by Oust, Gail
Gina Deltorro approached our table, an order pad in her pocket instead of in her hand. “The usual?”
I nodded, and she left the two of us alone.
Reba Mae settled her straw tote on the seat of an empty chair. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see if I got this straight. You think you tore your coat when you dove head over teacups over the hood of your car?”
“That’s the only explanation I can come up with. No way I would’ve entirely forgotten tearing a designer trench coat I bought at half price.”
“So, sugar, what do you propose we do? Track down every big black car with a clown decal?”
Now that Reba Mae voiced my brainchild out loud, I was beset with doubt. I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass. I was grasping at straws, but desperation makes people do strange things. “I admit, it does sound sort of lame,” I confessed, then brightened. “How about we start our search with all the big black cars at Cloune Motors?”
“Guess that might work.” Reba Mae sounded skeptical. “Here’s another glitch in your plan. Caleb says the Clounes own multiple vehicles. They switch off drivin’ ’em. Sometimes Dwayne drives the Lincoln, and Diane the SUV or snazzy convertible. Dwayne even rotates ’em through the lot, periodically hopin’ someone will make an offer. He shuffles cars slicker than a card shark in Vegas.”
The usually talkative Gina delivered our pizza without a single word, then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Strange, I thought, but chalked it up to the stress of opening a new restaurant soon.
“Let me tell you the clincher.” I glanced around to make certain our conversation wouldn’t be overheard. The only other patrons at the moment were a young family seated along the opposite wall. A tow-haired toddler intent on throwing everything within arm’s reach on the floor kept them occupied.
Reba Mae slid steamy slices onto two plates. “I’m all ears.”
Between bites of pizza, I described Casey’s strange behavior during the Clounes’ visit. Reba Mae shook her head, amazed by all the snarling, growling, and teeth baring.
“Whoo-ee,” she whistled when I finished. “The mutt’s more apt to lick a person to death than to attack ’im.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, wiping greasy fingers on a paper napkin. “And what’s more, Diane wasn’t wearing her diamond earrings. When I mentioned them, she claimed they were being appraised.”
Reba Mae’s eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t say.”
Encouraged by her response, I launched into an idea that had been marinating. “A missing earring and a barking dog won’t be enough to link Diane with the murder. We need something more concrete before we approach McBride with our newest theory. It can’t hurt if we mosey over to Cloune Motors for a look around? Scout out the used cars. See if we turn up anything big, black, and suspicious.”
Reba Mae helped herself to another gooey slice. “Not ‘used,’ honeybun. Pre-owned,” she corrected.
“Right,” I muttered. “I keep forgetting.”
“We need to cook up a cover story.”
“Cover story?”
“Like they do in the movies.” Reba Mae plucked a mushroom off her plate and popped it into her mouth. “We need to convince Dwayne we’re serious shoppers.”
“How do we do that?” I shoved my plate away. “My Beetle’s only a year old. I can’t very well tell Dwayne I’m in the market for a new car—used or pre-owned.”
Reba Mae leaned both elbows on the checkered tablecloth and gave the matter some thought. “I have it!” she said, snapping her fingers. “We can pretend we’re lookin’ for a car for Chad. Say the one he has now is givin’ him grief, breakin’ down all the time. Since he’s too busy to do it himself, CJ asked you to scout around. See what you can find.”
I clinked my wineglass against hers. “That oughta do it.”
Pleased with herself, Reba Mae grinned back at me. “How about tomorrow afternoon? Strike while the griddle’s hot.”
“Deal.”
“Uh-oh.” Reba Mae pointed her index finger over my shoulder. “Here comes trouble.”
I turned to see who she was pointing at, half-expecting to find McBride. This time, however, trouble was personified in the form of Tony Deltorro. “Uh-oh,” I repeated, noting the scowl on his face.
“You…!” His swarthy face an unhealthy shade of red, Tony jabbed a finger at me. “Who the hell do you think you are? Who gave you the right to butt into my business?”
Gina hovered close by, wringing her hands and looking worried. The family with the toddler snatched their child from the booster seat and left hurriedly.
