel, I’m better off staying home. I think I’m coming down with something.”

  “Which is the reason flu shots are recommended,” I rebuked him gently. “I’ll drop off a container of homemade chicken noodle soup and Vernors ginger ale on my way to the tree lighting.”

  “You don’t have to,” Bill croaked.

  “Nonsense.” I pulled a wool sweater from a closet shelf. “Vernors is the magic potion my mother always gave me whenever I felt sick. It works like a charm. As for the soup, I made a big pot yesterday from leftover rotisserie chicken.”

  When Bill started coughing, I ordered him to bed. We’d exchanged house keys some time ago—for emergency purposes, naturally. And having a significant other sick with the flu, in my estimation, constituted an emergency. I finished layering on my cold-weather duds, topping them off with a fleece and a warm scarf. I ladled soup into a take-out container, took a bottle of ginger ale from the pantry, scooped up my purse and was out the door with time to spare.

  I found Bill, his eyes shut, lying on the living room sofa covered with a plaid throw. The television set was turned on but the sound muted. At first I thought he was sleeping, but when I turned to leave quietly, he opened his eyes and gave me a weak smile. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself,” I answered. “I put the soup and the ginger ale in the fridge.”

  He sneezed. “I hate to be a bother.”

  Advancing farther into the room, I placed the back of my hand on his forehead the same way I did when my children were small. His skin felt warm to the touch but not burning hot, so I diagnosed a low-grade fever. “Let me get you some Tylenol.”

  “Don’t fuss,” he protested, but too late.

  I came back minutes later with two tablets and a glass of water. “Take these now and repeat in four hours if you’re not feeling better.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Levering himself on one elbow, he meekly followed my orders—another sign he wasn’t up to par.

  “Drink plenty of fluids and get lots of rest,” I lectured. “I’ll check in on you tomorrow, but in the meantime, call if you need anything.”

  “I feel better already,” he muttered as his eyelids drifted shut.

  • • •

  Brookdale was as busy now as it had been this afternoon. Perhaps even more so with entire families congregating to watch the lighting of the huge tree in the town square. Cars, SUVs, minivans, and pickups clogged the downtown area. I settled on a parking spot near the railroad tracks not far from the old abandoned cotton gin. Local historians were proud to tell visitors that the gin had been a bustling hub of activity back in the days cotton was king. And before the boll weevil decimated the economy.

  I melded into the steady stream of people making their way to the downtown section. Everyone, I noted, seemed to be in a good humor, laughing, smiling, and milling about. Many would linger after the tree lighting to enjoy the hot chocolate and sugar cookies provided by the local Lions Club. As I neared the square, I recognized many familiar faces. Vera, our favorite waitperson at the Cove Café, waved at me from across the street. I waved back, trying not to appear too curious about the gentleman friend at her side. The Babes would want to know the details about the mystery man in her life. Gray hair and glasses would have to suffice for a physical description. The same could apply to the dozens of middle-aged men in and around town.

  I wormed my way through the spectators gathered in the square until I met up with Polly and Gloria at a prearranged meeting spot. Stan, Gloria’s affable spouse, stood nearby talking football with an acquaintance.

  Polly craned her neck for signs of Bill. “Where’s your date? You two break up or what? If so, I’ll volunteer to be his rebound girlfriend.”

  “Mother,” Gloria said, “it isn’t necessary that every thought that enters your head comes out of your mouth.”

  “As the superhero Popeye used to say, ‘I say what I mean and mean what I say.’”

  “I hardly think Popeye is in the same category as Spider Man or Batman,” I observed. “And as for Bill, he’s feeling under the weather. I’m keeping my fingers crossed it’s not the flu but just a cold. He’s been spending a lot of time lately doing repairs on the Children’s Home.”

  Gloria nodded knowingly. “Kids are little petri dishes when it comes to germs. Remind him to drink plenty of fluids.”

  “And get a lot of rest,” Polly added.

  The approach of Monica accompanied by her husband, Fred, forestalled further advice giving. Fred clapped Stan on the back and immediately launched into a discussion of the Carolina Panthers’ chance for the playoffs versus those of the Atlanta Falcons.

  “I’m a Patriots fan myself,” Polly interjected. “I think Tom Brady is hot.”

  Gloria rolled her eyes. “You think every man under the age of sixty is hot.”

  “That’s how I check to make sure my hormones are working. Don’t need a doctor to order some fancy blood test.”

  Monica turned her back on the men. “Kate, I tried calling you earlier today but no answer. Have you contacted Sheriff Wiggins to find out when we’re allowed to start decorating at Eula’s?”

  “He can’t keep the house off-limits forever,” Gloria said.

  I groaned inwardly. In my haste to tell the sheriff about Bud Sanders I had completely forgotten to ask him about lifting the ban. “Sorry,” I apologized. “The sheriff was busy and couldn’t wait to get rid of me. He practically pushed me out the door. If we don’t hear from him soon, I’ll pay him another visit.”

  “Well, you know the man better than the rest of us do, so keep applying pressure on him to let us in.” Monica took a step backward, narrowly avoiding a small child wielding a peppermint stick and an angry parent.

  “What can the police possibly expect to find after all these years?” Gloria wondered out loud.

  “The murder weapon?” Polly suggested helpfully. “A heavy object covered with blood and hidden in the attic. Maybe stuffed in a box with the Snows’ long-lost Christmas ornaments.”

  Exasperated, Gloria shook her head, making the Christmas tree earrings she wore sway to and fro. “Mother, with your imagination you should write fiction.”

  “Nah, I’m not sure the world’s ready for the book I have in mind.” Polly turned her attention to the group of local dignitaries who were shaking hands as they made their way through the crowd. “Showtime!”

  The may
or, looking dignified in a camel-hair topcoat and Burberry scarf, led a cadre of city officials. I instantly recognized the director of the chamber of commerce from her stint as guest speaker at a ladies’ luncheon last spring. The others in the group were long-standing county commissioners, the last member being the newly appointed school superintendent.

  The director of the chamber of commerce produced a mic and, after a brief speech about the many advantages of living in a close-knit community such as Brookdale and its surroundings, turned the program over to the mayor. The mayor thanked everyone for the large turnout. As my eyes roamed over the crowd—men, women, and children, young and old, black and white—I experienced a keen sense of solidarity. In a custom nearly as old as the town itself, people congregated around a Christmas tree in a square dating back to the eighteenth century.

  At a given signal from the mayor, a switch was thrown. The tree burst into life beneath hundreds of multicolored lights. A chorus of oohs and ahhs ensued. From a speaker mounted overhead came the notes of a familiar Christmas carol. Everyone joined in the singing, myself included, and seemed united in a moment of peace and harmony.

  Although the caroling continued, I decided it was time to take my leave. My friends barely acknowledged my departure. The night had grown chilly. I stuffed my hands deep into the pockets of my jacket, where I found an old pair of leather gloves and tugged them on. Bypassing the stand offering treats to the youngsters, I started toward the spot where I’d parked my car. I left Main Street behind with its brightly lit shop windows and turned down a side street. Streetlights were more widely spaced along this route, and the moon played hide-and-seek behind the clouds.

  As a precaution, I dug my car keys from my purse and held them in my fist like I’d seen demonstrated in a self-defense video. I wasn’t nervous walking alone down a dark deserted street, I told myself, I was simply being careful. Except for an occasional murder, the crime rate was low in Brookdale. So low, in fact, citizens grow complacent and careless regarding their personal safety. People leave doors unlocked, windows open, and neglect to lock their cars.