by Gail Oust
Hours later I was still fuming. My last meeting with Sheriff Wiggins had left me little choice but to resort to drastic measures. Drastic measures for me sometimes took the form of comfort food. Tuna noodle casserole has always been one of my favorites. Jim never cared much for casseroles, so I used to make it for the kids and myself when he was off on one of his business trips. Now that he’s gone, I have it often. Sometimes I pretend he’s off on one of his trips and will be home in a day or two. We had a good life together, and I miss him. I wonder what he’d think about the kids trying to ship me off to someplace “safe.” Probably we’d share a good laugh, then threaten to disinherit the both of them.
I had just finished loading my dinner dishes into the dishwasher when the front doorbell rang. I wiped my hands on a dish towel and went to see who it could be.
“Bill . . . ?” I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice at finding Bill Lewis, sans tool belt, on my front step. “What brings you here?”
He looked a bit sheepish. “Thought I’d drop by and make sure that new ceiling fan of yours is working OK.”
“Come in.” I stepped back to let him in. “Glad you came by.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting your dinner.”
“I just finished,” I said, leading the way from the foyer.
Bill stood for a moment in the kitchen doorway and sniffed. “Mmm. Something smells good. Reminds me of my favorite—tuna noodle casserole.”
“You like tuna noodle casserole?”
“I like most casseroles, but that’s always been my favorite. My wife used to make it all the time.”
“Jim never cared much for casseroles, so I’d only make them when he was out of town.” Talk of casseroles faded into an uncomfortable silence. What next, I wondered, swap recipes? I wasn’t used to entertaining men. I fell back on the tried-and-true, “Care to join me for a cup of coffee? It’s decaf,” I added as extra enticement.
“I’d love a cup, but first let me check this baby out.” Bill switched on the ceiling fan and put it through its paces: high, medium, and low. It performed perfectly.
While the blades whirled overhead, I went to the cupboard and pulled down two coffee mugs. “I have some lemon bars left over from the church bake sale.”
Bill smiled that sweet shy smile of his. “Lemon bars are right up there on my list alongside tuna noodle casserole.”
Tuna casserole and lemon bars. Why weren’t all men this easy to please? I wondered as I poured coffee. “How do you take yours? Cream, sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
Mercy! We even liked our coffee the same way. Weren’t we a pair? I studied Bill over the rim of my coffee mug. He wore khakis with a blue polo shirt that matched the color of his eyes. He was one fine-looking gentleman—and nice as could be. The kids had tried their darnedest to make me feel old and decrepit, but Bill seemed to have just the opposite effect. He made me feel young. Don’t get me wrong, not the young and foolish type, but young in a good sense of the word. Young as in attractive and interesting.
“Did you work today?” I asked when he pulled out the chair opposite me at the kitchen table. “I thought I spotted you at the pro shop the other day.”
“Thought I saw you, too, talking to Brad.”
“I signed up for the putting clinic he’s giving beginner golfers. I need all the help I can get.”
“Brad’s a good instructor all right. He’s especially good with the ladies.”
I looked at him sharply.
Bill flushed. “I didn’t mean that exactly the way it came out. What I should have said was, Brad’s good at instructing the ladies.”
Curiosity killed the cat, but right this very minute, I could identify with that nosy feline. I wondered just how friendly Rosalie was with the handsome pro. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
I gave Bill a smile. “I understand that my neighbor Rosalie Brubaker took a lot of lessons from him.”
“Yeah, she did. I used to see her and Brad on the driving range quite a bit.” Bill sipped his coffee and looked thoughtful.
I decided right then and there, this would be a good time to practice my interrogation skills. “From what I gather, Brad was none too happy that Rosalie was falling behind in organizing the member-member tournament.”
“Don’t know anything about that, but I wouldn’t want to get on Brad Murphy’s bad side.”
All my instincts went on full alert. If I were a hound, you could even say my ears perked up. “Why’s that?”
Bill shrugged. “I’m not one for gossip, but I hear Brad’s got a real short fuse. I saw him lay into one of the grounds-keepers once. Thought I’d have to step in before it came to blows.”
