Whack 'n' Roll

by Gail Oust

  “What’s wrong with Monday?” I said, probably sounding a trifle defensive. “My place. Same time.”

  “Thacker expects pot roast Monday night.”

  My, my, Thacker was certainly a creature of habit. To bed at nine. Pot roast on Monday. It made me wonder what else in the Brody household was done according to schedule. Somehow I didn’t want to go there.

  Now it was my turn to sigh. “Use your imagination, Connie Sue. Tell Thacker the government just declared Tuesday National Pot Roast Day.”

  “Well, I don’t know. . . .”

  “Connie Sue, tell Thacker whatever you want. Just be there. I need you—the Babes need you.”

  “OK, sugar. No need to get your panties in a twist. See you tomorrow.”

  Rita was next on my list. “Emergency bunco? Kate McCall, you’re going to have to tell me more than that if you expect me to cancel bridge.”

  Bridge is Rita’s true passion. The fact that she plays bunco never ceases to amaze me. Rita used to be a branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. In other words, she’s good with numbers. Bridge satisfies her talent for skill and strategy, but bunco . . . ? Bunco is purely a flip of the dice. Leave skill and strategy at the doorstep. But who knows? Maybe bunco is a nice change of pace. Gives those brain cells a night off.

  “Trust me, Rita. It’ll be worthwhile.” I plucked a dead leaf off a plant on the windowsill. “Make sure to bring Tara along. The Babes and I need your shrewd minds to help get at the bottom of what’s going on.”

  “What’s going on?”

  Next she’d be asking me, “Who’s on first?” and that old Abbott and Costello routine would be off and running. It never fails to crack me up. “Just come, all right?” I hung up before she could bombard me with more questions. I knew she’d be there with her daughter-in-law. Rita simply couldn’t resist a puzzle.

  Pam was much easier. “Course I’ll be there. Megan, too, since she doesn’t have to work the next day.”

  “Great,” I replied, grateful Pam didn’t need a boatload of explanations. “And, Pam,” I added just before hanging up, “don’t forget the tiara.”

  Pam chuckled. “Monica’s been biding her time for a chance to take it away from me. She’s gunning for rhinestones.”

  I couldn’t help but smile as I dialed Janine. As much as Monica wanted to wear the crown, Rita tended to be the Babes’ high roller.

  No answer at Janine’s, so I left a message on the answering machine. I continued down the list. Monica and Diane readily agreed. Since Claudia was still off doing her thing with her mystery man, I phoned Nancy—whom I secretly refer to as Never-Say-No Nancy—and asked her to sub. She said yes, of course.

  I saved Polly for last. She answered on the first ring. “What’s up?”

  “I’m calling an emergency bunco game for Monday night. My place, usual time.”

  “If I’m any judge of character, Kate McCall, you’ve got something up your sleeve. Can you give an old lady a hint?” Polly is the youngest “old lady” I’ve ever met. She’s only “old” when it suits her.

  “We need to discuss what’s going on here in Serenity Cove. Help the sheriff figure things out.”

  “Gotcha. Gloria and I’ll be there with bells on.” I could picture her trotting down the breezeway separating her mother-in-law suite from the main house, to give her daughter the message. “Besides,” Polly continued, “this’ll give me a chance to show off my new outfit.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I replied.

  And that was the god-awful truth. Polly’s choice of a wardrobe was a constant source of amazement. At the tender age of seventy-five, she exchanges fashion advice with Megan, who’s barely out of her teens. And if that isn’t enough to sustain her youthful image, Polly happens to be the resident authority on pop culture. According to Gloria, she subscribes to a slew of celebrity gossip rags. Want to know who’s in rehab, who’s out, who’s dating whom, or who just broke up, Polly’s your girl.

  “Be there or be square,” she chortled. “See you Monday.”

  I crossed her name off my list and sat back. Good, everyone was coming. An emergency bunco game seemed the best route. I didn’t want to have to explain my plan eleven times when I could do it once. We needed to band together. Put our collective heads together and track down Vera and Claudia. I’d rest better, and so would all the Bunco Babes, once we knew our friends were accounted for.

