Curried Away

by Gail Oust

  “It’s only natural you’d feel that way.” Kicking off my shoes, I settled back into the cushions, propped my feet on the coffee table, and crossed my legs. “Losing the part of Truvy Jones was a huge disappointment. Anyone with a backbone would’ve been upset and said things they didn’t mean.”

  “Dang straight!” Reba Mae nodded emphatically. “And then to be replaced by Mary Lou of all people—a ditz who can’t follow directions on how to open a box of cereal. If that don’t take the cake, I don’t know what does.”

  Leaning forward, I picked up the bottle of wine and topped off our glasses. While I still sipped mine, Reba Mae downed hers, probably too distracted to even taste it.

  “McBride thinks I’m guilty as sin.” Reba Mae stared glumly into her empty wineglass.

  “I’m sure McBride thinks nothing of the kind. He’s only doing his cop thing,” I told her, although defending McBride made me feel disloyal. “He knows you’d never harm a flea.”

  “A flea isn’t what got itself harmed.”

  “It’s not like you to be such a pessimist,” I chided.

  “McBride grilled me like a T-bone at a backyard barbecue.” Reba Mae shuddered dramatically. “Asked me when I last saw Sandy? Wanted to know what we talked about? What she was wearin’? Can I account for my whereabouts?”

  “Can you?” I asked. “Account for your whereabouts?”

  Reba Mae’s gaze wandered to a photo in a silver frame on the coffee table, a picture of my son and daughter taken on Tybee Island several years ago. Both children were tanned and smiling after a week at the beach. Neither of them had an inkling their family unit was about to burst at the seams.

  “Reba Mae,” I prodded when she didn’t respond to my question. “Can you account for your whereabouts the night Sandy was killed?”

  “Criminy!” she said, her laugh sounding forced. “I told ’im I was home alone. If I’da known I needed an alibi, I’d’ve been hangin’ with the crowd at the VFW drinkin’ beer and watchin’ football.”

  “What about your boys?” I persisted, referring to her twenty-one-year-old twins, Clay and Caleb, who still lived at home. “Can they vouch for you?”

  Reba Mae shrugged. “Clay was shooting pool at a buddy’s. Caleb claimed he had some paperwork to catch up on at the garage. I must’ve been sleepin’ like a baby, since I didn’t hear either one of them come home.”

  “Sandy didn’t strike me as being popular with the cast and crew. From comments I heard, her management style rubbed some people the wrong way. Think real hard, Reba Mae. Who did she antagonize?”

  “Better get yourself some writin’ paper, honeybun, ’cause it’s gonna be a long list,” Reba Mae said as she drew up her legs and tucked them under her.

  After rummaging through a drawer of an end table, I located a pad and ballpoint pen, then returned to my spot on the sofa. “It’s simply a matter of elimination, so let’s get started.”

  She pointed at my notepad. “I’d put her husband Craig at the top of that piece of paper.”

  I frowned. “Sandy mentioned Craig was away on a business trip.”

  “Don’t you ever watch the Lifetime channel?” Reba Mae regarded me in disbelief. “The husband’s always the culprit. Don’t matter if the couple’s married, separated, or divorced; nine times out of ten, it’s the husband that killed the wife.”

  To appease my friend I wrote Craig Granger’s name at the top of the page. Craig never struck me as the murderous type, but then I’m not a devotee of the Lifetime channel.

  “Hmph!” Reba Mae snorted, refilling her glass. “Away on business? A likely story. He coulda come back. Last time I checked there were planes, trains, and automobiles.”

  I tapped the pen on the pad of paper. I could almost feel the cogs in my brain start to grind. “Other than Craig, can you think of anyone in the cast who might’ve killed Sandy?”

  Reba Mae made a broad sweeping motion with the hand that held the wineglass. I breathed a sigh of relief when the wine sloshed side to side but didn’t spill. “Might as well put all their names on your list. Every single one had a gripe of some sort.”

  “Okay,” I said, pen poised. “Start at the top.”

  “Now you’re cookin’.” Reba nodded her approval so vigorously her earrings bobbed. “Like I mentioned yesterday, Bunny Bowtin stormed out of rehearsal in tears after she and Sandy exchanged words. Bunny said that she wasn’t comin’ back. After talkin’ to her husband, however, she musta had a change of heart.”

