Whack 'n' Roll (13 page)

Clutching the same half-empty bag in one hand, I set off to pay Earl a house call. I knocked on the door, once, twice, three times, then waited. Finally the porch light came on. I could sense an eyeball pressed against the peephole. Just for the heck of it, I wanted to press mine against it, too, but managed to restrain myself. The notion of being eyeball-to-eyeball with Earl Brubaker left a lot to be desired.

The inspection over, the door opened, and I found myself face-to-face with Earl. At least I assumed it was Earl. The eyes and nose looked the same as always, but it was the lower half of his face that gave me pause. Thick salt-and-pepper stubble covered his jaw and upper lip. A bumper crop of hair grew out of his various orifices.
Ee-yew!
I said to myself.
Gross!
Had I seen this face on a wanted poster? Or did it really belong to Earl Brubaker?

“Kate . . . ?” He scratched his head, which by the way was sorely in need of a barber.

“Hey, Earl,” I said. “Growing a beard, eh.” I’d bet my last dollar he was still wearing the same faded golf shirt and rumpled khakis that he had on the last time I’d seen him.

“Kate . . . I . . . er, I’m kind of busy right now.”

He looked busy all right, busy being a slob. I shoved the bag of sugar at him. “Thought I’d better return this in case you decided to bake cupcakes.”

“Unhh . . . ,” he grunted.

I half turned as if to leave, then turned back. “By the way,” I said with a studied casualness that would have made my high school drama coach proud, “I haven’t seen Rosalie around the rec center lately. She still out of town?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“You guess?”

He shrugged. “We’re not much for talking on the phone while she’s away.”

“So you haven’t heard from her?” I persisted. My internal antennae along with a host of red flags were waving like mad.

“Nah, didn’t expect to.” He scratched his head again. His hair was so . . . unkempt, I wondered whether he had things living in it. Or maybe he was searching for a new style, dreadlocks à la Bob Marley.

“Why don’t you expect to hear from her?” I asked.

“We had a little spat before she left.” He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the doorsill. “I think she’s mad at me.”

I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t help myself. I’ve always been a pushover for basset hounds with their big, sad brown eyes and that was precisely what Earl reminded me of. “Whatever you fought over, Earl, I’m sure she’ll get over it by the time she gets home.”

“Maybe,” he mumbled, looking dejected. “Maybe not.”

I didn’t know what else to say so thought it might be a good time to make my exit. “Well, Earl, gotta be going. Tell Rosalie, whenever you talk to her, to give me a call. Maybe we can do lunch.”

The door closed in my face before I finished speaking. I’m not sure whether he heard the part about doing lunch.

I walked home slowly. The night was beautiful, almost as bright as day thanks to a full moon. From the very first, Serenity Cove Estates had always seemed aptly named. Peaceful, serene, safe. It was hard to believe there was a killer on the loose. A sick pervert responsible for bringing murder and mayhem to our quiet little corner of the world. It was harder yet to imagine that a woman I knew might be the killer’s victim.

I thought about the conversation I’d just had with Earl. He had admitted he and Rosalie had argued. Had the argument turned violent? Violent enough for him to kill her? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine Earl guilty of that much passion. I just couldn’t. Besides, I hadn’t noted a single bead of sweat on his brow or a single dart of the eye.

So lost in thought was I that I nearly missed seeing a package tucked behind a pot of mums by the side door. I hoped it was the Sandman
.
I needed a fancy electronic device if I was ever going to get any sleep without worrying about friends disappearing. I picked up the package and brought it inside. After double-checking to make sure the doors were locked, I opened the box. It wasn’t the Sandman
,
but the next-best thing.
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics.
I could read myself to sleep.

I opened the book, and there it was: “An Investigator’s Toolkit.” A comprehensive checklist of items needed by crime-scene investigators. I got out paper and pencil and went to work.

Chapter 14

Tai Chi is purported to reduce stress. Just the ticket, I decided. I definitely needed to relax, unwind. I felt wound tighter than a child’s top, ready to spin out of control. I was the last of the class to arrive. Marian acknowledged my presence with a nod as I slipped into place next to Pam at the back of the room.

Tai Chi is also supposed to improve concentration and focus. Problem was, I was concentrating and focusing on all the wrong things.

