'Til Dice Do Us Part

by Gail Oust

  “Now for my news.” Connie Sue wore a sly, cat-with-a-canary expression on her beauty queen face. “Y’all never guess what I found out when I ran into Marietta Perkins at the nail salon.”

  “C’mon, Connie Sue,” Diane wheedled. “The suspense is killing us.”

  “Oh, all right, y’all talked me into it,” Connie Sue acquiesced prettily. “The two of us got to talkin’ about the night Lance was killed. Marietta, as y’all know, might be short on personality, but she’s long on memory. She remembers a couple newcomers at the rec center that night askin’ about the facilities. One happened to be none other than Nadine Peterson. The second person she swears was Krystal Gold. Afterward she got real busy at the desk. Claims she doesn’t recall seein’ either one leave. Couldn’t swear if it was before or after the shootin’.”

  Wow! This wasn’t just big. It was huge. Gigantic. Marietta with her fabulous memory placed not one but two persons of interest at the scene of the crime.

  A banging on the door warned us our fortress was about to be stormed by a mob of irate customers. A chorus of angry voices added to the din.

  “Open up. I’ve been waiting almost two hours.”

  “Yeah?” another voice chimed. “I drove all the way from Augusta.”

  “Big deal! I came from Aiken.”

  “That’s a wrap,” I announced an hour later.

  Forever, My Darling was a sell-out. From all appearances, we had a surefire hit on our hands. There had been a few disgruntled customers, but for the most part, people seemed excited at the prospect of viewing a play where a man was actually killed. There was nothing like bloodshed to get the juices flowing. Nero probably observed that same human foible the first time he fed Christians to a bunch of hungry lions.

  “It’s been fun, y’all,” Connie Sue said, gathering her things. “Hate to rush off like this, but don’t want to be late for my massage.”

  Diane finished totaling cash and checks and put the proceeds in a locked box. “I’ll deposit this and give Janine the receipt. Good thing I’m working noon to closing at the library. If I hurry, I might even have time to grab a quick lunch.”

  That made me the last of the ticket sellers. I’d just slung the strap of my purse over my shoulder when Bill popped by. “I was hoping to catch you. Can I interest you in lunch? The Cove Café is running a special.”

  Suddenly I was ravenous. “Sounds great. Give me a sec to freshen up.”

  Bill grinned. “You look fresh enough to me, but take your time.”

  Nothing like a compliment from an attractive man to make a girl’s heart go pitter-patter, I thought as I dashed into the ladies’ room. I freshened my makeup and ran a brush through my hair, hoping Bill would find my lopsided curls charming and not unruly.

  When I returned, Bill was waiting right where I’d left him. “Since the course isn’t busy today, I borrowed a golf cart for the ride over.”

  My red and white chariot awaited. We easily could have walked the distance, but it was more fun to ride along one of the many cart paths that wind through Serenity Cove like spools of silver gray ribbon. I took a moment to admire the winter scenery, a far cry from winters in my native Ohio. The skies above were a clear, Carolina blue. February’s temperatures were cool enough for a light jacket, but too warm for a coat. Sunlight speared through the boughs of towering loblolly pines, and red birds flitted about. Pansies, violas, and ornamental cabbage-filled pots set here and there, adding bright splashes of color. Today was Disney in living, breathing Technicolor. All that was missing was the refrain from “Bibiddi-Bobbidi-Boo.” Sitting next to my very own prince charming in a jaunty red golf cart, I had to admit life was good. I could almost forget about Claudia’s plight, the early-morning phone call, and the fact that a killer roamed free—almost.

  At the Cove Café, we were greeted by a smiling Vera MacGillicudy and directed to a table. The special Bill referred to turned out to be a hot roast beef sandwich complete with mashed potatoes and coleslaw. A manly kind of lunch. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich instead with a side of fruit. After all, a girl has to watch her figure. At least she does if there’s a man around to watch the girl who’s watching her figure.

  “Glad we aired things out the other night.”

  “Me, too,” I agreed.

  Vera returned with our drink orders, unsweet tea with lemon for me, coffee for Bill. After giving me a conspiratorial wink, she left us to talk.

