by Gail Oust
Between bites of toast and gulps of coffee, I answered the phone, which rang incessantly. Polly asked if I had a mink stole for Krystal to wear in the final scene. Connie Sue was rounding up every bit of blue eyeliner she could get her hands on. Who uses blue? I wondered irritably. Didn’t blue eyeliner go out with disco? Pam invited me to go with her and Megan for pedicures. Pedicures were the last thing on my mind. I decided to visit Claudia instead. She could use some cheering up, and maybe in the process I could cheer myself up as well.
• • •
The Plexiglas separating us looked as impenetrable as kryptonite. Claudia, if anything, looked even worse than the last time I saw her. When this misunderstanding was resolved once and for all, I was going to urge her to book a week at a spa. She desperately was in need of a little pampering—manicure, pedicure, massage, aromatherapy, hydrotherapy, the works.
“Hey,” she greeted me with a wan smile.
“Hey, yourself.”
“You didn’t have to come. I know tonight’s the big night.”
“Thought you might like some company.” I mustered a smile of my own. “Besides, it was either visit you or hang around and watch Janine implode.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Actually, it’s worse, so I came here to get away from all that depressing stuff.”
She flung out a hand to encompass the dingy gray-green walls and dung brown floor. “Well, if this place doesn’t cheer you up, nothing will.”
Claudia’s feeble attempt at humor was almost my undoing. We lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. I blamed it on the ambiance. The visitors’ room of the county jail was a far cry from the cozy seating arrangement in Claudia’s four-season room. No cushy wicker chairs; no droopy ferns—just a droopy prison guard posted inside the door.
Unable to withstand the silence any longer, I resorted to the old standby, “You’re looking good.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. If anything, Claudia looked used up. Translated, that meant lookin’ tired, lookin’ old, as if all the spark had been snuffed out.
“Has Judge Blanchard set a trial date yet?” I stuck my hands inside my jacket pockets to avoid contact with the sticky, germy countertop.
“BJ expects her to do that next week or so.”
I nodded, unsure if I should rejoice or burst into tears at the news.
She tucked a strawberry-blond, gray-at-the-roots strand behind one ear. “Both my boys insist on coming next week. I tried to talk them out of it, but . . .”
“I’m sure they’re worried sick over you. They’ll rest easier after meeting your attorney and knowing you’re in good hands.”
“Bubba had a lawyer friend run a background check on BJ. Wanted to find out how high up the ladder he finished on the bar exams.”
Background check? I winced, but Claudia didn’t seem to notice.
“Bubba,” she continued, “concluded anyone with the nickname Bad Jack gets it for a damn good reason.”
Bubba, the Babes and I discovered some months back, is her son Charles, a vascular surgeon in Chicago. Her other son, whom she refers to as Butch, is an engineer in Chicago. I’m not sure if I’ve ever heard his given name.
“God, Kate”—she put her head in her hands—“what are my boys going to think seeing their mother behind bars?”
All I wanted to do at that moment was put my arms around her and console her. If anyone was ever in dire need of a hug, it was Claudia. I cast a look in the guard’s direction. No help there. He didn’t look the type to dispense lollipops to curly-haired toddlers, much less hugs to women charged with murder one.
I tried to distract her by relating everything I’d learned about Nadine Peterson and Krystal Gold. She shook her head when I asked if Lance had ever mentioned either woman.
Our time together wound to a close. I left with a promise to return soon.
“Tell everyone I said to break a leg,” she called over her shoulder.
“And if someone actually did, I’d never forgive myself,” I called back.
I left the jail, but I wasn’t ready to return home and field calls from the disgruntled—and frazzled—cast and crew of Forever, My Darling. I had the niggling feeling there was something I’d overlooked, something still buried. Nadine and Krystal were living proof of Lance’s torrid past. Maybe there was more dirt just waiting for the right shovel to come along. Please Lord, I prayed, make me thy shovel.
I hadn’t paid a recent social call on my favorite law-enforcement nemesis. Maybe the time had come to rectify the oversight. We could share. And if that failed, due to his shortcomings in the sharing department—not mine—I could always fall back on the old standbys of begging and groveling.
