“Work? What kind of work?” Polly held out her glass for a refill, but lowered it when she caught Gloria’s look of disapproval.
“You know.” Tara winked at her. “The kind of work celebrities deny having done—the years-younger kind of work.”
“Ahh,” Polly said as the light dawned. “You mean cosmetic surgery. Why didn’t someone just say so?”
“Ladies!” Connie Sue tapped a glass for everyone’s attention. “I vote we change the subject. Don’t know about y’all, but I’m ready for a little excursion to take my mind off killers and such.” She paused, waiting a beat before continuing. “What do you say we drive over to Aiken for a day of shopping?”
“Does that include lunch?” Rita and Gloria asked in unison.
Connie Sue grinned. “Does a cat have whiskers?”
The vote was unanimous. We finally agreed on a date for the following week. No easy feat considering the schedules of twelve busy women. In the end only eight of the Babes would be able to go. Megan, Tara, and Diane all had to work. Nancy begged off, needing the time to pack for a trip to her and her husband’s time-share in Aruba.
“Now that that’s settled, let’s play bunco.” Connie Sue shooed us toward the tables set up for play.
Pam hung back. Laying a hand on my arm, she lowered her voice and whispered, “Jack casually mentioned at dinner tonight that Bill once planned to be a doctor. Jack said Bill dropped out of medical school after one year in order to get married.”
“What does dropping out of med school have to do with the price of tea in China?” I whispered back.
“I’m just saying someone who went to med school would know how to . . . well . . . you know.” She cast a nervous glance in Monica’s direction and left the rest unsaid.
I did know. The apple martini in my stomach collided with the artichoke and spinach dip. Wasn’t dissection one of the first things doctors learned in medical school?
An hour later, I still felt a tad queasy as I sat across from Megan. We were partnered with Monica and Diane. Fours were the coveted number we were trying to roll.
“Have you recovered from your ordeal with Dr. Baxter?” Megan asked as she slid the dice to Diane. “I thought you were going to pass out right then and there in his office.”
I mustered a smile. “You were right about one thing, Megan. I didn’t feel a thing.” Feeling had been physically impossible, considering the entire side of my face was numb. I had drooled like the village idiot for hours afterward.
“Told you he was good.” Megan grinned.
Diane racked up a few points, much to Monica’s delight, then passed me the dice. I cupped them in both hands, gave them a good shake, and let them fly. Not bad, three twos—a baby bunco—five whole points.
I continued to roll the dice. “Dr. Baxter’s quite the golfer, isn’t he? I saw a picture of him and Rosalie after winning some tournament.”
Megan picked through the bowl of nuts on the table until she found a cashew. “Rosalie was one of the doctor’s biggest fans. She’d come in religiously every three months to have her teeth cleaned. Insisted on having Dr. Baxter rather than Caitlin. Claimed she had some rare condition with a fancy name that required special attention.”
I made a mental note to add Dr. Movie-Star-Handsome to my list of possible suspects. My run of luck over, I shoved the dice in Monica’s direction.
“C’mon, baby,” Monica crooned as she shook and rattled the dice. “Mama needs a tiara.” She blew on them for luck and flung them down on the table in a technique reminiscent of one I had seen Rosalie use.
In that instant, I experienced a flashback. If I closed my eyes, I could envision another hand instead of Monica’s. A hand with a ring. Rosalie’s hand. With everything else going on, I had nearly forgotten about the ring—a striking piece of jewelry Rosalie had once worn while subbing for bunco.
A ring she had been wearing the day she died.
Another memory surfaced. Memory of an almost forgotten conversation. I had complimented Rosalie on the ring’s unusual design. She had said the ring was one of a kind, then shrugged off my compliment, saying she seldom wore it. When I asked if Earl had given it to her, she’d laughed. Earl, she had complained, didn’t have a romantic bone in his entire body.
“Kate, pay attention! It’s your turn.” Monica’s plaintive voice startled me back to the present.
Preoccupied, I picked up the dice—and promptly rolled a trio of fours. “Bunco!”
I couldn’t wait for the evening to end. The minute I got home, I intended to sketch Rosalie’s ring while the memory was still fresh.
