Whack 'n' Roll (33 page)

I slowly pushed to my feet. The pole barn seemed to do a full rotation before resuming its original position.

Baxter didn’t seem to notice my unsteadiness. Or didn’t care. “I told Gwen you were dangerous. That with you asking so many questions someone was bound to figure out what happened to Rosalie.”

“Gwen?” My voice came out barely more than a squeak.

He flashed his pearly whites in a parody of friendliness. “That’s right, Gwen. My wife, Gwendolyn ‘Moneybags’ Baxter. I don’t believe you two have met, but I have a sneaky feeling that’ll be remedied before the evening’s over.”

I swallowed. No easy feat with a mouth as dry as burned toast. “Why bring your wife into this?”

“Because, my dear Kate, I think it’s only fair you know the whole truth before you die.”

Was it fair, I wanted to scream, that my children would blame themselves for not shipping me off to a home for slightly demented and foolish elderly women? Was it fair I learned the truth, but no one else would? I tried to form a plan of action, or any plan at all, but my brain stubbornly refused to cooperate. Like the time I tried to crank the engine of the Buick with a dead battery. Zip, zilch, nada.

Dr. Murder-on-His-Mind made a casual gesture with his gun hand. “Shooting would be the easiest way to dispose of a busybody, but messy. My wife and I just finished cleaning up an even bigger mess. It was a lot of hard work. A task we’re not anxious to repeat. No,” he said, “I have something else in mind.”

I ran my tongue over my lips to moisten them. “You said you were going to tell me everything. About how you killed Rosalie.”

“Therein lies the real kicker.” He chuckled. “I didn’t kill Rosalie. Gwen did.”

I shook my head to clear it. I wasn’t sure I’d heard right.

He smiled at my confusion, but his eyes were cold, lifeless. The smile of a sociopath. The type I imagined Charles Manson and Jeffrey Dahmer gave their victims right before killing them.

“I—I don’t understand,” I stammered.

“My wife has an awesome temper. Rosalie and I planned to take a weeklong cruise to the Bahamas. She told that stupid oaf of a husband she was going to Poughkeepsie to visit their daughter. I, in turn, told Gwen I was headed for a dental convention in Cleveland. Since it was Gwen’s bridge-club night, just like tonight, we arranged to rendezvous here. Somehow Gwen got wind of our plans. As luck would have it, I had an emergency and was running late. Gwen was waiting here when Rosalie arrived. They argued—things got . . . heated. According to Gwen, Rosalie, after flaunting the ring I’d given her, turned her back to leave. Gwen lost it. She picked up a golf club I’d just finished regripping and struck her with it. Rosalie, poor dear, died instantly.”

I took a baby step toward the door. If I could distract him, I’d make a run for it. Anything was better than just standing here, an easy target. “But I still don’t understand. If Gwen killed her, where do you fit in? From what you just told me, you weren’t even here.”

As if on cue, Gwen Baxter stepped through the doorway and into the workshop. The photos I’d seen of her didn’t do her justice. Tall and slender, she was strikingly attractive in tailored black pants and a cherry red jacket that flattered her brunet beauty. Her face was narrow, her features sharp and foxlike. Her eyes were a brown so dark they appeared almost black.

“What’s going on?” she demanded, taking in tableau-in-a-woodshop.

“Hello, darling. Bridge finish early?”

“What’s
she
doing here? Isn’t she a little old for you?”

If I weren’t in dire straits, I’d object to being called old.

“You’re timing’s impeccable as always, my love,” Baxter replied, never taking his eyes—or the gun—off me. “I found the biddy snooping around. I was about to explain how we work as a team.”

“Yes, we’re quite a pair.” Gwen joined her husband’s side. “I have the money. You have the charisma.”

“Following her little . . . altercation . . . with Rosalie, Gwen made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: She transfers a cool million to my personal account, and I help dispose of the body. I have to hand it to her. Gwen’s a great gal. And clever, too, not to mention gutsy. She was the one who came up with the idea of replacing Brubaker’s sand wedge with the murder weapon. She made the switch herself when no one was looking.”

“And you, sweetheart,” Gwen sneered, “were supposed to dispose of the body—or rather what was left of it. Fine job you did, too. Do I have to do everything myself if I want it done right?”

