by Gail Oust
“Does this ‘real gem’ have a name?”
“Yeah, of course,” Pam said with a laugh. “It’s Bill—Bill Lewis. As a matter of fact, you met him yesterday.”
“I did?” If I had, he certainly failed to make much of an impression. Then again, other matters had made too much of one, but I didn’t want to go there.
“Bill also works as a ranger on the golf course.”
“Bill . . . ? The guy who barfed?”
“The one and only. Give him a chance, Kate,” Pam urged. “Don’t condemn the guy because he has a sensitive stomach.”
I glanced up at my dead ceiling fan and heaved a sigh. “OK, OK, I’ll call him, but he better not lose his lunch all over my nice clean kitchen floor.”
“Just don’t have any nasty surprises in store for the poor man.”
I doodled a chain of daisies on the pad where I had written Bill’s number. “I know it’s only been an hour since the last time we talked, but I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Claudia?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.
“No, not a word. I have to admit, Kate, I’m concerned. Do you think we should try to contact her sons? Ask them if they’ve heard from their mother?”
I thought about this for a moment. “I hate to worry them. Besides, we still don’t know whether the arm belongs to a man or a woman. Let’s wait until we find out more before sounding the alarm. For all we know, Claudia is busily snapping pictures of the Grand Canyon.”
“I still don’t like the fact she was so secretive about this new man in her life.”
“Maybe he’s a lot older than she is.”
“Knowing Claudia, he’s probably a lot younger.”
“Maybe he has two heads.”
“Or weighs six hundred pounds.”
“Seriously, Pam, if Claudia isn’t enough to worry about, what do you make of Vera taking off like that?” I could picture Pam’s brows drawing together in a frown.
“It’s possible Vera decided to take a vacation on the spur of the moment.”
Pam has a tendency to look at the bright side of a situation. A trait I find downright irritating at times. “Yeah,” I sneered, “maybe she won the lottery and took a cruise to the Greek Isles.”
“No need to be sarcastic,” she chided. “There’s probably a simple explanation. For example, there could be an illness in the family, and Vera was called away to care for them. Hate to cut this short, Kate, but I’ve got to run, or I’m going to be late for the dentist.”
“Better you than me,” I said. Personally I’d rather have gallbladder surgery than see the dentist. Surgeons give you general anesthesia. Dentists don’t.
After we disconnected, I gave Bill Lewis a call, and he agreed to drop by Sunday afternoon to check out the fan. Satisfied that my problem was under control, I packed a couple dozen cookies in a plastic take-and-go container and headed out the door.
Chapter 7
The Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department was housed in a single-story brick building just off the town square. I pulled into a parking spot down the block. I’d never had cause to turn down this particular side street before. Certainly never had cause to visit the sheriff. But then I never had two friends AWOL with a madman on the loose.
I took a minute to study the building in more detail. It looked so . . . ordinary. I had envisioned something far grander. Something more Southern with pillars or at least a veranda. Something . . . stately. Whatever I’d expected, this certainly wasn’t it. Its neat brick exterior reminded me of the thousands upon thousands of ranch-style homes popular in the Midwest. The trim around the windows and doors looked as though it had recently received a fresh coat of white paint. Pots planted with cheery purple and yellow pansies flanked each side of the entrance. A large gold emblem emblazoned on the door proclaimed it the official domain of Brookdale County sheriff Sumter Wiggins. Stifling my disappointment, I pushed open the door.
A girl with lank, shoulder-length hair and wire-rimmed glasses too large for her small face sat before a computer screen at the front desk. The nameplate read TAMMY LYNN SNOW. She glanced up from the screen and gave me a tentative smile. “May I help you, ma’am?”
The inbred politeness of Southerners never fails to impress me. When they address you, it’s always “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am.” So different from their Northern counterparts. Folks there could take a page from their book.
