The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  “I admit Monica and I may have gone a little crazy in the craft store,” Connie Sue said, interpreting my expression.

  “Wait till you see my thrift-store and flea-market treasures.” Pam gestured to an old sled and a pair of snowshoes that looked old enough to have been used by Paul Bunyan. “It always surprises me the stuff folks hate to part with when they move. Now I just have to turn these into something amazing.”

  In lieu of a coach’s whistle, Monica clapped her hands for attention. “Enough chatter, ladies. We have a lot of work ahead of us. I’ve assigned each of you to a station with tasks that best suit your skill set.”

  “Where are the crayons and coloring books?” Polly pretended to search all around her.

  Everyone except Monica laughed at her attempt at humor.

  “Kate, I gave you a simple project.” Connie Sue handed me a Styrofoam wreath form, a glue gun, and pointed at the bucket of pinecones. “Your job is to make a wreath.”

  “Connie Sue and I will be the bow makers,” Monica explained. “Rita will man the sewing machine. Her assignment is to make throw pillow covers for the living room and bedrooms.

  “What about me?” Polly piped up.

  “You can help Kate by sorting pinecones,” Connie Sue told her. “Medium ones are glued to the inner ring, larger on the outside. Small pinecones can be used to fill in the gaps.”

  Polly saluted. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

  We set to work. Christmas music playing through the sound system and a fire burning in the fireplace lent a festive atmosphere. Connie Sue, always the thoughtful hostess, provided wine and an assortment of snacks that awaited our pleasure on the quartz island in the kitchen.

  Pam finished wrangling the vintage sled into submission with a spray of pine boughs and holly topped with a gigantic red plaid bow. “Don’t forget our cookie exchange Monday night when we meet for bunco,” she said.

  The sewing machine stopped humming as Rita looked over. “That’s a great idea. I like to have a variety of cookies on hand when people drop by, but this year I’m too busy to do a ton of baking.”

  “Let’s make it easy on ourselves.” Monica clipped off a long strip of ribbon. “Instead of an entire dozen, why don’t we bring a half dozen for each person? That means we end up with six dozen cookies apiece. Some of you might want to bring extra along for snacking.”

  “Sign me up,” I said. “But rather than cookies, I’ll bring my Secret-Ingredient Fudge.”

  “Are you ever going to break down and tell us the secret ingredient?” Connie Sue asked.

  I smiled. “Then it wouldn’t be Secret-Ingredient Fudge anymore, would it?”

  “You ladies won’t believe what happened to me last night.” Polly added another medium-size pinecone to the growing mound.

  “Do tell.” Pam poured herself a glass of wine as a reward for her creativity transforming the sled.

  “I went to the community center last night to learn more about the travel club’s proposed trip to Myrtle Beach but walked into a Gamblers Anonymous meeting instead.” Tired of pinecone duty, Polly hopped up and joined Pam for a glass of wine. “It wasn’t until halfway through the meeting when some dude started describing a game of strip poker in sordid detail that I realized my mistake. I objected and the leader had me escorted out the door.”

  “That must have been embarrassing,” Rita commented, apparently forgetting she was speaking to Polly.

  “Nah,” Polly said, “takes a lot to embarrass me. But you still haven’t heard the best part. You’ll never guess who was running the meeting.”

  “No, who? Put me out of my misery.” I squeezed a generous glob of Super Glue to the Styrofoam wreath form, pressed a pinecone into it and leaned back to inspect my handiwork.

  “He turned out to be the same guy who gave you an estimate to renovate your bathroom. Name’s Grady Something-or-other.”

  “Grady Mayfield?”

  “Yep, one and the same. I remember him ’cause he did some work for Gloria. He must’ve had himself a big-time gambling problem for him to be the group’s leader.”

  Grady Mayfield a gambler? Hadn’t he implied Waylon Snow had embezzled funds from his own company shortly before disappearing? And hadn’t Grady fired Betty Washington, the firm’s bookkeeper, as soon as he’d taken charge? This might be grasping at straws, but it sounded a bit too convenient. Like Sheriff Wiggins, I was skeptical of coincidence. What if Grady had been the embezzler? What if he’d pointed the blame at Waylon to protect himself? And what if he’d killed Waylon to prevent the truth from being known?

