by Gail Oust
“Shoot,” I said, as in Take that! And that and that! I flinched at my choice of words. Good thing I wasn’t holding a loaded Smith & Wesson.
“Something happened while I was away. Something I’m not proud of.”
Here it comes, Kate, brace yourself, there’s another woman. Probably a floozy who tempts men with home-cooked meals. I held my breath, prepared for the worst.
“I told my brother and my niece all about you.”
I waited for the other shoe to thud on the floor. When nothing happened, I started to breathe again. “I don’t understand. How was that a bad thing?”
He swallowed, looking miserable in the reflected glow of a coach light at the edge of the drive. Miserable but brave—a combination I found endearing. “My brother and niece are convinced you’re a ‘designing woman’ out to get my life savings. Judy, my niece, called you a Jezebel.”
Me . . . a designing woman? Jezebel? I’d never thought of myself in those terms. Now that I had, I have to admit the notion rather intrigued me. They made me sound like some sort of Medicare Mata Hari.
“The two of them badgered me until I promised to take things slow. They kept saying, ‘No fool like an old fool.’”
Déjà vu all over again, as the philosopher Yogi Berra once said. I distinctly remembered my daughter, Jennifer, making the exact same comment.
“But that’s not the half of it,” Bill confessed dejectedly. “My niece ran a background check on you on the Internet.”
The mention of a background check started a bubble of laughter down deep inside. A bubble that swelled and swelled until it couldn’t be contained. Try as I might, it was bigger than both of us. It burst out, not as a coy giggle or a hearty chuckle, but as a full-bodied laugh. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. All the while I was aware of Bill watching me with concern. The poor man was obviously worried I’d lost my marbles. Finally regaining a modicum of control, I dug through my purse for a crumpled Kleenex.
“Here.” Smiling a little in spite of himself, Bill handed me a neatly folded white handkerchief.
“Thanks,” I managed between bouts of giggles.
“Here all this time, I was afraid you were going to be mad—or disappointed. If I’da known it would make you laugh so hard, I would’ve told you weeks ago.”
He listened with bemusement as I told him about Jennifer’s unwarranted concern about my pension. How she referred to him as a gigolo.
“Who, me?” he exclaimed, his pretty blue eyes rounding in disbelief. “A gigolo?”
I nodded, then went on to admit that my son, Steven, had run a background check on him similar to the one his niece had run on me.
Bill’s lips twitched in a smile. “Well, I’m relieved your family knows I’m not on the terrorist watch.”
“Or a pervert,” I added solemnly. “And I’m happy your brother and niece are aware I don’t have a criminal record or liens against my property.”
“No lawsuits . . .”
“No outstanding debts other than a mortgage.”
Another giggle escaped, then we both laughed ourselves silly.
Bill sobered first, then reached for my hand. “Forgive me, Kate?”
At this point I’d have forgiven him anything. I hadn’t felt this good in an age. “Whatever for?”
“Maybe the kids were right after all when they said there’s no fool like an old fool.” Raising my hand to his lips, he brushed a kiss across the knuckles, causing my heart to go into a skid. “I never should have listened to my brother.”
“Why did you?” I asked when I’d recovered enough to speak.
He gave me that bashful smile I’d always found so appealing. “I’ve never been real smooth where the ladies are concerned. My brother, Bob, on the other hand, always had a way with women. I never should have let him influence me, but little by little he eroded my self-confidence. When I came home and saw how things had turned out for Claudia and Lance, two people who had rushed into things, I decided it might be best to heed Bob’s advice. To take things slow. Get to know each other better.”
“Do you still feel that way?” I asked quietly, glad it was dark enough so that Bill couldn’t read my expression, couldn’t see how much his answer mattered.
“I had one of those come-to-Jesus moments people talk about and realized I’d be an even bigger fool if I let you get away.”
He scooted closer—no easy feat with a center console—and sealed the deal with a kiss that made my head spin.
Caught in the bright beam of headlights, we broke apart abruptly like teenagers caught necking on Lover’s Lane.
