by Oust, Gail
“CJ’s so busy with all the new cases his billboards have brought in that he wanted us to have a look-see,” Reba Mae chimed, right on cue.
“In the market for a pre-owned car, are you?” Dwayne rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a sale. “I’ve got some beauties here on my lot. Low miles on the odometers, easy on fuel. Do you have anything particular in mind?”
Reba Mae linked her arm through his. “Why don’t you just show us everythin’ you’ve got?” she drawled.
I shot my friend a look. Did she have any idea how that sounded? I hoped Dwayne wouldn’t take her literally.
Dwayne’s chest puffed with pride. “Sure thing. Be happy to accommodate.”
We strolled up and down the rows of cars while Dwayne extolled the merits of Car A versus Car B. I hoped I didn’t look as bored as I felt. Quite frankly, cars pretty much looked the same to me. Steering wheel, tires, hood in the front, trunk in the rear. Same basic equipment. Good thing auto manufacturers distinguish their products with readily identifiable emblems so even car-challenged folks like myself can tell them apart.
“Does every car you sell have one of those cute clown decals?”
“Yep,” he nodded. “Have to credit my wife for coming up with the idea. Diane said it was good advertising. She’s the one who came up with the I-don’t-clown-around logo. I’m thinking of putting her in charge of my election campaign when I make a run for senate.”
I lingered near a late model sedan. It was big; it was dark. But was it the one? I caught Reba Mae’s attention and wordlessly signaled I wanted to check it out. As BFFs often do, she took the hint.
“So it’s true,” Reba Mae purred, leading Dwayne down another row. “I’m dyin’ to hear how a small-town boy plans to make it all the way to the Georgia General Assembly.”
“I don’t want to bore you…”
“Oh, you wouldn’t bore me. I’m fascinated. Simply fascinated.”
Amazed, I listened to Reba Mae transform into Scarlett O’Hara. The girl was good enough to audition for a role in Brandywine Creek’s newly remodeled opera house. In no time, she had Dwayne Cloune eating from the palm of her hand. The crossover V-neck top she wore that displayed her abundant cleavage didn’t hurt, either.
“Don’t mind me,” I said, waving them off. “I’ll just browse.”
Our preliminary reconnaissance had revealed several vehicles that fit my vague recollection from the night in question. Now that Dwayne was no longer hovering, I was free to examine their bumpers for a scrap of beige fabric. I ran my hand along the front bumper of a Toyota. I honed my technique on a Ford, followed by a Chevy and a Buick. The only thing I came away with was dirty fingers.
Reba Mae managed to keep Dwayne occupied as he talked about his pending political career until I rejoined them. I thanked him for his time and said I’d have CJ get back to him.
“Any luck?” Reba Mae asked once we were out of earshot.
“’Fraid not,” I admitted. “And to make matters worse, I’m more confused than ever. I’m no longer sure if the car I saw was black, gray, blue, or green. McBride was right after all. Memory is a funny thing.”
We walked back to our respective businesses in silence. Before disappearing into the Klassy Kut, Reba Mae gave me a hard, fast hug. “Chin up, girlfriend. Things always look darkest before the dawn.”
“Dawn couldn’t arrive quickly enough,” I muttered under my breath as I hurried along. Just then something shiny caught my attention in the pawnshop window. I stepped to the glass for a closer look and my eyes fastened on a velvet-covered tray holding several items of jewelry. Among them was an engagement ring in a gorgeous old-fashioned setting. A ring I’d seen many times before.
Dale Simons glanced up from a fancy silver tea set he was polishing to greet me. The man was a good hundred pounds overweight with a full beard and a raspy smoker’s voice. He’d operated Dale’s Swap and Shop for more years than I cared to count. “Hey, Piper. You lookin’ to buy or sell? Give you a fair price.”
“Hey, Dale,” I returned. “The ring in the window caught my eye.”
“Pretty piece, ain’t it? One of a kind.” He ambled over, pulled out a ring of keys that must’ve added another five pounds to his weight, and unlocked the display window. “Let me show you.”
“I’ve always admired Vicki Lamont’s engagement ring. She told me it was a family heirloom.”
