Whack 'n' Roll (19 page)

“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered to be polite, yet hoped she’d refuse.

“Sure. Iced tea would be great.”

I got two glasses from the cupboard, took the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and poured us each a glass. “I’m surprised you’re not at home fixing dinner.”

“Dinner’s cooking in the Crock-Pot. I started it this morning.” Pam leaned back and crossed her legs. “This way I’ve got all afternoon to do as I please.”

“Great.” But was it? As much as I always enjoy Pam’s company, I had hoped to use this time to get to know Bill better while he worked. But a glance at Pam’s relaxed pose told me she planned to “sit a spell,” as they say in the South.

For the next half hour, we chatted about this and that before moving on to more important issues. Such as the character changes in our favorite TV series. Pam liked the new actor who replaced a longtime lead, but I wasn’t so sure. “Give him time,” Pam counseled. “He’ll grow on you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see work on the ceiling fan was progressing nicely. It was clear this wasn’t the first one Bill had installed. Reluctantly I swung my attention back to my guest. “More tea?” I asked, noticing Pam’s glass was empty.

Before she could respond, the front doorbell chimed. “Excuse me,” I said to Pam as I got up to answer the door. I was surprised to see Connie Sue standing on the porch.

“Connie Sue! What brings you here?”

She gave me an apologetic smile. “I need to borrow your springform pan.”

I stood aside. “Sure, come on in.”

Connie Sue headed straight for the kitchen, where she stood, head cocked to one side, hands on hips, and studied the ceiling fan Bill had just finished assembling. “White?”

“You have something against white?” I said, feeling somewhat put off by her tone. “White goes with everything. You can’t go wrong with white.”

“Don’t get me wrong, sugar. It’s nice, but . . . awfully plain. I thought you might go for something a little more . . . high-tech. Stainless steel, maybe with a remote.”

“Simple and practical are more my style. Fewer things to go wrong,” I said, parroting Bill’s words.

Connie Sue and Pam exchanged glances. Pam rose. “Well, guess I’d better go home and stir the Crock-Pot.”

Connie Sue plunked herself down in the chair Pam had just vacated, and looked like she intended to stay awhile. Without asking, I poured her a glass of iced tea.

“Don’t think we’ve met.” She smiled at the man on the stepladder. “You must be Bill. After hearing so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Connie Sue Brody.”

“Bill Lewis.” Bill returned the smile. “How do you do?”

No fancy speech from Bill, just a plain old Midwestern perfunctory response. Seemed like simple and practical could describe more than ceiling fans.

Connie Sue turned her attention back to me. “I thought I’d surprise Thacker and make his favorite dessert—praline cheesecake.”

I glanced pointedly at the kitchen clock. At this rate I’d never get in a word or two with Bill before he finished installing the fan. “Isn’t it rather late to start making a cheesecake?”

“Of course it is, silly. I’ll make it first thing tomorrow morning, right after tennis.”

Of course, I thought as I started rummaging through a cabinet for my springform pan. Don’t use the darn thing much anymore. Maybe I should just give it to Connie Sue in case she’s tempted to show up next time I entertain a blue-eyed devil.

“I could swear you had one of these,” I said when I finally extracted the pan from the bottom of a stack of baking tins of various shapes and sizes.

“I do, sugar, and I looked high and low for it. For some strange reason, I can’t seem to find it.”

I set the pan on the counter. “Shouldn’t you be home tending Thacker’s dinner?”

“You’re a sweetie to worry about Thacker, but never you mind, I turned the oven down low before coming over. I thought it’d be nice to sit a spell.”

I listened to Connie Sue ramble on with half an ear. Trying not to be too obvious, I kept shooting glances in Bill’s direction. He had the old fan down, and was getting ready to put the new one up.

The doorbell rang again. “S’cuse me,” I muttered as I rose to answer the door.

“Rita!” Who next? A vacuum cleaner salesman?

Rita held up a brown paper bag. “Surprise!”

“It certainly is,” I said, making no move to stand aside. Rude, I know, but I felt as if my foyer had suddenly become Grand Central Station.

“Mind if I come in for a minute?”

