Bill took in the situation at a glance. “Doris, take Brad outside for some fresh air. Kate, if you look behind the counter, you’ll find a first aid kit. Would you get it, please, and bring it to me?”
While I went in search of a first aid kit, Pam took one of Brad’s arms, Doris the other, and they hoisted him to his feet. Once he was upright, Doris wrapped her arm around his waist and guided him away from the carnage. Bill, meanwhile, used the towel to reapply pressure to the cut on Mort’s forehead.
I silently handed Bill a green metal box bearing the familiar Red Cross. “Thanks,” he murmured absently, then turned his attention back to Mort. “I’m sure Bernie will be happy to drive you over to the clinic. Looks like this is going to need stitches.”
Mort gave his buddy a satisfied smirk. “Told you.”
“Don’t know why you’re making such a fuss over a little scratch,” Bernie grumbled.
Bill expertly applied a butterfly dressing to the wound, and the pair bickered their way toward the door.
“You owe me a buck for our bet on the last hole. Don’t try to weasel out of it.”
“Pure luck. No way you coulda made that shot. You’re not that good.”
“Wasn’t luck. Was skill.”
The pro shop seemed unnaturally quiet after the door closed behind the pair. Bill turned to Pam and me. “You ladies OK?”
“We’re fine, Bill,” I replied, answering for the both of us. “Thanks. You handled that situation like a pro.”
He shrugged off the compliment. “As long as it’s not a mangled body part, blood usually doesn’t bother me.”
One positive result from the little drama I had just wit nessed: I could cross Brad Murphy’s name off my list of suspects. Anyone who’d faint at a small laceration wasn’t the type to dismember a body.
Bill, on the other hand, hadn’t broken a sweat when confronted with Mort’s bloody gash. He remained calm, cool, and collected under pressure. I recalled an earlier conversation in which he told me he had been a hunter all his life. And he also had a year of medical school under his belt. Intuition told me he wasn’t capable of murder, but just like in
Law & Order
, life came with unexpected plot twists. I vowed to try harder to keep my investigation objective in spite of my burgeoning feelings for him.
I turned to Pam, who once again was inspecting the set of hybrid clubs. “Ready?”
“Let’s wait until Brad comes back,” she said. “I’m going to order these babies.”
I stared at my friend in disbelief. Who was this woman? Here was someone who hesitated to buy a sweater vest on clearance, yet was primed to buy a pricey set of golf clubs. Would wonders never cease?
I looked from her to Bill. Who knew what really went on inside a person?
Chapter 33
I aimlessly wandered the aisles of Wal-Mart. It was time to put my squeamishness to rest and reacquaint myself with deep discount prices. I wondered as I wandered: Had my visit to the pro shop been a waste of time, or not?
On the plus side, I was able to remove Brad Murphy from my list of suspects. That moved Dr. Jeffrey Baxter to the head of the class. He had blatantly lied about how well he knew Rosalie. What other secrets was he keeping? I had to admit, other than the fact he was drop-dead gorgeous and loved golf, I knew little about the man. Unfortunately, I wasn’t due to return to his office until next week. I didn’t want to wait that long. I wanted answers—and wanted them now.
Shampoo, hand lotion, and a giant bottle of multivitamins later, I ventured into the grocery section. Whether coincidence or subliminal craving, I’ll never know, but I happened to find myself in the candy aisle. My taste buds suddenly screamed for chocolate. To silence the internal racket, I reached for the industrial-size bag of peanut M&M’s. I’d store these in the pantry, I promised, for a future bunco game. But I knew full well I’d sample them first. I don’t believe in serving guests anything that hasn’t undergone a thorough taste test. Quality control is my middle name.
Mesmerized by all the selections, I dawdled in the candy aisle. With Halloween right around the corner, the shelves nearly buckled beneath the weight of all those tempting treats. A veritable bonanza of lollipops, candy bars, and bubble gum awaited little trick-or-treaters, causing parents to fret over sugar highs and cavities.
The word
cavities
reminded me of dentists. And dentists reminded me of Dr. Tall-Dark-and-Handsome. Resolutely I wheeled the buggy out of the candy aisle and headed for the produce department. It was here another display caught my attention: a display for caramel apples. Right next to a pyramid of bright red Jonathan and Delicious apples were bags and bags of caramels piled to eye level.
