by Oust, Gail
He fixed me with his cool blues. “Melly? She the woman who offered to help out behind the counter?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Melly Prescott, CJ’s mother.”
“Ah,” he said in a this-explained-it tone of voice. “Thought she looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. The two of you still close after the divorce?”
“We’ve never been what you might call ‘close.’”
“Not even while you and CJ were married?”
“Melly … tolerated me. I always had the impression she thought CJ could do better than marrying a girl whose daddy worked on the line in an automotive plant in Detroit.”
What I didn’t understand, though, was Melly’s unexpected willingness to help at Spice It Up! today. That had come as a shocker. Pleasant, but a shock nonetheless. Granted, the woman knew next to nothing about spices, but what she lacked in knowledge she made up for with enthusiasm. Time and again, I’d heard her convince customers they ought to try this or try that. Who would have thought the heart of a saleswoman beat beneath the twin sets and pearls?
And best of all, she’d gotten Lindsey involved.
McBride picked up a ballpoint and clicked it, a signal the chitchat over. “How long have you known Barrone?”
I shifted my weight, cleared my throat, and wished I were somewhere else. Turks and Caicos or Grand Cayman would be nice. I always wanted to learn how to scuba dive.
McBride waited for my answer, infinitely patient, infinitely watchful.
“I’ve known Mario ever since he first opened Trattoria Milano,” I finally said. “Even though CJ prefers prime rib, we occasionally dined at the Tratory when he entertained clients. Mario happened to be quite particular about the ingredients that went into his signature dishes. When he learned I was opening a spice shop, he made it a point to check it out long before I was scheduled to open. On a whim, I approached him about doing a cooking demo, and he agreed. Claimed this particular recipe would soon be published in a well-known food magazine so he didn’t see the harm in revealing his secrets to the folks in an obscure little town in Georgia.”
“Can you name anyone who might harbor a grudge against Barrone? Might want to harm him?”
“I don’t know much about Mario’s personal life,” I confessed, “but he did have a temper and antagonized a lot of people. According to rumors Reba Mae overheard in the Klassy Kut, he also had a reputation as a ladies’ man.”
“Reba Mae have a last name?”
“Johnson. She’s the widow of Butch Johnson, who died some years back.”
The cop mask slipped a little. “Butch is dead?”
“Drowned while bass fishing.”
“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and for a moment looked almost human. “I remember him from junior varsity. Nice guy.”
“Yes, he was,” I agreed. “Everyone liked Butch.” I exhaled a slow breath. So far, so good. At this rate, I’d be out of here in no time flat.
“Let’s back up a ways, shall we?” he drawled, bursting my little bubble of optimism. “Think back to when you arrived at the Tratory. Notice any suspicious cars on the street?”
I frowned. To me, cars are cars—four tires and a steering wheel. “I’m not sure exactly what a ‘suspicous’ car would look like.”
Judging from the scowl on his face, I don’t think he appreciated my inquiring mind. “See anyone loitering in the alley when you approached?” he asked.
This question just didn’t seem to make sense. “Why would a killer ‘loiter’ at the scene of the crime? Wouldn’t he want to get away as fast as possible instead of sticking around?”
“What about after you entered the restaurant,” he said, trying a different approach. “See anything unusual? Hear anything?”
“N-no,” I stammered as the ramifications of his questions hit me. The killer might have still been there! What if I’d surprised him? Caught him in the act? I could very well have been his next “vic.”
While McBride made a production of scribbling everything I’d said on his legal pad, I tried to distract myself by letting my gaze wander. His office, like the waiting area, was done in minimalist institution-on-a-budget style. No plants, no photos, no personal touches. Brown linoleum floor, beige walls pockmarked with holes where pictures used to hang. I noticed a cardboard box next to the desk piled high with what appeared to be framed diplomas and certificates, a reminder the guy was new in town and still settling in. Maybe I should cut him some slack. Or maybe he should cut me some. I was new to the murder business.
