by Gail Oust
The office door squeaked open, effectively announcing my arrival.
Betty Washington—aka Bettina Washington—was seated behind a desk in the outer office. “Can I help you?” she asked without looking up.
“Um, yes,” I replied. “I have a couple of questions about homeowner taxes.”
Betty stopped whatever she was doing and frowned at me over the rim of reading glasses in red plastic frames. “I never forget a face. Aren’t you the lady I spoke with at the library? The one who found what was left of poor Mr. Snow?”
I smiled. “That would be me. What a coincidence meeting you again so soon.”
“You mentioned you had some questions?”
“I can see that you’re busy, so I’ll get right to the point,” I said. “Grady Mayfield has given me a quote on some remodeling. Before I sign a contract, I wondered how this will effect my property owner’s tax.”
“Ya’ll live in Serenity Cove Estates, don’t you?” Betty got up and pulled a printed form from a drawer, then handed it to me. “This will give you a rough idea of the rates, but we can’t give a final amount until the work is completed. Mr. Mayfield will have to apply for a building permit. When he’s finished with the project, the assessor’s office will send out an inspector.”
“Oh, so that’s how it works.” I folded the information sheet and slid it into my purse. “Just between the two of us, I’m not certain Mr. Mayfield is the right contractor for me. He seems a bit . . . pushy. But, you know him better than I do. I remember you said you knew Grady from your days working for Waylon Snow.”
“That’s right, but that was a long time ago,” Betty said. “Never did understand Mr. Snow hiring him, considering his reputation and all.”
“By any chance, did his reputation have to do with a gambling problem?”
Betty shrugged. “It wasn’t a well-kept secret Grady liked to gamble. Man could never pass up a poker game—or a chance to place a bet.” She lowered her voice, even though the door leading to her supervisor’s office was shut. “Rumor had it he’d gotten in way over his head with a loan shark over in Georgia. A loan shark with steep interest rates—and even bigger consequences if you’re unlucky enough to be late with a payment. Next thing I knew, Grady turned up at work with his arm in a cast clear up to his shoulder. Said the doctor had to use plates, pins, nuts, and bolts to put it back together.”
I was almost afraid to ask my next question, but was afraid not to. “Do you recall which arm it was?”
“Grady’s a lefty.” Betty folded her arms across her chest. “That little ‘accident’ put him out of commission for a good six weeks or more. He tried to hoodwink me into calling it work-related, though I knew for a fact it wasn’t. Wanted to file for workmen’s compensation.”
“I don’t suppose it’s an easy task to work construction with only one good arm.”
“Hah!” Betty grunted. “Grady didn’t even have one good arm. Claimed he had nerve damage in the right from a car accident when he was a teenager. He depended on the left one to do most of the work.”
My hopes were high, riding on Betty’s memory. I cleared my throat and gathered my courage to ask the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question. “I don’t suppose by any chance that you remember when Grady had his broken arm? Do you think it might’ve been around the time Mr. Snow disappeared?”
Betty narrowed her eyes. “How did you know?”
“Lucky guess,” I said.
“Grady has his ‘accident’ shortly before Mr. Snow went missing. I know because I’m the one who had to explain to customers why work wasn’t getting done on schedule. Then Mr. Snow disappeared without a trace, and most of the jobs went Bud Sanders way. Soon as he was able, Grady came back and took charge. And the first thing on that man’s agenda was to let me go. One day I had a job, next day I didn’t.”
Interesting. I thanked Betty and left the county assessor’s office better informed than when I’d entered. Betty Washington had unknowingly provided Grady Mayfield with an alibi for the time of the murder. Grady’s good arm had been incapacitated. His other arm had been compromised. I sadly bid farewell to my number-one person of interest and said hello to number two—Bud Sanders.
• • •
Bill and I arrived in plenty of time for the Santa parade. Bill insisted he was tired of being an invalid and decided to accompany me. He found a convenient parking space on a side street near the bank. Even from a distance, we could hear the sound of the band warming up. Tucking my hand in the crook of his arm, we wended our way toward Main Street.