  “What happened between Bunny and Sandy?” I asked. “I thought they were good friends.”

  “They were—at least until Bunny got the part of M’Lynn. Bunny complained Sandy constantly criticized everythin’ she did. Bunny thought Sandy was pickin’ on her. She’s not used to havin’ someone tell her what to do. If there’s any bossin’ to be done, she likes to be on the doin’ end.”

  I wrote down Bunny Bowtin. What Reba Mae had told me made sense. Both members of the country-club set, Bunny and Sandy were accustomed to being waited on and not having their wishes challenged. Then, all of a sudden, Bunny’s role had reversed. Bunny was forced to take orders from a woman she considered an equal. That, understandably, could be cause for resentment. But murder? That was a stretch.

  “Who else?” I prompted.

  Reba Mae’s face squinched in concentration. “Wanda Needmore and Dorinda Kunkel talked openly about quittin’. They claimed Sandy was overbearin’ and obnoxious. I wouldn’t want to tangle with either of them.”

  I dutifully added Wanda and Dorinda to my list. “Do you think Dorinda is capable of violence? She works for the police department of all places. I’d think she’d be a model citizen after watching a steady stream of miscreants parade past her desk.”

  “Dorinda’s got a temper. I heard from a good source that when she found out Skeeter, her deadbeat husband, was cheatin’ on her with a waitress at High Cotton, Dorinda took a shotgun and nearly blasted him to kingdom come.”

  My eyes widened in shock. “She shot him? Why isn’t she in jail?”

  “She missed—accidental-like on purpose—but the buckshot hit the wood frame of the screen door. Ol’ Skeeter got so many splinters from all the wood flyin’ he looked like a porcupine. The floozy he’d been seein’ had to take him to the emergency room.”

  “Wasn’t Joe Johnson, your husband’s uncle, sheriff back then?”

  “Yep, but Uncle Joe let Dorinda off with a warnin’. Her daughter Lorinda was just an infant at the time. Guess Uncle Joe felt sorry for her. He hired Dorinda on the spot knowin’ she needed to support herself and her baby once the skunk ran off.”

  I added Dorinda Kunkel to my list. “Joe Johnson has a heart of gold.”

  “And Dorinda’s strong as an ox,” Reba Mae added, waggling a finger at my list. “I bet she could bench-press as much as McBride.”

  McBride—hot, sweaty, and ripped—bench-pressing? That was an image I didn’t want to dwell on. I cleared my throat. “Who else?”

  “Oh, be sure to put Mary Lou’s name on that list of yours,” Reba Mae said.

  “Mary Lou?” I cleared my throat again in an effort to clear my mind of McBride half-naked. “The woman hasn’t been in Steel Magnolias long enough to argue with Sandy.”

  Reba Mae gave me a pitying look. “Don’t take long. Gerilee Barker is the stage manager. When Gerilee came in for a perm, she told me she heard Sandy talkin’ on the phone about replacin’ Mary Lou. What if Gerilee wasn’t the only one to overhear the conversation?”

  I dutifully wrote Mary Lou on the growing list. One by one, we’d have to check each person for motive and alibi. I hoped we’d quickly be able to whittle our list down to two or three viable candidates. “While you’re at it, you might as well check out Marcy Boyd and Madison Winters. Everyone, even Madison, the apple of her daddy’s eye, had a beef of some sort with Sandy.”

  “Great,” I muttered as I reached for my wine. “So many suspects, so little time.”

  *
* *

  I woke up early the next morning and went for a run with Casey trotting obediently alongside me. Dark clouds swirling overhead predicted a storm in the offing. The dingy sky reflected my gloomy mood. I’d tossed and turned all night, waking up every couple hours, worrying that my BFF was a person of interest in a murder investigation. It was unfortunate that words uttered in the heat of the moment could have such a far-reaching impact. And Reba Mae’s alibi—home alone—didn’t help her case. I’d watched enough episodes of Dateline and 20/20 and read enough thrillers to know “home alone” was a better movie than an alibi. I wished either Clay or Caleb had been around to verify their mother’s whereabouts once and for all.

  Upon reaching my apartment, I scooped dry dog food into Casey’s dish, then showered and dressed. I decided on dark brown slacks and, in contrast to the dreary weather, added a bright pumpkin-colored sweater with dolman sleeves. Chunky gold earrings, I hoped, made the look less casual.