For the first time since meeting McBride, I wondered about his personal life. Things like, did he have a wife and kids tucked away? I sneaked a peek at his left hand, but didn’t spy a wedding band. But then again, not all married men wore rings. I’ve been wrong before, but he just didn’t strike me as the paternal type. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine this tough, no-nonsense cop coaching Little League. Or proudly photographing little girls in pink tutus.
On the other hand, I could imagine him escorting a starlet to a Miami premiere.
McBride looked up and found me assessing him. Caught in the act, I felt my cheeks pinken. Sitting up straighter, I folded my hands primly in my lap. “What else do you want to know?”
“Anything else that might prove helpful,” he clarified.
His expression didn’t betray his thoughts, but I had a sneaky feeling he knew more than he was letting on. I waged an inner debate. Should I mention finding a knife near the Tratory’s rear door? My conscience said yes, just do it, but I knew the admission would implicate me in a way I didn’t want to be implicated. I could guess how things would look—and how easily they could be misinterpreted.
“Do you know anything about the knife found at the scene?” McBride fired, exhibiting an uncanny ability to read my mind.
You have the right to remain silent. I watched TV. I read mysteries. I’d heard that phrase dozens of times, maybe thousands. I had nothing to hide, done nothing wrong. But why then did I feel guilty? “The knife…?”
Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out a plastic evidence bag. “The coroner believes this knife will correspond with the weapon used to murder Mario Barrone. As soon as we’re finished here, I’m sending it to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Latent Print Section, for testing. Will your prints be a match?”
Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Wasn’t that how it went? But it didn’t really matter what I said or didn’t say. The prints would be a match. It was time to come clean. Confess my innocence, proclaim I had nothing to hide. Surely, McBride couldn’t seriously think I had anything to do with Mario’s death. The very idea was just too … too … outrageous!
“That looks like the knife I found near the back door of the Tratory,” I admitted reluctantly.
“And…?”
“And I picked it up. It seemed the logical thing to do,” I said, knowing I sounded defensive. “I picked it up and brought it inside. It must have fallen from my hand when I saw Mario.”
McBride repeatedly clicked his confounded ballpoint, the modern-day equivalent of Chinese water torture. “Let me get this straight,” he said with exaggerated patience, “you just happened to find the murder weapon, pick it up, drop it—and forget to mention it.”
“That’s exactly what happened. I was just about to tell you,” I replied, relieved all the facts were finally out in the open.
“Where were you between the hours of ten o’clock and midnight?” he asked, dropping another bomb from his arsenal.
You have the right to have an attorney present. I belatedly wondered if I should’ve phoned CJ and asked him to meet me here. Knowing my fingerprints were on the knife—and I needed an alibi—was starting to freak me out. And it probably showed. I swallowed what felt like a whole nutmeg lodged in my throat. “I was at the vet’s. Dr. Winters can verify my whereabouts.”
“Isn’t that a strange time to be taking your pet in for a checkup?”
I recrossed
my legs, trying to get comfortable. “I don’t have a pet.”
His Nordic blue eyes bored a hole straight through me. “If you don’t have a pet, what were you doing there? You and the vet have a thing?”
“That is absolutely none of your business!” I felt my face burn. With anger, not embarrassment. “No, we don’t have a thing. Doug’s practically a stranger. For your information, I discovered a small dog, hardly more than a pup, in the bushes behind my shop. It had been injured and was in dire need of medical attention. I did what any animal lover would do. I took it to the vet’s.”
“And this Dr. Winters will verify this?”
“Of course.”
He jotted a few more notes on his blasted pad. “By the way, what was wrong with the dog?”
I squirmed. I actually squirmed. “He’d been stabbed.”
Surprise on McBride’s face quickly changed into skepticism. I could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe in coincidence any more than I did. Pressing a button on his intercom, he said, “Precious, would you have Sergeant Tucker fingerprint Mrs. Prescott?”
Innocent until proven guilty. Wasn’t that one of the principles this country was founded on? Wasn’t it written somewhere? Bill of Rights? The Constitution? The Declaration of Independence? I wished back in the day I’d paid more attention in civics class. You can’t lock a person up and throw away the key because they were first on the scene. Or because they might’ve “accidentally” picked up what might turn out to be the murder weapon.
Or can you?