  Sheriff Wiggins was much too closemouthed for my liking. He didn’t seem to share my sense of urgency when I told him about Vera and Claudia. I know he’s a busy man, but I didn’t feel like waiting until he got around to it. I needed to know they were safe and sound. And I needed to know sooner as opposed to later. If he wasn’t going to investigate, we’d do it ourselves.

  I was wide-awake by this time. Wired is the term I hear used for this type of wakefulness. I decided to test the soothing power of chamomile tea one more time.

  Once the tea was ready, I retreated to the library/den and turned on the computer. Nothing like surfing the Internet to while away an hour or two. My first stop on the World Wide Web was an Internet bookstore. Novel Nuts, the book club here in Serenity, was due to meet in two weeks, and I had yet to order the month’s selection. That accomplished, I surfed awhile longer, checking this, checking that. On a whim, I typed forensics in the search field and clicked the mouse.

  Wow! More than fifty thousand results popped up within seconds. Isn’t the Internet grand? But I didn’t need to peruse fifty thousand references to make my selection. Almost instantly, I spied exactly what I was looking for. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics. Perfect! The title practically leaped off the page.

  Fixed income or not, I splurged. A twitch of a finger, and it was done. The Compete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics was slated for one-day shipping. With luck, it might even arrive in time for emergency bunco.

  As I turned off the light and headed for the bedroom, I glanced out the kitchen window. A light still burned in the Brubaker house across the way.

  Come Monday morning, word spread like crazy that Sheriff Wiggins had called a town hall meeting for two o’clock that afternoon. It was likely to be quite an event. The likes of which Serenity Cove Estates had never seen. What was he about to announce? Had they identified the victim?

  My phone rang nonstop. I finally gave up trying to answer it, or I’d never get to Lowe’s and back. As much as I wanted a new ceiling fan, I wanted a front-row seat even more. Most of the Bunco Babes planned to attend the meeting except for Diane, who’s the town’s librarian, and Tara, who teaches preschool. Janine said she’d try to make it, but it was her day to volunteer at the Habitat Store.

  I headed for Augusta. I know, I know. Augusta is in Georgia, and Serenity Cove Estates is in South Carolina. A look at a map will show the two states are kissing kin. Brookdale might have all the necessities of life, but Augusta supplies the frills. Not that I consider a ceiling fan a frill, nevertheless . . .

  I averted my gaze when I drove past Wal-Mart. Didn’t like to think about the last time I had seen one of their bags. I kept going, straight to one of those large home-improvement stores. I passed boutiques, discount stores, and a pricey new strip mall, but refused to get diverted. I was on a mission.

  Inside Lowe’s, I wandered down aisles of plumbing and electrical gadgets, past appliances, paint, tile, and carpet. I was one of only a handful of women in the entire place. But men were everywhere, staring into bins of doodads with looks of pure rapture. Apparently home-improvement stores are to men what jewelry stores are to women. If I’d been looking to meet a fella, this place would top the list. Once word got out, it’d be mobbed by single women.

  Focus, Kate, focus, I told myself. Buy a fan and get on with your life.

  I found ceiling fans at last, and suppressed a groan. There were dozens from which to choose. A vast array hung overhead like a fleet of spaceships. The choice loomed more daunting than the fifty thousand forensics references. What size did I need, fifty-two
or sixty inch? Then came blades. Oak, teak, or cherry? Nickel, pewter, or bronze? Remote control or no remote? Price? Warranty? My head was swimming. So I did what I always do when confronted with too much information, too many decisions. I closed my eyes and pointed.

  “That one,” I told the clerk.

  When I opened my eyes again, I said hello to my new fan. It was white; it had blades that whirled around. It was perfect.

  Then I heard the one word all shoppers fear: back-order .

  A glance at my watch told me I was running late. I didn’t have any more time to waste on a stupid fan, not with a town hall meeting in the offing. I left Lowe’s fanless and headed home. I arrived with only minutes to spare before Sheriff Wiggins was scheduled to address the good citizens of Serenity Cove Estates.

