Roll Over and Play Dead Page 6

  “Kindly define ‘not exactly.’”

  I stared down at my hands while the seconds ticked away. In the far reaches of my mind, I noticed I could use a manicure. Clearing my throat, I forged ahead. “Claudia told us Lance was only pretending to be dead.”

  “Pretendin’?” the sheriff thundered. “Who in their right mind ‘pretends’ to be dead?”

  “All of us thought he was pretending,” Bill responded, quick to back me up. “We thought Ledeaux was trying to impress us with what a great actor he’s cracked up to be.”

  I patted Claudia’s shoulder. “He was experimenting with dye packs.”

  “Dye packs?” The sheriff’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What the hell are dye packs?”

  “They’re used in the movies for special effects—like bullet holes,” Rita explained.

  “Except the red on his shirt turned out to be real blood, not some Hollywood food colorin’,” the sheriff concluded.

  Claudia’s wails had lapsed into sobs. Tears streamed down her face, leaving dark tracks of mascara. I searched the pockets of my slacks for more tissues but without success. Bill, seeing my dilemma, reached into his back pocket and produced a handkerchief, which I gratefully accepted and passed to Claudia.

  “Back to the matter of the gun.” The sheriff widened his stance, as if hunkering down for the duration. “Other than Miz Ledeaux, who handled it?”

  “He did.” Bernie pointed at Bill.

  Bill pointed at Bernie. “He did.”

  The sheriff sighed and duly made a note of this. “Anyone else?”

  Monica seemed to shrink back into her seat. “I, ah, think I did, too.”

  “Me, too,” Gus admitted sheepishly.

  Rita cleared her throat. “I might’ve picked it up and returned it to the prop table.”

  “Think? Might have?” The sheriff rolled his eyes. If I could’ve read his mind, I’d have said he was praying for forbearance.

  “So six of you admit to handlin’ the murder weapon?” I detected a cutting edge to his usually smooth baritone. He pinned me with a look. “How come you’re not on the list, Miz McCall? You afraid of guns?”

  “No need to get testy, Sheriff. You have plenty on your list already without adding my name,” I reminded him acerbically.

  “Can’t argue with you on that point, ma’am.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Gus Smith mechanically shuffling and reshuffling his worn deck of cards, seemingly impervious to the drama around him. He was so quiet, I’d nearly forgotten he was present. He probably wished he’d never heard of Serenity Cove Estates.

  The sheriff addressed the group at large. “Hope all of you had the good sense not to disturb the crime scene.”

  “Of course,” Rita said indignantly.

  “What do you take us for? Morons?” So spoke Bernie, king of the morons.

  Bill leaned forward in his chair, hands interlaced on the table, and asked quietly, “How is it possible for one to knowingly disturb a crime scene when one doesn’t know a crime’s been committed?”

  Sheriff Sumter Wiggins heaved a sigh. I wondered if he was weighing the merits of running for reelection. “Suppose y’all tell me what happened when y’all first realized Mr. Ledeaux wasn’t playactin’.”

  Not bothering to check how deep the water was, Bernie dove in headfirst. “Gus helped me shove the prop table out of the way so you guys had room to work. There’s not a lot of space backstage. Tends to get crowded.”

  The sheriff, an aggrieved expression on his face, jotted this down.

  “I found a blanket and covered the body,” Rita offered. “If I didn’t, Monica threatened to throw up. Believe me, you don’t want that to happen to your crime scene.”

  Bill drummed his fingertips restlessly on the faux mahogany table. “I dragged a chair from the set for Claudia to sit in. Didn’t want her passing out.”

  “I went into the ladies’ room and got her a glass of water,” I recounted. “Claudia, the poor dear, was shaking so badly she spilled it all over her hands.”

  Bernie’s narrow face broke into a smile, the smile of the self-righteous. “Instead of standing around wringing our hands, we all pitched in to help. Like I said, we’re not a bunch of morons.”

  “Let’s see if I got this straight.” The sheriff made a production of scanning his notes. “Six of y’all admit to handlin’ the murder weapon.” He paused. “And y’all, in one way or another, admit to contaminatin’ my crime scene.”

  I nodded. “Yup, that about sums it up.”

