I pawed through my purse for a container of sorts. I wished I had Tools of the Trade with me, the handy-dandy box where I stored every sort of item I could think of to help in my investigations. I keep it stocked with Ziplocs in a variety of sizes, lots of latex gloves, a high-powered flashlight, tweezers, measuring tape-the usual crime tech’s paraphernalia. Not having my toolbox, however, I settled for discarding my purse-sized tissues and using their plastic covering as a makeshift evidence bag.

“All right, Polly,” I said after the strand was safely stashed. “Here’s what we’ll do. We need a hair sample from each woman to compare with the one you just found.”

“You’re on. I’ll flip you for it.” Polly dug into her handbag, also a leopard print, and produced a lint-covered penny. “Heads, it’s Nadine; tails, it’s Krystal. I’ll take heads.”

She tossed the penny, and we stared as it settled on the floor. “Looks like I get Nadine. I’ve already got a plan cooked up. Wanna hear it?”

“Whoa.” I held up a hand like a traffic cop. “What I don’t know, I don’t have to testify about in a court of law.”

Polly clucked her tongue. “Don’t be such a wuss, Kate. Where’s your sense of adventure? This could be fun.”

When I returned home, the message light on the answering machine blinked feverishly. I hit PLAY and heard my daughter’s voice.

Hi, Mom. It’s me, Jen. Wanted to see how you were doing. Hope you’re not bored.

I ran through a mental checklist. A pregnant houseguest. A starving cat. A friend who shot her husband. Nope! Definitely not bored.

Jen’s question was followed by a slight pause; then she continued. Are you still seeing that man, Bill What’s-his-name? Just wondering. Call me.

For once I was happy I’d missed her call. I wasn’t in the mood to have her grill me about my friendship with Bill. I’m a grown woman, a mature adult. I certainly don’t need to justify a relationship with a man I find attractive. And I didn’t need her to caution me on the vices of gambling-namely bunco. I made a mental note to call her back later-maybe I’d pick a time when she’d be sitting down at the dinner table and couldn’t talk.

“You’re a wuss, Kate McCall,” I chastised myself, re-prising Polly’s estimation of me, but I didn’t care. Being a wuss wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, was it?

First thing on my to-do list was get a sample of Krystal’s hair for comparison with the one Polly’d found in the dressing room. Luckily, I had a great magnifying glass in Tools of the Trade. My homemade crime scene investigation kit had come in handy solving Rosalie Brubaker’s murder last fall, but I hadn’t had any reason to take it off the shelf in investigating Lance’s death. His case required more of my investigative skills rather than my forensic expertise-until now, that is.

Thanks to Bill’s buddy, Krystal’s car was in good running order once again. This meant she was free to come and go as she pleased and not depend on me for rides. While working at the Koffee Kup, she’d formed friendships with several coworkers. This afternoon, she’d gone with a couple of them to the mall in Augusta. Krystal wanted to look at maternity clothes; not that she needed them yet, but she wanted to check out the styles. Her timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I practically rubbed my hands together in gleeful anticipation of sleuthing.

Ask any of my former houseguests and they’ll attest to my being an ideal hostess. I’d never dream of interfering with a guest’s privacy. After all, every person deserves their own space, and I respect that. This in mind, I picked up a stack of freshly laundered towels and headed for Krystal’s room.

And since I was already there, I decided I might as well look around.

I dutifully replaced the soiled towels with the fresh ones. I’d have to be blind as a bat not to notice the tubes of lip gloss, pots of blush, and wands of mascara strewn across the surface of the vanity.

Hitting PAUSE on sleuth mode, I strained my ears for any telltale sounds that might indicate Krystal’s return. The house was still. Thorough being my middle name, I tiptoed to the window and peeked through the blinds. There was no sign of Krystal’s car in the drive. If this were a movie, music would start to swell at this point, heightening the audience’s sense of suspense. I suppose I could have hummed a few bars, but I contented myself instead with tentatively sliding open the top drawer of the vanity.

I sucked in a breath. I’d struck pay dirt with the first shovel load. The entire drawer fairly exploded in a bonanza of hairbrushes, banana clips, headbands, and ponytail holders. My eyes rested on one elastic ponytail holder in particular that happened to be entwined with several long brunet strands of hair. Reaching for it, I accidentally knocked several of the brightly colored bands to the floor. As I replaced them, I noticed something dark and shiny shoved to the back of the drawer. I stared, fascinated, then slowly pulled the drawer out as far as it would go.

A dainty little handgun was nestled amongst the barrettes and headbands.

Next to it lay a box of bullets. They weren’t just any bullets, mind you, but, according to the bold black print on the box, the 9mm sort-the same caliber that killed Lance. I could feel my heart loudly knock against my ribs. I removed the box from the drawer, although it almost seemed to come of its own volition. As carefully as a bomb technician defusing a device that went ticktock, I slid off the cover…

The box was half empty.

Polly frowned at me from her spot on the sofa. “Since when are you an expert on guns?”

“I’m not.”

“Then what makes you so sure the bullets are nine millimeter?”

I smiled, feeling smug. “Because that’s what it said on the label.”

“Ohh… Good detective work.”

Polly took another sip of her margarita. She was already on her second, and I’ll confess, I was a little concerned. If our suspect didn’t show up soon, we’d both be schnockered and in no shape to collect evidence. “Don’t forget our plan once Nadine gets here,” I warned. “Sure you’re up for this?”

“Do cats have whiskers?”

Not only did they have whiskers, but I had firsthand knowledge of their voracious appetite for tuna. I don’t know if all cats were programmed that way, but Tang certainly was. That confounded feline also had a predilection for the strange and unusual in the gift-giving department. Just yesterday I’d found a dead mouse on my doorstep when I went to bring in the paper. Then there was the matter of the dead canary, its poor little head all twisted, but I can’t lay the blame on Tang. He hasn’t mastered the nicety of gift boxes.

Polly helped herself to some of the bar mix I’d set out. “Next thing you know, you’ll be joining the Rod and Gun Club.”

“Stranger things have happened.” I helped myself to bar mix as well. In honor of Plan A, as I’d come to think of it, I’d brought out a gourmet concoction of mini pretzels, salted nuts, and garlic chips I’d been saving for bunco, along with a requisite case of Bud Light.

“Sure Nadine’s coming?”

I shifted on the sofa and plumped a pillow. “She didn’t say for sure. Said she’d think about it.”

“You mean I’m risking my liver, and she might be a no-show?”

“She’ll show,” I said without much conviction. My mind busily worked on Plan B, which also hinged on an ample supply of beer.

I was nearly ready to concede defeat when I heard a knock at the side door. I jumped up to answer before my guest changed her mind. “Nadine…,” I cried with the enthusiasm usually reserved for BFFs. I slipped my arm through hers and drew her inside. “So glad you could join us for happy hour. We were afraid you’d changed your mind.”

“Ah, well, I got a little bored sitting around. Dr. Phil was a rerun.”