Whack 'n' Roll (17 page)

The Babes and I stopped sniffling long enough to exchange puzzled glances. Rosalie had been killed by a blow to the head?

“Could you be more specific, Sheriff?” the man with the receding hairline persisted. “By blunt-force trauma you mean . . . ?”

Sheesh! Even I knew what blunt-force trauma meant. This reporter needed serious help.

“Blunt-force trauma occurs when death is caused by a blow from somethin’ such as a pipe, hammer, or similar object.”

“Do you have a suspect in custody?” I recognized this to come from a reporter from the weekly
Brookdale Sun
.

“ ’Fraid not, Mr. Smythe. This is considered an ongoin’ investigation.”

“Is there a Mr. Brubaker?” the pert blonde asked.

“Yes, there is a Mr. Brubaker. Earl Brubaker was informed a short time ago of his wife’s demise.”

The blonde again: “Has he been arrested?”

“At present, no one’s been placed under arrest.”

“But is he considered a suspect?”

“Tenacious little thing, isn’t she?” Polly whispered in my ear. “I can picture her scrapping with the big dogs. Guess that’s what it takes.”

I nodded absently, my mind on what the sheriff was saying.

“As many of you might already suspect, the spouse, or significant other, is always considered a prime suspect until such time he, or she, is cleared.”

In my heart of hearts, I couldn’t believe Earl had killed Rosalie. Call me crazy, call me naive, but I just couldn’t.

“For the present time,” the sheriff continued, “Earl Brubaker is considered a person of interest. And, as such, has been advised not to leave town. Ladies and gentlemen, I believe this concludes the press conference. I will continue to keep you apprised as new developments are brought to light.”

With the majestic old courthouse in the background, the television crews did their final wrap-ups, then tucked away their handheld lights and sound equipment before hurrying back to the station in time for the six o’clock news. The rest of the crowd dispersed, heading toward their cars, eager for the relative safety of home and hearth. The Babes and I trailed behind, still stunned by the sheriff’s revelation.

“I can’t believe Rosalie’s dead,” Janine murmured.

“Me either,” Gloria concurred as she guided her mother toward their parked car.

“Why would someone kill Rosalie?” Diane muttered, digging out her car keys.

“It just doesn’t make sense.”

For me, however, it did make sense in some strange, macabre way. Rosalie had been gone far too long. It was out of character for her to neglect her responsibilities. And neglecting them was just what she had been doing. First, as chairperson of the member-member tournament. Second, and more important, neglecting her husband. But whether it made sense was irrelevant. Knowing the arm we had found on the golf course belonged to a woman we knew and liked made my stomach churn.

And what about Claudia and Vera? I couldn’t bring myself to voice the question out loud.

 

Innocent until proven guilty.

Deserves the benefit of a doubt. The American way.

Rita, as usual, had been the voice of reason when some of the Babes wanted nothing to do with a “person of interest.”

We debated what to do in a series of telephone exchanges and a flurry of e-mails. In the end, we did what women through the ages have done in times of death and crises. We baked. Cakes, cookies, and casseroles. We did this more for Rosalie’s sake than Earl’s, but we did it all the same.

One question, however, needed little debate. None of us wanted to deliver our culinary masterpieces alone. In the end, we agreed to meet at my house and go together to the Brubakers’.

“Ready, ladies?” I asked at promptly four thirty the following afternoon.

“Ready,” the Babes chorused.

United, we marched across Loblolly Court bearing gifts of ham, macaroni, and cake.

I rang the bell, and we waited. When that failed, I pounded on the door, and we waited some more.

“Do y’all suppose he’s not home?” Connie Sue asked, looking worried.

“I didn’t see his car pull out.” I knocked again, harder this time.

“The sheriff warned him against leaving town,” Rita reminded us.

Before we could turn and march back the way we had come, Earl cracked open the door. Frowning in suspicion, he looked from one of us to the other.

“Earl,” I said, assuming the lead, “we wanted to extend our condolences. We wanted you to know how terribly sorry we are about Rosalie.”

