by Gail Oust
“Well, don’t that beat all.”
Polly’s comment seemed to sum up what we were all feeling. The day had certainly taken an unexpected twist and curtailed our holiday mood. We began to slowly make our way toward the front yard.
“Do you really think that all these years Eula believed her husband had deserted her?” Pam wondered out loud.
“Well, Cora seemed convinced that was the case,” Monica said.
“I, for one, pity Eula.” Gloria zipped her jacket higher around her neck. “The woman was obviously in a state of shock after indentifying his watch and wedding ring.”
“Imagine”—Polly wagged her head sorrowfully—“here she thought he’d gone and run off, and the whole time he was moldering right beneath her feet.”
I shuddered at the graphic image her words painted. Waylon Snow’s body had been in the cellar for years, many years, and might have remained undiscovered if not for chance.
“The poor dear,” Connie Sue crooned. “I can’t imagine what she must be goin’ through.”
“Why would she let people like us assume she’s a widow?” Pam asked, trying to find a plausible explanation for the odd situation.
“A woman has her pride.” Connie Sue ran a hand over her always perfect bob. “Y’all know how much folks love gossip.”
Polly brushed flecks of dirt from her green leggings. “Eula’s hubby was a hottie back in the day. Probably had women swarming all over him.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Monica said, plucking a dead leaf from the camellia bush. “I feel sorry for Eula and all, but aren’t you ignoring an even bigger problem.”
“Bigger than finding the bones of a dead person?” I asked, incredulous at the notion.
Monica gave me the look. “Really, Kate, I should think the answer is obvious. The Holiday Home Tour is only weeks away. If Eula’s house officially becomes a crime scene, will we even have access? It could be off-limits for Lord only knows how long.”
“Tammy Lynn will be so disappointed,” Polly murmured. “She was counting on making her meemaw’s last Christmas in her own home a memorable one.”
“Can’t get more memorable than finding a corpse in the cellar,” I countered. “She’ll be even more disappointed if the skeleton proves to her grandfather’s.”
“Meanwhile, let’s trust Sheriff Wiggins and SLED to sort this out.” Pam rubbed her arms to ward off a chill.
“Surely this setback is only a temporary one,” Connie Sue drawled. “Law enforcement probably only needs a day or two to do whatever it is that they do.”
I nodded. “Can’t be much evidence to collect after all these years unless one counts mouse droppings.”
Connie Sue glanced at her wristwatch, then frowned. “It’s time for me to get home and see to Thacker’s dinner. He likes everything on the table promptly at six.”
Gloria rested her hand lightly on Polly’s back. “And I need to take Mother home for a nap. Finding a corpse has taken its toll.”
“Not a corpse, a skeleton,” I corrected automatically. “Technically, they’re not the same.” After another glance at Polly, she did, indeed, look tired. I hoped she wasn’t coming down with the flu that was going around. Janine had reminded all of us countless times to get our flu shots, but I kept putting it off. My bad.
“Ladies,” Monica said, “we can’t allow this to interfere with our plans. I propose we meet tomorrow for further discussion. What do you say we meet for lunch at the Cove Café? Twelve o’clock sharp and don’t be late. No excuses.”
The women started to move in the direction of their vehicles. “Aren’t you forgetting something, ladies?” I called after them.
Connie Sue was the first to make the connection. “Oh, no!” she cried. “My purse! I left it in the house along with my car keys.”
Each of us, it seemed, had made the same tactical error.
“Somehow I don’t think Sheriff Wiggins would appreciate all of us traipsing back inside. We need to designate one person to collect all of them. Any volunteers?” Monica looked around hopefully, but no one seemed eager to insert themselves into what was surely an emotionally charged scene.
Finally, after a lengthy pause with a lot of shuffling feet and averted eyes, I caved. “All right, all right, I’ll do it. It’ll be dark soon, and we can’t very well stand out here all night. If I’m wounded in the attempt please recommend me for a Purple Heart.”