  “Kate! Kate!”

  Monica’s voice made me snap to attention. I glanced down, dismayed at realizing I’d glued my thumb to my index finger.

  Chapter 25

  Thankfully, Monica’s unflagging belief in the power of Google had saved me a trip to the emergency room to get my fingers unstuck. Who knew acetone, a common ingredient in nail polish remover, was the kryptonite of Super Glue? After I’d come unglued, I’d deserted my pinecone wreath project in favor of wine and snacks.

  Whether the result of my narrow escape from Super Glue or Grady Mayfield’s questionable character, I tossed and turned all night. If things didn’t soon take a turn for the better, Eula Snow’s retirement home would be a six-by-eight-feet jail cell that would make Valley View Manor Nursing Home seem like a five-star resort.

  I woke with a dull headache. Outside the French doors of my bedroom, a gray mist swirled through the air, lending the morning a surreal quality. My sluggish body screamed for a jolt of caffeine, so I dragged myself to the kitchen and brewed a pot. I poured coffee into the largest mug I owned and wandered into the great room. Curling up in a corner of the sofa, I cradled the mug in both hands and savored the flavor of rich Colombian beans. Fortified, I was ready to take stock of Eula’s predicament.

  At least at some point in Grady Mayfield’s life, gambling had been a problem. What else did I know about the man? I knew he’d taken over Waylon’s construction company. I also knew he’d promptly fired the bookkeeper, Betty Washington. Had it truly been a cost-cutting measure, or was there a more devious reason? Could Grady have stolen the money and cooked the books? Then killed Waylon Snow when he discovered the discrepancy? It bore serious consideration.

  As I gazed out the window, the fog began to lift and a plan of action formed.

  Feeling energized, I knew what I needed to do. Again, Grady was only a phone call away. Laboring under the misconception of further renovations, Grady promised to stop by before lunch. To keep myself busy in the meantime, I made a double batch of Secret-Ingredient Fudge. I’d just put the fudge in the refrigerator to firm up when Grady rang the bell.

  He greeted me with a toothy grin. “Hey, Miz McCall. I had a feelin’ I’d be hearin’ from you soon.”

  “Come in, Grady. Nice of you to respond so quickly. I’ve given a great deal of thought to updating since your last visit.”

  “Good, good, that’s what I like to hear.” He wiped his work boots on the doormat before entering.

  I ushered him down a hallway. “I’d like my powder room to be the envy of all my guests. I’d appreciate your input.”

  “Sure thing.” He stuck his head into the small space. “I see what you mean. This has a run-of-the-mill vibe. You need something with a bit of flair, some drama. I’d start you off with a new sink—one of those bowl-shaped types. Above it a fancier mirror flanked by pendant lights.”

  “Hmm,” I murmured, tempted in spite of myself.

  “Sleek and modern is the way to go.” He scribbled a few notes on the clipboard he never seemed to be without. “You ought to consider a feature wall. Maybe glass tile or, if you want to save a few bucks, there are some great wallpapers available. Turn drab into glam.”

  “You certainly have a wealth of ideas,” I said, impressed. “I confess I’d never given any thought to a glass tile feature wall—or a bowl-shaped sink.”

  “Even a small space such as yours shows potent
ial.” He drew out a measuring tape clipped to his belt, took a series of measurements, then said, “Let’s sit down and I’ll draw you up a plan.”

  I watched as he pecked away on a calculator and jotted notes on a work order. When he was finished, he shoved his clipboard across the table for me to see.

  He chuckled when I gasped at seeing the amount. “Don’t let the price scare you. Not everyone can visualize the final result. Some folks, especially as they’re getting up in years, need pictures to help them get a better idea of what I’m talking about. I’ve got a whole notebook chock-full of photos that I’ll drop off later.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “It’s expensive, I realize, but sometimes you just have to roll the dice. Take a chance. These changes can pay off big in the long run. As I always tell potential clients, renovated kitchens and baths are what appeal to home buyers the most. It’s a gamble, but one that could double the money.”

