Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  “McBride’s guilty as sin, but the man’s clever enough to cover his tracks,” Trish Hughes, the mother of one of Lindsey’s friends, said to Patti Sue Parker.

  Patti Sue nibbled a cheese straw. “First time I laid eyes on him, I had him pegged as a ladies’ man.”

  Seems popular opinion didn’t weigh heavily in McBride’s favor. Disheartened, I glanced around and zeroed in on Vicki, who was conversing with Zach VanFleet. “Hey, you two,” I said as I joined them. “Lovely service, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed,” Zach answered. “Very tasteful. Shirley would have approved.”

  Vicki smiled sadly. “Poor, poor Shirley. This is all so … so … tragic. She was a dear friend of mine and will be sorely missed.”

  Dear friend? Sorely missed? This from the same lips that had accused Shirley of snatching a hefty commission from Vicki’s hot little hands? The very same person who stopped shy of calling Shirley a money-hungry scumbag. My, oh my. What had prompted the change of heart?

  Vicki wiped an invisible tear from her eye. “I shudder to think what she must have suffered in the last moments of her life.”

  “Everyone is saying Shirley’s death is no longer considered a suicide,” Zach volunteered.

  Vicki nodded. “Jolene told me a report came back from the GBI that since no water was found in her lungs, her death suggests foul play.”

  Leave it to Jolene Tucker to spread the news. She’d love nothing more than to see McBride discredited and her husband hired as chief.

  “Shirley was a dream to work with, the soul of cooperation and integrity. But I’m sure you will be as well,” Zach added hurriedly for Vicki’s benefit. “Now if you ladies will excuse me, I want to grab a bite to eat before returning to the bank.”

  I watched him melt into the crowd around the buffet table, then turned to Vicki. “I have to confess, I’m confused. I was under the impression you were angry with Shirley for stealing a possible commission.”

  “Me? Angry?” Vicki’s eyes widened in feigned innocence. “Shirley was my mentor. I’m indebted to her for helping me start a career. I may have been a little miffed, but…”

  I knew the difference between “a little miffed” and “a lot angry” but decided to let it pass for the time being. “Are the Dixons still interested in purchasing Gray’s Hardware from Mavis?”

  “Not if Elaine has her way,” Vicki retorted. “But in the meantime, I have a potential home buyer—Colin Flynn—who is keeping me busy. As a matter of fact, I’m showing him a house later this afternoon.”

  “Colin Flynn?” I started to search the crowd. “Is he here?”

  “Stop!” Vicki hissed. “Don’t stare! I don’t want him to know we’re talking about him. He’s a very private person. If you’ll excuse me, this would be the perfect time for me to confirm our appointment.”

  Left to my own devices, I decided holding a plate of food would make me look less of a nosey Parker. The line at the buffet table had dwindled, so I helped myself to several finger sandwiches—pimento cheese and deviled ham—then, because the sandwiches looked lonely, added a stuffed egg and a pecan tassie.

  Who would be my next target? I wondered. Preoccupied, I turned and bumped into Matt Wainwright. My stuffed egg skidded across the plate and landed square on his silk necktie like an unsightly carbuncle.

  “Whoa,” he said, steadying me.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled, unable to take my eyes off the yellow gooey mess clinging to navy and gold striped silk. “I’m so, so sorry.” Coming to my senses, I dabbed frantically at the glob of egg with a paper napkin, knowing full well the mayonnaise would leave a greasy stain.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Matt extracted a handkerchief from the pocket of his suit coat and managed to clean off most of the gunk.

  “The least you can do is let me replace your tie.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ve got more neckties than I’ll ever use.”

  “Thanks.” Looking up at him, I flashed him a grateful smile. I liked Matt. I found him nicer and easier going than his wife, Mary Beth. Tall with sandy brown hair and smoky gray eyes, Matt always had a ready smile. Today, however, his smile seemed strained and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “Allergies bothering you?”

  “Yeah. Must be the pollen.” He wadded up his handkerchief, which by now rivaled his greasy necktie in the stain department, then walked away.

  “Hey there, Piper.” Amber Leigh Ames-Prescott aimed a toothy grin at me. “Another murder in our little town. This is all so shockin’. CJ swears once he’s elected mayor he’s goin’ to put an end to the crime spree.”

