by Gail Oust
“Yeah,” he said at last, “there is this one guy Rosalie was always calling over.”
The sheriff’s ballpoint hovered over a page in his little black book. “And who might that person be?”
“The guy’s name is Bill. Bill Lewis.”
Chapter 19
My jaw dropped, nearly hitting the table, when I heard Earl mention Bill Lewis. A collective gasp rose from the Babes.
Earl was on a roll now. “Yeah, that’s right. Bill Lewis. He’s a part-time ranger on the golf course, part-time handyman. Rosalie was forever calling him to come over to fix this or that around the house. She’d always arrange for him to come when she was damn well sure I wouldn’t be home.”
Sheriff Wiggins dutifully recorded the information in his little book. “By any chance does Bill Lewis live in Serenity Cove Estates?”
I couldn’t believe my ears. Call me crazy, call me besotted, but to my way of thinking, Bill Lewis was an even less likely candidate to kill Rosalie than Earl. I felt, rather than saw, Pam’s sympathetic glance slide my way.
Earl nodded vigorously. “He not only lives here, but he’s president of the Woodchucks.”
The sheriff did his one-eyebrow-lift thing. “The woodchucks?”
Gloria cleared her throat to draw the sheriff’s attention. “Woodchucks is the name of the woodworking club here in Serenity Cove.”
Earl rubbed beads of sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Bill Lewis either owns or has access to every power tool on the planet. Who’s better equipped to dismember a body?”
Monica pressed a hand against her mouth, her skin that nasty olive green. Connie Sue draped an arm around her shoulders. “Gentlemen, if y’all will excuse us. I think we’ve overstayed our welcome.”
One look at Monica’s face and Janine flanked her other side. “Our friend needs some air,” she explained. Together with Connie Sue, Janine herded Monica toward the door.
“B-but . . . ?” I protested. I don’t know which I hated more, not knowing the outcome of the sheriff’s questioning or watching Monica barf.
“Say good-bye, Kate,” Gloria ordered, her voice stern.
Pam took one of my arms, Rita the other, and they escorted me from the house. I had been cleverly outmaneuvered.
Once outside, I sputtered, “Imagine! Earl practically accused Bill of killing Rosalie.”
“Calm down, Kate.” Pam patted my back as we walked down the Brubaker drive and crossed the street heading toward my house. “Emotions are running a bit high right now. People are bound to say and do all kinds of crazy things.”
“Just because a man owns power tools, saws, and such doesn’t mean a thing,” I fired back. “Like we said before, if that was the case, practically every man in the world would be a suspect.”
Monica’s normal color was gradually returning. “Why would Earl say such a thing if it wasn’t true?”
“Maybe Earl’s the jealous type,” Connie Sue suggested. “You never know with men.”
Rita reached her Honda Accord parked in my driveway and paused, her hand on the door. “Rosalie used to complain at bridge that when it came to doing things around the house, Earl would either be on the golf course or puttering in his garden.”
“Bill can fix almost anything,” Gloria agreed. “Rosalie probably had him on speed dial.”
Connie Sue smoothed her honey blond bob. “Y’all, I said it once, I’ll say it again. Could be Earl’s the jealous type.”
“Think about it, ladies,” Janine said with a wicked grin. “Picture Bill Lewis in a tool belt—then picture Earl.”
“Janine!” Gloria pretended to be shocked.
Connie Sue giggled. “Earl doesn’t even come in a close last.”
• • •
The phone rang just as I was about to prepare dinner. It was our son, Steven—there I go again—is it our son, or my son, since Jim died?
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything important?”
Who was he kidding? Was he trying to be funny? A widow’s life in a retirement community—even one for “active” adults—isn’t filled with activities so important they can’t come to a screeching halt for her to take an occasional phone call from her only son.
“Of course you’re not interrupting, dear. How are you?”
“I’m fine. How about yourself?”
“Everything’s fine. I can’t complain.”
“Great. Good to hear it.”
