Murder is Dicey

by Gail Oust

  I kept my shopping to a bare minimum to avoid a repeat of the conversation I’d just had with the two women. It’s rare I enter the Piggly Wiggly with only five items on my list and leave with only five. Usually my cart . . . er . . . buggy is full. It seemed a shame to pass the “buy one, get one free” items. But today I made an exception. I didn’t want to talk about arms or, worse yet, whom they might belong to.

  I was loading my groceries into the car when I heard sirens. Mind you, sirens aren’t something we often hear around here. In Toledo, no one batted an eye at the sound. Police, fire, ambulance. Emergency vehicles were an everyday occurrence. But here it’s different. More personal. Here people know one another by face if not by name. No one wants a catastrophe to befall a neighbor.

  I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the sheriff’s cruiser whiz by. This was followed by not one but two more. Lights flashed, sirens wailed. Something was up. Something was definitely up.

  I did what any other red-blooded citizen would do. I jumped in my car and followed in hot pursuit.

  At first I had a hard time keeping up. Couple times I worried I’d lose sight of them altogether. Couldn’t let that happen. I put the pedal to the metal and floored it. I had no idea the Buick could even go that fast. It certainly never had with Jim behind the wheel. I deliberately avoided glancing at the speedometer. It would probably scare me. In this situation, the adage “Ignorance is bliss” suited me just dandy. I only hoped that drivers who pulled to the side of the highway at the sight of flashing lights would assume I was part of the procession and stay clear.

  Brake lights flashed ahead of me. I whipped the wheel and made a hard left. The Buick shuddered. Tires squealed. I burned rubber and was proud of it. Another first.

  The posse had left the highway and headed down a road that led to the state park. Signs flew past. Brown signs with arrows. Ranger’s Station. Picnic Site. Boat Ramp. Campground.

  I rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes. I narrowly avoided plowing into a sheriff’s vehicle parked half in, half out of the road. I hopped out of my car and looked around to get my bearings.

  A dozen or so RVs and motor homes, some the size of a Greyhound bus, were parked in a section that afforded campers hookups for water and electricity. Where were the tents? I wondered. What happened to sleeping bags on the ground? Did campers still cook on Coleman stoves? Did people still gather around campfires and toast marshmallows? These pithy questions would have to wait. Right now I had a mystery to solve.

  A small group of people clustered near a humongous motor home. The sort you hate to get behind on the interstate. The kind that sport a custom-made license plate holder proclaiming for all the world to see that June and Ward are Two for the Road. A jean-clad woman in her forties, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, had watched me come to a screeching halt behind the sheriff’s cars. She cupped her hand around her mouth and bellowed, “Follow the trail.”

  I did just that, pleased beyond measure that I’d been mistaken for official law enforcement. The trail was clearly marked and easy to follow. It meandered through woods thick with pine and hardwood. My sneakers made little sound on the pathway paved with fallen leaves, pine needles, and a few scattered acorns.

  One hundred yards or so down the trail, I heard male voices just off to my right. I veered off the beaten path and headed in that direction. I hadn’t gone far when I stopped. I spotted half a dozen men forming a loose semicircle near a giant oak. I instantly recognized Sheriff Wiggins. I assumed—shrewdly on my part—that the other two uniformed men were his deputies. Judging from the jeans and T-shirts, I guessed the remaining men were either campers or fishermen or both. A dog lolled nearby. I slipped behind a tree—one within hearing range—and waited. Having come this far, I didn’t want to be shooed away before finding out something of interest.

  Everyone seemed to be pointing and talking all at once. All, that is, except Sheriff Wiggins. The sheriff simply stood there, arms folded across his massive chest, and gave each of the campers/fishermen the once-over with eyes sharp as drill bits.

  It was then I caught my first whiff. That same sickeningly sweet odor I had first smelled on the golf course the other day. I forced myself to breathe through my mouth lest I suffer a similar consequence to what Monica had. My sneakers weren’t brand-new, but they didn’t deserve the same fate as Monica’s FootJoys.