  I added sweetener to my tea. “How was poker night?”

  Bill grimaced. “Terrible. I got hosed.”

  “Hosed? You lost?”

  Bill looked sheepish. “A bundle. At least it seems that way for someone as conservative as I am. Turned out Gus Smith is quite a poker player. The guys finally got him to admit he used to spend vacations in Vegas. Let me tell you, the man sure knows his way around a deck of cards. Darned if any of us could tell when he was bluffing.”

  I would have liked to hear more, but just then my cell phone jingled. “Sorry,” I murmured, rummaging through my purse, hoping I’d find it before it stopped ringing.

  I recognized Polly’s name on the display as I flipped open the cover. “Hey, Polly, I just sat down to have lunch with Bill. Can this wait?”

  “No way, Jose,” she chirped. “What I got to say is a matter of life and death. Get your butt back to the rec center RN.”

  “Registered nurse?”

  “No, silly,” she giggled, sounding more like a teen than a septuagenarian. “RN stands for ‘right now.’ You’re not the only one into texting.”

  Chapter 33

  A matter of life and death?

  I bounced up, apologizing profusely and babbling incoherently about a rain check. Bill, bless his heart, looked both confused and disappointed by my sudden change of heart.

  I found Polly waiting for me outside the entrance of the rec center. The Disney theme, so it appeared, still prevailed, although judging from Polly’s garb, we had just departed Fantasyland and were heading for Animal Kingdom. She wore a tan zip-front hoodie lined in leopard fleece. A leopard print ball cap and matching ballet slippers completed her ensemble.

  “What took you so long?” she demanded. Not giving me a chance to respond, she grabbed my arm and hustled me inside. “Wait’ll you see what I found.”

  “This had better be good,” I grumbled, thinking of the nice lunch I might’ve been enjoying with my favorite guy.

  Polly cast a James Bond-worthy furtive glance over her shoulder. “I think I might’ve cracked the case.”

  I followed her down the hallway, past the meeting and exercise rooms, and into the darkened auditorium. She led me up the steps of the stage, then behind the curtains to the dressing rooms. There were two—one for men, another for women. I’d been told they’d been kept locked since the night of the shooting.

  Polly flicked a switch in the one labeled LADIES. Instantly, fluorescent light flooded the room. Once my eyes readjusted, I noticed a long counter running along a mirrored wall. On the opposite wall were hooks for clothes and plenty of electrical outlets. Other than a couple chairs and a bare floor, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

  “I turned down a chicken salad sandwich for this . . . ?”

  Polly pointed an arthritic finger at one of the chairs. “Look.”

  So I did. As far as I could see, it was an ordinary chair, the type usually found in beauty shops; nothing special.

  “Look harder,” Polly instructed.

  My forehead puckered into a frown. At this rate, I’d have to ask Connie Sue’s advice on wrinkle creams. Polly was starting to worry me. She’d always been sharp as a tack as the cliché goes, but now she was seeing things that weren’t there. “Polly, honey,” I said, gentle as gentle could be, “there’s nothing here.”

  Reaching out, she plucked a long dark hair from the chair’s black vinyl. Clearly relishing the role of Sherlock Holmes to my bumbling Watson, she held the strand up for my inspection. “Ta-da!” she exclaimed. “Exhibit
Number One.”

  All right, all right, I gave her points for good vision, but I was still worried. In my experience, people don’t normally get excited over finding a single strand of hair.

  Unless, that is, they’re crime scene investigators . . .

  Shades of Crime Scene Investigation (or just CSI to aficionados) . . . Had she latched on to something? Maybe a genuine clue?

  Polly’s wide grin gave me my answer. “I came here to take a look around, see what we’d need for opening night. Since the dressing rooms were still locked, I got the key from Nancy at the front desk. She said they’ve been locked tighter ’n a drum ever since Lance got killed. And there’s more.” She smirked.

  “Don’t stop now,” I warned in my most menacing tone.

  “Nancy said the chairs are brand-new. They were delivered in the late afternoon on the day of the shooting. She remembers ’cause she had to stay late since Marietta had a flat tire.”