Considering the wear and tear of the last twenty-four hours, Earl looked both better and worse than the last time I’d seen him. Though still in desperate need of a barber, he’d at least shaved and donned clean clothing. But his basset hound face seemed even more droopy than usual with jowls sagging nearly to his shirt collar. His brown eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed, but whether from grief or lack of sleep, I had no way of knowing.

“I made you a pot roast.” Ever the consummate Southern hostess, Connie Sue held out her aluminum foil- wrapped offering. “It’s Thacker’s favorite.”

Rita handed over a Tupperware container. “Tara, my daughter-in-law, and I fixed you some ham and scalloped potatoes.”

Janine took pity on Earl, who looked dumbfounded at being confronted with more choices than Billy’s Buffet Barn. “Why don’t you invite us in so we can find a place in your refrigerator for all this food?”

He stepped aside, and the parade of women sailed past the dining room and into the kitchen. I paused on the threshold. The kitchen had undergone a remarkable transformation since my late-night visit. Thoroughly cleaned and polished, it was ready for the white-glove test. The granite countertops were free of clutter and shone prettily. The stainless steel sink didn’t host a single water spot much less a dirty coffee mug. Even the hardwood floor gleamed. All this elbow grease would have made Rosalie proud.

“Will your daughter be coming down to lend a hand?” I asked, tucking my dish of macaroni and cheese onto a refrigerator shelf next to Connie Sue’s pot roast.

“Nah.” Earl shook his head. “She said one of the kids has an ear infection. Said she can’t get away.”

“Is there anyone we can call?” Janine slid her pan of veggie lasagna onto the bottom rack of the fridge. “Anyone at all?”

“Nice of you ladies to ask, but all I got is a brother in Phoenix. The two of us aren’t on good terms.”

Pam set her trademark carrot cake on the counter. “Rosalie was our favorite bunco sub. She never turned us down—even on short notice.”

“She was at the top of our list. We’ll miss her.” Gloria put the sticky buns next to the carrot cake. “Just zap these in the microwave for fifteen seconds.”

Monica placed her take-and-go container of oatmeal raisin cookies alongside the rest of the baked goods. She shook her head sadly. “Rosalie was always so lucky at bunco. Seems every time she subbed, she took home the tiara.”

Our supply of small talk depleted, we just stood around the kitchen, none of us looking at anything in particular.

The awkward silence spun out before it was finally broken by Earl. “Can’t believe the sheriff actually thinks I might have done something to hurt Rosalie.”

I was tempted to remind him that Rosalie had been more than hurt.
Murdered
and
dismembered
were the words that sprang to mind.

The doorbell rang then, sparing us the need for a reply.

“I’ll get it,” I volunteered, eager to remove myself from the quandary of trying to converse with a “person of interest.” As willing as I had been seconds ago to answer the door, I now found myself in no particular hurry to discover who was on the other side of it. I hoped, whoever it was, it wasn’t some nosy reporter. I just wasn’t in the mood.

My pace slowed until my feet were still moving but just barely. I took in the details of Rosalie’s living room as I passed. Rosalie’s love for golf was evident everywhere. Plaques and small trophies filling shelves of a glass and chrome wall unit testified to her skill. Photos taken at various golfing events covered several end tables. I stepped inside for a closer look, praying that whoever had been on the front step had grown tired of waiting and left. I recognized most of the people in the photos as living right here in Serenity Cove.

One partner in particular—movie-star handsome—stood out. Dr. Jeffrey Baxter. While, by his own admission, he might not be ready for the pro tour, he acquitted himself admirably among other amateurs. I continued to study the photos. I spotted Dr. Handsome again. This time with Rosalie and Earl as well as an attractive brunette who I assumed was Mrs. Baxter. The caption underneath proclaimed them winners of the His and Hers Classic.

The doorbell pealed twice more in quick succession. I reluctantly stopped perusing photographs of Rosalie, triumphant and smiling, and went to answer the door. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” I grumbled under my breath.

I swung open the door and was surprised to find myself face-to-face with Sheriff Sumter Wiggins. He looked equally surprised to see me.

“Miz McCall . . . ?” he drawled. “Didn’t know you and Mr. Brubaker were close.”

