by Gail Oust
“Let me judge the best use of time and paper.” He brought the chair legs down with a bang that made me flinch. “Let’s try again, shall we? This time, start at the top and run through everythin’ step-by-step.”
I discovered the true meaning of a hot seat as a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I don’t know how crooks can take interrogations on a regular basis. They can’t be good for the heart or the nervous system.
Sheriff Wiggins waited patiently, silently. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. The determined gleam in his onyx-hard eyes spoke volumes.
My mouth felt like a bucketful of sand. I moistened dry lips with the tip of my tongue, then took a deep breath. I started at the beginning but, out of loyalty to a friend, left out the part about the conversation I’d overheard. I ended my narrative recounting how all of us believed Lance wasn’t really dead but only playacting.
While I talked, he jotted notes. I had a sneaky feeling he knew I’d committed a grievous sin of omission. Any second now I’d be given a hefty penance and instructed to sin no more.
Or charged with a felony.
After I finished, he gave me a long look. I was proud of myself for resisting the urge to confess my transgressions. I forced myself to calmly inquire, “Is the interrogation over, Sheriff?”
“Miz McCall,” he drawled, “consider this meetin’ an interview. I’m savin’ the interrogation for later.”
I got to my feet, picked up my purse, and gathered what was left of my composure. As I left the room, I gave the lemon bars, snug and pretty beneath a dusting of powdered sugar and plastic wrap, a lingering look. I’d half a mind to snatch them up and give them to someone more deserving—and nicer—than the mean ol’ Sheriff Wiggins.
Chapter 14
My meeting with the sheriff had taken longer than I had anticipated. The man obviously had too much time on his hands since he was treating an accident like a real case. Accident? My mind balked at calling it murder, or even manslaughter. But dead is dead regardless of what it’s called.
And what if Lance’s death wasn’t accidental?
I tried to stifle the pesky little voice inside my head. How had a bullet instead of a blank gotten into the gun? If it wasn’t an accident, someone had to have put it there. But who? Surely Claudia hadn’t meant it when she’d told Lance she’d find a way to get rid of him—one way or another. It was merely a figure of speech. People say those words all the time.
Don’t they?
Other than Claudia, who’d want Lance dead? The dark-haired woman he argued with behind the Piggly Wiggly? And why had he been with Krystal? I was still mulling this over when I arrived home. I noticed a car parked in the Brubaker drive and wondered if yet another real estate agent was showing the house to a prospective client. It would be nice to have neighbors again. Most of the time I enjoy being the only house on a cul-de-sac, but sometimes I feel like the Lone Ranger. The lots on either side of me remain empty until their owners reach retirement age.
Many consider growing older a curse, but not the majority of the retirees I know. It’s a blessing, a true blessing. Now mind you, no one wants the wrinkles and various and sundry aches and pains that come with aging, but there’s a certain undeniable freedom in retirement. Time is yours to do as you please. You can spend your days on the golf course, tennis court, at a bridge table, or in a La-Z-Boy watching the Weather Channel. The choice is yours. While younger folk are scrabbling to earn a living, you can sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labors. Ask anyone I know. They’ll tell you they love retirement.
A glance at the dashboard clock told me I was running late. I had barely enough time to throw my casserole together before Bill arrived. Maybe, just maybe, Krystal would want a dinner tray in her room. I’d try to convince her she needed all the rest she could muster before reporting for the first shift at the diner. With her out of the picture, Bill and I could share a cozy casserole for two. I could ply him with home cooking heavily spiced with my own unique brand of charm.
My pleasant bubble burst at the sight of Krystal in the kitchen. She glanced up guiltily, a box of soda crackers in one hand. “Mrs. McCall, I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Please call me Kate,” I said. I put away my purse, shrugged out of my blazer, and then, after washing my hands at the sink, headed for the pots and pans.
“Hope you don’t mind my going through your cupboards.”
“Not at all. I told you to make yourself at home.” I filled a large pan with water, added salt, and set it on to boil.
“It was kind of you to invite me to stay with you.”