I didn’t want to be the audience for a family feud, so I asked, “Doesn’t it bother you that an innocent man is about to spend the rest of his life behind bars for something you did?” Silly question to ask a pair of psychopaths, but any port in a storm, as my daddy used to say.

Gwen laughed, she actually laughed, her wide mouth a scarlet slash against her pale skin. Ignoring me, she addressed her husband. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’ve a long drive ahead of us tomorrow. Let’s get on with this, shall we? How do you plan to dispose of our uninvited guest?”

“I was hoping you’d ask. My idea’s brilliant—and involves no messy cleanup.”

“Do tell. I’m all ears.”

“Kate, here, has an irrational fear of dentists. A fear she broadcasts to anyone who’ll listen. A pity, but the unfortunate soul is going to suffer a fatal overdose from the barbiturates she took to calm her nerves when that nasty filling came loose a second time.”

Chances for escape were dim before, but now with two people blocking the only exit, they were downright grim. Belatedly I remembered I still wore the latex gloves I had donned what seemed like a lifetime ago. I wouldn’t leave as much as a single fingerprint behind to show I was once here. I had outsmarted myself.

“How do you intend to explain my dying in your woodshop?” I asked, so terrified I could barely speak.

“That won’t be a problem. According to my script, the next scene takes place in my office. Gwen is going to drive us there. I happen to keep a supply of sedatives locked away and have the means of . . . how shall I say? . . . persuading? . . . you to take them. She’ll witness how I valiantly rose to the occasion and tried to revive you.” He smiled a mirthless smile. “But, alas, my heroic efforts failed. Your death will be viewed as a tragic accident. Now”—he waved the gun at me—“move!”

My ankles felt shackled by ten-pound weights as I stumbled to obey. I tensed at the hard press of a gun barrel between my shoulder blades and sluggishly moved toward the door. I paused for a second on the threshold, drawing in a lungful of cool night air. I caught a slight movement out of my peripheral vision but, before I could locate the source, felt another jab of the gun urging me forward.

“Hurry up,” Baxter ordered. “If you’re waiting for the cavalry, it ain’t coming.”

No sooner were the words spoken than a flurry of motion exploded just to my right. I heard a sickening crack followed by a bloodcurdling howl. I half turned to find Bill Lewis wielding his Louisville Slugger over Baxter, who was down on his knees cradling his broken wrist against his chest.

Springing into action, I scrambled to retrieve the gun that had flown from his grasp upon impact with the bat. Gwen, though stunned at first by the unexpected turn of events, dived for it, too. Luckily I was quicker. I’d like to think my reflexes were faster than the younger woman’s, but credit an adrenaline rush for the lucky save. I aimed the gun in her general direction, using both hands like I’d watched Mariska Hargitay do on
Law & Order: Special Victims Unit
. I was shaking so much I couldn’t have hit the broadside of a barn at ten paces. But in spite of my attack of palsy, Gwen froze, apparently not wanting to chance my marksmanship—or lack thereof.

“You OK?” Bill asked.

I gave him a shaky smile meant to reassure. “Call Sheriff Wiggins.”

Nodding, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. When the brief conversation ended, he came over and put his arm around my shoulders. “Sure you’re all right?”

In the aftermath of the adrenaline overload, my teeth started to chatter and my knees wobble. If Bill weren’t there for support, I’d be on the ground alongside the blub bering doctor. “J-j-just peachy,” I managed.

“That’s my girl.”

Seeing Bill’s baby blues light with approval, a slow, steady warmth began to seep through my body. Warmth from the inside out.

A nice feeling.

Chapter 38

It was all over but the shouting.

Maybe the cavalry hadn’t arrived, as Baxter had been so kind to point out, but my white knight had arrived in the nick of time armed with his trusty Louisville Slugger. Bill kept me company while I explained to Sheriff Wiggins what happened. And believe me, I had some ’splainin’ to do, as Desi used to say in the old
I Love Lucy
s. Afterward Bill and I watched from the backseat of a patrol car while Deputy Preston hustled Dr. Death, whimpering and threatening assault charges, to the emergency room. Their final stop would be Brookdale County Jail. Gwen Baxter, looking more petulant than fearful, glared at me as she was led away in handcuffs.