“Me?” I said, taken aback by the vehemence of Tony’s attack.
Reba Mae tried to intervene. “Look, Tony, Piper and I…”
“Stay out of this, Reba Mae,” Tony snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”
I tried to diffuse the situation with humor. “Sorry I upset you. Next time I’ll order a calzone instead of pizza.”
“Cut the crap.” I started to rise but he blocked the move. “I know you’re the one who sicced that damn chief of police on me. The way the guy tore into me, you’d think I was the one who murdered Barrone. Not you.”
That did it. My chair scraped the floor as I shoved away from the table. “For your information, mister, I didn’t kill Barrone. McBride’s only doing what any good cop should do and checking out anyone who might’ve wanted Mario dead.”
Tony and I stood almost toe to toe. Reba Mae and Gina watched the interplay as avidly as fans at a championship baseball game with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth inning. Tony’s dark eyes blazed. My face burned pink to the roots of my hair.
“‘Where were you the night Barrone was killed?’” he mimicked. “‘Do you have any witnesses who can verify your alibi?’”
“Honey, calm down. Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.” Gina placed a tentative hand on her husband’s arm, but he shook it off.
“It’s no one’s damn business where I was that night. Or who I was with,” he shouted at me. “I’ve nothing to hide. For your information, I was meeting with Brig Abernathy at his big old house in the historic district, trying to convince the skinflint to accept my offer for Trattoria Milano when Mario hightailed it for the big city.”
Brigance Abernathy, recluse and richest man in town? I’d last seen Brig at Mario’s funeral. Big house in the historic district? Could that be the same big old house where Reba Mae and I once followed him to? “Brig Abernathy owns the Tratory?” I asked, the thought mind-boggling.
“Damn right.” He waved his arm wildly. “The old codger holds the mortgage. Planned to use proceeds from the sale to finance a new project.”
Tony looked literally ready to explode. Before that could happen, I grabbed a couple of bills from my purse and slapped them on the table. Reba Mae, in need of fortification, gulped down the last of her wine, tossed down her napkin, and scrambled after me.
“McBride has some nerve,” Tony ranted as we beat an undignified retreat. “Asked me about finances. Any feuds we might’ve had. You so frickin’ desperate to get out of the limelight, you’d drop a dime on a guy trying to earn an honest buck?”
I glimpsed the anxious expression on Gina’s face before the door slammed behind us. It had just dawned on the woman that she, not me, was responsible for her husband’s interrogation. She’d told stories out of school, and it was coming back to bite her. Silently, she entreated me not to spill the beans. I didn’t have the heart to rat her out.
CHAPTER 34
ZEROING IN ON my sense of urgency, Reba Mae rescheduled Wanda Buckner’s perm for later that day to allow us ample time to shop for a replacement for Chad’s hypothetical grief-causing automobile. As luck would have it—bad luck, that is, which seemed the only kind I had these days—finding someone to mind Spice It Up! wasn’t quite as easy.
After the fiasco with Melly, Marcy Magruder topped my list of possible shop-sitters. She’d answered the phone on the fifth ring
. I was friendly to a fault, employer-of-the-year material. When all my questions and comments met abrupt answers, I got straight to the point and asked if she was free for an hour or so that afternoon.
She barked out a laugh. “You gotta be kidding!”
So much for pleasantries. “Actually,” I said trying to regroup. “I’m quite serious. I could use your help—”
“You’ve got some nerve asking me for favors,” she said, cutting me off mid-sentence.
“Favors?” I blinked. This was hardly the response I’d expected. “I’m not asking you to watch the shop as a ‘favor.’ I intend to compensate you for your time. I thought you’d jump at the chance to earn a little ‘pin’ money as my grandma used to say.”
“You ought to be ashamed to even call me after what you done to Danny.”
I gripped the phone tighter, trying to decipher this strange conversation.
“Marcy, what are you talking about? I haven’t even seen Danny recently, much less done anything to him.”
“Chief McBride cornered him the other day for a long talk. Kept asking him all kinds of questions.”
“What kind of questions?” But I had a good inkling after my confrontation with Tony Deltorro.
