Roll Over and Play Dead

by Gail Oust

  I took up a position on Nadine’s other side so that Polly and I flanked her on the sofa. “Here,” I said, setting down the ashtray and handing her an ice-cold brew. I slid the bowl of pretzel mix closer. I was operating under the theory that with the woman’s fondness for beer, she might have also developed a liking for bar food. “Help yourself.”

  “So, Nadine,” Polly said, smiling the sweet grandmotherly smile she limits to infants and toddlers, “tell me more about striking it rich in the lottery. Never met an honest-to-goodness big-time winner before. Just between us girls, what’s it like?”

  “Crazy, I tell you. Just plain crazy.” Nadine chugged her beer. “Reporters hound you day and night, always sticking a mike in your face and asking dumb questions. Things like what’re you gonna do with five million bucks? Duh! Any idiot knows the answer. Spend it, that’s what.”

  “You don’t say,” Polly murmured. “Gotta be tough.”

  “Damn right, it’s tough. Folks you went to grade school with and haven’t heard from since suddenly remember you’re their best friend. Then there’re the vultures, strangers who start pestering. Invest in this, they say; invest in that. Go to hell, I tell ’em. I might not have a fancy education, but I’m no dummy.”

  Careful not to spill a drop, Polly raised her glass and clinked it against Nadine’s bottle. “You go, girlfriend.”

  I fought the temptation to roll my eyes. Next they’d be singing “Kumbaya” in two-part harmony.

  “Lance would’ve shit a brick if he knew how much I was worth. He thought he could wave a measly ten grand in my face and I’d disappear. Well, it didn’t work that way.” Nadine’s spooky green eyes held a fiendish glow of satisfaction. “Boy, was he pissed when I told ’im I intended to stick around for a while.”

  The instant Nadine slid a cigarette from her ever-present pack and flicked her Bic, I knew we were off to a running start. I sat back, prepared to enjoy the show. I didn’t have long to wait.

  Polly kept the conversational ball afloat. “Kate mentioned you and Ledeaux had a kid together.”

  “Yeah, a girl, Julie. She’s studying to be a nurse.”

  Nadine polished off her beer and burped. I raced to get her another.

  “If she’s anything like her mother, I bet she’ll make a good one, too,” Polly remarked as I returned.

  “Damn right she will. That girl’s not the least bit squeamish. Strong as an ox, too.” I tried not to cringe as Nadine aimed a stream of smoke at my pristine ceiling.

  Nadine was well into her third beer when I gave Polly the high sign we’d agreed upon earlier. Time had come to get this little show of ours on the road. And we needed to do it before Polly drank herself into oblivion. Her small frame was no competition against Nadine’s when it came to alcohol consumption. I’m afraid I wasn’t faring much better. I felt a slight buzz as I got up to refill the bar mix. I’d no doubt Nadine, on the other hand, could drink a stevedore under the table.

  Setting the munchies on the coffee table, I accidentally bumped Nadine’s pack of smokes and knocked them to the carpet, where they scattered. Originally, I’d planned to spill bar mix, but this worked even better. There was nothing more precious to Nadine than her cigarettes—unless it was Bud Light. “Oh, dear,” I exclaimed in my best amateur-actress voice. “How clumsy of me.”

  “Here,” Polly chimed, right on cue, “let me help.”

  Nadine had beaten us to the punch and was already bent over picking up cigarettes. Our three heads butted together as we worked diligently. Just then Polly’s charm bracelet accidentally tangled in Nadine’s long, dark mane. Giving her wrist a sharp jerk, she broke free.

  “Ouch!” Nadine squealed, holding her head and glaring at Polly. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me a bald spot.”

  “Sorry,” Polly said, attempting to sound contrite. “Guess I need to lay off the margaritas.”

  I could barely keep the smirk from my face when Polly glanced at me when Nadine wasn’t looking. I wanted to high-five her so badly, I could scarcely contain myself.

  After her fourth beer and countless cigarettes, Nadine finally decreed an end to happy hour. I made a mental note to call Gloria and have her fetch Polly, who had made a valiant attempt to match Nadine drink for drink. Polly definitely needed a designated driver, and I knew better than to think it should be me.