The sheriff barked orders to his men. The pole barn was draped in the now-familiar yellow crime-scene tape. SLED would arrive first thing in the morning to examine every square inch of Baxter’s woodworking shop for trace evidence. I had no doubt they’d find what they searched for. All in all, it had been an eventful night. I couldn’t wait to see the looks on the faces of the Bunco Babes when I described my exploits. As for my children, I decided mum’s the word.

I turned to Bill and asked, “How did you ever happen to find me?”

“If I tell you, you’ve gotta promise you won’t think I’m some kind of stalker.”

“Promise.”

“You’re not the only curious person, Kate,” he said with a rueful smile. “I saw you head out of town and decided to see where you were going. I was worried, you out late at night and Rosalie’s murderer still not found.”

“If you hadn’t come along when you did . . .” I shuddered, remembering Baxter’s cold smile and even colder eyes.

“But I did.” He reached over and took my hand, which was no longer sheathed in a latex glove. “I saw your car parked alongside the road and decided to wait it out. When you didn’t return, I thought you might’ve gotten yourself in trouble. So I went to check on you. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“Thank goodness you did. Baxter and his wife would have killed me without batting an eye.”

He gave my hand a squeeze. “Not with me around.”

I squeezed back. Who would have thought a guardian angel would have baby blue eyes and a tool belt?

 

The next day, Tammy Lynn phoned to say the sheriff wanted to see me. When I arrived at his office, she gave me a big smile and instructed me to go right in.

“Miz McCall. Please, have a seat,” Sheriff Wiggins greeted me.

I sat, perched on the edge of the chair, poised for flight. I wasn’t sure what this meeting was all about, but hoped I wasn’t being charged with trespassing.

Somehow I didn’t think the sheriff would accept an excuse of temporary insanity. Temporary meddling, perhaps, but not temporary insanity. I plunked down the little gift I’d brought before he had a chance to launch into the business at hand.

As with my previous offerings, he eyed the square plastic case with suspicion.

“Don’t worry, it won’t bite—and won’t leak.”

Frowning, he picked it up. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

“It’s a download of a
Law & Order
episode. Just pop it in your DVD player some night when there’s nothing on TV but reruns. Watch it once, and you’ll be hooked.”

He set it down on his desk, but I could see a teensy smile play at the corners of his mouth. “Miz McCall,” he drawled in that deep, velvety baritone of his, “I feel it’s my duty as Brookdale County sheriff to warn you about the dangers of civilians interferin’ with police work. You mighta gone and got yourself killed last night.”

I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Sheriff, I’ve learned my lesson. From now on, I’m going to mind my own business. Besides, I think it highly unlikely Serenity Cove Estates is going to experience a crime wave any time soon.”

He leaned back in his chair, appearing more relaxed than I’d ever seen him. “Just between the two of us, I wasn’t entirely convinced Mr. Brubaker killed his wife. Some things just didn’t add up.”

“Did SLED find anything out at Baxter’s shop?”

“They found blood trace all over that table saw just like you said. I asked ’em to put a rush on the DNA, but I’m positive it’ll match Miz Brubaker’s.” He grinned at me then, a flash of perfect white teeth that could put Tiger Woods’s smile to shame. “Brookdale’s going to be needin’ a new dentist right quick. Once the DA offered Doc Baxter a deal, he was only too happy to confess his role in the murder and place all the blame on his wife. Both are goin’ to be guests of the state for a mighty long time.”

 

I was just about to pick up my purse when the doorbell rang. I glanced at my watch as I hurried to answer it. Tonight was bunco night, and I didn’t want to be late. Gloria and Polly were hostessing, and I knew we’d spend time rehashing the events of the past couple days.

Much to my amazement, I found Earl Brubaker on my front step. A new and vastly improved version. Hair neatly trimmed. Clothes crisp and clean. And not a single nose hair in sight.

“Earl! What brings you here?”

“I’m taking off for Poughkeepsie first thing in the morning. I wanted to thank you before I left. Here,” he said, shoving a clay pot into my hands.

I stared down at a beautiful peach-colored orchid. “Earl, it’s lovely. Thank you, but you really shouldn’t have.” I didn’t have the heart to tell the man about my deplorable absence of a green thumb.

“It’s the least I can do for someone who saved my life.” His brown, basset hound eyes looked suspiciously bright. “You’re the only one who believed in me. Everyone else thought I killed Rosalie.”