Whack 'n' Roll (16 page)

“Great. We don’t get many cancellations. Turn this one down, you’ll have to wait till your scheduled appointment. If that tooth is bothering you, you really need to have the dentist look at it.”

I groaned inwardly. Since when had sweet, precious Megan turned into my mother? Next, she’d be scolding me for eating too many sweets. “All right, all right, I’ll be there.”

“Don’t be mad, Kate, but if you don’t take care of it, it could abscess.”

“Sorry, hon, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s not your fault I’m dental phobic.” I had assumed everyone was aware of my little idiosyncrasy. Conceited of me, I know, but I had done everything short of taking out an ad in the
Serenity Sentinel
to advertise the fact.

“You’ll see, Kate,” Megan gushed. “All the ladies have a crush on him.”

“I don’t want to fall in love, Megan. I just don’t want him to hurt me.” I knew I sounded childish, but didn’t care.

Megan laughed, obviously not taking my fear seriously. “Dr. Baxter doesn’t believe in pain. You’ll like him, I promise. Now I’ve got to go, someone’s at the desk. See you this afternoon.”

The rest of the morning, I took out my frustration on the kitchen floor, scrubbing the ceramic tile until it was antiseptically clean. Antiseptically clean? That phrase only reminded me of my looming appointment with the irresistible Dr. Baxter.

I had just put away the mop when the phone rang again. I crossed my fingers hoping it was Megan calling to say Dr. Baxter had been unexpectedly called to East Africa and wouldn’t be available to see me after all. No such luck.

“Hey, Kate,” Diane greeted me. “I wanted to let you know that book you had me order by interlibrary loan just came in. Thought if you happened to be in town this afternoon, you might want to swing by and pick it up.”

“Well, that was quick.” My appetite for forensics whetted, I’d asked Diane to see if she could find me a copy of forensics text I’d seen advertised.

“I’m not sure why you want this. I leafed through it, and it looks kind of technical.”

“Curious is all. If nothing else, it might help put me to sleep. Heaven knows the Sandman, the electronic marvel I paid good money for, hasn’t been much help.”

“Book’s at the front desk. Just ask for it if I’m not here.”

“Thanks, Diane. I’ll stop by after my dentist appointment.”

“Sounds like a fun afternoon,” Diane chuckled. “Don’t worry, Dr. Baxter’s a dream. Everyone loves him.”

“So I’ve heard.”

In spite of the ringing endorsements of my friends, I still had my doubts.

 

Megan, looking perky as could be in pink dental scrubs with dancing green toothbrushes, handed me a clipboard. With her long hair pulled back into a ponytail, she could easily have passed for sixteen instead of twenty. “Since you’re new here, Kate, would you mind filling these out?”

I dutifully filled out the forms, then plopped down in the waiting room and leafed through a magazine to keep from fidgeting. I had to give Dr. Baxter credit. Unlike the sheriff’s, his office carried a huge variety of magazines that appealed to every taste and age group. And none more than a month old.

Sheriff Wiggins could also learn a thing or two from the good doctor about decor. The entire waiting room was devoted to golf. Not just ordinary golf, but the big daddy of golf itself—the Masters. As anyone in close proximity of Augusta, Georgia, knows, the Masters Tournament is the real deal. The first week of April, Augusta doesn’t just hum; it buzzes. We feel that buzz all the way up the road at Serenity Cove Estates. Friends and relatives, some of whom we haven’t heard from since kindergarten, converge in our homes and guest rooms looking for free room and board while scrambling for tickets.

Even nongolfers ooh and aah over the banks of splashy pink azaleas and lacy white dogwood. It’s truly a sight to behold.

An attractive young woman in scrubs identical to Megan’s appeared in the doorway and called my name. Megan gave me a thumbs-up as I passed the office area and followed the dental assistant, who introduced herself as Caitlin, down a hallway lined with exam rooms. After I was seated, the young woman clipped a paper bib around my neck and informed me Dr. Baxter would be with me shortly.