Things like body parts.

“You look tense,” Pam whispered as she performed a series of warm-up exercises.

I swiveled my neck to the right, held it for a beat. I could hear my vertebrae go snap, crackle, pop. Rotated my neck back to the center. Then repeated the exercise to the left. “Tense? I look tense?” Was Pam deaf? Couldn’t she hear my joints crackle like a bowl of breakfast cereal?

Marian glared at us from the front of the room. “Quiet, class,” she instructed in a hushed tone. “Block out all external distractions. Clear your mind.”

Easy for her to say, I thought grumpily. She didn’t find an arm in a Wal-Mart bag. She didn’t have three people she knew disappear without a trace. Marian pressed a button of the compact stereo, and the room filled with soft, hypnotic music. I followed Marian through a series of warm-up exercises. Gradually the popping in my joints subsided to a level where I was probably the only one who could hear them.

“Wave Hands like Heavenly Clouds,” Marian murmured.

Raising my arms over my head, I swayed back and forth. I tried my best to let the flowing Chi flow. To listen to my inner self and block out everything else. “Pssst . . .”

I kept right on waving at those invisible clouds on the rec center’s ceiling as if I hadn’t heard Pam hiss. Marian would be pleased at my progress.

“Pssst . . .” Pam again, louder, more insistent. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing . . . everything,” I muttered. I felt angry at myself and frustrated by my attempt to play detective. Would any detective worth his salt hand a possible murder suspect a bag of sugar and then walk away feeling sorry for him? I hadn’t done my job last night. I was determined not to let the matter rest. There must be something more. . . .

Class over, I hefted my purse onto my shoulder. “I’m going to stop by the pro shop before I go home. I heard Brad Murphy was giving a putting clinic. I thought I’d sign up if it isn’t too late. Besides, this will give me a chance to ask him if he knows anything about Rosalie.”

“Fine, I’ll go with you. I heard they’re having an end-of-season sale on golf shoes. I could use a new pair.”

We climbed into Pam’s golf cart and zipped over to the pro shop. While Pam tried on shoes, I studied the bulletin board tacked near the entrance. Since there were still openings for the putting clinic, I added my name to the list.

Pam couldn’t decide between a pair of tan and white saddle-shoe-style or a white pair with a black argyle pattern. I suppose a really good friend would have helped end the agony. My advice would have been to buy them both. Even on a fixed income, I know a bargain when I see one. Pam, however, is the model of frugality, so I kept my opinion to myself and perused the bulletin board instead. Looking at a listing of handicaps, I happened upon an announcement of an upcoming member-member tournament nearly hidden beneath it. I also noticed Rosalie Brubaker was the chairperson.

Just then, Brad Murphy, the golf pro, came out of his office at the rear. Now, let me tell you, Brad is a good-looking specimen. In my humble estimation, he looks the way a golf pro should look. Tall, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a terrific tan. Short sun-bleached strawberry blond hair and nice brown eyes complete the picture. The way he fills out a golf shirt, he could model for an ad in
Golf Digest
.

“How’s the game, Mrs. McCall?”

“It’s still a work in progress, Brad. I just signed up for your putting clinic. Hope it’ll help.”

“That’s the spirit. Saw you looking at the announcement for the ladies member-member. Thinking about giving it a shot?”

“No, not me.” I laughed. “I’m not ready to subject a friend to that kind of torture.”

“If you want some private lessons to tune up your game, just give me a call.”

I remembered a comment someone had made about Rosalie perpetually taking golf lessons from Brad. I could see how she might be tempted. Just wait until she got a load of Earl’s new beach-bum look. The driving range at the course would be getting more use than the range in her kitchen. Earl didn’t stand a chance.

“I understand Rosalie Brubaker is chairing the committee,” I added as casually as I could.

Brad ran a hand through his strawberry blond locks. “I’m on the verge of asking for another volunteer. The sign-up sheet should have been posted a week ago. The manager of the Watering Hole complained that Rosalie still hasn’t sat down with her to discuss the luncheon menu.”

“I’m sure Rosalie has a good reason why not.” But the words, even to my own ears, lacked conviction. “I heard she’s visiting grandkids in upstate New York.”