“It’ll be nice to have company for a change.” I switched on the oven, setting the dial at three hundred fifty degrees. Next, I opened the refrigerator and pulled celery and onion from the vegetable bin. I chopped, diced, and stirred. Will wonders never cease? Here I thought I’d lost the ability to multitask
“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer.” Krystal replaced the crackers on a pantry shelf. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Well,” I said brightly, not one to ignore the sound of opportunity knocking, “why don’t we get better acquainted while I’m fixing dinner.”
“Sure,” she replied, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
I took out a Pyrex dish and set it on the counter. “Why not start by telling me your last name?”
“It’s Gold. Krystal Gold.”
Krystal Gold . . . hmm. Her name conjured visions of sparkle and glitter—and lots of it. Bling, as it’s called. “A pretty name,” I murmured, trying to sound noncommittal.
“Thanks. My real last name was Weindorfer, but I hated it. I changed it legally soon as I got out of high school. Kids were always making fun of me.”
“Yes, kids can be cruel, but they can be a lot of fun, too.” I reached for the can opener and opened the cream of mushroom soup. “When my children left for college, I volunteered at a grade school. I especially enjoyed the kindergartners. That is, when they weren’t sticking crayons in their noses or beans in their ears.”
“I like kids, too.” Krystal’s voice turned dreamy. “I always wanted a big family.”
I stole a glance at my houseguest. She was a pretty, young woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, though her actions made her seem younger. She was much too pale, though, and, except for her generous bra size, reed slender. I wondered if she was anorexic or bulimic. Dr. Phil had a show on the subject once. His guest had been so thin, her shoulder blades jutted out like a pair of wings. That would never be a problem where I was concerned—not since the invention of Peanut M&M’s.
“At the diner, May mentioned you were headed for Myrtle Beach. Do you have friends or relatives there?” I asked as I dumped a package of noodles into the water, which was now bubbling merrily.
“No, we’re not close, but I heard Myrtle Beach gets a lot of tourists. I thought it might be easy to find a job there.”
“What kind of job?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” Krystal wound a strand of long dark hair around her index finger. “I thought I’d look around once I got there. See what’s available. I’ve been traveling all over the country, working at this and that. If all else fails, I can usually find a job waiting tables.”
Most people love to talk about themselves. Once started they can’t seem to stop—but not Krystal. In spite of my many questions, she remained a mystery. Maybe The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating will give me some insight into the art of interview and interrogation. Sheriff Wiggins, I’m certain, had it down to a science but didn’t seem the sort to share technique. When all else fails, he probably resorted to more drastic measures. I wouldn’t be surprised if he kept a pair of thumbscrews in his back pocket as added persuasion.
I scanned the countertop for the final ingredient for my pièce de résistance. Where was the tuna? I could’ve sworn I’d left it there along with the soup and noodles I’d taken out earlier. I’m sure it ha
d been there, nice as could be, before I left to meet the sheriff. There had to be a logical explanation. Were my eyes playing tricks? Had I hallucinated Charlie the Tuna’s picture on a blue can? Maybe I’d absentmindedly returned the can to the pantry. Frantic, I pawed through shelves filled with cans, jars, and boxes. Soup, beans, and pie filling. I shoved aside cake mixes and packaged rice. I discovered a mix for lemon poppy seed scones I had purchased long ago and given up for lost.
“Something wrong, Kate?”
I wanted to scream but didn’t want to frighten Krystal. This was a disaster of the worst kind. How does one make tuna noodle casserole without the star ingredient? I needed tuna. I needed it now!
“The tuna fish. I-It’s gone.” I felt as if I were losing it. I took a deep breath to quiet my burgeoning hysteria. I wasn’t usually this easily upset. Maybe it was a delayed reaction to seeing a man killed. Maybe it was seeing my hopes of a cozy evening with Bill the Tool Man dashed. Or perhaps—plain and simple—I was going bonkers.
