The Twelve Dice of Christmas

by Gail Oust

  “You mentioned several schools of thought, Sheriff. What are the other theories?”

  “One of my men voiced the opinion that you might’ve planted the trinket yourself.”

  I surged to my feet. I couldn’t recall being that angry in a long time. “Are you insinuating I’m a liar? That I concocted this as a scheme in a pathetic bid for attention?”

  “Calm down, Miz McCall,” the sheriff said. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m simply relaying the fact different people have different views on the matter.”

  “This might be a good time to put on your reading glasses, Sheriff. Because if you look closely, you’ll see there’s a hole in the plastic—in the exact spot as in Waylon Snow’s head.”

  “I’ll have one of my men dust for prints.” Or at least that’s what I thought I heard him say as I stormed out.

  • • •

  The sheriff was right about one thing: I needed to calm down. My blood pressure must have shot through the roof when he questioned my veracity. It would have had to be a lucky guess on the part of a prankster to know the precise location of the wound in Waylon’s skull. And as for the idiotic notion that I concocted this whole scenario to draw undue attention to myself, well, that was just plain . . . idiotic.

  By the time I’d finished my conversation with the sheriff, the Babes had already split. I intended to visit Bill later and see how he was feeling, see if he needed anything. I’d phoned earlier, but when the call went directly to voice mail, I assumed he might be napping. If he was, I didn’t want to disturb him, so I decided to run a few errands while I was in town. I stopped at the post office and bought stamps for my Christmas cards. At a small gift shop that featured the work of local artisans, I found a cute pair of sparkly earrings for my oldest granddaughter, who had just had her ears pierced.

  Still stalling for time, I took a chance and turned down the street where Eula lived. The questions Helen posed at the Koffee Kup kept pestering me worse than a mosquito at a barbecue. Book of poetry? Love letters? Nonsense or truth? I’d only viewed Waylon Snow’s remains from the neck up. Was Waylon a ladies’ man, as several people suggested? Could he have had a jealous lover? A jealous wife?

  I slowed as I approached the Snows’ residence and, leaning forward, squinted through the windshield. I was pleased that, true to his word, the sheriff had ordered the yellow crime scene tape removed. Taking a chance Eula might’ve returned home, I parked and felt my mood lighten as I went up the brick walk. The clouds overhead had floated off, leaving the sky a pure Carolina blue in its wake. Buds on the camellia bush looked swollen and ready to burst with blooms. A cardinal flitted into a holly bush to feast on an abundance of cherry-red berries.

  Eula must have been watching from the front window, because she greeted me at the door with a happy smile. “Kate! It’s so nice of you to come and welcome me home.”

  “I hope I’m not intruding,” I said, stepping inside.

  “Not at all. I’d offer you coffee but there isn’t any. I’m afraid I forgot to add it to my grocery list.”

  “Are you alone?” I asked, glancing around. “I thought perhaps I’d find your sister here.”

  “No. After bringing me home, Cora went to the Piggly Wiggly for a few essentials. She thought it wise if I stayed here. She thinks I should keep a low profile, stay out of the limelight, so to speak.”

  “That’s probably sound advice. You know how people love gossip and to spread ridiculous rumors.”

  “Good gracious!” Eula pressed a blue-veined hand to her chest. “Where are my manners? Come, sit, make yourself comfortable. Can I fix you some coffee? Oh, wait,” she said, looking flustered, “I don’t have any.”

  “I really can’t stay.” Contrary to my half-hearted protest, I settled on the plaid sofa, prepared to stay put until some of my questions were answered. Eula chose the overstuffed recliner with the sagging cushion. I noticed she’d missed a button on her cotton blouse, further evidence of her absentmindedness.

  “It feels good to be in my own home again. Not that my son and granddaughter didn’t make me feel welcome, but there’s no place quite like home, is there? I confess,” she said with a rueful smile, “I hate the thought of moving to Valley View Manor even though it’s for the best.”

