Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Uh-oh. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. I squirmed. I actually squirmed. Years of catechism classes and parochial school flashed before my eyes. Hell-fire and damnation loomed like a gaping maw.

“I see I struck a nerve.” He had the audacity to smile-a blinding flash of perfect white teeth-at my discomfort. “To refresh your memory, a sin of omission is failure to do somethin’ one can and ought to do. In this instance, Miz McCall, instinct tells me you’re leavin’ out information. Makes me wonder why.”

“I was under the impression statements were supposed to be concise,” I muttered. “I simply gave you the condensed version. No sense wasting time and paper.”

“Let me judge the best use of time and paper.” He brought the chair legs down with a bang that made me flinch. “Let’s try again, shall we? This time, start at the top and run through everythin’ step-by-step.”

I discovered the true meaning of a hot seat as a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I don’t know how crooks can take interrogations on a regular basis. They can’t be good for the heart or the nervous system.

Sheriff Wiggins waited patiently, silently. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. The determined gleam in his onyx-hard eyes spoke volumes.

My mouth felt like a bucketful of sand. I moistened dry lips with the tip of my tongue, then took a deep breath. I started at the beginning but, out of loyalty to a friend, left out the part about the conversation I’d overheard. I ended my narrative recounting how all of us believed Lance wasn’t really dead but only playacting.

While I talked, he jotted notes. I had a sneaky feeling he knew I’d committed a grievous sin of omission. Any second now I’d be given a hefty penance and instructed to sin no more.

Or charged with a felony.

After I finished, he gave me a long look. I was proud of myself for resisting the urge to confess my transgressions. I forced myself to calmly inquire, “Is the interrogation over, Sheriff?”

“Miz McCall,” he drawled, “consider this meetin’ an interview. I’m savin’ the interrogation for later.”

I got to my feet, picked up my purse, and gathered what was left of my composure. As I left the room, I gave the lemon bars, snug and pretty beneath a dusting of powdered sugar and plastic wrap, a lingering look. I’d half a mind to snatch them up and give them to someone more deserving-and nicer-than the mean ol’ Sheriff Wiggins.

My meeting with the sheriff had taken longer than I had anticipated. The man obviously had too much time on his hands since he was treating an accident like a real case. Accident? My mind balked at calling it murder, or even manslaughter. But dead is dead regardless of what it’s called.

And what if Lance’s death wasn’t accidental?

I tried to stifle the pesky little voice inside my head. How had a bullet instead of a blank gotten into the gun? If it wasn’t an accident, someone had to have put it there. But who? Surely Claudia hadn’t meant it when she’d told Lance she’d find a way to get rid of him-one way or another. It was merely a figure of speech. People say those words all the time.

Don’t they?

Other than Claudia, who’d want Lance dead? The dark-haired woman he argued with behind the Piggly Wiggly? And why had he been with Krystal? I was still mulling this over when I arrived home. I noticed a car parked in the Brubaker drive and wondered if yet another real estate agent was showing the house to a prospective client. It would be nice to have neighbors again. Most of the time I enjoy being the only house on a cul-de-sac, but sometimes I feel like the Lone Ranger. The lots on either side of me remain empty until their owners reach retirement age.

Many consider growing older a curse, but not the majority of the retirees I know. It’s a blessing, a true blessing. Now mind you, no one wants the wrinkles and various and sundry aches and pains that come with aging, but there’s a certain undeniable freedom in retirement. Time is yours to do as you please. You can spend your days on the golf course, tennis court, at a bridge table, or in a La-Z-Boy watching the Weather Channel. The choice is yours. While younger folk are scrabbling to earn a living, you can sit back and enjoy the fruits of your labors. Ask anyone I know. They’ll tell you they love retirement.

A glance at the dashboard clock told me I was running late. I had barely enough time to throw my casserole together before Bill arrived. Maybe, just maybe, Krystal would want a dinner tray in her room. I’d try to convince her she needed all the rest she could muster before reporting for the first shift at the diner. With her out of the picture, Bill and I could share a cozy casserole for two. I could ply him with home cooking heavily spiced with my own unique brand of charm.

My pleasant bubble burst at the sight of Krystal in the kitchen. She glanced up guiltily, a box of soda crackers in one hand. “Mrs. McCall, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Please call me Kate,” I said. I put away my purse, shrugged out of my blazer, and then, after washing my hands at the sink, headed for the pots and pans.

“Hope you don’t mind my going through your cupboards.”

“Not at all. I told you to make yourself at home.” I filled a large pan with water, added salt, and set it on to boil.

“It was kind of you to invite me to stay with you.”

“It’ll be nice to have company for a change.” I switched on the oven, setting the dial at three hundred fifty degrees. Next, I opened the refrigerator and pulled celery and onion from the vegetable bin. I chopped, diced, and stirred. Will wonders never cease? Here I thought I’d lost the ability to multitask

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your offer.” Krystal replaced the crackers on a pantry shelf. “You don’t know the first thing about me.”

“Well,” I said brightly, not one to ignore the sound of opportunity knocking, “why don’t we get better acquainted while I’m fixing dinner.”

“Sure,” she replied, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

I took out a Pyrex dish and set it on the counter. “Why not start by telling me your last name?”

“It’s Gold. Krystal Gold.”

Krystal Gold… hmm. Her name conjured visions of sparkle and glitter-and lots of it. Bling, as it’s called. “A pretty name,” I murmured, trying to sound noncommittal.

“Thanks. My real last name was Weindorfer, but I hated it. I changed it legally soon as I got out of high school. Kids were always making fun of me.”

“Yes, kids can be cruel, but they can be a lot of fun, too.” I reached for the can opener and opened the cream of mushroom soup. “When my children left for college, I volunteered at a grade school. I especially enjoyed the kindergartners. That is, when they weren’t sticking crayons in their noses or beans in their ears.”

“I like kids, too.” Krystal’s voice turned dreamy. “I always wanted a big family.”

I stole a glance at my houseguest. She was a pretty, young woman who appeared to be in her mid-twenties, though her actions made her seem younger. She was much too pale, though, and, except for her generous bra size, reed slender. I wondered if she was anorexic or bulimic. Dr. Phil had a show on the subject once. His guest had been so thin, her shoulder blades jutted out like a pair of wings. That would never be a problem where I was concerned-not since the invention of Peanut M &M’s.

“At the diner, May mentioned you were headed for Myrtle Beach. Do you have friends or relatives there?” I asked as I dumped a package of noodles into the water, which was now bubbling merrily.

“No, we’re not close, but I heard Myrtle Beach gets a lot of tourists. I thought it might be easy to find a job there.”