Since my impending visit to the sheriff was more social than official, it called for a hostess gift of some sort. My mother would be so proud I’d carried out the tradition she’d instilled. Sheriff Wiggins was a difficult man to shop for. To complicate matters further, he didn’t seem to enjoy presents the way most folks did. That man had a suspicious nature, viewing each little gift as a possible bribe. I knew from past experience he didn’t have a sweet tooth, so that ruled out baked goods. The ivy plant I’d once given him had proven a disaster. It had leaked all over his desk, soaking a pile of papers before Tammy Lynn sopped up the mess with a wad of paper towels.
I solved my dilemma with a quick stop at the dollar store. When I first moved to the South, I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping in one of these. Now the clerks know me by name. I’ve added dollar stores to my list of favorites right up there alongside Walmart and Lowe’s. All the basics of life can be found in a dollar store for a fraction of the price you’d pay elsewhere. When you’re a widow on a fixed income, that’s a blessing indeed. There you have it, folks, an unsolicited testimonial from a former disbeliever.
I pawed through a bin of Christmas items marked seventy-five percent off. A Santa windsock, a Frosty the Snowman candle, a pink-haired angel on roller skates. Just as I was diving into the bin headfirst for a snow globe minus its base, I heard a familiar voice.
“Miz McCall, thought that was you.”
I straightened to find May Randolph, proprietor of the Koffee Kup, giving me a broad smile. I waved a wicker basket trimmed with a frayed red ribbon at her. “Never know what you might find here.”
“You can say that again. By the way, shouldn’t you be home getting ready for the big night?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “Krystal took off at noon today in order to run through her lines again. Can’t wait to see her up on that stage. I was lucky to get one of the last tickets. They sold like hotcakes.”
“My friend Janine was thrilled because proceeds benefit Pets in Need, the local Humane Society.” I stepped aside to allow a stock boy to pass with a cart loaded with Easter decorations. I absently wondered how Sheriff Wiggins would like a stuffed bunny—no danger of a stuffed bunny springing a leak.
May sorted through the bargain bin, selecting then discarding various items. “That money oughta put them well on the road toward that new shelter they want to build. Took my grandson out to see the animals at the pens last time he visited. He refused to leave until I said he could have one of those puppies someone abandoned alongside the highway. Let me tell you, my daughter was none too pleased, but she came around after she saw the little bugger. Cutest thing you ever saw with his floppy ears and big brown eyes.” May rejected an antlerless reindeer. “You must be an animal lover, too. Krystal said y’all have a cat.”
“Actually, the cat is more Krystal’s pet than mine.” I felt like such a loser confessing this. I couldn’t even befriend a silly stray. Given its choice, the darn cat had picked Krystal over me, the provider of albacore.
“Well, have a good one. Knock ’em dead.” She waggled her fingers in what passed for a friendly wave, then wheeled her cart—er, buggy, as they’re called in the South—down the aisle and rounded a corner.
Between breaking a leg and knocking ’em dead, we were in for a busy night.
I
was all set to leave the dollar store empty-handed, when I spotted the perfect gift for a surly sheriff: a words of wisdom desk calendar. It didn’t matter that this was already February. There was still ten months’ worth of pithy advice. I flipped to a random page and read: Life ain’t no dress rehearsal.
“You got that right, sista,” I muttered aloud, heading for the checkout.
Chapter 38
“Hey, Miz McCall.”
Unlike the dollar store, where my arrival is greeted with enthusiasm, at the sheriff’s office it’s another story. I could only describe the expression on Tammy Lynn’s face as . . . guarded.
“Is the sheriff in, dear?” I asked, ignoring the fact I was persona non grata. “I promise not to take up much of his time.”
Tammy Lynn shoved her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “He’s real busy, ma’am,” she drawled. “You know how he gets when he’s disturbed.”
“I came prepared to take my chances.” That was a polite way of saying I was prepared to brave the lion in his den. “Please tell him I’m here, and I have all afternoon if necessary.”