I explained to Tammy Lynn that I was here to see Sheriff Wiggins. The whole time I kept thinking Connie Sue would give her eyeteeth to get her hands on the girl. Tammy Lynn had great bone structure. Even I could see that. The girl was in dire need of a makeover. With the right hairstyle and a little makeup, the girl could be a knockout. But all that potential was hidden beneath a well-scrubbed face and clothes more befitting her granny. On second thought, make that her great-granny. After all, I’m a grandmother myself and like to think I still possess some fashion know-how.
“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”
“Ah, no. Sorry,” I admitted rather sheepishly. In the commotion of my kitchen filling with smoke, a suicidal ceiling fan, and finding a repairman, calling for an appointment never entered my head. And if it had, I would have ignored it. I’m a true believer in the element of surprise. Especially when the “surprise” comes bearing gifts. “I’m positive the sheriff will want to hear what I have to say. I promise I won’t take up much of his time,” I tacked on for good measure.
Tammy Lynn picked up a phone and relayed to the sheriff the message that he had a visitor. She nodded several times, then hung up. “Ma’am, he’ll be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”
I plunked myself down in one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared to wait. The girl resumed pecking away at the keyboard. Dog-eared copies of Field & Stream and Popular Mechanics stacked on a corner table didn’t interest me. I used the time instead to examine my surroundings. The walls were covered in a faux-walnut paneling, the floors a nondescript brown linoleum. Various official-looking certificates hung in cheap plastic frames. If anything, the interior was a bigger disappointment than the exterior. It was downright . . . boring. I might as well have been at the tax assessor’s office.
The sheriff’s department was nothing like the energy-charged headquarters on Law & Order. Thanks to my local cable station, I watch reruns faithfully each evening. Only the perfunctory “Most Wanted” posters tacked on a bulletin board near the door hinted this might be a law-enforcement establishment. But even that was ho-hum. I see these same bearded, unsmiling faces every time I mail a package at the post office. Nevertheless I committed each face to memory—just in case. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.
The intercom buzzed just then. Tammy Lynn looked up from her keyboard and gave me a timid smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I smiled back, collected the cookies and my handbag from an adjacent chair, and walked down a short hallway to a door marked COUNTY SHERIFF.
Sumter Wiggins was just as impressive on second viewing. All hard muscle and bad attitude. Some might even call him intimidating. But not me. I’m too old to be easily intimidated. In spite of the little pep talk I gave myself, however, I felt a faint flutter of apprehension as I took the seat he indicated.
“Miz McCall,” he drawled in that velvety baritone. “What brings you here instead of out on the golf course this fine afternoon?”
I wonder if anyone had ever told him that voice of his could earn more money in a week dubbing commercials than he could in a year as county sheriff. Not that I had any direct knowledge of this, mind you, but I always make a point of reading the entertainment section of the paper. One picks up interesting tidbits from time to time.
I plunked the take-and-go container of chocolate-chip cookies on the desk in front of him. “I thought you and your men could use a little treat while trying to break the case.”
“The case . . . ?” The word fairly hummed with skepti cism and disapproval.
“The c
ase of the missing appendage,” I hastily supplied, lest he’d forgotten our find of the day before. “Sounds like the title of a Nancy Drew mystery.”
Not a glimmer of recognition crossed his face at the mention of my girlhood heroine.
“Surely you’ve heard of Nancy Drew?” I asked. Hoping to enlighten him, I rattled off several titles that came to mind. “The Secret of the Old Clock? The Hidden Staircase? The Clue in the Diary?”
His expression remained impassive.
I forged ahead. “My all-time favorite is The Password to Larkspur Lane. I must have read it a dozen times.” I was momentarily transported back to my youth where I devoured every book written by my idol, Carolyn Keene. Heard she died at her typewriter at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Not a bad way to go, for a writer, that is.
“No offense, Miz McCall,” he drawled, “but if I want to discuss books, I’ll join Friends of the Library.”
Well, that certainly put me in my place. “Sorry, Sheriff. I do tend to ramble on and for that I apologize. I just assumed a man in your profession would be a mystery buff.”
