“Hey, Miz McCall.” Tammy Lynn Snow looked up from her computer monitor as I entered the Brookdale Sheriff’s Department. “Sheriff had a few calls to make. He said for you to have a seat, and he’ll be with you shortly.”
“Thank you, dear,” I told the young woman. I wondered if her wary expression was reserved only for me or for anyone who happened through the front door. She always made me feel the harbinger of bad news. Tammy Lynn tended to be overprotective of her boss. Quite often she led me to believe I upset him, though for the life of me, I can’t imagine why that would have been so.
I put the plate of lemon bars I’d brought on one of the empty chairs. My mother always drilled into us children not to visit empty-handed. She insisted we bring our host or hostess a small token of esteem and appreciation. It was a nicety I tried to instill into my own two, but with limited success. Oh, they liked the receiving part OK, but they were often neglectful on the giving end.
I settled into a molded plastic chair and prepared to wait. I glanced around the room. Nothing had changed in the few months since my last visit-same drab office; same drab Tammy Lynn. Her style of dress gave vintage clothing a bad rep. I’d love to sic Connie Sue Beauty Queen on the girl. Gone would be the lank brown hair and the oversized glasses too large for her small face. After some tweaking in the hair and makeup department, I’d turn her over to Polly for help with wardrobe. No more serviceable brown cardigans and plaid skirts-no way, no how. With a sprinkling of makeover magic, the girl could be a raving beauty.
Restless, I got up and wandered to the bulletin board displaying Most Wanted posters. A couple new felons had been added to the assortment since my previous perusal. Beards, cornrows, and dreadlocks seemed to be the common denominators. These were the same unsmiling faces I’d seen at the post office, but I committed their sorry mugs to memory-just in case. It pays to be careful.
“Terrible thing about Mr. Ledeaux getting shot, isn’t it?” I said, tossing out a gambit.
Tammy Lynn stopped pecking at her keyboard. “Yes, ma’am. It surely is.”
“Did you plan on attending a performance of our play, Forever, My Darling? That nice young officer, Eric Olsen, had a part. He’s quite a good actor.”
At the mention of Eric’s name, Tammy Lynn’s cheeks turned rosy. “I, ah, yes. I was fixin’ to buy a ticket. That is, I planned to buy a ticket until…”
Hmm. Interesting. Seeing her blush, I suspected the young woman had more than a casual interest in the handsome policeman. I recalled her once telling me that Eric was a few years older than she and a friend of her brother’s. I decided to file the information away. Of late, I’d noticed Eric and Megan seemed to be hitting it off, as the saying goes. I’d noticed them laughing and talking together as they rehearsed their lines. I squelched the urge to play matchmaker. Jim always got so upset with me when I attempted to pair people up. Granted, the results had been just shy of disastrous, but as my daddy used to say, even a blind squirrel finds an acorn sometimes.
Just then the intercom buzzed.
Tammy Lynn gave me an encouraging smile. “Sheriff Wiggins will see you now.”
I picked up the lemon bars, hoping I wouldn’t be trading them for jail bars, and slowly proceeded down the hallway. Dead man walking was the expression that came to mind.
Tammy Lynn had directed me to the second room on the left. The instant I opened the door I recognized it for what it was-an interrogation room; sterile, austere, institutional. I’d seen the same gray metal table and uncomfortable-looking chairs countless times on TV. In fact, week after week, I watched hardened criminals break down and bawl like babies in such a room before being carted off in handcuffs. Fade out. Roll credits.
I straightened my shoulders and squared my jaw. I’d loudly proclaim my innocence for all it was worth. If that failed, I had Badgeley Jack Davenport IV’s number programmed into my cell.
“Afternoon, Miz McCall.”
I turned at the sound of the sheriff’s voice behind me. His velvety baritone seemed better suited for a Christmas cantata at the Baptist church than an interrogation room. “Afternoon, Sheriff,” I replied, recovering a degree of equanimity. I pasted on a valiant smile. It wouldn’t work on my behalf to let nervousness show. I’d be a mouse; he’d be the hungry tomcat.
I’d be dinner.
“Brought you a little something.” I placed the lemon bars in the center of the battered table. He eyed them with the same suspicion reserved for packages that went ticktock.
“What’re those?”
