Claudia knelt down and jiggled his shoulder. “All right, Lance, stop pretending. Everyone’s impressed.”
“He don’t look so hot.” Gus tugged on an earlobe. A hairy earlobe. Eeuww!
But earlobes aside, I had to agree with Gus. Lance didn’t look so hot. Under his Vegas tan, his skin seemed a bit grayish; a bit waxy. This playacting of his had gone on way too long—even for an experienced corpse. Not even Michael Phelps could hold his breath that long.
Lance couldn’t really be hurt, could he?
Of course not, I promptly answered my inner demon. Serenity Cove Estates had already had its one random act of violence. And only one was allowed. Surely all the residents would agree with me on that score. I’ve always said that denial is a wonderful thing—one of the best defense mechanisms God ever invented. But denial was quickly deserting me as reality took its place.
Lance looked . . . dead.
Apparently the same thought crossed Bill’s mind. He crouched down next to Lance’s inert figure. “If Lance taped three dye packs to his chest, why did only one go off?”
“Who knows?” Claudia swallowed, her eyes huge in her pale face. “Maybe he didn’t do it right. He said it was the job of the special effects people. That’s why he said he needed practice.”
As all of us looked on, scarcely daring to breathe, Bill placed his fingers along Lance’s neck, palpating for a pulse. I bit my lower lip to keep it from quivering, but I already knew the truth .
Lance was dead.
I knew it for a fact even before Bill said the words.
Everything after that seemed to happened all at once. In spite of dropping my cell phone, not once but twice, I managed to dial 911 and summon the sheriff. Monica became hysterical and threatened to barf. Someone, Bernie, I think, but it could have been Gus or even Rita, found a blanket and covered the body. I heard the scrape of the prop table being shoved aside to make room for EMTs, law enforcement, and the coroner. Bill dragged an overstuffed chair from the phony living room and gently eased Claudia into it. Claudia’s face was the color of kindergarten paste. One glance at it had me racing for the nearby ladies’ room to fill a cup with water. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed something shiny on the floor near my feet. An earring? Stooping down, I picked up a gold hoop and slipped it into the pocket of my cardigan before rushing to Claudia’s side.
I knelt on the floor and handed her the cup, but her hands were shaking so violently that water sloshed over the rim. She managed a small sip, then absently wiped her wet hands on her slacks to dry them. Wanting to comfort her, but not knowing how, I set the cup down and took both her hands in mine. They were like chunks of ice. I rubbed them absently to restore circulation.
None of us said much while waiting for the sheriff and his men to arrive.
Climbing to my feet, I stood next to Claudia’s chair. I was worried about her. She still hadn’t uttered a word. Clearly in shock, she resembled an escapee from Madame Tussauds Wax Museum. Her eyes were glassy as a mannequin’s. Her red hair and lips contrasted garishly against her pale skin. Poor Claudia; I felt so sorry for her. What does one say to a woman who’s accidentally killed her husband?
Accidentally?
Surely it was an accident. Horrible and tragic, but nothing more. Then I recalled the argument I’d overheard—and wished I hadn’t. Claudia had told Lance she’d take the necessary steps to end his spending spree. She’d used phrases such as
whatever it takes
and
one way or another
. My mind struggled to make sense of what had just occurred. One thing was clear, however. No way would Claudia have pointed a loaded gun at her husband and pulled the trigger—no way at all. She was my friend, and my friends didn’t shoot people. It was that simple.
My musings were interrupted by sirens wailing in the distance. The sound grew louder with each passing second. A pregnant pause followed; then all hell broke loose.
The double doors of the auditorium crashed open. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins swept into the room like a tornado mowing down a cornfield. He stood for a moment, hands on hips, surveying the scene, all six feet two inches of muscle and attitude. His skin was the color of pricey Colombian coffee, his eyes hard and shiny as black onyx.
His gaze drifted over the small gathering before settling on me. “Miz McCall,” he drawled in a rich-as-molasses baritone, “might’ve known I’d find you here.”
“Sheriff.” I bobbed my head in acknowledgment.
The sheriff and I are old pals. We joined forces a few months back to find the murderer of Rosalie Brubaker, my friend and neighbor. At least I’d assumed we’d formed a partnership of sorts, ’til he informed me in no uncertain terms to butt out of police business. Apparently the sheriff liked to work alone. I suspect the man might’ve been an only child and wasn’t used to sharing.
