Murder is Dicey

by Gail Oust

  “I’ll call Gloria.” Diane was already pulling out her cell phone. “You know how Polly hates being the last one to find things out.”

  • • •

  Some things might move slowly here in the South, but news isn’t one of them. News, or gossip, whichever the case may be, travels at the speed of sound. Both Brookdale and Serenity Cove Estates were well represented on the courthouse lawn.

  A news crew from an affiliate station in Augusta had just finished setting up. I recognized several faces from the anchor desk of the nightly news but, since I was having another of those darn senior moments, couldn’t put names with the faces. I’d remember, but probably at two in the morning. I also noticed a couple reporters and a photographer from the local paper. Shortly before four o’clock, Pam arrived slightly out of breath with Monica in tow. Polly and Gloria were close behind. Diane and Janine were the last to join our group of Bunco Babes clustered in the shade of a willow oak.

  “Looks like we got here in the nick of time.” Diane glanced around, taking in the crowd. “I was afraid we were going to be late.”

  “What do you think the sheriff’s going to tell us?” Pam asked.

  Gloria hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. I noticed in her haste she had forgotten to don her jewelry. “Do you suppose the murder victim’s been identified?”

  I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “I wore my new outfit,” Polly announced, resplendent in canary yellow pants and top. “You know—in case I get interviewed. Reporters are always on the lookout for eyewitness accounts. I heard bright colors show up best.”

  Janine smiled at her fondly and patted her arm. “You always look pretty, Polly, no matter what color you wear.”

  Monica hugged her arms around her body, her expression grim. “I only hope this isn’t about body parts.”

  We didn’t have long to speculate before the sheriff stepped out of the front door and strode to the podium that had been set up for the occasion. In his hand, he held a prepared statement.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in that lovely voice of his. “I called y’all here this afternoon to end speculation and request help from the community in solvin’ this case.

  “The Brookdale County Sheriff’s Office, assisted by the Brookdale Police Department and the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division, have been successful in ascertainin’ the identity of a female victim of a homicide. DNA extracted from hair follicles match those of the victim, who has been positively identified as Rosalie Brubaker.”

  Chapter 18

  Rosalie?

  We were speechless.

  I glanced into my friends’ faces. Tears silently streamed down Janine’s cheeks. Monica stood, arms wrapped around her middle, ghostly pale and tight-lipped. Polly seemed to have donned a wizened mask, for once looking every minute of her age. Gloria’s face was drawn and worried as she placed her arm around her mother’s shoulders. Pam wept quietly. Diane’s hand was pressed against her mouth to hold back sobs. As for me, I felt numb all over. As though my entire body had just received a megadose of Novocain. Reaction, I knew, would set in later. Just as it had when Jim died.

  The voice of the news anchor from Augusta sliced through our shock. “Could you spell the victim’s name for us, Sheriff?”

  The sheriff complied. Hearing him do this made the situation all the more surreal. As of one accord, the Babes and I huddled together, our arms wrapped around each other for support, for comfort. We all knew Rosalie in varying degrees either as neighbors or friends or bunco partners. Regardless of how well or how little we knew her; all of us mourned her passing.

  The rest of those assembled obviously didn’t share our grief. Life went on. Hands flew upward. Questions demanded answers. A cacophony of sound rose from the crowd as reporters shouted questions at Sheriff Wiggins. I wanted to put my hands over my ears to block out the noise.

  “One at a time!” The sheriff held up his hand for silence. “I’ll take your questions one at a time.”

  “Sheriff . . . ?” a pert blond in a navy blue pant suit and too much makeup called out. “What can you tell us about the cause of death?”

  “Sheriff, have you found the murder weapon?” asked a man with a receding hairline and expensive sport coat. Apparently he hadn’t fully grasped the concept of “one at a time” in journalism class.

  “We’re still lookin’ for the murder weapon.” Sheriff Wiggins waited a beat while reporters scribbled notes. “I can tell you this, however: The cause of death is listed as blunt-force trauma to the head.”