Be careful what you chew on the side with the temporary filling.
The dire warning had barely registered at the time. But it came back to me now . . . loud and clear. If I dislodged the temporary filling, it would mean an unscheduled visit to Dr. Baxter. I reached for the caramels.
Once I returned home from shopping, I made a turkey sandwich and treated myself to some sweets. My brain-storm worked like a champ. Two caramels later, I held the temporary filling in the palm of my hand. I tentatively explored the hole left behind with the tip of my tongue. It felt the size of a moon crater, but thankfully didn’t hurt. Dr. Baxter’s office had been very accommodating about my unfortunate “accident.” Megan said Dr. Wonderful would fit me in at the end of the day.
I just finished getting ready for my four-thirty appointment when the phone rang. It was my daughter, Jennifer.
“You mean to tell me a murderer lives right across the street from you?” Jen shrieked from Brentwood.
I held the phone farther from my ear. Even as a child, my daughter had a voice that carried. As a parent, that often proved embarrassing. More than once, I hustled the child out of McDonald’s without a Happy Meal.
“Mother, what kind of a place
are
you living in?
“Now, Jen, no need to blow it all out of proportion.” I have to admit this whole conversation was entirely my fault. I should have been prepared for her questions about the missing arm we found on the golf course instead of being caught off guard. “Besides, dear, I don’t think a man who grows orchids is capable of murder.”
“Orchids!” Jen’s voice rose again. “What do orchids have to do with any of this?”
“Growing orchids is tedious work. It requires patience and gentle loving care. Those are hardly the attributes I’d associate with a vicious killer.”
“You lost me at
vicious
,” Jen said. “I’m getting a headache. I think I need an aspirin.”
“No need to get upset, Jen. I’m perfectly fine.”
“I wish you’d reconsider and let me book you a flight to LA. You could spend quality time with the girls.”
Right.
I’d no sooner step foot off the plane than she’d be setting up one of those interventions like I’d seen on TV where family and friends gang up on a poor, unsuspecting substance abuser.
“What about the sheriff or the police? What are they doing? Are they just sitting by while this . . . this . . . maniac gets away with murder?”
I blew out a breath. “Sheriff Wiggins has to build a stronger case before the judge will issue an arrest warrant.”
“Well, I certainly hope he can do it without your assistance.”
I winced upon hearing that. I may have overstated my role in helping the sheriff solve this case just a teensy bit. I’d hoped Jen had forgotten that portion of our last conversation. “If the sheriff wasn’t competent, dear, he wouldn’t keep getting reelected.” I had no idea whether competency had anything to do with reelection, but it sounded good when I said it.
“What kind of sheriff needs help from an elderly woman?”
Elderly?
This was the second time my daughter had used that term to describe me. I didn’t care for it any more now than I did the first time. It had the same effect as chalk screeching on a blackboard. It set my teeth on edge. I struggled for forbearance. “Sheriff Wiggins needs more hard evidence before he can make an arrest.”
“I thought you said they found the murder weapon in the man’s garage.”
“We won’t know for sure if it’s really the weapon or not until the forensics report comes back from Columbia.”
Jen heaved a sigh. “Mother, you worry me. Why can’t you stay home and bake cookies like other grandmothers? You’re much too old for this sort of thing.”
Now it was my turn to sigh. “More’s the pity, dear. If I was younger, I’d seriously consider a career as a criminalist. Maybe it’s not too late to go back to school, take a few courses.”
“Mother!” Jen fairly exploded.
Ignoring her outburst, I continued in the same vein. “But math and science aren’t really my strong suits. I’d probably make a better detective than a criminalist.”
“Now I’m more than worried, I’m scared. You’re losing touch with reality.”
“Settle down, Jen,” I said with a laugh. “I was only kidding.” But what I didn’t tell her was that I was only half-kidding. The other half of me was dead serious.
“Well, I don’t think it’s funny,” Jen huffed, then changed the subject. “By the way, have you heard from Steven lately?”
