by Gail Oust
Gathering my courage, I knocked on the door.
“What took you so long?” a gruff voice demanded.
I peeked inside for my first glimpse of Bud Sanders. He sat in a wheelchair facing me, his back turned from the window. He was thin to the point of emaciation with a bald, freckled scalp and a face that was all jutting angles and sharp cheekbones. A fleece blanket covered his lap. The bedside tray at his side contained a box of tissues, a TV remote, and a can of Ensure.
I entered slowly. “Mr. Sanders,” I said tentatively, “we haven’t met before, but my name is Kate McCall.”
“Just like this hellhole to assign a new girl as my aide,” he grumbled. “I’ve had my call light on for over an hour and not one person stopped to find out what I wanted. This place is a disgrace! Want my opinion, the whole lot of you ought to be fired.”
“S-sorry,” I stammered, though I didn’t have the foggiest notion what I should be apologizing for.
“Hand me that glass of juice over on the nightstand,” he ordered, pointing. “Can’t you see I’m crippled and can’t get it for myself?”
“Yessir.” I quickly went to the nightstand and handed him a paper cup filled with what appeared to be apple juice, then tried again. “As I started to explain, my name is Kate McCall . . .”
“Heard you the first time. Damn macular degeneration ruined my eyesight but nothing wrong with my hearing.”
This called for another tai chi calming breath. “Mr. Sanders, you misunderstood. I’m not an employee of Valley View Manor Nursing Home.”
“Then who the hell are you, and what do you want?” he practically shouted. “You one of them social workers always nosing around?”
“No, sir. My name is Kate McCall and . . .”
“Are you daft? I heard you the first two times,” he snarled. “I’m not senile.”
I attempted a feeble smile in spite of his ill humor. “I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have the time.”
“Time!” he roared. “I’ve nothing but time. What kind of fool question is that?”
He had me there. I must’ve had “stupid” written across my forehead. I cleared my throat. “I’m, ah, doing some research for a newspaper article I’m working on,” I said, improvising—make that outright lying. I dug through my shoulder bag for a scrap of paper to use for notes and a pen, the tools any reporter worth her salt would keep handy.
“Newspaper article, eh.” He sipped his juice. “What kind of article?”
“A body, well, not a body exactly, but more like a skeleton, was discovered recently in the basement of a home in Brookdale. It’s believed to be that of Waylon Snow. Sources told me you used to know the man. I was hoping you could give me some insight into the type of person he was.”
“Waylon Snow? So he finally showed up after all these years.”
“Then you do remember him.”
“It’s my eyesight, not my memory, that’s failing, young lady.”
Young lady? At my age, it was hard to take offense. What next? Would I be asked to show ID when buying a bottle of wine? I could dream. But this wasn’t the time to fantasize; it was time to get down to business.
Bud drained his juice in one long swallow. “Waylon Snow, that smooth-talkin’ sumbitch, made my blood boil!”
Tell me how you really feel, I wanted to say. “Can you be more specific,” I said, adopting a conciliatory tone.
“Man was a cheat and womanizer. That specific enough for you?”
“Um . . .”
“Waylon Snow routinely outbid me on jobs when he knew I needed work as much as he did. He had a way about him, could turn on the charm like a damn faucet. And that wasn’t the half of it.”
I scarcely dared to breathe for fear of saying the wrong thing and ruining the moment. I felt I was teetering on the brink of making a discovery. Maybe even witnessing a confession.
Bud stared off into the near distance. “My wife, Margaret, God rest her soul, constantly compared me to the guy. Waylon doesn’t come home smelling like cigarettes and beer. Waylon goes to church with his wife every Sunday. Waylon takes his wife to Myrtle Beach. Blah, blah, blah, until I wanted to shove my fist down his piehole.”
Then I took the plunge. “Did you and Mr. Snow ever get into a physical altercation?”
He squinted in my direction, as though trying to clear the fog from his vision. “Who the hell do you think you are, busting into my room uninvited, asking dumb questions?”
