by Gail Oust
Heaving a sigh, I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. Lately, McBride and I seemed to be at cross purposes—McBride trying to establish Reba Mae’s guilt and me her innocence. Instead, we needed to be on the same page, share the same goal, work together to find a killer. Someone had to be the first to declare a truce, and that someone might as well be me.
A shiny black mailbox with McBRIDE stenciled neatly on the side marked his driveway. Squashing doubts about the brilliance of my olive-branch idea, I turned the wheel. Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I traveled down the long drive. The VW’s headlight beams illuminated a small house, hardly more than a cottage—Country Southern with a dash of New England Colonial and a hint of Greek Revival.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” I muttered, braking to a halt.
My fight-or-flight instinct teetered to and fro. I had half a mind to shove the gearshift into reverse, gun the engine, and back down the drive. Too late. McBride, probably alerted by my headlights or the crunch of gravel, came out onto the wide front porch. If he was surprised by my unexpected visit, it didn’t show in his expression. We stared at each other for a protracted moment.
Then, taking a deep breath, I shut off the ignition, opened the car door, and stepped into the cool, crisp fall night. Casey, not sharing my reticence, bounded out of the car and greeted McBride with a flurry of excited barks.
McBride remained where he was, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans. “What’s the occasion?”
I lifted my chin a notch. “Thought I’d save you the trouble of checking up on me.”
The corner of his mouth twitched in a trace of a smile. “I was just about to head over your way. See what you were up to. Maybe bum a cup of coffee.”
I eyed his worn jeans, turtleneck, and well-used bomber jacket. A slight bulge at his waist told me he was carrying, and I caught the glint of gold clipped to his belt. “Is that the prescribed dress code for undercover work?”
“After last night, I thought I’d better up my game. Aim for my version of casual chic.”
I stayed at the foot of the steps while Casey, the turncoat, claimed a spot alongside McBride. “I didn’t realize ‘chic’ was part of your vocabulary.”
“Lot of things you don’t know about me,” he countered. “Care to divulge the real reason behind the surprise visit?”
I cocked my head to one side and smiled. “Care to invite us inside?”
He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “Sure, why not?” he said easily. “Just don’t complain about the ambience.”
I mounted the steps and McBride, a true Southern gentleman, held open the door and motioned for Casey and me to enter. A tiny foyer led into a living space furnished with a recliner and a flat-screen television. The kitchen was on my right. Nothing much had changed since my last visit: same plywood subflooring, same wood plank stretched across two sawhorses holding a toaster, salt-and pepper shakers, and his beloved George Foreman grill. The main difference was the installation of a French door in a space previously hidden behind a plastic tarp.
“No complaints about ambience, McBride, being there isn’t any.”
“Still a work in progress,” he said. “Renovations came to a standstill when my contractor’s apprentice went on strike. Clay refused to pound another nail for a man ‘dumb enough’ to think his momma guilty of homicide.”
“Reba Mae’s boys are loyal to a fault. She raised them single-handed after Butch’s accident and did a mighty fine job of it, too. Ask anyone.”
“It isn’t Reba Mae’s parenting skills that got her into this mess. Care for a Diet Coke? I might could find one if I look real hard.” Not waiting for an answer, he pulled a diet soda out of an ancient fridge.
“Sure.” I took a seat at a drop leaf table with chipped paint. “Looks like you moved your refrigerator off the front porch and back into the kitchen where it belongs. Is that your bid for gentrification?”
He popped the tab on a soda and handed it to me. “Here you go.”
“Am I going to have to drink alone?”
“I’m on call tonight but don’t see any harm in having a drink.” He took a Dr Pepper from the fridge, shrugged off his bomber jacket, tossed it over the sawhorse, then straddled the chair opposite me. The shoulder harness he wore came into plain sight.
Just as I raised the can and was about to take a sip the quiet was fractured by a ferocious hissing. I jerked my head in time to see the sleek black head of a very unhappy feline peeking from what I assumed was a bedroom. Casey let out a startled yipe and hurtled into my lap. Soda sloshed out of the can and over my hand.
