by Gail Oust
Todd waylaid the man, stuck out his hand. “Todd Timmons. Say, haven’t we met?”
Hmph. That line failed to score in the originality category. I hope Todd has a better repertoire when he goes clubbing.
“Sorry, you don’t look familiar.” The man smiled politely. “Dick Phillips, Fox Sports.”
“Are you in television, too, Rod?” the blond asked.
“That’s Todd, not Rod,” he corrected. “Yeah, I’m a TV producer. Maybe you’ve heard of my show, How Does Your Garden Grow?”
“Never heard of it,” the blond said with a vacuous smile. “But then, I’m not into gardening. It ruins my manicure.”
“I’m afraid I neglected to introduce my companion, Marlene Monroe.” Dick placed a proprietary hand on the girl’s curvy backside. “Marlene’s been very helpful, showing me around Augusta.”
Ignoring Marlene’s generous cleavage, Todd zeroed in on Dick like a GPS locating an interstate. “Fox is a great station. Watch it all the time. Don’t know another network that’s better at taking the pulse of the people—or targets the right audience. It’s innovative. Top-notch.”
“You said you’re a producer?”
“My show’s on a cable channel. Small potatoes, I know, compared to Fox.” In spite of air conditioning set on max, I noticed beads of perspiration dot Todd’s hairline. “Here’s the thing, Dick,” Todd continued, “I’m ready to move on to greener pastures. I’ve done my time. Now I’m looking for more of a challenge. I’m hoping to land a job with a network such as yours, something with a larger market share.”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy, pal. With your background in the world of plants and shrubs, be happy you found your niche.”
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Todd said, making broad hand gestures. “That’s just it. I don’t know a damn thing about plants, shrubs, or flowers. I’m a techie, pure and simple. That’s where my true genius lies. I can’t tell a dandelion from a daffodil. Matter of fact, I flunked every science course I ever took.”
“I promised the lady a drink.” Dick urged Marlene-thanks-to-the-wonder-of-silicone forward. “Nice meeting you, Todd. Good luck in your search.”
As the pair moved off, I heard Dick tell his companion, “It’s all in the numbers, sweetheart. Unless his ratings are in the stratosphere, a network exec isn’t going to give him the time of day.”
I fiddled with a handsomely bound book lying on an end table, but my attention was still on Todd. A dark flush crept up from his collar. He clenched a fist and for a moment I thought he might punch something. Then, as I continued to watch, he reined in his temper. Taking a sip of his drink, he turned and scoured the crowd. He rolled his shoulders as though willing himself to relax, then sauntered toward a group I vaguely recognized as part of the CBS entourage.
I nibbled the lone cracker left on my plate. Todd blamed Vaughn for a drop in ratings. Was raw ambition motive to kill? And judging from the taut set of his mouth, Todd had a temper. Food for thought.
Suddenly I was ready to call it a day. As much as I’d like to fool myself into believing I can still dance all night, I can’t. I’m not admitting to “elderly” mind you, but my dancing all night days are finished. Done. Over. Finito. Nowadays I’m lucky to stay awake late enough to catch the eleven o’clock news. Time had come to round up Polly and head back to the ranch—with one teensy detour along the way. First though, I needed to find our hostess and thank her for an extraordinary day.
I found Polly heading toward the bar. I plucked an empty margarita glass from her hand and gave it to a passing waiter. “Let’s say our thank yous like nice little girls and hit the road.”
Polly made a token grumble, but I could see, though she’d never admit it, that she was fading too.
Sheila stood chatting with Betsy and Roger near the window. At close range, I could see the Riverwalk far below, a two-tiered park that runs along the Savannah. It was especially lovely this time of year with bold splashes of color along its pathways. Stay focused, Kate, I chided. This isn’t the time to play tourist. I swung my gaze away from the Riverwalk and noticed the top button on Betsy’s blouse unfastened—the only hint of her dalliance with a man young enough to be her son. Sheila acknowledged our inclusion into the tight-knit circle with a slight smile and nod.
“Sheila, my love,” Roger was saying, “was the course all I bragged it would be?”
