Murder is Dicey

by Gail Oust

  “I’m impressed,” said she who can’t tell pliers from a wrench. Bill owned enough equipment to dismantle the Queen Mary and put it back together again.

  “The cradle’s over here.” Bill led me to a sheet-draped object near one of the overhead doors. He whisked the covering off, and I caught my breath. He beamed ear to ear at my gasp of delight.

  “It’s beautiful, Bill! Absolutely beautiful.” And that was no exaggeration. A row of intricate spindles wrapped around the ends and sides of a basket suspended from sturdy but graceful supports that bore a single delicately carved rose.

  “It’s made from loblolly pine grown right here in South Carolina. I wanted the baby to feel close to its grandfather even though we’re eight hundred miles apart.”

  Call me sentimental, but I felt a lump form in my throat. I knelt down and ran my hand over wood smoother than a newborn’s bottom. “I’m sure this will be a gift that’s cherished for generations.”

  “I was going to use polyurethane for the finish, but after some research decided against it. I went with pure beeswax instead. It’s one hundred percent nontoxic biological wax.”

  “That sounds like an environmentally friendly decision.” Chalk up more points for Bill Lewis. “I bet you don’t need a lecture on going green.”

  “Reduce, reuse, recycle, right?”

  “Right.” I traced the carved rose with the tip of my finger. “Do your son and his wife know whether the baby will be a boy or a girl?”

  He shook his head. “Said they want to be surprised.”

  “Boy or girl, he or she will be one lucky child to know they have a grandfather who loves it as much as you.”

  Bill tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “My son said if it’s a girl, they’re going to name it after my wife, Margaret, and call her Maggie.”

  I was about to reply when my cell phone jangled. “’Scuse me.” I rummaged through my handbag, which I had set on the floor while admiring the crib.

  It was Diane. “Hey, Kate. What’s up?”

  “Hey, Diane, can’t really talk now. I’ll call you back later.”

  “Wait, don’t hang up. I wanted to let you know that new mystery you’ve been talking about just came into the library this afternoon.”

  “Great.” I glanced at Bill out of the corner of my eye. He was carefully replacing the sheet over the cradle.

  “Want me to set it aside for you?”

  “Sure. Thanks, Diane. I’ll stop by to pick it up.” I snapped the phone shut and dropped it back into my purse. “Sorry for the interruption.”

  “No problem. How about some coffee to go with those lemon bars you brought?”

  The doorbell pealed as soon as we reached the kitchen.

  “Be just a minute,” he said as he hurried off.

  I heard a soft murmur of voices in the distance. Familiar-sounding voices. Gloria and Polly? Impossible! What would they be doing here at this hour? I waited until I heard Bill tell his callers he’d fetch something from his workshop, then decided to take a peek for myself.

  Polly spotted me about the same time I spotted her. She waggled her fingers and grinned. “Thought that looked like your car out front.”

  Gloria, dressed in her favorite polyester pantsuit and lots of gold chains, smiled, too, but her smile seemed forced. “Bill promised to donate an item to the Humane Society Auction. We thought we’d stop by to collect it.”

  Bill returned from his workshop carrying a handsome pair of wooden candlesticks and presented them to Gloria. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks, Bill. They’re lovely.” She dug through her purse and pulled out a pad. “Let me give you a receipt. Remember, this is a tax-deductible donation.”

  “I was planning to drop them off,” Bill said. “The auction’s still a month away.”

  “No problem. We were in the neighborhood.” Gloria scribbled down the information, then handed him a receipt.

  “Guess that’s it,” Polly chirped, giving me another of her finger waggles. “Bye, Kate. See you at bunco.”

  Bill closed the door on his unexpected guests. “Now it’s my turn to apologize for the interruption. If memory serves, you take your coffee black.”

  “Same as you—if memory serves.”

  Bill turned on the coffeemaker and got out mugs while I peeled the plastic wrap from the lemon bars. We had just sat down to enjoy coffee and conversation when my blasted cell phone shrilled. I was tempted to turn it off without answering, but thought better of it when I saw Connie Sue’s name on the display.

  “Hey, sugar. Hope I’m not interruptin’ anything important.”