  The meeting was being held in the auditorium of the Recreation and Fitness Center. I was forced to park halfway on the grass at the end of the lot. The place was jammed just like I predicted. The custodian kept hauling extra chairs out of the storage room, but finally gave up. People were still filtering in, taking up spots along the walls and standing at the back of the room.

  Connie Sue stood and waved when she saw me. I made my way to the front, ignoring the dirty looks some people sent my way. Except for Diane and Tara, the Babes were there in full force. Since we were the ones to find the arm, we had a vested interest in the proceedings.

  “Saved a spot for you, sugar.” Connie Sue indicated a seat smack-dab in the middle of the front row, between her and Rita. Polly winked and gave me a thumbs-up as I scooted past her and Gloria. I spied Pam along with Megan several rows back. Monica, looking none too happy, was there, too.

  Rita and Connie Sue resumed their conversation where it had left off.

  “What do you suppose the sheriff’s going to tell us?”

  “Probably about what the campers found in the woods.”

  “Why do you suppose he’d call a town meeting when we could just read about it in the paper?”

  “I watched the noon news out of Augusta. Not a single word.”

  “Someone said the FBI’s been called in.”

  Listening to the two of them go back and forth, I felt like a spectator at a tennis match.

  Polly leaned forward and tapped me on the shoulder. “I heard the body’s Jimmy Hoffa’s.”

  “Mother, really . . . ,” Gloria remonstrated, sending her large gold hoop earrings swaying.

  Polly shrugged, nonplussed. “He’s got to be found somewhere. Why not here?”

  A hush started at the back of the room and worked its way forward like a tsunami. The time for speculation was over. Sheriff Wiggins strode into the room accompanied by the two deputies I had seen with him Saturday at the state park. I marveled at his effect over a crowd of people. He put me in mind of Tiger Woods. I had seen the same type of reaction when Jim and I watched Tiger stride up the fairway at the Masters the time we had been lucky enough to get tickets.

  The room was so still you could’ve heard a clock tick.

  Sheriff Sumter Wiggins went directly to the podium at the front. His coal black eyes swept over the assembled throng. I thought his gaze lingered a second or two longer on me, but then again I might be getting a little paranoid.

  He didn’t wait for an introduction, but started right in. “I’m glad to see such a good turnout. The purpose of this here meetin’ is threefold: First of all, I hope to put an end to some of the wild rumors that have been circulatin’ con cernin’ recent findings in and around Serenity Cove Estates.”

  “Does this rule out Jimmy Hoffa?” I heard Polly ask in a stage whisper.

  “Shhh!” I recognized the sound as Gloria’s.

  Our sheriff is no dummy. If he overheard any of this, he wisely ignored it. “Second, I want to bring you up to speed on the ongoing investigation and, last but not least, ask for your cooperation in bringin’ the perpetrator to justice.”

  A murmur passed through the crowd, followed once again by hushed silence.

  “As some of y’all already know, human remains were discovered by campers on Saturday at the state park.” His gaze flickered in my direction, then moved on. “Although we haven’t yet been able to make a positive identification, I can tell you the victim was female.”

  Female? The victim was a woman! This time the murmurs rippling through the crowd were louder and more insistent. The sheriff waited them out.

  “You were right, Kate,” Connie Sue said in a low voice. “We need to make sure our friends are all in one piece.”

  I grimaced at her choice of words, but Connie Sue didn’t seem to notice. “Thacker’ll just have to wait till tomorrow for pot roast.”

  The sheriff waited until things quieted down. “Law-enforcement officials, myself included, believe this is an isolated incident of violence directed at one specific target.”

  One specific target? My hunch had been right. The arm and whatever else the campers found apparently belonged to the same person.

  Bernie Mason, the jerk with the bad comb-over, jumped to his feet. “Sheriff, we could all be murdered in our beds. How do you propose to stop this crime wave?”

  “One murder, sir, hardly constitutes a crime wave. My department is doin’ everythin’ possible to bring the killer to justice. Let me assure you, there is no need for panic.”

  No need to panic? Could he be a little more specific? Does this mean Shirley and Bootsy, the ladies from the Piggly Wiggly, won’t have to debate security systems versus guard dogs? Can Bootsy’s husband stop locking doors? The possibilities were mind-boggling.