Sheila nodded her enthusiastic agreement. “It was truly amazing, Roger. Spectacular. The flowers alone made the trip worthwhile.”
“There are thirty varieties of azaleas,” Betsy supplied. “Most people aren’t aware azaleas were first popularized in Augusta when Baron Berckmans and his son started a venture called Fruitland Nurseries, which later became the Augusta National Golf Course.”
“Wow,” I said. “I’m truly impressed that you know all this.” And I was. Lipstick and night creams, yes. But the history of azaleas? No way, no how.
“Betsy’s full of surprises.” Sheila laughed. “You’d never guess it, but in college she double majored in chemistry and botany.”
“Yeah,” Roger agreed sourly. “Under all that fluff, she’s a real brainiac.”
Hmm. Another interesting tidbit to add to my growing list of interesting tidbits.
Chapter 19
This was the big day. A red-letter day. The lumber for bookshelves in my soon-to-be library was due to arrive.
Bill arrived promptly as promised: nine o’clock sharp. He looked—to borrow Polly’s favorite expression—hot. I’ll kick that up a notch. He looked…smokin’. A tool belt slung low on his slender hips loaded with a handyman’s ammo—hammer, screwdrivers, pliers—made him look like a modern-day Gary Cooper. Add to that a pair of killer Paul Newman baby blues, and it’s the stuff hot flashes are made from. Mm, excuse me, I meant power surges.
“Morning, Kate.” He gave me that sweet, unassuming smile guaranteed to make my pulse shift into over-drive. “Hope I’m not too early.”
Who was he kidding? As if he could ever be too early. “No, you’re right on time.”
He sniffed the air appreciatively. “Mmm. Is that coffee I smell?”
“Starbucks Breakfast Blend.” Starbucks wasn’t the only thing steaming in my kitchen. I took a mug from the cupboard, filled it, then topped off my own. “Bought the coffee at the mall last night, along with a slew of Belle Beaute products, before Polly and I headed home.”
“How was the Masters? Have a good time?”
“The best,” I said, taking a seat opposite him at the kitchen table. “I still don’t know what possessed Sheila to give me tickets, but as the old saying goes, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.” For the life of me, I don’t know where some of these clichés come from. They just seem to pop up out of nowhere. Why would anyone look a gift horse in the mouth? And what exactly is a “gift horse” any way? “Too bad you had to take your friend to the airport, or I would have asked you to come with me.”
Bill chuckled. “When I heard you had tickets, I almost told him to start hitchhiking.”
“Well, one thing I can say for Polly,” I said, smiling, “things are never dull with her around.”
“Hope she didn’t try to tackle one of the pros to bring home with her.”
“I’m sure the thought crossed her mind.”
Bill glanced out the kitchen window, which had an unobstructed view of my drive. “Did the lumberyard call to say what time to expect delivery?”
“They called for directions about an hour ago, so they should be here soon.”
Bill wanted to personally inspect each piece of wood to make sure they were blemish-free. At the price of cherry, he expected every board to be perfect. Afterward, he planned to recheck the room’s dimensions. Bill happens to be a perfectionist when it comes to woodworking. I could hardly believe my library/study/den would soon be transformed into an honest-to-goodness library. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine shelves filled with works of favorites such as Nicholas Sparks
, Nora Roberts, John Grisham, and Sandra Brown. I’d be the envy of every member of Novel Nuts, Serenity Cove’s reigning book club.
Thinking envy made Rita pop to the forefront of my mind. There were no two ways about it—Rita envied Sheila. Her looks, her career, her success. Envy is a powerful motivator. It can make ordinary people do extraordinary things. The green-eyed monster had driven people to murder in the past. An awful thought wormed its way into my mind. Had Rita attempted to poison Sheila, not kill her of course, but perhaps give her enough of a substance to make her ill, to embarrass her in public? I immediately dismissed the thought as unworthy of my friend. Rita killed aphids and spiders—not people.
“Have you had breakfast yet?” I jumped up, grabbed the carafe, and topped off our coffee cups. “I can fix eggs.”
