I dug deep into my bag of small talk. “Nice weather we’re having. On the cool side, but nice. Daffodils will be blooming before long.”
She flicked ash on the doorstep. “I’m not into flowers.”
I dug deeper. “How do you like it here so far?”
“Fine.”
“Are you meeting people?”
“Some.”
This would never do. I was glad I wasn’t being graded on technique. Maybe I should come right out and ask if she knew Lance Ledeaux—and why they argued. Nadine, I was fairly certain,
was
the woman I saw with Lance behind the Pig—same car, same hair. Too bad I hadn’t gotten a better look at the face.
I made one last attempt to forge some sort of bond. I smiled with the genuine warmth of a toaster oven. “Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime.”
“Give me a call.” She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and closed the door, leaving me standing on the front step.
I could take a hint. The interview was over.
I heard the phone ring even before I pushed open the door. I rushed to answer it before the machine picked up. “Hello,” I said, sounding a bit breathless after my mad dash.
“Miz McCall . . . ?”
Dang! Should have let the machine get it. Instantly I realized my mistake upon recognizing the Voice of Doom, also known as Tammy Lynn Snow. Was it too late to disguise my voice? Adopt a Spanish accent?
Hola, señora?
Grow up, Kate, I chided myself. Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it.
“Hey, Tammy Lynn. How’re things?”
“Sheriff Wiggins wants to see you here in his office,” the girl said without preamble.
I groaned. I simply couldn’t help it. Why wasn’t my caller telling me I’d won the South Carolina lottery? Or requesting a liver transplant?
“I, ah, I’m kind of busy right now.” Liar, liar! I touched my nose to see if it had grown any. Pinocchio, Pinocchio, wherefore art thou Pinocchio?
“Sheriff said he’d be happy to send Deputy Preston if you needed a lift.”
Send a deputy? Well, that kicked my heart into overdrive. There must be some pretty serious stuff on the agenda. I opted for one more whopper. I crossed my fingers and hoped I’d be able to recognize myself next time I looked in the mirror. “Ah, I have a previous engagement.”
“He was very specific when he told me not to take any excuses. Can you be here by three o’clock?”
“Fine,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. There was no need to take out my frustration on Tammy Lynn. “Sorry, Tammy Lynn. Tell the sheriff I’ll be there.”
After I hung up, I stood for a moment, a hand over my heart to still its racing. Question after question popped into my head. Why did the sheriff want to see me? Was this another group meeting? Or was I going to fly solo? And if I was convicted of obstruction of justice, could Claudia and I request to be cell mates?
One thing I did know, however. I needed some sound legal advice between now and three o’clock. I dialed BJ Davenport’s office and explained my predicament to Aleatha Higginbotham. My desperation must’ve communicated itself across the line, because Aleatha, bless her heart, promised to squeeze me into BJ’s schedule.
Somewhat relieved, I called Bill, Rita, and Monica. None of them had received a summons from Tammy Lynn. I had a bad feeling about this. It looked like I was going to be the sole guest.
“I heard jail food is very unhealthy,” Monica advised. “Deep-fried and loaded with fat. Be sure to ask for a jumpsuit one size too big in case you gain weight,”
Monica was only trying to be helpful, right?
“Hey, Miz Kate,” Aleatha greeted me with a smile. “Don’t you look nice this afternoon.”
“Thanks, Aleatha.” Maybe I should have studied at the Higginbotham School of Fashion. My dress code bore a closer resemblance to Tammy Lynn Snow’s. Unlike Aleatha’s wildly flowered blue and green ensemble, I was wearing a beige twinset and brown flannel pants. Figured I’d go with neutrals since I might be wearing hard-to-miss orange soon enough.
“Can I get you a glass of tea or a soda?
“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to risk drowning the butterflies in my stomach.”
“No need to fret with BJ helping. He said to send you right in.”
BJ looked up when I entered and came out from behind a massive antique desk. “Miz Kate,” he said, welcoming me with the warmth reserved for an old friend, “you’re lookin’ pretty as a picture this afternoon. Have a seat.”
I gave him a wobbly smile as I complied. “Sheriff Wiggins called. He wants to see me.”
He lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. I noticed he was wearing his signature bow tie. Today’s pick was navy blue imprinted with tiny green palmettos, South Carolina’s state tree. Snazzy!
“Don’t let Wiggins get your panties in a twist,” he counseled. “Now tell me, how can I help you?”
I set my purse in my lap, folded my hands primly, then took a deep breath. “Tell me everything I need to know about obstruction of justice. And when you’re done, kindly explain withholding information. Bottom line: Can I be arrested?”
A vertical frown formed between his brows. “What kind of information are you withholding?”
I looked down; I looked up. I looked anywhere but directly at him. “Um, I, ah, happened to overhear Claudia and Lance argue the night he was shot.”
“Mmm, I see. Just what were they arguin’ about?”
“Money.”
“And you’re afraid to tell the sheriff.”
“I’m more afraid of incriminating Claudia.”
BJ got up from his perch and prowled the room, hands behind his back.
I fiddled nervously with the strap of my purse. “He suspects I’ve committed a sin of omission.”
“I’d advise you to come clean. Don’t embellish anythin’. Just tell him what you heard. Arguments between husbands and wives are commonplace. Show me a husband and wife who don’t argue, and I’ll show you a husband and wife who don’t speak to each other.”
“But I heard Claudia say ‘over my dead body.’ ”
He grunted. “Merely a figure of speech. Folks say it all the time.”
“But most husbands don’t turn up dead half an hour later.”
“Good point, but don’t remind the sheriff of that sorry fact.”
“There’s more,” I said miserably. “She threatened to get him out of her life—‘one way or another.’”
“Surely Miz Claudia didn’t mean that in the literal sense. I’ll make a case it was a harmless statement made under duress. I’ll stress Miz Ledeaux is a savvy business woman who’d use the legal system—not a Smith and Wesson—to get rid of the bastard. Sorry for the vulgarity, ma’am,” he apologized, “but that best describes the deceased.”
I let out a sigh of relief. Maybe my information wasn’t so damning after all. People used figures of speech all the time, didn’t they? Especially under duress. What greater stress could there be than realizing the man you’d just married was out to rob you blind? Claudia’s remarks were perfectly justified.
“Would you like me to accompany you to the sheriff’s office?” He flicked his wrist to look at his watch. “I have an appointment in about ten minutes, but I’d be happy to cancel.”
I could tell from where I sat it was a Rolex—the real deal and probably worth at least a thousand dollars. Seeing it made me feel better. He must be very good at his job to be able to afford such an expensive piece of jewelry. Talking to him made me feel marginally better. “That won’t be necessary,” I told him, “but I’ll program your number into speed dial—just in case.”
BJ came over to me, and taking both my hands in his, said, “Miz Claudia is fortunate to have a friend like you. Don’t you worry none. I’ll do right by her.”
My newly acquired calm, however, vanished the instant I entered the sheriff’s office.
Glancing up from her desk, Tammy Lynn shoved her overly large glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “Afternoon, Miz McCall. Sheriff said to send you straight to the interrogation room down the hall. He’s waitin’.”
I gave myself a pep talk as I proceeded down the hallway. I had nothing to fear but fear itself. I don’t remember who said it first, but it seemed to fit the occasion. I’d
always
answered the sheriff’s questions truthfully. I hadn’t lied. Might have left out a few teensy details was all. If he’d asked me whether I’d heard Claudia scream that she’d get Lance out of her life—“one way or another”—I’d have replied, yes, matter of fact I did hear that. It wasn’t my fault the sheriff didn’t ask the right questions.
I found the sheriff seated in his favorite creaky chair. “Have a seat, Miz McCall,” he said without looking up from the folder in front of him.
I gingerly sat in the lone chair opposite him, placed my purse beside me on the worn-tile floor, and folded my hands primly on the table. “You wanted to see me, Sheriff?”
“Seems like you and I have some unfinished business.” He glanced up and skewered me like a beef kabob with that sharp gaze of his. He looked around. “What, no gifts, no presents, this time? My, my, what’s the world comin’ to?”
He was mocking my gift-bringing habit. In New Or-leans, I believe there’s a term for such generosity:
lagniappe
, meaning a small gift for nothing. Truth was, I’d debated bringing him a little something, but decided against it at the last minute.
