by Gail Oust
I sighed. “Then there’s the matter of window treatments. Sheila’s rental has custom-made blinds and valances, but I’ve always been partial to plantation shutters. What do you think would work best?”
“Umm, uh…is it warm in here?” He jumped up and headed for the kitchen. “I’ll go see if the coffee’s ready.”
I wanted to laugh out loud at Bill’s obvious discomfort. The guy looked like he’d been about to break into a sweat. In some respects Bill and my late husband, Jim, were much alike. Confident and fearless, they made decisions on big-ticket items such as refinancing the mortgage or the amount of liability insurance, but ask them for an opinion on paint color or window treatments and they ran for cover. Or in Bill’s case, the coffeepot.
Bill returned minutes later, a steaming mug of freshly brewed coffee in each hand. “Your pot roast tonight tasted great,” he said, apparently finding food a safer topic than interior decor.
“I know pot roast, along with tuna noodle casserole, is high on your list of favorites.” I accepted the mug, crossed my ankles. “I thought we needed something special to celebrate the completion of the bookshelves. I even considered champagne.”
“Nah.” Bill shook his head. “In my mind, pot roast tops champagne.”
Men! I gave him a fond smile and decided to let him off the hook. “Think I’m going to ask Connie Sue for help. She’s a whiz at decorating. She once spent an entire day going store to store comparing paint samples.”
We lounged back in our respective seats, cradling our coffee mugs.
“I confess,” Bill said, “I don’t know a danged thing when it comes to furniture and window blinds. That was my wife’s department. If paint color was left up to me, I’d wind up with azalea pink or daffodil yellow.”
“Hearing you mention ‘azalea’ and ‘daffodil’ reminds me of my visit to the sheriff’s office this morning.”
He peered at me over the rim of his cup, his expression serious. “And how did that go?”
“Not well,” I said, summarizing the meeting in two words.
“Care to talk about it?”
“The Babes and I delivered a variety of plants and shrubs common to this area. My intention was that he send these to the state toxicology lab for testing. Unfortunately, the sheriff has allergies, so our meeting was cut short.”
Bill chuckled. “So you found the mighty Sumter Wiggins’s Achilles’ heel.”
“Guess the man’s human after all,” I said with a laugh, remembering the watery eyes, the runny nose, and the mad scramble for allergy pills. Then I sobered. “I’m operating under the assumption that Vaughn and Sheila were poisoned with a substance easily accessible to anyone knowledgeable in horticulture.”
“I suppose you have a list of suspects?”
“Thought you’d never ask.” I quickly rose and left the newly christened library, and returned minutes later with my little black book. “I’ve wanted to brainstorm with you. Keep in mind the motive, means, and opportunity method of criminal investigation.”
“I worry about you, Kate. Maybe you should let the sheriff handle things.” I opened my mouth to object, but he wasn’t finished yet. “If your theory’s correct, the person you’re dealing with is dangerous—and devious. Think how easy it would be for him or her to put a drop or two of poison in your drink or mix a little into your food. Promise you’ll be extra cautious until whoever did this is caught.”
Aw, he cares. Or was it a nice way of telling me I am crazy? “You’re right, of course,” I said meekly. “I promise, I’ll be careful.”
Maybe I was crazy, certifiably insane, to disregard the advice of family, friends, and even the sheriff. I’d become a dyed-in-the-wool crime and punishment addict. I wouldn’t quit until the puzzle was solved, justice done. Crime solving had become my OCD du jour. I was doomed. Should I see a shrink? Or find the killer? I didn’t have to ponder long; I already knew the answer.
“I’ve already ruled out Rita as a person of interest.” I flipped open my notebook.
“Rita Larsen?” Bill nearly choked on his coffee. “Rita, your friend and fellow Bunco Babe?”
“The Babes don’t murder people.” I skimmed through my notes. “Besides, Rita was too obvious in her dislike of Sheila. What was the word you just used?” These darn senior moments happen at the most inopportune times. Then it came to me. “Devious! A killer, especially one who uses poison, would have been more devious, more subtle than Rita, so hear me out.”