  The last part—the for the best part—sounded rehearsed, as though Eula was trying to convince herself this was the case. I felt a flood of sympathy for this woman who, because of circumstance beyond her control, was being forced to leave a home she’d lived in for decades. I concentrated, instead, on the reason for my visit.

  “Valley View Manor seems quite nice. It so happens I went there recently to visit an old friend.” Referring to Bud Sanders as a friend was a stretch of the imagination, but Eula had no way of knowing.

  Eula absently traced a pattern on the worn recliner. “I suppose I’ll make new friends. There might even be some folks at Valley View Manor that I know already. Folks like me . . . old and forgetful.”

  Unfortunately, Eula had bigger problems than simply being forgetful. “Let’s talk about happier times, shall we? I can tell that you were deeply in love with your husband. Everyone says he was movie star handsome. Tell me more about Waylon.”

  Behind her too big glasses, Eula’s pale blue eyes lit with pleasure. “Waylon was the best-looking man in town—I’m not the only one who held that opinion. I can’t tell you the number of times I caught women flirting with him.”

  I smiled indulgently. “Did you ever catch Waylon flirting back?”

  “Mercy, no.” Eula chuckled. “Waylon was as loyal as a blue tick coonhound. He could have had his pick of women, but he picked me. Never quite knew why, but I was thankful all the same.”

  “Was Waylon a romantic? Back in the day did he bring you flowers and candy? Or was he more the type to win your affections with poetry and love letters?”

  Eula laughed outright at hearing this. “As for poetry, the only thing I ever saw Waylon read was detective stories. He was especially partial to Erle Stanley Gardner. And when it came to writing, he’d grumble when it was time to write payroll checks.”

  I chalked up tales of poetry and love letters as rumors. “I understand Waylon was a contractor and owned his own business.”

  “That’s right.” Eula beamed. “My husband started out as a carpenter but his business grew. Eventually he hired Grady Mayfield to help ease the workload and, a year or two later, eventually added a bookkeeper, a nice lady by the name of Betty Washington.”

  Should Betty Washington be considered a person of interest? I wondered. Might be worth checking into. “Funny you should mention Grady Mayfield.” I crossed one leg over the other to appear casual. “Mr. Mayfield recently gave me an estimate for a bathroom renovation.”

  Eula shoved at her eyeglasses, which had slipped low on her nose. “Grady’s always been ambitious, but he’s a hard worker. He had a few scrapes with the law as a young man, but Waylon thought he showed potential. After Waylon disappeared, Grady saved up and took over the business.”

  From the rear of the house, a door opened, then slammed shut.

  “Eula . . . ?” Cora Prentiss emerged from the kitchen, a grocery bag in each hand. “Oh, it’s you,” she said, spying me on the living room sofa.

  “Hello, Cora.” I’m no Perry Mason, but I failed to detect a hint of warmth in Cora’s voice. “Your sister and I are just getting better acquainted. I thought as long as I was in town I’d give her an update on our plans to start decorating her home for the tour.”

  “I wish my sister would have consulted me before agreeing to allow her home to be on display. No telling what kind of riffraff that will attract.”

  Eula rose from the recliner and took the bags of groceries from her sister. “I’m sure everyone will be very well behaved.”

  I got to my feet, too. “I really should be going.”

  Shrugging off her cardigan, Cora tossed it on the sofa. “The sheriff is treating the skeleton you found as a homicide. I ca
n’t tell you the grief this is causing my sister. Everyone’s looking at her as though she’s a murderess. I’m worried sick about her mental health. I wish you’d never gone down in that old cellar.”

  Remembering Eula Snow’s stricken expression at the discovery made me wish I’d never found the remains either.

  Chapter 19

  From the number of people waiting in line the following day at the Brookdale Library for flu shots, the posters had done their job. I’d been procrastinating until today, but, judging from the size of the crowd, I hadn’t been the only one. Seeing Bill laid up with fever, chills, and various and sundry aches and pains had been an object lesson. Never again would I wait this late in the season to receive the vaccine.

