The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  Yet I felt increasingly uneasy with each step down the dark street.

  “Situational awareness” was another tidbit of advice the self-defense video had stressed. Follow your gut instinct. Develop a sixth sense for danger. Use your peripheral vision to observe your surroundings. Even though I scolded myself for being paranoid, I glanced over my shoulder, then scanned both sides of the street. In fact, I was so preoccupied scanning with my peripheral vision that at first I failed to see what was happening directly in front of me.

  A hooded figure hovered alongside my car.

  Flight, fight, or freeze?

  I froze. My brain ceased to function. It seemed to suddenly short-circuit. Confused, I stared in disbelief as the mystery figure straightened, then without turning in my direction, darted off, disappearing into a narrow space between two deserted buildings.

  Freed at last from my near-comatose state, I drew a shaky breath and rushed toward the relative safety of my SUV. As I suspected, in my haste I’d forgotten to lock my vehicle. Once safely inside, the first thing I did was press the power locks. The resulting thunk only marginally slowed the rapid beat of my heart.

  My hand trembled as I started the engine. Out of the corner of my eye I spied a small white object on the passenger seat that hadn’t been there earlier. Animal, vegetable, or mineral? I gazed at it warily, half expecting it to come alive, squirm, or bite. Gathering my tattered courage, I picked it up and gasped out loud.

  A tiny plastic skull rested in the palm of my hand. A skull with a fragment missing just above the temple. A replica of the skull I’d found in Eula Snow’s cellar.

  .

  Chapter 17

  As soon as my shaking subsided, I drove directly to the sheriff’s department. I wanted Sheriff Wiggins to be the first person to see the “surprise” a hooded figure had left me. I viewed the plastic skull as proof positive that a killer stalked the streets. My questions were clearly making someone nervous. I pulled to a stop in front of the Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department. Though a dim light shone through the plate glass door, no one appeared to be inside. Then I recalled the sheriff’s edict about a police presence during tonight’s festivities. A sign posted in the window instructed people that in case of emergency to dial 911. Did finding a plastic skull with a hole in it fit the criteria of a true emergency? This wasn’t exactly a life-or-death situation. No one was getting beaten, robbed, or raped. After mulling over my options, I decided to head home and call from there. By then, the last of the carolers and hot chocolate drinkers would have departed, and the city’s streets would be rolled up tight.

  I felt more secure once inside my house with the blinds drawn and doors locked. After shrugging out of my fleece, I put a kettle on for a cup of herbal tea to chase away a chill that seemed to go bone-deep. While I waited for the water to boil, I took the plastic skull out of my purse and placed it on the kitchen table. On closer examination, it was nothing more than a cheap Halloween novelty no bigger than a golf ball, the type that might be used as a party favor if one tended toward the ghoulish and macabre.

  The lemon-ginger tea helped settle my nerves. My call to the sheriff’s department was picked up by Eric Olsen, who happened to be on duty. Eric promised he’d be out shortly so I waited, drumming my fingers on the table and sipping tea. I stared at the eyeless skull and it seemed to stare right back at me. Whoever had placed it on my passenger seat was familiar with the car I drove. Even more disturbing, they knew I’d be at the tree lighting, knew where I parked, and, what’s more, knew I was alone. That all added up to one possibility. Someone had followed me.

  I nearly fell off my chair when the doorbell pealed. Angry at myself for being so skittish, I hurried to answer.

  “You okay, Miz McCall?” Eric regarded me with genuine concern. “You sounded pretty upset on the phone. I thought you mumbled something about finding another skeleton, but that can’t be true, can it?”

  “Not a skeleton this time, Eric, only a skull, and a plastic one at that.” I held the door wider. “Come in. I’ll show you.”

  I led him through the foyer and into the kitchen. “There,” I said, pointing at the object in question.

  Eric cocked his head to one side, his expression quizzical. “You called me out here because of some sort of Halloween decoration?”

  His skepticism caught me off guard. He sounded more like Sheriff Wiggins than the affable young deputy I’d come to know and like. “It’s more than a Halloween decoration, Eric. If you look closer you’ll see that part of the skull has been broken just like that of the skeleton I found. Somebody left this in my car after the tree lighting ceremony tonight.”

