Whack 'n' Roll (6 page)

Disgusted at my oversight, I dumped the entire pan load of cookie dough back into the mixing bowl. No wonder I couldn’t concentrate. I was worried sick about Claudia.

Claudia has an adventurous streak I’ve always admired. She’d single-handedly raised two sons after her auto-exec husband left her for his busty, twentysomething secretary. A cliché, I know, but it happens. By dint of hard work and determination, she became a top-selling Realtor in Oak-land County, Michigan, while seeing her boys through college. One of her sons is a successful surgeon somewhere in Chicago, the other an aeronautical engineer in Seattle. After years of putting her boys first, Claudia decided it was time to kick up her heels. She sold her home in Farmington Hills, bought a house here in Serenity Cove Estates, and settled down to enjoy the good life.

I dumped enough chocolate into the mixing bowl to induce a diabetic coma. No need for an electric mixer, I thought as I whipped the spatula through the cookie dough at high speed. Still, I couldn’t get Claudia out of my mind. Wild and wacky, Claudia is the Bunco Babe version of Auntie Mame. Drama Club, Novel Nuts, and the Serenity Singers—Claudia dived into these activities with abandon. Recently, however, she had discovered a new interest. Internet dating. Claudia, being Claudia, embraced this new hobby with her usual zest. Now, on a whim, she had gone off with a man she barely knew—a virtual stranger. She had pooh-poohed warnings from the Bunco Babes, insisting she knew what she was doing.

But did she?

I remember reminding Claudia that Ted Bundy seemed like a perfect gentleman, too, until women started showing up dead. Claudia had been gone over a week without a single word to any of us. I needed to make sure Sheriff Wiggins put Claudia’s name at the top of his missing-persons list.

For the second time that morning, I rolled perfect little balls of dough and lined them on the baking sheet like good little soldiers. And if Claudia weren’t worry enough, there was also the matter of Vera’s unexplained absence.

Vera always struck me as the sensible and down-to-earth sort. Definitely not the type to just up and leave a perfectly good job as waitress at the Cove. Granted, I didn’t know much about the woman’s personal life, but I promised myself to find out more next chance I got.

I glanced out the window and watched Earl Brubaker back down his drive. I tried to remember the last time I’d seen Rosalie, but couldn’t seem to recall how long it’d been. I wondered if I should add her to my missing-persons list.

With concerned citizens such as myself, there’d be no need for a hotline. Why, the sheriff would probably be downright grateful for my assistance. And even more grateful once he got a taste of the treats I was bringing him. I smiled at the thought.

Just as I was about to pop the pan of cookies into the oven, the kitchen filled with smoke.

“Damn, damn, damn,” I swore aloud, glad no one was around to hear me.

I cracked open the oven door and immediately spotted the problem. With all the goings-on, I had forgotten to clean the spills from an apple pie that had baked over. Apparently a self-cleaning oven doesn’t just clean itself.

My eyes watered from the smoke. I cranked the kitchen window wide, then flipped the switch for the overhead fan. I waited for the blades to whirl and clear the air, but nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. I flicked the switch a couple times for good measure. Still nothing.

“Damn, damn, damn,” I swore again, louder this time. I always feel so helpless when things around the house need attention. In all our years together, I had depended on Jim to fix things. He could unclog a drain, repair a dishwasher, or install a ceiling fan. You name it, Jim could do it. Of course, in the process, he made my limited use of swear-words seem amateurish.

Thank goodness for double ovens, I thought. While waiting for the convection oven to preheat, I reached for the phone. Why let your fingers do the walking when you have friends like Pam? Pam has been in Serenity Cove the longest of any of my friends. She’s the go-to person when I want information. Looking for carpet cleaners, a window washer, or a landscaper—Pam is the person to ask.

Pam picked up on the third ring.

“I have a problem,” I explained, getting straight to the point. “The fan in my kitchen just committed suicide. Do you happen to know a good handyman?”

“Give me a sec.” I could hear the rustle of pages at the other end of the line. Pam rattled off a number. I scribbled it down. “You’ll like him. He’s a real gem.”

“Does this ‘real gem’ have a name?”

“Yeah, of course,” Pam said with a laugh. “It’s Bill—Bill Lewis. As a matter of fact, you met him yesterday.”