“No, of course not.” With a sigh of surrender, I stepped aside. Where were my manners? Usually I’m pleased as punch when one of my friends happens to drop by. But not today. Today I needed to be available—in case Bill needed my help.

I led the way into the kitchen. Connie Sue stood the minute she spied Rita. “Well, sugar,” she said to me, “gotta run. I need to check on that nice pork loin I’m fixing. Thacker complains if it gets too dry.”

Connie Sue departed as abruptly as she had arrived. It wasn’t until I heard her pull out of the drive that I noticed the springform pan still sitting on the table. I shook my head and reached for the pitcher of tea.

“Care for some?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“You never asked what’s in the bag,” Rita scolded.

“I haven’t a clue.”

“Rhizomes.”

“What am I supposed to do with rhizomes?” I asked. “Eat them?”

“No, no, you plant them.” She reached into the bag and pulled out a brown thing. “Next spring, you’ll have beautiful iris growing in your flower beds.”

I took a sip of my tea, noting as I did so that all the ice had melted. “Thanks, Rita, but you know I don’t exactly have a green thumb.” By this time, I didn’t care whether Bill knew that. My thumb wasn’t green. It was brown. Brown, brown, brown!

“Nothing to it, Kate. September or October are the best months to plant here in the South.”

Rita was on a roll. Along with bridge, gardening was her passion. It didn’t seem to bother her that it wasn’t mine. She talked nonstop for the next half hour. Bill seemed to tune out the sound of Rita droning on and on and just went about his task.

Rhizome
became a new word in my vocabulary. I learned gypsum is an excellent soil conditioner and improves clay soil such as we have here in South Carolina. Rita also introduced the term
vernalization
. I promised myself I’d try to use it next time I played Scrabble with the grandkids. Rita also warned me against the dangers of overwatering, and cautioned against the common mistake of planting irises too deeply.

By the time she finished, or perhaps ran out of breath—I’m not sure which—the new ceiling fan had been installed, and the old one hauled out to the trash. I watched in dismay as Bill gathered up his tools. We had barely exchanged a handful of words.

He snapped his giant tool chest shut. “All done,” he said. “This ought to last a good long time, but call me if you have any problems.”

I felt a moment’s panic as he stared to leave. I might see him again only across a crowded golf course. I needed to say something before he walked out of my life, maybe for good. Needed to say something preferably witty or clever. “How much do I owe you?” I asked.

I groaned inwardly. Witty and clever, I wasn’t.

“Don’t worry about it. Glad to be of help.” He nodded to Rita, then left.

Rita waited until the sound of Bill’s pickup truck faded, then calmly finished her tea and rose to her feet. “Guess you know all you need to about irises.”

“Rita, would you kindly explain what the heck is going on?” I demanded. “First Pam tries to return a book that doesn’t belong to me. Next Connie Sue asks to borrow a springform pan, but leaves without taking it with her. And last but not least, you show up on my doorstep to give me a tutorial on growing iris.”

Rita pursed her lips. “Kate, you’re forgetting what the sheriff said earlier about power tools.”

“What has
that
got to do with it?”

“Everything. Sheriff Wiggins said the killer has access to power tools. Bill Lewis has more power tools than all the rest of the men in Serenity Cove Estates put together. And don’t totally disregard Earl Brubaker’s accusations that Bill and Rosalie might have been an item.”

Appalled, I stared at her. “Surely you aren’t suggesting . . .”

Rita shrugged. “A woman can’t be too careful.”

Long after Rita left, I sat at the kitchen table idly watching the blades of my new fan whirl around and around. I didn’t know whether to be angry with my friends or to hug them. In the end, hugs won out. Instead of me rallying the troops, they had rallied around me in an all-out, albeit misguided, attempt to protect me from the Bill, the nicest and best-looking tool guy in Serenity Cove.

Chapter 21

I sat bolt upright in bed. My heart pounded like a jack-hammer inside my chest. Had I been dreaming? Or had it been real? Had a shrill bloodcurdling scream awakened me from a dead sleep?

Then I heard it again.