As expected, there were a large number of families with small children. It took me back to the days when Jennifer and Steven were youngsters. One year we had driven from Toledo to see Detroit’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Jim had put Jennifer, who was only five at the time, on his shoulders to get a better view of Santa. She’d talked about nothing else the entire drive home. Of course, Brookdale was small potatoes compared with Detroit, but kids the world over are thrilled at the prospect of a jolly bearded man in a red suit.
“Oh, look!” I said, pointing across the street. “There’s Monica and Fred in front of the hardware store. Let’s join them.”
“Fine by me.” Bill steered me across the street, which had already been barricaded for the parade. “This will give me a chance to talk with Fred—and ignore Monica.”
“Hey, Kate, we missed you yesterday afternoon,” Monica said the instant she caught sight of us. “I tried calling you all afternoon but you didn’t answer. Did you forget about meeting with us?”
“Sorry, Monica,” I apologized. “I had some errands to run that couldn’t wait.”
“Hmph! I wish you would have told me sooner. We were counting on your help. I hope you don’t forget part of your job is to see that the outside of Eula’s is ready for the home tour. That includes the yard, too.”
Bill shot me a look of commiseration before turning his attention to Monica’s spouse.
“Eula’s son, Dan, promised he’d be over this weekend to trim the shrubs and tidy up.”
“That isn’t nearly enough.” Monica nodded and smiled at a passing acquaintance. “The house,” she continued, “needs to scream Christmas inside and out. First impressions are critical.”
I groaned inwardly. Making a house scream wasn’t exactly what I’d signed up for. “There isn’t much time . . .”
Monica’s tone sharpened. “Are you saying you can’t handle it?”
“No, no, I’ll come up with something. After all, the home tour is still a week away.”
“I spotted Connie Sue and Thacker talking to the mayor,” she exclaimed, losing interest in our conversation. “I need to remind her to purchase more twinkle lights.” Grabbing hold of her husband’s arm, she propelled him in their direction.
I let out a sigh of relief watching them go. Monica was a high-maintenance friend, and I was in low-maintenance mode.
Bill stepped closer. “Don’t let Monica bully you. If you’re not able to do outdoor decorations, just tell her straight out,” he counseled.
“I can manage a few simple decorations,” I snapped. “Sorry if I’m irritable, but Monica tends to have that effect on me. I just intend to drape a string of lights over the arbor and across the front shrubs. How hard can it be, right?”
Bill nodded but didn’t look convinced I’d get off so easily. “Why don’t I get us some hot chocolate? Chocolate always seems to put you in a better mood.”
“Good idea. You’re right, chocolate always does the trick,” I said, already feeling better at the prospect. “I’ve read chocolate’s been scientifically proven to remove stress. Better make it a double.”
As time for the parade neared, people jostled one another to stake out the best viewing spots. I found myself shoulder to shoulder with Trina, a clerk at Piggly Wiggly.
“Hey,” Trina said to the friend next to her, “isn’t that Cora Spencer across the street? I heard she moved back to Brookdale.”
My ear
s strained to eavesdrop on their conversation without being obvious. If I inched any closer, I’d be stepping on Trina’s foot. “My boyfriend told me she’s living in the apartment above the Chinese restaurant,” Trina’s pal said.
“Someone told me she’s been married more times than Elizabeth Taylor.”
They nudged each other and giggled.
It was now or never for me to be a buttinsky. “Excuse me, ladies, I couldn’t help but overhear Cora’s name being mentioned. Are you friends of hers?”
“Us?” The friend giggled some more. “We weren’t even on her radar.”
“What Patsy means is that even though we went to high school together, we didn’t run in the same circles,” Trina explained.
Patsy unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into her mouth. “Cora was a cheerleader and prom queen. She only dated jocks.”
“Even if the jocks were already dating someone else,” Trina added. “Patsy, remember the time Cora stole Eddie away from Josie? Then dumped Eddie for the captain of the varsity basketball team.”
