Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“How about I put on a pot of coffee?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Great. May I take your coat?”

“I’ll just keep it here,” I replied. Shrugging out of my lightweight jacket, I draped it over the back of a kitchen bar stool. “Looks like you’re in the middle of another of your woodworking projects.”

“I’m making a gun rack.” He tugged off his safety glasses and tossed them on the counter. “The guys in the Rod and Gun Club asked me to make one as a sample for them.”

Making a gun rack? Swell. A perfect segue. “Do you own a lot of guns?” I asked with the studied casualness worthy of a seasoned detective-at least my version of a seasoned detective. I’m no Lennie Briscoe from Law & Order, but I’m learning.

Bill moved about the kitchen, his movements efficient and economical. He filled the carafe with water, then carefully measured coffee. “I have a rifle for hunting and a couple handguns I use for target shooting.”

“Including the one you loaned Lance?”

“Yeah, I’ve got a concealed weapons permit. Took a class the sheriff’s department offered.” He took a partially empty bag of Oreos from the cupboard and heaped them on a plate, which he set in front of me.

Now, some men might ply women with alcohol, but they should take a page from Bill’s book. I say, ply them with chocolate, gentlemen. They’ll be putty in your hands. First hot chocolate at Claudia’s, now Oreos with Bill; the chocolate gods were smiling on me. I must have been a good girl to rate this kind of treatment.

“Bill,” I said, nibbling a cookie, “there’s something I need to ask.”

“Shoot.”

Shoot as in bang-bang? Another segue I couldn’t ignore. “Since you brought up the subject of shooting, is it possible you might’ve left a bullet in the gun you gave Lance?”

He turned, looking as unhappy as I’d ever seen him, a half-filled mug in his hand. Oh dear. Was I about to hear a confession? If so, what next? Turn him in to the sheriff? Wave as he was hauled away in a squad car?

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve asked myself the same question,” he said at last.

The cookie in my mouth turned tasteless. “Is there even a remote possibility?”

“I’ve gone over this a thousand times, Kate.” Resuming his role of host, he finished filling a mug for me, then poured another for himself. “As I told the sheriff, I cleaned the gun that morning before handing it over to Ledeaux. If there was a bullet in the chamber, there’s no way I could have missed it.”

“You’re positive?”

“Very positive.” He sat down beside me at the breakfast bar. “I’ve been around guns since I was a kid. No way I’d be that careless. Face it, Kate. This was no accident. Someone wanted Lance dead.”

“But who?”

Ever since the shooting, I’d had trouble wrapping my mind around the notion that Lance had been murdered. The word accident seemed safer, less frightening. As I said before, denial is a wonderful thing; best defense mechanism God ever created. But time had come to take my head out of the sand and face facts. Bill was absolutely certain he hadn’t left a bullet in the chamber. And the only place Claudia would’ve killed Lance was in a divorce court.

“Time to get down to business.” I reached for the large purse I always intend to trade in for a smaller one. At times like these, though, it’s good to have everything at your fingertips-things such as latex gloves, an LED flashlight, and my very own little black book, which bore an uncanny resemblance to the sheriff’s. I dragged out the notebook and rummaged around for a pen. “Let’s make a list.”

“What kind of list?”

“Work with me, Bill.” I flipped open to an empty page. “We need to write down all possible suspects. Then we’ll eliminate them one by one.”

“How do you propose we do that?”

I sighed. Clearly Bill needed guidance-my guidance, that is. I’d be more than happy to take him under my wing and teach him the ropes of being a PI. “Remember what Sheriff Wiggins said about the Big Three?”

Bill frowned. “General Motors, Ford, and Chrysler?”

I sighed. Figures coming from someone who lived in Michigan most of his life. “The Big Three in detective work are motive, means, and opportunity. Everyone backstage had means and opportunity. All we need to do is find out who, other than Claudia, had a reason to want Lance dead. A walk in the park for two pros like us, right?”

“If you say so,” Bill agreed reluctantly, but didn’t look convinced.

I proceeded to write down the names of everyone who had been present at rehearsal the night Lance was shot. “Let’s start by crossing both of us off the list since neither of us is guilty. I’ll scratch Claudia off the list, too, since we believe she’s innocent.”

Bill pointed at the next name on the list of possible suspects. “Monica?”

I shook my head. “Monica would never shoot anyone.”

“Why’s that?”

“She has a weak stomach and can’t stand the sight of blood.” I drew a line through her name. “If she ever decided to kill someone, she’d use poison.”

Bill’s eyes danced with amusement. “Has anyone ever told you that you have a devious mind?”

I refused to be sidetracked by a pair of baby blues. “Rita would never kill anyone either.” Hers was another name to cross off.

“She have a weak stomach, too?”

“Rita’s a gardener. She likes to plant things and watch them grow. I once saw her refuse to throw out an African violet infested with mealy bugs. That’s not the type of person who’d cold-bloodedly kill a human being.”

“Guess not.” Bill took a sip of coffee. “That leaves only Bernie and Gus on your list. Since Gus met Lance for the first time when I introduced them, what motive could he possibly have?”

I crossed Gus from my ever-shortening list. I stared at the plate of Oreos. Wasn’t chocolate supposed to be good for you? Dark chocolate, Monica had preached, not white chocolate, not milk chocolate. Yep, Oreos looked dark to me. I helped myself to another cookie. “That leaves Bernie Mason as the prime suspect.”

We sat for a moment in silence, contemplating the possibility.

Heaving a sigh, I suddenly knew what I had to do. Slowly, and with some regret, I drew a line through the name of our lone suspect. “Bernie has the backbone of an amoeba. He’d never get up the nerve to murder someone.”

I flipped a new page over in my notebook. “Let’s look at this a different way,” I said, bowed but unbroken. I then proceeded to tell Bill about Polly seeing Lance looking chummy with a dark-haired woman she swore was Krystal.

“But Krystal’s new in town. What motive could she possibly have?”

“I confess it’s a long shot. The only possible connection I can see is that both she and Lance had previous acting experience.”

“You’re overlooking the fact she wasn’t at the rec center that night.”

I didn’t want to hear the voice of reason. I wanted to solve the case, clear Claudia, and get on with my life. Next I told Bill about seeing Lance arguing with a dark-haired woman behind the Piggly Wiggly-a woman driving a luxury car identical to that of my new neighbor, Nadine Peterson.

“Since this Peterson woman wasn’t at the scene of the crime either, even if she had motive, she still lacks means and opportunity.”

Bill was proving a star pupil in the Kate McCall School of Private Investigation-a school about to go defunct without a single suspect.

I idly riffled through the stack of yesterday’s mail still waiting to be opened. The house seemed quiet with Krystal at work. Funny how quickly one grows accustomed to having another person around-and how unusually quiet it becomes with them gone. Until now, I thought I’d adjusted nicely to Jim’s death. Granted, I get lonely at times, mostly evenings and weekends. Evenings the two of us used to gab over dinner, then watch TV or read the paper. Weekends meant get-togethers with friends; maybe taking in dinner and a movie-couple activities.