“No, not since before his trip to . . . ?” The name of the place escaped me. Those darned senior moments always pick the most inopportune times. Here I was, trying to impress my daughter with my mental acuity, and I couldn’t remember which country my son had jetted off to in his eternal quest for gadgets.
“Sri Lanka,” Jen supplied for me. “I got an e-mail from him yesterday. Said he’d be home next week at the latest.” She hesitated a second. “Steven wondered if you had received the information he forwarded.”
“Oh, yes,” I replied, my tone subzero, “I received it all right.” I had not only received information on assisted-living centers but promptly placed it in a cylindrical file commonly called a trash can. What a waste of good paper, not to mention the cost of postage. Steven and I needed to have a talk about going green and the benefits of eliminating junk mail.
“Have you had a chance to look it over?”
I glanced at my watch and felt a wave of relief when I saw the time. “Hate to cut this short, honey, but I’ve got to run. Don’t want to be late for the dentist.”
Megan sat at the receptionist’s desk, her face a portrait of sympathy and commiseration. “I felt so bad when you called. I know how much you hate coming here.”
I gave her my best martyred look and shrugged. “Just one of those things.”
“What happened?”
“Car—” I started to say
caramel
, but caught myself in the nick of time. “Karma,” I amended. “Bad karma.”
“I hate to tell you this, but Dr. Baxter’s running behind schedule.”
He had probably allotted too little time for patients to admire his glow-in-the-dark smile. “No problem.”
It seemed like I had barely settled into a chair in the waiting room when Caitlin called my name and asked me to follow her. “I don’t know what could’ve gone wrong,” she said, apologizing profusely for my misfortune. “This almost never happens with Dr. Baxter’s patients. His tem poraries are the best.”
“These things happen.”
The minute Caitlin left the exam room, I hopped out of the chair and started poking around. I inspected the various plaques, studied the photos. A glossy of Phil Mickel son, sporting the coveted green jacket from his win at the Masters, smiled down at me. His pearly whites were impressive, but couldn’t compete with those in the photo of Tiger Woods in the adjoining room.
The walls were lined with more of the handsomely crafted shelves I had admired on my previous visit. Like the others, these held trophies interspersed with plastic models of dentures and a high-tech vibrating toothbrush. My respect for Dr. J.’s golfing prowess climbed a notch or two when I realized he often placed in the top ten in tournaments for such notable causes as Habitat for Humanity, United Way, and Juvenile Diabetes. One photo in particular caught my attention. I stepped closer for a better look. There, in the gallery of fans clustered around the winner’s circle, I thought I spotted a familiar figure.
“Afternoon, Kate.” Dr. I’m-a-Hunk came into the room. He stopped in midstride when he found me out of the chair and perusing his memorabilia. “Didn’t realize you were all that interested in the game.”
“This golf course.” I tapped my finger against the picture frame. “Is it around here somewhere?”
He gave it a cursory glance and motioned me back in the chair. “No, that was taken last spring when I played in a pro-am tournament in Myrtle Beach.”
“Do many people from Serenity Cove come out to watch you play?” I asked as I obediently returned to the dental chair.
“No.” He reached for a pair of gloves and tugged them on. “Why do you ask?”
I might have only imagined it, but it seemed his smile dimmed a kilowatt or two. “No special reason. It’s just that the woman in the background—the one wearing the red shirt—looks a lot like Rosalie.”
“Rosalie?” He picked up the temporary I had “accidentally” dislodged and started scraping off remnants of the bonding agent.
“Rosalie Brubaker,” I said. “I believe you two were partnered in the His and Hers Classic once upon a time.”
“No offense, Kate, but you strike me as a curious woman with too much time on her hands. Megan mentioned you were recently widowed. Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe you should find yourself a hobby.”
Was he really telling me to mind my own business? Were my questions making him uncomfortable? And if so, why?
He continued to clean residue from the temporary filling. His brows drew together as he encountered traces of a sticky substance buried in one of the crevices. “Hmm,” he muttered, then leaned so close I could see the pores in his face. “Now, why don’t you tell me exactly how this came off?”
Uh-oh.
I drew as far away as the headrest would permit. Once again the scene from
Marathon Man
flashed through my mind. In it, I could hear a wary Dustin Hoffman whisper,
“Is it safe?”