“I’m sorry . . .”
“Get out!” he roared.
I didn’t wait for him to repeat his demand. I quickly backed out of his room and, regaining the hallway, I practically race-walked down the corridor. Bud Sanders was all I’d expected to find and then some. He was an irascible, crotchety old man with a volatile temper. I’d lay odds he’d had the same unpleasant disposition even in his prime. No wonder Waylon Snow had garnered the plumb contracting jobs.
Janet still manned the front desk. She smirked as I hurried past with barely a nod in her direction. “Bud Sanders ought to come with a warning: Curmudgeon on board. Y’all come back now,” she called after me as I made a hasty exit.
Chapter 14
I speared the last bite of chicken on my plate. “I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, one can never go wrong with General Tso’s.”
Bill chuckled as he helped himself to another spoonful of rice. “You say the same thing about sweet and sour shrimp and moo shoo pork.”
“I know, I know,” I said with a sigh. “I’m hopelessly addicted to Chinese food—and not having to cook.”
“Don’t know if it’s true or not, but I’ve heard rumors that Su Me is going to close after the first of the year. The owner has it up for sale and is moving closer to her son in Tampa.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it, but you know how unreliable rumors are. They get so twisted in the telling until there’s only a tiny grain of truth.”
“True.” Bill opened a packet of soy sauce and drizzled it over his egg roll. “I also met Eula Snow’s sister, Cora, while waiting for my order.”
“From everything I’ve seen, she’s devoted to Eula. What was your impression of her?”
Bill sliced into his egg roll, but avoided answering my question.
“Bill . . . ?”
“She seemed nice enough, but . . .”
“But what?” I encouraged. It wasn’t like the Bill Lewis I knew to be hesitant.
“I might be way off base, but I got the impression the woman is a natural born flirt.”
“What!” Agitated, I pushed my plate aside. “Did she try to flirt with you? If so, I hope you set her straight and let her know you weren’t interested.”
“Settle down, honey,” he said, grinning. “You’re the only woman I’m interested in and have been since the day we met.”
I don’t know what made me react so strongly. Bill and I had a relationship built on trust and a deep mutual affection for each other. But Bill, with his Paul Newman baby blue eyes and full head of silver-gray hair, had caused more than one widow or divorcée to take a second look. Try as I might, I couldn’t fault Cora Prentiss’s taste in men.
Bill polished off the last of his dinner. “I caught her looking at my left hand for a ring. Then BJ, wearing a cashmere blazer that cost more than my first car, came in for take-out and Cora forgot all about me. You couldn’t miss her disappointment when she spotted his gold wedding band.”
Somewhat mollified, I reached for a cellophane-wrapped fortune cookie. Bill did the same. Sliding the cookie out of the wrapper, I broke it open. “Forbidden fruits create many jams,” I read aloud.
Bill snapped his open too and pulled out the narrow strip of paper inside. “Happy news is on the way.”
“Well, let’s hope that’s true in the case of Eula Snow.” I started to gather the dinner dishes from the table.
Bill rose to help. “I’ve got a proposal for you,” he said as he started to load the dishwasher.
/> Proposal? My heart slammed against my rib cage at hearing Bill speak the P word. Our relationship, or so I thought, was perfect as it was. In our current arrangement, we each had our own space, our own idiosyncrasies, and our own disapproving families. Proposals led to marriage and not all marriages stood the test of time. Bill and I had a good thing going. Why rock the boat? Maybe I turned into a commitment-phobe like my son Steven.
“Um, exactly what are you proposing?” I asked warily.
“I talked with my son this afternoon. He invited us—both of us—to spend the holidays with him and his wife and baby in Ohio.”
I paused, plate in hand, at a loss for words. “I didn’t think your son cared for me,” I said when I could find my voice.