  I read once, or maybe saw on TV, that police officers and other crime-scene investigators rub Vick’s VapoRub under their nostrils to help deal with such smells. Sure wished I had some right now.

  “Cordon off the area,” Sheriff Wiggins ordered.

  I watched in fascination as one of the deputies unrolled a spool of yellow crime-scene tape and began winding it around an area roughly the size of my laundry room.

  The sheriff turned to the second deputy. “Call the coroner. Tell him to get here ASAP.”

  “Yessir.” The deputy turned away, pulled out a cell phone, and began punching in numbers.

  What had they stumbled across? I wondered. But deep down I already knew. I peered out from my hiding place, trying to get a better look.

  “Better call SLED as well.” Not once did the sheriff raise that deep Southern baritone—he didn’t have to. His well-trained deputies jumped to obey each command.

  SLED? I frowned. What did that mean? Was sled another name for a stretcher or gurney? A device used to transport a body? I made a mental note to check this out later.

  Sheriff Wiggins pulled out his little black book and turned his attention to the campers/fishermen. “Did you, or anyone else, do anything that might have disturbed the site?”

  “No, sir,” the oldest of the trio replied. He was about retirement age with thinning hair and a ruddy complexion. “No, sir,” he repeated more emphatically. “We kept our distance, except for Sherlock, here.”

  I studied the dog lying near a fallen log. It was black with a pink tongue and bright eyes. Drawing on my rather limited knowledge of the species, I’d say Sherlock was a mutt. Maybe part Lab, part springer spaniel? Or maybe not. He, or she, could be almost any large-dog combo. Like I said, when it comes to dogs my knowledge is limited. Don’t get me wrong. I love animals, dogs especially, but Jim claimed to be allergic, so we never had pets. Not even when the kids were little.

  The youngest camper spoke for the first time. “Wasn’t for Sherlock nosin’ around, we woulda kept right on walkin’.”

  “Thought at first a deer might’ve died and been left to rot,” the third man ventured. Someone should tell the guy his shirt was one size too small. It bore the image of an outdoor grill and the message Born to Barbecue. By the looks of him, he had eaten a few barbecues too many.

  “Couldn’t have been buried more than two feet deep.” This from the first man to speak.

  The sheriff, I noted, scribbled all this down in his little spiral notebook. Next time I visited an office-supply store, I’d have to get me one of those. Use it as kind of a journal to record the facts of the case.

  “Only a corner of a trash bag was sticking out of the ground until ol’ Sherlock started digging.”

  The youngest one pulled off a ball cap bearing an Atlanta Braves logo and wiped his brow. “Even then we couldn’t tell what was inside.”

  Trash bags certainly seemed used for a lot more jobs these days than hauling out trash. I craned my neck for a better view. Thank goodness the men were too focused on one another to notice little old me peeking out from around an oak.

  “Almost screamed like a girl when I got an eyeful of what’s in it,” said man Number Two.

  I wanted to scream like a girl myself. And I would any minute now if someone didn’t come out and say what was inside the bag.

  The sound of leaves crunching on the trail behind me accompanied by the murmur of voices alerted me to the fact that I had company. A backward glance confirmed that I had company indeed. Lots and lots. Too much, in fact. To my dismay, the group I had seen earlier at the cam
pground had apparently decided to join me.

  The sheriff looked over at the interruption. His dark gaze swept the assembled crowd, spotted me, and pinned me with a scowl. I waved.

  He didn’t wave back.

  Instead Sheriff Wiggins lowered his head and spoke to his deputy. The scowl on the deputy’s dark face was a pretty fair imitation of the sheriff’s as he strode our way.

  “Sorry, folks,” the deputy said, his tone polite but firm. Very firm. “I’ll have to ask you to step back.”

  “What’s going on?” the woman with the ponytail asked. I assumed her to be the group’s designated spokesperson. I was happy to learn I wasn’t the only curious soul.

  The short, chubby woman next to her held a hand to her mouth. “Ee-yew! What’s that smell?”

