I needed a plan of action. I needed a weapon. What if whoever was behind me forced me out of my car? Tried to kidnap me—or worse? What if my serial-killer theory wasn’t as far-fetched as the sheriff seemed to think? I swept the interior of my car with a glance. I didn’t have a weapon. Maybe I should get a gun, I thought, stifling a hysterical bubble of mirth. But I hate guns, I reminded myself in the next breath. A person can get seriously hurt with a gun.
Now what? I wondered. Dial 911? Frantically I pawed through my handbag trying to find my darn cell phone. Duh! I realized I should’ve done that sooner. But even as my fingers closed around the phone, I knew why I hadn’t called in the troops. I couldn’t very well call the sheriff’s office to report a car behind me on a public thoroughfare. After all, I didn’t own the road. Nowhere in the Serenity Cove Estates bylaws did it state only Kate McCall could drive down Shady Lane at precisely 9:35 in the evening.
I reached the corner, the point of no return. Deliberately ignoring my turn signal, I jerked the steering wheel hard to the right and took the turn on two wheels. I had seen this move done somewhere with modest success, maybe on reruns of
Starsky and Hutch
or
Dukes of Haz zard
. I felt a stab of apprehension when a glance in the rearview mirror showed I still had company. My technique, it seemed, needed practice.
Beep! Beep!
The quiet night was broken by a series of sharp staccato blasts of a horn.
As I circled the cul-de-sac pondering my next move, I thought I heard my name called. The car horn blared again. This time the driver flashed the headlights. I finally slowed to a stop when I heard what sounded like Pam’s voice yelling my name. But that didn’t make sense. Why would Pam be following me and blowing her horn? She was usually home with Jack at this hour watching TV.
I rolled down my driver’s-side window a crack. The car behind me braked to a stop. Two figures emerged and approached the Buick. I squinted against the glare of headlights, but finally recognized the pair as Pam and Rita.
“Kate McCall, the crazy way you drive, you ought to have your license revoked!”
If I had been standing, my knees would have buckled in sheer relief at hearing Rita scold. When my nerves steadied a bit, I opened my car door and eased out from behind the wheel. The lights from Rita’s Honda dimmed and shut off automatically.
“Are you auditioning for NASCAR?” Pam demanded.
Rita stopped in front of me, size tens firmly planted, arms crossed over 40 DDs. “The way you rounded that corner, you nearly mowed down Earl’s mailbox.”
“If you two hadn’t scared me half to death, I wouldn’t have to drive like a maniac. Hasn’t anyone told you there’s a killer roaming the streets?” I fired back. Imitating Rita’s stance, I glared at my friends. “Now, will one of you kindly explain why you’re following me? And why you ruined a perfectly good evening with your stupid phone calls? You can’t really expect me to believe Polly and Gloria’s story they
just
happened to be in Bill’s neighborhood and decided to stop.”
“Don’t be mad, Kate,” Pam said. “The Babes and I only wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
“That’s right.” Rita gave a brisk nod. “And to give you a good talking-to. Someone has to knock some sense into you.”
“Why?” I looked from one to the other, perplexed. “What did I do now?”
Rita jerked her thumb in the direction of the Brubaker house. “The woman across the street—your friend and mine—was hit over the head hard enough to kill her, and her body cut into little pieces. Her husband, as you well know, happens to be the prime suspect in her murder.”
“Earl wouldn’t hurt a flea.” I huffed out a breath. “He grows orchids, for goodness’ sake. He’s not a cold-blooded killer.”
“And then there’s Bill,” Rita pointed out succinctly. “Earl sounded pretty positive Bill Lewis could be, as the sheriff would say, a ‘person of interest.’ God only knows what might’ve been going on between Bill and Rosalie.”
“Bill . . . ?”
“Yes, Bill.” Pam laid her hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. “A woman can’t be too careful. I know he’s sweet on you, Kate, but don’t ignore the facts.”
“Facts? What facts?” My mind struggled to take in the remote possibility of Bill being a vicious murderer.
“It’s common knowledge Bill owns more power tools than Home Depot. Rosalie’s arm didn’t fall off by itself. It was cut off,” Rita reminded me, her tone matter-of-fact.
