Polly hiccupped yet again. “Don’t that beat all.”
Chapter 35
That still left the matter of the gun I’d found in Krystal’s drawer—and the opened box of 9mm shells. Krystal Gold topped my list of suspects. She had means; she had opportunity. All she lacked was motive.
My nerves strung tight, I jumped a foot, and I’m certain that’s only a slight exaggeration, when the phone rang. It was the Suspect. Krystal, very thoughtfully for a person of interest, was calling to tell me not to worry; she’d be home late. She and her friends had decided to take in a chick flick and have a bite to eat before returning from their shopping trip in Augusta.
“No problem, dear,” I told her. The girl might be a cold-blooded killer, but she was a considerate houseguest. “Have fun.”
I emptied a can of floral air freshener to rid the house of lingering cigarette fumes. Once I had the place smelling like a funeral parlor, I went about straightening the house. I plumped pillows, put dirty glasses in the dishwasher, wiped down countertops, all the while pondering my options. It was after six; too late to call the sheriff. Knowing him as I did, I thought he probably had Tammy Lynn screen his calls from meddling junior-grade detectives. Did a box of bullets and a strand of hair constitute evidence? The kind of evidence that would stand up in a court? The type that would make Sheriff Wiggins pat me on the back and say,
Attagirl
.
Maybe I should confront Krystal in the same way as I had Nadine. Come right out and ask,
Did you kill Lance Ledeaux?
Remind her that everything she said could and would be held against her in a court of law. Fortunately, Nadine hadn’t shot me on the spot. I might not be as lucky the second time around. Krystal, after all, was armed and, for all intents and purposes, considered dangerous.
All this turmoil was wreaking havoc on the pleasant happy hour buzz I’d acquired. Tempted as I was to mix another margarita, I decided on coffee instead—the high-voltage, French roast kind, chock-full of caffeine. I needed to think clearly, not through a haze tempered by alcohol. So much for my no-caffeine-after-six-o’clock rule. Rules were made to be broken, right?
As I measured and ground beans, I kept wondering what my television mentors would do in this situation. I visualized my favorite rerun detectives, Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green, taking my evidence to the erudite DA, Jack McCoy. Jack would likely kick them to the curb, telling them not to darken his doorstep until they had enough to make a case. Then, their trusty no-nonsense lieutenant, Anita Van Buren, would order them back out on the street. I doubted Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would be as diplomatic.
I placed a filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and poured in water. What I really needed, though, was someone to act as a sounding board. Of course, the Babes came to mind. I knew I could phone any one of them—except Polly, whom Gloria had threatened to put to bed the instant they returned home—and they’d run right over. But it was dinnertime. I hated to interrupt that precious ritual where husbands replay their golf games, hole by hole, chip for chip, putt for putt, for their wife’s entertainment, so I did the next best thing. I called Bill.
Once again the phone rang and rang. And once again, I hoped he wasn’t in his woodworking shop where he couldn’t hear the phone over the whine of power tools. I was ready to hang up when he answered.
“Bill, I need you,” I blurted the instant I heard his voice.
“Um . . .”
“Like now. I need you now.”
“Sure thing,” he replied, sounding confused but game.
I realized then how I must have sounded—crazed, desperate, loony tunes. I struggled to correct the impression. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded. What I should have said is that I need to talk to you.”
“Sure thing,” he repeated, and this time I liked to imagine I caught a faint whiff of disappointment in his tone.
There would be time enough to mull that over later. Right now I had a gun. I had bullets. “I need someone solid and sensible to hear me out. You’re elected.” Then to my utter mortification, I hiccupped, a damning reminder of my semi-inebriated state.
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line; then Bill cleared his throat. “Kate, have you had dinner yet?”
Had I eaten? “Um, I don’t think so. Does bar mix count?”
“I’ll stop by the gas station on my way over and pick up a pizza. See you in fifteen minutes.”
I released my death grip on the phone and disconnected. Bill was on the way, my white knight riding to the rescue. Not that I believed women needed knights and rescuing and such. I consider myself a liberated woman. I can bring home the bacon
and
fry it up in a pan. I am woman; hear me roar! If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Helen Reddy’s seventies’ battle cry. Still . . .