  I was having trouble wrapping my mind around CJ being elected mayor and the “crime spree” to which Amber alluded.

  She waved a French-manicured hand. “Bein’ mayor is only a steppin’-stone. CJ has higher aspirations. Maybe even be governor someday. He has Daddy’s blessin’, of course.”

  “Of course,” I said, knowing “Daddy’s blessings” would come in the form of financial support.

  “One of CJ’s first duties as mayor will be to recommend Beau Tucker as new chief of police. Wyatt McBride’s qualifications might look impressive on paper, but obviously the man is inept.” Amber pointed at the pecan tassie still on my plate untouched. “You’re not going to eat that thing, are you? Those things are loaded with calories.”

  “Matter of fact…” I popped it into my mouth for the pure satisfaction of watching her expression. “Mmm, yum,” I said, licking my fingers as she stalked off to join Vicki.

  “That’s no way to make friends and influence people.”

  At the sound of McBride’s voice directly behind me, I nearly dropped the plate a second time. “Sheesh!” I huffed out a breath. “Do you make it a habit to sneak up on people?”

  “Blame it on my DNA. I’m part Cherokee.” He bit into a pickled mushroom.

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No, it’s true,” he insisted. “Goes back to my great-grandfather. Cherokees, you know, were indigenous throughout the Southeast. Georgia, Tennessee, and the Carolinas. Scots and Cherokee add up to a winning combination, or so my dad used to say.”

  I didn’t know whether he was telling the truth or pulling my leg. But the revelation went a long way toward explaining the dark hair and chiseled features. “Can’t pass up an opportunity for a free lunch?” I asked, eyeing his plate, which was heaped with Southern delicacies.

  “Nope.” He bit into a triangle of pumpernickel bread topped with a thin slice of smoked salmon. “I wanted to give folks more to gossip about. By the way, who’s the nerdy-type guy with the glasses? He must be new in town.”

  “Colin Flynn.” I didn’t even have to look. I knew immediately who he was talking about. “Shirley was supposed to show him some houses. According to him, they had never met in person.”

  “Seems odd.” The smoke salmon triangle demolished, McBride selected a cracker spread with liver pâté to sample next. “If he didn’t know Shirley, why is he here?”

  I swiped an olive from his plate when I didn’t think he was watching. “Good question. You’re the detective. Why not go over and introduce yourself?”

  “Think I’ll do just that, and”—he grinned and the dimple in his cheek winked at me—“I saw you steal my olive.”

  Time to round up Reba Mae and get back to business. We’d been away long enough. I found her at the dessert table debating between coconut cake and double fudge brownies. “Ready to leave?”

  “Soon as I sample a dessert or two.” She frowned when she saw the two uneaten finger sandwiches still on my plate. “You forget to mention that you’re on a diet to your best friend?”

  I handed my plate off to a member of the kitchen crew who had started cleanup duties. “I almost had a stuffed egg, but it ended up as a decoration on Matt Wainwright’s necktie.”

  “Oops.” After careful deliberation, Reba Mae made her selection. “Can’t never go wrong with
chocolate sheet cake.”

  “Before we leave, let’s take another look at the memory board.” I accepted a cup of coffee from the woman manning an ornate silver pot. “There were so many people standing in front of it, I never saw all the photos.”

  “Fine by me.” Reba Mae took a forkful of cake. “I was talkin’ to Vicki a bit ago and asked her about the banker fellow. I got to thinkin’ since he and Shirley worked together maybe he was the man in her life.”

  “The thought occurred to me, too, even though he looks more like a size Medium than a Large.” I sipped my coffee, hot and rich, just the way I liked it.

  “I got the scoop straight from the horse’s mouth,” Reba Mae said, taking another bite of cake. “Vicki told me the guy was engaged. His fiancée works in Atlanta, and they’re plannin’ a fall weddin’.”

  “He wouldn’t be the first man in a long-distance relationship to have a fling with a beautiful coworker.”

  “Nope, and not the last either.”

  Coffee and cake finished, Reba Mae and I made our way toward the entrance foyer where the memory board sat propped on an easel. It was covered with snapshots showing various highlights of Shirley’s life. Pictures of Shirley and her brother as toddlers, ones of her with braces, as homecoming queen, at high school and college graduations, and as the recipient of various awards. But one photo in particular captured my attention.