“And, Kate, remember what you told us about Bill rushing to your defense with a Louisville Slugger?” Even in the dim light, Pam’s face looked pinched and anxious. “You even thought it was cute. During his press conference, Sheriff Wiggins said the cause of death was a blow to the head with a blunt object.”
Rita nodded like one of those annoying bobble-head dolls.
“A baseball bat could be translated as a blunt object,” Pam concluded.
I felt nauseous at the thought of Bill being a suspect. I liked to boast I was a good judge of character, but right now felt I was on shaky ground. It didn’t make me feel any better to know I had just spent an entire evening alone with the man. Not just any man, but a “person of interest.”
Rita stepped closer, her voice hushed. “Did you happen to notice what Bill’s house backs up against?”
I shook my head. My mouth was too dry to speak.
“Not just the golf course, Kate, but the eighth hole. The infamous eighth hole where we found . . .
it
.”
At this point in the conversation, I could have informed Pam and Rita that Bill also shopped at Wal-Mart. That he probably had access to bags galore—a convenient place to store a severed arm. But I couldn’t heap any more suspicion on a plate that was already overflowing. I wondered if a woodworking shop, a Louisville Slugger, a house on the eighth fairway, and access to Wal-Mart bags constituted circumstantial evidence.
Suddenly it wasn’t looking good for Bill. Didn’t baby blue eyes and a bashful smile count for something? Or had Rosalie found them just as endearing as I did?
“We’re not saying we think Bill is guilty.” Pam adopted a conciliatory tone worthy of a UN ambassador trying to broker world peace. “I like the man nearly as much as you do, Kate, but the Babes and I just want you to be careful who you trust. Until this terrible thing is over, it might be best for you to play it . . . cool . . . where Bill is concerned.”
But I don’t want to play it cool.
“I am careful,” I muttered. “Granted, Bill has more saws than I can remember the names of, but I didn’t completely forget what Earl had implied.”
Rita’s grim expression melted somewhat. “Glad to hear that.”
I felt the need to prove I wasn’t a total idiot. “I gave Bill’s workshop a good looking over while I was there. The place was immaculate. I didn’t notice any telltale signs that a body”—I shuddered—“had been dismembered. No blood spatter on either the walls or the floor.”
Pam leaned against the Buick and frowned. “I watch nearly as many crime and punishment shows on TV as you do. We both know he’s had time to scrub them down, repaint.”
I leaned on the car next to her, closed my eyes, and imagined myself back in Bill’s shop.
Concentrate, Kate. Concentrate.
The floor had been a serviceable gray, but it bore scuff marks and showed signs of wear. The walls had been white, but the paint hadn’t looked fresh.
“I don’t think so,” I replied at last. “The place smelled more like varnish and sawdust rather than bleach and fresh paint.” I looked from Pam to Rita, my look steady, unblinking. “You’re wrong about Bill . . . just as you’re wrong about Earl.”
No sooner were the words out of my mouth than flashing red and blue lights lit up the night sky. The three of us turned as a stream of police cruisers pulled up across the street. Some blocked the Brubakers’ driveway, while others screeched to a halt near the front curb. Uniformed men leaped out, too preoccupied to notice three women standing in the dark of a drive across the way.
Sheriff Sumter Wiggins issued commands in a quiet voice. Several police officers took up stations around the perimeter while he led a small procession around to the front door.
Pam, Rita, and I swapped meaningful glances. I felt the hair at the nape of my neck prickle. Something was up. Something huge.
I leaned over and said sotto voce, “Looks like the posse’s got the place surrounded.”
“What do you suppose is happening?” Pam whispered.
“I don’t know,” I whispered back, “but I’m not budging until I find out.”
This time I intended to hold my ground. No way was I going to allow Sheriff Wiggins to bully me with threats of obstruction of justice. I had every right to stand in my own driveway till dawn if that’s what I wanted.
I counted a total of six police cars. Both the sheriff’s office and Brookdale Police Department were represented. The red and blue flashing lights had attracted a lot of attention. Porch lights flickered on up and down Shady Lane. Neighbors poked their heads out of doors, or pressed their noses against windowpanes, trying to figure out what all the fuss was about. Gradually people emerged from their homes and stood in small clusters in one or another’s yards to talk and gossip and speculate.
“Hey, gang, what’s up?” Janine asked as she jogged around the corner to join us. Janine lived only a couple doors down from the Brubakers’, but knew the best viewing was from my driveway. In her haste to get the skinny on what was going on, she had flung a sweater over the lime green T-shirt she had paired with pink plaid PJ bottoms.
