Shake, Murder, and Roll

by Gail Oust

  Bill and I were still in the emergency room, but I was hoping to get my walking papers soon. I’d had enough of hospitals now that I was beginning to feel like myself again. The shot the nurse had given me had dulled the pain in my arm to a persistent ache. The steroids and anti-histamines had also done their jobs. Better living through pharmaceuticals, just like the ads on TV say.

  “What are you and your men doing to find the person who did this?” Bill demanded. Judging from his grim expression, he didn’t seem happy with the sheriff’s laid-back approach to my predicament.

  The sheriff shifted his gaze from me to Bill. Most men would quail upon being skewered by those laser-bright eyes, but not my Bill. His blues didn’t blink as he returned the look. I thought I saw the sheriff make a slight, almost imperceptible nod, before answering—but I could’ve been mistaken, considering all the drugs I’d been given.

  “My men are combing the area. Now,” he said, and this time it was my turn to be on the receiving end of the lawman’s piercing stare, “let’s go over this again. You say you didn’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary?”

  “We’ve already been through this.” I sighed. “I was bending down to examine some strange-looking plants when I was stung by a bee. I vaguely remember a popping sound, but at the time I was too worried about having a reaction to the bee sting to pay much attention.”

  The sheriff jotted this in his omnipresent notebook. “Seems to me a person, a curious person such as yourself, would look to see where the poppin’ noise was comin’ from.”

  “Last time I was stung—years ago—the doctor told me not to waste time seeking medical attention or the results could be serious.”

  “Doc Michaels told me you should’ve been carryin’ one of those gizmos allergic folk are s’posed to keep handy.”

  He was right, of course, which made me feel guilty as sin. Unable to meet the censure that seemed to radiate from him, I dropped my eyes and picked at the adhesive holding my IV in place. “I do have one of those ‘gizmos,’” I admitted miserably. “An EpiPen. I’m supposed to keep it with me, but I forgot it when I switched purses.”

  It was Sumter Wiggins’s turn to sigh. Why is it men can’t understand a woman’s compulsion to accessorize? If Jim had had his way, one purse, probably black, would have sufficed. No need to coordinate a handbag with shoes or the event or the outfit. Or the season. A woman needs variety, large purses, small purses, black purses, brown purses. One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish. And so it goes. Dr. Seuss had the right idea.

  The sheriff’s cell phone rang just then, and he turned away to answer.

  Bill stepped closer, took my hand, and squeezed it. “Kate, promise me you’ll get one of those damn gizmos for every single purse you own.”

  “EpiPens,” I corrected with a wan smile. “It’s a promise.”

  His call completed, the sheriff returned. “That was Deputy Preston callin’ to report they’d recovered a shell casin’.”

  “Good,” Bill and I said in unison.

  “By the way,” I said, “did your men check out the secret garden I told you about? The plants I described could be the type used to poison Vaughn and Sheila. They must be important. If not, why bother to secure it with a padlock?”

  “Oh, they’re important, all right.” Sheriff Wiggins chuckled, actually chuckled. “But I think we can rule them out as the killer poison.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Bill asked.

  “The mystery plant isn’t a mystery any longer. It has a name—cannabis.”

  I mentally reviewed my lexicon of things green and growing. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Most folks refer to it as marijuana. Some call it pot, others weed or grass.”

  “Ahh, marijuana. So that’s what all the fuss was about.”

  “Uh-huh.” The sheriff nodded. “My guess is the person growin’ it saw you and didn’t take kindly to someone pokin’ their nose in his business. Doubt they intended to kill you. More likely wanted to scare you off is all.”

  I played with the sheet covering me, pleating it first, then smoothing it. “What if they’d killed me—accidentally?”

  “Guess you’d be dead instead of sassy as ever.”

  I thought about this for a long moment. I know everyone dies someday, but I wasn’t ready to go yet. Especially with a departure hastened by some kook defending a patch of illegal drugs.

  “I warned you, Miz McCall, snoopin’ around can be dangerous. Next time you might not be so lucky. You could find yourself seriously injured—or worse.”

