Whack 'n' Roll (30 page)

 

It was déjà vu all over again, to quote my favorite philosopher, Yogi Berra. Only this time I was prepared. The shrill bloodcurdling shriek came just as I was about to drift off to sleep. Even with the Sandman filling the bedroom with the sound of rippling waves, the cry penetrated every corner of the room. Leaping out of bed, I grabbed the flashlight off the bedside stand, raced across the room, and flung open the French doors. I swept the beam around the deck and stifled a scream when I practically stepped on a blob of gray fur.

What was it? Or rather, what had it been? A squirrel? A rabbit perhaps? Maybe a mouse? And how did it get there?

Whatever it was, I didn’t need the crime lab in Columbia to tell me it wasn’t human. Flashlight clutched in one hand, the other pressed against my chest to contain my bounding heart, I ventured farther out onto the deck. Just a few ceramic pots of purple pansies, but nothing out of the ordinary. Next, I swept the beam across the lawn toward the woods beyond.

And there I spotted it.

An animal, orange in color with translucent green eyes, stared back at me. At first I thought it might be a fox, but reconsidered as I continued to watch. It was too small for a fox, more the size of a house cat. Then it dawned on me. It was a cat all right—a feral cat. I’d heard of them—helpless animals that had been abandoned along the roadside to roam wild—but I’d never actually seen one before. This little creature was a sorry sight. Scrawny and battered, it looked as though it had gone ten bouts with the world’s welterweight champion and lost. But judging from the “gift” on my doorstep, it had a generous and giving nature. It also explained, to my mind at least, how the bone happened to come into my possession. Like the blob of fur at my feet, it was another present, another bid for attention.

The wild thing looked half-starved. I thought of the canned tuna sitting on a pantry shelf, and got down on my haunches. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I crooned.

Turning tail, the cat turned and disappeared into the woods.

Chapter 34

The day for our outing finally arrived. Aiken, beware: The Bunco Babes are armed and dangerous and primed to shop.

After much debate, we ended up taking two cars. It would be a disaster of epic proportions if we didn’t have ample room to store our spoils for the trip home. I opted to drive with Pam, as did Polly and Gloria. I had offered to play chauffeur, but Pam insisted it was her turn. As much as I love her, I hate driving with her. To be brutally honest, she’s better at navigating a golf cart than she is her PT Cruiser. Her poor car has the dings and dents to prove it.

Aiken, South Carolina, one of my favorite towns, is situated a little more than a half hour’s drive northeast of Augusta, Georgia. I make it a point to visit at least a couple times a year. Known for its mild winters and early springs, Aiken once attracted movers and shakers of the Gilded Age. Notables such as Vanderbilt, Whitney, and Astor built cozy sixty-nine-room cottages here. Today, while the main drag, Whiskey Road, offers a plethora of chain restaurants, a mall, and megastores, it’s the downtown area that draws me. Specialty shops, restaurants, and galleries line a section of Laurens Street. After finding parking stalls—not always an easy task—the Babes and I agreed to go our separate ways and compare notes over lunch.

We scattered. Some went north; some went south. Shopping, however, wasn’t at the top of my to-do list. I’d bigger fish to fry. I’d drawn a sketch of the ring I recalled Rosalie wearing at bunco—the one that had been on her hand when she was killed.

While the rest of the Babes shopped, I planned to make some discreet inquiries from store owners and jew elers. Since the ring’s design was unique, I hoped someone would recognize it. Since Pam was on a self-imposed austerity program since splurging on golf clubs, she readily agreed to accompany me.

Pam and I concentrated on the boutiques that sold unique jewelry. There, I’d ask to see the owner or manager and whip out my sketch. I’d then go into my spiel about wanting to duplicate the ring in memory of a dear friend who had recently passed away. Everyone listened sympathetically, but alas, the ring remained a mystery. Along the way, Pam forgot about her austerity plan and bought a sterling-silver charm bracelet.

“I guess this wasn’t such a good idea after all,” I admitted as we headed toward the restaurant to meet the rest of the Babes for lunch.

“Even if we did find the jeweler who made the ring, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’ll lead us to Rosalie’s murderer,” Pam pointed out.