Bill placed the glasses we’d used into the top rack of the dishwasher. “It’s not that he doesn’t like you, Kate, it’s just that he doesn’t know you. Give him a chance to meet you, to see for himself that you’re not an adventuress looking for a sugar daddy. And,” he added when he sensed I was about to refuse, “you can meet my grandbaby. How can you resist the chance to hold an adorable baby boy?”
I pictured a red flag waving in the distance. Danger, danger, Will Robinson. Bill’s son had made it clear from the get-go that he wasn’t receptive to the notion of a strange woman replacing his mother in his father’s life. Not that I’d try, but like Bill said, he didn’t know me. Did I really want to spend Christmas in a home where my welcome was uncertain? I didn’t want to be a Grinch and put a damper on everyone’s holiday.
“I don’t know, Bill. Give me a chance to think this over.”
Working together in companionable silence, we finished our duties in the kitchen. After I wiped down the table and countertops, I turned to Bill. “Now I have a proposal for you. What if we stream a movie on Netflix and share a bowl of buttered popcorn?”
• • •
Later, I hoped Bill wouldn’t ask my opinion of the movie we’d just spent two hours of our lives on that we’d never get back. My mind kept straying from the plot. The main character was downright annoying. But in spite of his irritating ways, he was not nearly as annoying as Bud Sanders had been that afternoon.
Clicking off the remote, I launched into a tale of how my day went.
“You did what?” Bill asked in disbelief when I finished telling him about my encounter with Bud at Valley View Manor.
His response instantly put me on the defensive. “It’s not as though I came right out and accused him of murdering Waylon Snow. I simply inquired if there had ever been a physical altercation between them. People have altercations all the time. Boxers have altercations; hockey players have altercations; dogs and cats have altercations. Physical altercations don’t necessarily lead to murder.”
“I get the picture, Kate, but did you stop to consider what you’re getting into. Let the sheriff handle this. It’s his job to investigate possible suspects—not yours.”
I hugged a throw pillow to my chest. “Tammy Lynn asked for my help. Surely you don’t want me to turn my back on a friend while her precious grandmother is sent to prison.”
Bill shifted on the sofa so that he sat facing me. “Kate, a man doesn’t crush his own skull, then crawl into a coal bin to die. Waylon Snow was murdered. Even though, in all probability, his death occurred twenty-five years ago, the killer could still be walking the streets scot-free. Whoever that person might be won’t be happy to have you sticking your nose into the matter. It’s downright dangerous. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into.”
“Bill, you’re making too much of this. All I did was visit a harmless old man in a nursing home—the same one that Eula Snow will soon be living in. He’s confined to a wheelchair and is legally blind.”
“If Bud Sanders was responsible for Waylon Snow’s death, he wasn’t always a harmless old man. You have no idea of what he’s capable. From everything you’ve said, even the staff avoids dealing with him.”
I picked at a loose thread on the pillow. I’d listened to what Bill had to say in stubborn silence. Everything he said made sense, though it wasn’t what I wanted to hear.
Reaching over, Bill placed his hand over mine and stilled its restless plucking on a hapless pillow. “Temper can get the best of an individual and trigger violence. Any one of us, given the right circumstances, is capable of murder. Promise me, Kate, you’ll be extra careful until this matter is resolved.”
I squeezed his hand. “Promise.”
Satisfied, he relaxed back into the cushions and gave me the sweet smile that never failed to make me smile in return.
“Time for a change of subject,” I said. “When I was in Brookdale yesterday, I noticed flyers about flu shots posted all over town. The county health department is sending a team to the library next week to administer the injections. Janine is going to be one of the nurses working that day. Have you had your flu shot yet?”
“Nope, never had one.” Bill climbed to his feet and stretched. “Don’t believe in them.”
“Don’t believe in flu shots? Or don’t like needles?”
“Don’t care for either one.” He bent down and gave me a good night kiss. “Are we still on to watch the tree lighting tomorrow night?”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I got up and walked him to the door. “I love to see people crowd into the town square to watch the mayor as he throws the switch and lights the big tree. Afterward everyone sings carols. It never fails to put me in a Christmassy mood.”