  Just then the door opened with a bang, and a gentleman who looked like he knew his way around a buffet table entered the room. A mane of snow-white hair was combed straight back from a wide brow. In spite of his age, which I guestimated to be mid-sixties, his face was as pink and unlined as a baby’s bottom. He wore dark pants, a navy blazer, and a pale blue shirt with a red and white polka-dot bow tie. I thought I heard the sheriff suppress a groan at the sight of him, but I could have been mistaken.

  Ignoring the sheriff, the man addressed the group in general. “I’m Badgeley Jack Davenport the Fourth, attorney-at-law. Sheriff Wiggins, heah, likes to refer to me as ‘Bad Jack’ ’cause I’m a real badass, pardon the expression, in court. Friends call me BJ.” He turned shrewd gray eyes on Claudia, who stared up at him dumbfounded. “Don’t say another word, darlin’, without the advice of your attorney, who in this instance happens to be me.”

  Chapter 9

  Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee.

  Watching Badgeley Jack, aka Bad Jack, aka BJ Davenport, brought to mind boxing champ Muhammad Ali’s oft-quoted line. Bad Jack was poetry in motion, a force to be reckoned with. I’d love to see him pitted against my favorite TV lawyer, Jack McCoy, played by actor Sam Waterston on Law & Order. Jack can filet opponents before they even know they’re bleeding. I bet ol’ Badgeley Jack Davenport IV can perform the same neat piece of surgery.

  I’ve never confided this to anyone before, but my secret fantasy is to appear on an episode of Law & Order. Oh, I don’t want a big part—certainly not anything that requires lines. No, I’d be satisfied to play one of the jurors. How hard could that possibly be? All one had to do was assume a thoughtful, intelligent expression. Maybe I’d nod my head to indicate I was paying rapt attention to the proceedings. A piece of cake, right? Of course, I’d need the right outfit to wear. I’d designate Polly my fashion consultant—then again, maybe not. Polly’d have me looking like a teenage hooker—or a grandmother on acid.

  “Was this poor bereaved woman the only one with access to the gun?”

  At Bad Jack’s question, I snapped out of my woolgathering.

  The sheriff wasn’t happy, and it showed in his deepening frown. “No,” he replied gruffly. “From what I understand, everyone in the room had access. We’ll know more after we get test results back from the lab.”

  “I’m assumin’ we’re talkin’ fingerprints and GSR.” Bad Jack’s pale, almost colorless gray eyes skewered the sheriff. “You recall what they say about those who assume? I trust, Sheriff, you tested everyone heah in this room and not just my client?”

  The sheriff gave a curt nod. “Of course.”

  “Unless you’re ready to file charges, I suggest you let the unfortunate widow get medical attention. She needs to be sedated, comforted, not subjected to cruel and heartless interrogation—which won’t stand up under my cross-examination.”

  Cruel and heartless? Bad Jack made it sound as if the sheriff were about to drive bamboo shoots under Claudia’s fingernails—or subject her to the old standby, Chinese water torture.

  “I agree with Mr. Davenport,” I heard myself pipe, and earned a dirty look from the sheriff. “Claudia’s still in shock. Can’t further questioning wait until tomorrow?”

  “It’s my understandin’ the widow and the deceased were newlyweds. Unless you can establish motive, Sheriff, we can only conclude this was nothin’ more than an unfortunate, albeit tragic, accident.”
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  Uh-oh. Motive was one of the Big Three, right up there next to means and opportunity. Did a new husband running up charge cards to the max qualify as motive? If not, what about withdrawing a thirty-thousand-dollar cash advance? And then the real kicker: Lance had placed an order for a seventy-five-thousand-dollar Jaguar. Three strikes and you’re out.

  I should have left the auditorium the instant I’d heard them arguing. I should have stuck my fingers in my ears and turned tail. But no, not I. I stayed, shamelessly eavesdropping on a very private conversation. Was it too late to make a New Year’s resolution to mind my own business?

  “Can we go? Please,” Monica begged piteously. “I’m afraid I’m going to be sick again.”

  Sheriff Wiggins pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Anythin’ else anyone wants to add before I send y’all home for a good night’s sleep?”

  Apparently not, because a lengthy silence ensued.

  He tucked his little black book away. “This isn’t over, folks, not by a long shot. Expect to hear from me in the near future. After I get the reports back from Columbia, we’ll have ourselves a nice chat.”

  Turning on his heel, he marched out. We filed out of the meeting room, a solemn, subdued little group of thespians, just as the coroner and his assistant were wheeling Lance out in a body bag.

