by Gail Oust
“Will do,” I said. “And, Precious, thanks.”
Precious winked. “Us gals got to stick together.”
* * *
Although it was still daylight, the shadows were lengthening. The day might have been waning, but I was still wound up and not ready to call it quits. I turned to my trusty sidekick. “I know I promised you a run, but would you trade the park for a romp in the country?”
Casey didn’t seem to object, so I set my plan in motion. First stop was the Pizza Palace, where I placed an order for a large with pepperoni, mushrooms, and extra cheese. When I returned twenty minutes later driving my VW, the pizza was fresh from the oven. Its spicy aroma made my mouth water. It was all I could do on the short drive not to delve into the box and satisfy my hunger.
Ten minutes later, I drove down McBride’s gravel drive. I questioned the wisdom of my visit. After losing his job this morning, McBride wouldn’t be in a sociable frame of mind. No doubt, company was the last thing he wanted or felt he needed. Too bad, I decided. Hard times like this called for friends. Friends…? Was that what we were? Although I tried to ignore it, an undercurrent of attraction always hummed close to the surface of our encounters. As far as I was concerned, he was the bad boy mothers warned their daughters against. Common sense told me to keep my distance. Common sense and I, however, weren’t best buddies.
The beam of my headlights, which had switched on automatically, illuminated a house with almost as many varieties as my pet. Country Southern, a dash of New England Colonial, with a sprinkle of Greek Revival. A handyman special bought on the cheap.
My headlights glare summoned McBride to his front porch. Dressed in jeans and a faded gray UGA sweatshirt, he assumed a belligerent stance with thumbs hooked in his belt loops.
“C’mon, pal,” I said to Casey. I grabbed the six-pack I’d purchased on the fly at the Gas ’n Go in one hand, the pizza in the other.
McBride’s expression was obscured in shadow. Was he going to ask me to leave? Or invite me inside?
“I’m the new delivery person at the Pizza Palace.” I held up the pizza and six-pack for his inspection. “If you turn me away, I might get fired.”
McBride watched Casey water a shrub near the steps, then shrugged. “Wouldn’t want both of us to get the axe on the same day,” he said, stepping aside for me to enter.
“Thought you might need sustenance after a rough day.” I nodded toward the beer. “Wasn’t sure of the brand, so hope this is okay.”
“I drink most anything that starts with b and ends with r.”
“Good.” I smiled. “I must be psychic.”
There had been a few changes inside his house since my last visit. Hardwood floors had replaced a plywood subfloor. A wall between the kitchen and a small dining room had been removed, creating the illusion of space. I paused on the threshold to admire the kitchen, which had been completely gutted and renovated. It now boasted white Shaker cabinets, gleaming stainless-steel appliances, and quartz countertops. A single three-legged stool stood at the breakfast bar.
“Quite an improvement!” I said. “The place looks great.”
“Thanks for your help selecting the appliances. Still don’t understand why I need a cooktop and an oven.” He took the pizza box from me and made room for it on a drop-leaf table with chipped paint. That done, he pulled out a couple paper plates and ripped off a length of paper towel to use for napkins. “Care for a beer?”
I took a seat in one of the mismatched wooden chairs at the table. “Never acquired a taste for beer. Don’t suppose you have a diet soda?”
He almost smiled. “I might could find one if I look real hard.”
While McBride rummaged in the fridge for a can of soda, I served up the pizza. Casey found a spot under the table and made himself comfortable. “Where’s that unsociable animal of yours?”
“Fraidy must’ve heard your voice and is pretending you’re invisible.” McBride chuckled.
“Figures. Don’t know why that cat has it in for me.” Fraidy, the cat, was a half-feral feline who had adopted McBride, and vice versa. For some strange reason, she had taken an instant dislike to me. I looked around. “Don’t mind my saying so, but furniture might be a nice addition.”
“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement soon as I win the lottery.” He helped himself to a second slice. “Thanks to your ex, I’ve been suspended—without pay.”
My appetite for pizza diminished. “That’s so unfair! I can’t believe anyone with half a brain thinks you had anything to do with Shirley’s death.”