  Polly hiccoughed. “That went well, don’t you think?”

  I eyed her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “Sure you want to help with this?”

  “Of course,” she replied indignantly. “I was ready to risk my lungs and liver for the sake of our little experiment. I aim to see it through.”

  “Then, my dear Sherlock, let’s proceed.”

  She swayed a little when she rose to her feet, and I put a hand out to steady her. “I think we should reverse roles. You’d better let me be Sherlock.”

  “Whatever you say.” She hiccoughed again.

  Gloria was going to read me the riot act when she saw what condition her mother was in. I could hardly blame her. But Polly wasn’t an easy person to control. That sounded lame, even to my ears, but it was the best I could come up with, given the circumstances. I steered my cohort in crime into the dining room and nudged her into a chair.

  Earlier I’d decided the dining room was the best location for our little experiment, as Polly aptly phrased it. It also eliminated the possibility of Nadine’s glancing in this direction from across the street and seeing our heads together. Using tweezers from Tools of the Trade, I carefully transferred the hair we’d found in the dressing room onto a sheet of white computer paper and labeled it Exhibit One. Next to it, I placed the hair sample I’d found twisted around Krystal’s ponytail elastic, labeling it with her name and Exhibit Two. Last, but by no means least, came Nadine’s hair that had been accidentally caught in Polly’s charm bracelet; this I labeled Exhibit Three. I knew it was important to handle each strand with care. I’m pretty sure it had to do with hair follicles and DNA, but after a couple margaritas I wouldn’t swear to it.

  “Hey, Kate, you really know your stuff. You could be one of those SCI types, like on TV.”

  SCI? Somehow that didn’t sound right, but I didn’t quite know why. I’d figure it out later. Basking in Polly’s admiration, I was tempted to pull on latex gloves. That might be a nice touch, but it was probably overkill. Next I took out my fancy-schmancy bright yellow LED flashlight, which had cost an arm and a leg, along with a magnifying glass. If people kept showing up dead around Serenity Cove, it might be time to invest in one of those jeweler’s loupes. I’d think about it once my head cleared. I gave Polly a sidelong glance and saw that she was watching my every move with rapt if bleary-eyed attention. Using the Marg Helgenberger, aka Catherine Willows, single-fisted technique, I methodically scanned all three hair samples.

  Polly leaned so close I could smell the tequila on her breath. “Holy crap!”

  We’d landed in the macaroni, an expression Jim’s Italian coworker was fond of saying. We’d gotten lucky. The answer as to whom the hair belonged was plainly visible to the naked eye. There appeared to be a distinct color variation between the strands we’d obtained from Krystal and Nadine. Exhibit Two, Krystal’s, showed dark with underlying red highlights. Nadine’s, Exhibit Three, was dark as mud with no highlights whatsoever. It was also gray near the root because its owner, Nadine, needed a touch-up. The answer was blatantly obvious even to a pair of half-inebriated detectives.

  Polly and I stared at each other. For a long moment neither of us spoke. Finally I broke the silence. “The hair you found matches Krystal’s. That means she was backstage the afternoon—or maybe the evening—Lance was shot.”

  Polly hiccoughed yet again. “Don’t that beat all.”

  Chapter 35

  That still left the matter of the gun I’d found in Krystal’s drawer—and the opened box of 9mm shells. Krystal Gold topped my list of suspects. She had means; she had opportunity. All she lacked was motive.
r />   My nerves strung tight, I jumped a foot, and I’m certain that’s only a slight exaggeration, when the phone rang. It was the Suspect. Krystal, very thoughtfully for a person of interest, was calling to tell me not to worry; she’d be home late. She and her friends had decided to take in a chick flick and have a bite to eat before returning from their shopping trip in Augusta.

  “No problem, dear,” I told her. The girl might be a cold-blooded killer, but she was a considerate houseguest. “Have fun.”

