Roll Over and Play Dead

by Gail Oust

  The phone rang and rang. I was about to hang up when Bill answered, sounding slightly out of breath.

  “Bill? Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  “Kate!” he exclaimed. “I almost didn’t hear the phone over the whine of the table saw.”

  Bill has converted part of his garage into a woodworking shop that would rival those on HGTV. He owns nearly every power tool on the planet and knows how to use them. No small wonder he was elected president of the Woodchucks, our local woodworking club here in Serenity, two years running

  “Were you working on the set for the play?” I asked.

  “Naw, after last night that’s at a standstill.” Bill paused, then cleared his throat. “How’re you holding up? It’s not every day we see a man shot and killed right before our eyes.”

  I felt touched by his concern. “I’m fine. What about you? You were there, too.”

  “Have to admit I’m still a little shaken by what happened. Keep asking myself if I could’ve accidentally left a bullet in the chamber.”

  Now I was the one who paused while digesting this tidbit. “You think that’s possible?” I asked when I rediscovered my voice.

  “I’ve gone over this a thousand times. I’ve handled guns since I was a kid. The first lesson my dad taught me was to always make sure the chamber was empty before handing it over to anyone else. I pride myself on being safety-conscious. Don’t know how I could have missed a live round.”

  I stared out the kitchen window as we talked. I watched a sedan pull into the drive of the empty Brubaker house catty-corner from me and two women climb out. One I recognized as a local real estate agent; the other woman was a stranger. The house had stood empty for months. Last I heard, Earl Brubaker was undecided whether to sell or rent. For the time being, he was staying near his daughter in Poughkeepsie, New York.

  Nice to see movement in the real estate market, first with Bill’s new friend, Gus Smith, and now at Brubaker’s. Maybe the economy was starting to perk up in spite of dire predictions from the media.

  “Kate, you still there?” Bill asked.

  “Sorry, I got distracted.” I leaned forward for a better view, but the women had disappeared inside. “Looks like someone might be interested in the Brubaker house.”

  “Good to know. It’s not healthy for a house to stand empty any length of time.”

  “You’re right, of course.” The sound of Krystal stirring in the guest room reminded me of the reason for my call. “Bill, ah, I need a favor.”

  “Sure. All you have to do is ask.”

  Had Bill been transformed into a genie about to grant me three magic wishes? What if I were asking for a million dollars? A trip around the world? A lifetime supply of chocolate? I reined in my imagination and got down to the business at hand.

  “As of this afternoon, I have a houseguest. She could use some help.” I proceeded to tell him what I knew about Krystal—which I had to admit wasn’t very much. It dawned on me I didn’t even know her last name. My information was sparse at best. She could be a fugitive on the lam. A drug dealer. A serial killer. Maybe Pam was right. Maybe I really was out of my frickin’ mind. I don’t remember who said it, but a mind is a terrible thing to lose.

  “Thing is, Bill,” I said, continuing my explanation, “Krystal’s car is out of commission. She’ll need it repaired in order to get back and forth to work. I know nothing about cars. I thought maybe you’d be the person to turn to for advice.”

  I cringed hearing the helpless, wimpy note that had crept into my voice. So much for being a liberated woman. I might as well have simpered, Nothing like a big strong man to help little ol’ me. Bottom line, I’d have simpered; I’d have whimpered, if that’s what it took. I don’t know a blame thing when it comes to cars. That used to be Jim’s department. He took care of everything automotive, and that was fine by me. He’s been gone nearly two years, and automobiles are still a mystery. I treat them the same way I treat my teeth. Off they both go every six months for a regular checkup whether they need it or not.

  “I’m not much of a mechanic, but I know someone who is. As soon as we hang up, I’ll give him a call. We can arrange to have it towed to his place. I’ll drop by later to pick up the keys.”

  “Thanks, Bill. I owe you.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a giant lightbulb went off in my head, a stroke of pure genius that deserved a pat on the back. I would have done just that, but it’s a little hard to pat oneself on the back while at the same time holding the phone and talking. “I was just putting a tuna casserole together,” I said, all spur-of-the-moment innocence. “Why not drop by around dinnertime?”

