Shake, Murder, and Roll Page 9

  “Dear friends and loved ones of the deceased, we are gathered here this afternoon not to mourn the life of Vaughn Bascomb, but to celebrate it. Though I never had the privilege of meeting Dr. Bascomb…”

  Friends, Romans, and countrymen…Blah, blah, blah.

  I tuned out the eulogy.

  My mind wandered; my eyes roamed. I hoped both body parts would someday be reunited. At present, however, I was more interested in pinpointing a possible murder suspect. Once toxicology reports came back from wherever—probably Columbia—with proof Sheila and Vaughn had indeed been poisoned, Sheriff Wiggins would applaud my efforts. Concerned citizens such as myself made his job much easier.

  I zeroed in on the back of Roger McFarland’s freckled neck. That night in the emergency room had been a revealing one. Roger’d made no secret of his dislike for Vaughn. According to him, Vaughn was interfering with his creative vision for a coffee table masterpiece. Timmons, too, had verbalized hostility, blaming Vaughn for a drop in ratings of How Does Your Garden Grow? My gaze shifted to Betsy Dalton. She hadn’t seemed overly fond of Vaughn either, though I didn’t have a clue why. Perhaps Todd wasn’t the only one upset over plummeting ratings. After all, as VP of Belle Beaute, the show’s sponsor, Betsy had a vested interest in the show’s success. Had dislike crossed the barrier into hatred for Todd, Rog, or Bets?

  The mortician droned on, perhaps in the vain hope a camera crew would arrive to videotape his eulogy for a segment of How Does Your Garden Grow? I couldn’t help but notice Betsy’s fixed stare at the urn holding the ashes. She wore a peculiar expression on her doll-like countenance. I tried, but failed, to pin a name on it. Careful to make certain Monica’s attention was elsewhere, I eased open my cell phone and snapped her photo before slipping the phone into a jacket pocket.

  “Would anyone here care to share a few memories of the deceased?” John Dobbs asked, his stock of platitudes apparently depleted. His request met with an awkward silence. The mortician stared hopefully at Roger and Todd. “Gentlemen? I understand you were acquainted with the deceased. Would either of you care to speak?”

  With vigorous shakes of their heads, they made known their wishes to the contrary.

  “Well, then,” Dobbs said with an unctuous smile, “I’ll ask his dear friend and colleague, Dr. Sheila Rappaport, to do a reading from the Bible.”

  Sheila, looking as delicate as a Dresden figurine, stepped to the podium and began to read the twenty-third Psalm, “The Lord is my Shepherd…”

  I bowed my head, my thoughts going back to Jim’s funeral. Jim had had lots of loved ones. The church had overflowed with friends, relatives, and well-wishers. Some of his former coworkers had made the long trip South and graciously shared remembrances of Jim’s career first as a salesman then as a district manager. Others offered amusing anecdotes, many dealing with his love for sports, especially golf. So different from this service, bereft of both family and friends.

  “He leadeth me beside the still…”

  Still…? Not anymore. My cell phone picked that precise moment to start blasting the “Battle Hymn of the Republic. ” Sheila stopped midway through her recitation of the twenty-third Psalm. Once again, heads turned in my direction. And once again I felt the hot surge of embarrassment. I pawed through my purse, then remembered I’d slipped my phone into the pocket of my suit. I prayed I’d find it before the rousing chorus of “glory, glory hallelujah.” I’d meant to set the phone on vibrate, but all the picture taking had distracted me.

  His “truth was marching on” before I finally regained the upper hand. Flustered at being the center of attention, I squeezed the darn thing to within an inch of its life to smother the microphone. I relaxed marginally when I heard a beep signaling the call had gone to voice mail and made a mental note to change the ringtone.

  I mustered a feeble smile for the unsmiling faces who’d turned to stare at me. “Sorry,” I mouthed.

  “Really, Kate,” Monica growled, “sometimes you’re worse than a two-year old.”

  Polly, on the other hand, seemed to harbor a fondness for toddlers. In the row ahead of me, she half-turned and gave me a thumbs-up.