  I emptied a can of floral air freshener to rid the house of lingering cigarette fumes. Once I had the place smelling like a funeral parlor, I went about straightening the house. I plumped pillows, put dirty glasses in the dishwasher, wiped down countertops, all the while pondering my options. It was after six, too late to call the sheriff. Knowing him as I did, I thought he probably had Tammy Lynn screen his calls from meddling junior-grade detectives. Did a box of bullets and a strand of hair constitute evidence? The kind of evidence that would stand up in a court? The type that would make Sheriff Wiggins pat me on the back and say, Attagirl.

  Maybe I should confront Krystal in the same way as I had Nadine. Come right out and ask, Did you kill Lance Ledeaux? Remind her that everything she said could and would be held against her in a court of law. Fortunately, Nadine hadn’t shot me on the spot. I might not be as lucky the second time around. Krystal, after all, was armed, and for all intents and purposes, considered dangerous.

  All this turmoil was wreaking havoc on the pleasant happy hour buzz I’d acquired. Tempted as I was to mix another margarita, I decided on coffee instead—the high-voltage, French roast kind, chock-full of caffeine. I needed to think clearly, not through a haze tempered by alcohol. So much for my no caffeine after six o’clock rule. Rules were made to be broken, right?

  As I measured and ground beans, I kept wondering what my television mentors would do in this situation. I visualized my favorite rerun detectives, Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green, taking my evidence to the erudite DA, Jack McCoy. Jack would likely kick them to the curb, telling them not to darken his doorstep until they had enough to make a case. Then, their trusty no-nonsense lieutenant, Anita Van Buren, would order them back out on the street. I doubted Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would be as diplomatic.

  I placed a filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and poured in water. What I really needed right now was someone to act as a sounding board. Of course, the Babes came to mind. I knew I could phone any one of them—except Polly, whom Gloria threatened to put to bed the instant they returned home—and they’d run right over. But it was dinnertime. I hated to interrupt that precious ritual where husbands replay their golf game, hole by hole, chip by chip, putt by putt, for their wife’s entertainment, so I did the next best thing. I called Bill.

  Once again the phone rang and rang. And once again, I hoped he wasn’t in his woodworking shop, where he couldn’t hear the phone over the whine of power tools. I was ready to hang up when he answered.

  “Bill, I need you,” I blurted the instant I heard his voice.

  “Um . . .”

  “Like now. I need you now.”

  “Sure thing,” he replied, sounding confused but game.

  I realized then how I must have sounded—crazed, desperate, loony tunes. I struggled to correct the impression. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded. What I should have said is that I need to talk to you.”

  “Sure thing,” he repeated, and this time I liked to imagine I caught a faint whiff of disappointment in his tone.

  There would be time enough to mull that over later. Right now I had a gun. I had bullets. “I need someone solid and sensible to hear me out. You’re elected.” Then to my utter mortification, I hiccoughed, a damning reminder of my semi-inebriated state.

  There was a slight pause on the other end of the line, then Bill cleared his throat. “Kate, have you had dinner yet?”

  Had I eaten? “Um, I don’t think so. Does bar mix count?”

  “I’ll stop by the gas station on my way over and pick up a pizza. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  I released my death grip on the phone and disconnected. Bill was on the way, my white knight riding to the rescue. Not that I believed women needed knights and rescuing and such. I consider myself a liberated woman. I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. I am woman, hear me roar! If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Helen Reddy’s 1970s battle cry. Still . . .

  I hummed to myself as I set out place mats, plates, napkins, and silverware in anticipation of Bill’s arrival. Now, some might think gas station pizza a bit odd. Before moving to the South, I’d have been one of them. Since then, I’ve discovered some gas stations even serve up tasty fried chicken and catfish. Oh, yes, another local oddity: The best rib-eye steaks are found at the fish market. An elderly black gentleman, and I do not use the term elderly lightly, shuffles out of a back room and cuts them to order. My Jim used to love putting those babies on the grill and watching them sizzle.

  Since coffee, even French roast, didn’t seem appropriate with pizza, I filled glasses with ice and Diet Coke. If I couldn’t get my much-needed caffeine boost one way, I’d try another. There were always the late-night oldies on the movie channel if I was too wired to sleep. I’d worry about that later.

