“Guess so,” I called over my shoulder as I headed out the door. Unless, that is, the sheriff threw me in the slammer for withholding evidence, aiding and abetting, or the old standby, obstruction of justice.

It was silly to drive to the sheriff’s office when I could have just as easily walked. Since I skipped Tai Chi, I could’ve used the exercise. I was afraid, however, that if I left my car parked near the diner, I might’ve been tempted to return for more fortification in the form of lemon meringue pie.

I happened to look into my rearview mirror and watch as Bill pulled into the parking space behind me. As I opened the car door, I spotted Monica and Rita approaching from the opposite direction. Rita waved when she saw me. Monica merely grimaced. It appeared we were all headed for the same destination. Did that mean we were all going to be charged with a laundry list of felonies? Could we choose our cell mates?

Bill, always the gentleman, held the door open as we filed in.

Bernie Mason looked up from a dog-eared issue of Field & Stream as we entered. “What’re you guys doin’ here?”

Gus Smith was present, too, but he merely grunted.

Tammy Lynn, drab as usual, dressed head to toe in beige, rose from her desk and did a head count. “Sheriff asked me to show y’all down the hall to the interview room.”

Nervous looks bounced back and forth between us like banked shots off a pool table.

Rita assumed the no-nonsense expression that probably worked well in her former position as branch manager of a bank in Cleveland. “I, for one, would like to know what this is all about,” she demanded.

To her credit, Tammy Lynn didn’t falter. She was no shrinking violet about to default on a loan. “Ma’am, the sheriff will explain everythin’. Kindly be patient.”

“Patient?” Monica huffed. “I want to know why we’re being treated like a bunch of criminals when we haven’t done anything wrong.”

“The sheriff will explain,” Tammy Lynn repeated, holding open the door of the interview room.

I was surprised to step inside and find Claudia along with BJ Davenport seated side by side at the battered metal conference table. It was the Claudia of old-almost. Gone was the fire-engine red hair and back was the softer, strawberry blond shade I’d always admired. But gone still were her sparkle and zest.

“Hey, Claudia,” I said by way of greeting, taking the chair next to her.

She mustered a smile. “Hey, yourself.”

We were freshmen assembled for the class I’d come to think of as Inquisition 101. I peered into the corners for telltale torture devices. No thumbscrews in plain sight. No stakes piled high with kindling. But I didn’t trust wily Sheriff Wiggins. As for stakes and kindling, the ever-efficient Miss Tammy Lynn Snow probably kept a supply handy in the storeroom.

The door banged open. At least, it sounded like a bang because it had that kind of effect. We straightened in our seats, our spines erect, our nervous systems on full alert. The sheriff’s entrance seemed to elicit that kind of reaction, even for the pure of heart. This trick was even more impressive than the one-eyebrow lift thingy he’d perfected.

“Mornin’, y’all,” said the Grand Inquisitor himself.

We seemed to be suffering from an epidemic of lockjaw. Even BJ held his tongue.

The sheriff dragged out the chair left vacant at the head of the table and lowered his two-hundred-pound-plus frame. “Suppose y’all are wonderin’ why I called y’all here…”

My case of lockjaw subsided. Unable to stand the strained silence another second, I piped up, “Not counting you, Sheriff, we have eight people here. Just the right number for two tables of bunco. Anyone bring dice?”

I had hoped to inject a little humor, break the ice so to speak, but not even a coast guard cutter could have broken through tension this thick.

The sheriff shot me a look. If his eyes had been lasers, I’d have been ash. “Let’s start over again-before the interruption,” he drawled. “S’pose y’all are wantin’ to know why I asked y’all here this mornin’.” he repeated for the benefit of the deaf, feebleminded, or terminally irreverent amongst us.

We nodded in agreement. Our movements were so coordinated, I wondered if the others would be game to form a synchronized swim team. Senior Olympics, here we come. Then the image of Bernie Mason in a swimsuit popped into mind, and I scrapped the notion.

“I won’t waste your time or mine any longer.” Sheriff Wiggins slapped a manila envelope on the table and slowly withdrew a report. “Got the results back from the lab in Columbia. Y’all remember bein’ tested for GSR and fingerprinted?”

BJ adjusted his bow tie, this time a polka-dot affair. “I assume since you called all of us here, the evidence incriminates more than just my client.”

“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.” Bernie surged to his feet, his face an alarming shade of fuchsia. “I object to being lumped in the same category as the one who pulled the trigger and killed her husband-”

“Deader ’n a doornail,” I muttered, louder than I intended.

Bernie gave me a fish-eyed stare. “I was about to say,” he said, sounding miffed, “deader ’n a skunk.”

“Well, excuse me all to pieces.” Take that, Bernie Mason.

If Sumter Wiggins had had a gavel, he would have banged it. The glare he sent us served just as well. In another life, he’d have made a good nun. He tapped a forefinger the size of kielbasa on the pages in front of him. “This came in yesterday. I found it interestin’, to say the least, that so many of you had managed to test positive. Some of you in both categories.”

Next to me, Bill shifted in his seat. Monica studied her manicure while the others all looked as if they longed to be elsewhere-except for BJ. I noticed he had brought out a hand-tooled leather notebook and was busily taking notes on a yellow legal pad.

“Miz Ledeaux,” the sheriff continued, “I can understand how you might test positive for both since it’s a well-established fact that you fired the shot that killed the deceased-Mr. Lance Ledeaux.”

BJ half rose. “I object.”

“Give it a rest, Davenport.” The sheriff motioned him down. “Save your theatrics for the courtroom. I’d like to review”-he picked up the report and began to read-“why fingerprints also belong to Bill Lewis, Bernie Mason, Gus Smith, Monica Pulaski, and Rita Larsen? I’m double-checking to make sure I have my facts straight.”

I’m ashamed to admit I felt a little left out from this illustrious list. What was I doing here anyway? I thought of the Tai Chi class I was missing. This very minute I could be Grasping the Bird’s Tail or slinking through Snake Creeps In.

“Care to explain once more-for the record-why your fingerprints happen to be on the murder weapon? Let’s start with you, Mr. Lewis.”

I gave Bill a sympathetic look. He was on the hot seat and, from the look on his face, wasn’t too happy about it.

“Why wouldn’t my prints be on it? It’s my gun-I told you that before.”

“And so you did.” He made a show of noting this in his ubiquitous black book. “And what about you, Mr. Mason? How do you explain the fact your fingerprints are all over the barrel?”

“Since when is looking a crime?” Bernie picked at a ragged cuticle. “My brother-in-law’s always bragging about his Smith and Wesson. Wanted to see what was such a big deal.”

“Me, too,” Gus muttered. “Just curious, is all.”

The sheriff noted this, then turned his attention to Monica and Rita. “What about you ladies? You the curious types, too?”

“Of course my fingerprints are on the gun,” Monica replied, sounding defensive and frightened at the same time.

“It was part of my job.”

A dark brow lifted. “And your job was…”

Monica raised her nose in the air. “I’m the prop princess.”