  The Babes and I stopped sniffling long enough to exchange puzzled glances. Rosalie had been killed by a blow to the head?

  “Could you be more specific, Sheriff?” the man with the receding hairline persisted. “By blunt-force trauma you mean . . . ?”

  Sheesh! Even I knew what blunt-force trauma meant. This reporter needed serious help.

  “Blunt-force trauma occurs when death is caused by a blow from somethin’ such as a pipe, hammer, or similar object.”

  “Do you have a suspect in custody?” I recognized this from a reporter from the weekly Brookdale Sun.

  “’Fraid not, Mr. Smythe. This is considered an ongoin’ investigation.”

  “Is there a Mr. Brubaker?” the pert blond asked.

  “Yes, there is a Mr. Brubaker. Earl Brubaker was informed a short time ago of his wife’s demise.”

  The blond again, “Has he been arrested?”

  “At present, no one’s been placed under arrest.”

  “But is he considered a suspect?”

  “Tenacious little thing, isn’t she?” Polly whispered in my ear. “I can picture her scrapping with the big dogs. Guess that’s what it takes.”

  I nodded absently, my mind on what the sheriff was saying.

  “As many of you might already suspect, the spouse, or significant other, is always considered a prime suspect until such time he, or she, is cleared.”

  In my heart of hearts, I couldn’t believe Earl had killed Rosalie. Call me crazy, call me naïve, but I just couldn’t.

  “For the present time,” the sheriff continued, “Earl Brubaker is considered a person of interest. And, as such, has been advised not to leave town. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe this concludes the press conference. I will continue to keep you apprised as new developments are brought to light.”

  With the majestic old courthouse in the background, the television crews did their final wrap-ups, then tucked away their handheld lights and sound equipment before hurrying back to the station in time for the six o’clock news. The rest of the crowd dispersed, heading toward their cars, eager for the relative safety of home and hearth. The Babes and I trailed behind, still stunned by the sheriff’s revelation.

  “I can’t believe Rosalie’s dead,” Janine murmured.

  “Me, either,” Gloria concurred as she guided her mother toward their parked car.

  “Why would someone kill Rosalie?” Diane muttered, digging out her car keys.

  “It just doesn’t make sense.”

  For me, however, it did make sense in some strange, macabre way. Rosalie had been gone far too long. It was out of character for her to neglect her responsibilities. And neglecting them was just what she had been doing. First, as chairperson of the member-member tournament. Second, and more important, neglecting her husband. But whether it made sense was irrelevant. Knowing the arm we had found on the golf course belonged to a woman we knew and liked made my stomach churn.

  And what about Claudia and Vera? I couldn’t bring myself to voice the question out loud.

  • • •

  Innocent until proven guilty.

  Deserves the benefit of a doubt. The American way.

  Rita, as usual, had been the voice of reason when some of the Babes wanted nothing to do with a “person of interest.”

  We debated what to do in a series of telephone exchanges and a flurry of e-mails. In the end, we did what
women through the ages have done in times of death and crises. We baked. Cakes, cookies, and casseroles. We did this more for Rosalie’s sake than Earl’s, but we did it all the same.

  One question, however, needed little debate. None of us wanted to deliver our culinary masterpieces alone. In the end, we agreed to meet at my house and go together to the Brubakers’.

  “Ready, ladies?” I asked at promptly four thirty the following afternoon.

  “Ready,” the Babes chorused.

  United, we marched across Loblolly Court bearing gifts of ham, macaroni, and cake.

  I rang the bell, and we waited. When that failed, I pounded on the door, and we waited some more.

  “Do y’all suppose he’s not home?” Connie Sue asked, looking worried.

  “I didn’t see his car pull out.” I knocked again, harder this time.

  “The sheriff warned him against leaving town,” Rita reminded us.

  Before we could turn and march back the way we had come, Earl cracked open the door. Frowning in suspicion, he looked from one of us to the other.

  “Earl,” I said, assuming the lead, “we wanted to extend our condolences. We wanted you to know how terribly sorry we are about Rosalie.”