  Was there a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, or did I only imagine one? There never used to be a moment’s doubt when I dangled the lure of a home-cooked meal.

  “Sure,” he agreed at last. “Sounds good.”

  “Great. See you around six.”

  • • •

  I reached into my culinary bag of tricks and up popped lemon bars. Bill loved them. If food was the way to a man’s heart, where Bill was concerned, lemon bars were better than a GPS. A glance at the clock told me I had plenty of time to whip up a batch.

  I had just finished assembling the ingredients when the phone rang. I was almost afraid to pick it up. I thought it might be Bill having second thoughts about my invitation to dinner. But it wasn’t Bill; it was Tammy Lynn from the sheriff’s office, calling to inform me the sheriff wanted to see me ASAP.

  “Today? This afternoon?” What about my casserole? What about dessert? What about the Oprah Winfrey Show? I didn’t bother asking. It would be a waste of breath. Sheriff Wiggins simply didn’t care about my priorities.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Tammy Lynn replied in her unfailingly polite Southern drawl. “I’ve been tryin’ to reach you all day. I must’ve left six messages on your answerin’ machine.”

  Oh, yes, the darn answering machine. I hadn’t thought to check it. That wasn’t exactly true. I’ll confess I’d purposely avoided it for just this reason. Like it or not, I should have known the sheriff would track me down. Still, I deserved extra points for trying to avoid the inevitable.

  “Sorry, Tammy Lynn. I’ve been out most of the day. You sure the sheriff said today? He must have more important things to do than spend time with me.”

  “No need to worry, Miz McCall. Standard procedure is all. Sheriff Wiggins said he wants you in his office at four.”

  “Fine.” I sighed, resigned to my fate if not happy with it. “See you at four.”

  If I hurried, there was still time to whip up those lemon bars. I could practically make them in my sleep. While I waited for the crust to brown, I whisked eggs, sugar, flour, and lemon juice for the filling. My mind hopscotched back and forth between manslaughter and smoking guns. It shied away from landing on either square.

  The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. The words sang through my brain like a refrain from Les Misérables. Should I mention the argument I’d overheard between Lance and Claudia, or keep it to myself? If I told the sheriff, he was likely to read something sinister into it. He didn’t know Claudia like I did and was liable to suspect the worst. It might plant weird notions in his head—notions about motive with a capital M.

  If I kept their argument to myself, would I be guilty of a crime? Obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting, and withholding information topped the list. I love Claudia, but not enough to be her cell mate at the state penitentiary.

  Finally the dreaded hour was at hand. I dressed with care in slacks, a teal blue sweater, and a jewel-toned tweed blazer. Before leaving the house, I peeked in on Krystal, who was sound asleep. The poor girl; judging from the pile of soggy Kleenex on the bedside table, she must have cried herself to sleep. Had those tears been for Lance Ledeaux? I couldn’t help wondering. She’d fainted at the news he’d been killed. God only knew what kind of relationship she’d had with the cad. Polly thought they’d looked chummy
. There would be time enough to delve into that later. I spread an afghan over her and left a note saying I’d be home in time for dinner.

  Chapter 13

  “Hey, Miz McCall.” Tammy Lynn Snow looked up from her computer monitor as I entered the Brookdale Sheriff’s Department. “Sheriff had a few calls to make. He said for you to have a seat and he’ll be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you, dear,” I told the young woman. I wondered if her wary expression was reserved only for me or for anyone who happened through the front door. She always made me feel the harbinger of bad news. Tammy Lynn tended to be overprotective of her boss. Quite often she led me to believe I upset him, though for the life of me I can’t imagine why that would have been so.

  I put the plate of lemon bars I’d brought on one of the empty chairs. My mother always drilled into us children not to visit empty-handed. She insisted we bring our host or hostess a small token of esteem and appreciation. It was a nicety I tried to instill into my own two, but with limited success. Oh, they liked the receiving part okay, but they were often neglectful on the giving end.

