by Gail Oust
“Time to get down to business.” I reached for the large purse I always intend to trade in for a smaller one. At times like these, though, it’s good to have everything at your fingertips—things such as latex gloves, an LED flashlight, and my very own little black book, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the sheriff’s. I dragged out the notebook and rummaged around for a pen. “Let’s make a list.”
“What kind of list?”
“Work with me, Bill.” I flipped open to an empty page. “We need to write down all possible suspects. Then we’ll eliminate them one by one.”
“How do you propose we do that?”
I sighed. Clearly Bill needed guidance—my guidance, that is. I’d be more than happy to take him under my wing and teach him the ropes of being a PI. “Remember what Sheriff Wiggins said about the Big Three?”
Bill frowned. “General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler?”
I sighed. Figures coming from someone who lived in Michigan most of his life. “The Big Three in detective work are motive, means, and opportunity. Everyone backstage had means and opportunity. All we need to do is find out who, other than Claudia, had a reason to want Lance dead. A walk in the park for two pros like us, right?”
“If you say so,” Bill agreed reluctantly, but didn’t look convinced.
I proceeded to write down the names of everyone who had been present at rehearsal the night Lance was shot. “Let’s start by crossing both of us off the list since neither of us is guilty. I’ll scratch Claudia off the list, too, since we believe she’s innocent.”
Bill pointed at the next name on the list of possible suspects. “Monica?”
I shook my head. “Monica would never shoot anyone.”
“Why’s that?”
“She has a weak stomach and can’t stand the sight of blood.” I drew a line through her name. “If she ever decided to kill someone, she’d use poison.”
Bill’s eyes danced with amusement. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a devious mind?”
I refused to be sidetracked by a pair of baby blues. “Rita would never kill anyone either.” Hers was another name to cross off.
“She have a weak stomach, too?”
“Rita’s a gardener. She likes to plant things and watch them grow. I once saw her refuse to throw out an African violet infested with mealy bugs. That’s not the type of person who’d cold-bloodedly kill a human being.”
“Guess not.” Bill took a sip of coffee. “That leaves only Bernie and Gus on your list. Since Gus met Lance for the first time when I introduced them, what motive could he possibly have?”
I crossed Gus from my ever-shortening list. I stared at the plate of Oreos. Wasn’t chocolate supposed to be good for you? Dark chocolate, Monica had preached, not white chocolate, not milk chocolate. Yep, Oreos looked dark to me. I helped myself to another cookie. “That leaves Bernie Mason as the prime suspect.”
We sat for a moment in silence, contemplating the possibility.
Heaving a sigh, I suddenly knew what I had to do. Slowly, and with some regret, I drew a line through the name of our lone suspect. “Bernie has the backbone of an amoeba. He’d never get up the nerve to murder someone.”
I flipped a new page over in my notebook. “Let’s look at this a different way,” I said, bowed but unbroken. I then proceeded to tell Bill about Polly seeing Lance looking chummy with a dark-haired woman she swore was Krystal.
“But Krystal’s new in town. What motive could she possibly have?”
“I confess it’s a long shot. The only possible connection I can see is that both she and Lance had previous acting experience.”
“You’re overlooking the fact she wasn’t at the rec center that night.”
I didn’t want to hear the voice of reason. I wanted to solve the case, clear Claudia, and get on with my life. Next I told Bill about seeing Lance arguing with a dark-haired woman behind the Piggly Wiggly—a woman driving a luxury car identical to that of my new neighbor, Nadine Peterson.
“Since this Peterson woman wasn’t at the scene of the crime either, even if she had motive, she still lacks means and opportunity.”
Bill was proving a star pupil in the Kate McCall School of Private Investigation—a school about to go defunct without a single suspect.