CHAPTER 9
“FINGERPRINTED? IS THE guy loony tunes?”
Reba Mae’s outrage was music to my ears. Balm to my wounded spirit. “I guess it’s standard operating procedure in a murder investigation.”
“Hmph!” Reba Mae snorted.
“McBride said something about eliminating me as a suspect.” We were relaxing in Reba Mae’s sunroom. A partially eaten platter of nachos and half-empty glasses of margaritas rested on the coffee table in front of us. “He sounded pretty positive the knife I found at the scene will turn out to be the murder weapon.”
“He can’t seriously think you killed Barrone?”
I wiggled my toes, happy to have kicked off my shoes and to be curled up in a comfy chair. “It’s impossible to figure out what’s going on behind that cop face of his. And there’s more,” I said, helping myself to another nacho gooey with cheese and chili.
Reba Mae took that as a cue to top off our glasses. “Shoot, girlfriend. I’m all ears.”
I proceeded to tell her about me finding a wounded mutt and rushing him to the vet’s, ending the account with Dr. Winters’s opinion that the dog had been stabbed.
Reba Mae shook her head. “What’re the odds? I’d bet a month of Sundays that whoever stabbed Mario stabbed the dog, too.”
“The same thought occurred to me.” I crossed my ankles on the flowered ottoman and sipped my drink. “Dogs are darn good judges of character. The poor thing was probably barking his head off when the murderer came out of the Tratory.”
“… and whoever it was tried to silence him—permanently.”
“Exactly.”
“Who could do that to a little pup?”
“Who could do it to a human being, albeit a surly, temperamental one?” I countered. I watched Reba Mae scoop salsa onto a nacho chip. Personally, I thought the salsa could have used another dash of cumin with its wonderful earthy flavor.
“Barrone would never be voted Mr. Congeniality, but who’d think someone would actually off the guy. Nothing like this ever happens in Brandywine Creek.”
“But it did.”
My words dropped like a boulder, squashing further conversation for all of three minutes.
“Soooo…,” Reba Mae said, breaking the silence. “Who do you suppose killed Mario?”
“I haven’t a clue.” I found the idea of a murderer walking the streets of Brandywine Creek a scary one.
“If I had to venture a guess, I’d say it was a botched robbery attempt.”
I considered the possibility. The more I thought about it, the more I warmed to the notion. “You might be on to something, Reba Mae. Picture this: it’s late at night, Mario’s alone. Most likely he still hasn’t deposited the day’s receipts. The … perp … cut through the alley, saw a light on in the Tratory, forced his way in. And the rest, as they say, is history.”
“Yeah, that might explain it,” Reba Mae agreed. “Probably someone zoned out on drugs.”
“Could have been a drifter passing through town.”
“Someone needing quick cash.”
“Or looking to score,” I said, borrowing a phrase I’d heard on numerous TV cop shows.
“Makes sense.”
Then doubts started corroding my perfect scenario. “Wouldn’t a robber likely carry a weapon of some sort?”
Reba Mae nodded sagely. “A .44. Maybe a .357.”
I stared at Reba Mae incredulously. “Since when did you become an expert on guns?”
She shrugged, but made no effort to hide her smirk. “Sheesh, Piper, I grew up in the South. Butch taught the twins to shoot soon as they were big enough to hold a gun. Took ’em huntin’ once they were old enough to get licenses. Both Clay and Caleb own pistols. Like to talk weapons. I’m thinking of gettin’ one myself and applyin’ for a concealed weapons permit. Some manufacturers even make ladies’ guns with pretty pink grips.”
“Well, I’ll be.” I shook my head in wonderment. Who was this stranger with the magenta hair and her talk of guns? You think you know someone well, then bam! Suddenly you see a whole different side of them.
“I’m dead serious, Piper. You oughta think about it, too.”
“No way am I ever going to own a gun. I’d probably end up shooting myself in the foot.”
“Never say never,” Reba Mae counseled. “If Mario had had a gun handy he might not be layin’ on a slab at the coroner’s this very minute.”
“But if the robber had a gun, why didn’t he shoot Mario instead of stab him?” There went those pesky doubts again.
