Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

I noticed Bill’s new buddy didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the proceedings. Gus had taken up a position at the end of the conference table where he played solitaire with a well-worn deck of cards. Bernie sat in an adjacent chair, watching the game, arms folded. I could hear the low rumble of the sheriff’s voice issuing orders just outside the door. I could feel the sand slip through the hourglass. Soon now, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would grill us like ribs at a Fourth of July barbecue.

Chilled after giving Claudia my sweater, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself. “The sheriff isn’t going to go easy on Claudia. She needs a lawyer and she needs one fast.”

“Someone experienced in handling criminal cases.”

I winced at hearing the word criminal used in conjunction with Claudia. She wasn’t a criminal, unless that was the new term for falling for a low-down, no-good scumbag like Lance Ledeaux. Pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, but if the shoe fits, as my daddy used to say.

Suddenly Bill snapped his fingers. “I think I know just the person who might help us.”

“Who?” I asked, already digging for my cell phone.

“Eric Olsen. Being a Brookdale cop, he probably knows the name of the best defense attorney in the entire county.”

“Bill, you’re brilliant!” I could have given my favorite handyman a great big hug right then and there-and planted a big, fat, noisy kiss on his cheek. But I did neither. I was already busy punching in Eric’s number. At one time I could have hugged and dialed at the same time, but I’m losing my ability to multitask.

“I know just the person,” Eric told me.

I disconnected, reassured Eric was on the case. He’d promised to find Claudia the best darn defense attorney east of the Mississippi and south of the Mason-Dixon Line. I made a mental note to bake him a double batch of chocolate-chip cookies as my way of saying thanks.

I settled down in a chair between Claudia and Bill to await Sheriff Sumter Wiggins. It wasn’t long before he stormed into the meeting room. The scowl on his dark face resembled a rain cloud about to burst and drown its hapless victims. His presence seemed to suck all the air from the room. I now knew how it felt to be vacuum sealed.

He didn’t waste any time. “I gather you’re all in agreement that Miz Ledeaux is the shooter.”

I flinched. Shooter put me in mind of street gangs. And street gangs reminded me of the Jets and the Sharks. I particularly loved that finger-snapping scene from West Side Story, one of my all-time favorite musicals. Lots of leather jackets, lots of swagger; thinking of Broadway musicals was a welcome distraction from thinking of Lance lying dead onstage.

“Well…,” he prompted.

Reluctantly we nodded.

“In the interest of bein’ thorough, I had my deputy check everyone for fingerprints and GSR.”

I knew GSR was police-speak for gunshot residue. I’d done my homework and was up to date on my acronyms: CSI, CIA, DOA, DNA, TOD, and GSW. I could rattle them off in the same way a kindergarten class did the alphabet. I prided myself on being savvy enough to know COD meant cause of death, not cash on delivery. I could work my favorite acronyms into a dinner party conversation with ease. I’d never had cause to use any of these terms in an official capacity, mind you, but I like to keep current. It holds dementia at bay.

Sheriff Wiggins took out a pen and flipped open a black spiral notebook. “Will one of you nice folks kindly describe what happened back in the auditorium?”

See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. That about summed us up.

The sheriff was rapidly growing weary of our lack of response. “I’m goin’ to get to the bottom of this if it takes all night. Now”-he glowered; we cringed-“first off, I need someone to give me a general idea what was goin’ on prior to the shootin’. Afterward, I’ll take your individual statements. Who wants to go first?”

My hand shot up. “I will.”

He stared at me long and hard, then turned away. “Any other volunteers?”

Hmph! Guess I can tell when I’m not wanted. You’d think after my valuable contributions in the past, he’d be begging for my help. But no. He liked to think he could solve a case without the able assistance of a concerned citizen such as I.

“You.” The sheriff singled out Bill with a pointed look. “Give me the Reader’s Digest version of events that prompted the incident.”

Bill shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable. “We were rehearsing a play that Lance, Mr. Ledeaux, is producing, directing, and starring in. Gus and I,” he said, motioning toward his newfound friend, “were there to take some measurements. I also needed to ask him a few questions. I’m responsible for the set,” he added as an afterthought. “Gus agreed to be in charge of lighting and sound.”

“We were rehearsing act three, scene one,” I spoke up, wanting to participate and not wanting to be left out.

One pained look from the sheriff, and I lapsed into silence. It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, when I desperately yearned to contribute.

“What about the rest of you folks? Y’all actors in the play?”

Rita cleared her throat. “I’m the stage manager.”

“I, um, I’m in charge of props,” Monica mumbled, her voice barely audible. She sat hunched, her arms around her waist, and stared at the floor.

The sheriff gave her a long, considering look that I’d wager made repeat offenders sweat bullets. “So you’re the one in charge of the gun that killed Mr. Ledeaux.” It was a statement, not a question.

Monica gave a jerky nod, her attention still focused on the nubby carpet.

Sheriff Wiggins jotted this down in his little black book. “I’ll get your statement right after talkin’ with Miz Ledeaux.”

“I think I’m going to be sick.” Clutching her stomach, Monica made a dash for the ladies’ room. Seeing her olive green complexion, no one tried to stop her.

Bill continued his narrative. “Lance wasn’t pleased with the way rehearsal was going. He insisted on running through the lines over and over until the cast got it right.”

“It was his idea to use the props,” Rita muttered.

Another notation in the book.

“Ledeaux didn’t like the way I did my lines. Said he’d show me how a real actor would do it.” Bernie shoved away from the table and rose abruptly. “This whole thing is Mort Thorndike’s fault.”

Pen hovered over paper. “Who’s Mort Thorndike?”

Had I suffered a transient loss of consciousness while onstage? I could have sworn Mort Thorndike had been nowhere in the vicinity. And he was a hard person to miss, seeing how he irritated the heck out of me.

“Mort’s my golfing buddy,” Bernie replied in a tone that implied the sheriff should know this. “Weren’t for him, I’da been learning my lines instead of out on the course.”

So much for the Reader’s Digest version. It was soon apparent that if Sheriff Wiggins wanted to hear what happened, it was all or nothing. Knowing he was outnumbered, he surrendered grudgingly and listened to us ramble. When our comments drew to a halt, he asked, “Who owns the gun?”

That brought me up straighter in my chair. I have to admit I hadn’t thought about that part of the accident-at least not yet. Guess I’d assumed the gun belonged to Lance.

“It’s mine,” Bill admitted.

I swung around to face him. “Yours?”

Bill kept a steady gaze fixed on the sheriff. I needed to add “intrepid” to Bill’s list of attributes. “Ledeaux heard I was a hunter, probably from Claudia, and asked if I’d loan him a handgun for the course of the play. But before I did, I made sure there were no bullets in it. I checked and double-checked-even tonight. Only blanks were in the cartridge.”