Bill swore softly under his breath as he pulled away. “Almost forgot about poker night. That must be Gus. He’s usually first to arrive. Are things okay between us?”
“More than okay.” I went to switch on the ignition and realized I had never turned it off. There was more than just one motor running. “Well, if you don’t mind dating a Jezebel, I have no trouble seeing a gigolo. I’m fixing a pot roast Sunday. Care to come for dinner?”
He climbed out of the car and grinned back at me. “See you Sunday.”
I smiled all the way home.
Chapter 30
The following Monday, rehearsal started promptly, courtesy of the drill sergeant, formerly known as Janine.
“All right, everyone,” Janine called out. “Bring some energy! Bring some action!”
Who’d ever have thought mild-mannered, laid-back Janine would turn into a tyrant. The artistic director title had gone to her head faster than Asti Spumante on New Year’s Eve.
“How many more times do we have to rehearse this stupid scene?” Bernie whined.
“’Til I’m satisfied,” Janine snapped.
Usually, just out of general principle, I disagree with Bernie, but in this case I heartily concurred. We’d been rehearsing since six p.m., and even Krystal looked ready to fade. I said it before and I’ll say it again. She’s a real trouper. Not once had she used her pregnancy as an excuse to quit early, although I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had. I wondered how people would react if I told them I was pregnant and wanted to call it a night. I’m not, of course, but it would be fun to see their reactions. I bet rumors would travel through Serenity Cove Estates faster than a California wildfire.
“One more time,” Janine the slave driver instructed. “Stay in the world of the play.”
I hadn’t the foggiest idea what that meant, but I gave it my best shot. I was grateful the part of Myrna, the housekeeper, didn’t require a lot of acting ability. Having been a housewife the better part of my life seemed adequate training for the role. I could shake a feather duster and run a vacuum with the best of them.
I watched from the wings as Eric and Megan went through their scene. Megan, too, seemed typecast as an ingénue. I ask you, just how hard can it be for a perky blue-eyed blonde to play a perky blue-eyed blonde? When I thought about it, Eric had an easy role as well. He transitioned from clever rookie cop in real life to clever detective in Lance’s playwriting masterpiece. Megan, I noticed, seemed to have her lines down pat, but Eric needed a lot of help from Pam, who was acting as prompter.
“Sorry,” he apologized for the nth time, running his hand over his sandy blond military-style haircut. “I’ve been pulling extra shifts at the department in order to get time off for the rehearsals and performance.”
“Take five, everyone,” Janine said brusquely. “Afterward, we’ll run through it again top to bottom.”
Janine’s announcement met a chorus of groans. “In case you’ve forgotten, tickets go on sale tomorrow. Time’s running out.”
Having said this, she beckoned Mort Thorndike, who had replaced Gus Smith for lighting and sound, aside to go over a list of suggestions. Eric and Megan huddled together in a far corner, but from their flirty smiles and giggles, I didn’t think they were running lines. I made a mental note to ask Pam how she felt about her baby girl dating a policeman. The rest of the cast and crew dispersed in
different directions, some heading toward the coffeemaker, others to the restroom. I didn’t see any sign of Bill, so I wandered off in hopes of finding him. I must admit, Sunday’s pot roast dinner had been a resounding success. I’m happy to report Jezebel and Gigolo have gotten their relationship/friendship back on track.
“BRB,” I told Pam as I sailed out of the auditorium in hot pursuit of a certain blue-eyed devil. Pam looked puzzled, but gave me an absent wave as she made her way to her daughter’s side. BRB stands for “Be right back” in texting jargon. I probably should ease up a bit, but can’t seem to resist using it now and then. Truth is, I find it a lot more fun than either Morse code or Gregg shorthand.
I hugged my cardigan tighter around me. Marietta Perkins liked to keep the rec center’s thermostat set on shiver. Some speculated she got a kickback from the utility company. Many complained, but to no avail. When it came to dictators, she was right up there with Adolf Hitler and Idi Amin. Well, that might be a slight exaggeration, but you get my drift.