“I haven’t heard from you in a while.” I try not to sound whiny and clingy, but I ask you, how hard is it to call a poor widowed mother once a week? How many times did I have to remind the boy that I was in labor with him for eighteen hours?
“Been busy, Mom.” I could hear the babble of voices in the background. “I’m getting ready to go on another buying trip.”
“Where to this time?”
“Sri Lanka.”
My geography of that part of the world is a bit fuzzy. I’d have to look up Sri Lanka on the Internet later. “Mmm. Sounds . . . interesting.”
“Yeah, I’m looking forward to it. I leave day after tomorrow.”
I twisted the phone cord around my finger. I felt a little wistful. Steven and I used to be close, but since his move to New York I feel like I’m slowly being phased out of his life. Exciting job, exciting city, boring mother. “How long will you be gone?”
“A couple weeks, I guess. The company is looking to expand one of its product lines and wants me to scout out the situation. You know, do a preliminary report. Take a look around. Bring back samples.”
“That’s wonderful, Steven. I’m proud of you.” And I was. I could feel my chest swell with maternal pride and affection. I was happy to learn that the company he worked for recognized his talent. “Our boy is a winning combination,” Jim used to say, “my brains and your good looks.” Hearing that always made me smile.
“Listen, Mom . . .” He hesitated.
“Yes, dear, go ahead,” I encouraged. It was good to hear him call me Mom and not the more formal Mother that Jennifer prefers to call me.
“I’ll cut to the chase. I talked to Jen this morning.”
“Ohh . . .” I braced myself for what I feared would come next.
“She wants you to come out to LA and stay with her and Jason.”
I stopped twisting the phone cord, pulled out a kitchen chair, and sat down. “Yes, dear, I remember the conversation.”
“I wanted to let you know that I disagree with her.”
“Attaboy!” I said, smiling. Maybe Steven and I were still on the same wavelength after all.
“You’d end up being Jen’s live-in, unpaid nanny to her girls,” he continued. “I told her you were too old for that kind of stuff.”
Too old? I felt myself deflate like a balloon after the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. “Steven, it’s not a matter of being too old to keep up with Jillian and Juliette,” I hastened to correct his misconception. “The fact is I’m very happy where I am.”
“You mean in Serenity Cave?”
I huffed out a breath. “Cove, Steven, not cave. Serenity Cove Estates.” To Steven’s way of thinking, if it wasn’t Manhattan, one might as well be in Siberia. Sometimes I wonder if he even remembers how to spell Toledo.
“Jen told me what’s going on down there. Is it true someone was chopped into little pieces and scattered all over the golf course?”
“You know how your sister tends to be a drama queen.” I picked up a pencil and started to doodle on a notepad I kept by the phone. “It’s not as bad as you make it sound.”
“Then it’s not true?”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just, well, not exactly the way you described it.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for word games. Define ‘not exactly.’”
“There weren’t body parts all over the golf course. There was just an arm—and it wasn’t scattered. It was in a Walmart bag.”
There was a long pause, followed by the tinkle of what sounded li
ke ice in a glass. I could use a drink myself about now. I had survived the teen years, but now that my children were adults, I wasn’t so sure I’d make it without hitting the bottle.
“Oh, well”—Steven found his voice at last—“the Walmart bag does add a certain touch of class.” I could almost hear the sarcasm bounce from satellite to satellite all the way from Manhattan to Serenity Cove. “One arm, or a dozen, still means there’s a maniac on the loose.”
I couldn’t very well deny this, but forged ahead. “It’s not quite as bad as you make it sound, dear,” I said, trying to sugarcoat the grisly facts. I wanted to see for myself if a spoonful of sugar really did help the medicine go down—in a most delightful way, of course. “Sheriff Wiggins called it an isolated incidence of violence.”
“That place isn’t safe, Mother.”
I noticed he’d switched from the less formal Mom to the more-formal Mother. Went to show how upset he was. Sweet of him to worry—even though it wasn’t warranted.