McBride twisted in his seat and ripped off a length of paper towel from a roll on the table. “Fraidy doesn’t cotton to strange animals invading her space.”
Even from a safe distance, I could see the animal’s emerald green eyes glow with disapproval. Months back, McBride had adopted a part-feral cat with one mangled ear. Or, more correctly, the cat had adopted him. Go figure. “Perhaps your pet needs more socialization,” I suggested, wiping soda from my hand. “With only you as a role model, she doesn’t know how to play well with others.”
“Fraidy and I are well suited. We’re both comfortable in our own skins.”
I stroked Casey’s head before venturing into territory where fools rush in, but angels fear to tread. “Animals aren’t the only ones in need of socialization. Aren’t you ever lonely with no wife, no children, and only a sister with whom you rarely speak?”
“A person can be lonely even in a crowd,” he replied, his eyes on mine. “Are you here in your capacity as therapy person, as Ned called you?”
I laughed at the reminder. “I’d make a terrible ‘therapy’ person. I have a hard enough time living my own life without advising others how to live theirs.”
He smiled, the dimple-showing kind of smile I found so appealing, then turned sober again. “So if it isn’t in your capacity as shrink, why are you here?”
“I’m in a sharing frame of mind, for lack of a better explanation.” I took a small sip of my Diet Coke. “It bothers me that you’re focused on Reba Mae to the exclusion of everyone else.”
“I’m getting a lot of pressure to make an arrest. All my leads point to your friend.”
“Remember my telling you to check the alibis of the cast of Steel Magnolias?” At his nod, I continued, “Well, Reba Mae and I took it upon ourselves to do just that.”
“And…?”
“And,” I said, “everyone except Wanda Needmore has a firm alibi. Quite by happenstance, I learned Bunny Bowtin was home alone—alone except for a bottle of booze and a bubble bath. Denny, her husband, wants her to go into rehab. Even though she’s not in the play, I suspected Vicki Lamont for a while. She even had a motive—jealousy.”
McBride took a swig of his Dr Pepper. “Wouldn’t be the first time jealousy was a motive.”
“Alas”—I sighed dramatically—“Vicki has an alibi.”
He raised a brow. “And that would be?”
“Collagen,” I replied, barely able to contain a smirk. “Dottie Hemmings can attest to the fact that she was with Vicki at the time of the murder. Vicki needed to reapply cold compresses to minimize a reaction she was having.”
McBride studied the fine print on the side of his can of Dr Pepper. Then looked up, skewering me with his laser blues. “In the spirit of fair trade,” he said slowly, “Reba Mae’s car has been located.”
I sat up straighter, nearly spilling Casey off my lap. “Where? When? Any sign of Reba Mae?”
McBride studied me like a frog under a microscope in high-school biology. “Her car was found in the long-term lot at Augusta Regional Airport. If she’d parked at a larger airport, say at Hartsfield in Atlanta, in a long-term lot, it might not have been tracked down until spring.”
I took a big swallow of soda to moisten my mouth, which had suddenly turned to cotton. “That means Reba Mae could be almost anywhere. She’s never been farther than Myrtle Beach for a hai
rdressers’ convention. You think she booked a flight and took off?”
“I’ve had the airlines check their flight manifests, but there’s no one by her name listed.”
“I see,” I murmured, although I really didn’t. I stared through the newly installed French doors to the blackness beyond. If Reba Mae didn’t drive and didn’t fly, where was she?
Fraidy, the cat, crept out of the bedroom, her green eyes fixed on Casey, and rubbed against McBride’s pant leg. Casey watched warily and snuggled even tighter against me. Silence, thick as taffy, was shattered by the ring of my cell phone. I fumbled to find it in my shoulder bag, which I’d placed on the floor next to my chair. A quick glance at the display showed it read CALLER UNKNOWN. I clicked the phone off.
“Wrong number,” I said cheerily. “Those darn telemarketers have been pestering me to death.” Before I could drop the phone back into my purse it rang again.
