Chapter 11

 

The clasp on my favorite bracelet was getting harder and harder to fasten. Who designs these things anyway? These darn things were intended for those with twenty-twenty vision. What about the millions of people who wear trifocals? Maybe it was time the AARP step in, take a stand.

Just when I almost—and I repeat, almost—had the clasp conquered the phone rang. One small distraction and—bingo!—once again I failed to connect the two ends. Tossing the bracelet aside in frustration, I rushed to answer the blasted telephone. Was I in a tizzy or what?

“Hello,” I barked.

“Kate?”

“Bill . . .” My irritability melted like a Popsicle at a Fourth of July picnic.

“Is this a bad time?”

It was never a bad time for Bill Lewis, my honey of a handyman, to call. But I’d never tell him that. Bill, you see, tends to be a bit on the shy side, and I don’t want to scare him. Bill is Serenity Cove’s version of Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor of TV fame as played by comedian Tim Allen—minus the numerous trips to the emergency room. Bill not only owns every tool stocked at Lowe’s but knows how to use them. Ever since he showed up on my doorstep to replace a faulty ceiling fan, he’d become my personal blue-eyed devil in sawdust-covered jeans.

“Sorry if I snapped at you,” I apologized. A glance at the kitchen clock told me I still had a half hour before Vaughn’s memorial service was scheduled to begin.

“I’ve done some rough calculations on those bookshelves you want me to build. I’m thinking it might be a good idea if we drove down to Augusta together to look at materials. You might change your mind about wanting cherry once you see the price.”

I’d had my heart set on cherry bookshelves ever since seeing the library in Sheila’s rental, but being on a fixed income, one has to be practical. “Well, I suppose that makes sense,” I acquiesced.

Bill cleared his throat. “Are you busy this afternoon?”

“I’d love to, Bill, but Vaughn Bascomb’s memorial service is at two o’clock. Can we make it another day?”

“I wasn’t sure you’d be attending the service, since you didn’t really know the man.”

“Granted, we only met the one time, but he seemed quite charming. Besides,” I continued, “I feel sorry for the guy. His only sister refuses to come, says she can’t afford to take time off from her job. Since Rita’s an old friend of Sheila’s, the Babes and I have decided on a show of support.”

Actually, I had an ulterior motive for wanting to attend the service. I was worried, however, that if I told Bill my plan, he’d try to change my mind. Some things are better kept to oneself.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he said. “Maybe after checking out a lumberyard or two we could take in a matinee? I’ll let you pick the movie. I don’t mind if it’s one of those girlie ones you seem to like. Now that I’m getting used to them, they’re not half bad.”

Bill was my kind of guy, all right. He refused to let a chick flick threaten his masculinity. “Throw in some buttered popcorn and you’ve got yourself a deal.”

“And, Kate, after the movie I thought we could grab a bite to eat at Bubba’s Buffet Barn? I know how much you love their fried shrimp.”

Dinner and a movie? This sounded like a bona fide date. I wanted to quote the line from Jerry Maguire, “You had me at hello,” but didn’t. Once again I didn’t want to frighten the guy.

“Sounds great, Bill. See you tomorrow.”

After agreeing on a time, we disconnected. Another glance at the clock told me I’d better get a move on if I wanted to make it to the chapel in time. I wanted to do a little victory shimmy, but it would have to wait.

 

• • •

 

In spite of my good intentions, I was the last of the Babes to arrive at the memorial service. Except for Tara in California and Megan and Diane, who had to work, we were out in force. Nine out of twelve ain’t bad, considering Vaughn was a virtual stranger.

Sheila had secured the use of a small private chapel at the mortuary/crematorium where she’d had Vaughn’s body sent. Sunlight streamed through a stained-glass window, spreading a kaleidoscope of color over a pedestal supporting an ornate urn that I assumed contained Vaughn’s remains. A simple lectern stood off to one side. Oak pews could accommodate several dozen mourners, but other than the Babes only a handful of people were present at Vaughn Bascomb’s final send-off.

I squeezed into a pew near the rear next to Monica, Pam, and Connie Sue. Polly and Gloria occupied the row in front of us. To my left, I spotted Claudia and Janine. Sheila occupied the front pew. She was flanked by Betsy on one side, Rita on the other. Considering their disdain for Vaughn Bascomb, I was surprised to find Todd Timmons and Roger McFarland also in attendance. Had they undergone a change of heart? Could I have underestimated them? Nah . . .

