Whack 'n' Roll (20 page)

“Didn’t find anything that looked suspicious, ma’am. Whoever, or whatever, didn’t leave any trace behind. Now show me this bone you found.”

I led the way. French doors opened onto the deck from both the master bedroom as well as the great room. Since the great room was closer, I chose those. “There,” I said, pointing to the offending discovery I’d made earlier.

“It’s a bone all right,” he agreed, squatting down on his haunches much as I’d done earlier to examine it.

Duh! I didn’t need an anthropology degree to know a bone when I saw one. I kept my comments to myself, saying instead, “Well, aren’t you going to photograph it?”

He looked at me blankly.

“You know, snap pictures like they always do on TV.”

“Yeah, sure, I was just about to do that.” He left and returned with a camera, then took a photo from two different angles.

“Good,” I said, nodding approval. “What’s next?”

“I’ll take it back and have it sent to the lab in Columbia for proper identification.” He started to reach for it, but froze when he heard my sharp intake of breath.

“You can’t do that!” I cried, aghast at his technique—or lack thereof. “Where are your latex gloves? Where’s the evidence bag?”

“Right,” he muttered. “Be back in a flash.”

Good as his word, he returned promptly, snapped on a pair of gloves, and dropped the bone into a bag marked EVIDENCE. “Guess that about does it.”

“Guess so.” I rubbed my arms, feeling a bit let down now that the adrenaline rush had subsided. I trailed after him through the house.

His studied me with kind, dark eyes before he turned to go. “Go back to bed, ma’am. Try to get some sleep.”

Fat chance of that happening, I wanted to snap. Instead, I mustered a smile and thanked him.

 

“You did what?”

“Kate McCall, what were you thinking?”

“You could have been killed.”

“Weren’t you scared?”

I was being bombarded with questions after telling my friends about my latest escapade. The four of us, Connie Sue, Pam, Monica, and me, were gathered around our usual table at the Cove Café. Pam and I had just finished Tai Chi; Connie Sue and Monica had come straight from land aerobics.

“Once your kids find out what you’ve been up to, they’ll have you out of here in a New York minute,” Pam cautioned. “It’ll be Assisted Living ’R Us.”

Monica shuddered. “What if you had found a . . . a . . . ?” “But I didn’t,” I said. “What I did find, however, was a new theory. A really scary new theory.”

Connie Sue speared the remaining grape at the bottom of her fruit cup. “Sugar, I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

I glanced around the restaurant, but no one seemed to be paying us any mind. “I think there’s a serial killer on the loose.”

My announcement was met with stunned silence.

Pam was the first to regain her speech. She leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Surely, Kate, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” I winced at the poor choice of words, but continued undaunted. “We still have no clue where Vera and Claudia have disappeared. What about the scream I heard last night? What about the bone I found literally on my doorstep? What if the killer is escalating?”

“Escalating? What the devil does that mean?” Monica looked more angry than confused.

“They use that term on that TV show
Criminal Minds
all the time,” Pam said, taking pity on her. “It means things are speeding up.”

“Ohh.”

“It means
we
have to speed things up. We can’t just sit back and wait for the sheriff to figure out who killed Rosalie. We need to think about Vera and Claudia. What if the sheriff is so focused on Rosalie’s murder, he isn’t trying to find
them
? What if that bone I found is
theirs
?” I paused, waiting for this to sink in.

Monica’s face took on a mulish expression. “Things like that just don’t happen here in Serenity Cove Estates.”

Connie Sue shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t cotton to the notion of a serial killer literally right here in our own backyards.”

“Then prove me wrong.” I tossed my napkin down, a symbolic gesture, since gauntlets were scarce here at the Cove Café. “Let’s find Vera and Claudia and show the sheriff what the Bunco Babes can do.”

Chapter 22

SERIAL KILLER STALKS SERENITY. Or perhaps KILLER IN THE COVE. I could see the lurid headlines already. Granted, a serial killer here in Serenity Cove was just a theory, but with two women still unaccounted for, in my mind at least, it was a very plausible one. I’d been awakened from a deep sleep by a scream that sounded human. If that weren’t bad enough, someone had left a bone—a bone—on my doorstep!