  The deputy’s frown deepened. I had the feeling he wasn’t about to leak a smidgen of information—at least not with his boss within hearing distance. Regardless, I decided to give it my best shot. “I think I saw you at the sheriff’s office yesterday as I was leaving.” I gave him a friendly smile, trying to disarm him with my charm. I read the name off the brass plate pinned above his breast pocket. “Pleasure to meet you, Deputy Preston. I’m Kate McCall.”

  I could tell from his expression my name registered.

  I smiled wider. What harm could it do? “I’m the lady who brought the chocolate-chip cookies,” I added, hoping he had a sweet tooth.

  “Sorry, Miz McCall. The sheriff said not to say a word—to you or anybody.” He cleared his throat, then, looking past me, addressed the woman with the ponytail. “Sorry, ma’am, but I’m going to have to ask y’all to leave.”

  “You can’t do that,” she protested. “I have an annual park pass.” I didn’t know the woman, but I liked her already. We might have been twins separated at birth—if it hadn’t been for the difference in our ages.

  “Preston . . . ?” Sheriff Wiggins called over. “Is there a problem?”

  “No problem, sir. None I can’t handle.”

  Ponytail wasn’t about to give up without an argument. “It’s not against the law to gather in a public place. It’s even in the Constitution, guaranteed by the Bill of Rights.”

  Now, I didn’t know if this was correct or not, but it sounded good to me. You go, sister, I told her silently. No need for me to add my two cents’ worth with her doing such an outstanding job.

  Sheriff Wiggins must have sensed a mutiny in the making. Thumbs hooked in his belt, a no-nonsense expression on his face, he turned and approached our little group. “Bill of Rights or no Bill of Rights, folks, if you don’t leave this minute, I can and will arrest the lot of you for obstruction of justice. This here is a crime scene.”

  We left.

  Chapter 9

  Crime scene?

  That told me everything I needed to know. I trudged back to the campground accompanied by the merry band of bystanders. My mind raced. Just what had Sherlock managed to find, or, more aptly, managed to dig up? Was the puzzle finally solved?

  “Want to hang out?” the woman with the ponytail asked. “Have a cup of coffee?”

  “Sure.” I snapped up the opportunity to stick around. The sheriff and his men had to leave the woods sometime. Besides, I wanted to be there when the coroner arrived with his sled—whatever the heck that was. Couldn’t wait to tell the Bunco Babes about my latest adventure.

  “Name’s Donna,” said the woman formerly known as the woman with a ponytail. She indicated her chubby companion. “This here’s Betty Lou, my sister-in-law.”

  “How do you happen to know the sheriff?” Betty Lou asked.

  “It’s a long story,” I replied, accepting the mug of coffee Donna poured from an industrial-size thermos. Except for the two women, the other campers had drifted away. But that was A-okay with me. I’d had enough of being at the center of attention.

  Betty Lou plunked herself down in a canvas chair and motioned for me to join her. “Take your time, sweetie. Looks like it’s going to be a long afternoon.”

  The women were a good audience—almost, but not quite, as good as the Babes. Both of them listened with rapt attention while I recounted what had happened the other day on the golf course.

  “What do you think the guys found back there?”

  Donna’s question hung in the air. Neither Betty Lou nor I voiced an opinion. Don’t know about Betty Lou, but I had plenty of opinions, but kept them to myself.

  At last, Betty Lou heaved herself out of the chair and marched off in the direction of a spiffy red and silver Winnebago that probably cost more than my house.

  “Hey, Betty Lou,” Donna yelled. “Where you goin’?”

  “I’m packing up,” she yelled back, not breaking stride. “I’m not gonna spend another night in this place. It ain’t safe.”

  “S’cuse me, Kate,” Donna said, dumping out the dregs in her cup. “Wait up, Betty Lou. Eddie and me’ll be right behind you. He caught enough bass for one fishing trip.”

  I watched in admiration as the pair disassembled their campsites. Their movements were economical and well rehearsed, but then again they had no tent stakes to pry out of the ground, no air mattresses to deflate. Not like the times Jim and I had taken the kids camping. In no time at all, Betty Lou and Donna had whisked the checkered cloth from the picnic table and folded canvas chairs into matching pouches. Bit by bit the motor homes were ready to roll.

