by Gail Oust
“Whatever.” Bunny dismissed my objection with a flick of her wrist. “Don’t overlook the fact that when it comes to crime you have some experience.”
Dottie wagged a pudgy finger at me. “You nearly bought the farm a time or two, dearie. My husband the mayor went on and on about your close calls.”
“My being held at gunpoint once or twice doesn’t guarantee McBride will agree to a self-defense class,” I protested. “Besides, Dottie, you’re married to the mayor. You should have him approach the chief with your idea.”
“Oh, honey,” Dottie said, laughing, “the mayor and I made a pact never to discuss politics or business. It’s the reason we’ve stayed married for nearly fifty years.”
Bunny’s expression hardened. “After talking among ourselves, we decided you were the most likely person to approach Chief McBride with our idea.”
“You won’t know unless you at least try, Piper,” Marcy said, her voice cold. Under the thin façade of civility, I sensed the woman still harbored a grudge. I’d once named Danny—at the time her hubby-to-be—as a person of interest in a murder investigation. I’m not pointing fingers, but some people can’t seem to live and let live.
“All right, I’ll do it,” I agreed, brushing an unruly red curl from my face, “but I’m not sure this is the right time. Even as we speak, the chief is probably busy putting together a list of people who might have a motive to want Sandy dead.”
“Good!” Bunny snapped. “That settles the matter, but do it soon please.”
Marcy, satisfied with the outcome of our little powwow, wheeled the stroller around. “It’s time for me to go home. The twins will be waking up soon and want to be fed.”
Mary Lou rushed to open the door. Bunny gave me a tight smile, then turned to follow her self-appointed committee.
“Ladies,” I called after them, halting them in their tracks. “For your information, Sandy wasn’t bludgeoned, shot, or poisoned. She was strangled with her own scarf.”
“Oh no!” Bunny’s face mirrored her shock. “Not the Hermès she bought in Paris?”
Mary Lou shook her head sorrowfully. “Poor Sandy. That scarf was her favorite.”
Marcy, her pale face even paler, pushed through the door and disappeared. Mary Lou and Bunny followed close behind, but Dottie lingered. “Funny thing”—Dottie idly picked up the rhizome of ginger from the basket and studied its odd shape—“I recall standing on this very spot and hearing Reba Mae go on and on about Sandy firing her. She was fit to be tied about being replaced in that play by Mary Lou.”
I took the rhizome from Dottie’s hand and returned it to the basket. “What are you getting at, Dottie?” I asked, though I already suspected the answer.
“Poor Reba Mae. I don’t think I ever saw her so upset.” Dottie smiled a smile phony as a crocodile’s. “She went as far as sayin’ she’d like to wrap her hands around Sandy’s neck till she squawked like a chicken. You don’t suppose…?”
The question hung in the air like yellow pine pollen on a spring day.
“Don’t even think it!” I said when I found my voice. “We all say things we don’t mean from time to time. It didn’t mean a thing.”
“You’re right, of course.” She patted her blond beehive, then waved merrily. “Toodle-oo. Harvey will be home soon and expect me to have lunch on the table.”
When she left moments later, I noticed she marched in the direction of the Brandywine Creek Police Department, the opposite direction of her home. Had Dottie decided to broach the subject of a self-defense course with McBride after all? Or did that take a backseat to a more nefarious intent?
CHAPTER 7
FINALLY THE TIME came to flip the sign on my door to CLOSED. I thought the day would never end. All afternoon townspeople had drifted in and out, not to buy spice, but to talk about the murder. It was small consolation that some actually purchased a spice or two. And for that I had Doug to thank. The tantalizing aroma of his spicy chicken curry that wafted throughout the shop was impossible to ignore. I encouraged folks to take home a copy of Doug’s recipe. As added incentive, I gave anyone who bought at least one of the ingredients a take-and-go container of chicken curry that Doug had prepared for his “voilà” moment.