Close on the sheriff’s heels was Deputy Preston. I never did learn the man’s Christian name. The deputy and I are acquainted, too. We first met during the investigation into Rosalie’s death. Unbeknownst to the sheriff, who probably eats raw meat for breakfast, Deputy Preston owned up to a fondness for my chocolate-chip cookies. I caught his eye and waggled my fingers at him. He started to wave back, but a stern look from his boss had him clearing his throat instead. So much for my friendship with law enforcement.
Sheriff and deputy moved aside to allow a flood of EMTs to pour into the room. One of the EMTs, a wiry, brown-haired man with the tanned leathery skin of an outdoorsman, knelt down alongside Lance. He placed his hand along Lance’s neck just as Bill had done earlier and shook his head.
“The guy’s a goner.”
No kidding! I wanted to blurt. What gave it away? Lack of a pulse? The fact that the man wasn’t breathing? Or the bullet hole smack dab in the middle of his chest? I swallowed down the hysterical giggle that sometimes tries to escape during times of stress. I find the reflex irritating and often downright embarrassing, especially at funerals.
The sheriff focused his attention on the case at hand. “Seal off the crime scene,” he instructed. “Notify the coroner.” He turned to his deputy. “Preston, get these people out of heah. Find a place for them to wait until I take their statements.”
Heah?
Is that Southern-speak for
here
? I pondered. Exactly how does one spell such a word? In Toledo, where I hail from,
here
has only one syllable. South of the Mason-Dixon Line, it acquires a second.
Then came the moment I’d been dreading. The sheriff turned his attention to the cast and crew of Lance’s extravaganza. “Before my deputy ushers y’all out, anyone care to tell me jus’ what happened heah?”
Apparently none of us were eager to fill in the blanks or connect the dots. We glanced furtively from one to another, shuffled our feet, and avoided the sheriff’s piercing gaze. A lengthy silence ensued.
“I’m waitin’. Y’all care to enlighten me?”
Bernie raised a bony finger and pointed straight at Claudia. “She did it! She shot her husband deader ’n a doornail.”
Chapter 7
Deputy Preston herded us into a meeting room, one in a series that lined the hallway leading from the auditorium. He then took up a position just outside the door, guarding it lest one of us wanted to make a break and run for the border.
Faux leather chairs rimmed a faux mahogany conference table. A Monet print hung on one wall in a feeble attempt at ambiance. Placing my arm around Claudia’s shoulders, I guided her to a chair. “Here, honey, have a seat,” I told her, urging her down. “Anything I can get you?”
She didn’t answer. I’m not sure she even heard me. I was worried about her. She still hadn’t uttered a word; hadn’t shed a tear. Her complexion looked deathly pale. Oops. Poor choice of words. Guess I’d better reserve that expression for Lance, who literally was deathly pale. Claudia’s eyes had lost their usual sparkle and were glazed, unfocused. Guess I’d be unfocused and pasty, too, if I’d just shot and killed my husband.
“How could this have happened?” Rita paced the length of the room, wringing her hands.
Gus slumped down in one of the chairs at the conference table. “A freakin’ accident is how.”
“I checked the chamber just like you showed me, Bill,” Monica said, her voice high and thready. Her face was the moldy-olive green I associated with her weak stomach. She was definitely learning self-control. I had to hand it to her for not barfing all over the crime scene. Sheriff Wiggins would not have been a happy camper.
“I checked the gun, too.” Bill shoved his fingers through his hair. He, too, looked shaken by what had happened. “I saw the blank cartridges.”
“Why did I let myself get talked into this?” Monica whined. “I never should have gotten involved in this stupid play in the first place.”
“I’m cold,” Claudia whispered, her voice barely audible.
I shrugged out of my cardigan and draped it around her. “Here, this’ll help.”
She pulled my sweater tighter, but shivered in spite of its warmth. “I want to go home.”
“Soon, honey.” I patted her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “The sheriff wants to ask us a few questions first.”
She lapsed back into silence.
A minute later, Deputy Preston entered the meeting room and approached Claudia. “Sorry, ma’am, but I need to check your hands for gunshot residue.”
She stared at him blankly.