  Bill arrived right on schedule bearing pizza, hot, steamy, and spicy. Taking it from him, I motioned him to a seat at the kitchen table. “This looks great. Glad you thought of it.” I slid slices of pizza onto plates and sat next to him.

  “Care to tell me what’s going on?” Bill asked as he took his first bite.

  “It’s Krystal,” I said, daintily nibbling my slice. “I think she might be our killer.”

  “Whoa! What . . . ?” Bill sputtered around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.

  For a moment, I feared I might have to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but he recovered quite nicely. “You heard me,” I replied calmly. I took a larger bite this time, knowing food would hasten the absorption of alcohol in my system. “I suspect Krystal might be the one who murdered Lance. I need you to listen and tell me if I’m crazy.”

  And over gas station pizza dripping with mozzarella, he did just that.

  There’s nothing more appealing—or sexier—than a man who truly listens. I mean one who unselfishly gives you his undivided attention; one who listens as though his life depends on what you’re telling him. It’s just one of the many qualities I find so attractive in Bill. Neither of my children excels in the fine art of listening. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince Jennifer that bunco isn’t going to jeopardize my life savings. If Steven would ever give me his full attention for more than thirty seconds, maybe I could persuade him I’m not ready to be shipped off to one of those fancy assisted-living facilities just yet. I’m happy and healthy right where I am, thank you very much.

  “Well,” Bill said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “I can see why you’re concerned. I agree that we don’t have enough to bring to the sheriff. If he didn’t believe he had a strong case against Claudia, he’d never have taken it to the prosecutor.”

  “But what about the gun? The bullets?”

  “Anyone off the street can walk into a sporting goods store and purchase bullets. And even if the hair you found does belong to Krystal”—he held up a hand to forestall my argument—“there’s no proof she substituted a real bullet for a blank. What’s more, the fact they were in Grease together doesn’t mean they’re more than acquaintances.”

  I cleared the dishes, unhappy my theory had sprung more holes than a colander. “But,” I protested, “Polly swears she saw the two of them together—canoodling.”

  “Canoodling, huh?” Bill mulled that over as he dumped the empty pizza box in the trash. “It still doesn’t give Krystal a reason to want Lance dead. Besides, a defense attorney might question the eyesight of a seventy-something woman who wears trifocals.”

  He had a point. Polly had been postponing cataract surgery for months, claiming only old pe
ople got cataracts. Old, I guess, is a matter of perspective. I tried a different route. “What if Lance is the father of Krystal’s baby? If so, it would explain why she followed him to Serenity Cove.”

  “That puts a whole different spin on the matter.”

  I leaned against the counter, the dish towel in my hand forgotten. “Lance withdrew thirty thousand dollars from Claudia’s account. The sheriff told me ten thousand of it went to a bookie for a Super Bowl bet. Nadine said he gave her ten thousand as a bribe to leave town. Police found another ten thousand on him when he was killed.”

  Bill let out a low whistle. “Men, even big spenders like Lance, don’t carry around that much pocket change.”

  I raised a brow. “He might if he was being blackmailed.”

  Bill took up a post next to me at the counter, arms folded, ankles crossed. “Sure would hate to call in the authorities, what with Krystal being pregnant and all, if this turns out to be nothing.”

  I sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was to upset an expectant mother. I wanted only the best for Krystal and her unborn child, yet . . . “We still need to address the matter of the gun in her drawer.”

  “Honesty is always the best policy, Kate. Just come out and tell her you found it. Hear what she has to say.”

  I mulled over his advice. “What if we bend the truth a little? I could say she left her vanity drawer open and when I went to shut it, I noticed the gun.”

  Bill nodded, then asked, “Have you thought about what you might say if she asks why you were in her room in the first place?”

  “Well, first I’d act highly offended that she might think I was snooping. Then,” I said, warming to the role of indignant innkeeper, “I’d make her feel even guiltier by acting hurt. I’d end by informing her I was only being a conscientious hostess bringing her fresh towels.”