  Almost reverently I took the strand from Polly’s hand. “You think someone with long dark hair might have been here in the dressing room the night Lance was killed?”

  Polly’s enthusiastic nod sent her permed curls bobbing. “I confess I’m disappointed in you, Kate. You’re a little slow on the uptake. Hate to think what you’re gonna be like when you hit my age.”

  “I may be slow, but eventually I make the connection,” I said, feeling a trifle defensive.

  “The only two people I know with hair like this are Nadine Peterson and Krystal Gold. Suppose one of them is our killer?”

  “It could turn out that the hair belongs to one of the delivery people,” I said halfheartedly. My time in Sheriff Wiggins’s esteemed company was turning me into a skeptic.

  “Thought about that, too, so I checked. Nancy remembered one man was black and buff; the other white, skinny, and bald. She claims the bald one reminded her of her son, and she started telling me all about male-patterned baldness.”

  Granted, a single strand of hair admittedly was flimsy evidence, but still worth investigating. Now, I’m no Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher, but to me it suggested that someone other than cast and crew might have been in the dressing room the night of the shooting—someone who kept their presence secret; someone with long dark hair.

  I pawed through my purse for a container of sorts. I wished I had Tools of the Trade with me, the handy-dandy box where I stored every sort of item I could think of to help in my investigations. I keep it stocked with Ziplocs in a variety of sizes, lots of latex gloves, a high-powered flashlight, tweezers, measuring tape—the usual crime tech’s paraphernalia. Not having my toolbox, however, I settled for discarding my purse-sized tissues and using their plastic covering as a makeshift evidence bag.

  “All right, Polly,” I said after the strand was safely stashed. “Here’s what we’ll do. We need a hair sample from each woman to compare with the one you just found.”

  “You’re on. I’ll flip you for it.” Polly dug into her handbag, also a leopard print, and produced a lint-covered penny. “Heads, it’s Nadine; tails, it’s Krystal. I’ll take heads.”

  She tossed the penny, and we stared as it settled on the floor. “Looks like I get Nadine. I’ve already got a plan cooked up. Wanna hear it?”

  “Whoa.” I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to testify about in a court of law.”

  Polly clucked her tongue. “Don’t be such a wuss, Kate. Where’s your sense of adventure? This could be fun.”

  When I returned home, the message light on the answering machine blinked feverishly. I hit PLAY and heard my daughter’s voice.

  Hi, Mom. It’s me, Jen. Wanted to see how you were doing. Hope you’re not bored.

  I ran through a mental checklist. A pregnant houseguest. A starving cat. A friend who shot her husband. Nope! Definitely not bored.

  Jen’s question was followed by a slight pause; then she continued. Are you still seeing that man, Bill What’s-his-name? Just wondering. Call me.

  For once I was happy I’d missed her call. I wasn’t in the mood to have her grill me about my friendship with Bill. I’m a grown woman, a mature adult. I certainly don’t need to justify a relationship with a man I find attractive. And I didn’t need her to caution me on the vices of gambling—namely bunco. I made a mental note to call her back later—maybe I’d pick a time when she’d be sitting down at the dinner table and couldn’t talk.

  “You’re a wuss, Kate McCall,” I chastised myself, re-prising Polly’s estimation of me, but I didn’t care. Being a wuss wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?

  First thing on my to-do list was get a sample of Krystal’s hair for comparison with the one Polly’d found in the dressing room. Luckily, I had a great magnifying glass in Tools of the Trade. My homemade crime scene investigation kit had come in handy solving Rosalie Brubaker’s murder last fall, but I hadn’t had any reason to take it off the shelf in investigating Lance’s death. His case required more of my investigative skills rather than my forensic expertise—until now, that is.

  Thanks to Bill’s buddy, Krystal’s car was in good running order once again. This meant she was free to come and go as she pleased and not depend on me for rides. While working at the Koffee Kup, she’d formed friendships with several coworkers. This afternoon, she’d gone with a couple of them to the mall in Augusta. Krystal wanted to look at maternity clothes; not that she needed them yet, but she wanted to check out the styles. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I practically rubbed my hands together in gleeful anticipation of sleuthing.