  “Actually, Connie Sue, this isn’t a good time.” I stared out the window of the breakfast nook, but it was dark outside and all I could see was my own reflection in the glass.

  “Since when are y’all too busy to spare a minute for a friend?”

  I mouthed, I’m sorry to Bill. Bill, in return, gave me one of those unassuming smiles that had first attracted me to him.

  “It’s just that I’m not home right now.”

  “Anywhere interesting?”

  “Bill invited me over to see the beautiful cradle he made for his son and daughter-in-law. They’re expecting their first baby this spring.”

  “Promise you’ll call me the minute you step foot in the door. I need your chicken scaloppini recipe for the church potluck.”

  “Promise.” I would have promised a kidney at this point. I turned off the phone, which I should have done an hour ago. “Sorry . . . again.”

  “Seems to me your friends are just looking out for you.” He took a sip of coffee, then smiled at me over the rim of his mug. “Can’t say as I blame them with everything going on around here.”

  “Good coffee. Is it one of those special blends?” I said, taking a sip, but really trying to change the subject.

  “No, just something I picked up at Walmart.” Bill broke apart the lemon bar on his plate, but stared at it like a bug under a microscope. “The way news travels in Serenity Cove, I suppose you know Sheriff Wiggins dropped by to question me about Rosalie Brubaker.”

  “No, I hadn’t heard, but I’m not surprised. I was at the Brubakers’ when Earl pointed a finger in your direction. The sheriff is only doing his job. No one in their right mind would believe you had anything to do with killing Rosalie.”

  “Have to admit it shook me up. Haven’t gotten as much as a traffic ticket in the last twenty years. Next thing I know, the sheriff’s asking me about a murder. Even asked to see my woodworking shop. I told him to go right ahead. He seemed really interested in my tools, especially my saws.”

  “Saws?” My voice sounded like a croak.

  “Yeah, I’ve got a radial-arm saw, a table saw, and a band saw. I don’t know what he was expecting to find.”

  I dearly wanted to ask Bill if the sheriff had spritzed chemicals on the saws to detect blood like they did on CSI. I bit my tongue instead.

  Bill took a small bite of his lemon bar. “I admit Rosalie called me all the time. She was always after me to fix this or that. Complained all Earl did was putter with his orchids. Said things would never get done if she waited for him.”

  “Don’t let it get you down, Bill. The sheriff seems like a competent man. He’ll get things sorted out. Earl probably pointed at you in order to draw attention away from himself.”

  Bill looked relieved to have unburdened himself. “Thanks for listening, Kate. You’ve been a friend. I have to confess I nearly called tonight to cancel, but I’m glad I didn’t.”

  “I’m glad too.”

  We talked a little more; then it was time for me to go. Bill walked me to the door and waved as I pulled out of the drive. I hadn’t gone more than half a block when I glanced into my rearview mirror and, for the first time, noticed headlights close behind me.

  A little too close.

  Chapter 28

  Panic fluttered like a moth in the pit of my stomach. I had stayed at Bill’s long
er than planned. And later. Traffic was nonexistent at this hour—not that it was ever heavy to begin with. Another of retirement’s perks. Everyone was home. Safe behind locked doors.

  I turned right. So did the car behind me. Coincidence I told myself.

  I took a left. The car behind me did the same. Worry ratcheted up a notch. I drove with both hands on the wheel, at two o’clock and ten o’clock, just the way I had been taught, but seldom practiced. I kept one eye on the road, the other on the rearview mirror.

  I turned off Oleander Avenue and onto Shady Lane. The other car did, too. It had followed me ever since I left Bill’s. Almost as if it had been . . . waiting.

  A killer was loose.

  The perils of a woman living alone sang in my head like a chorus of angry voices. Each second the notes seemed to gather urgency. Soon they would resound like the reprise from Les Miserables. I gave myself a lecture on coincidence. I demanded my fluttering stomach to quiet. I ordered my racing heart to slow. Neither stomach nor heart obeyed.

