by Gail Oust
“Miz McCall . . . !” a familiar voice shouted. “You out here?”
“Straight ahead, Eric.” I climbed to my feet and so did Ralph, who pressed close to my side. Using his flashlight as a beacon, Eric emerged into view. I was so relieved to see him I had to squelch the urge to run over and give him a hug.
Ralph let loose a series of sharp barks that had Eric automatically taking a step back.
I took hold of Ralph’s collar, knowing if the dog decided to lunge I’d have my hands full trying to restrain him. “Hey, Eric.”
“Hey, Miz McCall, Sheriff Wiggins is tied up in a meeting with the mayor,” Eric explained. “He sent me for a look-see at some mysterious object a dog dug up?”
“In other words, the sheriff wasn’t impressed by my jumbled message so he sent you instead.”
Eric shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Sheriff has a busy schedule, ma’am. The mayor is questioning his request for extra manpower for Saturday’s Santa parade. Folks are on edge what with all the TV coverage about that skeleton you found.”
“With everything else going on, the parade slipped my mind.” The annual Christmas parade was a big to-do. High school marching band, Lions Club and Rotary Club floats, the mayor in a T-bird tossing candy to the kiddies, and culminating in a fat, jolly Santa riding in the cargo box of a John Deere tractor. And just like at the tree lighting, a police presence was necessary to reassure its good citizens that Brookdale and its environs were a safe haven to raise a family
“The sheriff asked me to report back if there was anything worth investigating,” Eric said. “So what’s all this about a suspicious item buried in a hollowed-out log?”
“Let’s show the nice deputy the prize you unearthed,” I said, addressing Ralph, then pointed toward a clump lying in the dirt barely three feet away. “I think my pal Ralph might have found the weapon that killed Waylon Snow.”
“Murder weapon, eh?”
Even in the near dark I could see the skepticism in the young deputy’s expression. Once again, he reminded me of his boss and mentor. And not necessarily in a good way.
Squatting down on his haunches, Eric played the beam of a pencil-slim Maglite back and forth across the object in question. “Looks like nothing more than a rusty ol’ hunk of metal. No telling what trash folks toss in the woods. I’ve even come across an old car a time or two.”
“What if it’s not rust?”
Eric canted his head to the side and squinted up at me. “Miz McCall, it’s past suppertime. The temperature’s about to drop, too. Shouldn’t you be getting on home?”
“What if it’s not rust?” I repeated. “What if it’s blood?”
Eric stood. “Well, ma’am, that’s pretty far-fetched. From the look of it, most likely it’s been out here awhile. Metal tends to rust when exposed to the elements. It’s the natural order of the universe.”
I realized finding a murder weapon was “pretty far-fetched,” but so was finding a skeleton in a root cellar. “It wasn’t left exposed to the elements, Eric. Ralph found it buried inside that hollowed-out log over there. Some person went to a lot of trouble to wrap it in cloth before hiding it.”
Eric shoved up the bill of his cap. “That does sound fishy, ma’am, I’ll grant you that.”
Seeing he wavered, I pressed my advantage. “On TV, the cops have some kind of chemical they use to test for blood. They squirt it on, then, like magic, they have their answer.”
Eric scratched his head. “Guess I could get the kit from my trunk. A shot of luminol will solve the matter once and for all. I’m sure the sheriff would like to sign off on this.”
“Fine,” I said, as eager as he to see the matter resolved. “Ralph and I will wait right here while you do the test.”
Eric, his face set, deserted me to return to his cruiser. By now it had grown dark, but my eyes adjusted to the dim light. I wished I was home in my jammies watching Jeopardy! instead of out here in the cold, spooky woods. I tugged the collar of my jacket higher around my neck to ward off the chill. Five minutes later, Eric came back carrying a case the size of a small carry-on. I watched as he removed a plastic bottle, aimed it at the metal disk, and sprayed. A blue-white glow appeared immediately just like on television. A true aha moment. I didn’t need to be a criminologist to know the test was positive for blood.
Eric seemed more disgruntled than pleased at the results as he reached for his cell phone. “Sheriff, I think you need to see this.” After a pause, he added, “Yessir, I’ll ask Miz McCall to stay put until you get here.”