  “For your information, I wasn’t ‘snoopin’ around,’” I retorted, highly offended by his assertion. “I happened to be out there on behalf of the garden club.”

  “You sayin’ the garden club is growing marijuana?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” I snapped. “The club’s service project happens to be the beautification of the Huguenot Cemetery.”

  He tugged his earlobe. “If memory serves, the cemetery’s in the opposite direction of where you were shot.”

  Busted! Time to fess up. “I admit that the other day I followed Kel Watson as far as the beehives. Today I wanted to see where the road led, so I went a little farther and that’s when I found the…marijuana.”

  The sheriff raised his brow—one dark intimidating brow. “Just curious, Miz McCall, ever get around to doin’ any weedin’ or flower plantin’?”

  “No,” I said, affronted by the smirk he was trying to hide. “But I had every intention of doing so. Why else would I go out in public without taking the time to do my hair or makeup?”

  I groaned inwardly. With everything that had transpired, I’d completely forgotten my dishevelment. I must look like Babezilla. I wouldn’t blame Bill if he ran for cover.

  Sheriff Wiggins snapped his notebook shut and slid it into a pocket. “I’ll keep you informed of our progress on findin’ the shooter.”

  And that was that. The grillin’ was over.

  “Bill, would you hand me my tote bag?” I asked after Sumter Wiggins departed. “I didn’t even bother with lipstick this morning. I’m a wreck.” How like me to always keep an extra tube of lipstick handy, but no EpiPen. Dumb, dumber, and dumbest!

  “Hey,” Bill said, smiling as he passed it over. “As far as I’m concerned, you still look pretty as a picture. Now let’s see about those discharge papers.”

  Turns out getting in was easier than getting out.

  Dr. Michaels, it seemed, was a proponent of due diligence, a bona fide conservative. He insisted I hang around for observation. Said things like wanting to make sure I was stable before he’d sign off on my case.

  By the time we finally pulled into my drive, it was growing dark. Instead of leaving, however, Bill informed me that he intended to spend the night. I made the requisite halfhearted protests, but relented without much of a fight.

  The day had taken its toll. First the beesting, followed by the wild ride to the ER, and finally discovering I’d been shot. Besides, the Benadryl the doctor had prescribed was making me groggy. While I relaxed in a nice hot bath, Bill fixed grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. When I finally joined him, wrapped in a pink fleece robe, the simple meal tasted like a gourmet dinner. It’s been a long time since I’d had a man fuss over me. And it felt terrific.

  Afterward, we cuddled on the sofa while watching American Idol. My eyelids drooped shut before Ryan Seacrest announced which contestant would be sent home.

  “Kate, honey,” Bill said as he gently shook me awake. “I think it’s time for you go to bed.”

  I sat up, yawning—and hoping I hadn’t drooled. “Make yourself comfortable in the guest room,” I told him drowsily. “I think you’ll find everything you need.”

  He kissed my forehead. “You gave me quite a scare today. I’ve already lost one woman I loved, I don’t want to lose another.”

  Love…? Did I hear the L word? Or was I tripping out on drugs? I fell asleep the instant my head hit t
he pillow with a smile on my face.

  I awoke the next morning to an incessant ringing. I rolled over, jammed the pillow over my head, and wished the caller would give it a rest and hang up. My upper arm ached from the gunshot wound; my forearm was swollen, sore, and itchy from the beesting. As for my disposition…well, just call me Miss Cranky Pants.

  A light tap on the door was followed by Bill’s voice. “Kate, honey, I think you’d better take this.”

  I stifled a moan as I swung my legs out of bed. Anyone who knows me knows better than to call before nine o’clock. How many times do I have to tell people, I’m not a morning person? Shoving the hair out of my eyes, I reached for my robe as Bill entered the bedroom, a cordless phone in one hand, coffee mug in the other. “It’s your son,” he whispered.