Krystal rose abruptly and left the kitchen. I heard the door leading onto the deck open, then close. She returned a moment later carrying a small cereal bowl. “I’m sorry, Kate. There’s nothing left. It’s all gone.”
Save for one tiny telltale scrap of tuna, the dish had been licked clean. I stared at it in dismay. “What? Who . . . ?”
“He was so scrawny. I felt sorry for him.”
“He . . . ?” I struggled to wrap my mind around the problem before I unraveled completely. Had a beggar in dire need of tuna shown up on my doorstep? And the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: What to do about Bill’s dinner? A tuna noodle casserole minus the tuna equals a noodle casserole. Oh, yum!
I shot a glance at the clock. Bill was due any second. No time to run to the Piggly Wiggly. Immediately my mind went to Plan B, only to discover I didn’t have a Plan B. I didn’t have a Plan C either. Drat! I hate when that happens.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Bill’s pickup turn into my drive. My panic ratcheted up a notch—or three. It wasn’t bad enough there was no dinner; I didn’t have time to primp. I needed to run a brush through my hair, freshen my lipstick, spritz on pricey designer perfume guaranteed to make me a femme fatale.
As if on cue, the doorbell pealed. Frantic, I raced to the pantry, grabbed a bottle of vanilla extract from the shelf, and dabbed some behind each ear. Krystal gazed at my antics in wide-eyed fascination.
“Kate, you’re scaring me. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I added an extra dab of vanilla to the valley between my breasts. I saw this trick recently on one of those morning talk shows. An expert on something or other claimed men found the scent of vanilla irresistible. As an added bonus, it saves buying pricey perfume.
“Then you’re not angry with me?”
The bell rang again.
“There isn’t time,” I called over my shoulder as I hurried toward the foyer. “Angry will have to wait ’til later.”
I flung open the door. “Bill!”
I must have sounded surprised—or out of breath or both—because he looked at me quizzically. “Kate, you all right? You were expecting me, weren’t you?”
“Of course, of course.” My laugh was a nervous fluttery sound. I stepped aside to let him enter. “Come in, come in.” I kept repeating myself but couldn’t seem to stop. My speech pattern mimicked echoes down a canyon.
“I know how much you like Riesling,” he said, handing me a bottle of my favorite white wine.
He looked . . . great! He wore a navy Windbreaker over a blue chambray shirt, which emphasized the color of his eyes, and freshly pressed Dockers. The man didn’t need a tool belt to make my heart dance a samba.
Collecting my wits, I led him into the kitchen, where Krystal stood clutching the empty cereal bowl and looking anxious. I made the introductions and explained Bill had a friend willing to take a look at her Civic but he needed her car keys.
Bill shrugged out of his jacket. “Planned to make myself a grilled cheese sandwich for supper when you called. Couldn’t turn down your offer of tuna noodle casserole.”
At the word tuna, Krystal burst into tears.
Bill’s eyes widened in alarm. “Whoa! What did I do?”
I took the bowl from Krystal’s hands and offered her a tissue from the box on the counter. “There’s been a last-minute change in tonight’s menu.”
“I’m s-sorry, Kate,” Krystal blubbered. “He looked like he hadn’t eaten in days.”
“Krystal, you’re not making any sense. Who hadn’t eaten in days?”
“The c-cat. The orange cat.” She sniffed noisily. “I saw him prowling around your backyard. He looked half starved, so I fed him the tuna.”
Suddenly all the pieces fell into place. The cat I had assumed as feral was always on the lookout for food. “Tang,” I said by way of an explanation. “That’s the cat’s name. He’s been coming around for handouts for months, but seems to be people-shy.”
Bill frowned. “Tang? Like the orange-flavored drink the astronauts used in the space program?”
I nodded. “The one and the same.”
“The space program?” Krystal sniffed.
“If memory serves, NASA first used it during the Gemini missions.”
Bill was a font of information. I wondered if he ever considered being a contestant on Jeopardy!. If there were a Law & Order or CSI category, I might consider it myself.
“Gemini?” Krystal brightened, wiping away the last of her tears. “I’m a Gemini. My birthday’s June thirteenth.”