  I stood off to the side and tried to stay out of the way. Other campers saw what the sisters-in-law were doing, and one by one began to follow suit. I wasn’t as easily deterred. I sat on a tree stump, prepared to stay as long as necessary.

  I didn’t have much longer to wait before a white van drove up and parked behind my Buick. I felt a certain sense of satisfaction at the sight. I was blocked in. No way the sheriff could expect me to leave a “crime scene” with the coroner’s van practically on my rear bumper.

  My stump provided a ringside seat for all the action. How the Bunco Babes would love this, Pam especially. Local police, state police, and men from the sheriff’s department filed back and forth talking into cell phones and barking into walkie-talkies. I caught a word here, a phrase there. One word in particular stuck in my head.

  Remains.

  My earlier suspicion was confirmed. The arm we had found on the golf course was about to be reunited with more of its body.

  • • •

  I stayed at the campground until men from the coroner’s office loaded a gurney carrying a black vinyl mound—a mound too small to be an entire body—into the back of their van and pulled away. Soon various law-enforcement officials began to drift back to their vehicles and leave. It was time to make my getaway before Sheriff Wiggins showed up and gave me the evil eye.

  By now the campground was nearly empty. Donna waved as she and Eddie, followed by Betty Lou and her husband, pulled out of the park. Betty Lou, her nose buried in a map, didn’t look up. No doubt she was searching for somewhere safe.

  My brain buzzed with questions as I got behind the wheel of the Buick. Would the coroner now be able to identify the victim? I said a little prayer that Claudia and Vera were off somewhere having fun. That Rosalie was having a great visit with her grandkids. I crossed my fingers that the small mound zipped inside the vinyl bag belonged to some unfortunate stranger and not a friend.

  Who would commit such a heinous crime? I wondered. The consensus was that the perpetrator couldn’t possibly be from Serenity Cove Estates or Brookdale. In this instance, I hoped consensus was right on target. But what if it wasn’t? It worried me no end that Claudia and Vera were unaccounted for. And I’d rest a lot easier when Rosalie returned from Poughkeepsie. I wanted to do something, but what . . . ? It wasn’t my nature to sit back and wait.

  I kept to the speed limit on the drive back to Serenity Cove Estates. No need to rush. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. A glance at my watch showed me it was later than I had thought. Somehow I wasn’t in the mood to cook. A comm
on occurrence since Jim passed away. My freezer is filled with frozen dinners and, my favorite standby, gourmet pizzas. Neither held any appeal tonight. On the spur of the moment, I decided to get a bite at the Cove Café.

  By the time I got there, except for two couples at a table near the window, the café was deserted. Most folks on fixed incomes like to take advantage of the early-bird specials. That time was long past. I parked myself at a corner table and looked around.

  No sign of Marcy—good. No sign of Vera either—bad.

  Beverly, a waitress I knew slightly, greeted me with a tired smile and handed me a menu.

  “A slow night, Beverly?” I like to address people by their given names whenever possible. Gets a bit tricky at times with those darn senior moments popping up when you least expect them. Those memory cells in the brain just don’t cough up information like they used to. It takes awhile, but eventually stuff does float back. I heard as long as that happens, not to worry. It’s when those names and places don’t come back—ever—that you’re in deep doo-doo.

  “It was busier than usual early on. Seems all folks want to do is talk about that thing some ladies found out on the golf course.”

  “Ah, yes, the thing.” Had thing become the new catchphrase for it?

  “What can I get you to drink?”

  “Coffee,” I said, then reconsidered. “Better make that decaf.” I didn’t need another sleepless night while waiting for the Sandman to arrive.

  Beverly left and returned minutes later with my decaf. “Have you decided what to order?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “There’s still some of the meat loaf special left.”

  “Sounds good.” Comfort food. Just the ticket.

  The occupants of the window table got ready to leave. The men signed their tabs and pocketed their credit cards, and the couples left together amid promises to get together soon.

  After placing my order, Beverly returned and began clearing the table. She looked my way. “Your dinner should be out in a jiff.”