by Gail Oust
His gaze drifted over the small gathering before settling on me. “Miz McCall,” he drawled in a rich-as-molasses baritone, “might’ve known I’d find you here.”
“Sheriff.” I bobbed my head in acknowledgment.
The sheriff and I are old pals. We joined forces a few months back to find the murderer of Rosalie Brubaker, my friend and neighbor. At least I’d assumed we’d formed a partnership of sorts, ’til he informed me in no uncertain terms to butt out of police business. Apparently the sheriff liked to work alone. I suspect the man might’ve been an only child and wasn’t used to sharing.
Close on the sheriff’s heels was Deputy Preston. I never did learn the man’s Christian name. The deputy and I are acquainted, too. We first met during the investigation into Rosalie’s death. Unbeknownst to the sheriff, who probably eats raw meat for breakfast, Deputy Preston owned up to a fondness for my chocolate-chip cookies. I caught his eye and waggled my fingers at him. He started to wave back, but a stern look from his boss had him clearing his throat instead. So much for my friendship with law enforcement.
Sheriff and deputy moved aside to allow a flood of EMTs to pour into the room. One of the EMTs, a wiry, brown-haired man with the tanned leathery skin of an outdoorsman, knelt down alongside Lance. He placed his hand along Lance’s neck just as Bill had done earlier and shook his head.
“The guy’s a goner.”
No kidding! I wanted to blurt. What gave it away? Lack of a pulse? The fact that the man wasn’t breathing? Or the bullet hole smack dab in the middle of his chest? I swallowed down the hysterical giggle that sometimes tries to escape during times of stress. I find the reflex irritating and often downright embarrassing, especially at funerals.
The sheriff focused his attention on the case at hand. “Seal off the crime scene,” he instructed. “Notify the coroner.” He turned to his deputy. “Preston, get these people out of heah. Find a place for them to wait until I take their statements.”
Heah? Is that Southern-speak for here? I pondered. Exactly how does one spell such a word? In Toledo, where I hail from, here has only one syllable. South of the Mason-Dixon Line, it acquires a second.
Then came the moment I’d been dreading. The sheriff turned his attention to the cast and crew of Lance’s extravaganza. “Before my deputy ushers y’all out, anyone care to tell me jus’ what happened heah?”
Apparently none of us were eager to fill in the blanks or connect the dots. We glanced furtively from one to another, shuffled our feet, and avoided the sheriff’s piercing gaze. A lengthy silence ensued.
“I’m waitin’. Y’all care to enlighten me?”
Bernie raised a bony finger and pointed straight at Claudia. “She did it! She shot her husband deader ’n a doornail.”
Chapter 7
Deputy Preston herded us into a meeting room, one in a series that lined the hallway leading from the auditorium. He then took up a position just outside the door, guarding it lest one of us wanted to make a break and run for the border.
Faux leather chairs rimmed a faux mahogany conference table. A Monet print hung on one wall in a feeble attempt at ambiance. Placing my arm around Claudia’s shoulders, I guided her to a chair. “Here, honey, have a seat,” I told her, urging her down. “Anything I can get you?”
She didn’t answer. I’m not sure she even heard me. I was worried about her. She still hadn’t uttered a word; hadn’t shed a tear. Her complexion looked deathly pale. Oops. Poor choice of words. Guess I’d better reserve that expression for Lance, who literally was deathly pale. Claudia’s eyes had lost their usual sparkle and were glazed, unfocused. Guess I’d be unfocused and pasty, too, if I’d just shot and killed my husband.
“How could this have happened?” Rita paced the length of the room, wringing her hands.
Gus slumped down in one of the chairs at the conference table. “A freakin’ accident is how.”
“I checked the chamber just like you showed me, Bill,” Monica said, her voice high and thready. Her face was the moldy-olive green I associated with her weak stomach. She was definitely learning self-control. I had to hand it to her for not barfing all over the crime scene. Sheriff Wiggins would not have been a happy camper.
“I checked the gun, too.” Bill shoved his fingers through his hair. He, too, looked shaken by what had happened. “I saw the blank cartridges.”
