Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“Kate!” he exclaimed. “I almost didn’t hear the phone over the whine of the table saw.”

Bill has converted part of his garage into a woodworking shop that would rival those on HGTV. He owns nearly every power tool on the planet and knows how to use them. No small wonder he was elected president of the Woodchucks, our local woodworking club here in Serenity, two years running

“Were you working on the set for the play?” I asked.

“Naw, after last night, that’s at a standstill.” Bill paused, then cleared his throat. “How’re you holding up? It’s not every day we see a man shot and killed right before our eyes.”

I felt touched by his concern. “I’m fine. What about you? You were there, too.”

“Have to admit I’m still a little shaken by what happened. Keep asking myself if I could’ve accidentally left a bullet in the chamber.”

Now I was the one who paused while digesting this tidbit. “You think that’s possible?” I asked when I rediscovered my voice.

“I’ve gone over this a thousand times. I’ve handled guns since I was a kid. The first lesson my dad taught me was to always make sure the chamber was empty before handing it over to anyone else. I pride myself on being safety conscious. Don’t know how I could have missed a live round.”

I stared out the kitchen window as we talked. I watched a sedan pull into the drive of the empty Brubaker house catty-corner from me and two women climb out. One I recognized as a local real estate agent; the other woman was a stranger. The house had stood empty for months. Last I heard, Earl Brubaker was undecided whether to sell or rent. For the time being, he was staying near his daughter in Poughkeepsie, New York.

Nice to see movement in the real estate market, first with Bill’s new friend, Gus Smith, and now at Brubaker’s. Maybe the economy was starting to perk up in spite of dire predictions from the media.

“Kate, you still there?” Bill asked.

“Sorry, I got distracted.” I leaned forward for a better view, but the women had disappeared inside. “Looks like someone might be interested in the Brubaker house.”

“Good to know. It’s not healthy for a house to stand empty any length of time.”

“You’re right, of course.” The sound of Krystal stirring in the guest room reminded me of the reason for my call. “Bill, ah, I need a favor.”

“Sure. All you have to do is ask.”

Had Bill been transformed into a genie about to grant me three magic wishes? What if I were asking for a million dollars? A trip around the world? A lifetime supply of chocolate? I reined in my imagination and got down to the business at hand.

“As of this afternoon, I have a houseguest. She could use some help.” I proceeded to tell him what I knew about Krystal-which I had to admit wasn’t very much. It dawned on me I didn’t even know her last name. My information was sparse at best. She could be a fugitive on the lam. A drug dealer. A serial killer. Maybe Pam was right. Maybe I really was out of my frickin’ mind. I don’t remember who said it, but a mind is a terrible thing to lose.

My kids would have a conniption fit if they knew I’d invited a stranger to share my home. Jennifer would book me on the next flight out to LA, where I’d be sentenced to spend my retirement as a live-in, unpaid nanny. Mind you, I love my granddaughters dearly, but… as for my son, Steven… Well, he’d drop everything to enroll me in an assisted living center and feel smug he’d fulfilled his filial duty.

“Thing is, Bill,” I said, continuing my explanation, “Krystal’s car is out of commission. She’ll need it repaired in order to get back and forth to work. I know nothing about cars. I thought maybe you’d be the person to turn to for advice.”

I cringed hearing the helpless, wimpy note that had crept into my voice. So much for being a liberated woman. I might as well have simpered, Nothing like a big strong man to help little ol’ me. Bottom line, I’d have simpered; I’d have whimpered, if that’s what it took. I don’t know a blame thing when it comes to cars. That used to be Jim’s department. He took care of everything automotive, and that was fine by me. He’s been gone nearly two years, and automobiles are still a mystery. I treat them the same way I treat my teeth. Off they both go every six months for a regular checkup whether they need it or not.

“I’m not much of a mechanic, but I know someone who is. As soon as we hang up, I’ll give him a call. We can arrange to have it towed to his place. I’ll drop by later to pick up the keys.”

“Thanks, Bill. I owe you.” No sooner were the words out of my mouth than a giant lightbulb went off in my head, a stroke of pure genius that deserved a pat on the back. I would have done just that, but it’s a little hard to pat oneself on the back while at the same time holding the phone and talking. I’m not as good at multitasking as I used to be. “I was just putting a tuna casserole together,” I said, all spur-of-the-moment innocence. “Why not drop by around dinnertime?”

Was there a slight hesitation on the other end of the line, or did I only imagine one? There never used to be a moment’s doubt when I dangled the lure of a home-cooked meal.

“Sure,” he agreed at last. “Sounds good.”

“Great. See you around six.”

I reached into my culinary bag of tricks and up popped lemon bars. Bill loved them. If food was the way to a man’s heart, where Bill was concerned, lemon bars were better than a GPS. A glance at the clock told me I had plenty of time to whip up a batch.

I had just finished assembling the ingredients when the phone rang. I was almost afraid to pick it up. I thought it might be Bill having second thoughts about my invitation to dinner. But it wasn’t Bill; it was Tammy Lynn from the sheriff’s office, calling to inform me the sheriff wanted to see me ASAP.

“Today? This afternoon?” What about my casserole? What about dessert? What about the Oprah Winfrey Show? I didn’t bother asking. It would be a waste of breath. Sheriff Wiggins simply didn’t care about my priorities.

“Yes, ma’am,” Tammy Lynn replied in her unfailingly polite Southern drawl. “I’ve been tryin’ to reach you all day. I must’ve left six messages on your answerin’ machine.”

Oh yes, the darn answering machine. I hadn’t thought to check it. That wasn’t exactly true. I’ll confess I’d purposely avoided it for just this reason. Like it or not, I should have known the sheriff would track me down. Still, I deserved extra points for trying to avoid the inevitable.

“Sorry, Tammy Lynn. I’ve been out most of the day. You sure the sheriff said today? He must have more important things to do than spend time with me.”

“No need to worry, Miz McCall. Standard procedure, is all. Sheriff Wiggins said he wants you in his office at four.”

“Fine.” I sighed, resigned to my fate if not happy with it. “See you at four.”

If I hurried, there was still time to whip up those lemon bars. I could practically make them in my sleep. While I waited for the crust to brown, I whisked eggs, sugar, flour, and lemon juice for the filling. My mind hopscotched back and forth between manslaughter and smoking guns. It shied away from landing on either square.

The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God. The words sang through my brain like a refrain from Les Misérables. Should I mention the argument I’d overheard between Lance and Claudia, or keep it to myself? If I told the sheriff, he was likely to read something sinister into it. He didn’t know Claudia like I did and was liable to suspect the worst. It might plant weird notions in his head-notions about motive with a capital M.

If I kept their argument to myself, would I be guilty of a crime? Obstruction of justice, aiding and abetting, and withholding information topped the list. I love Claudia, but not enough to be her cell mate at the state penitentiary.