by Gail Oust
“No, not really,” she confessed.
I slipped my apron over my head and tied the strings. “Worried that the police won’t find out what happened to Shirley?”
“I know a lot of people think she committed suicide, but I’m not convinced. That doesn’t sound like the woman I knew.”
“Well, if her death is officially ruled a homicide, I’m sure whoever is responsible will be found soon and brought to justice.”
Vicki stared at me as though I’d taken leave of my senses, and maybe I had. “You really believe that with Beau Tucker in charge?”
Actually, I didn’t, but hope springs eternal.
Vicki ran a hand over her hair, checking to make sure loose brunette strands hadn’t escaped the clip holding her low ponytail. “Jolene complains that half the time Beau can’t even find the TV remote.”
I grimaced. Jolene’s comment about her husband’s lack of detecting skills didn’t bode well for a quick resolution to a murder case. “Did Shirley’s computer ever turn up?” I wondered aloud.
“No. Strange, isn’t it? I searched all over but couldn’t find it anywhere. Shirley’s computer to her was like a cell phone is to a teenager. I assume she took it home with her after work last Friday.”
I debated whether to inform Vicki that the computer wasn’t spotted during the recent home inspection by yours truly but decided against it.
“Wish I could get my hands on it.” Vicki’s train of thought followed mine. “Shirley’s computer would be a tremendous help. She wasn’t used to sharing her clients’ likes and dislikes. It’s giving me a headache trying to figure out who likes hardwood, who likes carpet, who likes two-story, and who prefers ranch-style. Shirley was compulsive. She cataloged every bitty detail in that darn computer. Then, at the end of every day, she’d back up her files on a flash drive.”
“Do you think whoever jimmied the lock on the door of the real estate office might have stolen it?”
“No,” she scoffed. “There wasn’t any proof to think they gained entrance. Really, Piper, are you playing Nancy Drew, girl detective, again?”
I shrugged. “Just saying, is all.”
“I’m sure the dang thing will turn up, but, in the meantime, I’m going bananas trying to keep her clients satisfied.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help.”
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll manage somehow.” Vicki dug through her monster of a purse and pulled out a handful of business cards. “I nearly forgot the reason for my visit. I’m in the process of increasing my listings. Do you suppose Melly might be interested in putting her house on the market?”
Her question caught me off guard. “I have no idea. Cot loves to travel. He’s been persuading Melly to consider downsizing, perhaps buy a condo that doesn’t require as much upkeep.”
“The reason I’m interested is that I have an out-of-state client who’s interested in purchasing a home within easy walking distance of downtown. Melly’s home is in a perfect location. All the homes in her area are impeccably maintained. Next to the historic district, hers is the most desirable part of town.”
“Melly lived in that house her entire married life to CJ’s father, so selling it will be a hard decision.”
But where my ex mother-in-law was concerned, I’d been surprised before. She’d taken to modern technology like the proverbial duck to water. Computer, smartphone, texting, Facebook, and Twitter, she’d mastered them all. Then the biggest surprise of all—she’d fallen in love and married her old flame.
Vicki arranged her business cards in a neat little stack next to the cash register. “Don’t mean to sound pushy, but I wondered if you had Melly’s house key. Unless you think she’d mind, I’d like to show my client around. Should he make an offer, she’ll have a nice treat when she and Cot return from Italy.”
Mind…? Melly would have a conniption. If bold and brassy were characteristics of a Realtor, Vicki should have a bright future. “I’m sorry, Vicki. You’ll have to wait until she gets home to broach the subject with her. Until then, her house is off-limits.”
Vicki smiled, nonplussed by my refusal. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”
As pleasant as it was chatting with her, I had work to do. And planting herbs was at the top of the day’s to-do list. Bending, I picked up the carton of seedlings that sat on the floor at the end of the counter.
“Oh, Piper,” Vicki gasped, “do be careful when you lift anything heavy. I pulled a muscle, and my back hasn’t been the same since. Matter of fact, I’m seeing my chiropractor for another adjustment this afternoon.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I felt the soil and decided my plants needed watering. “How did it happen?”