“Why did I let myself get talked into this?” Monica whined. “I never should have gotten involved in this stupid play in the first place.”
“I’m cold,” Claudia whispered, her voice barely audible.
I shrugged out of my cardigan and draped it around her. “Here, this’ll help.”
She pulled my sweater tighter, but shivered in spite of its warmth. “I want to go home.”
“Soon, honey.” I patted her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “The sheriff wants to ask us a few questions first.”
She lapsed back into silence.
A minute later, Deputy Preston entered the meeting room and approached Claudia. “Sorry, ma’am, but I need to check your hands for gunshot residue.”
She stared at him blankly.
The young man glanced around, the expression on his dark face almost apologetic. “Actually, I’ll need to check all of you for GSR.”
“This is an outrage!” Bernie Mason fumed, jumping to his feet. “Why are you treating us like criminals? Everyone saw her shoot the guy.”
I saw Claudia flinch as Bernie’s harsh accusation pierced the brittle shell under which she’d retreated. I gave her shoulder another reassuring pat. “Never mind Bernie, honey. He failed Sensitivity for Dummies and needs a refresher course.”
“Won’t hurt a bit, ma’am,” Deputy Preston told her. I liked the man, a liking that had nothing to do with his fondness for my cookies. He had a gentle way about him. His mama ought to be proud.
Claudia started at the sound of the gunshot residue kit being ripped open.
“It’s OK. The nice deputy is only following protocol.” I was making it up as I went along; ad-libbing like crazy. Actually, aside from Rosalie, the closest I’d ever come to any murder/homicide investigation was on television. Not that one can’t learn a lot watching classics like Law & Order and CSI. I’d picked up tons of useful information along the way.
Claudia watched dully as the deputy went about the task of collecting his sample. I watched, too, fascinated in spite of the gravity of the situation. All the while my mind echoed Rita’s question, How could this have happened? We were simply rehearsing a scene from the play. No one was supposed to get hurt.
No one was supposed to die.
Having finished with Claudia, Deputy Preston straightened. “Who wants to be next?”
Bill stepped forward and held out his hands. “You can do me.”
If Bill could be brave, so could I. “After him, you can test mine.”
Satisfied with the samples he’d collected from all of us, the deputy still had more tricks up his sleeve. “Now I need to ask all you good folk to be patient a bit longer while I do the fingerprinting.”
“Fingerprinting!” Bernie exploded. “What the hell you goin’ to ask for next—a kidney?”
“No, sir,” the deputy replied. “Already got two good ones.”
Gunshot residue. Fingerprints. Wait ’til I tell my daughter, Jennifer, about this. But then again, maybe not. The wisest course of action would probably be to keep my mouth shut. Jen tends to overreact. She’s finally getting back to normal after my last escapade into murder and mayhem. Knowing her, I’d be shanghaied and sent to LA, where I’d be relegated to a life babysitting my two adorable granddaughters. Granted, I love both Juliette and Jillian to pieces, but I don’t want to spend my golden years a captive audience at a continuous round of dance recitals and soccer games. I may be a doting grandmother, but I’m a liberated one.
I worriedly cast another glance in Claudia’s direction. Except for saying she was cold and wanting to go home, there was not a peep out of
her; probably a good tactic under these circumstances. Perhaps I should advise her that it was her right to remain silent? Remind her that anything she said could and would be used against her in a court of law?
Bill, his Paul Newman baby blues full of concern, sidled up next to me and squeezed my hand. “How you holding up?”
I squeezed back. “Do you think we should call an attorney on Claudia’s behalf?”
“Good thinking,” he said in a voice low enough for my ears alone. “An attorney sounds like an excellent plan.”
“Problem is, I don’t know whom to call. She needs someone good—real good. Someone familiar with the South Carolina court system.”
Bill rubbed his jaw. I racked my brain. Both of us were lost in thought. Whom could I ask for a recommendation? Who’d know the name of a good defense attorney? One ideally born and bred in the South. Ninety-nine percent of the folks in Serenity Cove Estates came from elsewhere—Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, New York; some from even as far away as California and Alaska. Not even Connie Sue, the Bunco Babes’ very own dyed-in-the-wool Southern belle, could claim South Carolina as her home. She hailed from Georgia.
