SCI? Somehow that didn’t sound right, but I didn’t quite know why. I’d figure it out later. Basking in Polly’s admiration, I was tempted to pull on latex gloves. That might be a nice touch, but it was probably overkill. Next I took out my fancy schmancy bright yellow LED flashlight, which had cost an arm and a leg, along with a magnifying glass. If people kept showing up dead around Serenity Cove, it might be time to invest in one of those jeweler’s loupes. I’d think about it once my head cleared. I gave Polly a sidelong glance and saw that she was watching my every move with rapt, if bleary-eyed, attention. Using the Marg Helgenberger, aka Catherine Willows, single-fisted technique, I methodically scanned all three hair samples.
Polly leaned so close, I could smell the tequila on her breath. “Holy crap!”
We’d landed in the macaroni, an expression Jim’s Italian coworker was fond of saying. We’d gotten lucky. The answer as to whom the hair belonged was plainly visible to the naked eye. There appeared to be a distinct color variation between the strands we’d obtained from Krystal and Nadine. Exhibit Two, Krystal’s, showed dark with underlying red highlights. Nadine’s, Exhibit Three, was dark as mud with no highlights whatsoever. It was also gray near the root because its owner, Nadine, needed a touch-up. The answer was blatantly obvious even to a pair of half-inebriated detectives.
Polly and I stared at each other. For a long moment neither of us spoke. Finally I broke the silence. “The hair you found matches Krystal’s. That means she was backstage the afternoon-or maybe the evening-Lance was shot.”
Polly hiccupped yet again. “Don’t that beat all.”
Chapter 35
That still left the matter of the gun I’d found in Krystal’s drawer-and the opened box of 9mm shells. Krystal Gold topped my list of suspects. She had means; she had opportunity. All she lacked was motive.
My nerves strung tight, I jumped a foot, and I’m certain that’s only a slight exaggeration, when the phone rang. It was the Suspect. Krystal, very thoughtfully for a person of interest, was calling to tell me not to worry; she’d be home late. She and her friends had decided to take in a chick flick and have a bite to eat before returning from their shopping trip in Augusta.
“No problem, dear,” I told her. The girl might be a cold-blooded killer, but she was a considerate houseguest. “Have fun.”
I emptied a can of floral air freshener to rid the house of lingering cigarette fumes. Once I had the place smelling like a funeral parlor, I went about straightening the house. I plumped pillows, put dirty glasses in the dishwasher, wiped down countertops, all the while pondering my options. It was after six; too late to call the sheriff. Knowing him as I did, I thought he probably had Tammy Lynn screen his calls from meddling junior-grade detectives. Did a box of bullets and a strand of hair constitute evidence? The kind of evidence that would stand up in a court? The type that would make Sheriff Wiggins pat me on the back and say, Attagirl.
Maybe I should confront Krystal in the same way as I had Nadine. Come right out and ask, Did you kill Lance Ledeaux? Remind her that everything she said could and would be held against her in a court of law. Fortunately, Nadine hadn’t shot me on the spot. I might not be as lucky the second time around. Krystal, after all, was armed and, for all intents and purposes, considered dangerous.
All this turmoil was wreaking havoc on the pleasant happy hour buzz I’d acquired. Tempted as I was to mix another margarita, I decided on coffee instead-the high-voltage, French roast kind, chock-full of caffeine. I needed to think clearly, not through a haze tempered by alcohol. So much for my no-caffeine-after-six-o’clock rule. Rules were made to be broken, right?
As I measured and ground beans, I kept wondering what my television mentors would do in this situation. I visualized my favorite rerun detectives, Lennie Briscoe and Ed Green, taking my evidence to the erudite DA, Jack McCoy. Jack would likely kick them to the curb, telling them not to darken his doorstep until they had enough to make a case. Then, their trusty no-nonsense lieutenant, Anita Van Buren, would order them back out on the street. I doubted Sheriff Sumter Wiggins would be as diplomatic.
I placed a filter into the basket of the coffeemaker and poured in water. What I really needed, though, was someone to act as a sounding board. Of course, the Babes came to mind. I knew I could phone any one of them-except Polly, whom Gloria had threatened to put to bed the instant they returned home-and they’d run right over. But it was dinnertime. I hated to interrupt that precious ritual where husbands replay their golf games, hole by hole, chip for chip, putt for putt, for their wife’s entertainment, so I did the next best thing. I called Bill.
Once again the phone rang and rang. And once again, I hoped he wasn’t in his woodworking shop where he couldn’t hear the phone over the whine of power tools. I was ready to hang up when he answered.
“Bill, I need you,” I blurted the instant I heard his voice.
“Um…”
“Like now. I need you now.”
“Sure thing,” he replied, sounding confused but game.
I realized then how I must have sounded-crazed, desperate, loony tunes. I struggled to correct the impression. “I didn’t mean that quite the way it sounded. What I should have said is that I need to talk to you.”
“Sure thing,” he repeated, and this time I liked to imagine I caught a faint whiff of disappointment in his tone.
There would be time enough to mull that over later. Right now I had a gun. I had bullets. “I need someone solid and sensible to hear me out. You’re elected.” Then to my utter mortification, I hiccupped, a damning reminder of my semi-inebriated state.
There was a slight pause on the other end of the line; then Bill cleared his throat. “Kate, have you had dinner yet?”
Had I eaten? “Um, I don’t think so. Does bar mix count?”
“I’ll stop by the gas station on my way over and pick up a pizza. See you in fifteen minutes.”
I released my death grip on the phone and disconnected. Bill was on the way, my white knight riding to the rescue. Not that I believed women needed knights and rescuing and such. I consider myself a liberated woman. I can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan. I am woman; hear me roar! If I close my eyes, I can almost hear Helen Reddy’s seventies’ battle cry. Still…
I hummed to myself as I set out place mats, plates, napkins, and silverware in anticipation of Bill’s arrival. Now, some might think gas station pizza a bit odd. Before moving to the South, I’d have been one of them. Since then, I’ve discovered some gas stations even serve up tasty fried chicken and catfish. Oh, yes, another local oddity: The best rib eye steaks are found at the fish market. An elderly black gentleman, and I do not use the term “elderly” lightly, shuffles out of a back room and cuts them to order. My Jim used to love putting those babies on the grill and watching them sizzle.
Since coffee, even French roast, didn’t seem appropriate with pizza, I filled glasses with ice and Diet Coke. If I couldn’t get my much-needed caffeine boost one way, I’d try another. There were always the late-night oldies on the movie channel if I was too wired to sleep. I’d worry about that later.
Bill arrived right on schedule bearing pizza, hot, steamy, and spicy. Taking it from him, I motioned him to a seat at the kitchen table. “This looks great. Glad you thought of it.” I slid slices of pizza onto plates and sat next to him.
“Care to tell me what’s going on?” Bill asked as he took his first bite.
“It’s Krystal,” I said, daintily nibbling my slice. “I think she might be our killer.”
“Whoa! What…?” Bill sputtered around a mouthful of cheese and pepperoni.