“You’re late,” Monica scolded.

“Sorry,” I said, keeping my voice low.

Polly turned in her seat and gave me a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t mind her. You haven’t missed the good part.”

The good part? What in the world did Polly consider the “good” part of a memorial service? Before I could come up with a plausible answer, canned organ music blared through a speaker set high on the wall, playing a hymn I didn’t recognize.

Time to put my plan into action.

Now, it’s a well-known fact among investigative aficionados such as myself that killers always return to the scene of the crime. It’s equally well-known that murderers often attend the funeral—or in this case, the memorial service—of their victims. I’d watched enough crime and punishment shows throughout the years to know this to be SOP—standard operating procedure. Sumter Wiggins, in his capacity as sheriff of Brookdale County, should be on the scene scoping out the situation. But in his absence, I’d step up to the plate.

I discreetly slid my cell phone from my purse. Flipping it open, I made a production out of checking for messages while unobtrusively pressing the camera icon. Instantly the back of Gloria’s head popped into the viewfinder.

Satisfied I had command of the situation, I leaned forward to compliment Polly on her subdued ensemble. “Nice threads,” I said.

Click! Just like that, I’d captured Todd Timmons’s profile for posterity. If I had to say so myself, it’d make a great mug shot. Now all I needed to complete by photo array of Mr. Timmons was a frontal shot.

With cell phone clutched tightly in my hot little hand and intent on my subject, I angled my body and leaned as far to the right as gravity would allow. Just as my thumb hovered above the Take button, I lost my balance. Fortunately, Monica grabbed on to my suit jacket and saved me from an embarrassing tumble into the center aisle. Unfortunately, however, my cell phone clattered to the floor. The back flew off, landing two feet away. Not even the canned organ music could drown out the noise. Heads swiveled in my direction.

Heat crept up my neck. I felt a bead of perspiration trickle down my spine. This wasn’t good, said a small voice in the back of my brain. I haven’t had a hot flash—commonly referred to as a power surge—in years, but this flush was a vivid reminder. Cheeks burning, I crept out of the pew and retrieved my phone and its back. “Sorry, sorry,” I said, unable to suppress a nervous giggle, which earned me an angry glare from Monica.

Seated again, I fumbled, trying to reassemble the confounded bit of electronic wizardry.

Before I could master the technique, Monica snatched it from my hands and united Part A with Part B. “Kate, for pity’s sake, sit still!” she hissed under her breath. “You’re going to give me a migraine with all that bouncing around.”

“Sorry,” I murmured again. Chastened, I sat quietly. I decided to wait until later to take the rest of my snapshots.

A slender man with a narrow face and slicked-back hair entered the chapel through a side door. Judging from his solemn demeanor and dark suit, I guessed him to be the mortician, John Dobbs.

“Dear friends and loved ones of the deceased, we are gathered here this afternoon not to mourn the life of Vaughn Bascomb but to celebrate it. Though I never had the privilege of meeting Dr. Bascomb . . .”

Friends, Romans, and countrymen . . . Blah, blah, blah.

I tuned out the eulogy.

My mind wandered; my eyes roamed. I hoped both body parts would someday be reunited. At present, however, I was more interested in pinpointing a possible murder suspect. Once toxicology reports came back from wherever—probably Columbia—with proof Sheila and Vaughn had indeed been poisoned, Sheriff Wiggins would applaud my efforts. Concerned citizens such as myself made his job much easier.

I zeroed in on the back of Roger McFarland’s freckled neck. That night in the emergency room had been a revealing one. Roger’d made no secret of his dislike for Vaughn. According to him, Vaughn was interfering with his creative vision for a coffee table masterpiece. Timmons, too, had verbalized hostility, blaming Vaughn for a drop in ratings of How Does Your Garden Grow? My gaze shifted to Betsy Dalton. She hadn’t seemed overly fond of Vaughn either, though I didn’t have a clue why. Perhaps Todd wasn’t the only one upset over plummeting ratings. After all, as VP of Belle Beaute, the show’s sponsor, Betsy had a vested interest in the show’s success. Had dislike crossed the barrier into hatred for Todd, Rog, or Bets?

