'Til Dice Do Us Part (29 page)

Ask any of my former houseguests and they’ll attest to my being an ideal hostess. I’d never dream of interfering with a guest’s privacy. After all, every person deserves their own space, and I respect that. This in mind, I picked up a stack of freshly laundered towels and headed for Krystal’s room.

And since I was already there, I decided I might as well look around.

I dutifully replaced the soiled towels with the fresh ones. I’d have to be blind as a bat not to notice the tubes of lip gloss, pots of blush, and wands of mascara strewn across the surface of the vanity.

Hitting PAUSE on sleuth mode, I strained my ears for any telltale sounds that might indicate Krystal’s return. The house was still. Thorough being my middle name, I tiptoed to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was no sign of Krystal’s car in the drive. If this were a movie, music would start to swell at this point, heightening the audience’s sense of suspense. I suppose I could have hummed a few bars, but I contented myself instead with tentatively sliding open the top drawer of the vanity.

I sucked in a breath. I’d struck pay dirt with the first shovel load. The entire drawer fairly exploded in a bonanza of hairbrushes, banana clips, headbands, and ponytail holders. My eyes rested on one elastic ponytail holder in particular that happened to be entwined with several long brunet strands of hair. Reaching for it, I accidentally knocked several of the brightly colored bands to the floor. As I replaced them, I noticed something dark and shiny shoved to the back of the drawer. I stared, fascinated, then slowly pulled the drawer out as far as it would go.

A dainty little handgun was nestled amongst the barrettes and headbands.

Next to it lay a box of bullets. They weren’t just any bullets, mind you, but, according to the bold black print on the box, the 9mm sort—the same caliber that killed Lance. I could feel my heart loudly knock against my ribs. I removed the box from the drawer, although it almost seemed to come of its own volition. As carefully as a bomb technician defusing a device that went ticktock, I slid off the cover. . . .

The box was half empty.

Polly frowned at me from her spot on the sofa. “Since when are you an expert on guns?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what makes you so sure the bullets are nine millimeter?”

I smiled, feeling smug. “Because that’s what it said on the label.”

“Ohh . . . Good detective work.”

Polly took another sip of her margarita. She was already on her second, and I’ll confess, I was a little concerned. If our suspect didn’t show up soon, we’d both be schnockered and in no shape to collect evidence. “Don’t forget our plan once Nadine gets here,” I warned. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“Do cats have whiskers?”

Not only did they have whiskers, but I had firsthand knowledge of their voracious appetite for tuna. I don’t know if all cats were programmed that way, but Tang certainly was. That confounded feline also had a predilection for the strange and unusual in the gift-giving department. Just yesterday I’d found a dead mouse on my doorstep when I went to bring in the paper. Then there was the matter of the dead canary, its poor little head all twisted, but I can’t lay the blame on Tang. He hasn’t mastered the nicety of gift boxes.

Polly helped herself to some of the bar mix I’d set out. “Next thing you know, you’ll be joining the Rod and Gun Club.”

“Stranger things have happened.” I helped myself to bar mix as well. In honor of Plan A, as I’d come to think of it, I’d brought out a gourmet concoction of mini pretzels, salted nuts, and garlic chips I’d been saving for bunco, along with a requisite case of Bud Light.

“Sure Nadine’s coming?”

I shifted on the sofa and plumped a pillow. “She didn’t say for sure. Said she’d think about it.”

“You mean I’m risking my liver, and she might be a no-show?”

“She’ll show,” I said without much conviction. My mind busily worked on Plan B, which also hinged on an ample supply of beer.

I was nearly ready to concede defeat when I heard a knock at the side door. I jumped up to answer before my guest changed her mind. “Nadine . . . ,” I cried with the enthusiasm usually reserved for BFFs. I slipped my arm through hers and drew her inside. “So glad you could join us for happy hour. We were afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Ah, well, I got a little bored sitting around.
Dr. Phil
was a rerun.”

Thank you,
Dr. Phil
, I said silently. Aloud I said, “Polly and I were just talking about you.”

She peered at me suspiciously. “Yeah, what about?”

“We’d like the chance to get to know you better.” I led her toward the great room where my partner in crime eagerly awaited.