Bill listened attentively as I ran though my list of suspects—Todd, Roger, Betsy, and Kel—including possible motives, means, and opportunities. “Well,” he said when I finished, “since you want my opinion, I’d say Todd Timmons, boy producer, has motive and opportunity, but lacks know-how.”
“What about Roger McFarland?”
“You just said Roger has sole creative control over that fancy flower book he’s editing. That, combined with the fact Betsy, not Sheila or Vaughn, beat him out of some high-paying job he coveted rules out motive.”
“But he has means and opportunity,” I whined.
“Sorry.” Bill was ruthless. “Without motive you can’t make your case. Let’s move on.”
Sighing, I turned a page. “That brings us to stuck-up Betsy Dalton. She has motive up the wazoo. I have it on good authority that Vaughn and Betsy were once engaged. Then Vaughn threw her over for Sheila. What’s the saying, ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’ Betsy wanted revenge, bided her time, then ‘Gotcha!’”
“Just because you don’t like the woman doesn’t make her guilty,” Bill pointed out, sounding irritatingly like the voice of reason. “You’re forgetting Betsy wasn’t there. If you recall, her flight was delayed, and she arrived late.”
I slumped in my chair. Bill was becoming one tough critique partner. “True, I don’t like the woman,” I admitted grudgingly. “Betsy’s arrogant and likes to intimidate me, but I couldn’t resist putting her on the list. There is one more…”
Over a second cup of coffee, I ran through the pros and cons of Kel Watson—the lone person left on my list—as the possible perp.
Frowning, Bill shook his head. “Granted, the man has means and opportunity, but what motive could Kel possibly have to harm Sheila or Vaughn?”
I shifted in the recliner, trying to find a more comfortable position. Motive was the weak link in the Kel Watson scenario. Circumstantial, but no hard evidence. “I believe Kel’s a stalker. Why else would he keep showing up, first at the TV studio, and then wherever in Serenity Cove Sheila happens to be? At the banquet, the hospital, and even at the reception after Vaughn’s memorial service? I think he’s obsessed with Sheila and viewed Vaughn as a rival for her affection. If Kel couldn’t have her, no one could.”
“Mm, I don’t know.” Bill looked doubtful. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Kate, but to be honest your theory seems a bit contrived. More like a plot one of those made-for-TV movies on the Lifetime channel.”
I felt deflated. I was reaching, and I knew it, trying to catch a killer before they harmed anyone else. I wanted to stick out my lower lip and pout like a petulant two-year-old, not very attractive for a woman over sixty. Dejectedly, I gazed at my pretty new bookshelves, which at present held only two volumes: The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics and The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating. I wondered if perhaps I wasn’t the living breathing version of the complete idiot.
Chapter 31
“Sorry, Kate, I thought I’d made this clear.” Rita’s impatience transmitted itself across the phone lines. “Even provisional members of the garden club are expected to participate in our community service project.”
“But a cemetery…?” I’d been awake only long enough to down half a cup of coffee. I squinted out the window. Was the sun up yet? I wasn’t a morning person by nature. Never was, never will be. My body clock just doesn’t tick that way. Even when I was up and functioning, I didn’t function. If that makes me a bad person, then so be it.
“Most of the members have already put in their time. All that’s left for you to do is weed around the gateposts at the entrance.”
“You want me to go out there—to a deserted cemetery—all by myself?” I heard a whiny note creep into my voice, but didn’t care. A deserted cemetery plus weeding equals resistance. It doesn’t take a math major to come up with the correct answer.
“Don’t be such a baby, Kate. Deserted means there’s no one else around; you’ll have the place to yourself. Think how quiet and peaceful it’ll be. You can commune with nature.”
If I wanted to commune with nature, I’d sit on a beach in the Bahamas and watch the ocean while sipping a margarita. “Left to my own devices at the cemetery, I might be dangerous. I could pull out something that turns out to be a flower and not a weed.”
“If it looks like a weed, chances are it is a weed. If it looks like a flower leave it alone. I’d go with you if I could, but I have a dental appointment.”
Given Rita’s choice of the dentist’s office or a deserted cemetery, I knew which one I’d pick hands down. The cemetery. But not Rita. She was a glutton for punishment. “Fine,” I acquiesced with obvious reluctance.