Dale rubbed a hand over his shaggy beard. “I don’t normally disclose the name of my customers, but since the cat is out of the bag, so to speak, I have to admit it’s a damn shame her havin’ to sell such a fine piece.”
I held the ring up and watched the diamond refract the light before returning it to the pawnbroker. “Let’s hope Vicki can get her finances in order and buy it back.”
Dale replaced the ring in the velvet tray. “Said she’s tryin’ to make things right with her hubby. Until then, things are tight money-wise. Folks gotta do what folks gotta do.”
Dale’s homespun philosophy ringing in my ears, I left the Swap and Shop. Vicki’s diamond accounted for, I eliminated her as a possible suspect. I even wished Vicki well in her attempt to reconcile with Kenny—even though those efforts didn’t start until after Mario’s untimely demise. It was with some trepidation that I entered Spice It Up! a few minutes later. A hasty look around reassured me my spices were just as I’d left them.
Melly, her hands folded in her lap, sat behind the counter. “You’ll be happy to note, I didn’t go near your shelves. Everything is just as you left it.”
“Thank you, Melly. I appreciate you canceling your dentist appointment to watch the shop for me.”
“Happy to do it, dear.” She picked up her pocketbook—for some reason she insisted on referring to the large purse she carried by the old-fashioned term—and was almost at the door before she hesitated. “You know, don’t you, that idle hands are a devil’s workshop?”
“Yes, I’ve heard the phrase,” I answered cautiously.
“Well, I have a confession to make. Instead of sitting around twiddling my thumbs, I made a few changes on your computer program. I’m certain you’ll find the new way much more user-friendly. Much more organized. Bye, dear.”
My jaw dropped. Changes? On my computer? Why couldn’t I just let her rearrange spices?
CHAPTER 35
CASEY TRANSFORMED FROM dog into a furry brown bouncing ball once he recognized the visitor. Laughing, Doug ruffled the pup’s ears. “He’s a smart little bugger. Knows which side his doggy snacks are buttered on.”
I couldn’t help but smile at their antics. “In doggy parlance, they must be the equivalent of flowers and candy.”
“Speaking of flowers and candy”—Doug straightened and held out a neatly wrapped package—“I brought you something, too.”
“You shouldn’t have.” I resorted to a time-honored cliché but, secretly, I was pleased as Punch.
“Go ahead,” he urged. “Open it.”
Inside was a cookbook. Not just any cookbook, but one devoted specifically to Indian cuisine. Delighted with my unexpected gift, I flipped through the pages. Recipe after recipe featured a smorgasbord of spices. Turmeric, coriander, ginger, cumin. I couldn’t wait to experiment.
“I love it. Thank you.” I hugged him. To those who live in the South, hugging comes more naturally than a handshake. Doug hugged back, and I had to admit I liked being held in his embrace. Liked the citrusy smell of his aftershave. Liked the solid feel of his body against mine. Before I got to liking things overly much, I gently disengaged myself. I hoped the heightened color in my cheeks wouldn’t betray my thoughts. After securing Casey in my upstairs apartment, I grabbed a light sweater. Doug was patiently waiting when I returned. “Let’s go,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”
We drove to a neighboring town close to the freeway, which boasted a Walmart, a Lowe’s, and a cineplex, along with a plethora of chain restaurants. Doug chose a popular casual dining spot known for its burgers and pulled p
ork. The place was crowded and noisy, and I was grateful I didn’t see anyone I knew. I didn’t want to be the subject of more gossip. My private life was already the small-town equivalent of the Kardashians.
After the burgers and fries, I compromised. Instead of a chick flick, I chose one that offered a little of everything—action, adventure, humor, and romance. Even so, I had difficulty concentrating on the screen. My mind wandered hither, thither, and yon. I looked forward to the day I’d be able to enjoy a simple burger and a movie without all the distractions.
On the drive home, Doug valiantly tried to regale me with anecdotes from his practice. I proved a terrible audience. Eventually he, too, lapsed into silence for the remainder of the trip.
Someone had set me up to take the fall for a crime I didn’t commit. Whoever it was didn’t like me nosing around. Wanted me neutralized. They’d even planted the incriminating evidence so I’d take the rap.
I brought myself up short. Listen to yourself!