  This was the opening I’d been waiting for. “Mr. Mayfield . . . Grady . . . are you a gambler?”

  He appeared taken aback by my question. “Don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “My friend Polly stumbled into a meeting of Gamblers Anonymous quite by accident the other night. She claimed you were leading the meeting.”

  “What if I was?” He clicked off the calculator and stuffed it into his pocket.

  “At one point in your life, were you addicted to gambling?” I asked, throwing caution to the wind.

  “I hardly see where that’s any of your business,” he replied gruffly.

  “The last time you were here, you said that Waylon Snow’s disappearance coincided with the disappearance of a substantial amount of money from his company. Your first order of business was to fire the bookkeeper. It started me thinking. The money was never found. If Waylon didn’t take it, who did?”

  “Is this why you called me over? You wanted to ask me about my gambling problem? Are you accusing me of embezzling company funds—or worse? Even if I did take the money, lady, you can’t prove it. It’d be a case of he said, she said.” Grady tore off a copy of the estimate, balled it in his fist, and tossed it to the floor. “Our business here is finished.”

  Feeling at a distinct disadvantage sitting across from him, I got to my feet. “You’ve known Eula Snow a long time. Surely you don’t believe she killed her husband. If not her, then who?”

  He rose so abruptly the chair nearly toppled over. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are,” he said, red-faced and angry, “but I’d advise you to mind your own business if you know what’s good for you. You don’t know who you’re dealing with. Don’t stir up trouble.”

  Grady Mayfield stormed out, slamming the door in his wake.

  Had he just threatened me? The man had a nasty temper, but having a temper didn’t make a person a murderer. If Grady was guilty of theft, and Waylon was aware of the missing funds, that could provide motive. Then there was Bud Sanders. He also possessed a mean temper. And Bud made no secret of how he felt about his competitor. Provided that Grady did indeed steal money—to pay gambling debts perhaps—both men had the big three: motive, means, and opportunity.

  • • •

  I couldn’t just go around accusing people of murder. That could get me sued. Charged with slander—or was it libel? I always got the two confused. It could even get me killed. At any rate, I needed information, and there was no better source than the Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department.

  While Sheriff Wiggins might be able to resist my delectable chocolate chip cookies, his willpower might not be strong enough to ignore Secret-Ingredient Fudge. With that thought in mind, I boxed up a modest sample and went to pay him a visit.

  Tammy Lynn ceased tapping at her keyboard and looked up with a wan smile. “Hey, Kate. If you’re here to talk to the sheriff, you’re out of luck. He’s in Columbia for a regional meeting of the Sheriff’s Association.”

  I set the tin of fudge on the edge of her desk. “I thought he could use a little sweetening up.”

  “I’ve never seen him eat sweets,” she said with a shrug, “but I guess there’s always a first time.”

  “How’s your grandmother?”

  “I’ve been sleeping at her house the last couple of nights. In the mornings I take Ralph out for a run. Meemaw was still asleep when I left for work, and that’s not like her. She’s always been an early riser. Daddy and I worry about her.”

  “Your grandmother is under a lot of pressure lately. Now a possible murder weapon turns up that might connect her to your grandfather’s death. No wonder she’s stressed.” I fiddled with the stapler on her desk, feigning a casualness I didn’t feel. “I don’t suppose any DNA results came back yet?”

  “Not yet.” Tammy Lynn hit a button on the keyboard and the printer clanked into life. “Sheriff Wiggins said he’s going to try to hurry things along while he’s up in Columbia. He said SLED’s facility is bustin’ at the seams and can’t get results out as fast as they’d like.”

  “Tammy Lynn, maybe you can help shed some light on all this. I’m convinced your grandmother is innocent, but in order to convince the sheriff, I need more than a gut feeling. Have any reports come in about the case that might be useful in throwing suspicion elsewhere?”

  “Like what?”

  Now it was my turn to shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking something along the lines of a coroner’s or medical examiner’s report.”