The young man glanced around, the expression on his dark face almost apologetic. “Actually, I’ll need to check all of you for GSR.”
“This is an outrage!” Bernie Mason fumed, jumping to his feet. “Why are you treating us like criminals? Everyone saw her shoot the guy.”
I saw Claudia flinch as Bernie’s harsh accusation pierced the brittle shell under which she’d retreated. I gave her shoulder another reassuring pat. “Never mind Bernie, honey. He failed Sensitivity for Dummies and needs a refresher course.”
“Won’t hurt a bit, ma’am,” Deputy Preston told her. I liked the man, a liking that had nothing to do with his fondness for my cookies. He had a gentle way about him. His mama ought to be proud.
Claudia started at the sound of the gunshot residue kit being ripped open.
“It’s OK. The nice deputy is only following protocol.” I was making it up as I went along; ad-libbing like crazy. Actually, aside from Rosalie, the closest I’d ever come to any murder/homicide investigation was on television. Not that one can’t learn a lot watching classics like
Law & Order
and
CSI
. I’d picked up tons of useful information along the way.
Claudia watched dully as the deputy went about the task of collecting his sample. I watched, too, fascinated in spite of the gravity of the situation. All the while my mind echoed Rita’s question, How could this have happened? We were simply rehearsing a scene from the play. No one was supposed to get hurt.
No one was supposed to die.
Having finished with Claudia, Deputy Preston straightened. “Who wants to be next?”
Bill stepped forward and held out his hands. “You can do me.”
If Bill could be brave, so could I. “After him, you can test mine.”
Satisfied with the samples he’d collected from all of us, the deputy still had more tricks up his sleeve. “Now I need to ask all you good folk to be patient a bit longer while I do the fingerprinting.”
“Fingerprinting!” Bernie exploded. “What the hell you goin’ to ask for next—a kidney?”
“No, sir,” the deputy replied. “Already got two good ones.”
Gunshot residue. Fingerprints. Wait ’til I tell my daughter, Jennifer, about this. But then again, maybe not. The wisest course of action would probably be to keep my mouth shut. Jen tends to overreact. She’s finally getting back to normal after my last escapade into murder and mayhem. Knowing her, I’d be shanghaied and sent to LA, where I’d be relegated to a life babysitting my two adorable granddaughters. Granted, I love both Juliette and Jillian to pieces, but I don’t want to spend my golden years a captive audience at a continuous round of dance recitals and soccer games. I may be a doting grandmother, but I’m a liberated one.
I worriedly cast another glance in Claudia’s direction. Except for saying she was cold and wanting to go home, there was not a peep out of her; probably a good tactic under these circumstances. Perhaps I should advise her that it was her right to remain silent? Remind her that anything she said could and would be used against her in a court of law?
Bill, his Paul Newman baby blues full of concern, sidled up next to me and squeezed my hand. “How you holding up?”
I squeezed back. “Do you think we should call an attorney on Claudia’s behalf?”
“Good thinking,” he said in a voice low enough for my ears alone. “An attorney sounds like an excellent plan.”
“Problem is, I don’t know whom to call. She needs someone good—real good. Someone familiar with the South Carolina court system.”
Bill rubbed his jaw. I racked my brain. Both of us were lost in thought. Whom could I ask for a recommendation? Who’d know the name of a good defense attorney? One ideally born and bred in the South. Ninety-nine percent of the folks in Serenity Cove Estates came from elsewhere—Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, New York; some from even as far away as California and Alaska. Not even Connie Sue, the Bunco Babes’ very own dyed-in-the-wool Southern belle, could claim South Carolina as her home. She hailed from Georgia.
“I don’t want that messy stuff all over my hands,” I heard Monica complain to the deputy. “What if I get it on my clothes?”
“Don’t worry,” soothed calm, sensible Rita. “If you do, I’ve got just the stuff for getting out stains.”
I noticed Bill’s new buddy didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the proceedings. Gus had taken up a position at the end of the conference table where he played solitaire with a well-worn deck of cards. Bernie sat in an adjacent chair, watching the game, arms folded. I could hear the low rumble of the sheriff’s voice issuing orders just outside the door. I could feel the sand slip through the hourglass. Soon now, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would grill us like ribs at a Fourth of July barbecue.