Really! The man needed to learn that all gifts weren’t bombs or bribes. “Lemon bars,” I said, plunking myself down in one of the chairs and folding my hands primly. “I recall you don’t have a sweet tooth, but lemon bars are more tart than sweet, don’t you agree?”
“Can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought.”
The remaining chair scraped the worn linoleum as he pulled it out, then squeaked in protest as he lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. He offered a smile as phony as the one I’d given him. I recognized the ploy instantly. The detectives on Law & Order use this technique all the time. It’s the part where the investigating officer tries to establish rapport with the hapless interviewee; I, however, wasn’t buying into Sumter Wiggins’s act as Mr. Nice Guy.
“I trust Tammy Lynn explained this is just a formality. I’m taking statements from everyone who was in the auditorium last night.”
I nodded. I couldn’t get into trouble if I didn’t open my mouth, could I?
He took out his little black book and flipped it open. I wondered if he slept with it. “Just relate to the best of your ability everythin’ that happened yesterday evenin’ from the time you entered the buildin’ until the fatal shootin’ of Mr. Ledeaux.”
“All right,” I said. “I arrived at the rec center. We rehearsed act three, scene one, and then Lance was shot.”
His one eyebrow shot up. I’ve always admired his ability to do that. The overall effect can be quite formidable-if one had a guilty conscience. “That it?” he asked.
“That’s it. Are we finished?” I half rose to leave. Leave? Escape would have been a more accurate description.
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’d like a little more detail.”
I sank back down. Sank also described my spirits. I was terrified I’d say the wrong thing and incriminate Claudia. It was bad enough to accidentally kill your husband without everyone thinking you’d done it on purpose. “There’s really not much more to add.”
Crossing his arms over a chest roughly the size of a football field, the sheriff rocked back in his chair. The nuts and bolts fastening it together shrieked in protest. I expected the chair to collapse any second. “My guess, Miz McCall, is you weren’t raised Baptist.”
“No,” I said, startled by the question.
“Didn’t think so. My guess would be Catholic, maybe Lutheran. Had myself a talk once with the priest over at Our Lady Queen of Angels. Catholics, I’m told, have somethin’ called sins of omission.”
Uh-oh. I didn’t like the direction this conversation was heading. I squirmed. I actually squirmed. Years of catechism classes and parochial school flashed before my eyes. Hell-fire and damnation loomed like a gaping maw.
“I see I struck a nerve.” He had the audacity to smile-a blinding flash of perfect white teeth-at my discomfort. “To refresh your memory, a sin of omission is failure to do somethin’ one can and ought to do. In this instance, Miz McCall, instinct tells me you’re leavin’ out information. Makes me wonder why.”
“I was under the impression statements were supposed to be concise,” I muttered. “I simply gave you the condensed version. No sense wasting time and paper.”
“Let me judge the best use of time and paper.” He brought the chair legs down with a bang that made me flinch. “Let’s try again, shall we? This time, start at the top and run through everythin’ step-by-step.”
I discovered the true meaning of a hot seat as a bead of sweat trickled between my shoulder blades. I don’t know how crooks can take interrogations on a regular basis. They can’t be good for the heart or the nervous system.
Sheriff Wiggins waited patiently, silently. He didn’t say a word; he didn’t have to. The determined gleam in his onyx-hard eyes spoke volumes.
My mouth felt like a bucketful of sand. I moistened dry lips with the tip of my tongue, then took a deep breath. I started at the beginning but, out of loyalty to a friend, left out the part about the conversation I’d overheard. I ended my narrative recounting how all of us believed Lance wasn’t really dead but only playacting.
While I talked, he jotted notes. I had a sneaky feeling he knew I’d committed a grievous sin of omission. Any second now I’d be given a hefty penance and instructed to sin no more.
Or charged with a felony.
After I finished, he gave me a long look. I was proud of myself for resisting the urge to confess my transgressions. I forced myself to calmly inquire, “Is the interrogation over, Sheriff?”
“Miz McCall,” he drawled, “consider this meetin’ an interview. I’m savin’ the interrogation for later.”
I got to my feet, picked up my purse, and gathered what was left of my composure. As I left the room, I gave the lemon bars, snug and pretty beneath a dusting of powdered sugar and plastic wrap, a lingering look. I’d half a mind to snatch them up and give them to someone more deserving-and nicer-than the mean ol’ Sheriff Wiggins.