“And, Kate, one more thing. The club needs it done today if possible.”
“Today?” The whine was back, the volume turned up. I had things to do, places to go. In other words, I had muffins to bake and library books to return.
“Let me know when you’re finished. The club wants to send out a photographer from the Serenity Sentinel to take some pictures. Sorry, Kate. Gotta run, but don’t worry. The job shouldn’t take more than an hour at most,” she added before hanging up.
The call had left me feeling cranky and out of sorts. I needed to work on crime solving, not weed picking. The toxicology lab in Columbia was slow as molasses in coming up with the possible cause of Vaughn Bascomb’s death. They needed a boost. I couldn’t help but wonder if Sheriff Wiggins even bothered to send along the samples the Babes and I had collected.
I popped a bagel into the toaster and poured myself more coffee. Eventually the bagel was demolished and the coffeepot drained. Time had come to put on my big girl panties and quit procrastinating. I donned an old pair of jeans and an even older T-shirt. No sense fussing with hair or makeup for old dead people and a bunch of weeds. It wasn’t as if I was going on a date. I’d take a shower and freshen up when I got home in case Bill happened to drop by. I collected a pair of gardening gloves and a few basic tools. I tossed these into a canvas tote bag along with my wallet, then grabbed my car keys. I was good to go.
I turned down the same road I’d taken the day I followed Kel Watson. Today promised to be a beauty, the air already warm, the sky a bright Carolina blue. Birds chirped; insects hummed. It was hard to remain grumpy on such a lovely spring morning. I bumped along listening to Kenny Chesney, Polly and Megan’s number one stud muffin, warble something about no shirt, no shoes, no problems. I, on the other hand, had shirt, shoes, and a boatload of problems. The first and foremost being who killed Vaughn Bascomb and nearly succeeded in killing Sheila.
I stopped when I came to the fork in the road. On my last visit I’d discovered Kel, costumed as if ready to explore outer space, inspecting stacks of rectangular white boxes, which I’d since learned on the Internet were called “supers.” Was the man really the crazed stalker that Sheila had intimated? Was he mentally deranged? A psychopath? I’d seen plenty of movies where a man becomes fixated on an attractive woman. They usually involved a cat-and-mouse chase through a darkened house that culminated in the woman narrowly escaping with her life. The sort of movie that had me double-checking the locks, looking under the bed, and sleeping with a light on.
Since Kel’s beehives were on the left, the cemetery had to be down the right fork. Brilliant deduction on my part, if I do say so myself. No reason to hurry. The weeding could wait.
I slowly idled down the rutted track I’d traveled two days ago. To my surprise, the road didn’t end with the Queen Bee and her dominions, but continued on. Feeling adventurous, I decided to do a little exploring. Even though this wasn’t far from my home, I’d never been out this way. I knew from local lore that the very ground I now traveled over was once home to the Huguenots, French Protestants who’d fled to the Carolinas to escape religious persecution in the eighteenth century. Many of their descendants still lived in the area. I once heard a local historian say this place had been a “hotbed of dissent” during the American Revolution. It was still a “hotbed” in my estimation. Due to several recent murders, Serenity Cove was no longer so serene.
I drove a goodly distance past the hives and was about to turn around when the trees thinned to form a meadow. In the middle stood a small garden plot. A strange place for a garden, but one nevertheless. I stopped the Buick and climbed out for a closer look. Why in the world would someone plant a garden in the middle of nowhere? But plant it they had. Whoever owned it had even gone to the trouble of constructing a sturdy chicken-wire fence to protect it from marauding Bambis and bunny rabbits. And to add to the mystery, the fence was locked with a shiny chrome padlock.
Curious and curiouser, cried Alice.
I picked my way through ankle-high grass to get a better look. The plants filling the enclosure were approximately a foot high with slender serrated leaves. This would be a sure-fire test of my new plant life identification skills. I squatted down for a better look. Leaves in groups of five or more fanned out from a central stem. They didn’t resemble any common houseplant, or any of the plants I’d seen at Dixie Gardens. I made a made a mental note to seek Rita’s expertise in giving them a name. Taking my cell phone out of my pocket, I snapped a photo, remembering to press SAVE. Some leaves were poking through the fence, practically calling my name so I snipped off a few with the clippers I’d brought along and tossed them in my tote bag. Later, I’d bring them to the sheriff for testing.