“Close?” I practiced one of those single-eyebrow lifts at which he excelled. “That, Sheriff, would depend on your definition of close. As it happens, I live catty-corner from the Brubakers. Guess that qualifies us as
close
neighbors. Now”—I kept my tone all prim and proper—“was Mr. Brubaker expecting you?”

He huffed out a breath. “Kindly tell Mr. Brubaker I’m here on official business.”

“Very well,” I said, still in prim-and-proper mode, “since that’s the case, Sheriff, please follow me.” I led the way to the kitchen.

Sheriff Wiggins stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the Babes gathered. His eyes swept the assortment of covered dishes and take-and-go containers. His expression lightened a fraction as the reason for my—for our—visit became apparent.

“Ladies . . . ,” he greeted the group.

“I don’t believe you’ve met all of the Bunco Babes.” Still acting as hostess-at-large, I proceeded to introduce Rita, Janine, and Gloria. “You’ve already met Connie Sue, Monica, and Pam the day we found . . .
it
.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “How do you do, ladies?”

I marveled to myself. That inbred Southern politeness surfaces every time, even in rough and tough sheriffs who are about to skewer a “person of interest.”

“Perhaps we’d best be on our way,” Rita offered.

“No!” Earl practically shouted. “I want you ladies to stay. No reason for you to leave. I don’t have any secrets.”

Fine by me, I thought. I was as curious as the next person to hear what the sheriff had to say. I pulled out a chair from the kitchen table and plunked myself down. Pam followed suit. Connie Sue and Monica did likewise, while Gloria and Rita leaned against the counter, arms folded.

The sheriff frowned, evidently none too pleased at having seven extra sets of ears present. Since it didn’t appear we were about to budge, he pulled out his little black notebook, prepared to do business.

“I suppose I need an alibi?” Earl asked, his voice not quite steady.

“Not yet. Time of death hasn’t been determined.”

“Establishing time of death isn’t an exact art,” I whispered to Pam, proud I had done my homework and read chapter thirteen.

The sheriff gave me one of his looks, and I lapsed into silence.

“I came by to ask if your wife had any enemies. Anyone who might want her dead?”

“Hell, no,” Earl exploded. He ran his hand over his shaggy hair. “Unless she pissed someone off at the golf course . . .”

Sheriff Wiggins shifted his considerable bulk. For the first time in our brief acquaintance, he looked uncomfortable. “The next subject is of a rather personal nature, Mr. Brubaker. If you’d rather these ladies leave . . .”

Earl threw up his hands. “How many times do I have to tell you I’ve nothing to hide? Ask away.”

“How would you describe your relationship with your wife?”

“The same as any married couple who’s been married thirty years. She does her thing, I do mine.”

Was that how it was supposed to be after thirty years? I hoped not. Call me a romantic, but I believe in togetherness. Growing older, growing closer. That had been my hope for Jim and me.

“Do you think your wife might have been seeing someone?”

“If you mean ‘Was Rosalie having an affair?’ the answer’s no.”

“Help me out here, Mr. Brubaker. If you’re as innocent as you claim, give me something to go on. Think, man, is there anyone your wife showed an unusual interest in?”

The seconds ticked by. The Babes and I looked from one to another, scarcely making a sound. Earl scrubbed his hand over his jaw, looking vaguely perplexed at finding it clean-shaven. I could almost hear little gears grinding inside his head.

“Yeah,” he said at last, “there is this one guy Rosalie was always calling over.”

The sheriff’s ballpoint hovered over a page in his little black book. “And who might that person be?”

“The guy’s name is Bill. Bill Lewis.”

Chapter 19

My jaw dropped, nearly hitting the table, when I heard Earl mention Bill Lewis. A collective gasp rose from the Babes.

Earl was on a roll now. “Yeah, that’s right. Bill Lewis. He’s a part-time ranger on the golf course, part-time handyman. Rosalie was forever calling him to come over to fix this or that around the house. She’d always arrange for him to come when she was damn well sure I wouldn’t be home.”

Sheriff Wiggins dutifully recorded the information in his little book. “By any chance, does Bill Lewis live in Serenity Cove Estates?”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Call me crazy, call me besotted, but to my way of thinking, Bill Lewis was an even less likely candidate to kill Rosalie than Earl. I felt, rather than saw, Pam’s sympathetic glance slide my way.