  I took my place at the end of the line. I spotted Diane manning the front desk, but she was preoccupied checking out books for a patron and didn’t look my way. I recognized several people from Serenity Cove Estates—a couple who attended the same church I did and a woman who sporadically came to tai chi classes—but they were either too busy chatting or filling out forms to pay me any mind.

  The line advanced slowly. “I swear next year I’m doing this in October,” I said to no one in particular.

  The black woman ahead of me chuckled, a rich, infectious sound. “I hear you.”

  I hoisted the strap of my purse higher on my shoulder. “I’m ashamed of myself for lecturing my friend on the importance of flu shots, and I’m equally at fault. I’m better at giving advice than taking it. I’m glad he can’t see me here standing in line.”

  “Your secret’s safe with me.” The woman scanned one of the pamphlets on a nearby table extolling the merits of flu shots. “My husband, Harold, refuses to get one. Says he’s healthy as a horse and never gets sick. I tried to explain even healthy people take sick, and they’re the ones who spread their nasty germs to the rest of us.”

  I craned my neck for a better view of the conference room just ahead, where the actual shots were being administered under the auspices of the county health department. Janine, appearing every bit the professional she was in a white lab coat, spoke to the young black girl assisting her. Nodding, the girl scooped up an armful of clipboards with forms attached and began passing them out.

  “That’s my niece, Monique,” the woman informed me proudly. “She’s a senior in the nursing program at the community college. She graduates in June.”

  “Read these carefully, then sign at the bottom.” Monique handed her aunt a clipboard and, when she thought no one was watching, gave her a quick hug. “Be sure to have your insurance or Medicare cards ready,” she said before moving on.

  “The whole family couldn’t be more pleased my niece is going to be a nurse. Monique’ll have a whole cheering section come June.” The woman paused in making a series of checkmarks on the form. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” I said after studying her more closely. She was an attractive woman with a coffee-colored skin tone, a plump, unlined face, and a ready smile. Her black hair was liberally streaked with gray and pulled into a neat bun. I placed her in her mid-fifties. Tucking the clipboard under one arm, I extended my hand. “Nice to meet you. I’m Kate McCall.”

  The woman’s smile froze as my name registered. “You’re the lady from Serenity Cove Estates who found Mr. Snow’s remains, aren’t you? I read about it in the paper.”

  “Guilty as charged,” I muttered, ticking off a few more boxes on the form.

  “I’m Betty Washington.”

  My head snapped up at the introduction, the consent form forgotten. “Mrs. Snow mentioned your name only yesterday. Didn’t you work for her husband at one time?”

  We inched forward in line. “That’s right,” Betty said. “I always wondered what happened to the man.”

  “What was Waylon Snow like as a boss?”

  “Couldn’t ask for no better. Mr. Snow was patient to a fault. Never heard him say a cross word.” Betty scrawled her name at the bottom of the questionnaire. “I think he was glad he took me on. Between him and Mr. Mayfield, the books were a mess. Mr. Snow would rather be out building stuff than sitting behind a desk.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual in the days leading up to his disappearance?”

  Betty frowned. “Not that I recall. Maybe a bit preoccupied, but if something was bothering him he kept it to himself.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, how did he and Mrs. Snow seem to get along?”

  We shuffled toward the conference room. The couple to whom Janine was speaking seemed to be asking an inordinate amount of questions.

  “Only met Mrs. Snow a couple of times, but Mr. Snow always had nice things to say about his wife, like how she cooked his favorite dishes and baked him treats.” Betty shook her head in disgust. “For the life of me, I don’t understand why folks are so eager to point the finger at that sweet lady.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Janine expertly administer an injection, then apply a Band-Aid. It would soon be Betty’s and my turn. My window of opportunity for asking questions was about to slam shut. “Betty, I’m curious. Why did you leave your job with Mr. Snow?”

  Betty shrugged. “Didn’t have no choice. After Mr. Snow disappeared, Mr. Mayfield told me he had to let me go. Said the company couldn’t afford to keep me.”