“Good point. Unless—”
“He didn’t have a gun after all,” I said, cutting her off mid-sentence. “What if … Mario interrupted some creep trying to steal him blind. He grabbed a knife to defend himself, and…”
“… the thief turned it on him instead.”
Proud of our powers of deduction, we high-fived. “We’d make a fine pair of detectives.”
“We could call ourselves Spice and Klassy, sort like that old TV show Starsky and Hutch. Or am I thinking of Cagney and Lacey?”
“More like Lucy and Ethel,” I said, stifling a yawn.
“Well,” Reba Mae said, undeterred, “if the culprit’s obvious to us, he ought to be obvious to McBride, too.”
Easing myself out of the chair, I shoved my feet into sandals. “I hope you’re right. I’ve had all the drama this girl can stand for a day. I’m exhausted.”
Reba Mae picked up the nacho platter and headed toward the kitchen, with me close at her heels carrying the glasses. “Glad tomorrow’s Sunday, and we both have a day off.”
As I put the glasses in the dishwasher, I noticed a smudge of black fingerprint ink around the nail bed of my index finger. “I still haven’t checked today’s receipts or restocked supplies.”
“It’ll keep, sugar.” Reba Mae walked me to the door and gave me a hug. “Wait ’n see. Things’ll look brighter after a good night’s sleep. McBride will find whoever offed Mario, and all your problems will be solved.”
* * *
In spite of being bone weary, I tossed and turned, finally falling into a deep sleep in the wee hours before dawn. Next time I looked at the alarm clock on my bedside stand, it was after ten. Drat! I not only missed church services, but would be subjected to Melly’s tight-lipped disapproval—again. Times like this, I wondered if CJ was ever on the receiving end of his mother’s censure. I knew for a fact that Melly was unhappy with his recent beha
vior. Bad enough he’d created a scandal by divorcing his faithful and loving wife—that would be moi—but he’d taken up with Miss Amber Leigh Ames, former beauty pageant winner, a woman nearly half his age. No, Melly Prescott wasn’t happy with her only child.
After a quick shower, I dressed for comfort in black yoga leggings, a lavender cami under an oversized shirt with dolman sleeves, and a pair of flats. For breakfast, I ground French vanilla coffee beans I’d been hoarding for a special treat and enjoyed a cup along with a blueberry muffin seasoned with citrusy Ceylon cinnamon.
Before going down to my shop, I dialed Pets ’R People for news of the pup I’d rescued. The phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail. I left a message for Doug—I felt assisting in emergency surgery qualified us to be on a first name basis—and asked him to call me. I squelched my vague unease at not being able to reach him, telling myself it was silly to expect to find him sitting by the phone on this lovely April Sunday. I’d try again later.
Filling a mug of fresh brew, I went downstairs and looked around. Instead of the upheaval I half-expected, I found Spice It Up! neat as a pin. The yellow bib aprons were folded on a shelf under the counter. The jars of spices were perfectly aligned. Credit card receipts, I noted, had been arranged alphabetically. Master Charge in one pile, Visa in another. I caught myself smiling. I should have known. Leave it to Melly, my borderline OCD ex-mother-in-law, to take command. My smile widened when I read the message she’d left taped next to the cash register, explaining she’d taken it upon herself to rearrange the stock in the Hoosier cabinet. Her way was much more efficient—or so she claimed.
Against my better judgment—I didn’t want to be a pest—I called the vet’s office one more time. Still no answer. Disappointed, I hung up and set to work.
A handful of this, a cupful of that. Spicy sweet cinnamon, tangy cloves, licoricelike star anise, Szechwan peppercorns: I poured all of the ingredients into a coffee mill, which I reserved exclusively for grinding spices. When finished, I’d have my very own blend of spices, which worked great as a rub on baby back ribs and also with chicken and pork dishes. Between the disco music blaring through the earbuds of a hand-me-down MP3 player—CJ had replaced Lindsey’s with a fancier iPod version—and the whirr of the coffee mill, I almost didn’t hear someone bang on the front door. I hurried to answer and found Wyatt McBride standing there.