  I was enjoying a second cup of robust Ethiopian coffee when Dottie Hemmings entered Spice It Up! “Piper, I rushed right over. Have you heard the latest?”

  I didn’t even bother to set my cup down. I wasn’t feeling kindly toward the woman who’d sicced McBride on my friend. “Can I help you?”

  “Gracious, no.” Dottie laughed. “I’m not here to shop. You should know I’m not much of a cook.”

  “Then why are you here?” I asked, putting frost in my voice.

  Dottie seemed impervious to the sudden chill. “I wanted you to be among the first to know that my husband the mayor convened the town council for an emergency session.”

  Curiosity trumped willpower, and she succeeded in gaining my attention.

  Dottie smiled a smile reminiscent of the Cheshire cat. “As a result of their meeting, Chief McBride’s holding his very first press conference.”

  “Press conference? Whatever for?” Now I did set my cup down. From what I knew about McBride, he liked to keep his cards close to his vest. He was a regular Scrooge when it came to divulging details of an active case. I knew that for fact. Since he’d been hired chief of police, I’d tried bribery, cajolery, and blatant nosiness to pry information from him—all to no avail.

  Smiling coyly, Dottie smoothed the ruffle of a flowered blouse peeking from the jacket of her purple polyester pantsuit. “Phones have been ringing off the hook in the mayor’s office since word spread about Sandy’s death. Calls from all over the state—Augusta, Athens, Atlanta—demanding more information. I wouldn’t be surprised if CNN sends a reporter.”

  A sharp stab of foreboding turned the bran muffin I’d eaten earlier into a brick in my stomach. “Why all the publicity?”

  Dottie shrugged a plump shoulder. “Seems the Grangers are well connected. They happen to know a lot of influential people. They’re even on a first-name basis with a Georgia state senator.”

  “When is this press conference supposed to take place?” I asked. “And where?”

  “On the courthouse steps, promptly at noon.” Dottie fished her cell phone from the large handbag draped over one arm. “The council demanded McBride reassure the townspeople that the culprit will soon be behind bars. Let folks know they can get a good night’s rest and can quit locking their doors.”

  Dottie’s words made it clear that McBride was being pressured to make an arrest before he even had time for a thorough investigation. That wasn’t the way he operated. Needing to busy myself, I picked up a box and slit open a package the UPS driver had delivered late yesterday. “I hope you don’t think Reba Mae will turn out to be the culprit behind bars.”

  Dottie had the grace to flush. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, I think you do!” I snapped, daring her to deny the charge. “You know exactly what I mean. You couldn’t wait to rush over to the police department and tell McBride about an innocent comment you overheard.”

  “Oh, that.” She waved a plump hand. “I simply couldn’t ignore my civic duty. I felt obligated to report anything that might have a direct bearing on a crime.”

  I stopped unpacking the shipment of spices and folded my arms across my chest. “All you did was land a good person in a heap of trouble. Reba Mae had nothing to do with Sandy’s death. Why, you’ve had a standing appointment at the Klassy Kut ever since it opened. You should know better than to think Reba Mae guilty of such a thing. Shame, shame, shame, Dottie Hemmings!”

  “Hmph! So that’s the thanks I get for being a concerned citizen.” Dottie studied her cell phone for messages, then dropped it back into her handbag. “My motto is to serve and to protect.”

  “I believe the motto is ‘to protect and to serve,’” I said as I removed an invoice from the box I’d just opened. “Before you took possession of that motto, it belonged to the police department—and to the best of my knowledge you aren’t on the force.”

  “Whatever.” Dottie turned on her heel and marched out.

  One less person on my Christmas card list, I thought as I watched her depart. At the rate I was losing friends and acquaintances, I’d save a bundle on postage stamps. I reached for my cell phone and dialed Reba Mae.

