Chapter 30

 

All this thinking was giving me a headache. I tapped the pen against the table and stared out the window. The Brubaker house remained dark and still. The premises were still festooned in yellow crime-scene tape like a sloppily wrapped birthday gift. A giant cockroach of a patrol car sat at the curb. There was no sign of Earl. The grapevine had it, he had taken up temporary residence in a sleazy motel on the outskirts of town.

I kept asking myself, if Earl had killed Rosalie, why leave the murder weapon practically in plain sight? And why would he have been not only willing but eager to give the sheriff Rosalie’s hairbrush for a DNA match? It didn’t make sense.

Problem was, not everyone viewed the situation the same way I did. In the minds of most people, if the sand wedge proved to be the murder weapon, Earl might as well phone the South Carolina Department of Corrections and reserve a cell.

I looked away, then back again. Nothing had changed at the Brubakers’. The squad car hadn’t budged an inch. Surveillance can’t be easy work. Having to stay awake while the rest of the world sleeps. How did one occupy one’s time cooped up in a car hour after hour? Read, work crosswords, write a novel? But all of these activities would distract one’s attention from the original purpose, which was to watch. How boring!

This in mind, I went to the pantry, pried the lid off a large Tupperware container, and filled a Ziploc bag with chocolate-chip cookies. A little sugar might be just the ticket to go along with the thermos of coffee—which I assumed was standard-issue on a stakeout. A sugar buzz might help whoever guarded the Brubaker house stay alert. No one could say I wasn’t civic-minded.

I slipped on the gray zip-up-the-front sweatshirt I reserve for gardening and trotted across the street. The young officer inside the cruiser jumped as if he’d been shot when I knocked on the passenger window. Automatically, his hand reached for his holster.

I nearly dropped the cookies right then and there. “Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Officer Olsen, the young policeman I had instructed on the three Rs of recycling, scowled back in a pretty fair imitation of Sheriff Wiggins. I wondered if he was practicing the one-eyebrow lift as well.

He lowered the window, obviously feeling no threat from a nosy senior citizen. “Ma’am?”

I held up the bag of cookies. “I brought you a treat.”

Confusion replaced the scowl. “Uh, that’s mighty kind of you, ma’am, but, uh . . .”

Clearly the receipt of baked goods wasn’t a topic covered in the police procedural. “If you’re hungry, Sergeant”—he seemed such a nice young man; I thought he might like a promotion—“I’d be happy to bring you a sandwich.”

“That’s real thoughtful, ma’am, but—”

“Kate.” I cut him off. “Call me Kate.”

All this “ma’am” stuff was making me feel older than Grandma Moses. Poor kid. He appeared to be in his early twenties, not much older than Megan. He looked more discomfited now than he had when he first spotted the cookies. “I live just catty-corner from here. The house on the cul-de-sac. I saw you sitting out here all alone and felt sorry for you. I thought some cookies would taste good with your coffee.

His face relaxed into a smile as he reached for the cookies. Then, just as suddenly, his demeanor changed. “Ma’am . . . Kate . . . please step to the rear of the vehicle. Stay there until I tell you it’s safe.”

Right before my eyes, boy morphed into man. I didn’t argue, but backed up until I was even with the rear bumper of the cruiser. I narrowed my eyes to see what had captured Olsen’s attention. In the light of a half-moon, I could see a figure emerge from the shadows and start across the Brubakers’ lawn.

Olsen quietly opened the car door and stepped out, his right hand resting on the butt of his pistol. “Halt! Identify yourself!”

“Don’t shoot, I’m unarmed,” Earl Brubaker shouted.

Olsen approached cautiously, his hand still on his gun. I wasn’t far behind, grateful I had worn sneakers. Apparently they’re called that for a reason.

“Mr. Brubaker . . . ? Sir, what are you doing here?”

“For crying out loud, this is my house. I live here.”

“This is a possible crime scene. No one’s allowed in.”

“I need to go inside for ten minutes. Ten minutes is all I’m asking.”

“Sorry, sir, but I’ve got strict instructions. No one gets inside until the house is released as a possible crime scene.”

Earl ran a hand over his jaw, which once again bristled with whiskers. “How long will that take?”

“Not for me to say. That’s up to the sheriff. Never can tell. He might decide to make a second sweep.”