“Ned was helping me move some bankers’ boxes into the storage closet at work last Saturday, and I overdid it. Since then, I leave all the heavy lifting to him. I think the man’s sweet on me. He’s more than willing to do anything I ask.”
Heavy lifting? Pulled muscle? If I’d been a bloodhound hot on the trail, my nose would’ve twitched. “Ned is always on the lookout for odd jobs,” I said, trying to convey nonchalance.
“Meanwhile, between my back and my job the two are wreaking havoc on my golf handicap. To make matters worse, my mixed doubles tennis league had to find a substitute for me.”
I clucked my tongue in false sympathy. “It’s a crime the sacrifices workingwomen have to make.”
“Isn’t that the truth?” Vicki agreed. “Gotta dash. Let me know if you need any more of my business cards to pass out.”
As she exited, I noticed a subtle difference in her gait, stiffer, more cautious, than usual, lending credence to her claim of a back injury. A terrible notion had wriggled its way into my head. Could Vicki have injured her back lifting Shirley out of a claw-foot tub? Was Ned Feeney so enamored with Vicki that he assisted with disposing of a body? I mentally added Vicki and Ned to my persons of interest list.
* * *
Business was steady for the remainder of the morning, leaving me no time to plant my herbs. Things had finally quieted by mid-afternoon. I was about to bring out a bag of potting soil when a quartet of women, casually but tastefully dressed, burst into my shop.
“We just had the most marvelous lunch,” the leader of the pack announced. I judged her to be in her sixties. The reading glasses on a chain around her neck made me wonder if she might’ve once been a schoolteacher or librarian.
“Our local paper carried an excellent review of Antonio’s. We drove all the way from Birch Run to check it out firsthand,” said the second woman, a slender, soft-spoken blonde.
“I’m Sharon, by the way,” said a petite brunette. “The minestrone was wonderful.”
“And the veal ravioli amazing,” raved a no-nonsense type with short gray hair.
“What a cute place you have,” said the schoolteacher look-alike. “I’m Joan. These are my friends Sharon, Marie, and Dolores.”
“We overheard one of the waitstaff tell a coworker that Tony, the chef and owner of Antonio’s, refuses to purchase his spices anywhere but here.”
You’ve come a long way, baby. I mentally patted myself on the back. It hadn’t always been that way. Tony Deltorro used to cross the street when he saw me coming. He accused me of being too civic-minded and suspecting him in the murder of a talented but arrogant chef.
The woman, who I assumed was Dolores, plucked a dead leaf from a basil plant. “We’re on the planning committee for a fund-raiser to benefit the Birch Run Humane Society. We’re interested in stocking up on spices to use in various Italian dishes. Lasagna, spaghetti, mostaccioli, stuffed shells, and pizza for the youngsters.”
“Basil, thyme, and oregano are among the most popular,” I told her. Coming out from behind the counter, I led them to a nearby shelf and handed Joan a jar of thyme. “There are many varieties of thyme. Beside Italian dishes, it’s often used in stews and casseroles because it withstands long, slow cooking.”
“I ta
sted a hint of rosemary in the ravioli.” Marie reached for a jar and read the label.
“Rosemary is another spice popular in Italian cuisine, but,” I cautioned, “it has a strong, distinct flavor, so use it judiciously. Like thyme, rosemary’s flavor isn’t diminished by long cooking.”
Sharon busily examined one jar after another. “I always add a bay leaf to my lasagna sauce.”
“So do I.” I nodded my approval. “Bay leaves grow wild on hillsides in Turkey. Did you know they were a favorite in ancient Greece and Rome? Bay is a member of the laurel family and dedicated to Apollo, the god of music and poetry.”
“That’s right.” Joan beamed. “I was a research librarian at a junior college before retiring. I once read that garlands of laurel were given as prizes—hence poet laureate and baccalaureate.”
“Joan knows more trivia than anyone else we know,” Dolores said. “My son-in-law is Hispanic and a great cook. He uses oregano in bean dishes, burritos, and salsa.”
