Chapter 7

 

My resolve wavered after leaving the Babes. The more I thought of confronting the lion in his den—the lion in this case being Sheriff Sumter Wiggins—the colder my feet got. Not that Sheriff Wiggins didn’t need to be informed he had a murder case on his hands, mind you, but the sheriff isn’t always—receptive, for lack of a better word—to help from concerned citizens such as myself. A lesser person could be downright discouraged by such a negative attitude.

Sumter Wiggins seems to have a selective memory when it comes to remembering all the assistance I’ve given him in the past. Honestly, by now he should offer to make me an honorary deputy. But I won’t hold that against him. Still, I needed a battle plan of sorts before barging into his lair—a lesson I’d learned the hard way. I may be slow, but I’m not stupid.

While mulling over the best approach to a sticky problem, I decided to stop by the Piggly Wiggly. Nothing like browsing through aisles of canned goods and boxed dinners for inspiration. My thoughts kept circling back to Sheila lying in her hospital bed. The dear, she must be heartbroken at the loss of her significant other. Rita had mentioned Sheila and Vaughn had been an item for years, first as coworkers on a field assignment, then as friends who shared a common love of plants, and finally as lovers. Try as I might, however, my mind balked at the thought of the pair in bed—naked.

Had I turned into a prude somewhere along the way? Couples didn’t stop having sex when Social Security checks started rolling in. Jim, my wonderful, loving husband of forty-plus years, and I had had a healthy sex life up until his untimely demise in a bowl of guacamole on Super Bowl Sunday some years back. I’ve since lost my taste for anything with avocados.

I was pushing my cart . . . er, buggy—I sometimes forget that the grocery cart was rechristened here in the South—through the produce department when struck by an idea. Before leaving the ER last night, Dr. Michaels had assured Rita and me that, barring complications, Sheila would be discharged within a day or two. Why not make a big pot of chicken noodle soup to bring her after she was released? Nothing better than chicken soup for the soul. I think I even own a book by the same name. With this in mind, I added celery to my cart/buggy.

“Terrible about that guy dying, isn’t it?”

I turned and found Judy Sanders, a woman I’d sat next to during my one and only experiment with ceramics. The birdhouse I’d slaved over had made me the poster child for uneven brushstrokes.

“Hey, Judy.”

Judy seemed to be in a quandary choosing a bag of lettuce. I have to admit sometimes I long for the old days when a head of iceberg was the only option. Now one has choices. Too many choices, if you want my opinion. Mediterranean, American, Italian, or European. Romaine lettuce comes classic, chopped, or leafy. And if that isn’t confusion enough, there’s spring mix, spinach, and arugula. Whew! No wonder Judy looked discombobulated.

Sighing, Judy surrendered and went for unoriginal iceberg. “Everyone I’ve talked to this morning says it was food poisoning.”

“Is that right?” I murmured noncommittally, bestowing my undivided attention on the carrots. Not even carrots were an easy pick anymore. Baby, sliced, or julienne? They used to come in a bunch fastened together with a rubber band. I dropped a bag of babies into the cart and moved on to the fresh herbs with Judy right on my heels.

“I don’t even feel safe serving salad since that lettuce recall tested positive for E. coli,” she said.

“That was years ago, Judy. I think lettuce is pretty safe these days.” I tried to reassure her, but what did I know?

Grabbing a bunch of parsley, I continued down the aisle, leaving Judy to ponder what to serve for dinner that night. It seemed every couple feet along the way, I heard whispers of food poisoning and once the B word: botulism. Talk like that was designed to strike fear in the hearts of the fearless.

Intent on crossing noodles off my list of ingredients, I entered pasta land. It was here my head started to pound. Old-fashioned versus whole grain? Yolk-free versus the hearty egg variety? Fine, wide, or extra-wide? Decisions, decisions, decisions. I closed my eyes, picked a bag from the shelf, and tossed it in my cart. If I didn’t get out of the Pig soon, I’d turn into a raving lunatic. My upcoming confrontation with the sheriff now seemed like a piece of cake.

In my mad dash to a checkout lane, I almost mowed down a tiny snowy-haired lady wearing a royal blue smock emblazoned in yellow with BAM!. A name tag pinned to her scrawny chest read Wilma.

“I’m terribly sorry, Wilma,” I said, apologizing profusely as I helped her straighten the items on a card table that had been set up with a display of some sort.

“No problem, dearie,” she replied cheerily. “You’re the most excitement I’ve had all morning.” She held out a pleated baking cup containing a chocolate-coated something. “Care to try a bite? They’re quite tasty.”

“What is it?” I asked suspiciously. It looked . . . interesting . . . but where I was concerned, anything and everything covered in chocolate looked interesting.