“But I need to water my orchids,” Earl whined. “If I don’t, they’ll die.”

“Afraid I can’t help you, sir.” Olsen wasn’t swayed by the pleading tone in Earl’s voice.

“I’m working on a new hybrid,” Earl said, as if that tidbit explained everything.

“If you entered, sir, I’d have no choice but to arrest you.”

“You’re forgetting I pay the mortgage, not some dumbass sheriff.”

“Like it or not, sir, that’s the law. You’d be guilty of obstruction of justice.”

Obstruction of justice? That phrase was becoming a bit shopworn. And had a way of popping up at the most inopportune times.

Suddenly, all the starch seemed to go out of Earl. Muttering under his breath, he turned to go back the way he had come. I caught a glimpse of that sad basset hound face and felt my heart squeeze with sympathy. Leaving Officer Olsen standing in the middle of the Brubakers’ lawn, I hurried to catch up with Earl.

“Earl, wait,” I called.

He paused and turned. “Sure you want to talk to me?” he asked bitterly. “No one else does.”

I fumbled for the right words. What could I say to a man suspected of murdering his wife? Should I burst into song? Remind him that the sun will come out tomorrow? That tomorrow is only a day away? “You’re developing a new hybrid?” I asked instead, opting for the mundane.

“Yeah, I’ve been working twenty-four-seven since Rosalie left.”

“That’s great, Earl. Everyone needs a hobby.”

“It’s more than a hobby. I plan to turn it into a business. Raise hybrids and sell them on the Internet.”

“Wow,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Planned to do it up right. Even thinking about getting myself a Web site.”

“How did Rosalie feel about all this?”

He dove his fingers through his thinning hair and stared up at the night sky. “That was what we argued about last time we talked.” He blinked back tears. “I wanted to take money out of our savings and invest in a greenhouse. She accused me of throwing good money away. Said I paid more attention to my hybrids than I did to her.”

I placed my hand lightly on his arm. “I’m sorry, Earl. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head. “First I lose Rosalie, now my phalaenopsis. If it hadn’t been for someone phoning in an anonymous tip about a golf club, we wouldn’t even be having this discussion. I thought if I just explained to the officer out front, he’d let me into my own house long enough to water my orchids. He could even stay and watch if he wanted. How’s that for being naïve?”

“Maybe if you explained to the sheriff—”

Earl cut me off. “The only words Sheriff Wiggins wants to hear from me is a confession.” He started to walk away, but then paused and turned back. “Funny thing is, even though we’d grown apart, I still loved my wife.” His voice cracked as he struggled to regain composure.

I watched him walk away, head bent, shoulders slumped in defeat.

I gave Officer Olsen a halfhearted wave as I walked toward home. A cold breeze out of the north chilled me to the bone. One thing was clear—crystal clear. If Earl was innocent—and I believed he was—only the murderer could have planted the weapon in Earl’s bag and phoned in the anonymous tip. Find the caller; find the murderer. Simple as that. Piece of cake, right?

 

• • •

 

“Hi, Kate.” Megan greeted me with a smile. “Have a seat. Dr. Baxter is running a little behind.”

“No hurry,” I said, taking a seat and picking up a copy of People. “Will I see you Thursday at bunco?”

“Sure, wouldn’t miss it. Where’s it at this time? Mom told me, but I forgot.”

“At Connie Sue’s.”

“Cool! Her house is amazing!” Giving me an apologetic look, she turned to answer the phone.

Amazing described Connie Sue’s home to a T. With her impeccable taste, if she hadn’t worked as a cosmetics rep, she could have had a career as an interior decorator. Unlike Bill’s, there was nothing beige or neutral about Connie Sue’s home. She loved color and wasn’t afraid of using it.

“Mrs. McCall . . .” I looked up from People and recognized Caitlin, the girl from my previous visit. “Right this way,” she said.

I reluctantly closed the magazine without learning the name of the latest Hollywood celebrity to file for divorce. I’d have to get the details from Polly later. I followed Caitlin down a hallway to the last exam room on the left. Seems like the uniform of the day was pale blue scrubs imprinted with smiling molars heralding glad tidings of brush, floss, and rinse. Meanwhile my brain was trumpeting a different message entirely: run, retreat, and hide.