  Considering the wear and tear of the last twenty-four hours, Earl looked both better and worse than the last time I’d seen him. Though still in desperate need of a barber, he’d at least shaved and donned clean clothing. But his basset hound face seemed even more droopy than usual with jowls sagging nearly to his shirt collar. His brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but whether from grief or lack of sleep, I had no way of knowing.

  “I made you a pot roast.” Ever the consummate Southern hostess, Connie Sue held out her aluminum foil–wrapped offering. “It’s Thacker’s favorite.”

  Rita handed over a Tupperware container. “Tara, my daughter-in-law, and I fixed you some ham and scalloped potatoes.”

  Janine took pity on Earl, who looked dumbfounded at being confronted with more choices than Billy’s Buffet Barn. “Why don’t you invite us in so we can find a place in your refrigerator for all this food?”

  He stepped aside, and the parade of women sailed past the dining room and into the kitchen. I paused on the threshold. The kitchen had undergone a remarkable transformation since my late-night visit. Thoroughly cleaned and polished, it was ready for the white-glove test. The granite countertops were free of clutter and shone prettily. The stainless steel sink didn’t host a single water spot, much less a dirty coffee mug. Even the hardwood floor gleamed. All this elbow grease would have made Rosalie proud.

  “Will your daughter be coming down to lend a hand?” I asked, tucking my dish of macaroni and cheese onto a refrigerator shelf next to Connie Sue’s pot roast.

  “Nah.” Earl shook his head. “She’s all torn up about her mother, of course, but there’s nothing she can do here. Seems her husband fell off the roof a couple days ago while trying to trap a raccoon and busted up his leg real bad. Between taking care of him and the kids, well, she can’t get away.”

  “What about funeral arrangements?” I asked Earl.

  “Once the medical examiner releases her . . . remains . . . she’ll have a proper burial in upstate New York, where she lived most of her life. Later, maybe, a memorial service here in Serenity Cove.”

  “Is there anyone we can call?” Janine asked gently as she slid her pan of veggie lasagna onto the bottom rack of the fridge. “Anyone at all?”

  “Nice of you ladies to ask, but all I got is a brother in Phoenix. The two of us aren’t on good terms.”

  Pam set her trademark carrot cake on the counter. “Rosalie was our favorite bunco sub. She never turned us down—even on short notice.”

  “She was at the top of our list. We’ll miss her.” Gloria put the sticky buns next to the carrot cake. “Just zap these in the microwave for fifteen seconds.”

  Monica placed her take-and-go container of oatmeal raisin cookies alongside the rest of the baked goods. She shook her head sadly. “Rosalie was always so lucky at bunco. Seems every time she subbed, she took home the tiara.”

  Our supply of small talk depleted, we just stood around the kitchen, none of us looking at anything in particular.

  The awkward silence spun out before it was finally broken by Earl. “Can’t believe the sheriff actually thinks I might have done something to hurt Rosalie.”

  I was tempted to remind him that Rosalie had been more than hurt. Murdered and dismembered were the words that sprang to mind.

  The doorbell rang then, sparing us the need for a reply.

  “I’ll get it,” I volunteered, eager to remove myself from the quandary of trying to converse with a “person of interest.” As willing as I had been seconds ago to answer the door, I now found myself in no particular hurry to discover who was on the other side of it. I hoped, whoever it was, it wasn’t some nosy reporter. I wasn’t in the mood.

  My pace slowed until my feet were still moving but just barely. I took in the details of Rosalie’s living room as I passed. Rosalie’s love for golf was evident everywhere. Plaques and small trophies filling shelves of a glass and chrome wall unit testified to her skill. Photos taken at various golfing events covered several end tables. I stepped inside for a closer look, praying that whoever had been on the front step had grown tired of waiting and left. I recognized most of the people in the photos as living right here in Serenity Cove.