“Same here.”
I stood in the doorway long after Bill’s taillights disappeared down the street. It had been an interesting day. First my contentious visit with Bud Sanders, then Bill’s surprising invitation to spend Christmas with his family. A lot to think about. In the meantime, however, the General Tso’s chicken I’d consumed for dinner reminded me I needed an antacid before retiring for the night.
• • •
The next morning, Pam arrived as I was indulging in a second cup of coffee. “I’m about to join the hordes of Christmas shoppers at the mall,” she said, handing me a manila folder stuffed with magazine clippings.
“You’re a braver woman than I, my friend. I’m doing most of my shopping online this year.” I leafed through the folder.
“Wish I could stay and hang out with you, but Megan’s waiting for me in the car. It’s a mother-daughter bonding day for us as well as her day off.”
“Sounds like fun.” I felt a little stab of jealousy at hearing this. Mother-daughter days were few and far between with Jennifer in California and me in South Carolina.
“I went through a stack of Christmas magazines,” Pam continued, “and tore out some ideas that might work at Eula’s.”
At first glance, though, none of the ideas looked like they could be easily whipped together. The wreaths, trees, and table toppers pictured were more the professional variety. “I’m not sure our abilities are up to this level.”
“Tsk, tsk.” Pam clucked her tongue. “Don’t be such a pessimist. Of course we can make this happen. If I recall, this was all your idea to begin with. With Connie Sue and Monica leading the troops, how can we fail?”
I made a face. “I’m a good little soldier but not officer material. There’s just so much work to be done, and we don’t even have access to the house. From what I’ve heard, the other teams are nearing the finish line; our team hasn’t even started yet.”
Pam consulted her watch. “It’s that old fable of the tortoise and the hare.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” I said, waving her off. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
Pam was halfway out the door when she paused. “Will you be talking to Sheriff Wiggins soon? Maybe he’s ready to take down the crime scene tape.”
This reminded me of my conversation with Bud Sanders. Time for procrastination was over. I wanted to inform the sheriff that he should add Bud Sanders to his persons of interest list. I needed to convince him to stop focusing on Eula Snow and look at others who had motive. And a
nger issues.
“I plan to visit the sheriff later this morning,” I told Pam as she hurried to join Megan. What I failed to add was that I didn’t relish the thought. Confronting Sheriff Wiggins would be akin to poking a sleeping bear with a stick. These days the lawman was grumpier than Bud Sanders.
Chapter 15
The joint was jumping. It was really jumping. Brookdale was busier than busy. I whipped into the first available parking spot two blocks from the sheriff’s office and ignored the angry glare from another motorist who coveted the space. I skirted the town square, where a group were gathered stringing lights on a tall tree in its center. Up and down Main Street, the various businesses looked crowded with shoppers. I smiled and nodded at friends and acquaintances along the way. A peek through the Koffee Kup’s front window revealed a line at the register waiting for tables.
Rounding the corner, I pushed through a door emblazoned with the official Brookdale County Sheriff crest and found the small lobby deserted except for Tammy Lynn. “Hey, Tammy Lynn,” I said.
“Hey, Kate,” she said, greeting me with a wan smile. “You just come from the craft show the Methodist ladies are puttin’ on?”
“No, maybe I’ll swing by later.” I rarely missed the annual event. Truth was with all the goings-on trying to find Waylon’s killer, it had skipped my mind. The women of the church slaved all year on arts and crafts projects, which were then sold at a Christmas bazaar held in the church basement. “I wasn’t expecting to find you here, Tammy Lynn. I didn’t think you usually worked weekends.”
“I’m tryin’ to catch up on a backlog of work I didn’t get to durin’ my regular hours. I hardly had a chance to eat my lunch, what with the phone ringin’ off the hook.”
“How is your grandmother doing these days, her being in the spotlight and all?”