“It’s not like Rosalie,” Brad said, moving off. “She’s usually on top of things.”

In my mind’s eye, red flags fluttered in the breeze.

 

After an unscheduled trip to Wal-Mart to pick up a few items, I devoted the remainder of the afternoon to household chores. I dusted, ran the vacuum cleaner, and did a couple loads of laundry. It wasn’t until after dinner—a Margherita pizza that I’d been hoarding in the freezer, saving it for a rainy day—that I remembered that tomorrow was trash pickup. I shuddered at the word. In my mind
trash
had become synonymous with
arm
. It’s hard for me to comprehend that someone had ruthlessly killed another human being, then discarded the body like so much trash. Whoever did it needed to be caught. And punished.

I went room to room emptying wastebaskets. I dumped it all into a larger can under the kitchen sink and tossed the whole works into an even larger can in the garage. I grabbed the handle, tilted the can, and wheeled it to the curb. Taking out the trash always used to be Jim’s job. There’s something macho attached to taking out the garbage. Women could bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, but the man of the house hauled out the trash. Let me ask you, is that an equal division of labor?

I met Earl down at the curb. Even though the Brubakers’ house sits on the corner of Loblolly Court and Shady Lane, both our driveways are entered off Loblolly Court. “Hey there, Earl,” I greeted him.

He looked up and grunted.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” How’s that for a witty conversational gambit?

Earl parked the heavy trash container next to his mailbox. “Yeah, I guess.”

I squinted, trying to see him better in the dim light. I really did new need glasses, or maybe LASIK surgery. But even in the moonlight, I could see he still hadn’t bothered to shave. He looked more and more like a caveman each time I saw him. “How’re things going?”

He mumbled something and turned to head up the drive.

“Heard from Rosalie?”

“Nah, not a word.” He called back over his shoulder. “She’s probably still mad.”

I slowly walked back toward the house, closed the overhead garage door, and went inside, taking care to twist the dead bolt behind me. Next thing I’d be shopping at the Humane Society for a pit bull.

Home again, I brewed a cup of chamomile tea and sat down at the kitchen table. While waiting for it to cool, I flipped through
The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Forensics
. Just out of curiosity, I turned to the section on human hair. I learned hair can be helpful in identifying a victim, but examiners need to match it to a specific individual.

I don’t know exactly how long I sat there stockpiling tidbits of information I’ll probably never use, but when I glanced across the cul-de-sac at the Brubakers’, I noticed the house was dark. Earl must have gone to bed early for a change. I surely would have noticed if his car had backed out. Sitting where I was, I would’ve seen the flash of tail-lights. Earl had looked ready to drop with exhaustion. The bags under his eyes looked like the luggage variety. Not the little carry-on type either, but the hefty kind you check at the gate.

I stared across the way. Not a single light gleamed. I could barely make out the dark blur of trash cans parked along the curb. Although I hated the thought, Rosalie was still unaccounted for. Before I could talk myself out of it, I decided to test-drive my brand-new crime-scene-investigation kit.

I grabbed my fire-engine red tackle box—courtesy of Wal-Mart’s sporting-goods department—from atop the washing machine and left by the side door. I’d been careful not to turn on any outside lights. I stopped, looked, and listened from the shadow of my Japanese maple. All was quiet at the junction of Loblolly Court and Shady Lane. Up and down Shady Lane, trash cans lined the curb like good little soldiers standing at attention. Lights from TV sets flickered in some windows. The good citizens of Serenity Cove were all snug as bugs in their homes, resting up after another hectic day. Retirement, as I often tell anyone who’ll listen, isn’t for sissies.

It was now or never.

I gripped the tackle box, alias Tools of the Trade, tighter in my hot little hand and hustled across the street. At the end of the Brubakers’ drive, I set Tools of the Trade on the ground and snapped open the lid. I tugged on a pair of latex gloves—also courtesy of Wal-Mart—and took out my spanking new, high-intensity LED flashlight, which had been horrendously priced for a widow on a fixed income. But I splurged and bought it anyway. It came in either yellow or black. Naturally I picked the yellow. I’d even e-mailed CBS about the type of flashlights used on
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
, but I hadn’t gotten a response. They probably thought I was some sort of nutcase.