The sheriff sighed. “Don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’ve got a full schedule.”
“Of course you do,” I replied primly. “Far be from me to take valuable time away from your investigation.”
He looked hopeful as he reached for his little black notebook. “Have you, by chance, remembered a detail you might have forgotten in all the excitement yesterday?”
“Well . . .” I could feel myself puff with pride. I had become part of an official police investigation. Wouldn’t my children be impressed to learn I was working closely with the sheriff’s department? “Actually, Sheriff, I do have a couple leads that might help solve our case.”
“Our case?”
I swear I saw him wince, but he recovered admirably and reached for a pen.
“Now we’re making progress.”
“My friend Claudia took off on a trip out west with a man she met on the Internet.” I leaned back and waited for the impact of this to fully sink in.
“That’s it?” he asked after a prolonged pause.
“In an RV,” I added. “No one’s heard a word since she left. Some of the Bunco Babes, as well as myself, have tried calling her, but no luck. Granted, Claudia’s notorious for forgetting to turn on her cell phone. Said she had enough of phones ringing day and night when she was in real estate.”
“Does this Claudia have a last name?”
“Of course, she does,” I said with a little laugh. “It’s Connors. Claudia Connors.” How absentminded of me. This just goes to show how upset I was about her disappearance. Sheriff Wiggins must surely have thought I was nothing more than a ditzy, harebrained woman with too much time on her hands.
“If that’s all . . .”
His lack of enthusiasm was evident—even to a ditz—as he jotted Claudia’s name in his book.
It would have been easy at this point to beat a hasty but dignified retreat, but I refused to let his attitude deter me from accomplishing what I had set out to do. I drew myself up straighter in the chair. “There is one more thing you may want to know since you’re looking into missing persons.”
He regarded me silently. His dark eyes could bore straight through a person. But like I said before, I’m not easily intimidated. After all, it’s not like I’m a felon with something to hide. Nevertheless . . .
I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Vera up and left without a word.” I debated whether to mention Rosalie, but decided against it . . . at least for the time being.
Sheriff Wiggins sighed heavily. “Is this Vera another of your bunco ladies?”
“No, no. Vera is our favorite waitress at the Cove Café.”
“I see. Suppose you tell me what you know about Vera. I’ll take it from there.”
“Vera wasn’t at work this morning, and this new waitress, Marcy, couldn’t keep our orders straight. Naturally we asked about Vera.”
“Naturally.”
I ignored the thinly veiled sarcasm. “All Marcy could say was that Vera ‘up and left.’ It isn’t like a woman of a certain age to just walk away from a perfectly good job when tips alone would make her want to stay.”
“Does this Vera have a last name?”
Sheriff Wiggins waited, pen poised, while I pondered his question. I was reminded how very little I knew about the woman who served me breakfast two or three times a week. “I’m sure Vera does have a last name, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it,” I admitted slowly, then brightened. “Surely the folks who hired her can tell you.”
“And you think I need to check into the matter because . . . ?” He paused, leaving me to fill in the blank.
“Because . . .” The man was trying my patience. He could, at the very least, pretend to be a teensy bit grateful for the information. I read the news. I watch TV. The police are always asking concerned citizens to step forward.
“Because,” I began anew, “the arm we found yesterday belongs to someone. I believe it’s proper police procedure to account for anyone who might be missing. Especially those missing under rather mysterious circumstances.”
“Don’t mean to be disrespectful, ma’am, but what makes you an expert on police procedure?”
“Because I’ve watched every single episode of Law & Order, that’s why,” I fired back.
My retort left him at a momentary loss. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins certainly failed to measure up to Law & Order’s Detective Lennie Briscoe when it came to witty repartee. First Nancy Drew, now Law & Order. I could see by the expression on the sheriff’s face that he wasn’t taking me seriously. How hard could it be to track down a couple of missing women who had gone AWOL? I bet I could do it myself if I set my mind to it. I had half a notion to do just that.