  One partner in particular—movie-star handsome—stood out. Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. While, by his own admission, he might not be ready for the pro tour, he acquitted himself admirably among other amateurs. I continued to study the photos. I spotted Dr. Handsome again. This time with Rosalie and Earl as well as an attractive brunette who I assumed was Mrs. Baxter. The caption underneath proclaimed them winners of the His and Hers Classic.

  The doorbell pealed twice more in quick succession. I reluctantly stopped perusing photographs of Rosalie, triumphant and smiling, and went to answer the door. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I grumbled under my breath.

  I swung open the door and was surprised to find myself face-to-face with Sheriff Sumter Wiggins. He looked equally surprised to see me.

  “Miz McCall . . . ?” he drawled. “Didn’t know you and Mr. Brubaker were close.”

  “Close?” I practiced one of those single eyebrow lifts at which he excelled. “That, Sheriff, would depend on your definition of close. As it happens, I live just catty-corner from the Brubakers. Guess that qualifies us as close neighbors. Now”—I kept my tone all prim and proper—“was Mr. Brubaker expecting you?”

  He huffed out a breath. “Kindly tell Mr. Brubaker I’m here on official business.”

  “Very well,” I said, still in prim-and-proper mode. “Since that’s the case, Sheriff, please follow me.” I led the way to the kitchen.

  Sheriff Wiggins stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Babes gathered. His eyes swept the assortment of covered dishes and take-and-go containers. His expression lightened a fraction as the reason for my—for our—visit became apparent.

  “Ladies . . .” he greeted the group.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met all of the Bunco Babes.” Still acting as hostess-at-large, I proceeded to introduce Rita, Janine, and Gloria. “You’ve already met Connie Sue, Monica, and Pam the day we found . . . it.”

  He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “How do you do, ladies?”

  I marveled to myself. That inbred Southern politeness surfaces every time, even in rough-and-tough sheriffs who are about to skewer a “person of interest.”

  “Perhaps we’d best be on our way,” Rita offered.

  “No!” Earl practically shouted. “I want you ladies to stay. No reason for you to leave. I don’t have any secrets.”

  Fine by me, I thought. I’m as curious as the next person to hear what the sheriff had to say. I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and plunked myself down. Pam followed suit. Connie Sue and Monica did likewise, while Gloria and Rita leaned a
gainst the counter, arms folded.

  The sheriff frowned, evidently none too pleased at having seven extra sets of ears present. Since it didn’t appear we were about to budge, he pulled out his little black notebook, prepared to do business.

  “I suppose I need an alibi?” Earl asked, his voice not quite steady.

  “Not yet. Time of death hasn’t been determined.”

  “Establishing time of death isn’t an exact art,” I whispered to Pam, proud I had done my homework and read chapter thirteen.

  The sheriff gave me one of his looks, and I lapsed into silence.

  “I came by to ask if your wife had any enemies? Anyone who might want her dead?”

  “Hell, no,” Earl exploded. He ran his hand over his shaggy hair. “Unless she pissed someone off at the golf course . . .”

  Sheriff Wiggins shifted his considerable bulk. For the first time in our brief acquaintance, he looked uncomfortable. “The next subject is of a rather personal nature, Mr. Brubaker. If you’d rather these ladies leave . . .”

  Earl threw up his hands. “How many times do I have to tell you I’ve nothing to hide? Ask away.”

  “How would you describe your relationship with your wife?”

  “The same as any married couple who’s been married thirty years. She does her thing, I do mine.”

  Was that how it was supposed to be after thirty years? I hoped not. Call me a romantic, but I believe in togetherness. Growing older, growing closer. That had been my hope for Jim and me.

  “Do you think your wife might have been seeing someone?”

  “If you mean ‘Was Rosalie having an affair?’ the answer’s no.”

  “Help me out here, Mr. Brubaker. If you’re as innocent as you claim, give me something to go on. Think, man, is there anyone your wife showed an unusual interest in?”

  The seconds ticked by. The Babes and I looked from one to another, scarcely making a sound. Earl scrubbed his hand over his jaw, looking vaguely perplexed at finding it clean-shaven. I could almost hear tiny little gears grinding inside his head.