“Like where he was the night Mr. Barrone was murdered. He wanted to know if the man owed Danny money and, if so, how much. He asked Danny if that made him angry enough to want Mr. Barrone dead.”
“Marcy, I’m sorry if the chief’s questions upset you—”
“Upset? I’m beyond upset. I’m furious.”
“Chief McBride’s only doing his job,” I said. Inwardly, I marveled at the fact that I’d come to McBride’s defense. Surely the man didn’t need my vote in a popularity poll, but if the election were held this minute, he had it guaranteed.
“Well, it’s a darn good thing,” Marcy continued her tirade, “that Danny was so worried ’bout me throwin’ up he’d taken me to the emergency room the night Mr. Barrone got stabbed. A lot of doctors and nurses will swear on a stack of Bibles we were in the ER until two in the morning.”
“I’m sorry if I caused any problems.”
“Hmph!” I heard Marcy’s sniff of disdain. “All this time, I thought you were so nice. Goes to show how wrong first impressions can be.”
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone in dismay. Not only had I just received a dressing-down, but I was still without an able-bodied assistant to man the shop. I suppose, as a last resort, I could close for the afternoon. But what if a new customer waltzed in and placed a humongous order? I stared at the ceiling and prayed for inspiration. God must have been busy elsewhere, however, because none came.
I’ll drop whatever I’m doing and run right over. Melly’s words came back to me. Not exactly the inspiration I’d hoped for, but left with little choice, I punched in her number. My bad karma persisted. Melly was not only available, she was thrilled at the chance to help.
* * *
Melly arrived ten minutes early in her signature pearls and reached for the extra SPICE IT UP! apron I kept under the counter, which she was beginning to think of as hers. “I’m so glad you called, dear. The dentist’s office wasn’t happy I canceled my root canal at the last minute, but I explained it was a family emergency.”
I stifled a groan. Melly’s enthusiasm worried me. On second thought, erase “worried” and pencil in “terrified.” Maybe it would have been better to close the shop and not worry about a big spender dropping by.
“Even though this might be difficult,” I said, launching into my prepared spiel, “I need you to promise me that you’ll leave the spices exactly as you found them. Under no circumstances are you to rearrange them. Even though it might not seem that way to you, I do have a system.”
Melly nodded, but looked downcast. “Whatever you say, dear.”
“If you feel an uncontrollable urge to alphabetize, you’re to simply step away from the spice. Understood?”
Melly twisted her pearls around an index finger. “They just looked so terribly … disorganized … your way.”
“They’re arranged according to usage. My way encourages customers to browse. Tempts them to experiment, to try something different in the kitchen.” I picked up my purse and reapplied lipstick. “It’s called marketing.”
“Marketing…?”
She repeated it as though learning a word in a foreign language. I suppressed a smile. “Do I have your promise you’ll leave things as they are?”
“Absolutely, dear,” she agreed, her lined face solemn. “I won’t touch a single bottle or jar, unless of course, I’m ringing up a sale. So clever of you to display your products in such a fashion as to tempt folks into trying something new and different. Who would have thought you’d turn into such a savvy businesswoman? I’m proud of you.”
Both shocked and pleased by the compliment, I dropped the tube of lipstick back into my purse. “Why, Melly, I do believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Melly waved away my thanks. “Well, dear, I knew that eventually you’d be good at something. It certainly wasn’t tennis or bridge.”
“Right,” I muttered as I headed out. Best leave well enough alone.
As planned, I swung by the Klassy Kut, where I found Reba Mae on the phone with a client. When she looked up and saw me, she held up a hand and signaled me to wait.
“I can squeeze you in around four, Mary Lou. Mm-hmm.” Reba shook her head at me and rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know, darlin’. You really do need to read the directions on those do-it-yourself kits. I’m sure orange is quite strikin’, but I think I can tone it down a shade or two.” Or three, she mouthed. “Uh-huh,” she continued, “now stop your bawlin’ and leave it to Reba Mae. Just slap on a baseball cap and a pair of dark glasses. If it makes you feel better, use the back entrance.”