  “Oh, my God,” Claudia moaned. “I can’t believe I killed him.”

  “Hush, Miz Ledeaux,” Bad Jack admonished. “No more talk like that with the sheriff within earshot.”

  She shuddered violently, but I think she heard him because she said no more.

  “It’s going to be okay, honey.” I wrapped my arm around her and led her toward the exit.

  Rita came up alongside us. “Kate,” she said in a low voice, “Claudia shouldn’t be alone tonight. Can you stay with her? I’ll see that Monica gets home safely.”

  “No problem. That’s what friends are for.” Claudia had no family close by. One son, whom she teasingly called Bubba, was a surgeon in Chicago. Her other son, Butch, was an engineer in Seattle. When the chips were down, the Babes took care of their own.

  I felt Bill’s hand at the small of my back. I looked up at him, and he summoned a smile—not a happy smile but a smile all the same. “If you give me your car keys, I’ll drive you and Claudia home. Gus can follow in my pickup. Tomorrow someone can arrange to get Claudia’s car to her.”

  “Thanks, Bill,” I said with a nod. His was a good plan. So much for coffee and lemon bars. They’d have to wait for another time—a time without bright red bloodstains on a yellow oxford cloth shirt.

  • • •

  In Claudia’s house I gave her a sleeping pill from a bottle I found in her medicine cabinet. Then I tucked her into bed like I used to do with my children and pulled the covers up to her chin. Minutes later she was sound asleep. I tiptoed out, leaving the bedroom door open a crack.

  I stood for a moment, debating where to spend the night. The guest room beckoned with its fluffy duvet and mounds of pillows, but I opted for the living room sofa. I wanted to be close in case Claudia woke during the night. I burrowed down on the sofa under a wooly throw but couldn’t fall asleep.

  Though my body was weary, my brain was wide-awake, replaying Lance’s fatal shooting over and over again. Motive, means, and opportunity whirled like a merry-go-round inside my head. The means had been Bill’s handgun. Lines that read, Take that! And that and that! provided the opportunity. And motive? Well, I’d overheard enough motive for several murders.

  But in this instance, motive, means, and opportunity didn’t add up to Claudia’s being a cold-blooded killer. I said it before, and I’ll say it again. She’s my friend, and my friends don’t kill people.

  Rolling onto my side, I punched the cushion. How did a real bullet get into the gun’s chamber? Could Bill have been careless? No, that wasn’t the answer either. Bill wasn’t the careless type. Not only was he a seasoned hunter but he was also the most safety-conscious person I knew. Most likely the cause would turn out to be a malfunction of some sort, and Claudia would be fully exonerated.

  I shifted onto my back and stared at the ceiling. A wide-bladed fan hovered above me like the Goodyear blimp. An ugly question reared its head. What if money matters weren’t the only reason for marital discord in the Ledeaux household? What if Lance was seeing another woman? Namely a dark-haired woman who drove an expensive automobile. Their clandestine rendezvous had taken place behind a Dumpster at the Piggly Wiggly. And if I was any judge of body language, they had appeared to be arguing.

  Darn, darn, darn. There it was again, that nasty M word—motive. Not only was Lance robbing Claudia blind, but maybe, just maybe, he was seeing another woman on the side. What would the sheriff make of all this? I wondered. He’d have motive galore for murder. Claudia would be arrested and never again see the light of day. I had to do something. But what? I couldn’t sit by and let my friend rot in prison.

  In case my malfunction theory didn’t pan out, perhaps I could conduct an investigation of my own. It couldn’t hurt. Always be prepared. The Girl Scout motto still rang in my head even after all these years. Problem was, I didn’t know diddly-squat about detective work. But I wouldn’t let that stop me—not with Claudia’s life on the line.

  Tossing aside the throw, I hopped off the sofa and padded down the hall to the home office at the front of the house. I knew where Claudia kept her laptop, and my computer skills were growing by leaps and bounds since I had joined Geeks and Nerds, Serenity Cove’s computer club. As soon as the laptop booted up, I clicked Internet Explorer and was surfin’, surfin’ USA.

  It didn’t take long to find exactly what I was looking for. I typed in private investigating on my favorite book site and up popped hundreds of titles. The first one caught my eye. The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating. Just what I had in mind; it seemed perfect. Not that I’m a complete idiot, mind you, but at times I’m dangerously close. With a twitch of the finger, the book was on its way. Feeling much better now that I’d taken action, I switched off the computer and returned to the sofa.