  Ask any of my former houseguests and they’ll attest to my being an ideal hostess. I’d never dream of interfering with a guest’s privacy. After all, every person deserves their own space, and I respect that. This in mind, I picked up a stack of freshly laundered towels and headed for Krystal’s room.

  And since I was already there, I decided I might as well look around.

  I dutifully replaced the soiled towels with the fresh ones. I’d have to be blind as a bat not to notice the tubes of lip gloss, pots of blush, and wands of mascara strewn across the surface of the vanity.

  Hitting PAUSE on sleuth mode, I strained my ears for any telltale sounds that might indicate Krystal’s return. The house was still. Thorough being my middle name, I tiptoed to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was no sign of Krystal’s car in the drive. If this were a movie, music would start to swell at this point, heightening the audience’s sense of suspense. I suppose I could have hummed a few bars, but I contented myself instead with tentatively sliding open the top drawer of the vanity.

  I sucked in a breath. I’d struck pay dirt with the first shovel load. The entire drawer fairly exploded in a bonanza of hairbrushes, banana clips, headbands, and ponytail holders. My eyes rested on one elastic ponytail holder in particular that happened to be entwined with several long brunet strands of hair. Reaching for it, I accidentally knocked several of the brightly colored bands to the floor. As I replaced them, I noticed something dark and shiny shoved to the back of the drawer. I stared, fascinated, then slowly pulled the drawer out as far as it would go.

  A dainty little handgun was nestled amongst the barrettes and headbands.

  Next to it lay a box of bullets. They weren’t just any bullets, mind you, but, according to the bold black print on the box, the 9mm sort—the same caliber that killed Lance. I could feel my heart loudly knock against my ribs. I removed the box from the drawer, although it almost seemed to come of its own volition. As carefully as a bomb technician defusing a device that went ticktock, I slid off the cover. . . .

  The box was half empty.

  Chapter 34

  Polly frowned at me from her spot on the sofa. “Since when are you an expert on guns?”

  “I’m not.”

  “Then what makes you so sure the bullets are nine millimeter?”

  I smiled, feeling smug. “Because that’s what it said on the label.”

  “Ohh . . . Good det
ective work.”

  Polly took another sip of her margarita. She was already on her second, and I’ll confess, I was a little concerned. If our suspect didn’t show up soon, we’d both be schnockered and in no shape to collect evidence. “Don’t forget our plan once Nadine gets here,” I warned. “Sure you’re up for this?”

  “Do cats have whiskers?”

  Not only did they have whiskers, but I had firsthand knowledge of their voracious appetite for tuna. I don’t know if all cats were programmed that way, but Tang certainly was. That confounded feline also had a predilection for the strange and unusual in the gift-giving department. Just yesterday I’d found a dead mouse on my doorstep when I went to bring in the paper. Then there was the matter of the dead canary, its poor little head all twisted, but I can’t lay the blame on Tang. He hasn’t mastered the nicety of gift boxes.

  Polly helped herself to some of the bar mix I’d set out. “Next thing you know, you’ll be joining the Rod and Gun Club.”

  “Stranger things have happened.” I helped myself to bar mix as well. In honor of Plan A, as I’d come to think of it, I’d brought out a gourmet concoction of mini pretzels, salted nuts, and garlic chips I’d been saving for bunco, along with a requisite case of Bud Light.

  “Sure Nadine’s coming?”

  I shifted on the sofa and plumped a pillow. “She didn’t say for sure. Said she’d think about it.”

  “You mean I’m risking my liver, and she might be a no-show?”

  “She’ll show,” I said without much conviction. My mind busily worked on Plan B, which also hinged on an ample supply of beer.

  I was nearly ready to concede defeat when I heard a knock at the side door. I jumped up to answer before my guest changed her mind. “Nadine . . . ,” I cried with the enthusiasm usually reserved for BFFs. I slipped my arm through hers and drew her inside. “So glad you could join us for happy hour. We were afraid you’d changed your mind.”

  “Ah, well, I got a little bored sitting around. Dr. Phil was a rerun.”