Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

Things like the Holy Trinity of law enforcement: motive, means, and opportunity.

As soon as the computer finished its warm-up exercises, I clicked Internet Explorer and did a Google search for detective agencies. In less than half a second, I was confronted with more than a million possibilities-truly mind-boggling. Viva la technology! We’ve come a long way, baby, since the days the puppet show Kukla, Fran, and Ollie on TV was a big deal each evening. Focus, Kate, focus, I reminded myself. You can trip down memory lane later, but right now you’re on a mission.

I narrowed my search to Tennessee, and voilà, found what I was looking for. “My, my,” I murmured as I clicked on their Web site. I’d hit the mother lode. Down with Deadbeats, it seemed, was an agency specializing in finding deadbeats of all creeds, shapes, and colors. Men who reneged on child support. Husbands who skipped out on alimony. Employers who defaulted on workmen’s comp. Exes who took off, never to be seen again after racking up huge credit card debt. I was leaning back in my chair, debating my options, when I heard the front door slam shut.

Krystal popped her head into the study/library/den. “Janine said to tell you you’re fined ten demerits for skipping out early.”

I glanced at her over my shoulder. “And you can tell Janine… Never mind. I’ll tell her myself next time I see her.”

“I’m beat. Think I’ll turn in.”

“Night,” I called after her. Poor girl; she looked ready to drop. I needed to remind Janine to lighten up on her rehearsal schedule. It wouldn’t do to have the pregnant star miscarry on opening night.

Just as I was about to return to the computer, I caught a glimpse of a bushy orange tail disappearing down the hall leading to the guest room. If I ever had a pet, I vowed, it would be a lot friendlier than the scruffy feline that had attached itself to Krystal. I’d half a notion to switch from albacore to the store brand that came packed in oil. Tang would be sorry he wasn’t nicer to me when he had the chance.

I felt wired. A cup of chamomile tea might be just the ticket to help me relax. Turning off the computer, I went into the kitchen and filled the kettle. While I waited for the water to boil, I stared out the window. Lights still burned in the Brubaker house across the way, the temporary abode of Nadine Peterson. I found myself wondering exactly how much money the woman had won in the lottery. Even though she never came right out with the amount, I had a feeling it was substantial. She drove an expensive car and gave the impression she could settle wherever she wanted, cost no object.

My hand automatically went to my cardigan pocket and the gold hoop. Now was as good a time as any to return it. A glance at the clock told me it was only half past nine; not too late for a quick visit. Before I had a chance to talk myself out of it, I turned off the teakettle, grabbed a jacket, and skedaddled out the door.

Nadine’s porch light switched on, nearly blinding me in its glare. I imagined one spooky green eye heavily rimmed with kohl pressed against the peephole.

“Nadine,” I called out, addressing the closed door. “I have something of yours.”

The door opened, and a plume of cigarette smoke drifted through the crack.

“What’ve you got?” Nadine growled.

I gave the door a gentle nudge and wedged my foot into the sill for good measure. “Mind if I come in?”

“Sure, why not,” she said, stepping aside. “Want a beer?”

Normally I drink tea-chamomile-at this hour. Occasionally coffee-decaf naturally. But beer? Once or twice a year I’ll admit that I enjoy a brew, usually in July or August on days when the humidity surpasses the temperature. But, what the hey, there’s no rule against having a cold one in February. “Sure, why not?” I replied.

I followed her toward the kitchen. A heady blend of smoke and nicotine clung to her like cheap perfume. Pulling a couple of frosty bottles from the fridge, she handed me one. Since she didn’t offer a glass, I took my cue from her, twisted off the cap, and downed a swig. Icy cold and slightly bitter, it was a poor substitute for chamomile tea.

Nadine motioned to a chair. “Take a load off.”

I sat. I sipped. I waited.

Nadine pulled out the chair next to me and, stabbing out one cigarette, fired up another. “So,” she said, after inhaling a lungful of carcinogens, “what brings you here at this hour?”

“This.” Reaching into my sweater pocket, I produced the gold hoop earring and set it on the table between us.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Sticking the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, she picked up the earring and studied it through a haze of smoke. “Never expected to set eyes on this again. Where’d you find it?”

“In the ladies’ room at the rec center.” I watched her reaction closely, my detection skills on red alert. “Actually, I found it the night Lance Ledeaux was killed.”

After taking another deep drag, she took the cigarette from her mouth and knocked ash into a dish on the table. Rosalie Brubaker would literally turn over in her grave at seeing her china so abused. “I thought I lost it then. Matter of fact, came back the next day. Asked at the front desk, but no one’d turned it in.”

I nearly choked on my beer at her easy admission. “S-so,” I sputtered, “you were there that night?”

“Yeah, so what?”

“Did you kill Lance?” Sometimes I amaze myself. This was one of those times. Where was common sense? Had good judgment deserted me? I could very well be seated across a table from a cold-blooded killer-a killer who might have a chain saw in the cellar, a machete tucked under the table, a semiautomatic in a cereal box.

To my surprise-and relief-Nadine didn’t take offense. Instead, she tossed back her dyed-black hair and laughed. It was a phlegmy smoker’s laugh that ended in a paroxysm of coughing. “Believe me, hon, I’ve been tempted to kill the bastard a time or two. Always managed to restrain myself for the kid’s sake.”

At this revelation, I sat up straighter in my chair. “You two have a child together?”

“Yeah, Julie’s a single mom studying to be a nurse. She’s a good kid. Never gave me a minute’s worry.”

I was trying to process all this. “B-but,” I stammered, “I saw the two of you arguing behind the Piggly Wiggly. You’re getting mail from Down with Deadbeats. According to the Internet, one of their specialties is finding fathers who weasel out of child support.”

“Lance repented.” Nadine tipped back her beer, then swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “In fact, he insisted on giving me ten grand and ordered me to leave town. He was royally pissed when I told him I’d send it to our daughter instead. He was even more pissed when I told him I decided to stick around awhile.” A complacent smile played over her lips.

“Ten grand?”

Ten thousand for a Super Bowl bet, ten to bribe Nadine, another ten found on his person the night he was killed. There you have it, folks, Claudia’s thirty-thousand-dollar withdrawal. But still the question remained: What did Lance intend to do with all that pocket change? Trade in his Ralph Lauren for Armani? I took the only option open to me. I took another swig of beer.

“Didn’t need the bastard’s money. Not no more. Not after winning big in the Tennessee lottery. Besides, Lance didn’t owe it to me; he owed it to our daughter. I’m used to taking care of myself, but she’s struggling to raise a kid on her own and finish school. I feel sorry for the girl. When it comes to men, Julie doesn’t have any better sense picking men than her old lady.”

Since Nadine was in a chatty mood, I decided to milk it for all it was worth. I took another swallow of beer, which, by the way, tasted better as the night wore on, and asked, “Just how did you meet Lance?”