I had been sorely tempted to call the sheriff and discuss my serial-killer theory with him. My fingers had actually been poised to dial his number when I’d changed my mind. Though it had taken a while to get it through my thick skull, I finally accepted the fact that the sheriff preferred to work alone. He obviously didn’t appreciate the insights that I’d so generously provided. He had offered nothing in return. No, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins didn’t strike me as the sharing sort. Maybe he had been an only child. I decided I’d keep my theories to myself for the time being.

And the first order of business was to show the man the Babes could triumph where he faltered. We’d launch a no-holds-barred search for our friends. If this failed to produce results, we’d raise a hue and cry the likes of which had never been heard in Serenity Cove and vicinity.

With this at the top of my to-do list, I called Diane. She said she had a lead on contacting Claudia’s sons, but needed a little more time. Next I talked to Tara, who had been trying to find out anything she could about Vera’s daughter, hoping it would lead to Vera’s whereabouts. Nancy Drew wouldn’t sit around and twiddle her thumbs. And neither would I.

I took it upon myself to do a little sleuthing. And I’d start at the Cove Café.

This would be a perfect time to kill two birds, so to speak, with one stone. I’d have dinner there and, at the same time, do some investigating. With a bit of luck, I’d be able to wheedle more information out of Beverly. Hopefully she’d be feeling chatty after the generous tip I’d left on my last visit.

The café was busy, but not too busy. Only about a third of the tables were occupied. A chalkboard announced liver and onions as the night’s early-bird special. I know liver is good for you. Monica, or maybe it was Connie Sue, had lectured me on its benefits. She stressed how it was a good source of iron and loaded with B vitamins. Onions aside, my observation is that a person either loves or hates liver and onions. File me in the latter category.

I spied a table for two in what I hoped was Beverly’s section and sat down. I guessed right, because Beverly headed in my direction and greeted me with a warm smile. “Back again, I see.”

“It was either dinner here or frozen chicken potpie.”

She handed me a menu. “Funny, somehow I didn’t take you for a liver and onions fan.”

“I’m not,” I admitted, glanced over the menu. No sense flirting with fat grams and carbs on a night when lettuce would do just as well. “I’ll have a chef’s salad, ranch dressing on the side.”

“What can I get you to drink?”

“Just water.”

Waiting for my meal to arrive gave me time to think about how best to approach Beverly with my questions about Vera without seeming obvious. I wondered if there was a text titled
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Interrogation
.

“There you go, hon.” Beverly set my salad in front of me along with a water glass. “I’ll check back in a few.”

I took my sweet old time, daintily cutting strips of turkey and slicing wedges of tomato into bite-size pieces. Poured a little ranch dressing here, poured a little ranch dressing there. I chewed slowly, stopping frequently to take sips of water. My ploy evidently worked, because the café began to empty.

“More water?” Beverly asked.

“Sure, fill it up.” At this rate I’d be running relay races all night between bed and bathroom. But no sacrifice was too great. On
Law & Order
reruns, Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green were my role models. If they could sit through numerous stakeouts without complaining about full bladders, who was I to complain?

“How’s it going, Beverly?” I asked.

“I’m getting too old for this kinda work. Should’ve listened to my mother years ago and learned to type. All I’ve got to show for years on the job are bunions and varicose veins.”

I wanted to say, “Sit down, take a load off.” A phrase I heard in those old James Cagney and Humphrey Bogart movies. Instead I said, “Still no Vera?”

“Nope, and I’m still pulling doubles.” Beverly wandered off to clear a nearby table.

I speared a cherry tomato and sent it skittering across the table and onto the floor. My interrogation technique definitely needed fine-tuning. I still hadn’t learned anything of value. I wasn’t about to leave until I found out something—anything. Even if it meant sitting here until Beverly kicked me out. It dawned on me I didn’t even know Vera’s last name. Once I knew that, I could find out where she lived, then do a drive-by of her home. Maybe find a clue or two.

I picked up my water glass, drained it, and signaled for more. Sacrifices had to be made. By my count I’d downed three glasses thus far. Hello, bathroom, I said to myself.