“The council called it ‘conflict of interest.’ Not only did a lot of folks regard us as a couple, but her body turned up on my property—and I was the one who found it. Brig Abernathy and the rest of the council worry how it would look—if and when—word leaks that her death was a homicide.”
I took a swig of soda. “Hopefully in the meantime Beau Tucker and the rest of the department will learn what happened to Shirley and find the person responsible.”
“Ha!” McBride snorted. “I don’t trust Beau Tucker to find his way out of the Rotary Club’s House of Horrors on Halloween, much less solve a homicide. Don’t get me wrong. Beau’s a nice enough guy, but unless he’s passing out speeding tickets he’s out of his element.”
“So, what are you going to do?”
“Nothing much I can do.”
“I beg to differ, McBride. That’s where you’re wrong.” My appetite had returned as quickly as it had disappeared, and I finished off my slice of pizza. “How about a little old-fashioned sharing of information?”
He regarded me suspiciously. “All right,” he agreed. “You go first.”
“Precious accidental-like dropped some reports off her desk, and asked if I’d mind picking them up.”
“And you ‘accidental-like’ happened to read them on the way back to her desk?”
I nodded. “According to Moyer’s report, Shirley’s car had been wiped clean of fingerprints. While I’m not a hotshot detective, that doesn’t sound like something a person bent on committing suicide would do.”
“Have to admit that would be a first in my book.” McBride took a long pull of Miller Lite. “Now my turn. Here’s another thing the medical examiner found odd: Shirley had what appeared to be a fresh burn mark on the palm of her right hand.”
“There’s a lot to be said for teamwork, McBride. As my father always says, two heads are better than one. A lot of truth behind most clichés.” I leaned back in my chair. “By the way, McBride, you do have an alibi for the weekend Shirley died, don’t you?”
“Sure do.” He gave me a humorless smile. “The worst alibi in the books—home alone.”
CHAPTER 12
I AWOKE THE next morning full of purpose and brimming with energy. Unfortunately, not all my days began that way, but I was determined to make hay while the sun shined—another of my father’s favorite clichés. Hearing him say that time after time, one could get the impression he’d spent his life on a farm instead of working on an assembly line in an automobile plant.
Lindsey had already left for school, eager to describe her fabulous and amazing shoes to her circle of friends in minute detail. Personally, the shoes were a little outlandish for my taste. The heels were so high they practically guaranteed a broken ankle. I couldn’t imagine walking in them, much less dancing, but Lindsey had no such qualms. Ah—I sighed—to be young and carefree again.
I knew Mavis Gray opened the hardware store earlier than I opened Spice It Up! Seems the clamor for nuts and bolts began shortly after dawn. I decided to take advantage of the situation to pay her a visit. This was an ideal time to purchase herbs for the container garden I planned. As I walked the short distance to her store, I entertained the idea of buying her entire shipment. This way, I’d literally corner the market.
Mavis was behind the counter when I entered. “Good morning, Mavis,” I greeted her cheerily.
She nodded but didn’t return the smile. “Shou
ldn’t you be tending to your own business instead of visiting mine?”
“I hope this isn’t the way you treat all your customers, Mavis,” I said.
Her unwelcoming expression rearranged itself into less harsh lines. “Sorry, Piper,” she apologized. “Didn’t mean to sound snippity. I’m just under a lot of pressure these days wondering whether the Dixons are going to make an offer on this place or not.”
“That’s okay. I understand how difficult this must be for you.”
Mavis’s thin mouth twisted in a tired smile. “Not a lot of folks wanting to buy a small family-run business in an out-of-the-way town. Especially not when people can get what they need—and probably cheaper—at that new Lowe’s out by the interstate.”
“Not many places, Mavis, where a person can still buy a half-dozen threepenny nails or a single seven-eight-inch bolt. Don’t forget each and every one of your customers gets individual attention. They’re not at the mercy of some part-time college student who thinks a washer is the same as a washing machine. Besides, your store saves people the trouble and expense of a twenty-mile drive.”
“Thanks, Piper. I’ve been feeling discouraged what with Shirley dead and not knowing what the Dixons are thinking.”
