Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  “I’m certain the right buyer will come along one of these days and fall in love with this charming little town.” Kirby glanced at his Rolex. “We’d better finish packing, dear, before Felicity charges us for another day.”

  The Dixons left behind a subdued group, each of us lost in our own gloomy thoughts.

  CHAPTER 29

  I SLID INTO a booth at North of the Border across from Reba Mae, who had margaritas waiting along with the ubiquitous salsa and chips. The lively mariachi music flowing through the speakers grated on my nerves. A dirge would have better suited my mood. Maybe doom and gloom were by-products of last night’s accident. Or perhaps, seeing as how the Dixons had alibis, I was experiencing an acute case of lack-of-murder-suspects-itis. Above all, I was terrified that Beau Tucker had McBride lined up in his sights and an arrest was imminent. I cared for McBride much more than I was ready—or willing—to admit.

  “Hey, hon.” Reba Mae shoved a margarita closer. “What’s with the long face? You look like your puppy dog just died.”

  I mustered a smile. “You’re a bad influence on me, Reba Mae Johnson. I had every intention of staying home and making this an early night.”

  Reba Mae raised her glass and clinked it against mine. “Time to celebrate, honeybun.”

  I took a cautious sip, savoring the drink’s sweet-tart taste. “Celebrate what? The fact that I have no willpower whatsoever when it comes to Mexican food and drinks laced with tequila?”

  “We’re celebratin’ you bein’ all in one piece, that’s what.” She dunked a chip in the salsa and took a bite. “Caleb said you have the makin’s of an Indy car driver.”

  I shuddered remembering my wild ride the previous night. Disney could add it to their repertoire at one of their theme parks—oh, right, Disneyland already had Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. “I thanked my lucky stars. It could have been worse.”

  Nacho, owner and our favorite waiter, arrived at our table, pad in hand, then disappeared with our orders.

  “Betcha Wyatt had steam comin’ out of his ears when he heard about the accident.”

  “You might say that.” I swirled a chip through salsa rich in cilantro. “He doesn’t want me asking any more questions. He says it’s too dangerous.”

  “Probably good advice.” Reba Mae nodded, setting the gold hoops in her ears swaying. “Did you see who might’ve been behind the wheel?”

  “Don’t have a clue.”

  I watched a young family of four seated several booths away. While the mom tended to an infant in a baby carrier, a curly-haired toddler climbed out of a booster seat and snagged a red and yellow sombrero off the wall. The tyke peeked out from beneath the brim of the giant hat, looking quite pleased with himself. The child’s mother, not amused, announced, “Time to go.”

  Our meals arrived just then—a beef burrito for Reba Mae, a chicken chimichanga for me. Lindsey was at softball practice and, afterwards, she and her teammates were going out for burgers. My bestie’s dinner invitation had spared me a solitary meal with a tuna sandwich for a companion.

  Reba Mae tucked into her burrito. “So,” she said, “you believe the Dixons’ story about buyin’ a condo on Hilton Head? Sure hope they get hurricane insurance. Take me, on the other hand, I prefer livin’ on an evacuation route rather than being the evacuee.”

  I sliced off a small portion of my chimi. “Elaine and Kirby were already considering Hilton Head. If the condo they were interested in hadn’t become available, Kirby might very well have decided to settle in Brandywine Creek instead.”

  “Since the Dixons and the Wainwrights have alibis, where does that leave us?”

  “It leaves our suspect pool in the midst of a drought, that’s where.”

  We ate for a while in silence—a highly unusual feat where the two of us were concerned.

  My mind kept revisiting the flash drive I’d discovered in the toe of a shoe and the battered MacBook the two boys had found in a farmer’s field. The two were related, but, for the life of me, I didn’t quite know how. Vicki hadn’t seemed overly interested when I mentioned the laptop. Come to think of it, Zach VanFleet and Colin Flynn had shown more of a reaction.

  Reba Mae scooped up a forkful of refried beans. “Think Shirley’s death might have been job related?”