I hummed to myself as I set out place mats, plates, napkins, and silverware in anticipation of Bill’s arrival. Now, some might think gas station pizza a bit odd. Before moving to the South, I’d have been one of them. Since then, I’ve discovered some gas stations even serve up tasty fried chicken and catfish. Oh, yes, another local oddity: The best rib eye steaks are found at the fish market. An elderly black gentleman, and I do not use the term “elderly” lightly, shuffles out of a back room and cuts them to order. My Jim used to love putting those babies on the grill and watching them sizzle.
Since coffee, even French roast, didn’t seem appropriate with pizza, I filled glasses with ice and Diet Coke. If I couldn’t get my much-needed caffeine boost one way, I’d try another. There were always the late-night oldies on the movie channel if I was too wired to sleep. I’d worry about that later.
Bill arrived right on schedule bearing pizza, hot, steamy, and spicy. Taking it from him, I motioned him to a seat at the kitchen table. “This looks great. Glad you thought of it.” I slid slices of pizza onto plates and sat next to him.
“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Bill asked as he took his first bite.
“It’s Krystal,” I said, daintily nibbling my slice. “I think she might be our killer.”
“Whoa! What . . . ?” Bill sputtered around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.
For a moment, I feared I might have to perform the Heimlich maneuver, but he recovered quite nicely. “You heard me,” I replied calmly. I took a larger bite this time, knowing food would hasten the absorption of alcohol in my system. “I suspect Krystal might be the one who murdered Lance. I need you to listen and tell me if I’m crazy.”
And over gas station pizza dripping with mozzarella, he did just that.
There’s nothing more appealing—or sexier—than a man who truly listens. I mean one who unselfishly gives you his undivided attention; one who listens as though his life depends on what you’re telling him. It’s just one of the many qualities I find so attractive in Bill. Neither of my children excels in the fine art of listening. No matter how hard I try, I can’t convince Jennifer that bunco isn’t going to jeopardize my life savings. If Steven would ever give me his full attention for more than thirty seconds, maybe I could persuade him I’m not ready to be shipped off to one of those fancy assisted living facilities just yet. I’m happy and healthy right where I am, thank you very much.
“Well,” Bill said, wiping his fingers on a napkin, “I can see why you’re concerned. I agree that we don’t have enough to bring to the sheriff. If he didn’t believe he had a strong case against Claudia, he’d never have taken it to the prosecutor.”
“But what about the gun? The bullets?”
“Anyone off the street can walk into a sporting goods store and purchase bullets. And even if the hair you found does belong to Krystal”—he held up a hand to forestall my argument—“there’s no proof she substituted a real bullet for a blank. What’s more, the fact they were in
Grease
together doesn’t mean they’re more than acquaintances.”
I cleared the dishes, unhappy my theory had sprung more holes than a colander. “But,” I protested, “Polly swears she saw the two of them together—canoodling.”
“Canoodling, huh?” Bill mulled that over as he dumped the empty pizza box in the trash. “It still doesn’t give Krystal a reason to want Lance dead. Besides, a defense attorney might question the eyesight of a seventysomething woman who wears trifocals.”
He had a point. Polly had been postponing cataract surgery for months, claiming only old people got cataracts. Old, I guess, is a matter of perspective. I tried a different route. “What if Lance
is
the father of Krystal’s baby? If so, it would explain why she followed him to Serenity Cove.”
“That puts a whole different spin on the matter.”
I leaned against the counter, the dish towel in my hand forgotten. “Lance withdrew thirty thousand dollars from Claudia’s account. The sheriff told me ten thousand of it went to a bookie for a Super Bowl bet. Nadine said he gave her ten thousand as a bribe to leave town. Police found another ten thousand on him when he was killed.”
Bill let out a low whistle. “Men, even big spenders like Lance, don’t carry around that much pocket change.”
I raised a brow. “He might if he was being blackmailed.”
Bill took up a post next to me at the counter, arms folded, ankles crossed. “Sure would hate to call in the authorities, what with Krystal being pregnant and all, if this turns out to be nothing.”