Intent on the mystery leaves, I started to rise.
I sucked in my breath at a sharp, burning pain in my forearm, which was simultaneously accompanied by a loud pop! I looked down just as a bee, its dastardly deed done, flew off. It had left its stinger behind as a calling card. Uh-oh, I thought. This spelled trouble with a capital E—E as in epinephrine. E also as in ER. Last time I’d been stung, the doctor had warned me not to take chances. Advice I planned to heed. Digging out my phone again, I dialed 1-800-BILL.
My arm felt like it was on fire. Odd how such a tiny pinprick can be the cause of so much pain. Forcing myself to remain calm, I slumped down beside the fence to wait for Bill’s arrival.
“Sorry for all the bother,” I said, my tongue staring to feel thick and clumsy.
Bill guided me toward his Ford pickup. “You’re never a bother. Got here as fast as I could.”
“I didn’t trust myself to drive.” I allowed myself to be helped into the truck and have the seat belt fastened.
“Want me to call nine-one-one?”
“Just put the pedal to the metal,” I lisped.
“Consider it done.” Bill executed a three-point turn, and we were off like a rocket.
Meanwhile, I could feel hives starting to pop like Orville Redenbacher’s Kettle Korn along my arms and legs. I was about to scratch the most annoying one when I noticed a steady trickle of blood coming from a tear in the sleeve of my T-shirt. “I’m bleeding,” I mumbled.
Bill took his eyes off the road long enough to glance at me worriedly. “What the…?”
I shrugged off his concern. “I must have caught my shirt on the fence.” By this time, I was beginning to feel a bit light-headed and tried not to panic. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against the headrest. “I’m sure there’s no cause for alarm, but could you drive a little faster?”
Bill complied, and the rest of the drive was a blur. I didn’t open my eyes again until we reached the ER. Ignoring my feeble protest, Bill rushed to get a wheelchair. Good thing, too, since I didn’t think my legs would support me. He wheeled me inside and s
poke with the admissions clerk. I was immediately whisked into an exam room and lifted onto a stretcher.
“Hope I’m not making too big a deal out of a teensy beesting,” I wheezed. My chest felt as though it had a sack of cement on top of it.
“Don’t give it another thought, hon,” the nurse assured me as she hooked me up to oxygen. “You did the right thing getting here as fast as you could.”
The ER doc—the same one who’d treated Vaughn and Sheila—flew into the cubicle and rattled off orders in quick succession. I heard words like Benadryl and epinephrine and steroids. Music to the ears of anyone having a serious reaction. I gave Bill, who hovered nearby, a feeble thumbs-up.
“Make a fist, sweetie,” the nurse instructed as she prepared to start an IV. Then her tone sharpened. “Dr. Michaels, I think you’d better take a look at this.”
My eyes, which had been half-closed, snapped open.
The doctor pushed up the sleeve of my T-shirt. A frown furrowed his brow. “Mrs. McCall, did you realize your arm’s been grazed by a bullet?”
“What…?” If I had trouble breathing before, this bit of information knocked the rest of the wind out from my sails.
Unbelievable! Then I recalled the pop I’d heard the same instant as the beesting. Could that have been a gunshot? And what’s more, who would want to shoot at me?
Chapter 32
“Who do you s’pose would want to shoot a nice, but nosy, lady such as yourself?” Sheriff Wiggins drawled.
Hmph! Me, nosy? “Is that any way to speak to a person who’s been wounded—perhaps by a sniper?”
“Sniper, eh?” He scratched his head. “Don’t reckon many of ’em ’round these parts. ’Course, a big place like Serenity Cove Estates is another matter.”
Even in my weakened state, I could recognize sarcasm when I heard it. The ER doc had insisted he was legally bound to notify the authorities of any and all gunshot wounds. He’d promptly phoned the sheriff, who’d arrived posthaste. The bullet had only grazed my upper arm, but required suturing. Would I have a tale to tell at bunco! I could hardly wait to see the expressions on the Babes’ faces. If it wasn’t for the five stitches, they might think I’d fabricated the entire story.
