'Til Dice Do Us Part (7 page)

Chilled after giving Claudia my sweater, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself. “The sheriff isn’t going to go easy on Claudia. She needs a lawyer and she needs one fast.”

“Someone experienced in handling criminal cases.”

I winced at hearing the word
criminal
used in conjunction with Claudia. She wasn’t a criminal, unless that was the new term for falling for a low-down, no-good scumbag like Lance Ledeaux. Pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, but if the shoe fits, as my daddy used to say.

Suddenly Bill snapped his fingers. “I think I know just the person who might help us.”

“Who?” I asked, already digging for my cell phone.

“Eric Olsen. Being a Brookdale cop, he probably knows the name of the best defense attorney in the entire county.”

“Bill, you’re brilliant!” I could have given my favorite handyman a great big hug right then and there—and planted a big, fat, noisy kiss on his cheek. But I did neither. I was already busy punching in Eric’s number. At one time I could have hugged and dialed at the same time, but I’m losing my ability to multitask.

“I know just the person,” Eric told me.

I disconnected, reassured Eric was on the case. He’d promised to find Claudia the best darn defense attorney east of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I made a mental note to bake him a double batch of chocolate-chip cookies as my way of saying thanks.

I settled down in a chair between Claudia and Bill to await Sheriff Sumter Wiggins. It wasn’t long before he stormed into the meeting room. The scowl on his dark face resembled a rain cloud about to burst and drown its hapless victims. His presence seemed to suck all the air from the room. I now knew how it felt to be vacuum sealed.

He didn’t waste any time. “I gather you’re all in agreement that Miz Ledeaux is the shooter.”

I flinched.
Shooter
put me in mind of street gangs. And street gangs reminded me of the Jets and the Sharks. I particularly loved that finger-snapping scene from
West Side Story
, one of my all-time favorite musicals. Lots of leather jackets, lots of swagger; thinking of Broadway musicals was a welcome distraction from thinking of Lance lying dead onstage.

“Well . . . ,” he prompted.

Reluctantly we nodded.

“In the interest of bein’ thorough, I had my deputy check everyone for fingerprints and GSR.”

I knew GSR was police-speak for gunshot residue. I’d done my homework and was up to date on my acronyms: CSI, CIA, DOA, DNA, TOD, and GSW. I could rattle them off in the same way a kindergarten class did the alphabet. I prided myself on being savvy enough to know COD meant cause of death, not cash on delivery. I could work my favorite acronyms into a dinner party conversation with ease. I’d never had cause to use any of these terms in an official capacity, mind you, but I like to keep current. It holds dementia at bay.

Sheriff Wiggins took out a pen and flipped open a black spiral notebook. “Will one of you nice folks kindly describe what happened back in the auditorium?”

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That about summed us up.

The sheriff was rapidly growing weary of our lack of response. “I’m goin’ to get to the bottom of this if it takes all night. Now”—he glowered; we cringed—“first off, I need someone to give me a general idea what was goin’ on prior to the shootin’. Afterward, I’ll take your individual statements. Who wants to go first?”

My hand shot up. “I will.”

He stared at me long and hard, then turned away. “Any
other
volunteers?”

Hmph! Guess I can tell when I’m not wanted. You’d think after my valuable contributions in the past, he’d be begging for my help. But no. He liked to think he could solve a case without the able assistance of a concerned citizen such as I.

“You.” The sheriff singled out Bill with a pointed look. “Give me the
Reader’s Digest
version of events that prompted the incident.”

Bill shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “We were rehearsing a play that Lance, Mr. Ledeaux, is producing, directing, and starring in. Gus and I,” he said, motioning toward his newfound friend, “were there to take some measurements. I also needed to ask him a few questions. I’m responsible for the set,” he added as an afterthought. “Gus agreed to be in charge of lighting and sound.”

“We were rehearsing act three, scene one,” I spoke up, wanting to participate and not wanting to be left out.

One pained look from the sheriff, and I lapsed into silence. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, when I desperately yearned to contribute.

“What about the rest of you folks? Y’all actors in the play?”

Rita cleared her throat. “I’m the stage manager.”