  The true test to see if I was being followed was yet to come. My house sits in the center of a cul-de-sac with a vacant lot on either side. Normally I prize my privacy, but tonight I wished for neighbors. Neighbors with floodlights and barking dogs. In another minute, I’d turn off Shady Lane and into Loblolly Court. If the car behind turned as well, I was in deep doo-doo.

  I needed a plan of action. I needed a weapon. What if whoever was behind me forced me out of my car? Tried to kidnap me—or worse? What if my serial-killer theory wasn’t as far-fetched as the sheriff seemed to think? I swept the interior of my car with a glance. I didn’t have a weapon. Maybe I should get a gun, I thought, stifling a hysterical bubble of mirth. But I hate guns, I reminded myself in the next breath. A person can get seriously hurt with a gun.

  Now what? I wondered. Dial 911? Frantically I pawed through my handbag trying to find my darn cell phone. Duh! I realized I should’ve done that sooner. But even as my fingers closed around the phone, I knew why I hadn’t called in the troops. I couldn’t very well call the sheriff’s office to report a car behind me on a public thoroughfare. After all, I didn’t own the road. Nowhere in the Serenity Cove Estates bylaws did it state only Kate McCall could drive down Shady Lane at precisely 9:35 in the evening.

  I reached the corner, the point of no return. Deliberately ignoring my turn signal, I jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and took the turn on two wheels. I had seen this move done somewhere with modest success, maybe on reruns of Starsky and Hutch or Dukes of Hazzard. I felt a stab of apprehension when a glance in the rearview mirror showed I still had company. My technique, it seemed, needed practice.

  Beep! Beep! The quiet night was broken by a series of sharp staccato blasts of a horn.

  As I circled the cul-de-sac pondering my next move, I thought I heard my name called. The car horn blared again. This time the driver flashed the headlights. I finally slowed to a stop when I heard what sounded like Pam’s voice yelling my name. But that didn’t make sense. Why would Pam be following me and blowing her horn? She was usually home with Jack at this hour watching TV.

  I rolled down my driver’s-side window a crack. The car behind me braked to a stop. Two figures emerged and approached the Buick. I squinted against the glare of headlights, but finally recognized the pair as Pam and Rita.

  “Kate McCall, the crazy way you drive you ought to have your license revoked!”

  If I had been standing, my knees would have buckled in sheer relief at hearing Rita scold. When my nerves steadied a bit, I opened my car door and eased out from behind the wheel. The lights from Rita’s Honda dimmed and shut off automatically.

  “Are you auditioning for NASCAR?” Pam demanded.

  Rita stopped in front of me, size tens firmly planted, arms crossed over 40 DDs. “The way you rounded that corner, you nearly mowed down Earl’s mailbox.”

  “If you two hadn’t scared me half to death, I wouldn’t have to drive like a maniac. Hasn’t anyone told you there’s a killer roaming the streets?” I fired back. Imitating Rita’s stance, I glared at my friends. “Now, will one of you kindly explain why you’re following me? And why you ruined a perfectly good evening with your stupid phone calls? You can’t really expect me to believe Polly and Gloria’s story they just happened to be in Bill’s neighborhood and decided to stop.”

  “Don’t be mad, Kate,” Pam said. “The Babes and I only wanted to make sure you got home safely.”

  “That’s right.” Rita gave a brisk nod. “And to give you a good talking-to. Someone has to knock some sense into you.”

  “Why?” I looked from one to the other, perplexed. “What did I do now?”

  Rita jerked her thumb in the direction of the Brubaker house. “The woman across the street—your friend and mine—was hit over the head hard enough to kill her and her body cut into little pieces. Her husband, as you well know, happens to be the prime suspect in her murder.”

  “Earl wouldn’t hurt a flea.” I huffed out a breath. “He grows orchids for goodness’ sake. He’s not a cold-blooded killer.”

  “And then there’s Bill,” Rita pointed out succinctly. “Earl sounded pretty positive Bill Lewis could be, as the sheriff would say, a ‘person of interest.’ God only knows what might’ve been going on between Bill and Rosalie.”

  “Bill . . . ?”

  “Yes, Bill.” Pam laid her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “A woman can’t be too careful. I know he’s sweet on you, Kate, but don’t ignore the facts.”