“We’re not sure . . . yet,” Rita told her.
I motioned at the police cruisers, front and side. “Whatever it is, it must be pretty important to bring out the cavalry.”
Janine ran her hand through short-cropped silver hair, making it stand up in tufts around her head. “Do you think they’re here to arrest Earl?”
“They can’t just do that, can they?” Pam asked. “At least not without a good reason, or evidence, or something.”
The four of us leaned against the back bumper of my Buick and waited for the main feature to begin.
We didn’t have to wait long.
Deputy Preston, the young officer I had come to know from my various exploits, escorted a dejected-looking Earl Brubaker around the walk and toward the cruiser parked in the Brubakers’ drive.
“This is crazy. You’re making a big mistake,” Earl protested. “I would never hurt Rosalie. I loved her.”
The deputy ignored him. Giving Earl’s head a firm downward push, he eased Earl into the cruiser’s rear seat and slammed the door shut. The deputy then came around to the driver’s side, hopped in, and proceeded to back down the drive. I caught a final glimpse of Earl’s expression as the car sped off. He bore the look of a trapped animal. A trapped animal with no way out.
“Well . . .” Pam let out a pent-up breath.
“Poor Earl.” I shook my head in sympathy.
“Poor Earl!” Rita exclaimed loudly. “Right now it looks as if ‘poor Earl’ might’ve murdered Rosalie. The police don’t haul someone away just for the heck of it.”
“What about giving him the benefit of a doubt?” I rallied to Earl’s defense, for no better reason than I felt sorry for the guy. “What about innocent until proven guilty?”
“Now, now, girls,” Janine cautioned, playing peace-maker. “Let’s not rush to judgment before hearing all the facts.”
“Most of the police are still inside,” Pam noted absently. “I wonder what’s keeping them.”
Once again we fell silent. And waited.
I hugged my arms around myself to keep warm. The October night air had a bite to it. I envied Janine her warm woolly sweater. I debated going inside for one of my own, but at the thought of missing some of the action decided against it. Better freeze than miss out.
“Found it!” Sheriff Wiggins’s voice boomed out, bringing us all to attention.
“Cordon off the house,” he shouted to another of his deputies. “At first light, we’ll have the crime-scene unit do a thorough search—inside and out.”
I shoved away from the Buick’s bumper and walked to the edge of my drive. I was careful not to go any farther lest the sheriff shoo me away. Pam, Rita, and Janine followed, nipping at my heels. The moon was playing hide-and-seek behind the clouds, but by now my eyes had adjusted to the dark. I waited with bated breath while Sheriff Wiggins came around the bend of the Brubakers’ front walk carrying what appeared to be a long object of some sort encased in plastic.
“What is it?” Janine whispered, standing so close her breath tickled my ear.
“Looks like a stick,” Pam offered from my other side.
“Uh-uh,” I disagreed. “More like a golf club.”
Rita leaned forward and squinted. “From the shape and size, my guess would be a sand wedge.”
“The murder weapon . . . ?” I murmured. Even a rank amateur such as me knows a sand wedge is the heaviest iron in a golfer’s arsenal. The weighted club could do considerable damage against a human skull if swung with any force. I shuddered at the thought.
Janine’s thoughts must have run parallel with mine because she drew her sweater tighter around her shoulders. “If that sand wedge turns out to be the murder weapon, Earl’s going to have a hard time convincing people he’s innocent.”
The sheriff carefully placed the golf club/murder weapon in the trunk of his cruiser, then climbed in and drove off. The four of us stood at the end of the drive while police wound a spool of yellow crime-scene tape around the Brubakers’ house and yard. Eventually only one police cruiser remained to stand guard. Or, in police jargon, to keep it under surveillance.
“Guess the excitement’s over for the night.” Rita turned toward Pam. “I’m ready to leave if you are. Dave probably fell asleep on the sofa and missed the last half of the ball game.”
“Night, everyone.” Janine gave us a final salute as she trotted toward home.
“Don’t lose any sleep worrying about Earl,” Pam said, giving me a quick hug. “Think positive. If the murder weapon turns out to be a sand wedge instead of a Louisville Slugger, Bill’s in the clear.”