Whack 'n' Roll (7 page)

“Well . . .” I could feel myself puff with pride. I had become part of an official police investigation. Wouldn’t my children be impressed to learn I was working closely with the sheriff’s department? “Actually, Sheriff, I do have a couple leads that might help solve our case.”

“
Our
case?”

I swear I saw him wince, but he recovered admirably and reached for a pen
.

“Now we’re making progress.”

“My friend Claudia took off on a trip out west with a man she met on the Internet.” I leaned back and waited for the impact of this to fully sink in.

“That’s it?” he asked after a prolonged pause.

“In an RV,” I added. “No one’s heard a word since she left. Some of the Bunco Babes, as well as myself, have tried calling her, but no luck. Granted, Claudia’s notorious for forgetting to turn on her cell phone. Said she had enough of phones ringing day and night when she was in real estate.”

“Does this Claudia have a last name?”

“Of course, she does,” I said with a little laugh. “It’s Connors. Claudia Connors.” How absentminded of me. This just goes to show how upset I was about her disappearance. Sheriff Wiggins must surely have thought I was nothing more than a ditzy, harebrained woman with too much time on her hands.

“If that’s all . . .”

His lack of enthusiasm was evident—even to a ditz—as he jotted Claudia’s name in his book.

It would have been easy at this point to beat a hasty but dignified retreat, but I refused to let his attitude deter me from accomplishing what I had set out to do. I drew myself up straighter in the chair. “There is one more thing you may want to know since you’re looking into missing persons.”

He regarded me silently. His dark eyes could bore straight through a person. But like I said before, I’m not easily intimidated. After all, it’s not like I’m a felon with something to hide. Nevertheless . . .

I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “Vera up and left without a word.” I debated whether to mention Rosalie, but decided against it . . . at least for the time being.

Sheriff Wiggins sighed heavily. “Is this Vera another of your bunco ladies?”

“No, no. Vera is our favorite waitress at the Cove Café.”

“I see. Suppose you tell me what you know about Vera. I’ll take it from there.”

“Vera wasn’t at work this morning, and this new waitress, Marcy, couldn’t keep our orders straight. Naturally we asked about Vera.”

“Naturally.”

I ignored the thinly veiled sarcasm. “All Marcy could say was that Vera ‘up and left.’ It isn’t like a woman of a certain age to just walk away from a perfectly good job when tips alone would make her want to stay.”

“Does this Vera have a last name?”

Sheriff Wiggins waited, pen poised, while I pondered his question. I was reminded how very little I knew about the woman who served me breakfast two or three times a week. “I’m sure Vera does have a last name, but I don’t think I’ve ever heard it,” I admitted slowly, then brightened. “Surely the folks who hired her can tell you.”

“And you think I need to check into the matter because . . . ?” He paused, leaving me to fill in the blank.

“Because . . .” The man was trying my patience. He could, at the very least, pretend to be a teensy bit grateful for the information. I read the news. I watch TV. The police are always asking concerned citizens to step forward.

“Because,” I began anew, “the arm we found yesterday belongs to someone. I believe it’s proper police procedure to account for anyone who might be missing. Especially those missing under rather mysterious circumstances.”

“Don’t mean to be disrespectful, ma’am, but what makes you an expert on police procedure?”

“Because I’ve watched
every
single episode of
Law & Order
, that’s why,” I fired back.

My retort left him at a momentary loss. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins certainly failed to measure up to
Law & Order
’s Detective Lennie Briscoe when it came to witty repartee. First Nancy Drew, now
Law & Order
. I could see by the expression on the sheriff’s face that he wasn’t taking me seriously. How hard could it be to track down a couple of missing women who had gone AWOL? I bet I could do it myself if I set my mind to it. I had half a notion to do just that.

“If that’s all . . .”

It didn’t take a ton of bricks to hit me over the head. I can tell when I’m not wanted. I got to my feet and slung my purse over my shoulder. The sheriff rose as well. Apparently his mama drilled good manners into her boy—if not a sunny disposition.

“Enjoy the cookies, Sheriff. Chocolate chip are my specialty.”

“Kind of you, ma’am, but I don’t eat cookies.”