As if a team of horses could drag me away.
All too soon I could hear the sound of heavy footfalls tromping over a carpet of leaves and pine needles. The brilliant beam from a powerful flashlight traced his progress through the woods to where Eric and I waited.
Ralph barked then began a low growl deep in his throat, forcing me to keep a tight rein on his leash. “Steady, boy.”
Sheriff Wiggins materialized through the trees looking larger than life. He acknowledged my presence with a curt nod. “This the pooch who’s responsible for all the ruckus?”
Ralph barked again, sticking to my side like a burr. The whole time he kept his eyes trained on the newcomer.
“His name is Ralph,” I said. “He turned up on Mrs. Snow’s back porch.”
The sheriff studied Ralph; Ralph studied the sheriff. Best I could tell, it was a stand-off. Sheriff Wiggins was the first to cave with what almost passed for a smile. “Dog looks mostly Boykin spaniel, might have a little Labrador mixed in. Both great dogs. Had a Boykin a while back, best hunting dog I ever owned.” Stooping down, he rubbed Ralph’s head with a hand nearly the size of a catcher’s mitt.
“All right, then,” he said, straightening. “Let’s get down to business. Deputy, show me why I’m missing supper.”
I interrupted his supper? What about his all-important meeting with the mayor?
Eric shone his flashlight at the log. “The dog—Ralph—found a chunk of metal covered in what appeared to be rust in that log over yonder. The object was wrapped in a cloth of some sort. Miz McCall insisted I test it, and it showed positive for blood. I’m thinking it might be a hockey puck or some such thing.”
“Hockey pucks are made out of rubber.” Sheriff Wiggins took out his cell phone and began snapping photos.
“And hockey pucks don’t come with handles attached,” I added. “But being a born-and-bred Southerner, you might not know that.”
Sheriff Wiggins’s knees creaked as he hunkered down for a closer look. “Think I can spot what might be a few strands of hair stuck in the blood.”
My stomach clenched. Human hair? Blood? To my way of thinking, two and two always added up to four. Four in this case being the weapon used to kill Waylon Snow. I edged away. “If you don’t need me anymore . . .”
The sheriff kept his eyes focused on the round, disk-shaped piece of metal. “I’d appreciate it, ma’am, if you’d keep Miz Snow occupied until I photograph the scene and bag the evidence. First, though, give me your word you won’t say anything to her about what you found.”
I crossed my heart. “Promise.”
Using the lights from Eula’s house as my guide, I worked my way back through the woods. I found Eula in the kitchen heating a can of chicken noodle soup. She seemed surprised to see me. “Gracious, Kate, I thought you left ages ago.”
“Ralph’s a big dog. He deserved a good run.”
“Right, how foolish of me.” She laughed. “Here I nearly forgot about Ralph. I’m not used to having a pet.”
“Ralph has the makings of a terrific guard dog.” I unclipped his leash and hung it on a peg next to the back door.
Pleased with the job description, Ralph wagged his tail in appreciation. I took it upon myself to refill his water bowl and heap food into his doggy dish.
“I didn’t realize it was already dark outside.” Eula gave the pot a stir. “I must have fallen asleep. You must be half froze. Let me fix
you a cup of tea to take off the chill.”
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Slipping off my jacket, I sank down at the table. I kept Eula distracted with plans the Babes had to decorate her place for the home tour. I’d just finished my tea when Sheriff Wiggins knocked at the back door. Eula let him in.
Not wasting time on niceties, he got to the heart of the matter. “Miz Snow, do you recognize this?” he asked, producing a plastic evidence bag for her inspection.
Eula studied it carefully, her brow puckered in concentration. “Dear me, that looks like the meat pounder I used to own. It disappeared years ago. I hunted high and low but never did find it.”
“A meat pounder?”
“Why, yes. A meat pounder comes in handy whenever you want to flatten a chicken breast or tenderize a cheap cut of meat. My Waylon loved Swiss steak. The butcher would sell me a piece of round steak, then I’d pound the dickens out of it. Add some canned tomatoes, onions, and green pepper, and it was Waylon’s favorite dinner.”