  “Any more questions?”

  Brave man, Sheriff Wiggins. My arm shot into the air like a rocket.

  “Miz McCall . . . ,” he dragged out my name.

  “I heard you call for a sled on Saturday. I waited as long as I could, but never saw one arrive. Could you please explain why no one responded to your request?”

  For the first time, I saw him crack a smile. His whole countenance seemed to change, to light from within. He seemed almost . . . human. “Ma’am, that might be because SLED isn’t a sled. SLED is an acronym. It stands for South Carolina Law Enforcement Division. It’s the official investigative arm of the governor and attorney general. Rest assured, SLED will, indeed, be assistin’ in the investigation.”

  I could hear people in the audience titter at my inane question and the sheriff’s response. Again he succeeded in putting me in my place. Rita, sensing my embarrassment, reached over and squeezed my hand.

  “Next question.”

  This time it was Mort What’s-His-Name, Bernie’s golfing buddy, who stood up. “What can you tell us about the weapon?”

  “Cause of death still hasn’t been established. All I can say for now is that the perpetrator has access to power tools.”

  Power tools?

  Sheriff Sumter Wiggins had just declared every man in Serenity Cove Estates a suspect.

  Chapter 12

  The appointed hour for the first-ever Bunco Babes Emergency Session was at hand.

  “Nice outfit,” Megan said, complimenting Polly on her stonewashed jeans and stretchy top.

  “Thanks, sweetie.” Polly preened, sticking out her modest bosom to emphasize the cherry red top adorned with sequins arranged in the shape of a heart. “Got it at that place you told me about at the mall. They have some really cool clothes.” She sent a meaningful glance at her daughter’s slacks. “I’m not ready for polyester.”

  Gloria rolled her eyes and refused to take the bait. Apparently mother and daughter had had this discussion before. “Where’s Monica?” she asked, zeroing in on a table set for three instead of the usual four.

  Monica was conspicuous for her absence. I could have cheerfully strangled her when she called half an hour ago to back out of tonight’s game. How was I supposed to find a sub at the last minute? The Babes all turned to me, waiting for an answer.

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” I held up both hands palm out and shrugged. “Monica was afr
aid she’d get sick again if we started talking about . . . you know.”

  “What do you mean if?” Polly asked. “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  “Well, yes,” I admitted. “I tried to assure Monica that we’d leave out all the gory details, but she hung up before I finished.”

  Polly wagged her head in disgust. “Never figured Monica for a weak stomach.”

  “Did you call Judy?” Diane asked. “She always likes to play.”

  “What about Barb?” Tara said, trying to be helpful.

  I set out a bowl of foil-wrapped dark chocolate truffles. “Barb’s packing for a cruise with a bunch of her sorority sisters. Judy has company from out of town.”

  “What about Rosalie?”

  Never-Say-No Nancy’s question just sort of hung there. Kind of like the ceiling fans at Lowe’s.

  When I didn’t answer immediately, the women looked at me expectantly. “I did try Rosalie,” I confessed, pouring cashews into a bowl. “Earl claims she’s visiting grandkids in upstate New York.”

  “I can’t remember the last time I saw Rosalie.” Connie Sue picked up a chocolate truffle, then replaced it unopened. “I used to run into her all the time at the golf course.”

  Gloria helped herself to a handful of cashews, the ceiling light glinting off the collection of bangle bracelets she wore. “Seems like Rosalie was forever taking lessons from Brad.”

  “Brad?” Polly’s ears practically perked up. “Who’s Brad?”

  “Brad Murphy,” Pam explained. “He’s the golf pro at the club.”

  “I know you ladies have the luxury of sleeping in, but I have to be at the preschool bright and early tomorrow.” Tara took a place at the head table and picked up the dice. “Shall we start?”

  Nancy slid into an adjacent chair. “Sleeping in is one of the perks of retirement, my dear. We’ve earned the right.”

  “Not me,” Connie Sue said. “I go to water aerobics at seven a.m.”

  “I have yoga at eight,” Rita added.

  “And I’m volunteering at the food bank,” Janine put in.