  CHAPTER 9

  I DIDN’T EVEN feel a teensy twinge of guilt at closing Spice It Up! at noon. Other merchants along Main Street seemed to suffer from the same lack of remorse. I trailed after Shirley Randolph from Creekside Realty. Across the square, Gerilee Barker waited patiently as her husband, Pete, arranged the hands on a WE WILL RETURN sign at Meat on Main. Like a colony of ants, all of us headed in the same direction. Not even the prospect of rain, sleet, or hail could undermine our determination to attend Brandywine Creek’s first honest-to-goodness press conference.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance, an ominous reminder of an impending storm. One look at a sky the color of tarnished pewter and I wished I’d remembered an umbrella. I never seemed to have it handy when I needed it. To the best of my knowledge, the pinkflowered umbrella I’d had for years had yet to be subjected to its first drop of rain. Stopping on the corner of Main and Elm streets, catty-corner from the courthouse, I looked both ways as I’d been taught from childhood. A rusty pickup lumbered past followed by a news van with WAGT stenciled on the side. Apparently Dottie’s information that the Augusta station intended to cover the details of Sandy’s death was accurate.

  I was about to step off the curb when I glanced down Elm Street—and did a double take. It took me a moment to pin a name on the attractive woman who stood smoking a cigarette outside Proctor’s Cleaners. She was dressed in dark-washed jeans and a scoop-necked sweater. Then recognition dawned. Bitsy Johnson-Jones. The rumor mill had churned out gossip that Bitsy’d had her tummy stapled. The results were amazing. Makeup and a new hairdo with plenty of blond highlights completed the transformation.

  “Bitsy!” I exclaimed as I walked toward her. “I almost didn’t recognize you. You must have lost eighty pounds.”

  Bitsy blew out a plume of smoke. “Eighty-two.”

  “You look fabulous!” I gushed. And she did. Who knew all that pretty lurked behind the plus-size clothing?

  “Thanks,” she said, flicking ash on the sidewalk.

  I gestured to the crowd gathering on the courthouse lawn. “Aren’t you going to the press conference?”

  “Nah, I don’t dare. Mr. Proctor would have a conniption if I closed the cleaners. From here, though, I should be able to see and hear what’s goin’ on.” She took another drag from her cigarette. “Too bad about Miz Granger, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, it is.” A gust of wind blew a strand of hair across my cheek, and I shoved it back. “Did you know her well?”

  “Not really, but she seemed nice enough.” Bitsy kept her gaze fixed on the courthouse lawn. “Last time Miz Granger dropped off her dry cleaning, I told her I wanted to be part of the play she was putting on.”

  “Did she take you up on your offer?”

  “No. Said she was real sorry, but all the parts were cast.”

  “That mus
t have been disappointing.” Vicki Lamont gave me a finger wave as she hurried past us but didn’t stop to chat.

  “It was even more disappointing since I’d already memorized the lines of several characters,” Bitsy continued. “I told Miz Granger I’d make a good understudy, but she said she had everything under control.”

  I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of initiating the conversation. Now that I had, I found it difficult to make a getaway without appearing rude. I scanned the crowd across the street and found my excuse standing at the edge of the crowd. “Sorry, Bitsy, I promised to meet Reba Mae. Don’t want to keep her waiting. Nice talking to you.”

  “Sure.” Bitsy dropped her cigarette butt to the sidewalk and ground it beneath her heel. “Nice talkin’ to you, too.”

  I cut a diagonal swath from the cleaners to the courthouse just ahead of a news van with the familiar CNN logo splashed across its side. The dignified courthouse, dating back nearly one hundred years, anchored one end of the town square, the opera house the other. The courthouse was built in the neoclassical Greek Revival style with four imposing white pillars, and the mayor liked to remind folks that its brick was made from Georgia red clay. A podium had been set in a prominent spot at the top of the courthouse steps.

  “Hey, girlfriend,” Reba Mae greeted me. “For a minute or two, I thought you were gonna miss all the hoopla.”

  “You’re crazy if you think I’d miss McBride’s TV debut,” I said as we worked our way nearer the front.

  A crowd had gathered for the event. News of the press conference had spread quickly. As Melly was fond of saying, there was telephone, telegraph, or tella-Dottie. People clustered in small groups on the lawn to gossip and speculate. Most of them I recognized by face if not by name.

  Reba Mae nudged me in the ribs. “Isn’t the blonde over there primpin’ a reporter on Channel Twenty-Six?”

  “Looks like her,” I said, craning my neck for a better view of the woman. The TV station WAGT happened to be the NBC affiliate out of Augusta, which broadcast locally on Channel 26. “CNN’s here, too.”