“I, um, I’m in charge of props,” Monica mumbled, her voice barely audible. She sat hunched, her arms around her waist, and stared at the floor.

The sheriff gave her a long, considering look that I’d wager made repeat offenders sweat bullets. “So you’re the one in charge of the gun that killed Mr. Ledeaux.” It was a statement, not a question.

Monica gave a jerky nod, her attention still focused on the nubby carpet.

Sheriff Wiggins jotted this down in his little black book. “I’ll get your statement right after talkin’ with Miz Ledeaux.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Clutching her stomach, Monica made a dash for the ladies’ room. Seeing her olive green complexion, no one tried to stop her.

Bill continued his narrative. “Lance wasn’t pleased with the way rehearsal was going. He insisted on running through the lines over and over until the cast got it right.”

“It was his idea to use the props,” Rita muttered.

Another notation in
the
book.

“Ledeaux didn’t like the way I did my lines. Said he’d show me how a real actor would do it.” Bernie shoved away from the table and rose abruptly. “This whole thing is Mort Thorndike’s fault.”

Pen hovered over paper. “Who’s Mort Thorndike?”

Had I suffered a transient loss of consciousness while onstage? I could have sworn Mort Thorndike had been nowhere in the vicinity. And he was a hard person to miss, seeing how he irritated the heck out of me.

“Mort’s my golfing buddy,” Bernie replied in a tone that implied the sheriff should know this. “Weren’t for him, I’da been learning my lines instead of out on the course.”

So much for the
Reader’s Digest
version. It was soon apparent that if Sheriff Wiggins wanted to hear what happened, it was all or nothing. Knowing he was outnumbered, he surrendered grudgingly and listened to us ramble. When our comments drew to a halt, he asked, “Who owns the gun?”

That brought me up straighter in my chair. I have to admit I hadn’t thought about that part of the accident—at least not yet. Guess I’d assumed the gun belonged to Lance.

“It’s mine,” Bill admitted.

I swung around to face him. “Yours?”

Bill kept a steady gaze fixed on the sheriff. I needed to add “intrepid” to Bill’s list of attributes. “Ledeaux heard I was a hunter, probably from Claudia, and asked if I’d loan him a handgun for the course of the play. But before I did, I made sure there were no bullets in it. I checked and double-checked—even tonight. Only blanks were in the cartridge.”

The sheriff raised one eyebrow. “What happened next?”

The sheriff might as well have been speaking Swahili at this point. Bernie picked at a hangnail. Bill scuffed the toe of his shoe on the carpet. Monica returned just then, looking teary eyed and weepy. Upon seeing her, Rita started digging through her pockets for a tissue.

I shot a nervous glance at Claudia who remained ghostly pale and unmoving. Was she in a catatonic state? I didn’t have the foggiest notion of what a catatonic state was, but I bet my diagnosis wasn’t far off the mark. I made a mental note to Google this when I got home—if I ever got home. Right now my house on Loblolly Court seemed as far away as the moon.

At last it was Rita who rose to the challenge. Rita’s like that. She’s a take-charge kind of gal. That was the reason Lance had appointed her stage manager. If anyone could make a production and rehearsal run smoothly, it was Rita. She was organized, efficient, and . . . courageous.

“Claudia came to the part in the scene that called for her to shoot the man who killed her lover and was threatening to blackmail her.” Rita absently smoothed a hand over her slacks. “She said her lines and pulled the trigger.”

“Just like in the script,” I added, trying to justify the whole terrible chain of events.

Claudia began rocking back and forth. “Oh my God,” she wailed. “I killed him.”

I put my arm around her. “Honey, it’s not your fault. It was just a horrible accident. All of us know you never meant to hurt Lance.”

Monica was next to burst into tears. “I never should have gotten involved in any of this. I don’t know the first thing about being a prop princess.”

I didn’t have the heart to correct her. If she wanted to be a princess, it was fine by me.

“Was it at this point one of you placed a nine-one-one call?”

We looked at each other rather sheepishly. No one was eager to relate what occurred next.

“Ah, not exactly,” I muttered when no one else seemed ready to cough up the information.