  Tammy Lynn’s expression brightened, then clouded over again. “A fax came yesterday from the medical examiner, but that’s confidential. I’m not allowed to give out copies.”

  I clucked my tongue, hoping it sounded sympathetic. “I wouldn’t ask you to, dear.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “What if you stepped away to use the ladies’ room, and accidental-like I saw it and read it?”

  Tammy Lynn bit her lower lip, looking torn.

  “Time’s running out, dear. Tick tock.” It was time to play my trump card. “If the blood on your grandmother’s meat pounder matches your grandfather’s DNA, she could be arrested based on circumstantial evidence. It doesn’t look good.”

  Tammy Lynn pushed back from her desk and abruptly rose to her feet. “It’s my time of the month. I need to use the restroom.” Before running off, she removed a manila folder from the file cabinet and placed it next to the fudge. “I won’t be long.”

  Even though there wasn’t a felon or miscreant in sight, I cast a furtive glance around the waiting room. Seeing no one, I flipped open the file folder, scanned the medical examiner’s report, but concentrated on the conclusion: Cause of death blunt-force trauma to the head, in all likelihood administered by a left-handed assailant.

  Left-handed assailant? Closing my eyes, I tried to picture Grady Mayfield furiously scribbling an estimate. Right- or left-handed? If memory served, he used both hands when measuring dimensions, but he wrote with his left hand.

  Was I close to solving the case? I felt a tickle of excitement race down my spine. “Keep the candy, Tammy Lynn,” I called out as I left. “You deserve it.”

  Chapter 26

  I returned to my car. And sat there.

  Think, Kate, think! At this very minute, I was supposed to be at Connie Sue’s working on craft projects that would put Eula’s house over the top during the Holiday Home Tour. Instead, my top priority was tracking down a killer and not getting cutesy artsy-craftsy crazy. Monica would have a hissy fit that I wasn’t gluing, painting, or bow making, but oh, well. Connie Sue, on the other hand, would be more subtle when it came to telegraphing her displeasure. A certain tilt of her head, a narrowing of her eyes, and tightness around her mouth let a person know without a word being spoken that she was unhappy.

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. What I needed to do was collect more data on Grady Mayfield, number one on my very short persons of interest list. But how? I ruled out knocking on his front door and demanding a heart-to-heart with his wife, Sharon, a woman I’d met once at the Pig. She�
��d probably think I was some nutcase. Next thing I knew, I’d be charged with harassment. She might even go as far as taking out a restraining order against the weird woman obsessed with her husband.

  Then, my brain synapses fired. I recalled the conversation I’d had with Betty Washington while waiting in line for a flu shot. Betty had been forthcoming about her dealings with Grady, and because of her, I’d first learned about the missing funds. All I needed to do was track her down on some trumped-up excuse and bring up the subject of Grady and Waylon. Directory assistance would be the most logical place to find her number. I soon learned, however, her number was unlisted.

  To paraphrase an old saying, desperation is the mother of invention. According to Monica, Google knows everything. If it could come to my aid against Super Glue, maybe it could help me locate an elusive person. Smart phones are called smart for a reason. I plugged Betty Washington, Brookdale, South Carolina into the Google search bar and felt a surge of instant gratification. As luck would have it, a Bettina Washington was listed as a clerk in the Brookdale County Assessor’s Office. Bettina? Betty? They had to be one and the same person. Another check on my iPhone told me I still had plenty of time to go to the office before it closed for the day.

  The courthouse, which housed the county offices, was a stately brick affair dating back to 1923 with white columns and a rolling lawn. It served as the site for Memorial Day celebrations and Veterans Day observances. Today, however, the parking lot looked nearly deserted. I pulled in next to a battered pickup and entered through a side door. According to information posted near the entrance, the county assessor’s office was just down the hall.

  I paused for a moment outside a door with Edward Ferguson, County Assessor stenciled on a frosted pane. I racked my brain for a logical explanation for my visit, then settled on the obvious. Renovations by none other than Grady Mayfield could conceivably increase my property owner’s tax. A conscientious homeowner such as moi would want to know how much to budget for a costly price hike.