“What do you think I should do, Steven?” I asked. “Come to New York and stay with you?” There! I had tossed out the challenge in order to hear his reaction. I didn’t have long to wait.
“No, of course not, Mother. Coming to New York and living with me wouldn’t be practical for either one of us.”
That’s my boy. Smart like I said.
“I was thinking of something more along the lines of an assisted-living facility.”
I gasped at the notion. Assisted living? The instant I recovered from my shock, I dug into my bag of righteous indignation and let him have it with both barrels. “Steven James McCall! Bite your tongue.”
By the time I finished telling him exactly what I thought of his idea, I doubted the words assisted-living facility were still in his vocabulary.
“Have a safe trip to Sri Lanka, dear,” I managed to say pleasantly enough at the end of my diatribe, and disconnected.
I sat at the kitchen table for a long time afterward staring out the window at nothing in particular. I suppose, in his own way, Steven meant well. I wish he’d come down for a visit. Then he’d see that I’m happy, healthy, and active. And not elderly or demented, as Jen feared. Or ready for assisted living, as he suggested. Didn’t either of the children read the newspapers? Didn’t they know that sixty was the new fifty?
Chapter 20
Bill Lewis had said he’d be over at four to replace my broken ceiling fan with the one no longer back-ordered. I’d driven to Lowe’s in the morning to pick it up. As I suspected, Bill pulled into the driveway a full ten minutes ahead of schedule. I watched him climb out of his Ford pickup and come around to the side door.
“Am I too early?” he said by way of a greeting.
“Not a bit.” One glance into those Paul Newman baby blues and I was glad I had remembered to put on lipstick. I held the door wide to allow him and the big metal toolbox he carried to pass through.
“What kind of fan did you end up with?” he asked as he followed me into the kitchen.
“A white one,” I answered promptly, pleased with my purchase.
“White, eh?”
There it was again. That smile . . . and that tool belt. How lucky could a girl get? He nodded his approval. “Can’t go wrong with white.”
“I know.” I choked back a giggle. I couldn’t help it. He had that kind of effect on me. “White goes with everything.”
“Never know what I might need to get the job done,” Bill explained, setting a toolbox the size of a steamer trunk on my kitchen floor. “Guess I’d better get started. I’ll have you up and running in no time.”
I was already up and running, but I couldn’t very well tell him that. He’d turn tail and run. Suddenly I was faced with the same dilemma as before. Should I make myself scarce? Or stick around . . . just in case?
And once again I decided to stick around—just in case.
I looked about the kitchen for a project, something to keep me busy while he worked on the fan. I wanted to stay close without being obvious. My eyes rested on the houseplants on the sill. They were starting to look in need of attention. Translation: They were in dire need of water and a little TLC.
I set out to impress Bill with my “green” thumb. I rummaged under the sink and pulled out supplies. Watering can, plant fertilizer, mister, and moisture meter. While on my way through the garden center while at Lowe’s, I’d picked up one of those moisture-meter gadgets. I had been meaning to get one for years but never got around to it. The cost would be negligible compared to that of replacing ferns and ficus on a regular basis.
“I’ll need that stepladder of yours out in the garage,” he said, then went off to get it.
While he was gone, I carefully measured liquid fertilizer into a watering can, then added the prescribed amount of water. At least I’d look like I was an expert in the houseplant department. Bill didn’t have to know I’m a regular Dr. Kevorkian when it comes to growing things.
Wish I would have thought to have a pie in the oven. Apple pie. Nothing like the aroma of fresh-baked apple pie to go straight to a man’s heart. Belatedly, I remembered apple pie was the culprit that brought Bill and me together in the first place. If the juices from my pie hadn’t baked over, causing the kitchen to fill with smoke, it might’ve taken weeks, or even months, to discover the ceiling fan was broken.
