“I suppose you’re right.” Who would have guessed Krystal would turn out to be a genuine actress in the guise of a pregnant waitress and resident cat lover? “I know my friend Monica is determined to read for the part.”
“Monica? You mean Mrs. Pulaski?”
“The one and only.” One Monica is quite enough, thank you very much.
“Then it’s all set. Can I hitch a ride with you tomorrow night?”
“Sure.” I was beginning to feel like a soccer mom ferrying Krystal back and forth. Maybe I should bribe Bill’s buddy with a batch of cookies to work faster on her Honda. It was worth a try.
“Guess I’ll go to my room and read over the script one more time.” She started to leave but turned back. “I forgot to mention I turned off the ringer on the phone. And, while you’re at it, you might want to check your answering machine. I think I heard someone leave a message.”
“Right, thanks.”
Groceries stored and kitchen tidy, I entered the room I tentatively refer to as the library. Its name had gone through a series of changes during the time I lived there—den, study, and finally, library. The word seems a trifle ostentatious for a room boasting a humble magazine rack. Once the play is over, I’m going to ask Bill to build some bookshelves. And while he’s at it, I’ll apply my feminine wiles. Poor guy will never know what hit him.
The little red light on the answering machine flashed impatiently. Pressing the button, I heard not the voice of an aspiring actor, but that of Tammy Lynn Snow.
Miz McCall
, drawled the familiar voice,
I’ve been trying to track you down all afternoon. Sheriff wants you in his office first thing tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock sharp, he said
. The message clicked off.
I glanced at the clock. It was too late to call now to learn the reason for the summons; Tammy Lynn had probably left for the day. If nervous tension caused weight loss, I’d be skinny as a rail come morning.
I decided to bide my time at the Koffee Kup after giving Krystal a ride to work the following morning. There was no sense going home only to turn around for my meeting with the sheriff. I instructed her to keep my tank—I mean cup—topped off with high octane. None of that decaf for me. I needed every spare molecule of caffeine I could swallow.
“And, Krystal, bring a slice of lemon meringue pie to go along with the coffee.”
She looked at me oddly. “Isn’t it a little early in the day for pie?”
“Just bring it.” So much for being skinny as a rail. Guess nervous tension can work in one of two ways. At this rate, I’d be round as a Teletubby before the appointed hour. I didn’t care if all the other early birds were chowing down on eggs and grits; I needed fortification. And for me fortification came in the form of lemon pie heaped mile high with fluffy white meringue.
I glanced up as the door of the diner swung open and Bill sauntered through. My heart went into its familiar tap dance at the sight of him. Flap-brush-step. Flap-brush-step. My, oh, my. Our eyes met. He smiled; my heart cheered. I may be getting a little old for such a robust cardiovascular workout, but I’ll die happy.
He wove through the tables, working his way toward my booth. I racked my brain for witty repartee—or even mediocre repartee. “Hey, Bill,” I said, and winced inwardly at the inane attempt.
“Hey, yourself.”
Not sure whether I mentioned this, but here in the South,
hey
replaces its northern counterpart,
hi
. It’s one of the few Southernisms I’ve adopted. I’ve been dying to sprinkle
y’all
into conversations with my children, but I haven’t found a way to do it without sounding hokey.
Y’all
coming from a Yankee loses something in the translation.
“Mind if I join you?” Bill asked.
Mind? Was he kidding? “No, of course not,” I said, trying to sound offhand. Bill slid into the booth opposite me. Krystal returned, coffeepot in one hand, pie in the other. “Hey, Mr. Lewis. What can I get you?” she said, beaming a bright smile at him.
Bill beamed right back. “I’ll have what Kate’s having.”
“Pie versus grits?” I said when Krystal left after filling Bill’s cup. “We’re starting a trend.”
“No contest.” He sipped his coffee. “I once let a waitress bully me into trying grits. Damned if I didn’t catch her watching to see if I ate them or not. Might as well have been eating wallpaper paste far as I was concerned.”
“Many of the finer restaurants feature shrimp ’n grits on their menus. It’s considered a delicacy.”
“I’ve noticed. Maybe someday I’ll give it a try—or not.”
The subject of grits exhausted, we lapsed into companionable silence.