Thinking of Doug only served to remind me of his comment about the skyrocketing crime rate in Brandywine Creek. Truth be told, it hadn’t been far off the mark. Sandy wasn’t the first person in recent memory to fall victim to an untimely demise. No wonder women were nervous and talking about precautions and a self-defense course. My imagination stuttered at the idea of gun-toting housewives strolling the aisles of the Piggly Wiggly as they shopped for produce and cold cuts. What next? Would Brandywine Creek resemble a scene from Wild, Wild West?
I began counting the day’s receipts. Suddenly Casey, who had been lounging at my feet, jumped up. His noisy barking nearly drowned out the sound of someone knocking. I refused to stop what I was doing and answer the door. Whoever it was obviously must be illiterate, since they couldn’t read the CLOSED sign.
“Dang!” I said when the daily total didn’t tally.
The person at the door switched to a different strategy and began pounding. Casey’s nails made little clicking sounds as he trotted across the heart pine floor. His excited barking quickly became interspersed with vigorous tail wagging.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” I stopped counting tens and twenties and went to the door. Even in the twilight, which in late November fell early, I recognized Wyatt McBride. Reluctantly, I turned the dead bolt and stepped aside as he entered. I sensed immediately that his visit wasn’t a social call.
Casey greeted the man with more enthusiasm than I did. Stooping down, McBride took a moment to scratch my pooch in his sweet spot behind his ears. The little dog was lost in a haze of doggy joy, rolling over, paws in the air, in a pathetic bid for more.
I regarded McBride warily. He didn’t look happy—not that he should—so I returned the attitude in kind. “What do you want, McBride? It’s nearly dinnertime and Lindsey will be home from the library soon.”
“We need to talk.”
“That sounds ominous.” Tucking an errant curl behind my ear, I reminded myself I had nothing to be nervous about. But when it came to making people nervous, McBride had perfected the art. His blue eyes could turn icy; his features harden into granite. He’d mastered a stare designed to make the innocent squirm and the guilty grovel. He’d once been a hotshot detective with the Miami-Dade Police Department, but he’d returned to his roots. You can take the boy out of Georgia, but you can’t take Georgia out of the boy. Occasionally a sweet as a peach drawl crept into his rich baritone.
I resumed my accounting chores, leaving McBride to trail after me. “Remember, I wasn’t the one who found a dead body this time. I’m pleading the Fifth.”
“Do you even know what the Fifth is?”
I thought I detected a smidgen of humor underlying the question, but I couldn’t be sure. I picked up the cash and stuffed it into the green canvas bag the bank supplied. I’d count it again tomorrow when there were no distractions. “If the Fifth is good enough for the Mafia, it’s good enough for me.”
“How do you plead to the charge of gossiping without a license?” He raised a dark brow. “It’s all over town that the victim was found strangled with a silk scarf.”
“It’s also all over town that Sandy was bludgeoned with a broomstick, shot with a .38, and poisoned with cyanide,” I retorted. “You’ve been in Miami too long if you’ve forgotten that these crazy stories spring up faster than dandelions after a spring rain. All I tried to do was set the record straight.”
“Setting the record straight is my department.”
I opened the register, slid the day’s receipts into the cash drawer, and slammed it shut. “If you’re wondering how folks found out about the cause of death, Ned let it out of the bag before you had a chance to take his statement.”
“Sorry,” he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose
between thumb and forefinger. “It’s been a long day.”
I felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy for the lawman. “Can I offer you a cup of coffee? It’ll only take a minute to brew a fresh pot.”
“Thanks, another time.” He took a small black notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. “I’m here on official business.”
My stomach dropped to my toes in a free fall. “What sort of official business?”
“Dottie Hemmings came to my office this afternoon to report a disturbing conversation. Ms. Hemmings is willing to swear on a stack of Bibles that she heard Reba Mae threaten to strangle Ms. Granger. She’s ready and willing to testify to this in a court of law.”
I sank down on a stool and resisted the urge to put my head in my hands and bang it on the counter. The only thing stopping me was the fact that I didn’t want to give McBride the satisfaction of seeing how upset I was. At the first sign of weakness he’d be a shark on the trail of fresh blood. “Dottie is a notorious gossip. She’s also prone to exaggeration,” I answered but avoided eye contact.