  I settled into a molded plastic chair and prepared to wait. I glanced around the room. Nothing had changed in the few months since my last visit—same drab office, same drab Tammy Lynn. Her style of dress gave vintage clothing a bad rep. I’d love to sic Connie Sue Beauty Queen on the girl. Gone would be the lank brown hair and the oversized glasses too large for her small face. After some tweaking in the hair and makeup department, I’d turn her over to Polly for help with wardrobe. No more serviceable brown cardigans and plaid skirts—no way, no how. With a sprinkling of makeover magic, the girl could be a raving beauty.

  Restless, I got up and wandered to the bulletin board displaying Most Wanted posters. A couple new felons had been added to the assortment since my previous perusal. Beards, cornrows, and dreadlocks seemed to be the common denominators. These were the same unsmiling faces I’d seen at the post office, but I committed their sorry mugs to memory—just in case. It pays to be careful.

  “Terrible thing about Mr. Ledeaux getting shot, isn’t it?” I said, tossing out a gambit.

  Tammy Lynn stopped pecking at her keyboard. “Yes, ma’am. It surely is.”

  “Did you plan on attending a performance of our play, Forever, My Darling? That nice young officer Eric Olsen had a part. He’s quite a good actor.”

  At the mention of Eric’s name, Tammy Lynn’s cheeks turned rosy. “I, ah, yes. I was fixin’ to buy a ticket. That is, I planned to buy a ticket until . . .”

  Hmm. Interesting. Seeing her blush, I suspected the young woman had more than a casual interest in the handsome policeman. I recalled her once telling me that Eric was a few years older than she and a friend of her brother’s. I decided to file the information away. Of late, I’d noticed Eric and Megan seemed to be hitting it off, as the saying goes. I’d noticed them laughing and talking together as they rehearsed their lines. I squelched the urge to play matchmaker. Jim always got so upset with me when I attempted to pair people up. Granted, the results had been just shy of disastrous, but as my daddy used to say, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.

  Just then the intercom buzzed.

  Tammy Lynn gave me an encouraging smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”

  I picked up the lemon bars, hoping I wouldn’t be trading them for jail bars, and slowly proceeded down the hallway. Dead man walking was the term that came to mind.

  Tammy Lynn had directed me to the second room on the left. The instant I opened the door I recognized it for what it was—an interrogation room: sterile, austere, institutional. I’d seen the same gray metal table and uncomfortable-looking chairs countless times on TV. In fact, week after week I watched hardened criminals break down and bawl like babies in such a room before being carted off in handcuffs. Fade out. Roll credits.

  I straightened my shoulders and squared my jaw. I’d loudly proclaim my innocence for all it was worth. If that failed, I had Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s number programmed into my cell.

  “Afternoon, Miz McCall.”

  I turned at the sound of the sheriff’s voice behind me. His velvety baritone seemed better suited for a Christmas cantata at the Baptist church than an interrogation room. “Afternoon, Sheriff,” I replied, recovering a degree of equanimity. I pasted on a valiant smile. It wouldn’t work on my behalf to let nervousness show. I’d be a mouse; he’d be the hungry tomcat.

  I’d be dinner.

  “Brought you a little something.” I placed the lemon bars in the center of the battered table. He eyed them with the same suspicion reserved for packages that went ticktock.

  “What’re those?”

  Really! The man needed to learn that all gifts weren’t bombs or bribes. “Lemon bars,” I said, plunking myself down in one of the chairs and folding my hands primly. “I recall you don’t have a sweet tooth, but lemon bars are more tart than sweet, don’t you agree?”

  “Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought.”

  The remaining chair scraped the worn linoleum as he pulled it out, then squeaked in protest as he lowered his two-hundred-plus-pound frame. He offered a smile as phony as the one I’d given him. I recognized the ploy instantly. The detectives on Law & Order use this technique all the time. It’s the part where the investigating officer tries to establish rapport with the hapless interviewee; I, however, wasn’t buying into Sumter Wiggins’s act as Mr. Nice Guy.