I sounded like a screenwriter for a B movie. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing, I rationalized. I’d have lots of time to pen screenplays from a prison cell. Only instead of a box number I’d have a serial number. Did Hollywood accept mail from prisoners? I supposed I could use an alias and have Reba Mae forward my masterpieces. If my screenwriting gig failed to materialize, I could try my hand at a reality series. I already had the title: Incarcerated Innocents. I had to stop obsessing over this. It was driving me cuckoo.
“Planet Earth to Planet Piper,” Doug interrupted my reverie. “You’re home.”
With a jerk, I brought myself back to the present. I looked around, surprised to find us parked outside Spice It Up! “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’ve been lousy company tonight.”
“I rather doubt you could ever be ‘lousy’ at anything.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said with a wry smile. “But I can’t help worrying that if McBride doesn’t find the Barrone killer soon, I’m going to jail.”
“Don’t forget me: Mr. Alibi.”
“A prosecutor could argue that I had enough time to kill Mario, then drive to the animal clinic.”
“Circumstantial.”
“Not only are my fingerprints on the murder weapon, but the killer planted a bloody T-shirt in a cupboard in my storeroom where the police were sure to find it. The DNA matches Mario’s. Would a jury consider that ‘circumstantial’?”
Doug let out a low whistle. “You need a good defense attorney.”
I almost smiled—almost. I’d heard that advice so many times, I could put the words to music.
“Let me ask around,” Doug offered. “See if I can come up with any names.”
I reached for the door handle, but Doug was out of the SUV and around my side in a flash. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but a gentleman always sees a lady to the door.”
I turned to thank him for a pleasant evening when he caught me off guard and pressed his lips to mine. A zing of pleasure surged through me. Much to my surprise, I found myself kissing him back—and with enthusiasm. It had been a long time since I’d been kissed by a man who wasn’t my husband, but kissing, I discovered, was like riding a bike. Once you learned how, you didn’t forget. And Doug happened to be an excellent kisser.
Headlight beams swept over us, then moved on. We broke apart like guilty teenagers caught necking in Lovers’ Lane. The headlights belonged to a police cruiser, and while I couldn’t be certain, the driver looked a lot like Wyatt McBride. Paranoia at its finest. Was the man checking up on me? Making sure his prime suspect didn’t flee for parts unknown under the guise of night?
“Ah … um,” I stammered. “I’d ask you up for coffee, but it’s been a long day. Another time?”
“Sure thing.” Doug, the perennial gentleman, didn’t pressure me for more. “I’ll let you know if I get any leads on a criminal defense lawyer.”
“Preferably one who works cheap,” I added. Unlocking the front door, I slipped inside and watched Doug’s taillights disappear from sight.
The streetlamps in the square provided sufficient illumination so I didn’t bother switching on the track lighting. I roamed the aisles, running my hand over smoothly sanded shelves, tracing various containers with my fingertips. Here and there, I opened a bottle or jar and inhaled the earthy scent of nutmeg, the peppery scent of cloves, or the pungent smell of ginger. Spice It Up! had been my dream. My hope. But, my future? I wish I knew. My life seemed to be spiraling out of control.
Without conscious intent, I unscrewed the lid on a jar of juniper berries. Their characteristic ginlike aroma acted like a whiff of smelling salts. I was transported back to the morning I’d found Mario, lying in a pool of blood, on the Tratory’s floor. Unless his killer was found soon, I wouldn’t be around to see my children graduate, start a career, marry, or have children of their own. My imaginary grandkids would call Amber their grandma.
I stiffened my spine. Not if I can help it, they won’t!
I screwed the lid back on the juniper berries. Enough with the self-pity! Time to be proactive. Memory was a funny thing. Frowning, I tried to recall Reba Mae’s comment from the other day. She’d mentioned something about the Clounes owning multiple vehicles. That sometimes Dwayne parked them in the car lot in the hope of enticing a buyer. What if the car we’d searched for was absent the afternoon Reba Mae and I perused the pre-owned autos? Wouldn’t it be mind-boggling if it was there now, right this very minute?
I stuffed my keys in my pocket and was out the door before logic had a chance to spoil my half-baked plan.