“I don’t want that messy stuff all over my hands,” I heard Monica complain to the deputy. “What if I get it on my clothes?”
“Don’t worry,” soothed calm, sensible Rita. “If you do, I’ve got just the stuff for getting out stains.”
I noticed Bill’s new buddy didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the proceedings. Gus had taken up a position at the end of the conference table where he played solitaire with a well-worn deck of cards. Bernie sat in an adjacent chair, watching the game, arms folded. I could hear the low rumble of the sheriff’s voice issuing orders just outside the door. I could feel the sand slip through the hourglass. Soon now, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would grill us like ribs at a Fourth of July barbecue.
Chilled after giving Claudia my sweater, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself. “The sheriff isn’t going to go easy on Claudia. She needs a lawyer and she needs one fast.”
“Someone experienced in handling criminal cases.”
I winced at hearing the word criminal used in conjunction with Claudia. She wasn’t a criminal, unless that was the new term for falling for a low-down, no-good scumbag like Lance Ledeaux. Pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, but if the shoe fits, as my daddy used to say.
Suddenly Bill snapped his fingers. “I think I know just the person who might help us.”
“Who?” I asked, already digging for my cell phone.
“Eric Olsen. Being a Brookdale cop, he probably knows the name of the best defense attorney in the entire county.”
“Bill, you’re brilliant!” I could have given my favorite handyman a great big hug right then and there—and planted a big, fat, noisy kiss on his cheek. But I did neither. I was already busy punching in Eric’s number. At one time I could have hugged and dialed at the same time, but I’m losing my ability to multitask.
Chapter 8
“I know just the person,” Eric told me.
I disconnected, reassured Eric was on the case. He’d promised to find Claudia the best darn defense attorney east of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I made a mental note to bake him a double batch of chocolate-chip cookies as my way of saying thanks.
I settled down in a chair between Claudia and Bill to await Sheriff Sumter Wiggins. It wasn’t long before he stormed into the meeting room. The scowl on his dark face resembled a rain cloud about to burst and drown its hapless victims. His presence seemed to suck all the air from the room. I now knew how it felt to be vacuum sealed.
He didn’t waste any time. “I gather you’re all in agreement that Miz Ledeaux is the shooter.”
I flinched. Shooter put me in mind of street gangs. And street gangs reminded me of the Jets and the Sharks. I particularly loved that finger-snapping scene from West Side Story, one of my all-time favorite musicals. Lots of leather jackets, lots of swagger; thinking of Broadway musicals was a welcome distraction from thinking of Lance lying dead onstage.
“Well . . . ,” he prompted.
Reluctantly we nodded.
“In the interest of bein’ thorough, I had my deputy check everyone for fingerprints and GSR.”
I knew GSR was police-speak for gunshot residue. I’d done my homework and was up to date on my acronyms: CSI, CIA, DOA, DNA, TOD, and GSW. I could rattle them off in the same way a kindergarten class did the alphabet. I prided myself on being savvy enough to know COD meant cause of death, not cash on delivery. I could work my favorite acronyms into a dinner party conversation with ease. I’d never had cause to use any of these terms in an official capacity, mind you, but I like to keep current. It holds dementia at bay.
Sheriff Wiggins took out a pen and flipped open a black spiral notebook. “Will one of you nice folks kindly describe what happened back in the auditorium?”
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That about summed us up.
The sheriff was rapidly growing weary of our lack of response. “I’m goin’ to get to the bottom of this if it takes all night. Now”—he glowered; we cringed—“first off, I need someone to give me a general idea what was goin’ on prior to the shootin’. Afterward, I’ll take your individual statements. Who wants to go first?”
My hand shot up. “I will.”
He stared at me long and hard, then turned away. “Any other volunteers?”
Hmph! Guess I can tell when I’m not wanted. You’d think after my valuable contributions in the past, he’d be begging for my help. But no. He liked to think he could solve a case without the able assistance of a concerned citizen such as I.