Bill returned with the stepladder and positioned it under the defunct fan. Next he opened the box containing the new fan and proceeded to read the directions. I watched, amazed. A man who actually read directions! My earlier impression was confirmed. Bill was, indeed, quite a guy.
“Simple yet practical.” He gave me a thumbs-up. “Looks as though this will do nicely. Some folks go for all that fancy stuff, but I tend to think in the long run simple is better. Fewer things to go wrong.”
Hmm . . . ? Maybe I had made the wrong choice after all. Things going haywire would have been the perfect excuse to have him make another house call. I stifled my disappointment and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Water or iced tea?”
I could use a little something myself—a cold shower perhaps? The man had me babbling like a teenager.
“No, thanks, Kate. Maybe when I’m finished.”
Just then I heard a knock. I answered the door and found Pam on my doorstep, a book in her hand and a phony smile on her face. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important. Mind if I come in?”
In the blink of an eye, she was seated at my kitchen table. “Hi, Bill,” she said, giving him that same insincere kind of smile. “Don’t mind me.”
“No problem.” Bill went about the task of attaching blades to my new fan.
“What brings you here at this hour?”
“I came to return this.” Pam tapped the cover of the book she had brought with her. “I found it while I was cleaning this afternoon and thought I’d better bring it back.”
I frowned when I read the title. “That’s not mine.”
“Really?” Now it was Pam’s turn to frown. “Are you sure? I could have sworn this was yours.”
“You know I never read science fiction.”
It wasn’t like Pam to drop in for no particular reason. And it certainly wasn’t like her to drop by to return a book she’d never borrowed. Come to think of it, Pam seldom borrowed books.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I offered to be polite, yet hoping she’d refuse.
“Sure. Iced tea would be great.”
I got two glasses from the cupboard, took the pitcher of iced tea from the fridge, and poured us each a glass. “I’m surprised you’re not home fixing dinner.”
“Dinner’s cooking in the Crock-Pot. I started it this morning.” Pam leaned back and crossed her legs. “This way I’ve got all afternoon to do as I please.”
“Great.” But was it? As much as I always enjoy Pam’s company, I had hoped to use this time to get to know Bill better while he worked. But a glance at Pam’s relaxed pose told me she planned “to sit a spell,” a
s they say in the South.
For the next half hour, we chatted about this and that before moving on to more important issues. Such as the character changes in our favorite TV series. Pam liked the new actor who replaced a longtime lead, but I wasn’t so sure. “Give him time,” Pam counseled. “He’ll grow on you.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see work on the ceiling fan was progressing nicely. It was clear this wasn’t the first one Bill had installed. Reluctantly I swung my attention back to my guest. “More tea?” I asked, noticing Pam’s glass was empty.
Before she could respond, the front doorbell chimed. “Excuse me,” I said to Pam as I got up to answer the door. I was surprised to see Connie Sue standing on the porch.
“Connie Sue! What brings you here?”
She gave me an apologetic smile. “I need to borrow your springform pan.” I stood aside. “Sure, come on in.”
Connie Sue headed straight for the kitchen, where she stood, head cocked to one side, hands on hips, and studied the ceiling fan Bill had just finished assembling. “White?”
“You have something against white?” I said, feeling somewhat put off by her tone. “White goes with everything. You can’t go wrong with white.”
“Don’t get me wrong, sugar. It’s nice, but . . . awfully plain. I thought you might go for something a little more . . . high-tech. Stainless steel, maybe with a remote.”
“Simple and practical are more my style. Fewer things to go wrong,” I said, parroting Bill’s words.
Connie Sue and Pam exchanged glances. Pam rose. “Well, guess I’d better go home and stir the Crock-Pot.”
Connie Sue plunked herself down in the chair Pam had vacated and looked like she intended to stay awhile. Without asking, I poured her a glass of iced tea.
“Don’t think we’ve met.” She smiled at the man on the stepladder. “You must be Bill. After hearing so much about you, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Connie Sue Brody.”
“Bill Lewis.” Bill returned the smile. “How do you do.”