By the time the ladies left, I’d made a tidy profit courtesy of Tony Deltorro. If he ever decided to speak to me again, I’d have to thank him. Now that my shop had quieted once more, I’d try again to plant my herbs. I hauled the rustic-looking planter I bought from Patti Sue Parker at Yesteryear Antiques for next to nothing outside to begin my project.
I had knelt on the sidewalk, humming to myself as I dumped potting soil into the container, when a pair of tan slacks came into view. Shading my eyes with my free hand, I looked up. “Hey, CJ,” I said, then picked up a trowel.
“Hiya, Scooter,” he said, looking inordinately pleased with himself.
His pleasant tone immediately put me on high alert. He was up to something, I could tell. “What brings you here in the middle of the day? If you’re here to see Lindsey, she won’t be out of school for another hour yet.”
“I had to drop off a copy of power of attorney to Zach VanFleet at Creekside Savings and Loan. Thought long as I was nearby I’d say hello.” He rocked back on the heels of his polished loafers. “Say, have you heard from Momma and Cot?”
I added a trowel of dirt to the planter. “No, but I didn’t really expect to hear anything this soon. After all, they are honeymooners.”
He frowned. “Still can’t wrap my head around the notion I’ve got a stepfather.”
“Don’t look so glum.” I chuckled. “I’m sure Cot won’t expect you to call him Daddy.”
“When hell freezes over.”
“Vicki Lamont stopped by this morning.” I leaned back to better see his expression. “She wondered if your mother intended to put her house on the market. She thinks she may have a client who is interested.”
CJ scowled, his mood darkening further. “I’ll buy the damn place myself before I see strangers in the house where I grew up.”
“Gee, CJ, I didn’t know you were sentimental. Maybe you should consider selling that big mausoleum you call a home. Then you and Amber could move into your mother’s place.”
“That’ll be the day. No way I’d get Amber to budge. She likes bein’ close to the country club. Claims it saves money on transportation.” His attention shifted to the partially filled planter and box of herbs as though noticing them for the first time. “What’s with the weeds?”
“They’re not weeds.” I informed him. “I’m planting a container garden and plan to sell fresh as well as dried herbs. They ought to do well out here with all the sunlight.”
“Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. No way you’re litterin’ the sidewalk with a bunch of weeds in ugly-lookin’ pots.”
“Why not?” I could feel my temper rise but struggled to keep it in check. “I hardly think I need to ask your permission.”
“On the contrary, you’re forgettin’ I’m the acting mayor. I don’t want my first official act to be writin’ a citation to my ex-wife for obstructin’ a public thoroughfare. There’s an ordinance in the town’s bylaws against such a thing. It’s considered a safety threat.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said in a choked voice, but knew he wouldn’t hesitate. My lovely plan to grow and sell fresh herbs burst like a soap bubble.
“You know me, Scooter. I’ve never been one to shirk my sworn duty.”
I climbed to my feet, tugged off my gardening gloves, and tossed them aside. He sounded so self-righteous, so darn smug, I wanted to smack him. “Anything else you can do to ruin my day?”
Reaching into an inner pocket of his sports coat, he took out a pair of Ray-Bans and put them on. “Thought you’d might like to be one of first to know that Shirley Randolph’s death is officially being treated as a homicide.”
I shouldn’t have felt surprised, certainly not shocked. Yet I was both. While it was one thing for me to think it, theorize about it, hearing CJ speak the words took Shirley’s death out of the realm of supposition and made it frighteningly real.
“What next?” I asked.
“Beau plans to press hard to make an arrest. His career is on the line. If things go his way, he’s likely to be appointed the next police chief. Everyone in town knows who’s the number one suspect. McBride’s in this up to his eyeballs.”
I brushed potting soil off my slacks. “So far, there’s nothing concrete to link him to Shirley’s murder.”
“Won’t be the first man charged and convicted on circumstantial evidence—won’t be the last.” Smiling, he turned and sauntered down the street.
I stared after him, numb with the realization of the danger McBride faced. The two men had a history dating back to high school. CJ would like nothing better than to see his old nemesis behind bars.