Doesn’t eat cookies?
That stopped me dead in my tracks. What kind of person doesn’t eat cookies? Not even Connie Sue, who watches her weight like a hawk, has that much willpower. Clearly the man wasn’t human.

I could feel my cheeks burn as I marched past Tammy Lynn and out the front door. Sheriff Sumter Wiggins was insufferable. My meeting with him had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot.

Or in this case—pardon the pun—on the wrong arm.

Chapter 8

The whole town was still buzzing the next day when I ducked into the Piggly Wiggly. And I don’t mean just Serenity Cove Estates, but Brookdale as well. Brookdale happens to be the county seat and, as the crow flies, is the town closest to Serenity. It’s not very big as towns go, but one can find the essentials of life situated around the town square. In addition to the ubiquitous Chinese and Mexican restaurants, there’s a quaint little tearoom, a video store that doubles as a nail/tanning salon, a used-book store, and a couple of antiques shops. Flanking the square like nineteenth-century bookends are the county courthouse at one end and the opera house at the other. Cute and quaint. Brookdale could double as a set for a Disney movie.

If I get a hankering to visit a mall, I hop in the Buick and drive another twenty-five miles or so down the road. I have to admit I don’t hanker as much as I did when I was younger. Malls, it seems, have lost their luster. If that’s a sign of aging, then so be it.

In an area where a hole in one makes headlines, finding a body part is
huge
. Everywhere I went, it’s all people were talking about. Having been one of the discoverers made me somewhat of a celebrity. Given my druthers, I certainly wouldn’t have picked a dismembered appendage as a means for my fifteen minutes of fame. I would have chosen something more in line with winning the South Carolina Lottery. Or a dream vacation to Fiji on
Regis and Kelly
.

“Kate!” A woman’s voice exclaimed from behind me.

Seemed like I couldn’t wheel my shopping cart, or buggy as they’re called here in the South, halfway down the produce aisle before being waylaid by someone eager to get the lowdown. I stopped sniffing a cantaloupe and glanced over my shoulder.

“Hello, Shirley,” I said, recognizing the woman. Shirley Buckner and her husband, Jerry, attend the same church as I do. Jerry sings in the choir. Shirley organizes bake sales. A nice couple. A little on the dull side, but nice.

“I heard what happened the other day.”

“You and half the county, it seems.” I set the melon back in the bin and picked up another. Don’t know why I bother with the sniff test. It never seems to help. Truthfully, I sniff only when others are around so it looks like I know what I’m doing. If no one’s watching, I just grab the nearest melon and move on.

“It must have been horrible.”

“You might say that,” I replied, giving up on smell-the-cantaloupe.

“Jerry and I were talking over breakfast. Do you suppose the rest of that poor soul will ever be found?”

“I have no idea, Shirley.” I placed the melon in my cart . . . er . . . buggy. “I only hope someone else does the honors next time.”

Shirley searched through the mound of melons as if she actually knew what she was doing. “I heard people say”—she dropped her voice to a whisper—“
parts
are probably scattered all across the state from one end to the other.”

“Couldn’t help but overhear what you were talking about.” A second woman joined us. Apparently Shirley’s whisper needed more practice. “It’s awful, just awful. Isn’t it?”

Sheesh! Did she expect me to disagree? “It certainly is,” I murmured, edging away from the cantaloupes and heading toward the tomatoes. I’m much more confident around tomatoes. It’s much easier to spot a ripe one. Just zero in on red.

The woman, who I seemed to remember went by the name Bootsy, followed. “We never even used to lock our doors. Now my husband is talking about putting in a security system.”

Shirley, not about to be left out of the conversation, abandoned melons for Roma versus vine-ripened. “We’re considering getting a dog. A rottweiler, or maybe a pit bull. One that will be a good watchdog and protect us.”

“What about you, Kate? You live alone. Aren’t you frightened?”

“To be totally honest, ladies, I haven’t given the matter much thought.” I could tell by their looks of disapproval they weren’t happy with my answer.

“You really ought to take this more seriously,” Bootsy advised. “A woman living alone can’t be too careful with a madman on the loose.”

“Bootsy’s right, you know.” Shirley squeezed a beef-steak, nodded once, then bagged it. “Maybe
you
should consider having a security system installed.”