  Once again the photo tacked in the lower right-hand corner beckoned to me. It was the picture of Shirley I’d noticed earlier—the glamour shot of her in an evening gown. I stepped closer for a better look and this time observed a detail I had previously overlooked. I stared and kept on staring. I simply couldn’t help myself.

  A man’s arm circled Shirley’s waist. In the obviously cropped photo, only the arm of her companion was visible. French cuffs with chunky gold cuff links peeked from a sleeve of a dark suit coat. If I squinted real hard, I could make out a faint tan line on the man’s hand where a wedding ring should have been. I’d seen those French cuffs, seen those same cuff links, minutes ago when Matt Wainwright wiped stuffed egg from his tie.

  Shirley and Matt? Matt Wainwright—upstanding citizen, model husband—was Shirley’s secret lover? I was flabbergasted! You could have knocked me over with a feather. I’d known Matt for years. He was a family man, devoted to his wife and his children. He and Mary Beth were as perfectly matched as a pair of brass bookends. They often finished each other’s sentences.

  “Hey, honeybun.” Reba Mae studied me, a worried expression on her face. “You look like someone walked over your grave.”

  I gave myself a mental shake. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Good thinkin’,” she said. “I’ve got a cut and color due in ten minutes.”

  We were about to pass the cloakroom when I heard raised voices from behind the partially closed door. I caught my friend’s arm and held a finger to my lips. “Shh.”

  “I saw the photo of you two,” railed a female voice I recognized as belonging to Mary Beth Wainwright.

  “Hush now, Mary Beth. Don’t go jumping to conclusions,” Matt said, trying to placate his angry wife.

  “Don’t you hush me! I know what I saw,” her voice rose. “I had those cuff links made especially for you. They’re one of a kind.”

  An awkward pause followed. Reba Mae and I stayed glued to the floor, leaning forward in our eagerness to hear Matt’s response.

  Through a crack in the door, I saw Mary Beth wave her arm. “Just as I suspected all along. You were having an affair. I dare you, Matt, admit it—if you’re man enough.”

  When Mary Beth’s challenge was met with silence, Reba Mae and I quickly made our escape from the parish hall and ran down the steps.

  “If the robe fits…” I paraphrased a famous line from the O. J. Simpson trial of the century.

  “Yeppers.” Reba Mae nodded. “Matt Wainwright looks a size Large to me.”

  CHAPTER 18

  IMPATIENCE ITCHED LIKE a mosquito bite. I was sorely tempted to lock the door of Spice It Up! and play hooky. I replayed Melly’s lecture in my mind on the pitfalls of being a lackadaisical business owner. I missed her. She was always ready and willing—sometimes a little too willing—to play shopkeeper at a moment’s notice. Where was she when I needed her? In Tuscany, that’s where, and thus far not even so much as a postcard.

  The argument I’d just overheard between Matt and Mary Beth repeated through my head like a broken record until I wanted to scream. I needed to confront Matt. Wanted to hear him admit it was his bathrobe in Shirley’s closet. And, most important, I wanted to ask point-blank, Did you kill her? If he denied it, I’d at least like to know whether or not he had an alibi for the weekend Shirley was murdered. I clearly remembered that he and Mary Beth had been noticeably absent from Melly and Cot’s wedding.

  To occupy my mind, I worked on plans for my one-year anniversary extravaganza. Reba Mae, bless her heart, had been persuaded to demonstrate her grandmother’s recipe for Hungarian goulash. Cake and coffee were always a big draw. And I’d do a giveaway. I got out pen and paper and started jotting down ideas. A giveaway didn’t necessarily have to be expensive. Maybe a nice gift basket with an assortment of spices, one of my bright yellow aprons, a pack of recipe cards, and, for good measure, I’d throw in some cooking gadgets or a cookbook. Soon I’d have to begin advertising the upcoming event. I’d start with a large sign in my window and maybe take out a small ad in The Statesman, our weekly newspaper. Flyers with every purchase might also serve as good reminders.

  Casey woke from his nap and began pacing back and forth, alerting me to Lindsey’s return from school even before I caught my first sight of her.