“The space missions I’m referring to took place in the mid-sixties,” Bill explained patiently.
“Oh,” Krystal said. “That was way before my time. I wasn’t even born yet.”
Bill and I exchanged smiles, then shook our heads. Ah, the innocence of youth.
“Well,” I said briskly, “no sense crying over spilled milk, as the saying goes. Grilled cheese sandwiches sound like the winner. Think I might have some tomato soup to go along with them. And,” I added with a smile, “we have lemon bars for dessert.”
“I’m s-sorry, Kate.” Krystal broke into a fresh bout of weeping. “I ate them.”
I stared at her in disbelief. “All of them?”
She bobbed her head, sniffling and snuffling. “Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop. I’ve been craving lemon ever since I found out I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 15
The sight of cheese sandwiches grilling in a pan sent Krystal flying out of the kitchen. I heard a muffled, “Sorry, morning sickness.” Then a bedroom door slammed.
Bill watched her sudden departure with a befuddled expression. “Morning sickness, this time of day?”
I nodded and turned toward the stove. “Good thing Krystal’s not working the evening shift.”
“From the expression on your face just now, I’d venture this is the first you’ve heard of the woman’s pregnancy.”
“It’s my own fault,” I said, giving the tomato soup a stir. “I should have guessed she was pregnant the second I spotted her with a box of soda crackers.”
“You’ve taken on more than you bargained for, haven’t you? How much do you know about her?”
I shrugged. “Not much. Her real name was Krystal Weindorfer. She changed it to Krystal Gold after she got out of high school. Said she’s originally from Iowa. That’s about it. Oh, yes, one more thing. She’s a sucker for scrawny orange cats with a yen for tuna.”
“And she craves anything lemon,” Bill added.
Both of us chuckled at the reminder of our almost-dessert. It felt good to laugh—nearly like the old, pre-Michigan days.
Over soup and sandwiches, we talked about this and that, impersonal things, keeping the conversation light until our plates and bowls were empty.
“What do you think will happen to Claudia?” I broached the subject we’d avoided thus far.
“It doesn’t look good,” Bill responded. “Any way you cut it, sh
e was the one holding the smoking gun.”
“Just the same, it makes me nervous to see the way Sheriff Wiggins is pursuing the case. Can’t he understand that it was just a dreadful accident?” There I go again using the A word. I found it ever so much more palatable than murder and manslaughter. Or worse yet—homicide.
“I’m sure he’ll consider that everyone backstage had access to the gun. It wouldn’t have been all that difficult to slip a bullet into the chamber after Lance announced he was going to read the part of the villain.”
We weren’t talking the A word now. We were talking cold-blooded and calculated. Once again my mind balked at the notion. “Who would want Lance dead?”
Other than Claudia, I wanted to add but didn’t. She didn’t really want him dead as much as wanted him to leave his mitts off her life’s savings. There was a big difference—at least to my way of thinking.
“Ledeaux didn’t seem the sort to make friends easily; quite the opposite. He had a God-given talent for rubbing folks the wrong way.”
Like the brunette I’d seen him with? Even Lance and the usually even-tempered Bill had had a minor altercation before rehearsal. How many others had Lance antagonized?
“What do you suppose the gunshot residue test and fingerprinting will prove?”
“Hard to say. Somehow I don’t think the sheriff will wind up with much more information than he has now.”
I rose from the table and refilled our coffee cups. “I only wish Claudia’d never heard of Internet dating. I don’t know what possessed her to run off and marry a virtual stranger.”
“Hope she had the good sense to have him sign a prenup.”
“Monica said the same thing over breakfast the other day.”
Bill stared into his cup, his expression glum. “My brother said prenups are the only way to go for people our age.”
“They may be practical, but they don’t seem very romantic. Marriage should be based on love and trust. If you can’t trust the person you’re about to marry, whom can you trust?”
Bill smiled that sweet, shy smile I loved to see. “I told my brother exactly the same thing.”