Chapter 24
I idly riffled through the stack of yesterday’s mail still waiting to be opened. The house seemed quiet with Krystal at work. Funny how quickly one grows accustomed to having another person around—and how unusually quiet it becomes with them gone. Until now, I thought I’d adjusted nicely to Jim’s death. Granted, I get lonely at times, mostly evenings and weekends. Evenings the two of us used to gab over dinner, then watch TV or read the paper. Weekends meant get-togethers with friends; maybe taking in dinner and a movie—couple activities.
For a short time, Bill helped relieve the emptiness. I’d invite him over for a home-cooked meal. Afterward we’d pop corn and maybe watch a video. Hold hands on the sofa. Kiss good night. It’d been nice while it lasted—I missed the closeness. While we were slowly regaining lost ground, our relationship still wasn’t back to where it had been before his brother’s heart attack.
I was about to set the mail aside when an ad from an online dating service, Love Line, Inc., caught my eye. Had such an innocent scrap of paper started Claudia’s downward spiral? Had it seduced her with sweet illusions of romance, excitement, and male companionship? Then again, what’s so wrong with romance, excitement, and male companionship? I could stand a little of those myself. I was torn between the temptation to rip open the envelope or toss it in the trash. Common sense prevailed. I threw it away.
A business envelope bearing a Nashville postmark and a logo of a judge’s gavel captured my attention next. Down with Deadbeats was written in large block letters in the upper-left corner. Just below, written in a smaller font, Tennessee’s Premier Detective Agency.
“Hmm,” I muttered aloud. “Interesting.”
All right, busted! I confess that on occasion I do talk to myself. And on rarer occasions, I even talk back. I rationalize this by saying sometimes it’s the only way to have an intelligent conversation.
Down with Deadbeats was about to follow the path of Love Line, Inc. when a second glance revealed the letter wasn’t addressed to me but to my new neighbor, Nadine Peterson. My fingers itched to pry the flap open and find out why Ms. Peterson needed the services of Tennessee’s premier detectives. All I had to do was steam the envelope open with a teakettle. It didn’t require rocket science. Through the years, I’d watched the same trick done a dozen times on TV. Then my conscience kicked in, reminding me mail tampering was against the law, and spoiled my fun.
Heaving a sigh of regret, I slipped on a sweater and headed across the street. I intended to be neighborly even if it killed me. For a nanosecond, I debated my next step. I could easily slip the envelope into the mailbox at the end of her drive. Or I could deliver it in person. I opted for the latter.
As on my last—my one and only—visit, Nadine Peterson was slow to answer the door. A lesser person would have given up, but not I. My persistence paid off when Nadine finally appeared, a smoldering cigarette dangling from her fingertips.
“Kate, isn’t it?” she asked in her deep, throaty voice.
I held out the envelope. “This was delivered to my mailbox by mistake. I thought it might be important.”
She gave it a quick glance. “Sure, thanks.”
I wondered how many times her voice was mistaken for that of a man. If eye shadow alone were any indicator, there’d be no question about her gender. She wore enough eye makeup to supply an entire class of eighth-grade girls.
From her expression, I could tell she was about to close the door in my face. “I, ah, couldn’t help but notice the postmark. You from Nashville?”
“Yeah, I guess you might say that.”
I tossed out another gambit. “Nashville’s a great city.”
At least it had looked great when Jim
and I sailed through at seventy miles an hour on our way to Grace-land. I’ve been a big Elvis fan since I was a kid. Jim took me there some years back for my birthday. We even spent the night at the nearby Heartbreak Hotel. He drew the line, however, at listening to Elvis nonstop all the way home. Some men just don’t have an ear for the classics.
Nadine took a drag from her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “Nashville’s OK, I guess.”
Getting this woman to impart information was harder than pulling random chin hairs. Her evasiveness only served to whet my curiosity. Down with Deadbeats? Deadbeat fathers? Boyfriends? Husbands? I racked my brain trying to remember what The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating had to say about recalcitrant witnesses. I reminded myself to review that chapter before exam time.
I dug deep into my bag of small talk. “Nice weather we’re having. On the cool side, but nice. Daffodils will be blooming before long.”
She flicked ash on the doorstep. “I’m not into flowers.”