Chapter 32
I came away from Connie Sue’s the reigning bunco queen. The bunco gods had smiled down on me. Buncos and baby buncos fell from my hands as effortlessly as spring rain. Much to Monica’s chagrin—and in spite of my inattention—I’d enjoyed an extraordinary run of luck. And had the tiara to prove it.
I also came away from bunco with a fourth name for my list of possible suspects: Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. Megan’s version of his relationship with Rosalie contradicted that of the good doctor. He had led me to believe he barely knew Rosalie. That she and his wife, Gwen, were mere acquaintances, but that didn’t seem to be the case. Not if Rosalie was racking up frequent-flier miles sitting in his dental chair every couple months.
And I’d seen the way she gazed up at him in that photo.
I pondered all this as I got ready for bed. Why would Baxter lie unless he had something to hide? It was definitely worth considering. I squeezed toothpaste onto my brush, then stood there thinking of Pam’s bombshell.
Bill had gone to med school.
My mind veered away from this disturbing tidbit, and all its nasty implications. I scrubbed my teeth, slathered moisturizer on my face, and climbed into bed. Maybe a good night’s sleep would help put things in the proper perspective.
In spite of efforts to the contrary, I was still mulling over the seemingly endless possibilities the next morning. Instead of one person to prove innocent, I now had two. Since instinct told me both Earl and Bill were innocent, I’d zero in on the next name on my suspect list—Brad Murphy.
The golf pro might be flying under the sheriff’s radar, but not mine. The good-looking pro reportedly had a hot temper along with a reputation as a ladies’ man. He’d mentioned that he and Rosalie often worked together arranging various golfing events. Betty from the putting clinic mentioned he had regripped Rosalie’s clubs. That meant time spent in each other’s company. A visit to the pro shop was definitely in order.
While I went about housework, I formed, then discarded a laundry list of plausible excuses for my visit. It wasn’t until I was changing sheets on the bed that I settled on the perfect ruse. I’d claim I was interested in purchasing a set of hybrid clubs. I’d heard golf pros get a commission on sales, so I’d appeal to Brad’s pocketbook. Not especially clever, but it should do the trick.
Since every detective—well, maybe not every, but most—has a sidekick, I elected Pam as mine. Pam’s logical, smart, and a veritable fountain of common sense. Besides, she spends nearly as many hours watching
Law & Order
marathons as I do. I’d hate her to miss out on a chance to apply all that know-how. And it had been Pam who raised the possibility that Earl was being framed for Rosalie’s murder. It seemed only right she help eliminate suspects. As added enticement, I dangled lunch afterward at the Cove Café. She agreed to meet me at the pro shop at noon.
“What exactly do you want me to do?” Pam asked me as we crossed the parking lot.
“Just follow my lead.”
Except for a woman behind the desk, the pro shop looked deserted.
“Is Brad in?” I asked. I’d debated calling first, but instead elected the element of surprise. This approach seemed to work best for the
Law & Order
crew. Even newer cast members favored this route.
“Brad’s giving a lesson. Oughta be back any minute.” The woman, who had DORIS engraved on her name tag, didn’t look up from her romance novel. Instead of giving her a more youthful appearance, her dyed black hair emphasized weariness and wrinkles. Clairol had failed to fortify this woman in her march against time.
Pam and I checked out the merchandise while we waited. We wandered around racks of golf shirts, hats, and visors. I paused to examine golf sandals on clearance at the end of the season.
Pam held up a coral and black argyle sweater vest and matching golf shirt. “What do you think?”
“Cute,” I said. “Gonna try ’em on?”
“I’m thinking about it.” Pam studied the outfit from arm’s length. “I’m trying to decide if I should wait a couple weeks, see if they’re marked down one more time.”
“Final markdown,” Doris said in a raspy smoker’s voice, still engrossed in her paperback. “All sales final.”
Just then, Brad breezed in a side door. “Hey, y’all.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Doris hurriedly tuck her novel under the counter and pretend to look busy.
“Hey, yourself.”
Hey
replaces
hi
as a casual hello here in South Carolina. It’s one of the few Southernisms I’ve adopted since the moving van transported all my worldly possessions across the Mason-Dixon Line.
I casually sauntered over to a display of golf clubs along one wall. I picked up one of the clubs, wrapped my fingers around the grip as I’d been taught, and took an abbreviated practice swing.