“I guess orange isn’t everyone’s color,” I said with a chuckle when Reba Mae ended her call. “Sounds like you just talked a potential suicide out of jumping.”
“Goes with the territory. Bartenders and hairdressers oughta have a degree in psychology. Joannie…” Reba Mae hollered to the young woman sweeping up hair clippings, “I won’t be long, forty-five minutes max. Keep an eye on Mrs. Phillips for me. See if she’d like some sweet tea.”
Reba Mae hoisted her bag onto her shoulder, and we struck out for Cloune Motors on foot.
“How’s Joannie working out?” I asked as I skirted a woman pushing an infant in a stroller.
“Good.” Reba Mae waved to Pete Barker, who stood outside Meat on Main enjoying the sunny afternoon. “She’s willing to learn, follows directions well. Soon as she passes her GED she wants to become a nail technician. Once she gets her certificate, I’m thinking of hirin’ her. Havin’ a manicurist on staff would be good for business.”
“Gee, there’s goes my big chance.” I heaved an exaggerated sigh. “If traffic at Spice It Up! doesn’t pick up soon, I thought maybe I’d apply for the manicurist position.”
“Don’t be such a pessimist,” Reba Mae scolded. “We’ll get this figured out.”
“I hope so, but pressure’s being put on McBride to make an arrest, and circumstantial evidence puts me on his persons-of-interest list.”
“Is McBride your ‘person of interest,’ too?” She winked. “Or is it that cute vet who keeps bringing doggy treats?”
Mention of Doug made me smile. “Doug kind of reminds me Taylor Hicks with his premature gray.”
“Taylor who?”
“You know. He’s the guy who won American Idol a few seasons back.”
“Oh yeah, him. Funny, Dr. Doug puts me in mind more of George Clooney.”
“Clooney?” I regarded my BFF in amazement, but Reba Mae just smirked.
“Anyway,” I continued, “Doug’s a friend, and McBride’s just a … cop.” I hitched my purse higher on my shoulder. “Don’t need you teasing me, Reba Mae. It’s time to get serious. Are you ready to play Nancy Drew, girl detective, and Bess Marvi
n, her trusty BFF?”
“What happened to Lucy and Ethel?”
“Time to ramp up our game. Nancy always got her man. I can’t say the same about Lucy.”
We turned a corner. Even from a distance, I could see the garishly painted clown face atop Cloune Motors proclaiming Dwayne didn’t clown around. Strings of red, white, and blue pennants fluttered and snapped in the breeze. I felt a tingle of anticipation as we approached.
The double doors leading into the service bay were raised. Caleb Johnson, a smudge of grease across one cheek, looked up from an engine of an older model Buick and smiled. “Hey, Mama,” he said. “Hey, Miz Piper. What are you two fine-lookin’ ladies doin’ here? Playin’ hooky?”
“We’ve got business with that boss of yours.” Reba Mae gave her son a playful swat on the behind. “Boy, you need a haircut. Don’t tell anyone your mama owns a beauty parlor, or you’ll scare away customers.”
Caleb grinned good-naturedly and went back to his tinkering. We strolled toward the used cars. I meant pre-owned.
“If that child of mine doesn’t get that mop of his cut soon, it’ll be long enough for a ponytail,” Reba Mae grumbled.
“It could be worse,” I counseled. “Instead of long hair, it could be tattoos and piercings.”
“Nevertheless, sugar, I can’t picture your son ever growin’ his hair long enough to touch his shoulders.”
I ran my hand along the hood of a shiny red Honda. “No,” I said. “Chad’s always gone in for the clean-cut, preppy look. He even likes his jeans pressed.”
“Uh-oh.” Reba Mae nudged me. “Put on your game face, honeybun. Curtain time. Here comes the biggest clown in town.”
Dwayne Cloune adjusted his tie as he hustled out of the office, which boasted a picture window with an unobstructed view of the car lot. “What can I do for you two lovelies this beautiful afternoon?”
I bestowed my best fake smile on him. “We’re looking for a replacement for my son’s car. The one Chad has up at school has been giving him nothing but trouble.”