I sighed. The last thing I wanted to do was to upset an expectant mother. I wanted only the best for Krystal and her unborn child, yet . . . “We still need to address the matter of the gun in her drawer.”
“Honesty is always the best policy, Kate. Just come out and tell her you found it. Hear what she has to say.”
I mulled over his advice. “What if we bend the truth a little? I could say she left her vanity drawer open and when I went to shut it, I noticed the gun.”
Bill nodded, then asked, “Have you thought about what you might say if she asks why you were in her room in the first place?”
“Well, first I’d act highly offended that she might think I was snooping. Then,” I said, warming to the role of indignant innkeeper, “I’d make her feel even guiltier by acting hurt. I’d end by informing her I was only being a conscientious hostess bringing her fresh towels.”
The corner of Bill’s mouth quirked in amusement. “Don’t you mean conscientious
detective
?”
“Bingo!” I grinned. “Come on. Let me show you the gun.”
I led the way to the guest room and showed him what I’d found.
Bill removed the gun from its hiding place and held it almost reverently. “Sweet,” he said in admiration. “A Sig Sauer. Can’t be more than five and a half inches in all. Must weigh less than a pound. Perfect weapon for a lady.”
Sweet? Perfect? It didn’t look either of those to me. But it did look deadly, like a water moccasin, coiled and ready to kill an innocent bystander deader ’n a doornail.
After checking to make sure there were no bullets in the chamber, Bill slid the magazine out and pocketed it. “This way, if Krystal doesn’t like the direction the conversation is heading, at least she can’t shoot us.”
“Thanks,” I said dryly. “That makes me feel much better.”
Over coffee—decaf this time—and chocolate-chunk cookies, we agreed on the script we’d follow when Krystal returned. I silently congratulated myself on calling Bill in as a consultant on the case. I felt immeasurably better knowing I wouldn’t be alone when I demanded some answers from Krystal.
“By the way,” I said, “while I was out today, my daughter called and left a message on the answering machine. She wondered if I was still seeing ‘that man,’ as she refers to you.”
“My brother, Bob, called today, too. Wanted to know if I was still seeing ‘that woman.’”
I studied Bill over the rim of my coffee mug. “And what did you tell him?”
Bill’s eyes met mine, steady and direct. “I told him ‘that woman’ is the best thing that’s happened to me since Margaret died. Told him not only was I seeing you, but I intended to keep right on seeing you. I should’ve known better than to listen to Bob in the first place.”
I couldn’t help but smile as I reached across the table for his hand. The sparkle in his pretty Paul Newman baby blues told me all I needed to know about the way he felt.
Chapter 36
Bill and I retired to the great room, but we were still holding hands when Krystal burst in carrying an assortment of shopping bags from various stores at the mall.
“Hey, you two,” she greeted us. “You look all nice and cozy. Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“Krystal,” I said, bracing for the inevitable confrontation, “set your things down. We need to talk.”
“Uh-oh.” She laughed. “Am I in trouble? Mom used to use that exact tone whenever I tried to sneak in after curfew.”
When neither of us returned her smile, her eyes slid from me to Bill. “Sure.” She dropped down alongside me on the sofa. “What’s up?”
Bill gave me a nod of encouragement.
I moistened my suddenly dry lips and took the plunge. “It just so happened as I was bringing you fresh towels that I noticed a vanity drawer ajar. When I went to close it, I noticed this.”
Hearing his cue, Bill produced the Sig Sauer and the box of bullets from beneath a pile of throw pillows.
Krystal stared at them for a long moment, then seemed to collect herself. “So, what’s the big deal? I have a concealed weapons permit. The gun’s perfectly legal.”
What was she going to tell me next? That she won the role of Annie Oakley in a revival and needed the gun for target practice? “The shells are nine millimeter—the same caliber used to kill Lance Ledeaux.”
I couldn’t be positive, but I thought she paled at the mention of his name even though her expression remained impassive.
“Why kill someone I didn’t know?”
Aha! Now we were making progress. I’d caught her in a bonafide fib. “I don’t believe you,” I told her calmly. “Polly saw the two of you together, acting very . . . friendly.”