Brad moseyed over. “Thinking about new clubs, Miz McCall?”
I pursed my lips. “Actually I might be in the market for a set of these new hybrids everyone is talking about.”
Pam joined us. “Me, too. A friend of mine has a set and loves them.”
“Great!” He rubbed his hands together, obviously sensing a sale. “Ladies, you came to the right place. Here’s a set you might like to take out for a test-drive, so to speak.”
Pam picked up one of the hybrids and examined it as if she actually knew what she was doing. Way to go, Pam, I thought, proud she was serious about her role as sidekick.
“Tell you what I’ll do.” Brad pushed back his visor and gave us a big old grin. “Since you’re such nice ladies, I’ll knock off another five percent right here and now. You’ll have delivery in seven to ten business days.”
“Whoa!” I took an involuntary step backward. I could practically hear a robotic voice boom, “Step away from the clubs.” If I didn’t watch myself, I’d have these babies signed, sealed, and waiting on my doorstep. “Not so fast. I don’t know the first thing about hybrids.”
Brad rose to the challenge. Tapping the clubface for emphasis, he expounded. “To begin with, a hybrid is much more forgiving than a fairway wood. You’ll hit the ball higher and longer with a hybrid than an iron.”
Pam edged closer, hanging on his every word. “Is that true, even for a poor shot?”
“Yes, ma’am. I can see you’ve done your homework.”
Pam preened under the compliment. I gave her a gentle nudge to remind her we were here on business. Our mission was to learn about Brad’s relationship with Rosalie. Not to fall for a sales pitch for new golf clubs.
“It all has to do with the club’s design,” Brad continued. “A hybrid has a wider sole and increased moment of inertia.”
Huh?
He must have read the confusion on my face and took pity on me. “All you need to remember, ma’am, is these clubs will shave strokes off your game.”
Well, la-di-da!
These clubs would also shave dollars off my checking account. If he had promised to shave years off my age, I might’ve paid closer attention.
“Allow me to demonstrate.” He positioned himself behind Pam and slipped his arms around her waist. “Just put your hands over mine.”
A closed mouth collects no flies, as my mother used to tell me. So I closed my mouth and watched a fine demonstration of Brad’s aw-shucks brand of country charisma. If he gave all the women this kind of instruction, no wonder his dance card was filled. How could Earl possibly compete with this?
“There you go. See how easy.”
Before Pam could respond, the door burst open and in walked chaos in the form of Mort Thorndike and Bernie Mason. Mort and Bernie are the same two idiots we encountered on the eighth hole the afternoon we found the Wal-Mart bag containing the arm—Rosalie’s arm. The same morons who insisted we play through and thought we found yarn.
Mort held a towel pressed against his forehead. “You did this on purpose.”
“Did not,” Bernie heatedly denied.
“Did, too.”
Brad Murphy released Pam and stepped back, a frown marring his handsome face. Pam and I exchanged looks.
“I asked you to throw the beer
to
me—not
at
me.”
“You were supposed to catch it.”
“I would’ve caught it if you knew how to throw.”
Brad moved toward the arguing duo. “Gentlemen, please, what seems to be the problem?”
“Look what this fool did.” Mort removed the towel to reveal a nasty inch-long gash on his forehead where his hairline used to reside. Without a towel to stanch the flow, blood trickled down Mort’s cheek, making him resemble a victim in one of those slasher films young folks seem to enjoy.
Brad paled, his skin the color of wallpaper paste. “I’m feelin’ dizzy.”
Doris hurried over from behind the counter, but was too late. Brad’s legs folded beneath him like a yardstick. There he sat, his eyes glazed, legs splayed, limp as an overgrown Raggedy Andy.
Pam bent to help, but Doris shooed her away. “Don’t worry, hon,” Doris said, waving a vial of some evil-smelling stuff under Brad’s nose. “He’ll come around in a minute or two. This happens every time he sees as much as a drop of blood. Poor baby, won’t even put on his own Band-Aid.”
The door opened again, and I looked over my shoulder to see Bill enter.
“I heard there was an accident of some sort on number nine.”
I pointed to Mort and Bernie, who stood glaring at each other near a rack of marked-down golf shirts. Then I motioned to Doris and Brad.