“It’s BAM! The new energy bar,” she said, smiling. “BAM! is a wonderful source of protein and contains vitamins, minerals, and other dietary supplements. Sports nutritionists recommend BAM! to athletes.”

Athletes? Hmm . . . My interest piqued, I asked, “Does practicing Tai Chi several times a week qualify me as an athlete?”

“I’m not exactly sure what Tai Chi is, dearie, but these bars are a great addition to a healthy diet. They’re a convenient and easy way to limit portion control.”

I had to hand it to Wilma. She’d obviously done her homework and had her lines down pat. I took a small bite, then another. “Umm, good,” I mumbled around a mouthful of chocolate, peanut butter, and nuts.

“Business has been slow today. Help yourself.” She held out the tray of treats. “Take two or three.”

So I did. Too bad someone didn’t patent a way of making broccoli taste this good. “Business is slow, you said?” I asked, making conversation as I sampled.

Wilma shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid so, dearie. No one even wants to make eye contact. Why, one woman actually backed away when I offered a BAM! You’d think I was trying to poison her.”

“Imagine that!” I commiserated.

“I’m afraid my sales manager is going to be sorely disappointed when he returns and discovers I haven’t sold a single box of product. I’m usually his best food demonstrator. My reputation will be ruined.”

I’d certainly hate for this nice woman’s reputation to be ruined. Besides, if these energy bars worked wonders for athletes, think what they could do for a housewife on a fixed income. They could cut vacuuming time in half. “I’ll take a box. Matter of fact, I’ll take two,” I said and was rewarded for my impulsive deed with a broad smile.

I left Wilma looking much happier at having made her first sale of the day. I peeled the wrapper from a BAM! as I settled into the Buick and headed off for my meeting with the sheriff. I’d need all the energy I could rustle up.

 

• • •

 

The Brookdale County Sheriff’s office was located on a side street just off the town square. The sight of it never failed to elicit a flicker of disappointment. The single-story brick building was a clone of brick bungalows all over the country. If I had my druthers, I’d have chosen architecture that better reflected life in the South. Nothing as grand as Tara in Gone With the Wind, mind you, but at least one of those sweeping porches with a couple rocker chairs. A pillar or two would’ve been a nice antebellum touch, but one has to be practical.

As luck would have it—and not necessarily good luck—I found a parking spot right out front. Purple and yellow pansies in clay pots flanked either side of the entrance. Now that the danger of a hard freeze was over, these would soon be replaced by more summery petunias or million bells. There you have it, folks, the sum total of my gardening expertise.

I approached the sheriff’s office with some trepidation, and when I got to the front door I stood outside for a moment and gave myself a pep talk. Put on your big girl panties, Kate, and deal with it. Drawing in a deep breath, I shoved open the door.

Tammy Lynn Snow, the sheriff’s gal Friday, sat behind a huge metal desk. She stopped pecking at a computer keyboard and looked up as I entered. Her tentative smile faded before it ever bloomed. I tried not to take it personally.

“Morning, Tammy Lynn,” I said by way of greeting. “You’re looking . . . fit.”

Fit as can be considering the girl would give wallflowers a bad rep. Her lank, mousy brown hair framed an oval face with delicate features. Her countenance was scrubbed clean and without a trace of makeup. Dressed in clothes that all but screamed thrift store, she could have blended into the woodwork and never been missed. Our little Brookdale County Cinderella was in dire need of a fairy godmother.

“Ah, er, if you’re here to see the sheriff, ma’am, he’s real busy,” she said, shoving oversized glasses higher on the bridge of her small nose.

Gee, where had I heard that refrain before? Oh, yeah, I remember. It was the last time I’d entered this office. Each and every time, to be precise. “No problem, dear, I’m prepared to wait. I need to catch up on back issues of Guns & Ammo.”

I’d tried repeatedly to improve the level of reading material at the sheriff’s office, but to no avail. Copies of Southern Living and Good Housekeeping continually disappeared, giving way to more manly periodicals. Apparently felons and felons-in-training weren’t interested in getting in touch with their softer, more feminine sides. It was disheartening, to say the least.

“I’ll let Sheriff Wiggins know you’re here.”

Tammy Lynn spoke into the intercom in a hushed voice. I tried to resist, but the urge to eavesdrop was too strong. I caught whispered phrases such as “it’s too late,” “she’ll wait,” and “I did try.” The words “sorry, sorry, sorry” punctuated their conversation. I wondered if Tammy Lynn turned to booze when her shift ended. Couldn’t blame the girl if she hit the bottle.

Turning to me with a pained expression, she said, “Sheriff Wiggins said he’s finishin’ up a report. He’ll buzz when he’s done.”