Avoiding the vine-covered arbor, I cut across the lawn to the porch. I debated whether to knock, then decided against it. Instead, I quietly slipped into the living room, intending to gather the purses from where they’d been dropped helter-skelter in the living room, and then leave. Easy peasy. A cat burglar couldn’t be more unobtrusive.
As I hoped, the sheriff was conducting his interview—or was this an interrogation?—in the kitchen. His deep baritone carried over Eula’s quiet weeping. Clutching the assorted handbags close to my chest, I stood transfixed and shamelessly eavesdropped.
“Judgin’ from my preliminary assessment,” he continued, “my guess is that the victim was male. I’m not a medical examiner, of course, but I’ve seen enough remains to be able to tell the difference. Until we get a positive identification from the state’s forensic anthropologist, we can only presume the deceased is your husband, Waylon Snow. Pendin’ further investigation, we’re treatin’ his death as a homicide.”
Homicide?
Of course! Homicide was a logical conclusion. What else would account for the hole in the skull? A blunt-force blow to the head was what my junior-grade detective skill-set informed me was the likely cause of death. But while it was one thing for me to think it, it was another matter entirely to hear the sheriff speak the word out loud. Turning, I exited as silently as I’d entered.
• • •
Early the following morning, Bill Lewis, my significant other, studied me over the rim of his coffee mug. He’d dropped by to repair a loose door handle before reporting for ranger duty at the golf course and stayed for coffee. “Sounds as though you gals had an eventful afternoon.”
“We definitely got more than we bargained for.” I sipped my coffee and stared out the window. A redbird—or cardinal, as we called them up north—swooped down and settled in my holly bush to peck at the berries. “I’m worried about Polly,” I admitted. “She was so positive I’d stumbled across an old Halloween decoration that I was half convinced myself. She acts like a tough old bird, but inside she’s a marshmallow.”
“From what you told me about Eula recognizing the ring and watch, in all likelihood the remains are those of her husband.” Bill shook his head. “Yet all these years she secretly labored under the impression he’d run off and left her? Where did that notion come from?”
“I have no idea, but I have an appointment at the sheriff’s office in an hour. Maybe he’ll answer a couple of questions.”
Bill’s Paul Newman baby blues twinkled in amusement. “Don’t count on it. Sheriff Wiggins is as closemouthed as they come. You’d have less trouble prying open a clam.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Rising from the table, I topped off our coffee, then sat back down. “On a happier note, Connie Sue decided on a cottage Christmas theme.”
Bill scratched his head, clearly clueless as to what a “cottage Christmas” entailed. “Okay, sounds . . . interesting.”
I smiled fondly at the man who’d become an integral part of my life. Interesting was his term for a wide variety of meanings ranging from intriguing to I have no idea what you’re talking about. In this instance, I assumed he meant the latter.
“Think of cottage as sort of like shabby chic.” At another blank look, I elaborated. “Cottage is vintage, farmhouse-style, a lot of handcrafted items. Furnishings can be distressed to look aged.”
“People actually decorate their homes that way on purpose? Hmm . . . interesting.”
“It’s actually a very doable idea. If Monica had her way we’d be knee-deep in mid-century modern.”
Bill wisely let that one slide. When it came to interior décor, he liked to keep things simple. Give him a recliner, a flat-screen TV, and a card table for an occasional poker game and he was a happy camper.
A casual meeting that had started with finding a severed arm in a Walmart bag had turned into friendship then, unexpectedly, we fell in love. Youngsters have a hard time imaging this happening to folks our age but, trust me, it does. Unfortunately, our children weren’t as happy as we were with our relationship. My daughter Jennifer was convinced Bill was a gigolo out to scam me out of my last dime. Bill’s son thought I was some Mata Hari wannabe who seduced his poor vulnerable father. According to him, no woman would ever be good enough to replace his sainted mother. Bill and I still maintained separate homes. Though we hadn’t decided whether to take our relationship to the next level, we were quite content with our current arrangement.
“What logical reason would make a woman believe her husband had disappeared without a trace?” I mused, nibbling the remainder of a blueberry muffin.
“Could be another woman. Maybe money troubles. Or”—Bill brightened—“maybe he went into the witness protection program.”