  Sheila completed her reading without further ado and returned to her seat. John Dobbs took her place at the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. Rappaport has requested that you join her at a reception in Dr. Bascomb’s honor at the Cove Café immediately following the service. Now, if you’ll rise and join me in ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  Connie Sue’s alto, strong and true, melded with Polly’s quavery soprano. The rest of the Babes joined in, doing justice to the much-loved hymn. Then, the brief service over, the mourners—and pseudo-mourners—began to file out.

  I wasn’t sure I’d get another opportunity. Roger McFarland’s mug was still on my Most Wanted list of suspects. I decided to rectify the oversight when he paused to exchange a few words with Sheila. Digging into my pocket, I hauled out the troublesome cell phone.

  Connie Sue leaned across Monica and nudged me gently. “Really, sugar, don’t you think you should give that thing a rest? A memorial service is no place to conduct a conversation.”

  She was right, of course, but I needed one more photo to complete the lineup of possible poisoners. Any second now Roger would turn in my direction. This was my big chance. “I’m just checking voice mail,” I muttered.

  My daughter Jennifer’s name lit up on the screen. Jen lives in California—Brentwood to be precise—with my two granddaughters and her husband and former nerd, Jason Jarrod. Jason happens to be a lawyer to the stars, famous for drafting clauses the Terminator can’t terminate. But instead of listening to my daughter’s message like I pretended, I aimed the phone toward Roger, who had started down the aisle, and pressed TAKE.

  Perfect! I thought, snapping the phone shut. A portrait photographer couldn’t have done a better job. “It was Jen,” I explained for Connie Sue’s benefit as we drifted toward the exit. “I’ll call her later.”

  Chapter 12

  Cell phones are marvelous inventions—that is until they’re accidently dismembered during a memorial service. Even so, mine had held up admirably under the assault. Vaughn’s memorial service marked the first time I’d ever used the camera function and—not to brag—I did so without reading the inch-thick manual. I could hardly wait to flaunt my ingenuity under the nose of the smug Sheriff Wiggins. But I’d bide my time. I’d wait until he was scratching his head, befuddled, when the toxicology report read: Cause of death—poison. Then I’d whip out my photos of possible suspects.

  “Nice service, wasn’t it?” remarked Pam. We found ourselves side by side as we headed toward the parking lot.

  I crooked my arm through hers. “Yes,” I agreed, “I might add it was also quite satisfactory.”

  “Are you going to the reception at the Cove?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I caught Pam eyeing me strangely. “What I meant to say,” I quickly amended, “is that I wouldn’t miss this opportunity to support Sheila during her time of need.”

  Pam seemed placated by my concern for a woman I’d just recently met. I could hardly confess I was planning to use the reception to glean information to support Sheila’s murder by poison theory. My friends, even Pam, my BFF, were beginning to think I had gone over to the dark side when it came to crime solving. Sheesh! I couldn’t imagine why they’d leap to that conclusion. Blame it on coincidence that I happened to be instrumental in solving not one, but two recent murders here in Serenity Cove. Could my friends be a tiny bit jealous of my newfound talent?

  Pam glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to join you. Megan’s car is in the shop, and I promised to pick her up after work.”

  “I’ll call tomorrow to let you know what type of wood I picked out for the bookshelves Bill is going to build.”

  Pam gave me a cheeky grin. “You can skip the wood and go straight for the good part.”

  The good part? That was the second time I heard that phrase
used in one afternoon. “If by that sly remark, girlfriend, you’re referring to my friendship with Bill, they’re all good parts.”

  Pam’s grin widened. “Things starting to get serious between you and the tool man?”

  How do I answer that…? Bill was cute as can be with his Paul Newman blues and a full head of silver-gray hair. Now, some men look great in a tux; Bill, on the other hand, looks awesome in a tool belt. Trust me, ladies. But were we getting serious? Bill, for all his wonderful attributes, had a bashful streak a mile wide. He was sweet as can be, but not the type to rush into things—especially things of the “serious” variety.

  “For goodness’ sakes, Pam, don’t read too much into it. We’re just going to a lumber yard in Augusta, then afterward take in a matinee and…” I caught myself, but it was too late. I’d already said too much. One didn’t have to be an astrophysicist to know my friendship/relationship with Bill was the subject of much interest among the Babes. I’d like to preserve a small modicum of privacy where that was concerned.