I dug deeper. “How do you like it here so far?”
“Fine.”
“Are you meeting people?”
“Some.”
This would never do. I was glad I wasn’t being graded on technique. Maybe I should come right out and ask if she knew Lance Ledeaux—and why they argued. Nadine, I was fairly certain, was the woman I saw with Lance behind the Pig—same car, same hair. Too bad I hadn’t gotten a better look at the face.
I made one last attempt to forge some sort of bond. I smiled with the genuine warmth of a toaster oven. “Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime.”
“Give me a call.” She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and closed the door, leaving me standing on the front step.
I could take a hint. The interview was over.
I heard the phone ring even before I pushed open the door. I rushed to answer it before the machine picked up. “Hello,” I said, sounding a bit breathless after my mad dash.
“Miz McCall . . . ?”
Dang! Should have let the machine get it. Instantly I realized my mistake upon recognizing the Voice of Doom, also known as Tammy Lynn Snow. Was it too late to disguise my voice? Adopt a Spanish accent? Hola, señora? Grow up, Kate, I chided myself. Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it.
“Hey, Tammy Lynn. How’re things?”
“Sheriff Wiggins wants to see you here in his office,” the girl said without preamble.
I groaned. I simply couldn’t help it. Why wasn’t my caller telling me I’d won the South Carolina lottery? Or requesting a liver transplant?
“I, ah, I’m kind of busy right now.” Liar, liar! I touched my nose to see if it had grown any. Pinocchio, Pinocchio, wherefore art thou Pinocchio?
“Sheriff said he’d be happy to send Deputy Preston if you needed a lift.”
Send a deputy? Well, that kicked my heart into overdrive. There must be some pretty serious stuff on the agenda. I opted for one more whopper. I crossed my fingers and hoped I’d be able to recognize myself next time I looked in the mirror. “Ah, I have a previous engagement.”
“He was very specific when he told me not to take any excuses. Can you be here by three o’clock?”
“Fine,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. There was no need to take out my frustration on Tammy Lynn. “Sorry, Tammy Lynn. Tell the sheriff I’ll be there.”
After I hung up, I stood for a moment, a hand over my heart to still its racing. Question after question popped into my head. Why did the sheriff want to see me? Was this another group meeting? Or was I going to fly solo? And if I was convicted of obstruction of justice, could Claudia and I request to be cell mates?
One thing I did know, however. I needed some sound legal advice between now and three o’clock. I dialed BJ Davenport’s office and explained my predicament to Aleatha Higginbotham. My desperation must’ve communicated itself across the line, because Aleatha, bless her heart, promised to squeeze me into BJ’s schedule.
Somewhat relieved, I called Bill, Rita, and Monica. None of them had received a summons from Tammy Lynn. I had a bad feeling about this. It looked like I was going to be the sole guest.
“I heard jail food is very unhealthy,” Monica advised. “Deep-fried and loaded with fat. Be sure to ask for a jumpsuit one size too big in case you gain weight,”
Monica was only trying to be helpful, right?
“Hey, Miz Kate,” Aleatha greeted me with a smile. “Don’t you look nice this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Aleatha.” Maybe I should have studied at the Higginbotham School of Fashion. My dress code bore a closer resemblance to Tammy Lynn Snow’s. Unlike Aleatha’s wildly flowered blue and green ensemble, I was wearing a beige twinset and brown flannel pants. Figured I’d go with neutrals since I might be wearing hard-to-miss orange soon enough.
“Can I get you a glass of tea or a soda?
“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to risk drowning the butterflies in my stomach.”
“No need to fret with BJ helping. He said to send you right in.”
BJ looked up when I entered and came out from behind a massive antique desk. “Miz Kate,” he said, welcoming me with the warmth reserved for an old friend, “you’re lookin’ pretty as a picture this afternoon. Have a seat.”
I gave him a wobbly smile as I complied. “Sheriff Wiggins called. He wants to see me.”
He lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. I noticed he was wearing his signature bow tie. Today’s pick was navy blue imprinted with tiny green palmettos, South Carolina’s state tree. Snazzy!
“Don’t let Wiggins get your panties in a twist,” he counseled. “Now tell me, how can I help you?”
I set my purse in my lap, folded my hands primly, then took a deep breath. “Tell me everything I need to know about obstruction of justice. And when you’re done, kindly explain withholding information. Bottom line: Can I be arrested?”
A vertical frown formed between his brows. “What kind of information are you withholding?”
I looked down; I looked up. I looked anywhere but directly at him. “Um, I, ah, happened to overhear Claudia and Lance argue the night he was shot.”
“Mmm, I see. Just what were they arguin’ about?”
“Money.”
“And you’re afraid to tell the sheriff.”
“I’m more afraid of incriminating Claudia.”
BJ got up from his perch and prowled the room, hands behind his back.
I fiddled nervously with the strap of my purse. “He suspects I’ve committed a sin of omission.”
“I’d advise you to come clean. Don’t embellish anythin’. Just tell him what you heard. Arguments between husbands and wives are commonplace. Show me a husband and wife who don’t argue, and I’ll show you a husband and wife who don’t speak to each other.”
“But I heard Claudia say ‘over my dead body.’ ”
He grunted. “Merely a figure of speech. Folks say it all the time.”
“But most husbands don’t turn up dead half an hour later.”
“Good point, but don’t remind the sheriff of that sorry fact.”
“There’s more,” I said miserably. “She threatened to get him out of her life—‘one way or another.’”
“Surely Miz Claudia didn’t mean that in the literal sense. I’ll make a case it was a harmless statement made under duress. I’ll stress Miz Ledeaux is a savvy business woman who’d use the legal system—not a Smith and Wesson—to get rid of the bastard. Sorry for the vulgarity, ma’am,” he apologized, “but that best describes the deceased.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe my information wasn’t so damning after all. People used figures of speech all the time, didn’t they? Especially under duress. What greater stress could there be than realizing the man you’d just married was out to rob you blind? Claudia’s remarks were perfectly justified.
“Would you like me to accompany you to the sheriff’s office?” He flicked his wrist to look at his wa
tch. “I have an appointment in about ten minutes, but I’d be happy to cancel.”
I could tell from where I sat it was a Rolex—the real deal and probably worth at least a thousand dollars. Seeing it made me feel better. He must be very good at his job to be able to afford such an expensive piece of jewelry. Talking to him made me feel marginally better. “That won’t be necessary,” I told him, “but I’ll program your number into speed dial—just in case.”
BJ came over to me, and taking both my hands in his, said, “Miz Claudia is fortunate to have a friend like you. Don’t you worry none. I’ll do right by her.”
My newly acquired calm, however, vanished the instant I entered the sheriff’s office.
Glancing up from her desk, Tammy Lynn shoved her overly large glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Afternoon, Miz McCall. Sheriff said to send you straight to the interrogation room down the hall. He’s waitin’.”
I gave myself a pep talk as I proceeded down the hallway. I had nothing to fear but fear itself. I don’t remember who said it first, but it seemed to fit the occasion. I’d always answered the sheriff’s questions truthfully. I hadn’t lied. Might have left out a few teensy details was all. If he’d asked me whether I’d heard Claudia scream that she’d get Lance out of her life—“one way or another”—I’d have replied, yes, matter of fact I did hear that. It wasn’t my fault the sheriff didn’t ask the right questions.
I found the sheriff seated in his favorite creaky chair. “Have a seat, Miz McCall,” he said without looking up from the folder in front of him.
I gingerly sat in the lone chair opposite him, placed my purse beside me on the worn-tile floor, and folded my hands primly on the table. “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”
“Seems like you and I have some unfinished business.” He glanced up and skewered me like a beef kabob with that sharp gaze of his. He looked around. “What, no gifts, no presents, this time? My, my, what’s the world comin’ to?”