  And slept like a baby.

  Chapter 10

  The phone rang at precisely nine o’clock the next morning. I stumbled to answer it before it woke Claudia. Tammy Lynn Snow, Sheriff Wiggins’s girl Friday, informed me her mean ol’ boss wanted to see Claudia in his office and take her statement. I reminded Tammy Lynn that my friend had been advised not to speak without her attorney present during questioning. I felt proud of myself for remembering this. My brain’s usually a bit fuzzy until my second cup of coffee kicks in.

  I heard Tammy Lynn sigh all the way from Brookdale. “I’ll call Mr. Davenport’s office and set up a time.”

  She called back minutes later. We agreed that I’d drop Claudia off at the sheriff’s office at noon. After finishing up in court, “Bad Jack” Davenport would meet her there. That settled, I refilled my coffee cup, sat down at the kitchen table, and pondered my next move.

  Claudia was in one heck of a fix. Lance was dead, and she’d pulled the trigger. There was no way to pretty up the facts. It was time to rally the Babes and see if we could put our heads together to come up with a plan of sorts. I reached for the phone. As I always say, twelve heads are better than one.

  Pam, my true blue best friend, was first on my list. Thanks to the grapevine, which thrives better than kudzu, she already knew the gory details. Kudzu, as I discovered upon my move from Toledo, is also nicknamed the foot-a-night vine, the mile-a-minute vine, and the vine that ate the South. Compare our grapevine to run-of-the-mill kudzu, and you get an idea of how fast gossip travels here in Serenity Cove. Pam insisted I need worry only about getting Claudia up and running. She’d man the phone lines and round up as many of the Babes as she could on short notice. Armed and dangerous, we’d meet for a showdown at noon at the Koffee Kup, the local diner and coffee shop.

  Getting Claudia moving took prodding, cajoling, and a gallon of high-octan
e French roast. Her moods shifted between morose and manic. One minute she’d be sobbing and sad, then shift into defiant and angry. The sobbing and sad I could understand. I wasn’t too sure about the defiant and angry. In some obtuse way, she seemed to blame Lance for what had happened. But I knew that beneath the crying, beneath the ranting, she was terrified—terrified she’d spend her golden years locked in a jail cell because of some freak accident.

  I managed to get her ready with enough time left to swing by my home for a quick shower and change of clothes. I delivered Claudia into Tammy Lynn’s capable hands minutes before her lawyer arrived, briefcase in hand.

  He gave us both a broad smile. “Don’t y’all worry about a thing. They don’t call me Bad Jack for nothin’. I earned that title. And I’m damn, pardon the expression, proud of it.”

  I gave Claudia’s shoulders a pat before Bad Jack hustled her down the hall toward the sheriff’s office to meet her doom. Doom? A slip of the tongue. I meant meet her fate.

  • • •

  My BFF, Pam, was waiting when I arrived at the Koffee Kup, where she had secured the large corner booth at the back of the diner. “Claudia okay?” she asked by way of a greeting.

  I slid in next to her. “As okay as anyone can be after shooting her husband ‘deader ’n a doornail,’ to quote ferret-faced Bernie.”

  “Ferret-faced? Kate, cut the poor guy some slack,” Pam admonished. “Please tell me the man didn’t really say that.”

  I solemnly drew a giant X across my chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die. Stick a needle in my eye.”

  “Figures. He can be such a jerk at times.”

  “At times? You mean all the time, don’t you?”

  Glancing around, I noted the diner was filled to capacity. The owner had taken her cue from the popular Cracker Barrel restaurant chain when it came to décor. Antique kitchen utensils, farm tools, and photos of long-lost relatives in ornate frames hung on the walls. Tables covered in red-checkered cloths held small vases of plastic flowers. The diner featured old-fashioned home cooking, reminiscent of Sunday dinners at Grandma’s with classic offerings such as meat loaf, mac and cheese—a staple here in the South—catfish and, of course, finger-lickin’-good Southern-fried chicken. And pies. Pies here at the Kup were phenomenal—pecan; key lime. My hands-down favorite was the lemon meringue with its meringue mounded a mile high. But I’m wandering off course. We weren’t here to talk food, but how to save Claudia’s butt.