“Don’t mind me. Answer your phone.” A thread of steel undermined his tone. It wasn’t a request but a challenge. Go ahead; I dare you, it seemed to say.
I affected a casual shrug. “Whatever,” I said, doing my best to mimic a bored teen who needed an attitude adjustment. Assuming an irritated expression, I pretended to listen to the caller. “No,” I said pointedly. “I’m not interested in purchasing a back brace as advertised on QVC—”
Quick as a copperhead McBride reached across the table and snatched the phone from my fingers. “Reba Mae? Time for you to turn yourself in. It’ll go much easier on you if do it voluntarily.” He made no attempt to hide his anger as he returned my phone. “She hung up on me.”
“What did you expect—a confession?”
“I could haul you in for obstructing justice. You told me you didn’t know where she was.”
“I don’t.” I set Casey on the floor and stood. Clearly, I’d overstayed my welcome. I could almost hear my olive branch snap in two. “Reba Mae called once before but refused to tell me where she was hiding.”
“Have it your way.” McBride rose, too, his expression grim. “I’ll have the phone company put a trace on your calls.”
“Trace away.” Picking up my purse, I dropped my phone inside. “Save yourself the trouble, McBride. Reba Mae’s using a burner phone she bought at a gas station.”
“Burner phone?” McBride swore softly.
“Watching TV is Reba Mae’s favorite pastime. She’s big into reruns of The Wire. If you ever watched the show, you’d know it’s the phone of choice for drug dealers.” I started to leave but paused on the threshold. “One last thing, McBride. If I find you lurking outside my shop tonight, don’t expect coffee.”
As I drove away, I didn’t know whether I should be mad at myself or at McBride. In hindsight, I should have followed the gut instinct he’d lectured about and stayed home.
CHAPTER 32
“WHY RUN IF she has nothing to hide?” had become a popular refrain.
Was Reba Mae aware that disappearing hadn’t helped her case? Did she realize people she’d known for years were starting to question her innocence? I’d been shocked to learn her car had been found at the airport in Augusta. And to add to the mystery, McBride said her name hadn’t appeared on any flight manifests. Had she taken a cab, bummed a ride, hitchhiked? Then hopped on a Greyhound or boarded a train?
After tossing and turning Sunday night, I woke up Monday with a dull headache. I downed two Tylenol, saw Lindsey off for school, tended to Casey, then showered and dressed for the day. Downstairs, I unlocked the dead bolt on the front door and opened for business.
Before I dove into decorating my shop for Christmas—which I’d planned to do yesterday but procrastinated—I needed to jump-start my day with caffeine. I’d just poured my second cup of coffee when Madison Winters strolled in.
“Hi, Piper.” She grinned at the assortment of snowmen, Santas, and tin angels scattered willy-nilly across the counter in front of me. “Guess I know what’s on your agenda today.”
“Hi yourself,” I said, taking another sip of liquid oomph. “You seem to be in good spirits. How was your weekend in the mountains?”
“Amazing!” She beamed. “We even went horseback riding one day. In the evening, all the guests would gather around a bonfire for hot chocolate and homemade cookies while we listened to this really cute guy play guitar.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “Can’t miss with cookies and hot chocolate. Add a cute guy with a guitar and you’ve got a winning combination.”
Madison blushed. “Daddy sent me into town to pick up a contract from his lawyer. He asked me to invite you for dinner Friday night. He plans to make his signature dish—spicy chicken curry.”
“I’d love to come,” I said after a momentary pause. Even though Doug and I were taking things slow, it didn’t mean we weren’t still friends. And friends invited friends for dinner all the time. Right? “Thank your father for the invitation. Tell him I’ll bring the wine.”
The door opened then, and Ned Feeney ambled in. “Hey, Miz Piper.” Ned bobbed his head in my direction, then turned to Madison. “Hey, Miz Winters. Who made them ugly scratches on your car door?”
“Scratches?” Madison’s eyes widened and the pretty color drained from her cheeks. “What scratches?”
Ned shrugged, a mere twitch beneath his flannel shirt. “Ask me, it kinda looks like somebody wrote you a note.”
