by Gail Oust
“Hi.” She returned my smile. “I’m Sharon Mayfield. Do you live here in Brookdale or are you from Serenity Cove Estates?
“Serenity Cove Estates.”
“I thought so. I know most everyone in Brookdale—at least by sight. My husband has jobs in Serenity Cove from time to time. Matter of fact, Mr. Snow hired Grady back in the day. It was Grady who kept the business afloat after Mr. Snow took off. Grady said the company’s books were a mess. He ended up having to fire the bookkeeper when the numbers didn’t add up.”
“Really . . . ? Were charges ever brought?”
“Grady couldn’t prove anything.” Even though no one was close by, Sharon Mayfield lowered her voice. “Grady always thought it was mighty strange that Mr. Snow disappeared at the same time funds turned up missing. I also remember Grady saying something about a running feud Mr. Snow had with a rival contractor—Bud Sanders. Grady called the guy a real head case. I probably shouldn’t be gossiping, but the whole situation is strange, that’s all.”
Reaching into the meat counter, Sharon selected a two-pound package of ground chuck and wheeled her cart down the canned goods aisle.
Missing company funds? Waylon’s coincidental disappearance? A feud with a business rival? Were they connected? I watched Sharon Mayfield consult her grocery list and add a jar of spaghetti sauce to the items in her cart. This wasn’t the first time since I’d moved south of the Mason-Dixon Line that a conversation with a total stranger turned personal. My exterminator had once confided his youngest son had abused drugs, done time, and found Jesus. The young man was now an ordained minister. This bizarre conversation had taken place between spraying for millipedes and checking for termites.
As I stood in line at the checkout, my mind kept replaying the disturbing information Sharon Mayfield had divulged. If Waylon Snow had been guilty of embezzling money from his own company, had it led to his death? The thought was troubling and bore further investigation.
“Excuse me, but aren’t you Kate?” The woman behind me in line interrupted my thoughts. “We weren’t properly introduced yesterday in all the confusion, but I’m Cora Prentiss, Eula’s baby sister.”
“Nice to see you again, Cora. Sorry if I seem a bit distracted.” I unloaded the contents of my cart onto the conveyor belt. “How is Eula holding up?”
“Not well, I’m afraid. All this stress isn’t good for her.” Cora placed the plastic bar used to separate orders behind my items. I watched in admiration as she removed bananas, strawberries, blueberries, and dark leafy kale from her shopping cart. She glanced up and smiled. “I like to make smoothies for my sister. They’re a healthier alternative to the sweets she’s so fond of.”
“Eula’s lucky to have you as a sister.”
“No, I’m the lucky one.”
• • •
The meat loaf was in the oven, the timer set. The potatoes were peeled and waiting for me to turn on the burner. As I knew he would, Bill had accepted my dinner invitation without a moment’s hesitation. I planned to make the most out of our time together and pump Bill, a popular handyman, for information about Grady Mayfield.
I’d just finished putting the final touches on a salad when my phone rang. I quickly wiped my hands on a dish towel and picked up my cell. I smiled at seeing my daughter’s face on the screen.
“Hey, Jen,” I said cheerily. Jennifer called randomly from her home in Brentwood, California due to her hectic schedule with two young children and a husband with a high-powered career.
“Hi, Mother,” she returned. “I wanted to call while the kids are at gymnastics. You won’t believe what my wonderful husband is giving us for a Christmas gift.”
“I haven’t a clue.” I felt happy hearing the excitement in her voice. Putting the phone on speaker, I slipped the salad into the fridge. “Are you going to tell me or keep me in suspense?”
“We’re going to Hawaii on a family vacation,” Jen said with a little laugh. “A client of Jason’s is loaning us his fabulous condo on Maui right on Kaanapali Beach. Isn’t that fantastic?”
I pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and sat, wondering if this was what a sucker punch felt like. Jennifer’s husband, Jason, was a hugely successful contract attorney in Tinseltown, where his client list included a host of celebrities. It was only natural he’d want some downtime with his wife and daughters—and without a mother-in-law tagging along.