Too late. Caitlin motioned me into the dental chair and pinned on a bib. After assuring me Dr. Too-Handsome-for-His-Own-Good would be right with me, she disappeared. Probably to resume her role as modern-day tooth fairy, cheerfully dispensing toothbrushes and mint-flavored floss to the unwary. I sat back to await my fate, determined to be brave.

As a distraction, I let my eyes roam over the room, taking in the décor. Although this was a different exam room than last time, the golf theme still prevailed. This one contained more personal memorabilia. An elaborately carved shelf of photos and golf trophies was mounted on a wall next to the window. One photo in particular caught my attention. It was the same one I’d first seen in the Brubakers’ living room. In it, the happy foursome of Brubakers and Baxters, newly proclaimed winners of the His and Hers Classic, grinned back at me. Even Earl looked happy.

“Kate!” Just-Call-Me-Jeff breezed in, nearly blinding me with his pearly whites. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem,” I answered, mustering a feeble smile. I was never in a hurry when it came to seeing a dentist. Take all the time in the world, I wanted to tell him.

“Let me take another look at your films.” He clipped the X-rays onto the light box and proceeded to study them.

I succumbed to the need for nervous chatter. “You were modest about your golf game. I didn’t realize you’d won trophies.”

“I’ve been lucky and won a time or two.”

“Were you good friends with Rosalie Brubaker?”

He dropped one of the X-rays and stooped to pick it up. “No, uh, why do you ask?”

If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’s the one who was nervous now. “I couldn’t help but notice the picture of you winning the His and Hers Classic.”

“We paired up for a tournament once. I believe she and my wife, Gwen, knew each other.”

I distinctly remembered thinking how chummy the foursome had looked in the photo. Dr. Good-Looking had his arm hooked around Rosalie’s waist while she smiled up at him adoringly. Earl and the brunette—Gwen—were hardly more than background scenery. “Hmm, I don’t know what gave me the impression you two were friends.”

“I’m sure I have no idea. I scarcely knew the woman.” He tugged on a pair of latex gloves and reached for the syringe. “Let’s get started, shall we?”

The needle stung as it was repeatedly jabbed into my gums. Tears streamed down my cheeks in spite of his assurances it wasn’t going to hurt.

“Megan warned me you’re dental phobic, so I’m giving you a little extra Novocain so you don’t have to worry about pain.”

He had barely left the room before numbness began to creep along my lower jaw. In minutes, my tongue felt the size of a kielbasa. Even my nose felt strange. Soon I wouldn’t be able to tell if my nose dripped or my mouth drooled. As much as I disliked the thought of pain, I’m not sure if I liked this sensation any better.

Eventually, Dr. Jeff returned with Caitlin in tow. There were no smiles this time; he was all business. “Open wide, Mrs. McCall.”

What happened to “Can I call you Kate?” I wondered as I tried to ignore the whine of the drill. Dr. Isn’t-He-Darling must have used up his daily ration of charisma. The procedure seemed to last forever. I was drilled, rinsed, and suctioned. I didn’t feel a thing and wondered if I ever would. For all I knew, he could’ve been drilling for oil or tunneling to China.

At long last, he nodded his approval with the temporary filling. “Have Megan give you an appointment for two weeks. Your crown should be back from the lab by then,” he said, peeling off gloves and mask. “Careful what you chew on that side. Stay away from anything sticky.” With this, he disappeared down the hall.

Caitlin was left to mop up the drool. “Sure you’re all right, Mrs. McCall? Can I get you some water?”

“No, thanx,” I lisped. “I’m juth peachthy.” I wobbled down the hall toward the receptionist’s desk feeling a little woozy after two hours in a dental chair.

“Kate!” Megan’s eyes widened at the sight of me. “You’re white as a sheet. Let me call Mom to come give you a ride home.”

I shook my head. I must look even worse than I thought. I had tried to tell her I was allergic to dentists, but no one ever takes me seriously. “An appointment,” I managed to say, my words sounding garbled. “Two weeks.”

I snatched the appointment card from her hand without so much as a glance and shoved it into my handbag. I didn’t care if Jeffrey Baxter, DDS, had a great selection of magazines. I didn’t care if he had the whitest teeth in the world. I didn’t care that he looked like a movie star. I just wanted out.

“See you at bunco,” Megan called as the office door slammed behind me.