  “I trust Tammy Lynn explained this is just a formality. I’m taking statements from everyone who was in the auditorium last night.”

  I nodded. I couldn’t get into trouble if I didn’t open my mouth, could I?

  He took out his little black book and flipped it open. I wondered if he slept with it. “Just relate to the best of your ability everythin’ that happened yesterday evenin’ from the time you entered the buildin’ until the fatal shootin’ of Mr. Ledeaux.”

  “All right,” I said. “I arrived at the rec center. We rehearsed act three, scene one, and then Lance was shot.”

  His one eyebrow shot up. I’ve always admired his ability to do that. The overall effect can be quite formidable—if one had a guilty conscience. “That it?” he asked.

  “That’s it. Are we finished?” I half rose to leave. Leave? Escape would have been a more accurate description.

  “If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like a little more detail.”

  I sank back down. Sank also described my spirits. I was terrified I’d say the wrong thing and incriminate Claudia. It was bad enough to accidentally kill your husband without everyone thinking you’d done it on purpose. “There’s really not much more to add.”

  Crossing his arms over a chest roughly the size of a football field, the sheriff rocked back in his chair. The nuts and bolts fastening it together shrieked in protest. I expected the chair to collapse any second. “My guess, Miz McCall, is you weren’t raised a Baptist.”

  “No,” I said, startled by the question.

  “Didn’t think so. My guess would be a Catholic, maybe a Lutheran. Had myself a talk once with the priest over at Our Lady Queen of Angels. Catholics, I’m told, have somethin’ called sins of omission.”

  Uh-oh. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. I squirmed. I actually squirmed. Years of catechism classes and parochial school flashed before my eyes. Hellfire and damnation loomed like a gaping maw.

  “I see I struck a nerve.” He had the audacity to smile—a blinding flash of perfect white teeth—at my discomfort. “To refresh your memory, a sin of omission is failure to do somethin’ one can and ought to do. In this instance, Miz McCall, instinct tells me you’re leavin’ out information. Makes me wonder why.”

  “I was under the impression statements were supposed to be concise,” I muttered. “I simply gave you the condensed version. No sense wasting time and paper.”

  “Let me judge the best use of time and paper.” He brought the chair legs down with a bang that made me flin
ch. “Let’s try again, shall we? This time, start at the top and run through everythin’ step by step.”

  I discovered the true meaning of a hot seat as a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I don’t know how crooks can take interrogations on a regular basis. They can’t be good for the heart or the nervous system.

  Sheriff Wiggins waited patiently, silently. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. The determined gleam in his onyx-hard eyes spoke volumes.

  My mouth felt like a bucketful of sand. I moistened dry lips with the tip of my tongue, then took a deep breath. I started at the beginning but, out of loyalty for a friend, left out the part about the conversation I’d overheard. I ended my narrative recounting how all of us believed Lance wasn’t really dead but only playacting.

  While I talked, he jotted notes. I had a sneaky feeling he knew I’d committed a grievous sin of omission. Any second now I’d be given a hefty penance and instructed to sin no more.

  Or charged with a felony.

  After I finished, he gave me a long look. I was proud of myself for resisting the urge to confess my transgressions. I forced myself to calmly inquire, “Is the interrogation over, Sheriff?”

  “Miz McCall,” he drawled, “consider this meetin’ an interview. I’m savin’ the interrogation for later.”

  I got to my feet, picked up my purse, and gathered what was left of my composure. As I left the room, I gave the lemon bars, snug and pretty beneath a dusting of powdered sugar and plastic wrap, a lingering look. I’d half a mind to snatch them up and give them to someone more deserving—and nicer—than mean ol’ Sheriff Wiggins.

  Chapter 14

  My meeting with the sheriff had taken longer than I had anticipated. The man obviously had too much time on his hands since he was treating an accident like a real case. Accident? My mind balked at calling it murder, or even manslaughter. But dead is dead regardless of what it’s called.