Even if it took circumstantial evidence to accomplish it.
CHAPTER 17
SOUTHERNERS PLACE A lot a stock in a well-attended funeral. Judging from the crowded parking lot, Shirley’s final act would play to a full house.
Reba Mae and I walked up the stone steps of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church and entered the narthex. The first thing that caught my attention was a group of women clustered around an alcove oohing and aahing over an item of some sort.
“Let’s take a gander,” Reba Mae suggested. “Find out what the fuss is all about.”
I started to remind my friend that the service would begin shortly, but she was already making her way across the narthex. I don’t often complain that I’m vertically challenged, but in situations like this my height was a definite disadvantage. Reba Mae, on the one hand, even without the three-and four-inch heels she gravitated toward could easily tower over the heads of many of the women. I, on the other hand, was petite, a mere five foot two. Standing as I was at the back of the group, I had to weave and dodge to catch a glimpse of what the others found so fascinating.
“What is it?” I asked a trifle impatiently.
“It’s a memory board.” Mary Lou Lambert, a frequent customer of Reba Mae’s and infrequent one of mine, informed us. “It’s just the sweetest thing ever. Shirley’s aunt made it and brought it with her all the way from Macon.”
I darted a peek from behind a heavyset woman and caught sight of a young Shirley pictured in a Cinderella costume for Halloween.
Pinky Alexander, an adventurous cook and grandma-to-be, leaned forward giving me another glimpse of Shirley, this time in cap and gown and holding a diploma. “Oh, look,” Pinky cooed. “Here’s one of Shirley with a Realtor of the Month plaque. That woman sure knew how to sell houses.”
Mary Lou shook her head and tsked. “Pity Shirley didn’t live long enough to fix up that old house she just bought. She would’ve made a killing.”
Mary Lou’s comment had a quieting effect. One by one the women murmured excuses about needing to find seats and drifted toward the sanctuary.
“Unless we want folding chairs at the back,” Reba Mae said, “we’d better find us a spot.”
I swept my gaze over the memory board a final time. A photo of Shirley, dressed in an evening gown and looking happier and more relaxed than I’d ever seen her, smiled back at me. With a heavy he
art, I turned to follow my friend.
* * *
The funeral concluded, Reba Mae looped her arm through mine as we headed across the church parking lot toward the parish hall where the luncheon was to be held.
“The Methodist ladies always put on a better spread than the Episcopalians. Just love all them casseroles they bring.”
“Their casseroles ought to come with a warning label. They’re definitely not recommended for those who recently had bypass surgery. The sodium content in the canned soups alone is sky-high.”
“Um, I s’pose, but that chicken lasagna with the pecan toppin’ Pinky Alexander always brings is delish. Makes my mouth water just thinkin’ about it.”
The parish hall was rapidly filling with people. A long table covered in white damask occupied an entire wall. A silver coffee urn sat at one end, a tea service at the other. Two members of St. Mark’s Altar Guild were stationed on either end in high-backed chairs, ready to dispense coffee or tea. Nearby, a buffet table was laden with enough goodies to alleviate hunger in a third-world country.
“Don’t know about you, honeybun, but I’m gonna dive in while there’s still good pickin’s.”
While Reba Mae headed for the food, I used the opportunity to weave in and out of the mourners and unabashedly eavesdrop.
“Can’t believe Wyatt McBride had the gall to show his face at the funeral,” Jolene Tucker said to Gerilee Barker.
“Now, Jolene,” Gerilee replied, “whatever happened to innocent till proven guilty? Can’t be easy for McBride with half the folks treatin’ him like a leper.”
Standing next to Mary Lou, who was talking to Alvertie Hawkins, I pretended to check my cell phone for messages. “Hank and I once saw Shirley and Chief McBride sharin’ a plate of chili cheese fries,” Mary Lou confided. “You and I both know you don’t share cheese fries with just anyone.”
I bit my tongue to keep from reminding Alvertie that Mary Lou was an airhead and not to pay her any mind. Instead, I moved on.