  Thanks, I mouthed. My teeth felt furry; my hair was a disaster. This definitely didn’t resemble a cute morning-after scene in one of those vintage romantic comedies I dearly loved. Katharine Hepburn or Claudette Colbert never subjected Spencer or Clark to halitosis or bed head. But this wasn’t a movie classic, it was twenty-first-century reality. I accepted the phone along with my fate. “Hey, sweetie…”

  “Mother,” Steven said, his tone harsh, “don’t try to tell me that man—Bill What’s-his-name—didn’t spend the night.”

  I shot a cautious glance at Bill. Wordlessly, he handed me the coffee mug.

  “You might fool me once, but not twice,” Steven continued his tirade. “This is the second time I’ve called early in the morning and found him there. I demand to know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing is ‘going on’ as you so eloquently phrase it. I shouldn’t need to remind you that I’m a grown woman and don’t owe you an explanation—even if something was ‘going on,’ which it isn’t.” I took a gulp of coffee and scalded my tongue. Did I overdo the “going on” part? I wondered. Doth the lady “protest too much?” Or merely engage in wishful thinking?

  Silence spun its sticky web. “Sorry, Mother,” Steven muttered at long last. “It’s just that Jen and I are concerned with you so far away and us never having met this guy. You must admit it seems suspicious when I call early and he answers the phone.”

  It was sweet of them to worry, I suppose, but unnecessary. “Bill did stay the night, dear, but not because of any prurient interest.”

  Hearing this, Bill raised a brow askance, but I merely shrugged. Prurient was a word I’d been waiting for the just the right moment to whip out. I only hoped I’d used it in the right context. Nothing like taking a new word out for a vocabulary spin and then using it incorrectly. Time to get back on track. “I was stung by a bee yesterday, and Bill drove me to the emergency room,” I explained.

  “I don’t recall you being allergic to bees.”

  “I’ve become more allergic since you went away to college.”

  “Are you all right?”

  “A shot of epinephrine and a couple stitches, and I’m right as rain.”

  “Stitches? Since when does a beesting require stitches?” Steven, bless his heart, sounded stricken. “What aren’t you telling me, Mother?”

  Note to self: Never have a discussion with your first-born without being fortified by lots of caffeine. I took another gulp of coffee and crossed my fingers that the caffeine would bypass my stomach and go straight to my brain. “No need to be upset, sweetie. The sheriff assured me whoever shot at me only wanted to frighten me away from his marijuana patch.”

  Another lengthy silence. During that time, I seriously considered having my jaw wired shut to prevent me from blabbing. “Steven…? Dear, are you still there?”

  “That does it, Mother! Sam and I are coming down for a visit.”

  “S-sam…?” My mind stuttered at the notion of Steven’s upcoming visit. And the fact he was bringing someone along named Sam.

  “I want to meet this Bill person. And find out once and for all what kind of place you live in. We’ll be there as soon as Sam can rearrange her schedule. See you soon,” he said, disconnecting.

  “Sam’s a she.” I handed Bill back the cordless. “Is it too early for a margarita?”

  Chapter 33

  It never fails. Just when you think things can’t get any worse, they do.

  My garbage disposal growled like a heavy metal band. I think it ate a fork. Next I stubbed my toe hurrying to answer the phone only to hear the canned spiel of a telemarketer. And then when I went out to water my plants, I discovered mud daubers had built their tunnel-like nests all around my front door. I don’t recall pesky mud daubers in Toledo. But down here they pose a nuisance. Now, for the uninitiated, mud daubers are wasps. Fortunately for someone like me who’s allergic to insect stings, the daubers tend to have a nonaggressive nature. Unless you’re a black widow spider, that is. Trouble is the daubers’ nests aren’t a aesthetically pleasing. Comprised of dirt—and dirt in these parts means red clay—their nests need to be knocked down, then the area scrubbed to remove the reddish brown stain they leave behind. After last week, I wasn’t about to take any chances. I’d have to have my EpiPen in one hand and a scrub brush in the other when I cleaned up the mess. One trip to the ER was quite enough, thank you very much.

  Hearing Tammy Lynn’s voice on the phone was the cherry on top of the sundae. Apparently her boss wanted to see me pronto, ASAP, and get-your-butt-in-here-this-minute fast. Sorry as I was to delay my attack on the mud daubers—I’m being facetious—I hopped into the Buick and pointed it toward Brookdale. I barely had to steer. I’d made this trip so many times my car could find its way all by itself.