Even the exam room carried out the golf motif. Mounted right next to a diagram depicting the ravages of gum disease was an autographed photo of Tiger Woods. Tiger’s picture revealed an awesome display of perfect white teeth. The ideal choice for a dentist’s office. Someone should tell Tiger that if he ever loses his golf endorsements, he’d make a fortune hawking dental floss. Along with legendary golf prowess, the man looked blessed with cavity-free choppers. Some things just aren’t fair.

At precisely two forty-five, I found the reason why ladies took one look and promptly fell in lust with Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. When good looks were handed out, he must have been at the front of the line. He put Brad Murphy to shame. Movie-star handsome, he reminded me of a youthful Rock Hudson, or the more contemporary Ben Affleck.

“Afternoon, Mrs. McCall.” He offered his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

I wished I could say the same, but the sentiment stuck in my mouth like glue.

“Megan said you’re a good friend of her mother and warned me to be on my best behavior.”

His smile was dazzling. He could have been, hands down, the poster boy for every teeth-whitening product on the market. I returned the smile, and made a weak stab at witty repartee. “I see you’re a golfer.”

“Love everything about golf. Unfortunately my game isn’t at a level to support the lifestyle to which I’ve grown accustomed. I still like to eat three squares a day and have a roof over my head.” He gave me a self-deprecatory smile as he snapped on latex gloves.

A killer smile. And charm. A wicked combination.

“Now, what brings you here when you could be out on the course?”

I felt myself tense. Chitchat I could handle. What I didn’t like was this getting-down-to-business stuff. “I have a sensitive area in one of my lower molars. On the right.”

“Well, let’s just take a look, shall we?” He slipped a mask in place and put on a pair of plastic goggles.

I gripped the arms of the chair as I felt it recline. Now, this is the part where I get
really
tense. The part when I have to open my mouth. I watched him pick up a sharp, pointy instrument and steeled myself for the worst. The elusive name of the movie about the evil dentist popped into mind:
Marathon Man
, in which a helpless Dustin Hoffman was tormented by a diabolical Sir Laurence Olivier.

“Don’t be nervous. I’m not going to hurt you.”

No sooner were the words spoken than I felt that familiar
zing
.

“Sorry about that,” Dr. Ben-Affleck-Handsome apologized. He pulled down his mask, removed gloves and goggles. “Looks like you fractured an old filling. I’ll know more after Caitlin takes a few X-rays. Afterwards I’ll be back to discuss a treatment plan.”

I shot the photo of Tiger Woods a resentful glance, then settled back to await my fate.

“How bad is it, Dr. Baxter?” I asked the second he returned carrying my X-rays.

“Call me Jeff.” He gave me his megawatt smile. “Just as I suspected, you’re going to need a crown on that tooth. Good thing, though, if you waited any longer, you’d need a root canal. Have Megan set up an appointment for next week. We’ll get the prep work done and get you fitted for a crown.”

“That sounds painful.” I sounded pitiful; I sounded whiny. I didn’t care. “I should’ve told you I’m dental phobic.”

He patted my shoulder. “Promise you, it won’t hurt a bit.”

“You’re sure?” I asked in a pathetic bid for reassurance.

“Don’t worry—do you mind if I call you Kate?—I’ll numb you up real good. If you like, I’ll give you a little gas just to help you relax.” He held out his hand again. “See you next week. In the meantime, if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call the office.”

Good news. Bad news.

Good news: I needed a crown. Bad news: I needed a crown. Maybe I hadn’t fallen head over heels in love, but at the promise of no pain in a dentist’s chair, I could be smitten.

 

At the library, Diane had my book waiting for me on a shelf behind the checkout counter. The flyleaf promised to tell me everything I ever wanted to know about DNA and then some. Wouldn’t Jim have been surprised to know my reading tastes have expanded beyond romance novels?

I spotted Janine, who works as a volunteer, industriously shelving books and waved at her. She waved back. I checked out my book and was about to leave when Diane motioned me aside.

“Have you heard the news?” she whispered.

“What news?” I asked. “The only news I’ve heard is that I need a crown on my back molar.”

“The sheriff called a press conference on the courthouse steps for four o’clock.”

“Press conference?” My stomach clenched. This sounded serious. I’m not a betting person, but I’d bet the bank this was big news. First the grisly find at the recycling center, then Rosalie’s hairbrush. Two and two weren’t adding up to coincidence.