The sheriff held out a second and larger evidence bag. “What about this, ma’am? Does it look familiar?”
Frowning, Eula shoved her eyeglasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Mercy sakes,” she said after studying the bagged item. “Can’t say for sure since the piece you’re holding is filthy dirty, but it reminds me of a tablecloth I once had. It was yellow-and-white-checked oilcloth with little orange daisies.”
I leaned forward for a better look, then tensed. My teacup clattered to the saucer. Through the clear plastic and amidst the soil, I was able to discern the faint outline of orange flowers. First the skeleton of Eula’s husband shows up in her root cellar, now she’s admitted to owning what in all likelihood will prove to be the murder weapon neatly wrapped in her former tablecloth. None of that boded well for the sweet old woman. Eula Snow had just risen through the ranks from person of interest to number-one suspect in a murder case.
Guessing from the expression on the sheriff’s dark face, his thoughts ran parallel with mine.
Chapter 24
“Don’t leave town” had been Sheriff Wiggins’s parting shot. I saw the confusion and fright etched on Eula’s features. I simply couldn’t stand by and not offer to help. So I did what I always did when confronted with a monumental problem—I called in reinforcements. In this case, reinforcements took the form of fellow Bunco Babe Claudia Davenport and her esteemed hubby, Badgeley Jack Davenport IV. Opponents in the courtroom nicknamed him Bad Jack, and not without good reason. Friends simply called him BJ. Claudia and BJ had first met when he represented her after she “accidentally” shot and killed her no-good skunk of a husband. She’d been exonerated, and romance had blossomed. After I briefly explained the situation, Claudia assured me that they were on their way.
Twenty minutes later, Claudia rushed into Eula’s living room. “Kate, what’s all this about you finding—?”
I held up a hand to cut her off.
She took the hint and regrouped, “You did the right thing, Kate. BJ’s just the person to come to the aid of a woman in distress.”
BJ followed at a more sedate pace. He was one of those men who grew more attractive with age. Except for a bald spot as precise as a monk’s tonsure at the crown of his head, he wore his snow-white hair swept back from a smooth pink face. Even at this hour, he wasn’t without his signature bow tie. His gaze swept the living room, bereft of all the little touches that make a house a home, before settling on Eula. “Don’t you worry none, Miz Eula. I’ll be right alongside you every step of the way.”
I reached across the sofa cushion and placed my hand over Eula’s. “BJ Davenport is the best person I know when it comes to legal advice.”
Claudia nodded her vigorous agreement. “You just listen to my husband, dear. He’s the best attorney in the entire county, probably the entire state. Most likely the best in the entire Southeast.”
“Legal advice?” Eula echoed. “Why would I need legal advice? I haven’t done anything wrong where I might need a lawyer.”
Beneath my hand, Eula’s felt as delicate as bone china, the skin so transparent I could see the spidery network of veins just below the surface. “The sheriff’s deputy used a chemical to test the meat pounder for blood. The test was positive.”
“Why, of course it tested positive.” Eula, clearly not understanding the gravity of her situation, smiled at me as though I was a dim-witted child,. “I used that old pounder for years to tenderize chicken and beef. Waylon loved steak. There were many times we were on a tight budget, and I needed to cut corners at the butcher’s.”
“Um, Eula, have you had supper yet?” Claudia asked, presumably needing a distraction after listening to Eula incriminate herself.
“I’m not sure,” Eula answered, frowning. “I was heating up a can of soup when the sheriff dropped by for a visit, but I don’t recall eating.”
“Let me see what I can find in your kitchen,” Claudia offered with a bright smile.
“Eula,” I said, “your friends are worried that Sheriff Wiggins might have gotten the wrong impression about you. That’s why I asked BJ here tonight.”
“No, you don’t say,” Eula gasped. “Is that why the sheriff told me I mustn’t leave town? Good heavens, where did he think I’d run off to?”
BJ lowered his bulk into the recliner. “Our esteemed sheriff is wondering whether the blood found on the meat pounder match your husband’s DNA. From what I’ve seen of Sheriff Wiggins thus far, the man’s not a believer in coincidence. Since the remains were discovered in your cellar, and you admitted owning what could very well be the murder weapon, well, let’s assume he’ll be looking at you closely.”
