“Kate, isn’t it?” she asked in her deep, throaty voice.

I held out the envelope. “This was delivered to my mailbox by mistake. I thought it might be important.”

She gave it a quick glance. “Sure, thanks.”

I wondered how many times her voice was mistaken for that of a man. If eye shadow alone were any indicator, there’d be no question about her gender. She wore enough eye makeup to supply an entire class of eighth-grade girls.

From her expression, I could tell she was about to close the door in my face. “I, ah, couldn’t help but notice the postmark. You from Nashville?”

“Yeah, I guess you might say that.”

I tossed out another gambit. “Nashville’s a great city.”

At least it had looked great when Jim and I sailed through at seventy miles an hour on our way to Grace-land. I’ve been a big Elvis fan since I was a kid. Jim took me there some years back for my birthday. We even spent the night at the nearby Heartbreak Hotel. He drew the line, however, at listening to Elvis nonstop all the way home. Some men just don’t have an ear for the classics.

Nadine took a drag from her cigarette and blew out a plume of smoke. “Nashville’s OK, I guess.”

Getting this woman to impart information was harder than pulling random chin hairs. Her evasiveness only served to whet my curiosity. Down with Deadbeats? Deadbeat fathers? Boyfriends? Husbands? I racked my brain trying to remember what The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigating had to say about recalcitrant witnesses. I reminded myself to review that chapter before exam time.

I dug deep into my bag of small talk. “Nice weather we’re having. On the cool side, but nice. Daffodils will be blooming before long.”

She flicked ash on the doorstep. “I’m not into flowers.”

I dug deeper. “How do you like it here so far?”

“Fine.”

“Are you meeting people?”

“Some.”

This would never do. I was glad I wasn’t being graded on technique. Maybe I should come right out and ask if she knew Lance Ledeaux-and why they argued. Nadine, I was fairly certain, was the woman I saw with Lance behind the Pig-same car, same hair. Too bad I hadn’t gotten a better look at the face.

I made one last attempt to forge some sort of bond. I smiled with the genuine warmth of a toaster oven. “Maybe we can get together for lunch sometime.”

“Give me a call.” She stuck the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and closed the door, leaving me standing on the front step.

I could take a hint. The interview was over.

I heard the phone ring even before I pushed open the door. I rushed to answer it before the machine picked up. “Hello,” I said, sounding a bit breathless after my mad dash.

“Miz McCall…?”

Dang! Should have let the machine get it. Instantly I realized my mistake upon recognizing the Voice of Doom, also known as Tammy Lynn Snow. Was it too late to disguise my voice? Adopt a Spanish accent? Hola, señora? Grow up, Kate, I chided myself. Put on your big-girl panties and deal with it.

“Hey, Tammy Lynn. How’re things?”

“Sheriff Wiggins wants to see you here in his office,” the girl said without preamble.

I groaned. I simply couldn’t help it. Why wasn’t my caller telling me I’d won the South Carolina lottery? Or requesting a liver transplant?

“I, ah, I’m kind of busy right now.” Liar, liar! I touched my nose to see if it had grown any. Pinocchio, Pinocchio, wherefore art thou Pinocchio?

“Sheriff said he’d be happy to send Deputy Preston if you needed a lift.”

Send a deputy? Well, that kicked my heart into overdrive. There must be some pretty serious stuff on the agenda. I opted for one more whopper. I crossed my fingers and hoped I’d be able to recognize myself next time I looked in the mirror. “Ah, I have a previous engagement.”

“He was very specific when he told me not to take any excuses. Can you be here by three o’clock?”

“Fine,” I snapped, and instantly regretted it. There was no need to take out my frustration on Tammy Lynn. “Sorry, Tammy Lynn. Tell the sheriff I’ll be there.”

After I hung up, I stood for a moment, a hand over my heart to still its racing. Question after question popped into my head. Why did the sheriff want to see me? Was this another group meeting? Or was I going to fly solo? And if I was convicted of obstruction of justice, could Claudia and I request to be cell mates?

One thing I did know, however. I needed some sound legal advice between now and three o’clock. I dialed BJ Davenport’s office and explained my predicament to Aleatha Higginbotham. My desperation must’ve communicated itself across the line, because Aleatha, bless her heart, promised to squeeze me into BJ’s schedule.

Somewhat relieved, I called Bill, Rita, and Monica. None of them had received a summons from Tammy Lynn. I had a bad feeling about this. It looked like I was going to be the sole guest.

“I heard jail food is very unhealthy,” Monica advised. “Deep-fried and loaded with fat. Be sure to ask for a jumpsuit one size too big in case you gain weight,”

Monica was only trying to be helpful, right?

“Hey, Miz Kate,” Aleatha greeted me with a smile. “Don’t you look nice this afternoon.”

“Thanks, Aleatha.” Maybe I should have studied at the Higginbotham School of Fashion. My dress code bore a closer resemblance to Tammy Lynn Snow’s. Unlike Aleatha’s wildly flowered blue and green ensemble, I was wearing a beige twinset and brown flannel pants. Figured I’d go with neutrals since I might be wearing hard-to-miss orange soon enough.

“Can I get you a glass of tea or a soda?

“No, thanks,” I said. “I don’t want to risk drowning the butterflies in my stomach.”

“No need to fret with BJ helping. He said to send you right in.”

BJ looked up when I entered and came out from behind a massive antique desk. “Miz Kate,” he said, welcoming me with the warmth reserved for an old friend, “you’re lookin’ pretty as a picture this afternoon. Have a seat.”

I gave him a wobbly smile as I complied. “Sheriff Wiggins called. He wants to see me.”

He lowered himself onto the edge of the desk. I noticed he was wearing his signature bow tie. Today’s pick was navy blue imprinted with tiny green palmettos, South Carolina’s state tree. Snazzy!

“Don’t let Wiggins get your panties in a twist,” he counseled. “Now tell me, how can I help you?”

I set my purse in my lap, folded my hands primly, then took a deep breath. “Tell me everything I need to know about obstruction of justice. And when you’re done, kindly explain withholding information. Bottom line: Can I be arrested?”

A vertical frown formed between his brows. “What kind of information are you withholding?”

I looked down; I looked up. I looked anywhere but directly at him. “Um, I, ah, happened to overhear Claudia and Lance argue the night he was shot.”

“Mmm, I see. Just what were they arguin’ about?”

“Money.”

“And you’re afraid to tell the sheriff.”

“I’m more afraid of incriminating Claudia.”

BJ got up from his perch and prowled the room, hands behind his back.

I fiddled nervously with the strap of my purse. “He suspects I’ve committed a sin of omission.”

“I’d advise you to come clean. Don’t embellish anythin’. Just tell him what you heard. Arguments between husbands and wives are commonplace. Show me a husband and wife who don’t argue, and I’ll show you a husband and wife who don’t speak to each other.”

“But I heard Claudia say ‘over my dead body.’ ”

He grunted. “Merely a figure of speech. Folks say it all the time.”

“But most husbands don’t turn up dead half an hour later.”

“Good point, but don’t remind the sheriff of that sorry fact.”

“There’s more,” I said miserably. “She threatened to get him out of her life-‘one way or another.’”