“When Eddie came crawling back to her, Josie made him give her his letter jacket.”
“So you’re saying Cora wasn’t shy about taking another girl’s boyfriend.”
“Nope.” Patsy cracked her gum. “She used to brag she could get any boy she wanted once she set her mind to it.”
They weren’t painting a very complimentary picture of the woman. But people change. High school often fails to bring out the best in people. The Cora Prentiss I knew was a kind, devoted sister, the bearer of healthy smoothies concocted from kale and vitamins and such. Shame on me. I never should have given in to my urge to eavesdrop.
The wail of a police siren signaled the start of the parade. Like magic, Bill appeared at my elbow holding two foam cups of hot chocolate.
A black and white patrol car slowly rolled down the center of Main Street with a smiling Sheriff Sumter Wiggins at the wheel looking for all the world as if he enjoyed the to-do. Eric Olsen sat in the passenger seat, tossing peppermint candy out the window while children scrambled to collect the sweets. Americana at its finest.
All one had to do was forget a killer prowled the streets.
Chapter 27
At times, cooking is a good therapy. It’s a way to clear my head. Other times, cooking while clearing my head has led to monumental disasters of the culinary variety. As a rule, I try to limit my tasks to only one at a time—multitasking is for millennials. But rules are made to be broken, so I whipped up another batch of my Secret-Ingredient Fudge while puzzling the next chapter in Kate Solves a Mystery.
Since Betty Washington had in effect ruled out Grady Mayfield as the villain, that left only Bud Sanders. Bud had freely admitted his animosity toward Waylon Snow. That combined with a hair-trigger temper could easily have climaxed in a crime of passion.
Once my fudge had firmed in the refrigerator, I painstakingly cut it into small pieces, arranged them on pretty red plates, and draped the plates in cellophane tied with ribbons. Stepping back to admire my workmanship, I pronounced them ready for our cookie/candy exchange Monday night. I even had a few left over to use as gifts.
Just as the fudge had firmed, so had my determination. Like Sheriff Wiggins, I needed to build an airtight case before presenting it to a jury of my peers. Unless I wanted to visit Eula behind thick Plexiglas, I needed to pay Bud Sanders one more visit.
I swapped my chocolate-spattered T-shirt and jeans for a lightweight sweater and slacks. After running a brush through my hair and applying fresh lipstick, I was about to leave the house when I heard the doorbell.
“Hey.” Polly stood in the doorway wearing a broad grin. “You look spiffy. Going somewhere? Want company?” Not waiting for a response, she came inside and held out a plastic Walmart bag. “I brought you a present.”
“Nice gift wrap, by the way,” I commented as I cautiously took a peek inside. “What is it?”
“Tsk, tsk,” Polly scolded. “You didn’t read Monica’s latest reminder, did you?”
“I’ve been kind of busy.” I motioned to the row of red plates lined up on the kitchen counter, all decked out with ribbons and bows.
“All right, I’ll give you a pass,” Polly conceded. “Remember we all agreed we’d have an ugly Christmas sweater contest in addition to our cookie exchange at Bunco?”
I heaved a sigh. “I forgot. Just shoot me now and put me out of my misery. Don’t we have enough to do without worrying about ugly sweaters and baking cookies? We have an entire house to decorate—inside and out.”
“Never fear when Polly is near,” she chortled. “Take a closer look at your present. These were on sale at Walmart. I thought since you’re playing detective and don’t have time to shop, you’d be grateful for my thoughtfulness.”
I pulled out a knit garment in garish shades of red, green, and gold imprinted with the figure of a headless reindeer. “Excuse me, but if it’s all the same to you, I’ll save my gratitude for a different occasion.”
“Don’t you get it?” Polly asked, impatient with my lack of enthusiasm. “We can go as Prancer and Dancer. I’m Dancer, naturally.”
“Naturally,” I echoed, staring at the god-awful sweater in dismay.
“And the best part—it comes with its own set of antlers,” she added, as though that would entice me.