“I know.” I couldn’t help but feel discouraged. If this didn’t work, my stint as a detective was over. Sheriff Wiggins, I sensed, was getting ready to arrest Earl. I was convinced the person Rosalie was having an affair with was the person who gave her the ring. Find him, find a viable murder suspect.

I glanced up and saw Janine and Monica heading toward us. We met them at the door of the restaurant about the same time Connie Sue and Rita joined us from the opposite direction. Gloria and Polly had arrived early and had already been shown to a table. Everyone except me talked a mile a minute, exchanging information about where they shopped, what they bought, and what they almost bought.

Finally, Connie Sue held up her hand for silence. “One at a time, y’all. I don’t want to miss a teeny-tiny detail.”

Conversation swirled around me. Janine and Monica took turns raving about their wonderful time exploring Hitchcock Woods, a two-thousand-acre tract preserved for the exclusive use of people on foot or on horseback. Connie Sue went on and on about the perfect gift she found for Thacker’s birthday. Gloria was pleased as punch with some new cookware to add to her already impressive collection. Rita had discovered the garden shop and had already made a trip to the car with the squirrel-proof bird feeder she’d purchased. Last, but by no means least, Polly showed off chandelier-type earrings suitable for the Academy Awards.

Janine turned to me, puzzled. “What about you, Kate? You’re awfully quiet.”

“We mostly window-shopped,” Pam said, answering for me. “Let me show you the bracelet I bought Megan. It’s going to be a Christmas gift.”

“Who wants to split a dessert?” I asked. There was no better distraction for the Bunco Babes than a dessert menu. The ploy worked like a charm—as always.

After lunch, we decided on a final shopping blitz before heading home. Once again we separated. Janine and Rita went off in search of a bookstore. Connie Sue and Polly wanted to check out a boutique the waitress had mentioned. Gloria thought she might like a bird feeder like the one Rita had bought. The kitchen specialty shop beckoned to Monica.

“Game for one more try?” I asked Pam.

“How about the place where Polly found those fabulous earrings?” she suggested. “I think she said it was called Art on the Park.”

I nodded agreement. “Lead the way.”

Art on the Park was my kind of place. Open, airy, it practically begged us to browse. Polished hardwood floors and overhead track lighting provided a stunning showcase for the work of local artisans. Jewel-colored art glass, unique pottery, and some interesting sculptures were strategically arranged around the gallery. Pam and I paused to admire handcrafted one-of-a-kind jewelry in a display case.

“Don’t you dare let me buy a single thing,” Pam instructed, lowering her voice. “If you see me take out my credit card, you have my permission to smack my hand.”

“Isn’t that a beauty?” I pointed to a handsome carved wood bowl of burled cherry on a nearby pedestal. “It would look great in your dining room.”

Pam ran her hand over the bowl’s smooth finish. “Kate McCall, I swear you’re a bad influence on me. I promised myself I’d cook dinner every night for a month instead of eating out to make up for the fortune I spent on those new clubs.”

“I don’t know why you’re always so worried. If Jack were here, he’d tell you that if you like something, then buy it.”

“I know,” Pam said on a sigh. “It’s just that I still remember how I struggled after my divorce and before I met Jack.”

“But you did meet Jack.”

“Yes, and he’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”

I felt a lump in my throat. I envied Jack and Pam their closeness. Pam had been a single mom with two young children when she met Jack, a confirmed bachelor. It had been love at first sight. At age forty she discovered she was pregnant with Megan. She claims she didn’t know who was happier, her or Jack.

A gray-haired clerk approached wearing a polite smile. “Can I help you, ladies?”

I jerked my attention back to the task at hand. Pulling out the sketch of Rosalie’s ring, I went into my monologue.

“Hmm.” The clerk’s brows knit in concentration.

“My friend had this specially made. Now that she . . . passed . . .” I let my voice trail off for dramatic effect. “Passed” is my euphemism of choice for dying. As an alternative, I could have used “entered into eternal rest,” as do some of the newspapers. Euphemisms, I wholeheartedly believe, make death so much more palatable than the bald truth. I haven’t tested my theory, understand, but I assumed people might react differently if I told them my friend’s death had been hastened by a blow to her head with a sand wedge.

“It’s quite striking.” The clerk continued to examine the sketch, which I took as a good sign. “I can’t be certain, of course, but this looks like the work of Whit Kincaid. Whit owns and operates a small boutique jewelry shop nearby.”

