“Terrible thing about Mr. Ledeaux getting shot, isn’t it?” I said, tossing out a gambit.
Tammy Lynn stopped pecking at her keyboard. “Yes, ma’am. It surely is.”
“Did you plan on attending a performance of our play,
Forever, My Darling
? That nice young officer, Eric Olsen, had a part. He’s quite a good actor.”
At the mention of Eric’s name, Tammy Lynn’s cheeks turned rosy. “I, ah, yes. I was fixin’ to buy a ticket. That is, I
planned
to buy a ticket until . . .”
Hmm. Interesting. Seeing her blush, I suspected the young woman had more than a casual interest in the handsome policeman. I recalled her once telling me that Eric was a few years older than she and a friend of her brother’s. I decided to file the information away. Of late, I’d noticed Eric and Megan seemed to be hitting it off, as the saying goes. I’d noticed them laughing and talking together as they rehearsed their lines. I squelched the urge to play matchmaker. Jim always got so upset with me when I attempted to pair people up. Granted, the results had been just shy of disastrous, but as my daddy used to say, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.
Just then the intercom buzzed.
Tammy Lynn gave me an encouraging smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I picked up the lemon bars, hoping I wouldn’t be trading them for jail bars, and slowly proceeded down the hallway.
Dead man walking
was the expression that came to mind.
Tammy Lynn had directed me to the second room on the left. The instant I opened the door I recognized it for what it was—an interrogation room; sterile, austere, institutional. I’d seen the same gray metal table and uncomfortable-looking chairs countless times on TV. In fact, week after week, I watched hardened criminals break down and bawl like babies in such a room before being carted off in handcuffs. Fade out. Roll credits.
I straightened my shoulders and squared my jaw. I’d loudly proclaim my innocence for all it was worth. If that failed, I had Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s number programmed into my cell.
“Afternoon, Miz McCall.”
I turned at the sound of the sheriff’s voice behind me. His velvety baritone seemed better suited for a Christmas cantata at the Baptist church than an interrogation room. “Afternoon, Sheriff,” I replied, recovering a degree of equanimity. I pasted on a valiant smile. It wouldn’t work on my behalf to let nervousness show. I’d be a mouse; he’d be the hungry tomcat.
I’d be dinner.
“Brought you a little something.” I placed the lemon bars in the center of the battered table. He eyed them with the same suspicion reserved for packages that went ticktock.
“What’re those?”
Really! The man needed to learn that all gifts weren’t bombs or bribes. “Lemon bars,” I said, plunking myself down in one of the chairs and folding my hands primly. “I recall you don’t have a sweet tooth, but lemon bars are more tart than sweet, don’t you agree?”
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought.”
The remaining chair scraped the worn linoleum as he pulled it out, then squeaked in protest as he lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. He offered a smile as phony as the one I’d given him. I recognized the ploy instantly. The detectives on
Law & Order
use this technique all the time. It’s the part where the investigating officer tries to establish rapport with the hapless interviewee; I, however, wasn’t buying into Sumter Wiggins’s act as Mr. Nice Guy.
“I trust Tammy Lynn explained this is just a formality. I’m taking statements from everyone who was in the auditorium last night.”
I nodded. I couldn’t get into trouble if I didn’t open my mouth, could I?
He took out his little black book and flipped it open. I wondered if he slept with it. “Just relate to the best of your ability everythin’ that happened yesterday evenin’ from the time you entered the buildin’ until the fatal shootin’ of Mr. Ledeaux.”
“All right,” I said. “I arrived at the rec center. We rehearsed act three, scene one, and then Lance was shot.”
His one eyebrow shot up. I’ve always admired his ability to do that. The overall effect can be quite formidable—if one had a guilty conscience. “That it?” he asked.
“That’s it. Are we finished?” I half rose to leave. Leave?
Escape
would have been a more accurate description.
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like a little more detail.”
I sank back down.
Sank
also described my spirits. I was terrified I’d say the wrong thing and incriminate Claudia. It was bad enough to accidentally kill your husband without everyone thinking you’d done it on purpose. “There’s really not much more to add.”
Crossing his arms over a chest roughly the size of a football field, the sheriff rocked back in his chair. The nuts and bolts fastening it together shrieked in protest. I expected the chair to collapse any second. “My guess, Miz McCall, is you weren’t raised Baptist.”
“No,” I said, startled by the question.
“Didn’t think so. My guess would be Catholic, maybe Lutheran. Had myself a talk once with the priest over at Our Lady Queen of Angels. Catholics, I’m told, have somethin’ called sins of omission.”
Uh-oh. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. I squirmed. I actually squirmed. Years of catechism classes and parochial school flashed before my eyes. Hell-fire and damnation loomed like a gaping maw.
“I see I struck a nerve.” He had the audacity to smile—a blinding flash of perfect white teeth—at my discomfort. “To refresh your memory, a sin of omission is failure to do somethin’ one can and ought to do. In this instance, Miz McCall, instinct tells me you’re leavin’ out information. Makes me wonder why.”
“I was under the impression statements were supposed to be concise,” I muttered. “I simply gave you the condensed version. No sense wasting time and paper.”
“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 had 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.