Now it was my turn to be the recipient of the sheriff’s one-eyebrow lift—a gesture cultivated to intimidate; a gesture reminiscent of a Sister Mary Magdalene when she spotted one of her students chewing gum during algebra.

“Kindly define ‘not exactly.’ ”

I stared down at my hands while the seconds ticked away. In the far reaches of my mind, I noticed I could use a manicure. Clearing my throat, I forged ahead. “Claudia told us Lance was only pretending to be dead.”

“Pretendin’?” the sheriff thundered. “Who in their right mind ‘pretends’ to be dead?”

“All of us thought he was pretending,” Bill responded, quick to back me up. “We thought Ledeaux was trying to impress us with what a great actor he’s cracked up to be.”

I patted Claudia’s shoulder. “He was experimenting with dye packs.”

“Dye packs?” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What the hell are dye packs?”

“They’re used in the movies for special effects—like bullet holes,” Rita explained.

“Except the red on his shirt turned out to be real blood, not some Hollywood food colorin’,” the sheriff concluded.

Claudia’s wails had lapsed into sobs. Tears streamed down her face, leaving dark tracks of mascara. I searched the pockets of my slacks for more tissues but without success. Bill, seeing my dilemma, reached into his back pocket and produced a handkerchief, which I gratefully accepted and passed to Claudia.

“Back to the matter of the gun.” The sheriff widened his stance as if hunkering down for the duration. “Other than Miz Ledeaux, who handled it?”

“He did.” Bernie pointed at Bill.

Bill pointed at Bernie. “He did.”

The sheriff sighed and duly made a note of this. “Anyone else?”

Monica seemed to shrink back into her seat. “I, ah, think I did, too.”

“Me, too,” Gus admitted sheepishly.

Rita cleared her throat. “I might’ve picked it up and returned it to the prop table.”

“Think? Might have?”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. If I could’ve read his mind, I’d have said he was praying for forbearance.

“So six of you admit to handlin’ the murder weapon?” I detected a cutting edge to his usually smooth baritone. He pinned me with a look. “How come you’re not on the list, Miz McCall? You afraid of guns?”

“No need to get testy, Sheriff. You have plenty on your list already without adding my name,” I reminded him acerbically.

“Can’t argue with you on that point, ma’am.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gus Smith mechanically shuffling and reshuffling his worn deck of cards, seemingly impervious to the drama around him. He was so quiet, I’d nearly forgotten he was present. He probably wished he’d never heard of Serenity Cove Estates.

The sheriff addressed the group at large. “Hope all of you had the good sense not to disturb the crime scene.”

“Of course,” Rita said indignantly.

“What do you take us for? Morons?” So spoke Bernie, king of the morons.

Bill leaned forward in his chair, hands interlaced on the table, and asked quietly, “How is it possible for one to knowingly disturb a crime scene when one doesn’t know a crime’s been committed?”

Sheriff Sumter Wiggins heaved a sigh. I wondered whether he was weighing the merits of running for reelection. “Suppose y’all tell me what happened when y’all first realized Mr. Ledeaux wasn’t playactin’.”

Not bothering to check how deep the water was, Bernie dove in headfirst. “Gus helped me shove the prop table out of the way so you guys had room to work. There’s not a lot of space backstage. Tends to get crowded.”

The sheriff, an aggrieved expression on his face, jotted this down.

“I found a blanket and covered the body,” Rita offered. “If I didn’t, Monica threatened to throw up. Believe me, you don’t want that to happen to your crime scene.”

Bill drummed his fingertips restlessly on the faux mahogany table. “I dragged a chair from the set for Claudia to sit in. Didn’t want her passing out.”

“I went into the ladies’ room and got her a glass of water,” I recounted. “Claudia, the poor dear, was shaking so badly, she spilled it all over her hands.”

Bernie’s narrow face broke into a smile, the smile of the self-righteous. “Instead of standing around wringing our hands, we all pitched in to help. Like I said, we’re not a bunch of morons.”

“Let’s see if I got this straight.” The sheriff made a production of scanning his notes. “Six of y’all admit to handlin’ the murder weapon.” He paused. “And y’all, in one way or another, admit to contaminatin’ my crime scene.”