I selected a peat pot from a carton of seedlings near an ad for pesticides. “Mmm, cilantro, also called coriander,” I said, sniffing a plant with frilly green leaves. “Vicki is inexperienced, but I’m sure she’ll do everything in her power to facilitate a sale. She must see dollar signs thinking of the commission it will bring.”
“I suppose you’re right, but when it comes to real estate, Vicki Lamont is as green as grass. Shirley, on the other hand, wouldn’t let a big fish like Kirby Dixon wriggle off the hook. That woman was gifted with the power of persuasion.”
“That seems to be the general consensus.” I added marjoram to the cilantro. I’d encourage customers to substitute it for oregano for a less earthy flavor.
Mavis eyed her dwindling selection of herbs with satisfaction. “If it weren’t for his wife, I think Kirby Dixon would’ve had the purchase agreement drawn up already. But, no, Elaine keeps putting up roadblocks.”
“What kind of roadblocks?” I inhaled a deep breath of fragrant basil. I decided to set a plant or two aside for my kitchen windowsill. Don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner. Basil was easy to grow, a good return on a modest investment.
“If not for Elaine Dixon’s constant harping, Kirby would already be on board. His wife doesn’t give him a moment’s peace.”
“Elaine does seem to have strong opinions on the subject.”
Mavis folded her arms over her chest, eyes narrowed. “The woman will never be happy in a small town. She’s used to big-city ways. My guess is she married Kirby for his money, thinking he’d be easily manipulated.”
“Hmm…” Chives, mint, oregano, parsley. At this rate, I’d need a garden plot instead of a clay pot. “What do you know about the couple?”
“Not a whole lot,” she admitted. “Only thing I’m interested in is them buying me out so I can go live with my sister.”
I handed over my Visa. What else do I need for my pet project?
“Is that all?” Mavis asked.
I inventoried the dozen or more plants I’d selected. I’d gone and done it—bought Mavis’s entire stock of herbs, many of which were hardly more than seedlings. “As long as I’m at it, I need a watering can, fertilizer, and a bag of potting soil.” For good measure, I added a pair of gardening gloves with bright yellow sunflowers.
I waited as Mavis totaled my sales and ran my credit card. “No way you can carry all this,” Mavis said as I signed the receipt. “Tell you what; Ned is coming by later to help with some cleaning. I’ll ask him to make a delivery.”
“Perfect,” I said, “I might’ve gotten a little carried away.”
“Sorry I vented my frustration on you.” Mavis walked with me to the door. “On the bright side, however, that nice young fellow from the bank, Zach VanFleet, assured me he’d help any way he could to make sure the sale goes smoothly on his end. He knows how eager I am to move on.”
I left Gray’s Hardware with a bounce in my step. I may not have solved Shirley’s murder, but planting an herb garden was better than sitting idle and wringing my hands.
* * *
Reba Mae arched a brow. “Home alone’s the best alibi Wyatt could come up with?”
“That’s what he told me.” My BFF had had a late-in-the-day cancellation and chose to spend the time hanging out with me. It was near closing and the last of my customers had left. We were sipping tea—sweet for my friend, unsweet for me—and enjoying some girl talk. Lindsey had taken Casey for a run in the park, so Reba Mae and I had the place to ourselves.
“As alibis go, honeybun, home alone is pretty lame. Take it from someone who knows.”
I held up my hands in mock surrender. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
“Did Wyatt say what he’s gonna do if he’s not reinstated? Think he’ll move?”
I took a sip of tea. “We didn’t get into that. Finding a new job won’t be easy once it’s public knowledge why he was suspended. If he’s under suspicion for murder, no police force in the country will hire him.”
“That stinks. Granted, my friendship with Wyatt may have hit a few bumps in the road, but I’d bet my last box of rollers he’s as honorable as the day is long.”
I wholeheartedly agreed but worried all the same. Presumed innocent until proven guilty is all well and good. But in some instances innocent people are found guilty in the court of public opinion. I hoped that didn’t happen in McBride’s case.