  He still appeared dubious. “What do you expect me to do with it?”

  Sheesh! I shouldn’t have to give him a tutorial on police procedure. “I expect you to place it in an evidence bag and have it dusted for prints.”

  Eric flushed but did as I suggested. Reaching into the pocket of his navy blue windbreaker, he withdrew a see-through evidence bag. Using the tip of a ballpoint pen, he lifted the plastic skull from the table, dropped it into the bag, and carefully filled in the required fields of information. “Sheriff Wiggins will call you if he has any questions,” he said when he finished.

  “Is that all?”

  Eric scratched his head, looking perplexed. “Like I said, ma’am, Sheriff Wiggins will call if he needs to.”

  And that was that. Disappointed with the deputy’s blatant lack of interest, I saw him to the door and flipped the dead bolt.

  Restless, I paced back and forth in front of the fireplace. Some person was trying to scare me—and doing a fine job of it. But who? The chief suspect thus far was Bud Sanders. But Bud was nearly blind, confined to a wheelchair, and a resident of a nursing home. Impossible that he was the one, yet . . .

  The memory of a television program I’d recently watched—Dateline or 20/20?—floated to the surface of my mind. In the show, a hit man was hired to perform a dastardly deed. Instead, the hit man turned out to be an undercover cop. Bud could have paid a relative, or even an employee at Valley View Manor, to frighten me. Many people were down on their luck and might be eager to earn a few extra bucks with Christmas right around the corner. People have done far more for much less.

  It was nearly midnight when I finally crawled into bed. A man in a wheelchair wearing a dark hoodie chased me in my dreams.

  • • •

  The following Monday, I fielded a barrage of phone calls, texts, and emails that had accumulated over the weekend. The Babes—even those not on the committee—agreed we needed to descend on the sheriff’s office en masse. The time had come to stand our ground, Monica preached. Demand that he release Eula’s home so the Bunco Babes Holiday Home Tour Decorating Committee could do their job. Connie Sue favored a more diplomatic approach. She insisted a soft heart existed beneath the sheriff’s tough exterior. He simply needed a gentle reminder that proceeds from the home tour benefit the Children’s Home. Her rationale was that no one with an ounce of compassion could refuse to come to the aid of helpless children.

  As it turned out, all of us were willing to give it the old college try. The difficulty came in trying to arrange a time that suited our busy schedules. I wasn’t exaggerating when I told people that Serenity Cove Estates was a community of “active” adults. Monica attended water aerobics three days a week at eight o’clock in the morning. Connie Sue participated in land aerobics daily at nine. Pam and I enjoyed tai chi Mondays at ten o’clock. Focused on reaching her goal of ten thousand steps on her Fitbit, Gloria walked the golf course daily before the first golfers teed off. As for Polly, well, Polly slept in. She told everyone, whether they wanted to listen or not, that she wasn’t a morning person. Her days of setting an alarm clock ended the day her first social security check arrived. With various time constraints in mind, I’d asked Tammy Lynn to pencil in our confrontation with the sheriff for one o’clock. First, though, we’d fortify ourselves with lunch at the Koffee Kup.r />
  When I arrived at the designated hour, I was pleased to see my cohorts had made the effort to change from their workout clothes and had taken time with their hair and makeup. We wanted to show we were women of substance and not to be trifled with. Whether it required diplomacy, negotiation, or compromise, we were prepared to do whatever necessary to obtain a satisfactory resolution to our problem.

  “Connie Sue, I think you and Monica should be the spokespersons for our group,” I said as I finished my last bite of lemon meringue pie. The Koffee Kup Diner was well-known for their homemade pies. Polly and Pam had also indulged in dessert, Pam with a slice of Dutch apple pie, Polly with strawberry-rhubarb. The others had shown remarkable discipline in the face of great temptation.

  Connie Sue’s pretty hazel eyes widened then narrowed. “What’s up, sugar? Cat got your tongue?”