Madison turned and ran toward the little sports car angle-parked at the curb with me nipping at her heels. She skidded to a halt so abruptly, I nearly slammed into her. Her hand flew to her mouth as she stared in horror at the message carved into the passenger door. “Oh no,” she groaned.
I moved closer to inspect the damage. In big, uneven letters, the words “GO HOME” had been etched into the car’s shiny red paint—the second act of vandalism on her Miata. If a person was deliberately trying to scare the girl, they were doing a darn fine job.
“Thought you must’ve known about it.” Ned shoved up the bill of his cap.
I placed my hand on Madison’s shoulder. “I’ll call the police.”
“I’ll call Daddy,” she said in a small voice.
“Business been slow over at the Eternal Rest,” Ned mumbled, shifting his weight. “I came by this mornin’ to see if you had any odd jobs for me, but I can see you’re busy. I’ll come back another time.”
While waiting for Dorinda to answer the phone at the police department, I watched Ned lope down the sidewalk and out of sight. The poor guy obviously wasn’t eager for another encounter with Brandywine Creek’s finest. McBride had scared the bejeebers out of him.
Her call to her father completed, Madison wailed, “Who would do this?”
“I don’t know, sweetie.” I draped my arm over her shoulders.
By the time a squad car appeared five minutes later, a crowd had started to congregate. Pete Barker, swathed in a white butcher’s apron, crossed the town square to find out what was going on. He wagged his head sorrowfully when he saw the scrawled message. “Don’t know what’s come over this town.”
Patti Sue Parker, lean as a greyhound with a perfectly coiffed silver bob, tsked as she came out of Yesteryear Antiques. “Thugs,” she said succinctly, raising her half-moon eyeglasses from a chain around her neck to peer at the etched words. “A perfect example of spare the rod and spoil the child.”
I was happy to see Sergeant Beau Tucker, and not McBride, emerge from the police cruiser. He paused to speak into a radio clipped to his shoulder, then hitched his belt higher and motioned at the Miata. “This yours?” he asked Madison.
Swallowing hard, Madison nodded.
“If I recollect, this isn’t the first time you reported vandalism done to your car.” He stooped to study the damage. “Sure hope you got good insurance, young lady. Your premium’s about to go through the roof. Any idea who might have it in for you?”
“N-no,” Madison stammered. “I don’t have a clue.”
Beau withdrew a notebook and pen from his shirt pocket. �
��Well, someone either has it in for you or hates cars made in Japan. When did you first notice the damage?”
“Ned Feeney brought it to our attention a few minutes ago,” I said in answer to Beau’s question.
Madison wrapped her arms around her midriff to keep from shivering. “My father and I were away for the weekend. The car was locked in his garage the entire time.”
Beau jotted down the information. “Where have you been since you got home?”
“I came into town this morning to pick up some documents for my father at his lawyer’s. Other than that, this is the only place I’ve been.”
CJ’s office? I stared at the mutilated car door. If the Miata had been under lock and key like Madison claimed, it meant the damage was inflicted this morning—in broad daylight.
“Mr. Prescott wasn’t there,” Madison continued, “and neither was Mrs. Needmore, his paralegal, only the receptionist. Mrs. Needmore came in about twenty minutes later and apologized for making me wait. She explained she’d been at the courthouse.”
Snapping his notebook shut, Beau stuffed it back in his pocket. “Don’t suppose you saw anyone suspicious loitering around when you left the office?”
“No, no one,” Madison said, biting her lip to keep from crying. The young woman was clearly distraught and Beau’s brusque manner wasn’t helping matters.
Beau used his cell phone to snap photos of the crude words carved into the passenger door and then swept his gaze over the people who had gathered to gawk and eavesdrop. “Don’t suppose any of you good folks might know who did this?” The only response to his question was blank looks. “Didn’t think so but had to ask. Chief’s a stickler on these things.”
“What next?” I asked.
“Not much to do other than file a report.” Beau turned to me as our audience began to dwindle. “Reba Mae sure is somethin’ else. That gal’s crazy as a betsy bug if she thinks she can hide from the law.”