“That’s the reason I’m here. I need you to corroborate her story. Ms. Hemmings went on to say that this conversation took place right here in your shop. According to my notes”—he consulted his notebook—“‘Reba Mae said words to the effect that she wanted to wrap her hands around Ms. Granger’s throat until she squawked like a chicken.’ True or untrue?”
Talk about words coming back to haunt you. “What if, for the sake of argument, she did make such a statement in the heat of the moment? Things like that are said all the time. It doesn’t mean they’re going to be acted upon.”
McBride snapped his notebook shut. “You’ve just given me my answer.”
I stared at him, dismay plain on my face. “I didn’t say Reba Mae said those things,” I protested.
“You didn’t deny it either,” he said as he headed for the door.
“Where are you going?” I called after him.
“Where do you think?”
* * *
My feet felt encased in lead as I trudged upstairs to my apartment. By now, McBride would be walking up Reba Mae’s front walk. The man was hardheaded but sensible, reasonable, fair. He couldn’t seriously suspect my friend of carrying out a threat to strangle Sandy. Her words were born of anger—anger and frustration—not malice. We’ve all said such things in times of stress. Why, I’d said them a time or two myself about CJ—not to mention his intended Amber Leigh Ames, aka Miss Peach Pit.
I stood in the center of the kitchen and tried to focus. Lindsey would be home soon and expect to find supper at least started, if not on the table. I remembered the Ziploc bag filled with chicken strips Doug had left behind. I’d stashed them in my upstairs refrigerator earlier when I’d come up to get Casey. They’d be perfect for a quick and easy stir-fry. A raid on the fridge produced broccoli, mushrooms, peppers, and onions.
Casey rested his head on his paws and watched from beneath the kitchen table. He seemed to sense my agitation and deemed it wise to keep a discreet distance. Careful not to lop off a finger, I vented my frustrations slicing and dicing vegetables. I’d just finished when I heard Lindsey’s key in the lock downstairs followed by her footsteps on the stairs.
“Hey, Mom.” Lindsey dropped her backpack on a chair and shrugged out of her jacket. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving.”
“Chicken stir-fry,” I answered summoning a smile for my favorite—and only—daughter. Lindsey, with her blond hair and eyes the same blue gray as her father’s and grandmother’s, took after the Prescott side of the family. At seventeen, she was a pretty girl, on the verge of becoming a pretty young woman. By this time next year, my baby would be in college and I’d be an empty nester. I had mixed feelings at the prospect.
“I’ll set the table,” Lindsey offered, getting plates down from the cupboard. “All the kids at school are talking about Mr. Feeney finding Mrs. Granger. With a killer on the loose, some of my friends are going to start carrying pepper spray.”
Housewives and teens? Armed and dangerous? I shuddered at the prospect as I added chicken strips to the oil I’d heated in a skillet.
“Sean’s dad is going to take him to the gun range for target practice,” she confided, referring to Sean Rogers, star quarterback and her current heartthrob.
“Chief McBride is hard at work on the case. Wait and see. He’ll have the guilty party behind bars before Thanksgiving.”
Lindsey looked at me doubtfully. “Thanksgiving is only a week away.”
“Yes, I know.” I set a package of rice in the microwave, a busy woman’s time-saver. “Not only will Thanksgiving be here, but so will your brother. I can’t wait. I’m making each of you your favorite desserts—pumpkin pie for you, pecan pie for Chad.”
“Knowing Chad, he’ll spend the entire time with his nose in a book.”
My son, Chad, Chandler Jameson Prescott IV, was enrolled at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. He was the student; Lindsey, the socialite. “You know he has to keep his grade point average up to get into med school,” I reminded her.
It wasn’t until we were seated at the table eating when a sudden thought occurred to Lindsey. “Mom, doesn’t Madison Winters drive a Miata convertible?”
I scooped up a forkful of rice. “Doug found it for her on eBay. Said it was a steal.”
“Last night I got up to check a text message that had come through late and happened to look out the window. I thought I saw Madison’s car drive past.”