Bill’s words were a revelation. They made me view Brad Murphy in a whole new light. I had never seen that side of his personality. At the course and in the pro shop, he was Mr. Congeniality. But Bill had just warned me not to get on his bad side. Did that make Brad Murphy a Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?
I felt a stab of disappointment when Bill finished his coffee and rose to leave. It had been nice to have someone to talk to in the evening. It was easy to fill the days with activities, but the nights could be . . . well, they could be lonely.
“Guess I’d better be going.” He walked over to the sink, rinsed out his mug. “Did you mean what you said about giving that cradle I’m making a final inspection? I sure would appreciate a woman’s opinion.”
“I’d love to see it.” And I would. Seeing the cradle meant seeing Bill again.
“Good. I was hoping you’d say that. I’ll have the coffeepot on, but I can’t promise anything as good as your lemon bars. Might have to settle for Oreos.”
“Oreos are right up there with tuna noodle casserole and lemon bars,” I said, following him to the door.
He paused on the front step and, turning, looked back at me, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “Be sure to lock up at night. A woman living alone can’t be too careful when there’s a killer on the prowl.”
“I don’t scare easily,” I replied, touched by his concern.
“Well, if you ever are scared, all you have to do is call me. I’ll be here in a flash with my Louisville Slugger.”
I watched him back out of the drive, then closed the door and turned the dead bolt. I smiled to myself at the image of Bill Lewis coming to a damsel’s distress armed with his trusty baseball bat, a Louisville Slugger.
Chapter 26
“What can I get you ladies?”
Vera had sneaked up on us unawares. Other than Pam, I hadn’t told any of the girls about Vera’s nip and tuck. Didn’t have the heart to spoil the woman’s surprise. The wait had been well worth it as I watched heads swivel, eyes widen, and mouths gape. I sat back and enjoyed the show. Only thing I regretted was not having a camera handy.
“Vera . . . ?” Pam squeaked.
“Ohmigawd . . . ,” Connie Sue drawled. “Honey lamb, you look fabulous!”
I had to agree with Connie Sue. Vera did indeed look fabulous. In addition to highlights, a new hairstyle, and a firmer, prettier face, she must’ve lost ten pounds while she was away. I could stand to lose a pound or two myself. Tone up some. Maybe time had come to sign up for a session with that new fitness trainer at the rec center.
“Out with it, girl. Who’s your plastic surgeon?”
“Connie Sue!” Monica scolded. “Shame on you. That’s rude. You’re going to embarrass Vera.”
Vera, however, didn’t look a teensy bit embarrassed. In fact, she looked pleased as punch.
“I’d be happy to give you his card, Miz Brody,” Vera said, smiling. “In the meantime, let me take your orders.”
Vera, bless her heart, was her usual efficient self. Without being asked, she brought Connie Sue water, lemon, no ice, and Earl Grey tea for Monica. She filled my cup and Pam’s to the brim with coffee and kept them filled. I let out a blissful sigh. The Cove Café was back to normal.
“Whatever happened to Marcy?” I
asked Vera when she delivered my Belgian waffle to the table.
“Marcy’s given up on being a waitress. Said it was too hard on the nerves—and the feet.”
“What’s she going to do instead?” Monica asked, forking into her egg white omelet.
Vera placed an order of wheat toast—unbuttered—and a fruit cup in front of Connie Sue. “She decided to become a manicurist.”
We, the four of us girls, exchanged looks. “Good choice,” we said in unison.
I chose the first lull in the conversation to tell the girls about Bill’s unexpected visit the night before and his invitation to view the baby cradle.
“I think he’s sweet on you,” Pam teased.
A warm sensation started in my chest and crept up to my cheeks. Not a blush, but a flush. Probably another of those power surges. “He just wants a woman’s opinion before he ships it up to Ohio.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Stop making it into something it isn’t,” I scolded, trying to camouflage the fact I was secretly flattered at the notion of Bill being sweet on me. “I’m only going to his place to see the cradle, then have a cup of coffee and some Oreos.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He’s just a very nice man.” I hid my smile behind my coffee mug. “He made me promise to lock up tight at night. He said a woman living alone can’t be too careful.”