  “And…?” Pam prompted.

  I should’ve known Pam wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily. I drew in a deep breath and let it out. “And afterward, we’ll stop for a bite to eat at Bubba’s Buffet Barn before heading back.”

  “Sounds suspiciously like a date, if you want my opinion.”

  “Wipe that smirk off your face, girlfriend,” I said as I climbed into my Buick and waved good-bye.

  By the time I arrived at the parking lot that serves both the pro shop and Cove Café, I discovered it filled by golfers enjoying a round in the balmy spring temperatures. Spring is my all-time favorite season here in South Carolina. Every other day, the highways and byways explode with a fresh display of color. One day sunny yellow Carolina jessamine twine and twist through branches. Soon after, bright purple-pink blooms of the redbud burst open, followed by dainty white dogwood. The grand finale comes when rounding a bend in a country road and encountering purple wisteria literally dripping from a stand of lofty loblolly pines. The sight simply steals my breath away. Gardens and yards also put on a show. There are the Lady Banks roses. And the azaleas…The mounds of vibrant pink azaleas are something to behold, but I digress.

  My patience in finding a parking space was rewarded when I saw a golfer load his clubs into an SUV. I waited for him to pull out and swung into the spot he’d vacated. I hesitated at the entrance of the café to get the lay of the land. Normally the café is deserted at this hour, but apparently Sheila had arranged for a private party. Vera McGillicuddy and Mary, the waitress who usually works the dinner shift, circulated among guests, taking drink orders. A buffet table with chafing dishes had been set up along the far wall.

  Off to my right, Sheila presented a striking figure in a trim black suit and wide-brimmed hat. Her flawless complexion retained that Greta Garbo–like ethereal beauty I envied. Did she come by this ethereal quality naturally? Or was her sponsor, Belle Beaute, responsible? On my next trip to Dillard’s or Macy’s, I intended to take some of their products out for a test-drive. Maybe that would crank up Bill’s “serious” meter.

  I fell into the queue, waiting to give Sheila condolences. I watched Claudia give Sheila an exuberant embrace, which she returned with reserve. “So sorry for your loss,” I heard Claudia say before moving off.

  Gloria echoed Claudia’s sentiment but wisely omitted the hug. Next Janine stepped forward and offered her hand. “Dr. Bascomb’s death must have come as a dreadful blow. If there’s any way I can be of help, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Leave it to Janine to always hit just the right note—something heartfelt and comforting. Unlike Janine, I tended to be more a blurter than a diplomat. Now it was my turn to console the grieving significant other. I really wanted to say, “Sorry someone poisoned you and Vaughn—and he died.”

  As I moved closer, Sheila tipped her head, and our eyes met in a moment of silent communication. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I said. Even to my own ears the words sounded trite and clichéd.

  She smiled wanly and took my hand. “Let’s talk soon over lunch, shall we?”

  Before I could open my mouth to reply, Betsy approached holding a glass. “Sheila, dear, you must be exhausted. I brought you some ginger ale.”

  I extricated my hand from Sheila’s. There would be time later to speak with her when Betsy no longer guarded her like a mother bear with a cub. Summarily dismissed, I wandered off in the direction of the Babes who gathered nearby.

  “Sorry. I can’t stay,” I heard Janine say. “Ray and I are attending a simulcast in Augusta tonight.”

  Polly gave her a quizzical look. “You’ve been holding out on us, Janine. Never would’ve taken you for a boxing fan.”

  “I’m not.” Janine laughed. “There’s a benefit being held for the new children’s oncology wing. The hospital auxiliary is sponsoring a simulcast of the opera Carmen, direct from the New York Met.”

  “Opera?” Polly sniffed. “No offense, Janine, but those dudes at the auxiliary are making a big mistake. There’s nothing like an old-fashioned boxing match to rake in the bucks.”

  Gloria shook her head, sending her hoop earrings swaying. “I swear, Mother, I don’t know how you arrive at these conclusions.”

  “Dated a boxing promoter when I was younger. Told me all about these things. Really, Gloria,” Polly said and this time she was the one who shook her head, “parents don’t tell their children everything. They like to have some secrets.”

  “Just as I’m certain children don’t tell their parents everything,” Rita, the ever-sensible, pointed out. “There are some exploits best kept secret.”