I jogged the short distance to Cloune Motors. It was after eleven, late by Brandywine Creek’s standards. The streets were virtually deserted. Storefront windows stared back at me like sightless eyes. Both the Pizza Palace and North of the Border had closed hours ago. A light drizzle started to fall as Cloune Motors came into view.
Glancing upward, I saw dark clouds scud across an even darker sky. I hadn’t taken the weather into account. The stupidity of my rash decision struck me. I was on a fool’s errand and would likely get drenched in the process. No self-respecting Girl Scout would have rushed off without an umbrella, a flashlight, or a BFF. Too late—and too stubborn—to turn back, I hugged my sweater more tightly around my shoulders and slowed my pace. With any luck, I’d be home before the drizzle turned into a downpour.
I swept my gaze over the car lot. I had the place to myself. Vehicles were arranged in neat rows, newer models in front, older ones behind. The wind kicked up just then, making the red, white, and blue pennants overhead snap, crackle, and pop like a bowl of breakfast cereal. Lightning flickered. Thunder rumbled in the near-distance. If I intended to carry out my inspection, I had best do it quickly.
Systematically, I wove through an assortment of cars and SUVs. I didn’t waste time on the light-colored ones, but concentrated instead on those in deeper hues. I ran my hand along the edges of each bumper, hoping to feel a small scrap of cloth that matched my trench coat.
A sudden, loud crack of thunder made me jump. Laughing nervously, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror of Jeep. Pale face, wide eyes. I’d be a shoo-in for a victim in one of those Friday the 13th films. Don’t be such a wuss, Piper, I chastised myself. Toughen up.
Ready to give up the fool’s errand and strike out for home before the storm broke in earnest, I started down the last row of cars. My pulse quickened at the sight of a Lincoln Town Car that hadn’t been there before. It was big, black, and near as I could tell, similar to the mystery car I hunted. What’s more, it looked like the one I’d seen Diane drive. I approached cautiously, then crouched down to examine the bumper.
Nothing. Nada. Zip.
I swallowed a lump of disappointment the size of a baseball. The grille of the Lincoln seemed to mock me with its chrome gap-toothed grin. I gave the car one final glance—and that’s when I spotted it. A bit of beige cloth wedged near the bottom of the grille’s wide-spaced chrome teeth.
&nb
sp; I sucked in a breath. Stunned, my mind leaped to the obvious. Diane killed Mario. Leaning forward to examine the scrap closer, I was nearly nose to metal when I felt something cold and hard jab me between the shoulder blades. The barrel of a gun? I froze.
“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Dwayne Cloune sneered. “You’re one nosy broad, Piper Prescott. Now what do you suppose I do with you?”
“I know how this must look, Dwayne, but, honest, I’m not here to steal anything,” I said, trying to bluff my way out. “Couldn’t sleep so thought I’d take another look around. Inventory in a used-car lot changes all the time, right?”
“Pre-owned, you idiot, not used.”
I inched away. “Maybe CJ should just bite the bullet and buy Chad a new car.”
“Shut up with your nonsense,” Dwayne snapped. “I saw CJ at a fund-raiser and mentioned you’d stopped by. He had no idea what I was talking about. Said this was the first he’d heard about Chad needing a car.”
“Look, Dwayne, I’m really sorry to be prowling around after business hours.”
“I’ve half a mind to call the police and report a burglar,” he mused aloud.
I didn’t need him phoning the police. If anyone called the police it should be me, me, me. I’d love to hear Councilman Cloune’s explanation of how a piece from my raincoat was embedded in the grille of his wife’s Lincoln Town Car.
“On second thought, get to your feet. Keep your hands in the air where I can see them.”
I sensed Dwayne would go to any length to protect Diane. I made a last-ditch attempt to worm my way out of a sticky situation. “I promise if you let me go, I won’t say a word about any of this. As a matter of fact, I’ll even return her diamond.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Dwayne snarled. “What diamond?”
“The one I found at the Tratory. I believe it belongs to your wife.” I was shaking all over, but I forged ahead with a scenario that was playing through my mind like the reel of a movie. “Diane went to the Tratory to look for the diamond that had fallen out of an earring. You followed. A fight broke out. Mario was killed. Self-defense, right? Now,” I said, clearing my throat, “I really need to hurry home and let my dog out before the storm breaks.”