“Knowing how your mind works, Sheriff, I was afraid even a tiny gift might be misconstrued as a bribe.”
“You’re absolutely right, ma’am. This isn’t a social call. You might even call it an official interrogation.”
Oh dear, I was in for it now. We’d gone from interview to interrogation. Time for me to come clean and beg forgiveness. Bless me, Sheriff, for I have sinned. . . .
Chapter 25
Sheriff Wiggins consulted his notes. “I had a nice chat with Miz Marietta Perkins, who works the desk at the rec center in Serenity Cove Estates. Miz Perkins happened to be on the job the night of Mr. Lance Ledeaux’s untimely demise.”
Marietta Perkins, huh. That little snitch. Wait ’til I tell the Babes about her loose lips. See if we chip in for a nice gift come next Christmas.
“Miz Perkins said you arrived at the auditorium that night shortly after Mr. and Missus Ledeaux.”
“And if I did?”
He ignored my question. “Miz Perkins also claims she heard loud arguin’ comin’ from that direction and, bein’ a conscientious person an’ all, went to investigate. Said she started to open the door, and she saw you standin’ there. She was about to say somethin’ but returned to answer the phone at the front desk. Her memory is quite clear on the subject. She’s the sort who pays attention to detail.”
Attention to detail, my foot. Marietta Perkins was what Granny would’ve called a Nosy Parker and what Mama would’ve called a busybody. In either case, she was a woman who stuck her nose where it didn’t belong.
“What I want to know is this,” the sheriff continued. “Did the argument between Mr. and Missus Ledeaux have to do with money?”
Before I could answer, he held up a hand—a hand large enough to serve as a Stop sign. All it needed was some red and white paint. “Let me share another item of interest. I have it on good authority Mr. Ledeaux placed a rather large bet on the Super Bowl—a bet, by the way, he’d have lost. Ten thousand is a heap of money.”
“
Ten
thousand?”
Something in my tone must have alerted him. His brows knit in a frown. “Lot of folks argue over lesser amounts.”
I mentally replayed my earlier conversation with Claudia. The amount she’d mentioned was considerably more than ten thousand, though I have to agree with the sheriff on one point: Ten thousand
is
a heap of money.
“I’ll admit I did hear them talk about a Super Bowl bet. Lance, it seems, had a gambling problem, but you know that already, so why am I here?”
“Any other financial problems you’re aware of?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Lance had expensive tastes and a limited budget. My friend, Mrs. Ledeaux, told him she’d had enough of his spending.”
“Was that all she said?”
“Ah, not exactly.” I shifted in my seat, trying to get comfortable. Criminals probably confessed just so they could find a softer chair.
The sheriff leaned back, folding his arms over a line-backer-sized chest. “S’pose you define ‘not exactly.’”
I stared down at my folded hands. I could use a manicure, I noted. I could use a good stiff drink even more. How far would I get if I made a run for it? I recalled BJ’s advice:
Come clean and don’t embellish
. I hauled in a deep breath and let it rip. “I heard Claudia tell Lance she’d find a way to get him out of her life. I think she planned to divorce the low-down, nest egg-sucking snake.”
“She mention divorce?”
“Not in so many words.” I took one look at that lifted brow and those hard-as-drill-bit eyes and knew I was going to sing like a canary. “She might have said something along the lines of, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’ ”
He made a note of this.
I felt like pond scum. No need for thumbscrews. Just call me Tweety Bird. “I suppose you know about the Jag?” I asked in a small voice.
“As in Jaguar . . . the expensive automobile?”
I nodded miserably. “Lance ordered one from a dealer in Augusta.”
The sheriff let out a low whistle. “Man sure had good taste.”
Mea culpa. Mea culpa. Through my most grievous fault. Forgive me, Claudia, I have caved. At this point in the interrogation hardened felons, repeat offenders, even psychopaths, probably broke down and confessed to stealing crayons from the five-and-dime as youngsters. Sheriff Wiggins, alias the Grand Inquisitor, had that kind of effect once he shifted into “official” mode.
“That’s it. Am I free to leave?”
“It would’ve saved us both time and effort if you’d told me all this at the beginnin’,” he drawled lazily. “Wouldn’t have had to call you back, but now you know the difference between an interview and an interrogation.”