“Could you tell us how to find him?” A little spark of hope fanned into a raging forest fire.

“He calls his shop Whit’s End. Here, let me draw you a map.” She used the back of a brochure to draw a quick diagram and wished us luck.

Thanking her profusely, Pam and I left the gallery. As we stood at the corner waiting for the traffic light to change, I noticed an oddity. The crossing buttons were on two levels: one set for pedestrians, a second, higher set for those on horseback or carriage. I recalled reading once that in Aiken horses have the right-of-way. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but it gave credence to Aiken’s love for everything equestrian.

Someday, I promised myself, I was going to organize an excursion to Aiken that didn’t involve shopping. The Babes and I would dress up in our Sunday finery, wide-brimmed straw hats and all, and attend one of the polo matches that were held here. We’d have ourselves a tailgate party to end all tailgate parties. We’d sip mimosas and nibble crackers and pâté. Since Monica was resident teetotaler, I’d appoint her designated driver.

Today, however, I had more important things on my mind than horses and polo. The light changed, and I glanced at my watch as we crossed the street. I quickened my step. “We better hurry if we’re going to meet up with everyone for the ride home.”

“Don’t get your hopes up,” Pam cautioned. “This could be another blind alley.”

“I can feel it, Pam.” I looked at the map in my hand, then up at a neat redbrick building with white trim, black shutters, and a dark green awning with WHIT’S END scrawled across it. I shoved open the door. “Here goes.”

The only person in the shop was a tall, well-groomed woman in her forties who was busily attacking the shelves with a feather duster. She put down her duster when she saw us and gave us a friendly smile. “May I help you?”

I decided to skip the appetizer and go straight for the entrée. “Is Mr. Kincaid available? If so, we’d like to speak with him for just a moment.”

“I’m sorry.” The woman’s smile shifted from friendly to apologetic. “Mr. and Mrs. Kincaid are in Charleston for the weekend. It’s their anniversary.”

Disappointment shot through me faster than a speeding bullet. Couldn’t the Kincaids have stayed home on their anniversary and just gone out for a nice dinner? I’d tried not to pin all my hopes on Mr. Whit Kincaid, but I’d been so optimistic we were finally on the right track. I’m old enough to know better than to put all my eggs in one basket, but guess I’m a slow learner.

“It’s their fortieth,” the clerk confided.

Pam nudged me in the ribs. “Go ahead, show her.”

Halfheartedly, I pulled out the sketch, which by now was looking a bit grungy, and handed it to the woman. I went into my song and dance about how I wanted a similar ring made in a friend’s memory.

Vertical frown lines appeared between the woman’s brows as she studied my crude drawing. “It looks like Mr. Kincaid’s work, but I can’t say for sure,” she said, returning it. “I only work here part-time. My youngest started college—USC in Columbia—and I was suffering from empty-nest syndrome.”

“Yes, that can be a difficult time,” I commiserated, tucking the sketch back into my purse. “After my daughter, Jennifer, left for college, I volunteered as a teacher’s aide at the local grade school.”

I always marvel how easily a casual conversation with a perfect stranger can take a personal turn. Another of those eccentricities here in the South. It hadn’t taken me long to fall into the pattern.

“If you like,” the woman continued, “I could make a copy of your sketch and show it to Mr. Kincaid when he returns on Monday.”

“That would be wonderful!” I said, brightening at the prospect. Maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe small talk did pay off. I didn’t question my good fortune. Digging out the drawing, I scribbled my name and phone number at the bottom. “Here, give this to Mr. Kincaid and ask him to call if he remembers the ring.”

I was unusually quiet on the drive home, but Gloria and Polly picked up the slack. I had to content myself knowing I had done my best to solve a homicide. I wondered if Nancy Drew ever felt discouraged.

Chapter 35

The morning was gloomy, just like my mood. Sullen gray clouds blanketed the usually cornflower blue Carolina skies. The threat of rain hung in the air, the result of a tropical depression that hovered over the coast. I hoped Tai Chi would lift my spirits. I needed to tap into
calm and relaxed
. Needed to rid myself of the restless, edgy feeling that had nagged me all weekend. It was Monday. If I didn’t hear from Whit Kincaid by nighttime, I’d hoist the white flag of surrender.