“Or get a dog,” Bootsy chimed.

“I heard the Humane Society is a great place to adopt a pet.”

“A friend of mine . . .”

I abandoned the produce section in favor of frozen foods and a quick escape. Last seen, Shirley and Bootsy were still arguing the merits of security systems versus guard dogs. I had no immediate plans for either.

I kept my shopping to a bare minimum to avoid a repeat of the conversation I’d just had with the two women. It’s rare I enter the Piggly Wiggly with only five items on my list and leave with only five. Usually my cart . . . er . . . buggy is full. It seemed a shame to pass the “buy one, get one free” items. But today I made an exception. I didn’t want to talk about “arms” or, worse yet, whom they might belong to.

I was loading my groceries into the car when I heard sirens. Mind you, sirens aren’t something we often hear around here. In Toledo, no one batted an eye at the sound. Police, fire, ambulance. Emergency vehicles were an everyday occurrence. But here it’s different. More personal. Here people know one another by face if not by name. No one wants a catastrophe to befall a neighbor.

I glanced over my shoulder in time to see the sheriff’s cruiser whiz by. This was followed by, not one, but two more. Lights flashed, sirens wailed. Something was up. Something was definitely up.

I did what any other red-blooded citizen would do. I jumped in my car and followed in hot pursuit.

At first I had a hard time keeping up. Couple times I worried I’d lose sight of them altogether. Couldn’t let that happen. I put the pedal to the metal and floored it. I had no idea the Buick could even go that fast. It certainly never had with Jim behind the wheel. I deliberately avoided glancing at the speedometer. It would probably scare me. In this situation, the adage “Ignorance is bliss” suited me just dandy. I only hoped that drivers who pulled to the side of the highway at the sight of flashing lights would assume I was part of the procession and stay clear.

Brake lights flashed ahead of me. I whipped the wheel and made a hard left. The Buick shuddered. Tires squealed. I burned rubber and was proud of it. Another first.

The posse had left the highway and headed down a road that led to the state park. Signs flew past. Brown signs with arrows. RANGER’S STATION. PICNIC SITE. BOAT RAMP. CAMPGROUND.

I rounded a bend in the road, then slammed on the brakes. I narrowly avoided plowing into a sheriff’s vehicle parked half in, half out of the road. I hopped out of my car and looked around to get my bearings.

A dozen or so RVs and motor homes, some the size of a Greyhound bus, were parked in a section that afforded campers hookups for water and electricity. Where were the tents? I wondered. What happened to sleeping bags on the ground? Did campers still cook on Coleman stoves? Did people still gather around campfires and toast marsh-mallows? These pithy questions would have to wait. Right now I had a mystery to solve.

A small group of people clustered near a humongous motor home. The sort you hate to get behind on the interstate. The kind that sports a custom-made license plate holder proclaiming for all the world to see that June and Ward are TWO FOR THE ROAD. A jean-clad woman in her forties, her dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, had watched me come to a screeching halt behind the sheriff’s cars. She cupped her hand around her mouth and bellowed, “Follow the trail.”

I did just that, pleased beyond measure that I’d been mistaken for official law enforcement. The trail was clearly marked and easy to follow. It meandered through woods thick with pine and hardwood. My sneakers made little sound on the pathway paved with fallen leaves, pine needles, and a few scattered acorns.

One hundred yards or so down the trail, I heard male voices just off to my right. I veered off the beaten path and headed in that direction. I hadn’t gone far when I stopped. I spotted half a dozen men forming a loose semicircle near a giant oak. I instantly recognized Sheriff Wiggins. I assumed—shrewdly on my part—that the other two uniformed men were his deputies. Judging from the jeans and T-shirts, I guessed the remaining men were either campers or fishermen or both. A dog lolled nearby. I slipped behind a tree—one within hearing range—and waited. Having come this far, I didn’t want to be shooed away before finding out something of interest.

Everyone seemed to be pointing and talking all at once. All, that is, except Sheriff Wiggins. The sheriff simply stood there, arms folded across his massive chest, and gave each of the campers/fishermen the once-over with eyes sharp as drill bits.