  I drew my fork through a smidgen of meringue left on my plate until it resembled a grid for tic-tac-toe. “It’s not that I think the sheriff is tired of seeing me. He might be more receptive to our request if it came from someone else.”

  “Don’t be such a coward, Kate.” Monica tossed aside her paper napkin. “You need to step up to the plate. Tell Sheriff Wiggins in no uncertain terms that the time’s come to take down the crime scene tape.”

  Easy for her to say.

  “I don’t know Sheriff Wiggins all that well,” Pam said, “but from what I’ve seen I doubt he’s the sort who responds to ‘demands.’”

  “I agree with Pam.” Gloria’s charm bracelet jingled as she reached across the table for her check. “I think the situation calls for tact.”

  “That leaves me out.” Polly finished the last of her iced tea.

  “Fine,” Connie Sue said with finality. “I’ll take the lead, but the rest of you ladies feel free to jump in at any time.”

  The decision made, we repaired our lipstick, brushed crumbs from our laps, and dug out cash and credit cards, then lined up at the register to pay our checks. Last in line, I ordered a slice of lemon meringue pie to bring Bill later. The poor guy was still under the weather, and I hoped this might cheer him up. After the woman at the counter—Helen Something-or-other—had cut a generous slice from a pie in a glass display case, I handed her my Visa.

  Helen took my card but hesitated before swiping it through the credit card reader. “Aren’t you the one who found the skeleton in a cellar?” she asked in a raspy smoker’s voice.

  “That would be me.” I wondered how she knew, but reminded myself gossip was the predecessor of the internet.

  Helen still made no move to complete the transaction. “Is it true there was a book of poetry and love letters tied with a yellow ribbon alongside the body?”

  Poetry, love letters, yellow ribbon? Where had that rumor started? “I couldn’t say,” I mumbled. “I didn’t linger to see what else I might find.”

  “My meemaw remembered Mr. Snow.” Helen swiped my credit card after a stern look from the manager, who came out of the kitchen just then. “Meemaw said all the ladies in town had a crush on Waylon Snow. Some of ’em even invented projects just so he’d spend time with them. It would’ve been easy for a man like him, him being a contractor and all, to have a little something on the side”—she winked—“if you get my drift.”

  “No comment,” I murmured. I signed my credit card receipt and drifted right out of the Koffee Kup.

  The rest of the Babes waited outside. Since the sheriff’s office was only a block away, I suggested we walk so I could burn off the extra calories I’d consumed eating pie.

  Tammy Lynn got up from her desk and rushed to greet us. “I don’t care if the sheriff fires me, I’m goin’ in with y’all. It’s my meemaw’s house that’s at stake.”

  “Good for you, girl.” Connie Sue patted Tammy Lynn on the back. “We Bunco Babes have to stick together.”

  “Besides, there’s safety in numbers,” Polly muttered under her breath.

  We followed in single file close on Tammy Lynn’s heels. Her tentative knock brought forth a brusque, “C’mon in.”

  A startled expression crossed Sheriff Wiggins’s face before he hid behind his impassive lawman’s mask. He rose to his feet at the sight of seven women crowding into his office, an act of inbred Southern courtesy. “What’s goin’ on heah?”

  Tammy Lynn nervously wiped her hands on the sides of her denim skirt. “Your one o’clock appointment, sir.”

  Connie Sue cleared her throat and stepped forward. “We’re here this afternoon to urge you to release Eula Snow’s home so our committee can begin preparations for the Holiday Home Tour.”

  “Connie Sue’s right,” Monica added, her tone firm. “We need immediate access if the house is to be decorated on time.”

  “All the other teams have a head start,” Pam explained reasonably.

  Gloria fidgeted with the pendant she wore around her neck. “The tour is less than two weeks away. There’s a lot of work to do in order to get it ready on time.”

  Connie Sue bestowed the scowling sheriff with the smile that won her the Miss Congeniality Award back in her pageant days. “The publicity has already been done, the brochures printed, and tickets purchased. In order to be successful, Flowers and Bowers Garden Club must have a full contingent of homes as advertised. It’s too late to find a replacement. All the proceeds go to the Children’s Home.”

  The sheriff, arms folded across his broad chest, appeared unmoved by our plea, making me wary.