As I strolled down the hall, I peeked into the exercise rooms. Mats were rolled up and shoved against the wall in readiness for tomorrow’s aerobics classes. Yoga, stretch and tone, and Tai Chi were usually conducted in the smaller of the two rooms. Having to drive Krystal to the diner early every day had put a significant crimp in my weekly routine. I was glad the Honda was once again up and running. I’d sorely missed attending Tai Chi on a semiregular basis. I missed the glare of Marian, our instructor, when I zigged instead of zagged. I wasn’t sure I still remembered how to Repulse the Monkey. My Chi was dammed up and refused to flow. With all the worry over Claudia, I’d lost my inner calm. Where, oh where, did my dantien go? Where oh where did it wander?
A man toting a duffel came out of the workout room, mumbled good night to Marietta at the front desk, and shoved through the exit, letting in a blast of cold air.
Brrr! Shivering, I stuck my hands into the pockets of my cardigan for warmth and felt something hard and smooth. I reached in and pulled out an earring—a large gold hoop. For a moment I stared at it, puzzled. Then it dawned on me. I’d picked it up from the floor of the restroom the night of the shooting, slipped it into my pocket, and promptly forgotten about it. Until now, that is.
I examined the hoop more carefully. On closer inspection, it appeared to be real gold, probably valuable. No doubt someone had been frantically searching for a missing earring, and the whole time it had been snug in my sweater pocket. There were still two minutes left of my five-minute break—time enough to turn this into a game of lost and found.
“Yes . . . ?” An unsmiling Marietta peered at me through retro cat’s-eye glasses. Someone needed to tell her they made her look like a witch. But that person wasn’t going to be me. My bravery had its limits.
I extended my hand, palm out. “I found this earring a couple weeks ago in the ladies’ room.”
“And you’re just now turning it in?” Her pursed lips and dark scowl reminded me of Mother Superior’s expression after catching my best friend and me smoking behind the gym in tenth grade.
“Ah, sorry, I forgot. It was the night of the shooting,” I added in a feeble attempt to expiate my guilt.
“Hmph,” she muttered. “Poor excuse.”
I almost begged her not to call my mother. Parochial schools are fertile breeding grounds for guilty consciences. No offense is too big or too small to make you grovel and beg forgiveness.
She plucked the earring from my upturned palm, examined it, then nodded with satisfaction. “The owner of this earring had me turn the rec center upside down looking for it”—she gave me the evil eye—“and all the time it was in your pocket.”
“Ah, I have to get back to rehearsal. Please tell her how sorry I am.”
“Mrs. Peterson will no doubt be pleased to have her earring returned,” Marietta said, reaching for the phone. “As a matter of fact, I think I’ll call her right now.”
“Peterson? Nadine Peterson . . . ?”
“That’s right. Do you know her?”
Before Marietta could stop me, I retrieved the earring. “Nadine lives just across the street from me. I’ll return it in person.”
“Just the same, I’ll call to let her know you have her earring.”
Sheesh! As if I’d be tempted to keep it. What did the woman think I’d do with a solitary gold hoop? I suppose one could always have another hole pierced in one’s ear. Piercings—along with tattoos—seemed to be all the rage these days.
I started to walk away but turned back. “I don’t suppose you recall when Mrs. Peterson lost her earring?”
“Of course I do,” she sniffed, obviously offended by the question. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory. I’m not subject to those ‘senior moments’ so many of you people complain about.”
She might as well have come right out and called me the despised E word—elderly. “Well . . . ?” I prompted, doing my best to ignore the insult. “When did Nadine lose her precious earring?”
“She lost it the same night Mrs. Connors—I mean Mrs. Ledeaux—shot Mr. Ledeaux.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave me a look that would have wilted fresh flowers. “I’m positive. Mrs. Peterson was new here. She came in and demanded a guided tour of the facilities.”
“Then you were with her the entire time?”
“People think I have nothing better to do than sit at the desk all night and twiddle my thumbs. That’s simply not the case. Mrs. Peterson assumed I was a one-woman Welcome Wagon. Well, I’m not. I have phones to answer, people to check in and out, and next month’s schedule of activities to update. I don’t get paid enough to be a tour guide and babysitter.”