“Think I’ll stick around. I don’t want to wait until the news at six to find out what’s going on.”

“Me either,” Diane agreed. “I’m off at four. Janine and I will meet you there.”

I checked my watch. It was only three thirty. Plenty of time to drive from Serenity Cove to Brookdale. “I’ll call Pam.”

“I’ll call Gloria.” Diane was already pulling out her cell phone. “You know how Polly hates being the last one to find things out.”

 

Some things might move slowly here in the South, but news isn’t one of them. News or gossip, whichever the case may be, travels at the speed of sound. Both Brookdale and Serenity Cove Estates were well represented on the courthouse lawn.

A news crew from an affiliate station in Augusta had just finished setting up. I recognized several faces from the anchor desk of the nightly news but, since I was having another of those darn senior moments, couldn’t put names with the faces. I’d remember, but probably at two in the morning. I also noticed a couple reporters and a photographer from the local paper. Shortly before four o’clock, Pam arrived slightly out of breath with Monica in tow. Polly and Gloria were close behind. Diane and Janine were the last to join our group of Bunco Babes clustered in the shade of a willow oak.

“Looks like we got here in the nick of time.” Diane glanced around, taking in the crowd. “I was afraid we were going to be late.”

“What do you think the sheriff’s going to tell us?” Pam asked.

Gloria hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. I noticed in her haste she had forgotten to don her jewelry. “Do you suppose the murder victim’s been identified?”

I shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“I wore my new outfit,” Polly announced, resplendent in canary yellow pants and top. “You know—in case I get interviewed. Reporters are always on the lookout for eyewitness accounts. I heard bright colors show up best.”

Janine smiled at her fondly and patted her arm. “You always look pretty, Polly, no matter what color you wear.”

Monica hugged her arms around her body, her expression grim. “I only hope this isn’t about body parts.”

We didn’t have long to speculate before the sheriff stepped out the front door and strode to the podium that had been set up for the occasion. In his hand, he held a prepared statement.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he began in that lovely voice of his. “I called y’all here this afternoon to end speculation and request help from the community in solvin’ this case.

“The Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department, assisted by the Brookdale Police Department and the South Carolina Law Enforcement Division, have been successful in ascertainin’ the identity of a female victim of a homicide. DNA extracted from hair follicles match those of the victim, who has been positively identified as Rosalie Brubaker.”

Chapter 18

Rosalie?

We were speechless.

I glanced into my friends’ faces. Tears silently streamed down Janine’s cheeks. Monica stood, arms wrapped around her middle, ghostly pale and tight-lipped. Polly seemed to have donned a wizened mask, for once looking every minute of her age. Gloria’s face was drawn and worried as she placed her arm around her mother’s shoulders. Pam wept quietly. Diane pressed a hand against her mouth to hold back sobs. As for me, I felt numb all over. As though my entire body had just received a megadose of Novocain. Reaction, I knew, would set in later. Just as it had when Jim died.

The voice of the news anchor from Augusta sliced through our shock. “Could you spell the victim’s name for us, Sheriff?”

The sheriff complied. Hearing him do this made the situation all the more surreal. As of one accord, the Babes and I huddled together, our arms wrapped around one another for support, for comfort. We all knew Rosalie in varying degrees either as neighbors or friends or bunco partners. Regardless of how well or how little we knew her, all of us mourned her passing.

The rest of those assembled obviously didn’t share our grief. Life went on. Hands flew upward. Questions demanded answers. A cacophony of sound rose from the crowd as reporters shouted questions at Sheriff Wiggins. I wanted to put my hands over my ears to block out the noise.

“One at a time!” The sheriff held up his hand for silence. “I’ll take your questions one at a time.”

“Sheriff . . . ?” a pert blonde in a navy blue pantsuit and too much makeup called out. “What can you tell us about the cause of death?”

“Sheriff, have you found the murder weapon?” asked a man with a receding hairline and an expensive sport coat. Apparently he hadn’t fully grasped the concept of “one at a time” in journalism class.

“We’re still lookin’ for the murder weapon.” Sheriff Wiggins waited a beat while reporters scribbled notes. “I can tell you this, however: The cause of death is listed as blunt-force trauma to the head.”