I took a seat in the far corner and tried to look inconspicuous as I shamelessly eavesdropped on the quiet conversation volleyed back and forth between Tammy Lynn and her boss. When Tammy Lynn caught me, she dropped her voice to a whisper.
“Sheriff Wiggins will be with you shortly,” Tammy Lynn said, her manner prim as a schoolmarm’s, then turned her attention back to the computer screen.
To kill time, I rifled through a stack of dog-eared reading material piled haphazardly on a faux walnut table. Magazines such as All About Beer, Combat Handguns, and Truck Trend had replaced issues of Southern Living, Better Homes & Gardens, and Martha Stewart Living, which I’d personally delivered. But the real winner, if I were to judge, was one called Tactical Weapons—truly motivational reading for felons in training. Oh, the places you’ll go, if I may quote the late Dr. Seuss.
I idly leafed through All About Beer and scanned an article on hops growing in the Pacific Northwest. Bored with fermentation info, I tried to engage Tammy Lynn in conversation. “So, Tammy Lynn, are you coming to our play tonight?”
“I’m fixin’ to,” she gushed, suddenly animated. “I wouldn’t miss it for anythin’. My brother said Eric’s been practicin’ day and night.”
I noted mention of Eric Olsen’s name brought roses to her cheeks. Unfortunately, Eric seemed rather smitten by the perky Megan Warner.
Further talk of either Eric or Forever, My Darling was cut short by the angry buzz of the intercom. Tammy Lynn jumped at the sound, her pretty but plain face showing a deer-in-the-headlights expression, which quickly changed to apologetic. “Ah, Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I gathered my purse and the cute little gift bag, also purchased at the dollar store, took a deep breath, and started down the hall. Along the way, I gave myself a pep talk: I am a mature adult; I will not get flustered; I will not prattle like an idiot.
I forgot all three the instant I encountered Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.
“Miz McCall,” he growled in that velvety baritone of his, “what brings you heah?”
“I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” I said with a smile. “Brought you a little something.”
His handsome dark face didn’t crinkle with even a hint of a smile in return. “We’ve been over this before, Miz McCall. I don’t want you bringin’ me stuff. Folks might get the wrong impression.”
“Nonsense.” I waved my hand dismissively. “Who’d get upset over my giving you a cheap little something from the dollar store?”
“You do a lot of your gift shoppin’ at the dollar store?”
Without waiting for an invitation, I sat down in the chair across the desk from his. “It’s words of wisdom.”
He did that one-eyebrow lift that I often tried to imitate but with less effect. “You insinuatin’ I need help in the wisdom department?”
I forged ahead. “The first page I saw when I opened it read, ‘Life ain’t no dress rehearsal.’ Think of how profound that is—not to mention topical.”
He looked blank.
“Dress rehearsal . . . get it? Tonight’s the play.”
“The play, of course. It must’ve slipped my mind. I beg your pardon, ma’am. My social secretary failed to remind me of the grand occasion.”
“No need for sarcasm, Sheriff.”
He canted his head to one side and studied me like a worm under a microscope. I could almost see the gears inside his head turning. I fought the urge to fidget.
“Did you by any chance recall more of the conversation you overheard between Mr. and Missus Ledeaux the night he was murdered?” he finally asked.
“You’re not thinking outside the box,” I charged. There was something about that phrase that appealed to me. “You’ve got the wrong person. Claudia’s innocent.”
Leaning back in his chair, he locked his fingers together over his narrow waist. “That so?”
“Yes, that’s so,” I said with more spunk than sense. “You’re afraid to color outside the lines, to take a chance you might be mistaken.”
“Miz McCall, I realize Miz Ledeaux is your friend, and I commend your loyalty, but it’s my sworn duty to follow where the evidence leads.”
Since he hadn’t tossed me out of his office yet, I decided this meeting was going remarkably well. Not trusting my run of luck, I plunged ahead. “Lance was a liar, a cheat, and a deadbeat dad with a penchant for gambling. If you’d thoroughly checked his background, you’d know there are lots—probably dozens—of people who wanted him dead.”