“You might be on to something,” I said with a laugh. “And whoever was after him killed him and hid the body in a coal bin?”
Bill laughed, too. “I confess, when you put it that way, it does sound far-fetched.”
My smile broadened. “You think?”
“Are you sure Eula isn’t responsible for her husband’s death?”
Bill had turned all serious on me, and his question caught me off guard. “Eula Snow loved her husband,” I protested. “Even after all these years she still kept his picture on the mantel. Her voice choked when she mentioned his name. No way she would’ve killed him.”
“What if Eula thought he was cheating on her? Maybe he was seeing another woman on the side. You mentioned Polly called him a handsome dude.”
“Polly says that about every man with whom she comes in contact.” I waved aside the notion. “No, impossible! Eula simply isn’t the type who’d harm anyone, much less the man she loved.”
Bill reached across the table and placed his hand over mine. “Kate, honey, promise me you’ll be extra careful. Everyone, even sweet old ladies, are capable of murder under the right circumstances. It’s human nature.”
Long after Bill drove off in his pickup, I sat at the kitchen table pondering his words.
Chapter 6
The sheriff’s office was a madhouse. Tammy Lynn gave Polly and me a distracted wave, motioned us toward a row of molded plastic chairs against the far wall, and continued her conversation on the phone.
“No comment,” she said firmly. She replaced the receiver in the cradle with a solid thunk. “I swear folks can’t understand the meanin’ of ‘no comment.’ The phone’s been ringin’ off the hook ever since I came in. Never even had time to put on coffee this mornin’.”
“Sheriff said he wanted us here first thing,” I told her. “If he’s busy, we can come back another time.”
“Sheriff Wiggins would skin me alive if I let you walk out that door without him seein’ y’all.” Tammy Lynn pushed aside a wayward strand of hair that had escaped a haphazard ponytail. “The mayor and a city councilman are in talkin’ to him. Soon as they’re done, y’all can go in.”
I prepared to wait it out on one of the uncomfortable chairs. Meanwhile, Polly studied the Most Wanted posters pinned to a bulletin board. There was a time or two—or maybe a dozen—when they’d fascinated me as well. I’d undergone a crash course in aversion therapy after recognizing the face of Guido the Killer Pimp, hit man of a notorious crime lord. The sudden realization had nearly cost me my life.
The phone shrilled again. “Sorry.” Tammy Lynn turned her attention to fielding yet another call.
My gaze traveled the office, noting the waiting room was still in dire need of updating. The faux walnut paneling and drab brown linoleum made the room seem dark and even more oppressive. Months ago, I’d dropped by with a stack of periodicals as a distraction for miscreants and felons-to-be who were kept cooling their heels before learning their fate. All for naught. Magazines such as Southern Living, Family Circle, and Real Simple had been replaced by manlier journals. Back issues of Field & Stream, Popular Mechanics and a dog-eared copy of Guns & Ammo once again occupied a battered corner table.
Tired of perusing the bearded and tattooed faces of criminals, Polly came over to join me. She’d dressed for the occasion in a bright lime green tracksuit more appropriate for a day at the gym. Taking a small packet of tissues and a bottle of sanitizer from her purse, she proceeded to disinfect one of the chairs before sitting down. “Can’t be too careful nowadays.”
I watched her with a mixture of awe and amusement. Perhaps I should take a page from Polly’s playbook, but it was too late to worry. I’d been in this office so many times in the past without contracting any communicable diseases that I must have acquired immunity.
“This isn’t at all what I expected. I’ve seen homes in trailer parks that have better decorators. We oughta turn Connie Sue and Monica loose on this place.”
“Somehow I can’t imagine Sheriff Wiggins surrounded by Southern cottage or mid-century modern.”
Polly’s gaze drifted back to the Most Wanted mug shots. “Tattoos should come with a warning slogan: Think before you ink,” she commented. “Look at the dude with a cobra tattooed on his forehead. You’d think he’d come up with a more original moniker than ‘Snake.’”