An unmistakable cry of pain. An eerie, high-pitched howl that made the tiny hairs at the nape of my neck stand at attention. A sound that filled me with terror. And seemed to be coming from just outside my bedroom.

What was it? Who was it?

Not stopping to weigh the consequences, I bounded out of bed and flung open the French doors that opened onto the deck that ran along the back of the house. I stood there in my nightclothes, shivering in the chill night air, trying to see through the murky darkness into the fringe of woods beyond. The only sound I heard now was the rustle of wind through the boughs of the trees.

I took a half step forward and recoiled when my bare foot encountered something hard and cold. I peered down at it—and sucked in a breath. Not believing what I was seeing, I stooped down to examine the object more closely.

A bone.

Long, pale, but undeniably a bone.

Part of a leg? Part of an . . .
it
? My mind refused to go there. I stared at the object as though it might disappear if I as much as blinked. I stretched out a hand to touch it, but stopped myself in time. Who had brought this grisly offering to my doorstep? And why?

Even more important, who had screamed in such anguish?

The thought sent goose bumps chasing up and down my spine. What if the person who brought the bone was still present, watching, hidden deep in the woods? I straightened slowly, wrapping my arms around my body for warmth. Keeping my eyes fastened on the woods beyond, I retreated backward step by cautious step until my feet were firmly planted on thick carpet. My hands shook as I turned the lock. I rattled the door a final time to make sure it was securely fastened, then reached for the phone and punched in 911.

My teeth were chattering so hard I had to repeat myself twice but finally managed to stammer the words
scream
and
bone
. The dispatcher on the other end of the line promised to send an officer to the scene.

“H-hurry,” I stuttered.

“Do you want me to stay on the line until someone gets there?” the disembodied voice inquired.

I thought of how I had charged out of the bedroom barefoot and in my nightgown without a thought to my own safety. How dumb can you get? I berated myself. Staying on the line now with the dispatcher would be a little like closing the barn door after the horse ran off. “Thank you, but no. I’ll be fine,” I said, then hung up.

I threw on a pair of sweats while waiting for a deputy to arrive. For good measure I pulled a pair of woolen socks over feet that felt like blocks of ice. I’m not a particularly patient person. The minutes ticked by with frustrating slowness. I went about the house turning on every light in every room, and finally when the house blazed like a Christmas tree, I put on the kettle for tea. After what I had just been through, there was no chance in hell I was going to get any more sleep tonight.

A cruiser from the Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department arrived within ten minutes. Ten minutes that seemed more like an hour. I recognized Deputy Preston from our encounter at the campground the moment he stepped out of the car. I was disappointed he hadn’t deemed lights and siren appropriate for the occasion. I thought sadly of
Law & Order
and my beloved
CSI
, and realized life doesn’t often imitate art.

I watched from the kitchen window as he walked toward the house, and answered the door before he had a chance to ring the bell. “Did you bring backup?” I asked, looking up and down the street for reinforcements.

“Ah . . . no, ma’am,” he replied. “This is a Code Two.”

I stared at him uncomprehendingly. Obviously I was the one who wasn’t up to code. Something else I’d have to look up in
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics
. “Did the dispatcher tell you I heard someone scream?” I shuddered at the memory of that horrible sound.

Preston scratched his head. “Didn’t say anything about a scream. Said the caller mumbled something about being out of cream and claimed she found a bone. Told me I better come check things out.”

“I’m not out of cream—in fact, I never even use cream. Too many calories.” I digressed, but who could blame me after what I’d just been through? “I called because I heard a scream.”

“Did you see anyone?”

“No, I went outside for a look around, but it’s too dark to see much.”

Preston’s thick black brows drew together in a frown. “Let me warn you, ma’am, going out like that probably wasn’t a good idea. There’s a killer on the loose, you know.”

As if I needed a reminder. I was, after all, one of the original discoverers of that sad fact.

Excusing himself, he switched on the industrial-size Maglite he carried, and proceeded to inspect the premises. I could hear his radio crackle as he made his way around the perimeter of the house, and felt comforted he could call for backup if need be. His inspection finally over, he returned to the door where I stood waiting.