“Almost did change my mind.” Nadine shrugged off her black leather jacket and slung it over a chair. “Never turn down a beer, but it don’t taste the same without a cigarette along with it.”

Right then and there, I knew the supreme sacrifice was called for. Even though it pained me, I broke one of my cardinal rules: no smoking in the house. Up until now, my home had remained a smoke-free environment, essentially a virgin to the tar and nicotine twins. But I was willing to lay down my principles for the life of a friend. This should win me the Purple Heart for bravery above and beyond the call of duty. “Go ahead,” I said with a smile that felt wooden. “Smoke if you want.”

Nadine looked at me oddly, then shrugged. “As long as you don’t mind . . .”

I handed her off to Polly. “Pardon me a sec. I’ll be right back with an ashtray and a beer. Want a glass?”

“Hell, no. Straight out of the bottle is best.”

Polly patted the cushion next to her. “Sit here. Take a load off.”

I scurried off to the kitchen. So far so good, I thought as I rummaged through a cupboard for an ashtray. I knew I had one of those darn things somewhere for the occasional smoker to use on the porch or out on the deck. I finally found one shoved way to the back of a cupboard behind the soup bowls. When I returned to the great room, I noticed Polly had topped off both our margaritas. Good thing I’d picked up extra mix. I only hoped my supply of tequila would hold out.

I took up a position on Nadine’s other side so that Polly and I flanked her on the sofa. “Here,” I said, setting down the ashtray and handing her an ice-cold brew. I slid the bowl of pretzel mix closer. I was operating under the theory that with the woman’s fondness for beer, she might have also developed a liking for bar food. “Help yourself.”

“So, Nadine,” Polly said, smiling the sweet grandmotherly smile she limits to infants and toddlers, “tell me more about striking it rich in the lottery. Never met an honest-to-goodness big-time winner before. Just between us girls, what’s it like?”

“Crazy, I tell you. Just plain crazy.” Nadine chugged her beer. “Reporters hound you day and night, always sticking a mike in your face and asking dumb questions. Things like what’re you gonna do with five million bucks? Duh! Any idiot knows the answer. Spend it, that’s what.”

“You don’t say,” Polly murmured. “Gotta be tough.”

“Damn right, it’s tough. Folks you went to grade school with and haven’t heard from since suddenly remember you’re their best friend. Then there’re the vultures, strangers, who start pestering. Invest in this, they say; invest in that. Go to hell, I tell ’em. I might not have a fancy education, but I’m no dummy.”

Careful not to spill a drop, Polly raised her glass and clinked it against Nadine’s bottle. “You go, girlfriend.”

I fought the temptation to roll my eyes. Next they’d be singing “Kumbaya” in two-part harmony.

“Lance would’ve shit a brick if he knew how much I was worth. He thought he could wave a measly ten grand in my face and I’d disappear. Well, it didn’t work that way.” Nadine’s spooky green eyes held a fiendish glow of satisfaction. “Boy, was he pissed when I told ’im I intended to stick around for a while.”

The instant Nadine slid a cigarette from her ever-present pack and flicked her Bic, I knew we were off to a running start. I sat back, prepared to enjoy the show. I didn’t have long to wait.

Polly kept the conversational ball afloat. “Kate mentioned you and Ledeaux had a kid together.”

“Yeah, a girl, Julie. She’s studying to be a nurse.”

Nadine polished off her beer and burped. I raced to get her another.

“If she’s anything like her mother, I bet she’ll make a good one, too,” Polly remarked as I returned.

“Damn right she will. That girl’s not the least bit squeamish. Strong as an ox, too.” I tried not to cringe as Nadine aimed a stream of smoke at my pristine ceiling.

Nadine was well into her third beer when I gave Polly the high sign we’d agreed upon earlier. Time had come to get this little show of ours on the road. And we needed to do it before Polly drank herself into oblivion. Her small frame was no competition against Nadine’s when it came to alcohol consumption. I’m afraid I wasn’t faring much better. I felt a slight buzz as I got up to refill the bar mix. I’d no doubt, Nadine, on the other hand, could drink a stevedore under the table.