“Er, no. I had cereal earlier.” Bill looked at me strangely. If he thought my behavior erratic, he kept his comments to himself. “I loaded most of the tools I’ll need for the job into my pickup. Hope you don’t mind me setting up camp in your garage. I’ll try not to get underfoot.”
Mind? Quite the contrary. I’d been looking forward to his “getting underfoot.” “Don’t give it another thought,” I said, striving for nonchalant. “I’ll manage.”
We sat in the breakfast nook, sipping our coffee and savoring the companionship. We watched a purple finch land on a branch of a sweet gum in my side yard. “It’s nesting time,” Bill commented.
Nesting. For some reason, the notion appealed to me. For forty years, Jim, my late husband, and I had shared a very comfortable nest, first in Toledo, then in South Carolina. But when only one bird’s left, a nest can be a pretty lonely place. I wondered if Bill has ever felt that way since his wife died. I glanced across the table and caught a fleeting expression cross Bill’s face. Had he experienced the same yearning I had? A yearning to cozy up. To nest, to become a couple once again.
Bill cleared his throat, and avoided eye contact. “Do you plan on sticking around this morning, or do you have items on your agenda?”
I groaned at the reminder. “I plan on paying Sheriff Wiggins a social call.”
“Need backup?” Bill studied me over the rim of his coffee mug, his expression serious. “I can call a member of the Woodchucks to handle the delivery. Bernie Mason owes me a favor.”
The Woodchucks happens to be Serenity’s woodworking club where Bill had served several terms as president. I shuddered inwardly at the notion of Bernie Mason being given a task of any importance. The guy was a jerk, an accident waiting to happen. And in my experience, one never had to wait long. “Thanks, Bill, but I can handle the sheriff easier than anyone can ‘handle’ Bernie.”
“You sure?”
“Positive,” I said, finishing off my coffee and rising from the table.
“You’re one brave lady, Kate.” Bill’s baby blues twinkled up at me. “Given a choice between visiting the sheriff or a root canal, most folks would choose the root canal.”
“Well, you know my feelings about dentists, so I’ll go the safer route.” I checked my purse for car keys and other necessities. “If I’m not back when you’re ready to go, just lock up.”
“Most likely I’ll still be here. You’ll be seeing a lot of me over the next couple weeks.”
Bill rose, too, rinsed out his coffee mug, and placed it in the dishwasher. There’s something…so…so…irresistible about a man who cleans up after himself.
As I pulled out of the drive, I glanced toward the house a final time and saw Bill unloading a gazillion tools from the bed of his pickup. He was moving in, all right. Like he said, I’d be seeing a lot of him during the ensuing weeks. Those words were music to my ears.
“Sorry, Miz McCall, he’s busy.”
The first words out of Tammy Lynn’s mouth rarely varied. But was I insulted? No, I was immune to words of unwelcome, vaccinated against a cool reception. Instead I plastered on a friendly face. “Now, Tammy Lynn, I thought after our fun evening of bunco, you’d call me Kate like I asked you.”
She shot a nervous glance over her shoulder toward the sheriff’s office. “Yes, ma’am, you surely did. And I will, swear to God, but just not here, okay?”
“That’s quite all right, dear. I understand perfectly.” Apparently there was some unwritten rule about not being on a first-name basis with a pesky senior citizens. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just kill some time reading the Most Wanted posters. I’d hate to ignore any new felon-in-training.”
“No, ma’am. You might want to read the one I just posted about a bank robber in Raleigh.”
Tammy Lynn turned to the intercom to announce my arrival. I moseyed over to inspect bearded faces pinned to a bulletin board. Certainly a motley crew. Surly, sullen, and shifty-eyed, they might as well have “criminal” tattooed on their foreheads. One glimpse, and I’d speed dial 911. Feigning interest in a man wanted in connection with an armed robbery of a gas station, I shamelessly eavesdropped. Phrases like “what should I tell her?” were punctuated with “you’re in a meetin’?” and “plannin’ session with mayor?” were bandied about.
Behind me, Tammy Lynn cleared her throat. “Mm, ma’am, sheriff told me to apologize for any inconvenience, but to tell you he’s on a conference call. Said it could take hours.”