I plunked myself down, prepared to cool my heels in this little waiting game we played. I leafed through a dog-eared issue of Guns & Ammo but, since I didn’t own a gun and didn’t intend to, it failed to capture my interest. And with no gun, there was no need for ammo. I put the magazine aside and picked up another.

“So, Tammy Lynn,” I said when Truck Trends didn’t fare any better as an attention grabber, “are you still seeing that nice young policeman, Eric Olsen?”

The girl’s eyes looked suspiciously bright behind her too-large lenses. “Ah, no, ma’am, not since he came off his crutches. He’s workin’ patrol again and doesn’t have much free time.”

“I’m sure his job keeps him quite busy.”

“Yes, ma’am, it surely does. Eric’s very conscientious when it comes to law enforcement. He’s fixin’ to make sergeant someday.”

Tammy Lynn went back to her computer while I pretended interest in an article on monster truck rallies. It was a darn shame about Tammy Lynn and Eric. The two of them seemed to be hitting it off following Eric’s unfortunate accident in which he’d broken a leg. Tammy Lynn had hovered over Eric, a regular Florence Nightingale, while his leg mended. Now that the fracture was healed, it seemed Tammy Lynn had once again been relegated to the role of his best friend’s baby sister. A pity. The girl was clearly smitten, but from all appearances the attraction was a bit lopsided.

The intercom buzzed just then, startling me.

“The sheriff will see you now,” Tammy Lynn announced primly. “He’s in his office. I believe you know the way.”

I’m afraid I knew the way only too well. Slinging my purse over my shoulder, I trudged down the hall.

“Miz McCall,” drawled the sheriff in a voice better suited to an American Idol contestant. “Long time no see.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked at him skeptically. Did I detect thinly veiled sarcasm behind the greeting? “It hasn’t been all that long,” I reminded him, mentally doing the math since our last encounter. According to my calculations, a little over a month had elapsed between visits. He hadn’t changed a whit. Skin still dark as Grannie Ann’s mahogany chifferobe. His smile, which was a rare occurrence, would reveal a flash of teeth white enough to rival those of Tiger Woods.

Not expecting an invitation, I perched myself on the chair opposite his desk, a chair I had started to think of as my own. A chair that might bear a Reserved plaque with my name engraved on it.

Sumter Wiggins lounged and eyed me coolly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your fine company?”

I shifted my weight—subtly, I hoped. I didn’t want to give the man the upper hand early on in our meeting. The sheriff possessed a God-given talent for intimidation. Some might attribute this to his imposing physique. Six foot two, if I were to judge, with shoulders that would make a linebacker weep with envy. Others might say attitude gave him an edge. The term “bad cop” could have originated with him.

I cleared my throat and began. “After our last case together, Sheriff, I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Our last case?” He gave me the one-eyebrow lift thing he’d perfected. A gesture guaranteed to make a Methodist minister sweat buckets. A trick I often tried to imitate, but had yet to master.

“Ours,” I repeated firmly, determined not to let him browbeat me. “Ours as in law enforcement and concerned citizens working together.” I folded my hands in my lap, pleased with my little speech. Goes to show it really does pay to have a battle plan.

“Hmm.” He leaned back farther. The springs of his chair squeaked in protest at being abused by his two-hundred-plus pounds. “Kindly explain what lesson it is that you think you’ve learned.”

“The one about obstruction of justice,” I replied promptly. “Not to mention the one about withholding information. Or the part about sins of omission.”

“Here, all this time I didn’t think you were payin’ any mind.” Folding jumbo-sized hands across a trim and toned waist, he asked with exaggerated patience, “I’m certain Tammy Lynn mentioned my busy schedule, so if you don’t mind, let’s move this meetin’ along.”

“Right,” I said, clasping my hands a little tighter. “I’m sure you’ve heard what happened at the garden club lecture last night?”

“I’m assumin’ you mean the food poisonin’ incident?”

“Yes, that’s the one.”

“It’s my understandin’ two people were transported to the hospital. One survived. The other, unfortunately, succumbed.”

Succumbed? A polite substitute for kicked the bucket? The remainder of my cockamamie battle plan sprouted wings and flew out the window. “What if it wasn’t food poisoning?” I asked, getting down to the nitty-gritty instead of beating about the bush. “ What if it was the real deal?”

“The real deal bein’ . . . ?”

I huffed out a breath. The man was being deliberately obtuse. Did I have to spell it out for him? “Have you spoken with the survivor, Dr. Sheila Rappaport?”

He shrugged dismissively, his dark face impassive. “No reason to.”

“What if it wasn’t the potato salad? Or the deviled eggs?”

“Are you implyin’ what I think you’re implyin’?”

“Indeed I am.” I had the satisfaction of seeing my missile hit the bull’s-eye.