  “Facts? What facts?” My mind struggled to take in the remote possibility of Bill being a vicious murderer.

  “It’s common knowledge Bill owns more power tools than Home Depot. Rosalie’s arm didn’t fall off by itself. It was cut off,” Rita reminded me, her tone matter-of-fact.

  “And, Kate, remember what you told us about Bill rushing to your defense with a Louisville Slugger?” Even in the dim light, Pam’s face looked pinched and anxious. “You even thought it was cute. During his press conference, Sheriff Wiggins said the cause of death was a blow to the head with a blunt object.”

  Rita nodded like one of those annoying bobble-head dolls.

  “A baseball bat could be translated as a blunt object,” Pam concluded.

  I felt nauseous at the thought of Bill being a suspect. I liked to boast I was a good judge of character, but right now felt I was on shaky ground. It didn’t make me feel any better to know I had just spent an entire evening alone with the man. Not just any man, but a “person of interest.”

  Rita stepped closer, her voice hushed. “Did you happen to notice what Bill’s house backs up against?”

  I shook my head. My mouth was too dry to speak.

  “Not just the golf course, Kate, but the eighth hole. The infamous eighth hole where we found . . . it.”

  At this point in the conversation, I could have informed Pam and Rita that Bill also shops at Walmart. That he probably had access to bags galore—a convenient place to store a severed arm. But I couldn’t heap any more suspicion on a plate that was already overflowing. I wondered if a woodworking shop, a Louisville Slugger, a house on the eighth fairway, and access to Walmart bags constituted circumstantial evidence.

  Suddenly it wasn’t looking good for Bill. Didn’t baby blue eyes and a bashful smile count for something? Or had Rosalie found them just as endearing as I did?

  “We’re not saying we think Bill is guilty.” Pam adopted a conciliatory tone worthy of a UN ambassador trying to broker world peace. “I like the man nearly as much as you do, Kate, but the Babes and I want you to be careful who you trust. Until this terrible thing is over, it might be best for you to play it . . . cool . . . where Bill is concerned.”

  But I don’t want to play it cool. “I am careful,” I muttered. “Granted, Bill has more saws than I can remember the names of, but I didn’t completely forget what Earl had implied.”

  Rita’s grim expression melted somewhat. “Glad to hear that.”

 
I felt the need to prove I wasn’t a total idiot. “I gave Bill’s workshop a good looking over while I was there. The place was immaculate. I didn’t notice any telltale signs that a body”—I shuddered—“had been dismembered. No blood spatter on either the walls or the floor.”

  Pam leaned against the Buick and frowned. “I watch nearly as many crime and punishment shows on TV as you do. We both know he’s had time to scrub them down, repaint.”

  I leaned on the car next to her, closed my eyes, and imagined myself back in Bill’s shop. Concentrate, Kate. Concentrate. The floor had been a serviceable gray, but it bore scuff marks and showed signs of wear. The walls had been white, but the paint hadn’t looked fresh.

  “I don’t think so,” I replied at last. “The place smelled more like varnish and sawdust rather than bleach and fresh paint.” I looked from Pam to Rita, my look steady, unblinking. “You’re wrong about Bill . . . just as you’re wrong about Earl.”

  No sooner were the words out of my mouth than flashing red and blue lights lit up the night sky. The three of us turned as a stream of police cruisers pulled up across the street. Some blocked the Brubakers’ driveway while others screeched to a halt near the front curb. Uniformed men leaped out, too preoccupied to notice three women standing in the dark of a drive across the way.

  Sheriff Sumter Wiggins issued commands in a quiet voice. Several deputies took up stations around the perimeter while he led a small procession around to the front door.

  Pam, Rita, and I swapped meaningful glances. I felt the hair at the nape of my neck prickle. Something was up. Something huge.

  I leaned over and said sotto voce, “Looks like the posse’s got the place surrounded.”

  “What do you suppose is happening?” Pam whispered.

  “I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but I’m not budging until I find out.”

  This time I intended to hold my ground. No way was I going to allow Sheriff Wiggins to bully me with threats of obstruction of justice. I had every right to stand in my own driveway till dawn if that’s what I wanted.