“You.” The sheriff singled out Bill with a pointed look. “Give me the Reader’s Digest version of events that prompted the incident.”
Bill shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “We were rehearsing a play that Lance, Mr. Ledeaux, is producing, directing, and starring in. Gus and I,” he said, motioning toward his newfound friend, “were there to take some measurements. I also needed to ask him a few questions. I’m responsible for the set,” he added as an afterthought. “Gus agreed to be in charge of lighting and sound.”
“We were rehearsing act three, scene one,” I spoke up, wanting to participate and not wanting to be left out.
One pained look from the sheriff, and I lapsed into silence. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, when I desperately yearned to contribute.
“What about the rest of you folks? Y’all actors in the play?”
Rita cleared her throat. “I’m the stage manager.”
“I, um, I’m in charge of props,” Monica mumbled, her voice barely audible. She sat hunched, her arms around her waist, and stared at the floor.
The sheriff gave her a long, considering look that I’d wager made repeat offenders sweat bullets. “So you’re the one in charge of the gun that killed Mr. Ledeaux.” It was a statement, not a question.
Monica gave a jerky nod, her attention still focused on the nubby carpet.
Sheriff Wiggins jotted this down in his little black book. “I’ll get your statement right after talkin’ with Miz Ledeaux.”
“I think I’m going to be sick.” Clutching her stomach, Monica made a dash for the ladies’ room. Seeing her olive green complexion, no one tried to stop her.
Bill continued his narrative. “Lance wasn’t pleased with the way rehearsal was going. He insisted on running through the lines over and over until the cast got it right.”
“It was his idea to use the props,” Rita muttered.
Another notation in the book.
“Ledeaux didn’t like the way I did my lines. Said he’d show me how a real actor would do it.” Bernie shoved away from the table and rose abruptly. “This whole thing is Mort Thorndike’s fault.”
Pen hovered over paper. “Who’s Mort Thorndike?”
Had I suffered a transient loss of consciousness while onstage? I could have sworn Mort Thorndike had
been nowhere in the vicinity. And he was a hard person to miss, seeing how he irritated the heck out of me.
“Mort’s my golfing buddy,” Bernie replied in a tone that implied the sheriff should know this. “Weren’t for him, I’da been learning my lines instead of out on the course.”
So much for the Reader’s Digest version. It was soon apparent that if Sheriff Wiggins wanted to hear what happened, it was all or nothing. Knowing he was outnumbered, he surrendered grudgingly and listened to us ramble. When our comments drew to a halt, he asked, “Who owns the gun?”
That brought me up straighter in my chair. I have to admit I hadn’t thought about that part of the accident—at least not yet. Guess I’d assumed the gun belonged to Lance.
“It’s mine,” Bill admitted.
I swung around to face him. “Yours?”
Bill kept a steady gaze fixed on the sheriff. I needed to add “intrepid” to Bill’s list of attributes. “Ledeaux heard I was a hunter, probably from Claudia, and asked if I’d loan him a handgun for the course of the play. But before I did, I made sure there were no bullets in it. I checked and double-checked—even tonight. Only blanks were in the cartridge.”
The sheriff raised one eyebrow. “What happened next?”
The sheriff might as well have been speaking Swahili at this point. Bernie picked at a hangnail. Bill scuffed the toe of his shoe on the carpet. Monica returned just then, looking teary eyed and weepy. Upon seeing her, Rita started digging through her pockets for a tissue.
I shot a nervous glance at Claudia who remained ghostly pale and unmoving. Was she in a catatonic state? I didn’t have the foggiest notion of what a catatonic state was, but I bet my diagnosis wasn’t far off the mark. I made a mental note to Google this when I got home—if I ever got home. Right now my house on Loblolly Court seemed as far away as the moon.
At last it was Rita who rose to the challenge. Rita’s like that. She’s a take-charge kind of gal. That was the reason Lance had appointed her stage manager. If anyone could make a production and rehearsal run smoothly, it was Rita. She was organized, efficient, and . . . courageous.