  I returned the clipboard to Monique so the girl could make sure it was in order, then addressed her aunt. “Did you ever meet Mr. Snow’s rival, Bud Sanders?”

  “Humph! That man’s a devil. Used to come in ranting and raving. Threatening to call the Better Business Bureau, all because Mr. Snow’s getting all the jobs.”

  “Next,” Janine called out.

  Betty Washington bravely stepped forward and rolled up her sleeve. “Monique,” Betty said, “if you’re finished here maybe you and I can grab a quick lunch.”

  “Sorry, Auntie, but there’s a patient at Valley View Manor Nursing Home who finally agreed to a flu shot. The staff called him a curmudgeon and said to bring reinforcements. I promised Mrs. Russell I’d go with her.”

  Curmudgeon? Bud Sanders? How many curmudgeons could there possibly be in one nursing home? “If it’s all the same with Mrs. Russell,” I said, jumping into the breech, “I’m free this afternoon. I’d be more than happy to accompany her.”

  Now it was my turn. Janine glanced up, syringe poised. “I’ve handled my share of ornery old men in the course of my career, I’m sure I can handle one more. However, Kate, if you really want to ride along, fine by me.”

  I barely felt the prick of the needle.

  • • •

  “It’s nice of you to come with me so Monique could have lunch with her aunt, but I’m sure I could have managed with assistance from the staff.”

  “No problem,” I replied. “You know me—always ready to help.”

  “That’s just it.” Janine cast a sidelong glance in my direction as she turned down the highway leading away from town. “What was your real reason, Kate, for wanting to come along? Knowing you as well as I do, I’m guessing there was an ulterior motive involved.”

  I stared out the car window as the countryside rushed past. “Eula Snow will soon be moving into Valley View Manor. Naturally, she’s worried and anxious. I wanted to be able to reassure her.”

  “Being anxious is understandable. It’s difficult for families and patients alike to make the transition to a nursing home, regardless of the circumstances.” Janine braked and flicked on her turn signal as we neared the entrance. “Valley View Manor is duly licensed by the state of South Carolina as a community residential care facility.”

  That should make me feel better?

  Seconds later, we swung into the nursing home’s circular drive. Parking in a space reserved for visitors, Janine took a small case containing supplies from behind her seat. “Let’s go,” she said.

  I trailed after her. When Janine stopped at the front desk to check in, I was relieved to note that Janet Brown, the desk clerk from m
y previous visit, was not on duty. The charge nurse promised to inform the supervisor that a representative from the county health department had returned and said she would make a notation in Mr. Sanders’s chart.

  When the nurse turned away to answer the phone, I whispered to Janine, “Bud Sanders is in 214 West.”

  She regarded me with a raised brow. “How do you know?”

  “A lucky guess?” I shrugged and pointed to the west wing.

  “Whatever.” Janine started down the corridor I’d indicated, leaving me to follow.

  As we walked past the dining room, employees were once again loading dirty lunch dishes into large rubber tubs on wheeled carts. Whiffs of garlic and tomato sauce still lingered in the air. Next we passed a dayroom where a small group of residents congregated around a television set tuned to a long-standing soap opera.

  “Weren’t you supposed to meet Connie Sue and Monica this afternoon?” Janine asked.

  I winced at hearing this. Truth was, I’d forgotten all about it. Monica, I knew, would read me the riot act later. But in the meantime, I couldn’t pass up another opportunity to size up Bud Sanders. “Here we are,” I said with forced cheerfulness upon reaching Room 214.

  We found Bud Sanders sitting in a faux leather armchair, the room’s solitary concession to hospitality, with his lunch congealing on a tray table in front of him. His wheelchair stood nearby. I decided to keep in the background. I was here to observe, not provoke. Once inside his room, I stood off to the side, content to let Janine take the lead.

  “About time one of you girls came to fetch my lunch tray,” he barked. “Oughta be a law against feeding poor, helpless people this slop.”

  “Mr. Sanders,” Janine began, her voice firm and business-like, “I’m here on behalf of the health department to administer your flu shot.”