  Monica, clearly annoyed by his lack of response, said sharply, “Surely your forensics team is competent. It must have had sufficient time by now to do a thorough search. The house isn’t that big.”

  Up until now I’d been content to remain in the background and let my friends make the sales pitch, but I couldn’t remain quiet any longer. “Surely, Sheriff, you don’t want to be responsible for denying little children new playground equipment. Haven’t they suffered enough abuse and neglect in their short lifetimes? Aren’t they deserving of fun and happy times?”

  “Remember, children are our future,” Polly added piously.

  “Are y’all finished?” he drawled when we finally seemed to run out of steam. One by one, we nodded. “Good! I was plannin’ on havin’ one of my deputies remove the crime scene tape later today.”

  Tammy Lynn clapped her hands in joy. “Does that mean Meemaw can move back into her house?”

  “Yes, but the cellar remains off-limits. That clear?”

  Polly gave him a cheeky grin. “Crystal.”

  His stipulation was met with a chorus of smiles and thank-yous. “We’ll let you get back to work,” Gloria said as she herded us out of his office.

  “Not so fast,” he barked, pointing at me. “You and me, Miz McCall, need to have ourselves a nice little chat.”

  Chapter 18

  “Please have a seat.” Sheriff Wiggins motioned to the chair across from his desk.

  I sat slowly, my heart thumping heavily in my chest. His invitation unnerved me. The man was usually trying to shove me out the door, not acting all cordial and nice. “Is anything wrong?”

  “This won’t take long.” He smiled but without mirth. “I was gonna have Tammy Lynn call you, but since you’re here you saved me the bother.” Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out the evidence bag containing the plastic skull I’d found.

  I eyed it like a coiled rattler.

  “Care to tell me how this came to be in your possession?”

  “I already explained to Eric about finding it in my car after the tree lighting.”

  “Then kindly re-explain for the benefit of a poor befuddled elected official.”

  Was re-explain even a word? I didn’t think so but this wasn’t the time to take the man’s vocabulary to task. Drawing a deep breath, I told my story beginning with being forced to park my vehicle some distance from the square and ending with discovering an object on the passenger seat when I returned.

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, his head going up and down like a b
obblehead in the rear window of a Chevy. “Don’t suppose you have any idea who might have left this for you?”

  “I assume it was a person who doesn’t want me asking a lot of questions. I think he, or she, was trying to scare me.”

  “They don’t know you very well, do they? You’re a regular pit bull once you get an idea in that head of yours.” He lowered himself onto a corner of his desk and let one long leg dangle. “How about givin’ me a description of this mystery person you glimpsed. If you had to guess, male or female?”

  “Hard to say,” I admitted. “Whoever it was had their back turned so I didn’t get a good look.”

  “What about height?”

  I felt on firmer ground answering this question. “Definitely tallish.”

  “Tallish? Define ‘tallish’ for me.”

  No problemo. “Taller than me, but shorter than you.”

  “I see,” he said along with more head bobbing. “So, that would mean he—or she—was in the vicinity of five feet two and six feet two. That would make ’em, hmm, five feet eight by my calculations.”

  “I suppose,” I replied. “I never was very good at math. Like I said, it was dark.”

  “What, if anything, can you tell me about the clothes they were wearing?”

  “It was a dark hoodie—navy, black, or maybe gray.”

  “A dark hoodie, eh? That narrows the field. I’ll send out a BOLO.”

  Annoyed by his tone, I glared at him. “Are you being sarcastic?”

  He crooked a brow. “I plead the Fifth Amendment on grounds I might incriminate myself.”

  The sheriff wasn’t taking my complaint seriously, and I found that irritating, to say the least. “If that’s all . . .” I said, starting to rise.

  “Not quite.” Dropping his more casual demeanor, he stood, walked behind his desk, and sat down. “There are several schools of thought among my deputies regarding your finding.” He pecked at the evidence bag with a fingernail. The most popular one is that this was a prank—someone havin’ a little fun at your expense. Word’s gotten out that you were the one who discovered Waylon Snow’s remains and someone wanted to put one over on you.”