Monica nodded. “Sound advice, if you ask me.”
“If I get nervous, Bill said all I had to do was call him. He’d rush over with his Louisville Slugger and bean the bad guy over the head. How’s that for coming to the defense of a damsel in distress?”
I rambled on about Bill’s virtues, oblivious of the looks my friends exchanged, until Vera approached with more coffee.
We were almost finished eating when Brad Murphy sauntered in. Heads turned to watch. Brad had that sort of effect on women. For a man close to forty, he was what you’d call “hot.” A lemon yellow golf shirt bearing the Serenity Cove Estates logo molded broad shoulders and muscular arms. And my, oh my, those khakis! They hugged a set of buns that made old women sit up and take notice.
“Ladies,” he greeted us with a warm smile. “How y’all doin’?”
While we babbled answers, Vera came by with our checks. Brad turned to greet her with his patented grin and his jaw dropped. “Vera MacGillicudy!” he exclaimed. “Is that you? Or is this your baby sister?”
Vera turned rosy pink. “Aw, Brad, stop. You’re making me blush.”
Brad slung his arm around her shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “Honey, you’re lookin’ fine. Mighty fine.”
Of course we echoed Brad’s sentiments. And left Vera generous tips. It was just our way of showing her how happy we were that she was “mighty fine.”
It wasn’t until I was in the Buick and driving home that I replayed the scene between Vera and Brad in my mind. In retrospect, their familiarity with each other seemed a bit out of place. Vera had positively glowed at hearing Brad’s compliments. And Brad had had a certain gleam in his eye when he hugged her.
Hadn’t Vera mentioned a new man in her life the other day at the Piggly Wiggly? I wondered if that new man could possibly be Brad Murphy. Brad had to be a good five years younger than Vera. But so what? Polly was always going on about all the older women/younger men that she read about in the Hollywood gossip rags. Said the women who hunted younger prey were called “cougars.” Who’s to say it couldn’t happen right here at the Cove Café?
Only one fly in the ointment far as I could tell. Bill had said Brad harbored quite a temper under that pretty-boy face and sit-up-and-take-notice body.
Another thought struck me as I turned into my drive. Was Rosalie as enamored with Brad as Vera appeared to be? Was there more to their relationship than instructor and student?
I sat down to enjoy a cup of chamomile tea before bedtime. Much to my amazement, I had acquired a taste for it. While waiting for my tea to cool, I stared out the window at the Brubaker house, all dark and broody, across the street.
What had Earl been up to all those nights when the house blazed with light? Earl, I knew from listening to Rosalie complain, was not a night owl by nature. According to her, he turned in to bed at nine every evening, not even staying awake long enough for the early news. Why the sudden change in his sleep habits? A nasty thought occurred to me. Had he used those long evening hours to obliterate traces of murder?
Absently I took a sip of tea. And promptly burned my tongue. I put the cup down and folded my arms on the kitchen table. Earl was the logical suspect in his wife’s death, I grudgingly conceded. His story that Rosalie was away visiting grandkids in Poughkeepsie was plausible until various body parts—quite literally—surfaced.
The million-dollar question still remained: If Earl was innocent, who killed Rosalie?
My tea forgotten, I hauled Tools of the Trade out of a cupboard. Opening it, I took out the black spiral notebook that I’d recently purchased and scanned my notes—which I had to admit were pretty sparse. Undaunted, I picked up a pen and flipped to a blank page. I needed to make a list. Lists were wonderful things. Don’t know how people manage to accomplish anything without them.
I headed my first list Possible Suspects. Earl’s name was the first one I entered. Under his name, I wrote Bill Lewis’s only because of Earl’s earlier accusations and because of Bill’s association with power tools. Even though I believed wholeheartedly in his innocence, I needed to stay objective. After all, this wasn’t the time to rely on women’s intuition or consult the Psychic Hotline. I frowned at my list—my very short list.