“Mother . . . ? Are you still there?”
“Yes, sweetie, still here.”
“Isn’t that the best Christmas present ever? It’ll be just the four of us. Jason even promised he’d turn off his phone for the duration—an almost unheard-of accomplishment. He’s already made arrangements for the girls to take surfing lessons. They’ll be absolutely thrilled when they find out.”
“Yes, thrilled,” I echoed. I only wished I shared her enthusiasm. Instead my heart sank to my toes. Jason’s windfall trumped my plans for a family Christmas—a surprise trip to California to be with my daughter and her family. Now all I had to look forward to was a solitary Christmas at home.
“Jason has been putting in such long hours lately that it’ll be great for the four of us to finally spend some quality time together.”
I tried to infuse some enthusiasm into my voice. “Well, sweetie, I’m all in favor of quality family time.”
Jennifer didn’t notice my cheerfulness was forced.
• • •
“You make a terrific meat loaf,” Bill said as he helped himself to another serving. “The mashed potatoes and gravy are good, too.”
I poked at the peas and carrots on my plate. My desire for comfort food had died a premature death upon learning about Jennifer’s trip to Hawaii—and my aborted surprise visit to California.
Bill glanced at my half-eaten dinner. “Looks like you lost your appetite. Hope you’re not coming down with the flu bug that’s going around.”
“No, I’m fine.” I rose to refill our coffee cups. “I’m just a little down after finding out Jennifer and her family are going to Hawaii over the Christmas holidays. As you know, I had planned to fly out and surprise them. Guess the surprise is on me.”
“Sorry, hon.” Bill patted my hand, his expression sympathetic. “Maybe you can surprise them in the spring. If your timing is right, you might be able to schedule your visit to the west coast to coincide with pine pollen season here in South Carolina.”
Bill’s comment helped dispel my gloomy mood. The man knew how much I detested the yellow clouds of pine pollen that drifted through the air each spring and coated everything in its path. With a Herculean effort, I shrugged off the pity party with me as hostess and returned to my seat at the table determined to enjoy my final cup of coffee of the day. “I—literally—bumped into Sharon Mayfield at the Piggly Wiggly this afternoon.”
“Any relation to Grady Mayfield?” Bill scooped up the last of the mashed potatoes on his plate.
“Sharon’s his wife. Do you know him?”
“I met him at a woodworking get-together awhile back. He’s a general contractor who specializes mostly in small jobs, such as additions or renovations. Seemed like a nice enough fellow except . . .”
“Except?”
Bill toyed with the handle of his coffee mug. “Talk has it that it nearly turned physical a time or two with a fellow contractor—a guy by the name of Bud Sanders, who was quite a bit older than Grady. Seems both men submitted a bid on a certain project, and both men wanted the job. It resulted in a pushing and shoving match before the homeowner threatened to call the police to settle the dispute.”
Hmm. Apparently Grady Mayfield could be provoked.
“From what I heard, Grady and Bud are a pair of hotheads. I wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of either one, if you know what I mean.”
I finished my coffee and with Bill’s help cleared the table. The evening had turned out to be quite informative. It would be interesting to learn precisely what the relationship was between Grady Mayfield and his former employer, Wa
ylon Snow. From his wife’s comments, Grady suspected Waylon had embezzled from his own company, then disappeared with the funds. Had Grady ever confronted Waylon about his suspicions? If so, what had Waylon’s reaction been?
According to Bill, Grady Mayfield did renovations. I’d been considering updating my master bath. Perhaps it was time for me to get an estimate—and I knew just the person to call.
“Care for pie?” I asked, grinning at Bill.
Chapter 9
“Good morning, Mr. Mayfield,” I said in my perkiest voice. “My name is Kate McCall. I’m considering remodeling my bathroom and wondered if you could come, at your earliest convenience, to give me an estimate.”
A single phone call had set the wheels in motion. Easy peasy. As luck would have it, Grady Mayfield was finishing a project right here in Serenity Cove Estates just a few blocks over. He promised he’d drop by before lunch to see what I had in mind. I was curious to meet the man in person—and hear what he might have to say about his former employer.