I smiled and patted my handbag. “Tell him I brought my lunch.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I returned to my study of fugitives from justice. Seems like aggravated assault was the crime du jour. Grand theft larceny was a close runner up with burglary a distant third. I was happy homicide hadn’t made the top three. Wanted posters exhausted, I settled into one of the molded—and uncomfortable—plastic chairs. I deliberately chose a vantage point with a clear shot of the hallway. No way was the wily sheriff was going to duck out a back door. No sirree, not on my watch. I pulled out a novel, a nice, thick, six-hundred-page novel, prepared to play the waiting game.
One hour passed, then two. By now it was close to lunchtime, but I’d come prepared for every contingency. I pulled out a sandwich.
I heard the intercom buzz and Tammy Lynn whisper, “Yes, sir, still here.” This was followed by a pause, then, “She’s eating a sandwich—tuna, I think. And she brought a thermos.”
After finishing my sandwich, I dug into my purse and pulled out a Ziploc bag filled with chocolate chip cookies. “Want one?” I asked, offering them to Tammy Lynn.
“Er, no, thank you…well, maybe just one.”
“Take two, I have plenty.”
Thirty minutes later the intercom buzzed again.
“Sorry, sir. I tried, sir, truly I did, but she’s still here.” Poor Tammy Lynn. She sounded a tad distraught. Another pause, followed by, “She’s readin’ a book, sir—a mighty thick one.”
I pretended to be deaf and calmly flipped a page.
“Can’t see the title exactly, sir.” Tammy Lynn craned her head and squinted in my direction. “Nearest I can figure the cover has a skull and crossbones on it. Appears to be somethin’ about dead men.”
I heard a noise like a rush of wind. A monsoon? But South Carolina doesn’t have monsoons. Occasional hurricanes along the coast, but no monsoons. Then I recognized the gust of air for what it was—Sheriff Sumter Wiggins’s sigh of surrender.
I hid my smile behind the book. Sheriff should know better than to think I was easily discouraged.
Chapter 20
Now that the hour had finally arrived, I walked down the hallway with the slow, measured tread of the soon-to-be-executed. The sandwich I’d just eaten threatened to turn into a cement block in the pit of my stomach. My nerves fluttered, but I blamed it on the Starbucks. I gave myself a little pep talk. After I explained the reason for my visit, the sheriff would be grateful. He’d applaud my efforts. He’d wish he knew more people with my dedication to law and order.
Sucking in a deep breath, I pushed open the door emblazoned in large gold letters: SUMTER WIGGINS, BROOKDALE COUNTY SHERIFF. “Good afternoon, Sheriff.”
&
nbsp; “I trust Tammy Lynn informed you…”
“That you’re a busy man?” I cut him off in midsentence.
Sheriff Wiggins stared pointedly at his wristwatch. “I have a meetin’…”
“…with the mayor?” I inquired sweetly. Not waiting for an invitation that might not be forthcoming, I plunked myself down in the seat opposite his desk, set my oversized purse on the floor, and folded my hands in my lap. “I trust your conference call came to a satisfactory conclusion.”
“Conference call…?” His dark brows beetled in a frown, then realization dawned. “Ah, right, conference call. You know how those things are. They can take forever. Now, I’d appreciate it if you would kindly state your business. I have a meetin’, I mean an appointment, and don’t want to be late.”
I swerved out of sarcasm and into businesslike. “I’m here to offer my assistance narrowing our list of suspects in the Vaughn Bascomb/Sheila Rappaport case.”
A pained expression crossed his face, making me wonder if he suffered from acid reflux. I debated whether to tell him about some marvelous new drugs on the market. Some available without a prescription. But knowing how the sheriff resisted advice—mine especially—I remained mute on the subject.
I was about to demonstrate the reason for my visit when he suddenly leaned over and peered around the desk. Frowning, he studied me for a long moment, his dark eyes gleaming like onyx, until I squirmed uncomfortably. Was I wearing tuna on my sweater? Did I have a chocolate chip stuck between my central incisors? “Something wrong, Sheriff?” I asked.
