Gail Oust - 'Til Dice Do Us Part

“Tell everyone I said to break a leg,” she called over her shoulder.

“And if someone actually did, I’d never forgive myself,” I called back.

I left the jail, but I wasn’t ready to return home and field calls from the disgruntled-and frazzled-cast and crew of Forever, My Darling. I had the niggling feeling there was something I’d overlooked, something still buried. Nadine and Krystal were living proof of Lance’s torrid past. Maybe there was more dirt just waiting for the right shovel to come along. Please, Lord, I prayed, make me thy shovel.

I hadn’t paid a recent social call on my favorite law-enforcement nemesis. Maybe time had come to rectify the oversight. We could share. And if that failed, due to his shortcomings in the sharing department-not mine-I could always fall back on the old standbys of begging and groveling.

Since my impending visit to the sheriff was more social than official, it called for a hostess gift of some sort. My mother would be so proud I’d carried out the tradition she’d instilled. Sheriff Wiggins was a difficult man to shop for. To complicate matters further, he didn’t seem to enjoy presents the way most folks did. That man had a suspicious nature, viewing each little gift as a possible bribe. I knew from past experience he didn’t have a sweet tooth, so that ruled out baked goods. The ivy plant I’d once given him had proven a disaster. It had leaked all over his desk, soaking a pile of papers before Tammy Lynn sopped up the mess with a wad of paper towels.

I solved my dilemma with a quick stop at the dollar store. When I first moved to the South, I wouldn’t be caught dead shopping in one of these. Now the clerks know me by name. I’ve added dollar stores to my list of favorites right up there alongside Wal-Mart and Lowe’s. All the basics of life can be found in a dollar store for a pittance of the price you’d pay elsewhere. When you’re a widow on a fixed income, that’s a blessing indeed. There you have it, folks, an unsolicited testimonial from a former disbeliever.

I pawed through a bin of Christmas items marked seventy-five percent off. A Santa windsock, a Frosty the Snowman candle, a pink-haired angel on roller skates. Just as I was diving into the bin headfirst for a snow globe minus its base, I heard a familiar voice.

“Miz McCall, thought that was you.”

I straightened to find May Randolph, proprietor of the Koffee Kup, giving me a broad smile. I waved a wicker basket trimmed with a frayed red ribbon at her. “Never know what you might find here.”

“You can say that again. By the way, shouldn’t you be home getting ready for the big night?” Not waiting for a reply, she continued. “Krystal took off at noon today in order to run through her lines again. Can’t wait to see her up on that stage. I was lucky to get one of the last tickets. They sold like hotcakes.”

“My friend Janine was thrilled because proceeds benefit Pets in Need, the local Humane Society.” I stepped aside to allow a stock boy to pass with a cart loaded with Easter decorations. I absently wondered how Sheriff Wiggins would like a stuffed bunny-no danger of a stuffed bunny springing a leak.

May sorted through the bargain bin, selecting, then discarding various items. “That money oughta put them well on the road toward that new shelter they want to build. Took my grandson out to see the animals at the pens last time he visited. He refused to leave until I said he could have one of those puppies someone abandoned alongside the highway. Let me tell you, my daughter was none too pleased, but she came around after she saw the little bugger. Cutest thing you ever saw with his floppy ears and big brown eyes.” May rejected an antlerless reindeer. “You must be an animal lover, too. Krystal said y’all have a cat.”

“Actually, the cat is more Krystal’s pet than mine.” I felt like such a loser confessing this. I couldn’t even befriend a silly stray. Given its choice, the darn cat had picked Krystal over me, the provider of albacore.

“Well, have a good one. Knock ’ em dead.” She waggled her fingers in what passed for a friendly wave, then wheeled her cart-er, buggy as they’re called in the South-down the aisle and rounded a corner.

Between breaking a leg and knocking ’em dead, we were in for a busy night.

I was all set to leave the dollar store empty-handed, when I spotted the perfect gift for a surly sheriff: a words of wisdom desk calendar. It didn’t matter that this was already February. There was still ten months’ worth of pithy advice. I flipped to a random page and read: Life ain’t no dress rehearsal.

“You got that right, sista,” I muttered aloud, heading for the checkout.

“Hey, Miz McCall.”

Unlike the dollar store, where my arrival is greeted with enthusiasm, at the sheriff’s office it was another story. I could describe the expression on Tammy Lynn’s face only as… guarded.

“Is the sheriff in, dear?” I asked, ignoring the fact I was persona non grata. “I promise not to take up much of his time.”

Tammy Lynn shoved her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “He’s real busy, ma’am,” she drawled. “You know how he gets when he’s disturbed.”

“I came prepared to take my chances.” That was a polite way of saying I was prepared to brave the lion in his den. “Please tell him I’m here, and I have all afternoon if necessary.”

I took a seat in the far corner and tried to look inconspicuous as I shamelessly eavesdropped on the whispered conversation volleyed back and forth between Tammy Lynn and her boss. When Tammy Lynn caught me, she dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Sheriff Wiggins will be with you shortly,” Tammy Lynn said, her manner prim as a school marm’s, then turned her attention back to the computer screen.

To kill time, I riffled through a stack of dog-eared reading material piled haphazardly on a faux walnut table. Magazines such as All About Beer, Combat Handguns, and Truck Trend had replaced issues of Southern Living, Better Homes & Gardens, and Martha Stewart Living, which I’d personally delivered. But the real winner, if I were to judge, was one called Tactical Weapons-truly motivational reading for felons in training. Oh, the places you’ll go, if I may quote the late Dr. Seuss.

I idly leafed through All About Beer and scanned an article on hops growing in the Pacific Northwest. Bored with fermentation info, I tried to engage Tammy Lynn in conversation. “So, Tammy Lynn, are you coming to our play tonight?”

“I’m fixin’ to,” she gushed, suddenly animated. “I wouldn’t miss it for anythin’. My brother said Eric’s been practicin’ day and night.”

I noted mention of Eric Olsen’s name brought roses to her cheeks. Unfortunately, Eric seemed rather smitten by the perky Megan Warner.

Further talk of either Eric or Forever, My Darling was cut short by the angry buzz of the intercom. Tammy Lynn jumped at the sound; her pretty but plain face bore a deer-in-the-headlights expression that quickly changed to apologetic. “Ah, Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”

I gathered my purse and the cute little gift bag, also purchased at the dollar store, took a deep breath, and started down the hall. Along the way, I gave myself a pep talk: I am a mature adult; I will not get flustered; I will not prattle like an idiot.

I forgot all three the instant I encountered Sheriff Sumter Wiggins.

“Miz McCall,” he growled in that velvety baritone of his, “what brings you heah?”

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me,” I said with a smile. “Brought you a little something.”

His handsome dark face didn’t crinkle with even a hint of a smile in return. “We’ve been over this before, Miz McCall. I don’t want you bringin’ me stuff. Folks might get the wrong impression.”