Chapter 7

Deputy Preston herded us into a meeting room, one in a series that lined the hallway leading from the auditorium. He then took up a position just outside the door, guarding it lest one of us wanted to make a break and run for the border.

Faux leather chairs rimmed a faux mahogany conference table. A Monet print hung on one wall in a feeble attempt at ambiance. Placing my arm around Claudia’s shoulders, I guided her to a chair. “Here, honey, have a seat,” I told her, urging her down. “Anything I can get you?”

She didn’t answer. I’m not sure she even heard me. I was worried about her. She still hadn’t uttered a word; hadn’t shed a tear. Her complexion looked deathly pale. Oops. Poor choice of words. Guess I’d better reserve that expression for Lance, who literally was deathly pale. Claudia’s eyes had lost their usual sparkle and were glazed, unfocused. Guess I’d be unfocused and pasty, too, if I’d just shot and killed my husband.

“How could this have happened?” Rita paced the length of the room, wringing her hands.

Gus slumped down in one of the chairs at the conference table. “A freakin’ accident is how.”

“I checked the chamber just like you showed me, Bill,” Monica said, her voice high and thready. Her face was the moldy-olive green I associated with her weak stomach. She was definitely learning self-control. I had to hand it to her for not barfing all over the crime scene. Sheriff Wiggins would not have been a happy camper.

“I checked the gun, too.” Bill shoved his fingers through his hair. He, too, looked shaken by what had happened. “I saw the blank cartridges.”

“Why did I let myself get talked into this?” Monica whined. “I never should have gotten involved in this stupid play in the first place.”

“I’m cold,” Claudia whispered, her voice barely audible.

I shrugged out of my cardigan and draped it around her. “Here, this’ll help.”

She pulled my sweater tighter, but shivered in spite of its warmth. “I want to go home.”

“Soon, honey.” I patted her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. “The sheriff wants to ask us a few questions first.”

She lapsed back into silence.

A minute later, Deputy Preston entered the meeting room and approached Claudia. “Sorry, ma’am, but I need to check your hands for gunshot residue.”

She stared at him blankly.

The young man glanced around, the expression on his dark face almost apologetic. “Actually, I’ll need to check all of you for GSR.”

“This is an outrage!” Bernie Mason fumed, jumping to his feet. “Why are you treating us like criminals? Everyone saw her shoot the guy.”

I saw Claudia flinch as Bernie’s harsh accusation pierced the brittle shell under which she’d retreated. I gave her shoulder another reassuring pat. “Never mind Bernie, honey. He failed Sensitivity for Dummies and needs a refresher course.”

“Won’t hurt a bit, ma’am,” Deputy Preston told her. I liked the man, a liking that had nothing to do with his fondness for my cookies. He had a gentle way about him. His mama ought to be proud.

Claudia started at the sound of the gunshot residue kit being ripped open.

“It’s OK. The nice deputy is only following protocol.” I was making it up as I went along; ad-libbing like crazy. Actually, aside from Rosalie, the closest I’d ever come to any murder/homicide investigation was on television. Not that one can’t learn a lot watching classics like Law & Order and CSI. I’d picked up tons of useful information along the way.

Claudia watched dully as the deputy went about the task of collecting his sample. I watched, too, fascinated in spite of the gravity of the situation. All the while my mind echoed Rita’s question, How could this have happened? We were simply rehearsing a scene from the play. No one was supposed to get hurt.

No one was supposed to die.

Having finished with Claudia, Deputy Preston straightened. “Who wants to be next?”

Bill stepped forward and held out his hands. “You can do me.”

If Bill could be brave, so could I. “After him, you can test mine.”

Satisfied with the samples he’d collected from all of us, the deputy still had more tricks up his sleeve. “Now I need to ask all you good folk to be patient a bit longer while I do the fingerprinting.”

“Fingerprinting!” Bernie exploded. “What the hell you goin’ to ask for next-a kidney?”

“No, sir,” the deputy replied. “Already got two good ones.”

Gunshot residue. Fingerprints. Wait ’til I tell my daughter, Jennifer, about this. But then again, maybe not. The wisest course of action would probably be to keep my mouth shut. Jen tends to overreact. She’s finally getting back to normal after my last escapade into murder and mayhem. Knowing her, I’d be shanghaied and sent to LA, where I’d be relegated to a life babysitting my two adorable granddaughters. Granted, I love both Juliette and Jillian to pieces, but I don’t want to spend my golden years a captive audience at a continuous round of dance recitals and soccer games. I may be a doting grandmother, but I’m a liberated one.

I worriedly cast another glance in Claudia’s direction. Except for saying she was cold and wanting to go home, there was not a peep out of her; probably a good tactic under these circumstances. Perhaps I should advise her that it was her right to remain silent? Remind her that anything she said could and would be used against her in a court of law?

Bill, his Paul Newman baby blues full of concern, sidled up next to me and squeezed my hand. “How you holding up?”

I squeezed back. “Do you think we should call an attorney on Claudia’s behalf?”

“Good thinking,” he said in a voice low enough for my ears alone. “An attorney sounds like an excellent plan.”

“Problem is, I don’t know whom to call. She needs someone good-real good. Someone familiar with the South Carolina court system.”

Bill rubbed his jaw. I racked my brain. Both of us were lost in thought. Whom could I ask for a recommendation? Who’d know the name of a good defense attorney? One ideally born and bred in the South. Ninety-nine percent of the folks in Serenity Cove Estates came from elsewhere-Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Pennsylvania, New York; some from even as far away as California and Alaska. Not even Connie Sue, the Bunco Babes’ very own dyed-in-the-wool Southern belle, could claim South Carolina as her home. She hailed from Georgia.

“I don’t want that messy stuff all over my hands,” I heard Monica complain to the deputy. “What if I get it on my clothes?”

“Don’t worry,” soothed calm, sensible Rita. “If you do, I’ve got just the stuff for getting out stains.”

I noticed Bill’s new buddy didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the proceedings. Gus had taken up a position at the end of the conference table where he played solitaire with a well-worn deck of cards. Bernie sat in an adjacent chair, watching the game, arms folded. I could hear the low rumble of the sheriff’s voice issuing orders just outside the door. I could feel the sand slip through the hourglass. Soon now, Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would grill us like ribs at a Fourth of July barbecue.

Chilled after giving Claudia my sweater, I rubbed my hands up and down my arms to warm myself. “The sheriff isn’t going to go easy on Claudia. She needs a lawyer and she needs one fast.”

“Someone experienced in handling criminal cases.”

I winced at hearing the word criminal used in conjunction with Claudia. She wasn’t a criminal, unless that was the new term for falling for a low-down, no-good scumbag like Lance Ledeaux. Pardon me for speaking ill of the dead, but if the shoe fits, as my daddy used to say.

Suddenly Bill snapped his fingers. “I think I know just the person who might help us.”

“Who?” I asked, already digging for my cell phone.

“Eric Olsen. Being a Brookdale cop, he probably knows the name of the best defense attorney in the entire county.”