But my bladder had limits. Time to quit procrastinating and get down to business. I gathered my meager supply of technique, and appealed to Beverly’s vanity. “You’re much too young, Beverly, to have ‘senior’ moments like us older folk, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to recall Vera’s last name.”

“It’s MacGillicudy. Vera MacGillicudy.”

“MacGillicudy! Of course! How silly of me to have forgotten.” I pretended to laugh at my stupidity, but secretly toasted my success. “With a name like that, I don’t suppose there are too many around.”

Beverly picked up my empty salad plate. “Nope. Vera used to joke she’s the only MacGillicudy in the phone book.”

Feeling generous for someone on a pension, I left Beverly a hefty tip. Like Jim used to say, you get what you pay for.

My need for a phone book superseded my need for a restroom. As much as I was tempted, I couldn’t very well ask Beverly for Vera’s address. Especially not on the heels of all my questions about her. Then the answer dawned on me.

The rec center.

I jumped in the Buick and drove the short distance. Fortunately the rec center was still open for late-in-the-day exercise junkies. I practically ran inside and asked the girl at the front desk if I could borrow a phone book. She looked at me rather strangely, but managed to produce one. I thumbed through the
M
s, and there it was, staring me smack-dab in the face: M. MacGillicudy, 248 Jenkins Road. I committed the number to memory, thanked the girl at the desk, who, by the way, was still looking at me rather strangely, and hopped back into the Buick.

I knew I’d seen Jenkins Road somewhere in my travels in and around Brookdale, but wasn’t exactly sure where. A county map would’ve come in handy, but I didn’t have one. Map or no map, I was determined to find Vera’s house if it took all night. Leaving Serenity Cove Estates behind, I drove sedately along the highway.

A couple miles outside Brookdale, I passed a white clapboard Baptist church. The marquee out front read WAL-MART IS NOT THE ONLY SAVING PLACE
.
Another Wal-Mart connection. I took this as an omen and continued down the road. Another half mile or so and cattle grazed in a farmer’s field. Shadows were lengthening. A reminder I didn’t have much time before dark. I slowed as I came to a crossroads and squinted at the street sign. JENKINS ROAD. I had found it. When you’re good, you’re good.

I turned left onto a narrow county road. The few houses and double-wide trailers I passed were widely spaced, each sitting on a large tract of land. I slowed to a crawl in order to read the weatherworn numbers posted on the mailbox at the end of each drive.

At last I found 248. Scraggly stands of pampas grass stood on either side of the driveway. I turned in and bumped my way down the dirt and gravel rut-filled drive. With each jolt, my bladder felt ready to burst. At the end of the drive was a modest ranch-style home with dingy vinyl siding. Two cheap plastic lawn chairs sat on a porch that ran the width of the house. Porches, I had observed since my move South, usually came equipped with chairs of one variety or another.

I shut off the engine and sat staring at the house. I really hadn’t given much thought as to what I was going to do next. I pondered my choices. Should I march up to the front door and ring the bell? And then what? Claim I was a census taker? Tell Vera I was taking some sort of survey to see who was minus an arm?

Or should I be more subtle?

The longer I sat there, the more I realized the dingy little house with its weed-choked yard had a deserted, closed-up air. Feeling braver by the minute, I got out of the car for a better look. If Vera was home, I’d simply tell her I was in the neighborhood and stopped by to use her bathroom. As one woman to another, she’d understand the havoc time wreaks on female bladders.

Impatiens drooped in pots near the front steps, their leaves withered and brown. I interpreted the dead flowers as a clue that Vera MacGillicudy was still MIA. When I got one of those little black notebooks like Sheriff Wiggins, I intended to jot this down with a big star in front of it. Stars in my little black book would be synonymous with
CLUE
.

My heart raced as suspense built. What would I find? Miscellaneous body parts? Bloodstains? Footprints? I approached the porch cautiously, all my senses alert. I realized then I had left Tools of the Trade at home. I had none of the necessary paraphernalia with me that was required for my career as a detective. Just goes to show I was a rank amateur in the sleuth department.