“What brings you into town this early? Aren’t you usually at Tai Chi about now?” Bill asked.
Tai Chi would certainly have been preferable to being skewered by Sheriff Wiggins. He’d put me through the paces faster than Marian, our Tai Chi instructor. A tiny part of me warmed at the knowledge Bill was aware of my habits. Another part, not quite so tiny, was reluctant to tell him about my summons to the sheriff’s office. I didn’t have the foggiest notion why the man wanted to see me, but it couldn’t be good.
“Ah, I, er, have an appointment this morning,” I managed to stammer. “What about you?”
“Me, too, have a meeting, that is.”
Before I could decide to pursue or abandon the topic of meetings, Krystal returned with Bill’s pie. She presented the perfectly centered slice of lemon meringue as regally as a cupcake to the queen. She flashed another bright smile at him, and, I swear, batted her eyelashes. “Here you go. Anything else I can get you?”
The green-eyed monster opened its mouth and took a bite. Was Bill frequenting the diner for more than pastries? Maybe to admire Krystal’s Barbie-doll bosom? Jealousy? At my age? I quickly squashed the thought as unworthy.
“No, thanks, Krystal,” he said.
She went off, but not before I noticed the wink she gave him. Sheesh! How was a card-carrying member of AARP supposed to compete with a woman half her age? And a pregnant one to boot.
Oblivious of any undercurrents, Bill dug into his pie. “So, tonight’s the big night.”
I stared at him blankly before it dawned on me. “Right,” I said, relieved to have my mind functioning again. “The audition.”
“Suppose we’ll have a big turnout?”
I shoved my empty plate aside. “If my phone’s ringing off the hook is any indication, we will. News about Lance has drawn a lot of attention. Gotten folks curious.”
“I don’t know the first thing about judging auditions. How do you propose we go about this?”
“I thought we’d take our cue from
American Idol
. You can be Simon.”
Bill looked at me over his coffee cup. “Is he the good-looking, popular one?”
“That’s the one. You have until seven p.m. to brush up on a British accent. Since I hate giving anyone bad news, I’m appointing myself Paula. I’ll just tell everyone how great they look.” I held up my hand to ward off any objections. “I know, I know. She’s no longer on the show, but she was always my favorite.”
“What about Janine? Who’s she supposed to be?”
I shrugged nonchalantly. “She’s going to be Randy Jackson.”
Bill polished off the last of his pie. “Isn’t Randy a man?” “Yeah.” I drained the last of my coffee. “And to complicate matters further, he’s black. Janine’s going to have to ad-lib.”
I glanced at my watch. “Gotta run.”
“Me, too.” Bill dabbed his mouth with a napkin, then reached for his wallet, extracted some cash, and tossed it on the table. And I thought I was a generous tipper. “Guess I’ll see you tonight.”
“Guess so,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door. Unless, that is, the sheriff threw me in the slammer for withholding evidence, aiding and abetting, or the old standby, obstruction of justice.
Chapter 21
It was silly to drive to the sheriff’s office when I could have just as easily walked. Since I skipped Tai Chi, I could’ve used the exercise. I was afraid, however, that if I left my car parked near the diner, I might’ve been tempted to return for more fortification in the form of lemon meringue pie.
I happened to look into my rearview mirror and watch as Bill pulled into the parking space behind me. As I opened the car door, I spotted Monica and Rita approaching from the opposite direction. Rita waved when she saw me. Monica merely grimaced. It appeared we were all headed for the same destination. Did that mean we were all going to be charged with a laundry list of felonies? Could we choose our cell mates?
Bill, always the gentleman, held the door open as we filed in.
Bernie Mason looked up from a dog-eared issue of
Field & Stream
as we entered. “What’re you guys doin’ here?”
Gus Smith was present, too, but he merely grunted.
Tammy Lynn, drab as usual, dressed head to toe in beige, rose from her desk and did a head count. “Sheriff asked me to show y’all down the hall to the interview room.”
Nervous looks bounced back and forth between us like banked shots off a pool table.
Rita assumed the no-nonsense expression that probably worked well in her former position as branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. “I, for one, would like to know what this is all about,” she demanded.
To her credit, Tammy Lynn didn’t falter. She was no shrinking violet about to default on a loan. “Ma’am, the sheriff will explain everythin’. Kindly be patient.”