“If that’s all . . .”
It didn’t take a ton of bricks to hit me over the head. I can tell when I’m not wanted. I got to my feet and slung my purse over my shoulder. The sheriff rose as well. Apparently his mama drilled good manners into her boy—if not a sunny disposition.
“Enjoy the cookies, Sheriff. Chocolate chip are my specialty.”
“Kind of you, ma’am, but I don’t eat cookies.”
Doesn’t eat cookies? That stopped me dead in my tracks. What kind of person doesn’t eat cookies? Not even Connie Sue, who watches her weight like a hawk, has that much willpower. Clearly the man wasn’t human.
I could feel my cheeks burn as I marched past Tammy Lynn and out the front door. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins was insufferable. My meeting with him had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot.
Or in this case—pardon the pun—on the wrong arm.
Chapter 8
The whole town was still buzzing the next day when I ducked into the Piggly Wiggly. And I don’t mean just Serenity Cove Estates, but Brookdale as well. Brookdale happens to be the county seat and, as the crow flies, is the town closest to Serenity. It’s not very big as towns go, but one can find the essentials of life situated around the town square. In addition to the ubiquitous Chinese and Mexican restaurants, there’s a quaint little tearoom, a video store that doubles as a nail/tanning salon, a used-book store, and a couple of antiques shops. Flanking the square like nineteenth-century bookends are the county courthouse at one end and the opera house at the other. Cute and quaint. Brookdale could double as a set for a Disney movie.
If I get a hankering to visit a mall, I hop in the Buick and drive another twenty-five miles or so down the road. I have to admit I don’t hanker as much as I did when I was younger. Malls, it seems, have lost their luster. If that’s a sign of aging, then so be it.
In an area where a hole in one makes headlines, finding a body part is huge. Everywhere I went, it’s all people were talking about. Having been one of the discoverers made me somewhat of a celebrity. Given my druthers, I certainly wouldn’t have picked a dismembered appendage as a means for my fifteen minutes of fame. I would have chosen something more in line with winning the Sout
h Carolina Lottery. Or a dream vacation to Fiji on Regis and Kelly.
“Kate!” A woman’s voice exclaimed from behind me.
Seemed like I couldn’t wheel my shopping cart, or buggy as they’re called here in the South, halfway down the produce aisle before being waylaid by someone eager to get the lowdown. I stopped sniffing a cantaloupe and glanced over my shoulder.
“Hello, Shirley,” I said, recognizing the woman. Shirley Buckner and her husband, Jerry, attend the same church as I do. Jerry sings in the choir. Shirley organizes bake sales. A nice couple. A little on the dull side, but nice.
“I heard what happened the other day.”
“You and half the county, it seems.” I set the melon back in the bin and picked up another. Don’t know why I bother with the sniff test. It never seems to help. Truthfully, I sniff only when others are around so it looks like I know what I’m doing. If no one’s watching, I just grab the nearest melon and move on.
“It must have been horrible.”
“You might say that,” I replied, giving up on smell-the-cantaloupe.
“Jerry and I were talking over breakfast. Do you suppose the rest of that poor soul will ever be found?”
“I have no idea, Shirley.” I placed the melon in my cart . . . er . . . buggy. “I only hope someone else does the honors next time.”
Shirley searched through the mound of melons as if she actually knew what she was doing. “I heard people say”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“parts are probably scattered all across the state from one end to the other.”
“Couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.” A second woman joined us. Apparently Shirley’s whisper needed more practice. “It’s awful, just awful. Isn’t it?”
Sheesh! Did she expect me to disagree? “It certainly is,” I murmured, edging away from the cantaloupes and heading toward the tomatoes. I’m much more confident around tomatoes. It’s much easier to spot a ripe one. Just zero in on red.
The woman, who I seemed to remember went by the name Bootsy, followed. “We never even used to lock our doors. Now my husband is talking about putting in a security system.”