I gave the poster a cursory glance. Polly had a point. I recall the days when criminals tried to blend in, not stand out. As the singer, songwriter, philosopher Bob Dylan warbled, “the times, they are a-changin’.”
The phone temporarily silent, Tammy Lynn walked over and presented Polly and me each with a clipboard, a form attached. “Sheriff wants you to fill these out. I’ll type them up later and notify you when they’re ready for your signatures.”
“Don’t know why he wants me to do this,” Polly grumbled. “Kate’s the one who found them dang bones. I was happy thinking they were Halloween decorations.”
Thanks for throwing me under the bus, Polly. I gave her a gentle kick in the shins, a subtle reminder that the bones could very well belong to Tammy Lynn’s grandfather. Thankfully, she took the hint and concentrated on filling out the paperwork.
“How are you holding up, Tammy Lynn? All this must be very stressful.”
“I’ve never seen Meemaw so upset.” Tammy Lynn let out a weary sigh. “She’s stayin’ with Daddy and me until things settle down. This mornin’ I found her at the kitchen table drinking a cup of hot water. She started the coffeemaker but never added the coffee.”
I clucked my tongue sympathetically. “I know this has been a shock.”
“You can say that again.” The strand of hair had become loose again and she impatiently tucked it behind her ear. “To make matters worse, someone leaked the news to the media. Even though Sheriff Wiggins swore all of us to secrecy, word’s gotten out. Two TV stations in Augusta are sendin’ out teams. I asked how they found out, but they claim an anonymous source.”
“Sounds like this could turn into a three-ring circus. Any idea who this anonymous source might be?”
“No, but I’d love nothin’ better than to give whoever it is a piece of my mind. The person ought to be ashamed of themselves, wreaking havoc on a dear ol’ woman like my meemaw.” Squaring her shoulders, Tammy Lynn marched back to her desk to field yet another phone call.
“Is our statement going to be graded for spelling and punctuation?” Polly asked with a frown. “I was never much good at commas. A person can go loony from figuring out whether to put one in or leave one out.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I scanned the form attached to the clipboard and started filling in the blanks. “I don’t think Sheriff Wiggins was an English major. He’s more the criminal justice type.”
I tuned out Polly’s chatter.
Ten minutes later, the door to the sheriff’s office opened and two gentlemen paraded out. Neither the mayor nor the councilman acknowledged our presence. Soon after, the intercom buzzed, and Tammy Lynn announced Sheriff Wiggins was ready to speak to us individually. Polly volunteered to go first and get it over with.
I’d just finished reviewing the details on my statement when she came out. “Piece of cake,” she said and grinned. “Don’t know why I was so nervous. Sheriff said for me to send you in.”
“Piece of cake,” I repeated.
Sheriff Sumter Wiggins leaned back in his swivel chair, making the springs squeak under the strain. “Miz McCall. I swear, you have a God-given knack for findin’ trouble.”
“What can I say?” I shrugged and offered a smile. “It’s a gift.”
I sat in the chair opposite him while he read my statement, then nodded his reluctant approval. “Looks like you were pretty thorough.”
“As Dr. Phil would say, it’s not my first rodeo,” I replied, inordinately pleased at his compliment.
The sheriff’s dark brows beetled. “Dr. Phil . . . ? Don’t think I know him. He new in town?”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes at the man’s ignorance of television’s celebrated shrink. “If you watched more TV, you’d be more tuned in to pop culture. Dr. Phil McGraw happens to be the most well-known mental help professional, not just in America but probably in the whole world.”
“Well, excuse me,” the sheriff drawled, “for spendin’ more time at work than in front of my TV set.”
“So, you at least admit that you own a TV, even if you don’t watch it?”
“Guilty as charged.” He rested his elbows on his desk and regarded me over steepled fingers. “If memory serves, I recall you were a big fan of some show called Law & Order.”
“I’m impressed you remember.” I’d neglected to inform him that I habitually fell asleep during the Law portion and had to catch the Order segment on reruns. “My tastes have graduated to the investigative shows.”
“Humor me. Kindly bring a poor, overworked lawman up to speed. What investigative shows are you referrin’ to?”