To keep myself busy in the meantime, I skimmed a duster over the furniture and ran the vacuum. In between the frenzied dusting and vacuuming, I fielded phone calls from Connie Sue and Monica. Connie Sue very diplomatically asked me to use my “influence” with Sheriff Wiggins to notify us the instant Eula’s house was available to decorate. Monica used a less subtle approach. She insisted I speak with the sheriff and demand access. Somehow I didn’t think he’d appreciate that tactic. He wasn’t keen on requests, much less demands. “Tick tock,” Monica reminded me before signing off.
The doorbell rang promptly at eleven thirty. I gave my reflection a quick glance in the mirror hanging above the console table in the foyer. My ash blond hair, which I kept short, would need a trim soon, so I made a mental note to make an appointment with my hairdresser. I smoothed a wrinkle from the denim shirt I wore over my favorite khakis and opened the door with a smile.
Grady Mayfield, clipboard in hand, stood on the doorstep. Mayfield proved to be in his mid-fifties, younger than I’d pictured him, with a solid build starting to turn into a paunch. Thick salt-and-pepper hair was swept back from a broad forehead. His deep-set dark eyes peered back at me from beneath bushy brows. He wore the traditional garb of a man in his profession—plaid flannel shirt, Carhartt jacket, jeans, and work boots.
A grin spread across his face as he sized me up. “Grady Mayfield, at your service, ma’am. Quality work at affordable prices, that’s me.”
“Please come in, Mr. Mayfield.” Unbeknownst to him, he wasn’t the only one doing the sizing up. Grady Mayfield struck me right off the bat as a born salesman. The kind of guy who could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. I’d met his type in the past and they always made me leery.
“Nice weather we’re havin’. Lucky for us the rain’s been holdin’ off, though I suppose we could use a good waterin’.” He wiped his boots on the doormat.
“I can’t complain.” Chitchat about the weather, I’d observed, was another hallmark of many salespeople.
Grady planted himself in the center of the foyer and seemed to be taking inventory of the dining room and great room that were visible beyond. “Nice place you have. I see you’re a lady with discerning taste.”
“Thank you.” I had the uneasy feeling he was speculating on my bank balance and calculating how much to charge. “As I explained over the phone, I’m thinking of updating my master bath.”
“Smart lady. Modern kitchens and bathrooms are the two big-ticket items that can make or break the sale of a home.”
“So I’ve heard but, at the moment, I’ve no intention of selling. Tastes change over time. I watch a lot of HGTV and know styles have evolved since I moved to Serenity Cove Estates. Besides, I’ve simply grown bored with the present look.” Was I laying it on too thick? Giving him the wrong impression about my budget? Probably. Oh, well.
“If you follow me, I’ll show you the bathroom and you can see for yourself.”
“Another thing you might want to take into consideration. As folks age, they need to make safety a priority. Not that I’m implyin’ you’re elderly,” he said and laughed, “but none of us are gettin’ any younger.”
Elderly, my foot! No way I’ll ever become a member of the Grady Mayfield Quality Work at Affordable Prices fan club.
I led the way through the great room, then turned down a short hallway into the bedroom and en suite. Along the way, Grady paused and peered out the French doors to the terrace. “Come a time you want to replace those flagstones with a nice deck, give me a call. There are some dandy composites on the market. Fade-, stain-, and mold-resistant. Hassel-free. Somethin’ you might want to think about down the road.”
I bit my tongue to prevent myself from telling him what I was really thinking. “Here we are. Take a look around and give me your opinion.”
Grady rapped his knuckles on the vanity top. “Laminate. This is the first thing that has to go.”
“Go . . . ? What do you suggest replacing it with?”
“Marble is nice but not very forgiving. It’s porous and susceptible to stains. I’d recommend granite or quartz. Of course, with a new vanity top you’ll want new sinks. Double sinks are popular right now.” He made a series of scribbles and checkmarks on a pad fastened to his clipboard. “Naturally new sinks call for new faucets. Can’t very well do one without the other, can you?”