  “Hey, Mom,” she said, swinging her backpack to the floor. “Anything good to eat?”

  “I thought you were on a rabbit food diet.” I pulled my apron over my head and tossed it to her.

  “I keep forgetting.” She caught the apron one handed. “I’m craving cookies—and chocolate.”

  “If you keep an eye on the shop for an hour, I might be able to find one or two chocolate chip cookies stashed in the freezer.”

  “Deal.” She grinned, stooping to rub Casey’s tummy.

  I grabbed my purse from under the counter and was out the door in a flash. The offices of Prescott and Wainwright, Attorneys, were located on the edge of the historic district not far from Felicity Driscoll’s bed-and-breakfast and Shirley Randolph’s home. Matt had campaigned heavily for the area, insisting it exuded class and success. CJ would have preferred a more contemporary environment, but, in the end, he capitulated. Shirley had brokered the deal.

  As I turned in the drive and parked, I didn’t spot either CJ’s Lexus or Matt’s Bimmer. The only car present was Wanda Needmore’s Honda Accord. That worked for me. Wanda knew the ins and outs, the ups and downs, of Prescott and Wainwright better even than Prescott or Wainwright. Wanda was the firm’s paralegal and had worked for CJ since he started his practice. I’d be willing to wager she knew CJ wanted a divorce from me while I was still blissfully feeding him pot roast.

  I ran up the steps of a wide front porch and shoved open the door and stepped into a marble-tiled reception area. No one manned the secretary/receptionist’s desk, so I went directly down a short hallway to Wanda’s office.

  I knocked once but didn’t wait for an invitation to enter. “Hey, Wanda,” I said cheerfully. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.”

  Wanda glanced up from the file she was reading. She didn’t look pleased to see me, but then she never did. “What could I possibly be doing that’s of any importance?”

  I chose to ignore the sarcasm. Widowed, Wanda wore her gray hair in a no-nonsense style, kept her makeup to a minimum, and preferred skirts over slacks in the workplace. Her surprising concession to prim and proper was dating Dale Simons, a motorcycle rider and owner of the local pawnshop.

  “I looked for you at Shirley’s funeral,” I said. “I saw you at the church but not at th
e reception.”

  “I failed to see the point in staying. I’ve eaten enough stuffed eggs and tomato aspic to last a lifetime.” She applied the stapler to a stack of papers. “How can I help you?”

  I debated whether to pave the way with verbal foreplay or use a more direct approach. Sinking into the chair opposite her desk, I smoothed my black suit skirt, which I hadn’t bothered to change after the funeral. When Wanda picked up a pen and tapped it up and down, I decided to dispense with small talk. “Did you know Shirley well?”

  “No, not really,” she huffed out with a sigh. “No better than most of the firm’s clients.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “Mary Beth mentioned that Matt had drawn up Shirley’s will. Did she use the firm in her real estate dealings as well?”

  “Matt’s what is known in the trade as a ‘dirt’ lawyer. That means he specializes in anything connected to real estate.”

  “Then he and Shirley must’ve met frequently?”

  Wanda frowned. “What are you hinting at?”

  “Nothing.” I gave her a bland smile. “Did she work exclusively with Matt or did she occasionally work with CJ?”

  “CJ handles mostly litigation these days,” Wanda explained.

  “Yes,” I replied. “I’ve seen his billboards along the highway.” Truth be told, I’m always so mesmerized by how white his teeth are in those ads that it’s a wonder I don’t drive off the road.

  “Your ex is gaining quite a reputation as a trip and fall attorney. His cases bring a good share of revenue into the firm. He recently won a hefty settlement from the maker of a popular shower gel for a woman who broke her toe after dropping the bottle on her foot.”

  “Where does he find these people?” I asked, truly amazed by his clientele.

  Wanda put her pen aside and actually smiled. “Oh, they find him. His current caseload is mostly word of mouth. His reputation is spreading like kudzu.”

  I heard the front door open and close. At the babble of male voices filtering down the hallway, I popped up from the chair. Although I’d extracted a couple morsels of information from Wanda, Matt was my target du jour. “Sorry for taking up so much of your time, Wanda,” I said as I sprinted off.