Trying a different approach, I turned to yet another blank page and headed it Facts. Since Rosalie’s body had been dismembered, I could safely assume the killer had access to power tools or at least to some wicked saws. At his press conference, Sheriff Wiggins stated Rosalie had been killed by a blow to the head. Last, but not least, was the question of whether Rosalie had been seeing someone. And if so, who? Under Facts, I scribbled down, Power tools, golf, possible lover.
I took a sip of tea and grimaced. Tepid chamomile tea left much to be desired. I focused on the word golf until the letters danced before my eyes. Brad Murphy was a ladies’ man. He and Rosalie spent an inordinate amount of time together. Off the course as well as on? I wondered.
I flipped back to my list of suspects and added Brad Murphy’s name. My list of possible suspects was growing. I now had three names. How hard could it be to whittle three down to one? Simply apply the process of elimination, and voilà!
But a single problem remained. Bill was on the list.
Chapter 27
I hummed to myself as I primped. Timing was everything. Just yesterday I had had my hair cut and the color—a nice ash blond—touched up. I even treated myself to a manicure. Something I almost never do. I chose a pretty rose pink nail polish, then went all out and had a pedicure, too.
Then later that day, Bill had called and asked me over. I felt like I was going to the prom. I had almost forgotten that excited, fluttery feeling. I took one last look in the mirror. My hair looked good—stylish and short, but not too short. I hinted to Jac, my hairdresser, that I might have a man in my life. Jac outdid himself, giving me a tousled look that he claimed was all the rage at a hair show in At lanta.
I gave myself a final once-over in the mirror and sucked in my stomach. I had decided to wear an almost-new pair of black Capris. Black is thinning, right? I could stand to lose a few, but no way that was about to happen in the next fifteen minutes. I promised myself I’d swear off M&M’s and eat more salmon. I’d give up chocolate-chip cookies and buy low-fat yogurt. Just don’t ask me to give up pizza. I admit it, I’m bad. Really bad.
Along with the Capris, I wore a soft sage green boat-neck sweater that Connie Sue said brought out the green of my eyes. I snapped a chunky silver bracelet around my wrist, and I was good to go.
I recognized Bill’s Ford pickup parked in the drive. I pulled in next to it and got out. Bill must have
been watching for me because he opened the door before I had a chance to ring the bell.
“Kate!” he cried. “Don’t you look pretty tonight! Come in, come in.”
He stood aside as I entered the foyer and handed him a plate of lemon bars I had made especially for him. “I brought you a little something.”
“You shouldn’t have.” A smile spread across his face, forming cute little laugh lines at the corners of his baby blues. “But I’m glad you did. We can have these later over coffee.”
Sheriff Wiggins could stand to learn a thing or two from Bill Lewis on how to graciously accept a small gift. “I can’t wait to see this cradle you’ve told me so much about,” I gushed, hoping I didn’t sound as nervous as I felt.
“Soon as I set these down in the kitchen. Right this way.”
I trailed after him, trying to take in as much of the house as I could without seeming obvious. The dining room to my left was empty except for a card table and four chairs. Bill must have seen my frown.
“Don’t do much entertaining,” he explained, “except for a poker game now and then. I’m not much of a gambler.”
“Toss in some dice and score sheets, this room would be perfect for bunco.”
“Never played the game. Is it high stakes?”
“Hardly.” I laughed. “Bunco’s more about having a good time with friends. The dice only make it look serious.”
I caught a glimpse of the great room as we turned down a short hallway. This, too, was sparsely furnished with a leather sofa, La-Z-Boy recliner, and flat-screen TV. A glass-topped coffee table held a neat stack of books. No pictures on the walls, no knickknacks, no houseplants. Everything—walls, carpet, tile—neutral and safe. A home in dire need of a woman’s touch.
Bill deposited the lemon bars on the counter in the kitchen. “Just around the corner,” he said, motioning me to follow.
Swinging open a door, he flipped a switch and fluorescent light flooded what was formerly a three-car garage. Two of the bays had been converted into a workroom worthy of HGTV. Tools were displayed on the walls like prized family portraits, everything grouped and labeled. The room smelled of sawdust and varnish and was neat as a pin. Even the gunmetal gray floor looked as though it had been recently vacuumed.