Eula’s eyes widened as comprehension slowly dawned. “Surely, he can’t think . . .”
I squeezed Eula’s hand, which seemed cold as ice. “The sheriff strikes me as an intelligent man. He’ll figure everything out all in good time.”
“But in the meanwhile, ma’am”—BJ reached into the inner pocket of his topcoat and withdrew a business card—“should you decide on legal representation, feel free to call me day or night. Under the circumstances, I’d advise you not to answer questions without a lawyer present.” He scribbled his cell phone number on the back of the card, then placed it on the coffee table.
Claudia, still wearing her coat, came out of the kitchen carrying a plate. “My boys always felt better after eating one of my grilled cheese sandwiches whether it was girl trouble, school trouble, or not making first string,” she told Eula. “Good thing I went into the kitchen when I did. Your soup had boiled away to nothing. I turned off the burner and sprinkled the pan with baking soda from a box in the pantry. Allow the baking soda to work overnight, then scrub the pan in the morning. I guarantee it’ll be right as rain.”
“Yes, thank you. I’ll be sure to do that first thing tomorrow.” Eula obediently nibbled at her sandwich, her actions mechanical.
BJ lumbered to his feet and put his arm around Claudia’s shoulders. “My wife has a knack for cheering folks up.”
“Isn’t he a sweetheart?” Claudia cooed. “I’m just the luckiest girl ever. Oh, Eula, I nearly forgot, but while in the kitchen I took the liberty of calling Tammy Lynn and asking her to spend the night with her meemaw. She said to tell you she’d be over right quick.”
“Until Tammy Lynn gets here, Ralph will keep watch.” I nodded at the dog sprawled across the threshold of the kitchen in a deceptively relaxed pose.
Knowing I’d done everything I could, I left with Claudia and BJ. “What happens next?” I asked the minute we were outside.
“Do you think Eula is going to be arrested?” Claudia blurted.
“As most people know, the spouse or significant other is always the chief suspect.” BJ tugged on a pair of leather driving gloves as we went down the walkway toward our vehicles. “To answer your question, Kate, luminol can’t differentiate between human and animal blood. That will be up to the state crime lab to determine. Next, it’ll fall upon the
medical examiner to compare the head wound with the size of the meat pounder as probable cause of death.”
“You make it all sound so . . . clinical.” Claudia shivered and tucked her hand into the crook of BJ’s elbow. “No one who knows Eula believes that dear woman is capable of murder.”
“That’s the problem in a nutshell, my love.” BJ held the door of his Lincoln open for Claudia. “The sheriff knows he needs to build an airtight case before presenting it to a jury. No judge or jury will convict a grandmotherly type such as Eula Snow without sufficient evidence.”
I climbed into my SUV and cranked up the heat. It had been a cold day in paradise.
• • •
Another day and a five-gallon bucket of pinecones later, I was ready for a fun night of arts and crafts at Connie Sue Brody’s. I use the term fun facetiously. Considering my track record, this evening would prove interesting, for lack of a better euphemism.
Using my elbow to jab the doorbell, I arrived at the appointed hour laden with a single five-gallon bucket of pinecones—not the two or three requested—and a laundry basket overflowing with greens and holly. The rest of the committee was already present except for Gloria, who had promised to help with the Humane Society’s float. Rita, however, had been drafted to fill her place.
“I’ve been babying my amaryllis for weeks in hopes it will bloom in time for the home tour,” Rita said as I deposited my contributions on the floor next to a table designated for crafts. Rita had a green thumb, which I envied. I was surreptitiously substituting silk plants for real ones throughout my home. Silk plants didn’t drop leaves, wither, or die on me. So far, either no one had noticed the switch or were too polite to say so.
Connie Sue had spread a vinyl cloth over the table in the breakfast nook and set up an additional workspace in the great room. Supplies ran the gamut from glue guns to glitter. I winced at seeing the many spools of ribbon, florist wire, and yards of colorful fabric interspersed with small jars of paint in shades as varied as a giant box of Crayolas. A sewing machine sat on a card table shoved into a corner.