“Dozens?” He shook his head sadly. “I must be pretty incompetent to be overlookin’ dozens of suspects.”
“Oh, dear,” I gasped, realizing how I must’ve sounded. “I didn’t mean . . . I’m sorry if . . .”
Oops! This conversation had taken a decided turn for the worse. First, I acknowledged buying him cheap gifts. Next, I suggested he was lacking in the wisdom department. Then, to top it off, I questioned his competency. Good thing the man wasn’t the sensitive sort.
“Knowin’ how you like to play Nancy Drew, tell me everythin’ you found out about the dozens of folks lined up to off Mr. Ledeaux.”
That was all the encouragement I needed to launch into an account of what I’d learned about Nadine and Krystal and their relationships with Lance. “But,” I concluded, “I don’t think either of them killed him. I was just using them as an example of people who might want to harm Mr. Ledeaux.”
He dropped the casual pose, leaning forward, his huge hands folded on the desk in front of him. “I admire your efforts on behalf of your friend, but it’s not up to me to decide whether or not she’s guilty of murder. That’ll be up to a jury of her peers. Now, if there’s nothin’ else . . .”
I started to rise, when a thought occurred to me. Maybe I needed to heed my own advice and think outside the box; color outside the lines, so to speak. Whoever killed Lance had been clever and cunning—a real pro, not a rank amateur.
All this time, I’d conveniently overlooked—or ignored—the fact that there might be a real pro, an honest-to-goodness criminal, in our midst. The time had come to shift the focus of my investigation. If there truly was a cold-blooded murderer in Serenity Cove—and I shuddered at the thought—then I knew where to begin my search.
“Actually, there is one more thing,” I said.
Those pitch black eyes of his rolled heavenward. I thought I heard a groan, but it might have been his chair squeaking.
“It occurred to me that any person living in Serenity Cove Estates or in the vicinity could be the guilty party. All the residents have access to the rec center. It would have been a simple matter to slip in or out. Marietta Perkins admitted to Connie Sue Brody that the place was so busy that night, she had a hard time keeping track of comings and goings.”
The sheriff sighed, a sound that started at the soles of his polished size-thirteen oxfords and worked its way up throu
gh six feet two inches of muscle and attitude. “I’m sure, Miz McCall, you’ll get to the point sooner or later. I’d prefer sooner if it’s all the same to you.”
I clutched the strap of my shoulder bag like a lifeline—which was exactly what I was trying to cling to in a last-ditch effort to save Claudia. “I wondered if you’d be kind enough, Sheriff, to allow me to look through your old Most Wanted posters. I know it’s a long shot, but you can never tell what might turn up.”
When he looked undecided, I dangled a carrot. “Besides, that will keep me out of your hair for hours, possibly days or even weeks.”
“Sure thing,” he said, brightening at the prospect. “I’ll have Tammy Lynn set you up in the interrogation room.”
Good as his word, the sheriff followed through on his offer. Minutes later I found myself ensconced in the drab and dreary windowless room where I’d been warned about sins of omission.
“Here you go, ma’am.” Tammy Lynn plunked an armload of dusty binders on the table in front of me.
I eyed the heap with grim determination. I’d no idea how daunting the task would be. It’d keep me busy all right, clear into the next millennium.
“Holler if you need anythin’ else,” Tammy Lynn said as she departed.
Heaving a sigh that rivaled the sheriff’s, I got down to business. Felons, as I’ve previously noted, came in all sizes, shapes, and colors. I was happy to discover that the FBI had very thoughtfully had age enhancement done on some but not all of the fugitives. Makeovers are always a hit—even when done at the government’s behest. Bald or thinning gray hair, medium build, average height. The social security crowd of felons, I discovered, would seamlessly blend into any retirement community in the country.
My eyes lingered on one photo in particular that looked vaguely familiar, but for the life of me I couldn’t think why. Blame it on one of those danged senior moments. It was the caption underneath the picture, however, that really caught my attention. Loves to leave a calling card, often in the form of a dead animal. Were dead canaries and snakes considered dead animals? I wondered.