  “Amen,” Connie Sue added fervently.

  “Can I get y’all something to drink?” Vera asked as she approached our little group, order pad in hand. “Maybe a nice glass of wine?”

  If you don’t count Monica, who is a teetotaler—except in times of stress during which she drinks bourbon, straight up—the vote on wine split fifty-fifty between red and white. While Vera went off to fetch our pinot grigios and merlots, Janine glanced at her wristwatch. “Sorry, but I’ve got to run. Ray and I have reservations for an early dinner at our favorite seafood restaurant.”

  I had a sneaky suspicion that the favorite seafood haunt she referred to wasn’t Bubba’s Buffet Barn with its hand-breaded fried shrimp. But to each his own. Glancing around, I noted the reception in Vaughn’s honor had attracted more attendees than his memorial service.

  As if reading my mind, Rita nodded toward the half-dozen women who had just entered the café. “I see the board of Flowers and Bowers finally arrived.”

  “Why weren’t they at the service?” Monica asked, her voice sharp.

  Rita hitched the strap of her purse higher on her shoulder. “I spoke with some of the gals earlier. They claimed they didn’t feel comfortable partaking in a memorial service for a man they didn’t know.”

  “But they feel comfortable enough to partake of the free drinks and munchies,” Claudia observed dryly.

  Rita shrugged off the criticism. “I’m just grateful for the Babes’ support this afternoon. I’m sure it meant a lot to Sheila to have you all there. It would have been personally embarrassing to have an empty chapel.”

  Vera returned with diet soda for Monica and wine for rest of us, then headed toward the Flowers and Bowers crowd. Drinks in hand, we resumed our conversation. Conversation is one of the things the Babes do best. It’s right up there with rolling dice.

  “When I kick the bucket, I want a royal send-off,” Polly stated matter-of-factly.

  “Mother!” Gloria gasped. “I wish you wouldn’t talk like that. You know it upsets me.”

  “We all gotta go sometime, dearie. No one lives forever.” Nonplussed, Polly sipped her wine. “None of that depressing black for me. I want to be surrounded with lots of cheerful colors. And music. Lots of music. Maybe one of those funerals like they have in New Orleans. I saw a movie once where this guy died, and they had a parade
down the middle of Bourbon Street. Had a band and everything. People were singing, dancing, and having a gay old time. I think I’d like something like that.”

  I tried not to smile. I could just picture the Babes all decked out in their Sunday finery boogying down Oleander Avenue. That ought to make front-page news in the Serenity Sentinel. Unless, of course, Polly’s funeral got upstaged by a hole-in-one or a thirty-pound bass.

  Glancing about, I couldn’t help notice that we weren’t a very congenial crowd. Those present formed three distinct cliques. There was Sheila and her cronies, the inseparable trio of Todd, Rog, and Betsy. The garden club elite seemed to prefer their own company to ours. That left the Babes. Rita, a member of both groups, huddled with ours.

  My wandering attention landed on the buffet table. “I’m hungry. Anyone care to sample the hors d’oeuvres?”

  “Kate!” Monica’s eyes widened in alarm. “Surely you’re not going near that food?”

  “Why not?” I asked. “I skipped lunch. Besides, if I eat here, it’ll save me having to make dinner.”

  “But is it safe?”

  The question hung in the air like yellow pine pollen on a windless day.

  Connie Sue shifted her weight from one shiny high heel to the other. “Maybe Monica’s right, sugar. It doesn’t hurt to be careful.”

  “Surely you don’t think we’re in danger of contracting food poisoning?” I asked. Another triumph of my mind-reading skills.

  “One can’t be too sure,” Claudia cautioned.

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I looked to Rita for support, but she avoided eye contact.

  Gloria fiddled with the flotilla of gold chains around her neck.

  Monica folded her arms across her chest, her expression mulish. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but until we know for sure why Vaughn died, I’m avoiding anything not prepared by my own two hands.”

  “For crying out loud, Monica”—Rita huffed out a breath—“I’m tired of all this talk about poisoning—food poisoning and otherwise. Kate and I both heard the doctor say it was Vaughn’s heart. Can’t we just let it rest with that?”