Bill grinned. “You look fresh enough to me, but take your time.”

Nothing like a compliment from an attractive man to make a girl’s heart go pitter-patter, I thought as I dashed into the ladies’ room. I freshened my makeup and ran a brush through my hair, hoping Bill would find my lopsided curls charming and not unruly.

When I returned, Bill was waiting right where I’d left him. “Since the course isn’t busy today, I borrowed a golf cart for the ride over.”

My red and white chariot awaited. We easily could have walked the distance, but it was more fun to ride along one of the many cart paths that wind through Serenity Cove like spools of silver gray ribbon. I took a moment to admire the winter scenery, a far cry from winters in my native Ohio. The skies above were a clear, Carolina blue. February’s temperatures were cool enough for a light jacket, but too warm for a coat. Sunlight speared through the boughs of towering loblolly pines, and red birds flitted about. Pansies, violas, and ornamental cabbage-filled pots set here and there, adding bright splashes of color. Today was Disney in living, breathing Technicolor. All that was missing was the refrain from “Bibiddi-Bobbidi-Boo.” Sitting next to my very own prince charming in a jaunty red golf cart, I had to admit life was good. I could almost forget about Claudia’s plight, the early-morning phone call, and the fact that a killer roamed free-almost.

At the Cove Café, we were greeted by a smiling Vera MacGillicudy and directed to a table. The special Bill referred to turned out to be a hot roast beef sandwich complete with mashed potatoes and coleslaw. A manly kind of lunch. I ordered a chicken salad sandwich instead with a side of fruit. After all, a girl has to watch her figure. At least she does if there’s a man around to watch the girl who’s watching her figure.

“Glad we aired things out the other night.”

“Me, too,” I agreed.

Vera returned with our drink orders, unsweet tea with lemon for me, coffee for Bill. After giving me a conspiratorial wink, she left us to talk.

I added sweetener to my tea. “How was poker night?”

Bill grimaced. “Terrible. I got hosed.”

“Hosed? You lost?”

Bill looked sheepish. “A bundle. At least it seems that way for someone as conservative as I am. Turned out Gus Smith is quite a poker player. The guys finally got him to admit he used to spend vacations in Vegas. Let me tell you, the man sure knows his way around a deck of cards. Darned if any of us could tell when he was bluffing.”

I would have liked to hear more, but just then my cell phone jingled. “Sorry,” I murmured, rummaging through my purse, hoping I’d find it before it stopped ringing.

I recognized Polly’s name on the display as I flipped open the cover. “Hey, Polly, I just sat down to have lunch with Bill. Can this wait?”

“No way, Jose,” she chirped. “What I got to say is a matter of life and death. Get your butt back to the rec center RN.”

“Registered nurse?”

“No, silly,” she giggled, sounding more like a teen than a septuagenarian. “RN stands for ‘right now.’ You’re not the only one into texting.”

A matter of life and death?

I bounced up, apologizing profusely and babbling incoherently about a rain check. Bill, bless his heart, looked both confused and disappointed by my sudden change of heart.

I found Polly waiting for me outside the entrance of the rec center. The Disney theme, so it appeared, still prevailed, although judging from Polly’s garb, we had just departed Fantasyland and were heading for Animal Kingdom. She wore a tan zip-front hoodie lined in leopard fleece. A leopard print ball cap and matching ballet slippers completed her ensemble.

“What took you so long?” she demanded. Not giving me a chance to respond, she grabbed my arm and hustled me inside. “Wait’ll you see what I found.”

“This had better be good,” I grumbled, thinking of the nice lunch I might’ve been enjoying with my favorite guy.

Polly cast a James Bond-worthy furtive glance over her shoulder. “I think I might’ve cracked the case.”

I followed her down the hallway, past the meeting and exercise rooms, and into the darkened auditorium. She led me up the steps of the stage, then behind the curtains to the dressing rooms. There were two-one for men, another for women. I’d been told they’d been kept locked since the night of the shooting.

Polly flicked a switch in the one labeled LADIES. Instantly, fluorescent light flooded the room. Once my eyes readjusted, I noticed a long counter running along a mirrored wall. On the opposite wall were hooks for clothes and plenty of electrical outlets. Other than a couple chairs and a bare floor, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary.

“I turned down a chicken salad sandwich for this…?”

Polly pointed an arthritic finger at one of the chairs. “Look.”

So I did. As far as I could see, it was an ordinary chair, the type usually found in beauty shops; nothing special.

“Look harder,” Polly instructed.

My forehead puckered into a frown. At this rate, I’d have to ask Connie Sue’s advice on wrinkle creams. Polly was starting to worry me. She’d always been sharp as a tack as the cliché goes, but now she was seeing things that weren’t there. “Polly, honey,” I said, gentle as gentle could be, “there’s nothing here.”

Reaching out, she plucked a long dark hair from the chair’s black vinyl. Clearly relishing the role of Sherlock Holmes to my bumbling Watson, she held the strand up for my inspection. “Ta-da!” she exclaimed. “Exhibit Number One.”

All right, all right, I gave her points for good vision, but I was still worried. In my experience, people don’t normally get excited over finding a single strand of hair.

Unless, that is, they’re crime scene investigators…

Shades of Crime Scene Investigation (or just CSI to aficionados)… Had she latched on to something? Maybe a genuine clue?

Polly’s wide grin gave me my answer. “I came here to take a look around, see what we’d need for opening night. Since the dressing rooms were still locked, I got the key from Nancy at the front desk. She said they’ve been locked tighter ’n a drum ever since Lance got killed. And there’s more.” She smirked.

“Don’t stop now,” I warned in my most menacing tone.

“Nancy said the chairs are brand-new. They were delivered in the late afternoon on the day of the shooting. She remembers ’cause she had to stay late since Marietta had a flat tire.”

Almost reverently I took the strand from Polly’s hand. “You think someone with long dark hair might have been here in the dressing room the night Lance was killed?”

Polly’s enthusiastic nod sent her permed curls bobbing. “I confess I’m disappointed in you, Kate. You’re a little slow on the uptake. Hate to think what you’re gonna be like when you hit my age.”

“I may be slow, but eventually I make the connection,” I said, feeling a trifle defensive.

“The only two people I know with hair like this are Nadine Peterson and Krystal Gold. Suppose one of them is our killer?”

“It could turn out that the hair belongs to one of the delivery people,” I said halfheartedly. My time in Sheriff Wiggins’s esteemed company was turning me into a skeptic.

“Thought about that, too, so I checked. Nancy remembered one man was black and buff; the other white, skinny, and bald. She claims the bald one reminded her of her son, and she started telling me all about male-patterned baldness.”

Granted, a single strand of hair admittedly was flimsy evidence, but still worth investigating. Now, I’m no Miss Marple or Jessica Fletcher, but to me it suggested that someone other than cast and crew might have been in the dressing room the night of the shooting-someone who kept their presence secret; someone with long dark hair.