“So you didn’t stay with her?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Marietta snapped. Once again I was reminded of Mother Superior. Had she left the convent and been reincarnated as an irritable assistant manager? “I told her to feel free to look around,” she continued. “I’d be happy to answer any questions she might have.”
“Did she have any questions?”
“No.” The frown deepened. “Matter of fact, in all the commotion, I didn’t see her leave. She came back the following afternoon, however, and made a big fuss over losing that damn earring. Claimed it was a gift from her daughter.”
At that moment, a woman I recognized by face if not by name—blame it on a senior moment—approached the desk with a question for Marietta about the mixed bowling league. Pocketing the gold hoop, I decided to take my leave.
My brain was running at warp speed.
According to Marietta Perkins, Nadine had been present the night Lance was shot. Added to that, I was reasonably certain Nadine was the woman I’d seen arguing with Lance behind the Piggly Wiggly. And what about the envelope from Tennessee’s Premier Detective Agency, Down with Deadbeats? Was Lance Ledeaux Nadine’s personal deadbeat?
Did this make Nadine Peterson a person of interest? Or did it simply boil down to a case of circumstantial coincidence?
I was mulling this over when Janine’s strident voice interrupted my pondering. “Kate McCall! You’ve kept all of us waiting. Where on earth have you been?”
Mother Superior versus Artistic Director? It was a tough call.
Bill shot me a sympathetic look while Gus Smith scuffed a sneaker along the floorboards and seemed to share my embarrassment. The rest of the cast and crew were clearly annoyed by my tardiness.
Not that I was keeping score, but I seemed to be doing an awful lot of apologizing in a relatively short period of time. “Sorry,” I mumbled.
“All right, everyone, get into the space.”
We shuffled about until we found our marks on a stage littered with props on a half-finished set.
“Make it look natural,” Janine directed. “Don’t do the furniture dance.”
Janine was at it again, talking in play-speak only she could understand. I picked up the feather duster Myrna needed in act one. I could hardly wait for rehearsal to
be over and detective work to begin.
Chapter 31
I booked out of rehearsal the instant it was over. Janine would probably have a conniption that I didn’t stick around for her customary cast meeting, but she’d just have to deal with it.
As soon as I got home, I tossed my coat over the back of a chair and headed straight for the computer. I drummed my fingers on the desktop as I waited for it to boot up. I was on to something. I could feel it clear to my toes—a kind of tingly sensation. Some might associate this sort of symptom with the onset of neuropathy, but not I. I was getting closer to the truth. What would I do if . . . when . . . I found something? Run to the sheriff? Unless I had something solid to go on, he’d laugh me out the door. He already had Claudia tried and convicted for Lance’s murder, all because, even though there was no physical evidence she’d substituted a live round for a blank, six people witnessed her pulling the trigger. That, of course, and a couple other trivial details—details such as her rat-fink husband’s stealing her blind.
Things like the Holy Trinity of law enforcement: motive, means, and opportunity.
As soon as the computer finished its warm-up exercises, I clicked Internet Explorer and did a Google search for detective agencies. In less than half a second, I was confronted with more than a million possibilities—truly mind-boggling. Viva la tecnología! We’ve come a long way, baby, since the days the puppet show Kukla, Fran and Ollie on TV was a big deal each evening. Focus, Kate, focus, I reminded myself. You can trip down memory lane later, but right now you’re on a mission.
I narrowed my search to Tennessee, and voilà, found what I was looking for. “My, my,” I murmured as I clicked on their Web site. I’d hit the mother lode. Down with Deadbeats, it seemed, was an agency specializing in finding deadbeats of all creeds, shapes, and colors. Men who reneged on child support. Husbands who skipped out on alimony. Employers who defaulted on workmen’s comp. Exes who took off, never to be seen again after racking up huge credit card debt. I was leaning back in my chair, debating my options, when I heard the front door slam shut.