Setting the munchies on the coffee table, I
accidentally
bumped Nadine’s pack of smokes and knocked them to the carpet where they scattered. Originally, I’d planned to spill bar mix, but this worked even better. There was nothing more precious to Nadine than her cigarettes—unless it was Bud Light. “Oh dear,” I exclaimed in my best amateur-actress voice. “How clumsy of me.”

“Here,” Polly chimed, right on cue. “Let me help.”

Nadine had beaten us to the punch and was already bent over picking up cigarettes. Our three heads butted together as we worked diligently. Just then Polly’s charm bracelet
accidentally
tangled in Nadine’s long, dark mane. Giving her wrist a sharp jerk, she broke free.

“Ouch!” Nadine squealed, holding her head and glaring at Polly. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me a bald spot.”

“Sorry,” Polly said, attempting to sound contrite. “Guess I need to lay off the margaritas.”

I could barely keep the smirk from my face when Polly glanced at me when Nadine wasn’t looking. I wanted to high-five her so badly, I could scarcely contain myself.

After her fourth beer and countless cigarettes, Nadine finally decreed an end to happy hour. I made a mental note to call Gloria and have her fetch Polly, who had made a valiant attempt to match Nadine drink for drink. Polly definitely needed a designated driver, and I knew better than to think it should be me.

Polly hiccupped. “That went well, don’t you think?”

I eyed her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “Sure you want to help with this?”

“Of course,” she replied indignantly. “I was ready to risk my lungs and liver for the sake of our little experiment. I aim to see it through.”

“Then, my dear Sherlock, let’s proceed.”

She swayed a little when she rose to her feet, and I put a hand out to steady her. “I think we should reverse roles. You’d better let me be Sherlock.”

“Whatever you say.” She hiccupped again.

Gloria was going to read me the riot act when she saw what condition her mother was in. I could hardly blame her. But Polly wasn’t an easy person to control. That sounded lame, even to my ears, but it was the best I could come up with, given the circumstances. I steered my cohort in crime into the dining room and nudged her into a chair.

Earlier I’d decided the dining room was the best location for our little
experiment
, as Polly aptly phrased it. It also eliminated the possibility of Nadine’s glancing in this direction from across the street and seeing our heads together. Using tweezers from Tools of the Trade, I carefully transferred the hair we’d found in the dressing room onto a sheet of white computer paper and labeled it EXHIBIT ONE. Next to it, I placed the hair sample I’d found twisted around Krystal’s ponytail elastic, labeling it with her name and EXHIBIT TWO. Last, but by no means least, came Nadine’s hair that had been
accidentally
caught in Polly’s charm bracelet; this I labeled EXHIBIT THREE. I knew it was important to handle each strand with care. I’m pretty sure it had to do with hair follicles and DNA, but after a couple margaritas I wouldn’t swear to it.

“Hey, Kate, you really know your stuff. You could be one of those SCI types like on TV.”

SCI?
Somehow that didn’t sound right, but I didn’t quite know why. I’d figure it out later. Basking in Polly’s admiration, I was tempted to pull on latex gloves. That might be a nice touch, but it was probably overkill. Next I took out my fancy schmancy bright yellow LED flashlight, which had cost an arm and a leg, along with a magnifying glass. If people kept showing up dead around Serenity Cove, it might be time to invest in one of those jeweler’s loupes. I’d think about it once my head cleared. I gave Polly a sidelong glance and saw that she was watching my every move with rapt, if bleary-eyed, attention. Using the Marg Helgenberger, aka Catherine Willows, single-fisted technique, I methodically scanned all three hair samples.

Polly leaned so close, I could smell the tequila on her breath. “Holy crap!”

We’d landed in the macaroni, an expression Jim’s Italian coworker was fond of saying. We’d gotten lucky. The answer as to whom the hair belonged was plainly visible to the naked eye. There appeared to be a distinct color variation between the strands we’d obtained from Krystal and Nadine. Exhibit Two, Krystal’s, showed dark with underlying red highlights. Nadine’s, Exhibit Three, was dark as mud with no highlights whatsoever. It was also gray near the root because its owner, Nadine, needed a touch-up. The answer was blatantly obvious even to a pair of half-inebriated detectives.

Polly and I stared at each other. For a long moment neither of us spoke. Finally I broke the silence. “The hair you found matches Krystal’s. That means she was backstage the afternoon—or maybe the evening—Lance was shot.”