“Madison was probably going home after play practice.”
“That’s what I thought, too, before I saw the time. It was nearly midnight.”
Before I could question Lindsey further, Reba Mae clambered up the steps and burst into the kitchen. “You told me to use this in case of an emergency.” She held up a key I’d once given her. “Well, honeybun, this classifies as an emergency. A humdinger of one.”
Lindsey hopped up from her chair. “Here you go, Miz Johnson. Take my seat.”
“Thanks, hon.” Reba Mae plopped down as though her legs had suddenly turned to pudding. “I need to talk to your momma.”
“No problem,” Lindsey said cheerfully. “Don’t mind me. I’ll just clear away these dinner dishes.”
“I’ll clean up,” I interjected. “Lindsey, don’t you have studying to do? SATs are in a couple weeks.” I didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to know Lindsey was dying to be in on the discussion. Typical teen, typical female, she wanted to learn all the details firsthand.
“Mom!” she moaned theatrically. “I have been studying. My brain needs a rest.”
“Well, rest your brain in your room listening to music,” I replied in my mother-knows-best tone of voice.
“Whatever.” Lindsey grudgingly obeyed, snatching her backpack as she went and motioning for Casey to join her.
I stole a look at Reba Mae. My BFF’s face was drawn, her expression tense. Dinner dishes, I decided, could wait till later. Occasions like this called for a stiff drink. I wished I stocked something more potent than white wine. Perhaps like Wild Turkey, CJ’s favorite Kentucky bourbon. In this case, however, a nice glass of wine would have to do. Reaching into the fridge, I pulled out a bottle of Riesling, twisted off the cap, then took two wineglasses from the cupboard and poured us each a glass.
“Here, girlfriend,” I said, handing one to Reba Mae and grabbing the wine bottle. “Let’s adjourn to the living room for our conference.”
On the way, I peeked into Lindsey’s room. My girl sat cross-legged on her bed, earbuds securely in place, swaying to a beat of the music only she could hear. Casey lay curled at her feet, head resting on his paws. He opened and closed one eye in a doggy wink when he saw me.
“McBride paid me a visit,” Reba Mae said without preamble.
Taking a seat next to her on the sofa, I set the bottle on the coffee table, then sipped my wine and waited for her to continue. Reba Mae’s referring to McBride by his surname rather than the more cas
ual “Wyatt” spoke volumes.
“You’ve got to help me, Piper. I swear if you don’t I’m gonna be arrested for murder.” Reba Mae’s hand tightened around the stem of her wineglass. “McBride thinks I killed Sandy.”
CHAPTER 8
“I DON’T CARE if orange is the new black,” Reba Mae wailed. “Sure as shootin’, Piper, if you don’t help me, my goose is cooked.”
I reached over and squeezed her hand. “Of course I’ll help. We just have to put our heads together and figure this thing out.” Brave words but, to borrow a cliché, easier said than done. Owning a spice shop didn’t make me a detective. Granted, I’d gotten lucky a couple times, but luck isn’t always around when you need it.
“But how?” Reba Mae sniffled, her pretty soft-brown eyes tear-bright. “What will become of my boys if their momma’s hauled off to jail?”
“Calm down,” I soothed, trying to talk my BFF down from a figurative ledge. “We’ll think of something. Don’t lose sight of the fact that we’re two reasonably intelligent women.”
“My last shred of intelligence flew out the window the instant McBride brought out his little black book and started askin’ questions.”
“I’m sure McBride was merely following up on a conversation Dottie was only too eager to report.” I made a mental note to give Dottie a piece of my mind next time she sailed into my shop. What a blabbermouth. Shame on her for throwing Reba Mae under the bus.
Somewhat calmer now, Reba Mae took a gulp of wine. “Maybe I was angry at Sandy,” she admitted, “but other than wishing her a root canal, I never bore the woman any physical harm. It probably was unchristian of me to wish things like her play bein’ a flop. Or dream about her havin’ a come-to-Jesus moment and realizin’ Mary Lou was a total moron. Then she’d come beggin’ me to save her bacon.”