“I did?” If I had, he certainly failed to make much of an impression. Then again, other matters had made too much of one, but I didn’t want to go there.

“Bill also works as a ranger on the golf course.”

“Bill . . . ? The guy who barfed?”

“The one and only. Give him a chance, Kate,” Pam urged. “Don’t condemn the guy because he has a sensitive stomach.”

I glanced up at my dead ceiling fan and heaved a sigh. “OK, OK, I’ll call him, but he better not lose his lunch all over my nice clean kitchen floor.”

“Just don’t have any nasty surprises in store for the poor man.”

I doodled a chain of daisies on the pad where I had written Bill’s number. “I know it’s only been an hour since the last time we talked, but I don’t suppose you’ve heard from Claudia?” I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

“No, not a word. I have to admit, Kate, I’m concerned. Do you think we should try to contact her sons? Ask them if they’ve heard from their mother?”

I thought about this for a moment. “I hate to worry them. Besides, we still don’t know whether the arm belongs to a man or a woman. Let’s wait until we find out more before sounding the alarm. For all we know, Claudia is busily snapping pictures of the Grand Canyon.”

“I still don’t like the fact she was so secretive about this new man in her life.”

“Maybe he’s a lot older than she is.”

“Knowing Claudia, he’s probably a lot younger.”

“Maybe he has two heads.”

“Or weighs six hundred pounds.”

“Seriously, Pam, if Claudia isn’t enough to worry about, what do you make of Vera taking off like that?” I could picture Pam’s brows drawing together in a frown.

“It’s possible Vera decided to take a vacation on the spur of the moment.”

Pam has a tendency to look at the bright side of a situation. A trait I find downright irritating at times. “Yeah,” I sneered, “maybe she won the lottery and took a cruise to the Greek Isles.”

“No need to be sarcastic,” she chided. “There’s probably a simple explanation. For example, there could be an illness in the family, and Vera was called away to care for them. Hate to cut this short, Kate, but I’ve got to run, or I’m going to be late for the dentist.”

“Better you than me,” I said. Personally I’d rather have gallbladder surgery than see the dentist. Surgeons give you general anesthesia. Dentists don’t.

After we disconnected, I gave Bill Lewis a call, and he agreed to drop by Sunday afternoon to check out the fan. Satisfied that my problem was under control, I packed a couple dozen cookies in a plastic take-and-go container and headed out the door.

Chapter 7

The Brookdale County Sheriff’s Department was housed in a single-story brick building just off the town square. I pulled into a parking spot down the block. I’d never had cause to turn down this particular side street before. Certainly never had cause to visit the sheriff. But then I never had two friends AWOL with a madman on the loose.

I took a minute to study the building in more detail. It looked so . . . ordinary. I had envisioned something far grander. Something more Southern with pillars or at least a veranda. Something . . . stately. Whatever I’d expected, this certainly wasn’t it. Its neat brick exterior reminded me of the thousands upon thousands of ranch-style homes popular in the Midwest. The trim around the windows and doors looked as though it had recently received a fresh coat of white paint. Pots planted with cheery purple and yellow pansies flanked each side of the entrance. A large gold emblem emblazoned on the door proclaimed it the official domain of Brookdale County sheriff Sumter Wiggins. Stifling my disappointment, I pushed open the door.

A girl with lank, shoulder-length hair and wire-rimmed glasses too large for her small face sat before a computer screen at the front desk. The nameplate read TAMMY LYNN SNOW. She glanced up from the screen and gave me a tentative smile. “May I help you, ma’am?”

The inbred politeness of Southerners never fails to impress me. When they address you, it’s always “Yes, ma’am” or “No, ma’am.” So different from their Northern counterparts. Folks there could take a page from their book.

I explained to Tammy Lynn that I was here to see Sheriff Wiggins. The whole time I kept thinking Connie Sue would give her eyeteeth to get her hands on the girl. Tammy Lynn had great bone structure. Even I could see that. The girl was in dire need of a makeover. With the right hairstyle and a little makeup, the girl could be a knockout. But all that potential was hidden beneath a well-scrubbed face and clothes more befitting her granny. On second thought, make that her great-granny. After all, I’m a grandmother myself and like to think I still possess some fashion know-how.