The mortician droned on, perhaps in the vain hope a camera crew would arrive to videotape his eulogy for a segment of How Does Your Garden Grow? I couldn’t help but notice Betsy’s fixed stare at the urn holding the ashes. She wore a peculiar expression on her doll-like countenance. I tried, but failed, to pin a name on it. Careful to make certain Monica’s attention was elsewhere, I eased open my cell phone and snapped her photo before slipping the phone into a jacket pocket.

“Would anyone here care to share a few memories of the deceased?” John Dobbs asked, his stock of platitudes apparently depleted. His request met with an awkward silence. The mortician stared hopefully at Roger and Todd. “Gentlemen? I understand you were acquainted with the deceased. Would either of you care to speak?”

With a vigorous shakes of their heads, they made known their wishes to the contrary.

“Well, then,” Dobbs said with an unctuous smile, “I’ll ask his dear friend and colleague, Dr. Sheila Rappaport, to do a reading from the Bible.”

Sheila, looking as delicate as a Dresden figurine, stepped to the podium and began to read the Twenty-Third Psalm, “The Lord is my Sheppard . . .”

I bowed my head, my thoughts going back to Jim’s funeral. Jim had had lots of loved ones. The church had overflowed with friends, relatives, and well-wishers. Some of his former coworkers had made the long trip South and graciously shared remembrances of Jim’s career, first as a salesman then as a district manager. Others offered amusing anecdotes, many dealing with his love for sports, especially golf. So different from this service, bereft of both family and friends.

“He leadeth me beside the still . . .”

Still . . . ? Not anymore. My cell phone picked that precise moment to start blasting the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Sheila stopped midway through her recitation of the Twenty-Third Psalm. Once again, heads turned in my direction. And once again I felt the hot surge of embarrassment. I pawed through my purse, then remembered I’d slipped my phone into the pocket of my suit. I prayed I’d find it before the rousing chorus of “glory, glory hallelujah.” I’d meant to set the phone on vibrate, but all the picture taking had distracted me.

His “truth was marching on” before I finally regained the upper hand. Flustered at being the center of attention, I squeezed the darn thing to within an inch of its life to smother the microphone. I relaxed marginally when I heard a beep signaling the call had gone to voice mail and made a mental note to change the ringtone.

I mustered a feeble smile for the unsmiling faces who’d turned to stare at me. “Sorry,” I mouthed.

“Really, Kate,” Monica growled, “sometimes you’re worse than a two-year-old.”

Polly, on the other hand, seemed to harbor a fondness for toddlers. In the row ahead of me, she half turned and gave me a thumbs-up.

Sheila completed her reading without further ado and returned to her seat. John Dobbs took her place at the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Rappaport has requested that you join her at a reception in Dr. Bascomb’s honor at the Cove Café immediately following the service. Now, if you’ll rise and join me in ‘Amazing Grace.’”

Connie Sue’s alto, strong and true, melded with Polly’s quavery soprano. The rest of the Babes joined in, doing justice to the much-loved hymn. Then, the brief service over, the mourners—and pseudo-mourners—began to file out.

I wasn’t sure I’d get another opportunity. Roger McFarland’s mug was still on my Most Wanted list of suspects. I decided to rectify the oversight when he paused to exchange a few words with Sheila. Digging into my pocket, I hauled out the troublesome cell phone.

Connie Sue leaned across Monica and nudged me gently. “Really, sugar, don’t you think you should give that thing a rest. A memorial service is no place to conduct a conversation.”

She was right, of course, but I needed one more photo to complete the lineup of possible poisoners. Any second now Roger would turn in my direction. This was my big chance. “I’m just checking voice mail,” I muttered.

My daughter Jennifer’s name lit up on the screen. Jen lives in California—Brentwood, to be precise—with my two granddaughters and her husband and former nerd, Jason Jarrod. Jason happens to be a lawyer to the stars, famous for drafting clauses the Terminator can’t terminate. But instead of listening to my daughter’s message like I pretended, I aimed the phone toward Roger, who had started down the aisle, and pressed Take.

Perfect! I thought, snapping the phone shut. A portrait photographer couldn’t have done a better job. “It was Jen,” I explained for Connie Sue’s benefit as we drifted toward the exit. “I’ll call her later.”