  “Hey, Kate,” the new improved Tammy Lynn greeted me warmly. “Sheriff Wiggins said to go right on in. He’s waitin’ on you.”

  The Buick wasn’t the only one to operate on autopilot. I could find his office blindfolded, I thought as I walked down the hall and pushed open the door. To my surprise, I found Sheila Rappaport seated in what I’d come to think of as my chair. “Sheila!” I exclaimed. “What brings you here?”

  Sheila crossed her legs and smiled serenely. “Kel Watson made another attempt on my life.”

  “He what…?” I could scarcely believe my ears.

  “I just finished giving the sheriff my statement.”

  “What happened? Are you all right?”

  “Yes, thank goodness, but Kel’s been arrested. He tried to poison me, but luckily this time I was onto his tricks.”

  I was at a temporary loss for words—in my case usually a short-lived affliction. Spying a molded plastic chair alongside a filing cabinet, I dragged it closer and plunked myself down. I gave Sheila the once-over, but didn’t see any telltale signs of bodily harm. In spite of her ordeal, she looked as elegant and poised as ever. An amazing woman, Sheila Rappaport. Unlike me, I bet she’d never rush off to pull weeds in a deserted cemetery unless her hair and makeup were perfect. She looked chic in tailored navy blue linen slacks and a crisp white blouse with turned-back cuffs and pearl buttons. I marveled at the feat. I always look like an unmade bed whenever I wear linen.

  “You haven’t mentioned why you’re here,” Sheila reminded me.

  I shook my head. “Honestly, I have no idea. Tammy Lynn called and said the sheriff wanted to see me…so here I am. Where is he, by the way?”

  “He said something about official business. Should be back any minute.”

  “In the meantime, tell we what happened with Kel. Or is it classified information?”

  Sheila flicked an imaginary speck of lint from her slacks. “Kel turned up on my doorstep this morning unannounced. Insisted he wanted to make amends, to set the record straight. He kept repeating that he never meant for us to be enemies. He refused to leave until I heard him out so, against my better judgment, I invited him in.”

  I glanced nervously toward the partially open door, half-expecting the sheriff to appear and spoil my fun. Seeing as how he already considers me a busybody, I didn’t want to give his belief any more ammunition. “Then what happened…?”

  “Well, I
asked him to join me on the screened porch. Before he arrived, I’d been enjoying a glass of iced tea while reviewing galleys Roger had FedExed. Kel went on and on about how sorry he was for frightening me on the set of How Does Your Garden Grow? He told me how much he admired the show, said he viewed it regularly. Then he chatted about some mutual sites we’d explored, independently, of course. He said he needed a favor. He wanted to know if I had a photo of a certain ornamental we’ve come across in our travels. He claimed he needed it for a slide presentation for the garden club.” Sheila brushed a wing of highlighted blond hair from her cheek. “Anything to get rid of the man, right?”

  “Right,” I agreed, hanging on to her every word.

  “After I returned with the photo, Kel made a rather abrupt departure and I returned to work on the galleys. I was about to take a sip of tea, but for some inexplicable reason I hesitated.” A shudder raced through her. “I’m convinced at that precise moment, Vaughn’s spirit reached out and saved my life. Suddenly I remembered his agony, the way his body had convulsed. Then I thought of Kel Watson’s strange behavior.”

  I was at the edge of my seat. “And then what…?”

  She reached out and clutched my hand. “Thank God, Kate, I didn’t drink the tea. It contained arsenic.”

  “Arsenic…”

  Sheila nodded vigorously. “Of course I didn’t know it at the time, but I was suspicious all the same. I immediately placed a call to the sheriff and demanded he send a sample to the lab for testing. He refused at first, but I was adamant. I even threatened to bring a lawsuit against him for failure to act on my behalf. Eventually, he conceded and agreed to have one of his off-duty men drive it to Columbia. The lab did a rush and faxed the results an hour ago.”