“Do you have an appointment, ma’am?”

“Ah, no. Sorry,” I admitted rather sheepishly. In the commotion of my kitchen filling with smoke, a suicidal ceiling fan, and finding a repairman, calling for an appointment never entered my head. And if it had, I would have ignored it. I’m a true believer in the element of surprise. Especially when the “surprise” comes bearing gifts. “I’m positive the sheriff will want to hear what I have to say. I promise I won’t take up much of his time,” I tacked on for good measure.

Tammy Lynn picked up a phone and relayed to the sheriff the message that he had a visitor. She nodded several times, then hung up. “Ma’am, he’ll be with you shortly. Please have a seat.”

I plunked myself down in one of the molded plastic chairs and prepared to wait. The girl resumed pecking away at the keyboard. Dog-eared copies of
Field & Stream
and
Popular Mechanics
stacked on a corner table didn’t interest me. I used the time instead to examine my surroundings. The walls were covered in a faux-walnut paneling, the floors a nondescript brown linoleum. Various official-looking certificates hung in cheap plastic frames. If anything, the interior was a bigger disappointment than the exterior. It was downright . . . boring. I might as well have been at the tax assessor’s office.

The sheriff’s department was nothing like the energy-charged headquarters on
Law & Order
. Thanks to my local cable station, I watch reruns faithfully each evening. Only the perfunctory “Most Wanted” posters tacked on a bulletin board near the door hinted this might be a law-enforcement establishment. But even that was ho-hum. I see these same bearded, unsmiling faces every time I mail a package at the post office. Nevertheless I committed each face to memory—just in case. A woman living alone can’t be too careful.

The intercom buzzed just then. Tammy Lynn looked up from her keyboard and gave me a timid smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”

I smiled back, collected the cookies and my handbag from an adjacent chair, and walked down a short hallway to a door marked COUNTY SHERIFF.

Sumter Wiggins was just as impressive on second viewing. All hard muscle and bad attitude. Some might even call him intimidating. But not me. I’m too old to be easily intimidated. In spite of the little pep talk I gave myself, however, I felt a faint flutter of apprehension as I took the seat he indicated.

“Miz McCall,” he drawled in that velvety baritone. “What brings you here instead of out on the golf course this fine afternoon?”

I wonder if anyone had ever told him that voice of his could earn more money in a week dubbing commercials than he could in a year as county sheriff. Not that I had any direct knowledge of this, mind you, but I always make a point of reading the entertainment section of the paper. One picks up interesting tidbits from time to time.

I plunked the take-and-go container of chocolate-chip cookies on the desk in front of him. “I thought you and your men could use a little treat while trying to break the case.”

“The
case
. . . ?” The word fairly hummed with skepti cism and disapproval.

“The case of the missing appendage,” I hastily supplied, lest he’d forgotten our find of the day before. “Sounds like the title of a Nancy Drew mystery.”

Not a glimmer of recognition crossed his face at the mention of my girlhood heroine.

“Surely you’ve heard of Nancy Drew?” I asked. Hoping to enlighten him, I rattled off several titles that came to mind. “
The Secret of the Old Clock
?
The Hidden Staircase
?
The Clue in the Diary
?”

His expression remained impassive.

I forged ahead. “My all-time favorite is
The Password to Larkspur Lane
. I must have read it a dozen times.” I was momentarily transported back to my youth where I devoured every book written by my idol, Carolyn Keene. Heard she died at her typewriter at the ripe old age of ninety-six. Not a bad way to go, for a writer, that is.

“No offense, Miz McCall,” he drawled, “but if I want to discuss books, I’ll join Friends of the Library.”

Well, that certainly put me in my place. “Sorry, Sheriff. I do tend to ramble on and for that I apologize. I just assumed a man in your profession would be a mystery buff.”

The sheriff sighed. “Don’t mean to be rude, ma’am, but I’ve got a full schedule.”

“Of course you do,” I replied primly. “Far be from me to take valuable time away from your investigation.”

He looked hopeful as he reached for his little black notebook. “Have you, by chance, remembered a detail you might have forgotten in all the excitement yesterday?”