I was about to voice my concerns aloud to Reba Mae when Ned Feeney shouldered his way through the door. “Hey, Miz Piper. Where do you want me to set all this?”
I hastily cleared a space on the counter for the tray of herbs.
“More stuff back at the store,” Ned said, shoving up the bill of his cap. “I’ll run right down and fetch it. Be back in a jiff.”
“Don’t tell me; let me guess,” Reba Mae drawled as Ned hurried out. “You always secretly yearned to be a farmer?”
“Something like that. I plan to start a container garden out front where the plants will get plenty of sunlight. I think I got a little carried away.”
“Gee.” Reba Mae laughed. “You think?”
Ned returned, this time lugging a large cardboard box loaded with potting soil and other miscellaneous products I’d found impossible to resist. He dropped it on the floor at the end of the counter and brushed off his hands. “That oughta do it.”
“Thanks, Ned. Can I offer you a nice, cold glass of sweet tea?”
“Never refuse sweet tea. A fellow sure works up a thirst haulin’ around boxes and bags for folks.”
“Haven’t seen you around much, Ned,” Reba Mae said.
I went to the fridge at the rear and returned with iced tea, which he gulped down. “What have you been up to these days?”
“Mr. Strickland over at the Eternal Rest been keepin’ me pretty busy. Mostly drivin’ to and from Atlanta. Think I could find my way blindfolded to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation. Matter of fact, just brought Miz Randolph back to Brandywine Creek for burial.”
Reba Mae and I exchanged looks. “Did Mr. Strickland give any indication of when her funeral might be?” I asked
“Yes, ma’am.” Ned bobbed his head. “Friday.”
“Friday…?” I echoed. “Like the day after tomorrow Friday?”
“Isn’t that a little soon?” Reba Mae asked.
“Accordin’ to Mr. Strickland, her brother’s goin’ away—Seattle or Samoa or somewhere that starts with an S—and wants to have this over before he leaves. Except for an elderly aunt and uncle, the brother’s the only family.” Ned stared into his empty glass. “Speakin’ of, I need a favor,” he mumbled.
I wasn’t sure I’d heard correctly. “Excuse me?”
“I need a favor from you ladies,” he said, look
ing at us sheepishly.
“What kind of favor you talkin’ ’bout, Ned?” Reba Mae probed.
“Mr. Strickland instructed me to go to Miz Randolph’s house and pick an outfit for a private viewin’. Wants her to look nice for relatives. He told me Southern women always want to look their best—even if they’re dead. Trouble is, I don’t know the first thing about women stuff. I was wonderin’ if you’d help.”
“Isn’t that usually a task for the family?”
“That’s what I think, but…”
“… but?”
“Mr. Strickland told me to stop being a wuss and just do it. Said her brother is drivin’ in Friday mornin’ and wants one last look at his sister before the casket is sealed. It ain’t fittin’ for me to go through her closet.” Ned nervously tugged an earlobe. “That’s where I thought you nice ladies might help me out.”
I pretended to ponder the matter even though I barely restrained myself from giving Ned a big hug. The man had handed us an invitation on a silver platter to check the home of a murder victim. I didn’t want to snoop; I wanted to investigate. Look for clues the police might have missed. I felt a rush of anticipation at the prospect.
The uncertainty on Reba Mae’s face signaled she didn’t share my love of adventure. “I’d like to help, Ned,” she said, “but I promised my boys an old-fashioned home-cooked meal tonight.”
Ned looked crestfallen at her refusal.
“Don’t mind her, Ned. We’d be happy to find clothes suitable for Shirley’s viewing. No reason why it can’t be done after dinner, is there, Reba Mae?”
“Guess not,” she said reluctantly.
“Great!” Ned beamed with obvious relief. “I knew you ladies wouldn’t let me down. Be sure it’s real pretty. Miz Randolph was classy-like, and I’m color-blind. If I picked the wrong outfit, I fear her ghost would come back to haunt me.”
“Ghost…?” Reba Mae shuddered.
“Happy to help a friend,” I said.
Ned dug out a key for Shirley’s house, handed it to me, then made his exit before Reba Mae and I could change our minds.