“Mmm,” I murmured. “These changes are all cosmetic. Earlier you mentioned safety factors.”
“Safety and beauty aren’t mutually exclusive.” Using the toe of his work boot, he nudged aside the edge of a throw rug. “You’d be shocked—shocked—by the number of trips and falls these things cause. Lot of folks wind up breaking a hip or twisting a knee. Accidents that aren’t only painful but costly.”
My bathroom was starting to sound like a ticking time bomb. “Are you suggesting, Mr. Mayfield, that I replace my bathroom floor?”
“Grady. Call me Grady. I like my customers to think of me as a friend, not the hired help.” He scribbled another note on his clipboard. “There is new, anti-skid ceramic tile on the market. I know a guy who does great work.” He dug into a pocket and produced a business card. “I strongly recommend this place in Augusta. Ask for Shawna. That young lady has great taste. She’ll help you select the perfect tile right quick.”
“Anything else?”
No further encouragement was needed. Grady rattled off a laundry list of home improvements. Items such as extra-wide doors for wheelchair access, handrails, grab bars, a high-profile toilet, and a walk-in shower. My head was spinning when he finished, and still hadn’t asked him a single question about Waylon Snow.
“You’ve certainly given me a lot of options, Grady. Are you willing to exchange a preliminary estimate for a cup of coffee and a blueberry muffin?”
“Sure thing. Coffee sounds great, but I’ll pass on the muffin.” He smiled and patted his midsection. “A guy’s gotta watch his waistline.”
We adjourned to the kitchen. I brewed a fresh pot of coffee while he furiously wrote notes and brought out a calculator. It was now or never to pop the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “Er, Grady, a friend and I were talking. He told me that years ago you worked for Waylon Snow.”
“That’s right,” he said without looking up. “Waylon took a chance on me when I was young—young and foolish. Saw I had a knack for carpentry and hired me. Ever consider gettin’ one of them walk-in bathtubs like you see advertised on TV?”
“No, never.” I took mugs from the cupboard and set them on the counter.
“I could get you a good deal on one of them walk-in numbers. Happens I know someone in the business.”
“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” I set sugar and creamer on the table. “How long did you work for Mr. Snow?”
“About seven, eight years I guess.” He entered figures into his calculator then totaled the amount. “Did I mention the fact you could use better lighting in the bathroom? Some of my clients go for the high-en
d fancy types, like chandeliers, to give their bathrooms a little more class. Just somethin’ else to consider is all.”
“What was Waylon Snow like?”
Grady stopped writing and gave me a hard stare. “I can tell from your accent that you aren’t from around here. Michigan maybe, or Ohio. Waylon Snow departed Brookdale way before Serenity Cove Estates was a gleam in a developer’s eye. You’re asking an awful lot of questions about a man you never met. What’s the deal?”
I had an accent? That was news to me!
“What’s the deal . . . ?” Focus, Kate, focus. “I’m just curious. No matter where you go, only thing people want to talk about is the skeleton found at the Snow residence. When I drove past their house yesterday, TV crews were crawling like ants all over the place.”
He put down his ballpoint in favor of taking a sip of coffee. “I’ll tell you straight up. Waylon was a good guy but a poor businessman. The company was in the hole when I took over. If I hadn’t worked my butt off to get out from under, his wife would’ve lost her home. Later on, I bought the company for a fair price.”
“That was a very nice thing for you to do.” Even though he’d refused a blueberry muffin, I sweetened the deal with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Far as I knew, Sheriff Wiggins was the only person alive with enough willpower to ignore my cookies.
Grady helped himself. “Um, good cookie. If you promise to keep it between the two of us, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Waylon had accepted a large down payment from a client right before he vanished. He disappeared along with the money. Neither hide nor hair of either one was seen or heard from since.”
No longer true if the remains turn out to be Waylon’s, I mused.
Grady finished his cookie and washed it down with coffee. “Here’s your estimate,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “The job should come in about ten or twelve thousand, give or take.”
Stricken with a severe case of sticker shock, I gaped at the numbers on the page.
