'Til Dice Do Us Part (10 page)

My veiled attempt at humor zipped right over Polly’s head. She cast an anxious glance at the door as if expecting someone to crash through any second. “I saw something yesterday.”

All mirth vanished in the blink of an eye. My pulse quickened a tad, the way it does sometimes when I sense bad news. “Polly, for crying out loud, just tell me what’s going on.”

She inched closer. “I happened to be in town having my hair done when I spotted Lance in that flashy orange car of his parked on a side street. Thought I’d surprise him, say hello. Maybe give him an update on how things are coming along in the costume department. You know, just trying to be friendly, his being new in town.”

“And . . . ?”

“Well,” Polly said, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue, “I was about to tap on the driver’s-side window when I realized he wasn’t alone. He was with someone—a woman.”

I frowned at hearing this. “A woman? You mean a woman other than Claudia?”

“Try to keep up with me, Kate. You’re falling behind.”

Mea culpa! Mea culpa! Shame on me for being a little slow on the uptake. “Sorry, Polly. I’ll try harder.”

“No need to get flip with your elders, young lady. I’m trying to tell you Lance had his arm around a dark-haired woman—and I think that woman was Krystal. Want my opinion, they were acting pretty chummy. Pretty chummy, indeed.”

What had I done? How old did I have to be in order to think first and speak later? Would I ever learn? Instead, I’d gone and invited a perfect stranger into my home—or, in this case, maybe a not-so-perfect stranger. But it was too late now for second thoughts. With the Babes’ help, we’d transferred Krystal’s belongings from her Honda Civic to my Buick. At the moment, Krystal was napping in my guest room.

After a stressful afternoon, I was in need of comfort food—and comfort food for me often took the form of tuna noodle casserole. I opened the pantry door and stood there—thinking. Could Polly have been mistaken about the woman she’d seen with Lance? What possible connection did Krystal have with Lance Ledeaux? Was Krystal the same woman I’d seen Lance with behind the Piggly Wiggly? I absently reached for the cream of mushroom soup, and realized belatedly I’d grabbed a jar of salsa.

I kept trying to make sense of things. The woman I’d seen with Lance had been driving an expensive-looking automobile, not a Civic on its last cylinder. Granted, I didn’t get more than a glimpse, but I had the impression the driver was older than Krystal. Puzzling.

And I loved nothing better than a good puzzle.

I’d been relieved at Polly’s offer to move in with Claudia temporarily. I agreed Claudia shouldn’t be alone right now. We didn’t need her going off the deep end. Surely when all the facts came to light, she’d be absolved of any malice in Lance’s death. Facts would prove the shooting was just a malfunction of some sort; an accident in the worst degree.

Feeling somewhat better after my pep talk, I took out soup, a package of egg noodles, and my last can of tuna. I made a mental note to add tuna to my grocery list. Can’t think of tuna casserole and not think of Bill. This happens to be one of his favorite dishes. When it comes to food, he’s certainly an easy man to please. We seem to like many of the same things: chocolate-chip cookies, lemon bars, tuna casserole, and pizza. We even take our coffee the same way—black. Aren’t we a pair? At least, I used to think we were. Wish I knew what happened while he was in Michigan. Since his return, the temperature between us could stand some reheating. He might’ve gotten cold feet, but mine were still warm and toasty. Suddenly I had an idea. I reached for the phone before I could change my mind.

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.

My kids would have a conniption fit if they knew I’d invited a stranger to share my home. Jennifer would book me on the next flight out to LA, where I’d be sentenced to spend my retirement as a live-in, unpaid nanny. Mind you, I love my granddaughters dearly, but . . . as for my son, Steven . . . Well, he’d drop everything to enroll me in an assisted living center and feel smug he’d fulfilled his filial duty.

“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’m not as good at multitasking as I used to be. “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. I reasoned that 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.

“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 OK, 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.