Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

A matter of life and death?

I bounced up, apologizing profusely and babbling incoherently about a rain check. Bill, bless his heart, looked both confused and disappointed by my sudden change of heart.

I found Polly waiting for me outside the entrance of the rec center. The Disney theme, so it appeared, still prevailed, although judging from Polly’s garb, we had just departed Fantasyland and were heading for Animal Kingdom. She wore a tan zip-front hoodie lined in leopard fleece. A leopard print ball cap and matching ballet slippers completed her ensemble.

“What took you so long?” she demanded. Not giving me a chance to respond, she grabbed my arm and hustled me inside. “Wait’ll you see what I found.”

“This had better be good,” I grumbled, thinking of the nice lunch I might’ve been enjoying with my favorite guy.

Polly cast a James Bond-worthy furtive glance over her shoulder. “I think I might’ve cracked the case.”

I followed her down the hallway, past the meeting and exercise rooms, and into the darkened auditorium. She led me up the steps of the stage, then behind the curtains to the dressing rooms. There were two-one for men, another for women. I’d been told they’d been kept locked since the night of the shooting.

Polly flicked a switch in the one labeled LADIES. Instantly, fluorescent light flooded the room. Once my eyes readjusted, I noticed a long counter running along a mirrored wall. On the opposite wall were hooks for clothes and plenty of electrical outlets. Other than a couple chairs and a bare floor, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

“I turned down a chicken salad sandwich for this…?”

Polly pointed an arthritic finger at one of the chairs. “Look.”

So I did. As far as I could see, it was an ordinary chair, the type usually found in beauty shops; nothing special.

“Look harder,” Polly instructed.

My forehead puckered into a frown. At this rate, I’d have to ask Connie Sue’s advice on wrinkle creams. Polly was starting to worry me. She’d always been sharp as a tack as the cliché goes, but now she was seeing things that weren’t there. “Polly, honey,” I said, gentle as gentle could be, “there’s nothing here.”

Reaching out, she plucked a long dark hair from the chair’s black vinyl. Clearly relishing the role of Sherlock Holmes to my bumbling Watson, she held the strand up for my inspection. “Ta-da!” she exclaimed. “Exhibit Number One.”

All right, all right, I gave her points for good vision, but I was still worried. In my experience, people don’t normally get excited over finding a single strand of hair.

Unless, that is, they’re crime scene investigators…

Shades of Crime Scene Investigation (or just CSI to aficionados)… Had she latched on to something? Maybe a genuine clue?

Polly’s wide grin gave me my answer. “I came here to take a look around, see what we’d need for opening night. Since the dressing rooms were still locked, I got the key from Nancy at the front desk. She said they’ve been locked tighter ’n a drum ever since Lance got killed. And there’s more.” She smirked.

“Don’t stop now,” I warned in my most menacing tone.

“Nancy said the chairs are brand-new. They were delivered in the late afternoon on the day of the shooting. She remembers ’cause she had to stay late since Marietta had a flat tire.”

Almost reverently I took the strand from Polly’s hand. “You think someone with long dark hair might have been here in the dressing room the night Lance was killed?”

Polly’s enthusiastic nod sent her permed curls bobbing. “I confess I’m disappointed in you, Kate. You’re a little slow on the uptake. Hate to think what you’re gonna be like when you hit my age.”

“I may be slow, but eventually I make the connection,” I said, feeling a trifle defensive.

“The only two people I know with hair like this are Nadine Peterson and Krystal Gold. Suppose one of them is our killer?”

“It could turn out that the hair belongs to one of the delivery people,” I said halfheartedly. My time in Sheriff Wiggins’s esteemed company was turning me into a skeptic.

“Thought about that, too, so I checked. Nancy remembered one man was black and buff; the other white, skinny, and bald. She claims the bald one reminded her of her son, and she started telling me all about male-patterned baldness.”

Granted, a single strand of hair admittedly was flimsy evidence, but still worth investigating. Now, I’m no Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher, but to me it suggested that someone other than cast and crew might have been in the dressing room the night of the shooting-someone who kept their presence secret; someone with long dark hair.

I pawed through my purse for a container of sorts. I wished I had Tools of the Trade with me, the handy-dandy box where I stored every sort of item I could think of to help in my investigations. I keep it stocked with Ziplocs in a variety of sizes, lots of latex gloves, a high-powered flashlight, tweezers, measuring tape-the usual crime tech’s paraphernalia. Not having my toolbox, however, I settled for discarding my purse-sized tissues and using their plastic covering as a makeshift evidence bag.

“All right, Polly,” I said after the strand was safely stashed. “Here’s what we’ll do. We need a hair sample from each woman to compare with the one you just found.”

“You’re on. I’ll flip you for it.” Polly dug into her handbag, also a leopard print, and produced a lint-covered penny. “Heads, it’s Nadine; tails, it’s Krystal. I’ll take heads.”

She tossed the penny, and we stared as it settled on the floor. “Looks like I get Nadine. I’ve already got a plan cooked up. Wanna hear it?”

“Whoa.” I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to testify about in a court of law.”

Polly clucked her tongue. “Don’t be such a wuss, Kate. Where’s your sense of adventure? This could be fun.”

When I returned home, the message light on the answering machine blinked feverishly. I hit PLAY and heard my daughter’s voice.

Hi, Mom. It’s me, Jen. Wanted to see how you were doing. Hope you’re not bored.

I ran through a mental checklist. A pregnant houseguest. A starving cat. A friend who shot her husband. Nope! Definitely not bored.

Jen’s question was followed by a slight pause; then she continued. Are you still seeing that man, Bill What’s-his-name? Just wondering. Call me.

For once I was happy I’d missed her call. I wasn’t in the mood to have her grill me about my friendship with Bill. I’m a grown woman, a mature adult. I certainly don’t need to justify a relationship with a man I find attractive. And I didn’t need her to caution me on the vices of gambling-namely bunco. I made a mental note to call her back later-maybe I’d pick a time when she’d be sitting down at the dinner table and couldn’t talk.

“You’re a wuss, Kate McCall,” I chastised myself, re-prising Polly’s estimation of me, but I didn’t care. Being a wuss wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?

First thing on my to-do list was get a sample of Krystal’s hair for comparison with the one Polly’d found in the dressing room. Luckily, I had a great magnifying glass in Tools of the Trade. My homemade crime scene investigation kit had come in handy solving Rosalie Brubaker’s murder last fall, but I hadn’t had any reason to take it off the shelf in investigating Lance’s death. His case required more of my investigative skills rather than my forensic expertise-until now, that is.

Thanks to Bill’s buddy, Krystal’s car was in good running order once again. This meant she was free to come and go as she pleased and not depend on me for rides. While working at the Koffee Kup, she’d formed friendships with several coworkers. This afternoon, she’d gone with a couple of them to the mall in Augusta. Krystal wanted to look at maternity clothes; not that she needed them yet, but she wanted to check out the styles. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I practically rubbed my hands together in gleeful anticipation of sleuthing.