“Patient?” Monica huffed. “I want to know why we’re being treated like a bunch of criminals when we haven’t done anything wrong.”
“The sheriff will explain,” Tammy Lynn repeated, holding open the door of the interview room.
I was surprised to step inside and find Claudia along with BJ Davenport seated side by side at the battered metal conference table. It was the Claudia of old—almost. Gone was the fire-engine red hair and back was the softer, strawberry blond shade I’d always admired. But gone still were her sparkle and zest.
“Hey, Claudia,” I said by way of greeting, taking the chair next to her.
She mustered a smile. “Hey, yourself.”
We were freshmen assembled for the class I’d come to think of as Inquisition 101. I peered into the corners for telltale torture devices. No thumbscrews in plain sight. No stakes piled high with kindling. But I didn’t trust wily Sheriff Wiggins. As for stakes and kindling, the ever-efficient Miss Tammy Lynn Snow probably kept a supply handy in the storeroom.
The door banged open. At least, it sounded like a bang because it had that kind of effect. We straightened in our seats, our spines erect, our nervous systems on full alert. The sheriff’s entrance seemed to elicit that kind of reaction, even for the pure of heart. This trick was even more impressive than the one-eyebrow lift thingy he’d perfected.
“Mornin’, y’all,” said the Grand Inquisitor himself.
We seemed to be suffering from an epidemic of lockjaw. Even BJ held his tongue.
The sheriff dragged out the chair left vacant at the head of the table and lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. “Suppose y’all are wonderin’ why I called y’all here. . . .”
My case of lockjaw subsided. Unable to stand the strained silence another second, I piped up, “Not counting you, Sheriff, we have eight people here. Just the right number for two tables of bunco. Anyone bring dice?”
I had hoped to inject a little humor, break the ice so to speak, but not even a coast guard cutter could have broken through tension this thick.
The sheriff shot me a look. If his eyes had been lasers, I’d have been ash. “Let’s start over again—before the interruption,” he drawled. “S’pose y’all are wantin’ to know why I asked y’all here this mornin’.” he repeated for the benefit of the deaf, feebleminded, or terminally irreverent amongst us.
We nodded in agreement. Our movements were so coordinated, I wondered if the others would be game to form a synchronized swim team. Senior Olympics, here we come. Then the image of Bernie Mason in a swimsuit popped into mind, and I scrapped the notion.
“I won’t waste your time or mine any longer.” Sheriff Wiggins slapped a manila envelope on the table and slowly withdrew a report. “Got the results back from the lab in Columbia. Y’all remember bein’ tested for GSR and fingerprinted?”
BJ adjusted his bow tie, this time a polka-dot affair. “I assume since you called all of us here, the evidence incriminates more than just my client.”
“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” Bernie surged to his feet, his face an alarming shade of fuchsia. “I object to being lumped in the same category as the one who pulled the trigger and killed her husband—”
“Deader ’n a doornail,” I muttered, louder than I intended.
Bernie gave me a fish-eyed stare. “I was about to say,” he said, sounding miffed, “deader ’n a skunk.”
“Well, excuse me all to pieces.”
Take that, Bernie Mason
.
If Sumter Wiggins had had a gavel, he would have banged it. The glare he sent us served just as well. In another life, he’d have made a good nun. He tapped a forefinger the size of kielbasa on the pages in front of him. “This came in yesterday. I found it interestin’, to say the least, that so many of you had managed to test positive. Some of you in both categories.”
Next to me, Bill shifted in his seat. Monica studied her manicure while the others all looked as if they longed to be elsewhere—except for BJ. I noticed he had brought out a hand-tooled leather notebook and was busily taking notes on a yellow legal pad.
“Miz Ledeaux,” the sheriff continued, “I can understand how you might test positive for both since it’s a well-established fact that you fired the shot that killed the deceased—Mr. Lance Ledeaux.”
BJ half rose. “I object.”
“Give it a rest, Davenport.” The sheriff motioned him down. “Save your theatrics for the courtroom. I’d like to review”—he picked up the report and began to read—“why fingerprints also belong to Bill Lewis, Bernie Mason, Gus Smith, Monica Pulaski, and Rita Larsen? I’m double-checking to make sure I have my facts straight.”