“Wonderful. We’ll look like twins.” I shoved the sweater back into the bag and tried to return it. “Maybe I’m not the best person to be Prancer. I think you should give this to Gloria. You don’t want to hurt your daughter’s feelings.”
Polly shook her head. “Nah, Gloria’s a stick in the mud, not a fun person like you.”
I didn’t exactly feel like a fun person, but on the other hand Polly was right about not having time to scour the stores for an ugly sweater. And when it came to ugly, the one Polly chose would be hard to beat.
“I thought we could liven up the antlers a bit with some of those flashing lights that operate with a battery pack. You know the kind. I’m thinking red and green.”
“All right already!” I threw up my hands in surrender. “I’ll be your Prancer.”
“So where you off to?” Polly asked, switching gears now that she’d won this round.
“I planned to drop by the nursing home and see Bud Sanders one more time. Maybe bring along some fudge to soften him up.”
“Do you need an enforcer? I’ve got nothing better to do until the Christmas potluck my line dance class is throwing at the Rec Center tonight. I’ll ride shotgun.”
Resigned to Polly accompanying me, I checked my purse for keys, wallet, and sunglasses. “Where do you pick up lingo like ‘enforcer’ and ‘riding shotgun’?”
“I watch a lot of action flicks. The guys in them are usually pumped and buff.”
“You’re not going to see a lot pumped and buff at the nursing home,” I warned, picking up a plate of fudge as we headed out. “I hope this offering will help loosen the old codger’s tongue.”
“Janine said he was one ornery customer. Good thing I’m along for backup.”
Codger? Or killer? I wondered as we turned onto the highway.
Valley View Manor currently sported huge plastic candy canes and a blow-up Santa the size of Big Foot on the front lawn. Even its sign was wreathed in colorful lights heralding holiday cheer. Inside the nursing home, the same diminutive white-haired lady—this time dressed in hot pink sweats—toddled through the lobby pushing a walker.
“Have you seen Mary?” she asked, but toddled on, not waiting for an answer.
“Maybe we should tell her to check the nativity set,” Polly suggested. “Mary’s always the one holding a baby.”
I shook my head at Polly’s lame attempt at humor, except I wasn’t sure whether or not she was serious. With Polly, one never knew. No one appeared to be at the front desk, so we proceeded toward the west wing.
“Pretty tree,” Polly commented as we passed the dining room. “Looks like Santa Claus arrived ear
ly with a few presents.”
I skirted a medicine cart and some kind of mechanical contraption left in the hallway. Polly followed but at a much slower pace, pausing to peer inside partially opened doors of patient rooms. Oops, I corrected myself, they were no longer referred to as patients but as residents.
All the rooms had either a felt stocking or furry Santa attached to the door—all except room 214. I wouldn’t have been the least surprised to see “bah humbug” scrawled across it with a Magic Marker.
I knocked softly on the closed door, then eased inside with Polly practically breathing down my neck.
Bud Sanders sat propped in a chair, an afghan spread across his lap, a tray table close by his side. The television was tuned to an old episode of Gunsmoke, the volume set low. On the screen, Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty were conversing in the Long Branch Saloon.
“Miss Kitty was my kind of gal,” Polly said, unable to tolerate silence when conversation was an option. “Always hoped old Matt would pop the question, but he never did.”
“It’s a western, not a damn romance,” Bud snarled. “Who are you and what do you want?”
I signaled Polly to cease and desist. “Um . . . Mr. Sanders”—I stepped farther into the room—“if you recall I was here the day a nurse gave you a flu shot.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t recall—and I’m not getting any more shots. Hurt like the devil. So take your needles and get the hell out of here.”
I didn’t expect this to be easy and, if this was any indication of things to come, it wasn’t going to be. “Sir, I’m not here to give you an injection. I hoped you’d tell me a little more about Waylon Snow. I know that you two were business rivals. His remains were found recently. What do you remember about the last time you saw him?”
Bud’s face creased into a scowl. “How in tarnation do you expect me to remember way back then? Can’t you see I’m an old man. Old people don’t remember nothin’.”
