Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“Lance would’ve shit a brick if he knew how much I was worth. He thought he could wave a measly ten grand in my face and I’d disappear. Well, it didn’t work that way.” Nadine’s spooky green eyes held a fiendish glow of satisfaction. “Boy, was he pissed when I told ’im I intended to stick around for a while.”

The instant Nadine slid a cigarette from her ever-present pack and flicked her Bic, I knew we were off to a running start. I sat back, prepared to enjoy the show. I didn’t have long to wait.

Polly kept the conversational ball afloat. “Kate mentioned you and Ledeaux had a kid together.”

“Yeah, a girl, Julie. She’s studying to be a nurse.”

Nadine polished off her beer and burped. I raced to get her another.

“If she’s anything like her mother, I bet she’ll make a good one, too,” Polly remarked as I returned.

“Damn right she will. That girl’s not the least bit squeamish. Strong as an ox, too.” I tried not to cringe as Nadine aimed a stream of smoke at my pristine ceiling.

Nadine was well into her third beer when I gave Polly the high sign we’d agreed upon earlier. Time had come to get this little show of ours on the road. And we needed to do it before Polly drank herself into oblivion. Her small frame was no competition against Nadine’s when it came to alcohol consumption. I’m afraid I wasn’t faring much better. I felt a slight buzz as I got up to refill the bar mix. I’d no doubt, Nadine, on the other hand, could drink a stevedore under the table.

Setting the munchies on the coffee table, I accidentally bumped Nadine’s pack of smokes and knocked them to the carpet where they scattered. Originally, I’d planned to spill bar mix, but this worked even better. There was nothing more precious to Nadine than her cigarettes-unless it was Bud Light. “Oh dear,” I exclaimed in my best amateur-actress voice. “How clumsy of me.”

“Here,” Polly chimed, right on cue. “Let me help.”

Nadine had beaten us to the punch and was already bent over picking up cigarettes. Our three heads butted together as we worked diligently. Just then Polly’s charm bracelet accidentally tangled in Nadine’s long, dark mane. Giving her wrist a sharp jerk, she broke free.

“Ouch!” Nadine squealed, holding her head and glaring at Polly. “Watch it. You’re gonna give me a bald spot.”

“Sorry,” Polly said, attempting to sound contrite. “Guess I need to lay off the margaritas.”

I could barely keep the smirk from my face when Polly glanced at me when Nadine wasn’t looking. I wanted to high-five her so badly, I could scarcely contain myself.

After her fourth beer and countless cigarettes, Nadine finally decreed an end to happy hour. I made a mental note to call Gloria and have her fetch Polly, who had made a valiant attempt to match Nadine drink for drink. Polly definitely needed a designated driver, and I knew better than to think it should be me.

Polly hiccupped. “That went well, don’t you think?”

I eyed her unnaturally bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “Sure you want to help with this?”

“Of course,” she replied indignantly. “I was ready to risk my lungs and liver for the sake of our little experiment. I aim to see it through.”

“Then, my dear Sherlock, let’s proceed.”

She swayed a little when she rose to her feet, and I put a hand out to steady her. “I think we should reverse roles. You’d better let me be Sherlock.”

“Whatever you say.” She hiccupped again.

Gloria was going to read me the riot act when she saw what condition her mother was in. I could hardly blame her. But Polly wasn’t an easy person to control. That sounded lame, even to my ears, but it was the best I could come up with, given the circumstances. I steered my cohort in crime into the dining room and nudged her into a chair.

Earlier I’d decided the dining room was the best location for our little experiment, as Polly aptly phrased it. It also eliminated the possibility of Nadine’s glancing in this direction from across the street and seeing our heads together. Using tweezers from Tools of the Trade, I carefully transferred the hair we’d found in the dressing room onto a sheet of white computer paper and labeled it EXHIBIT ONE. Next to it, I placed the hair sample I’d found twisted around Krystal’s ponytail elastic, labeling it with her name and EXHIBIT TWO. Last, but by no means least, came Nadine’s hair that had been accidentally caught in Polly’s charm bracelet; this I labeled EXHIBIT THREE. I knew it was important to handle each strand with care. I’m pretty sure it had to do with hair follicles and DNA, but after a couple margaritas I wouldn’t swear to it.

“Hey, Kate, you really know your stuff. You could be one of those SCI types like on TV.”

SCI? Somehow that didn’t sound right, but I didn’t quite know why. I’d figure it out later. Basking in Polly’s admiration, I was tempted to pull on latex gloves. That might be a nice touch, but it was probably overkill. Next I took out my fancy schmancy bright yellow LED flashlight, which had cost an arm and a leg, along with a magnifying glass. If people kept showing up dead around Serenity Cove, it might be time to invest in one of those jeweler’s loupes. I’d think about it once my head cleared. I gave Polly a sidelong glance and saw that she was watching my every move with rapt, if bleary-eyed, attention. Using the Marg Helgenberger, aka Catherine Willows, single-fisted technique, I methodically scanned all three hair samples.

Polly leaned so close, I could smell the tequila on her breath. “Holy crap!”

We’d landed in the macaroni, an expression Jim’s Italian coworker was fond of saying. We’d gotten lucky. The answer as to whom the hair belonged was plainly visible to the naked eye. There appeared to be a distinct color variation between the strands we’d obtained from Krystal and Nadine. Exhibit Two, Krystal’s, showed dark with underlying red highlights. Nadine’s, Exhibit Three, was dark as mud with no highlights whatsoever. It was also gray near the root because its owner, Nadine, needed a touch-up. The answer was blatantly obvious even to a pair of half-inebriated detectives.

Polly and I stared at each other. For a long moment neither of us spoke. Finally I broke the silence. “The hair you found matches Krystal’s. That means she was backstage the afternoon-or maybe the evening-Lance was shot.”

Polly hiccupped yet again. “Don’t that beat all.”

That still left the matter of the gun I’d found in Krystal’s drawer-and the opened box of 9mm shells. Krystal Gold topped my list of suspects. She had means; she had opportunity. All she lacked was motive.

My nerves strung tight, I jumped a foot, and I’m certain that’s only a slight exaggeration, when the phone rang. It was the Suspect. Krystal, very thoughtfully for a person of interest, was calling to tell me not to worry; she’d be home late. She and her friends had decided to take in a chick flick and have a bite to eat before returning from their shopping trip in Augusta.

“No problem, dear,” I told her. The girl might be a cold-blooded killer, but she was a considerate houseguest. “Have fun.”

I emptied a can of floral air freshener to rid the house of lingering cigarette fumes. Once I had the place smelling like a funeral parlor, I went about straightening the house. I plumped pillows, put dirty glasses in the dishwasher, wiped down countertops, all the while pondering my options. It was after six; too late to call the sheriff. Knowing him as I did, I thought he probably had Tammy Lynn screen his calls from meddling junior-grade detectives. Did a box of bullets and a strand of hair constitute evidence? The kind of evidence that would stand up in a court? The type that would make Sheriff Wiggins pat me on the back and say, Attagirl.