  Like many longtime friends, our thoughts often traveled parallel paths. “That’s exactly what I’ve been wondering. When it comes to detective work, we’re amateurs, not professionals. Even McBride thinks we’ve been going about this all wrong.” I lowered my voice. “Reba Mae, you’ve lived in or around here all your life. Who owns Creekside Realty?”

  Reba Mae’s brows drew together in a frown. “Don’t know. Never gave it much thought. I always assumed it was part of a corporation. A company with a string of offices in small towns across central Georgia.”

  Finished with my meal, I pushed my plate aside. “I’ve never given it a lot of thought either, but Shirley had to be accountable to someone. But who?”

  “I can ask around.” Reba Mae polished off the last of her burrito, then wiped her hands on a paper napkin. “Uncle Joe might know. After all, he was Brandywine Creek’s chief of police for more ’n two decades before retirin’. He and Aunt Ida are probably at Tuesday night Bible study over at First Baptist, but I’ll call ’im first thing in the mornin’.”

  Afterwards, our conversation drifted to more mundane subjects such as Reba Mae’s upcoming cooking demo. Talking goulash and debating the merits of various paprikas acted as a welcome return to normal and an escape from harsh reality. True to the promise to myself, when I returned home I took a long, hot bubble bath and fell asleep the instant I heard Lindsey’s key in the lock.

  * * *

  Reba Mae phoned early the next morning. “You sittin’ down, sugar? You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you.”

  I sank down on a corner of my bed. “Shoot.”

  “Brig Abernathy, the ol’ buzzard, owns Creekside Realty—as well as a half-dozen other real estate agencies sprinkled over the South. Even though Brig’s older than dirt, he likes to keep his finger in every pie. Specially if it’s a moneymakin’ pie.”

  “Should’ve known,” I said with a sigh. “Don’t know why you’re so surprised. So, Shirley had to report to Brig, keep him in the loop about the listings and closings.”

  “Guess so. Brig’s slowin’ down some, so Uncle Joe thinks Brig trusted Shirley to run the show while he watched from the sidelines. Gotta go,” she said. “My first client just walked through the door.”

  I sat for a time mulling over what Reba Mae had told me. It made perfect sense Brig Abernathy was the proprietor of Creekside Reality—along with half the buildings along Main Street. The man dabbled in acquiring businesses the way many gamblers bet on the ponies—always hoping for a long shot to deliver.

  First chance I had, I’d pay Brig a visit. The sooner the better. I’d ask Lindsey to take over the shop the minute she dropped her backpack, I thought, then remembered she was spending the night at her father’s. Apparently CJ had just purchased a foosball table and invited some of Lindsey’s friends over for some good-natured competition. I’d have to default to Plan B. Only problem was, I didn’t have one.

  Ruby Phillips and Joanie, her best friend from high school who was visiting on her way home from Florida, spent nearly an hour in Spice It Up! Ruby’s friend turned out to be a foodie with a penchant for down-home cooking Southern-style. After listening to my spiel on the benefits of using fresh spices to brighten family favorites, Joanie confided some of her spices dated back to the Beatles and purchased a large selection of replacements. Before they took their leave, however, my favorite bearded biker dropped in.

  “Howdy, ladies.” Hoyt held out a brown bag he carried. “Boiled peanuts. Help yourself. Bought them from a fella in the vacant lot next to the Gas ’n Go.”

  Ruby’s friend eyed them with suspicion. “Er, no thanks.”

  “What, no takers?” Hoyt looked crestfallen.

&nbs
p; “Sorry, I never acquired the taste.” I smiled to buffer my refusal. “I prefer my peanuts dry roasted and lightly salted, not green or raw that have been boiled to death.”

  He dug into the sack and pulled out a handful. “You ladies don’t know what you’re missing. Boiled peanuts are a favorite snack food here in the South.”

  The two women said hurried good-byes and left.

  “Last chance, darlin’.” Hoyt offered the peanuts to me a final time. “These things are downright addicting. Of course, they go better with a nice, cold beer, but thought I’d get a head start.”

  “Hoyt…?” I gave him a speculative look. “I wonder if you’d mind the shop for a bit while I run an errand.”

  “Be happy to,” he said with a broad grin. “You can give me a jar of your apple pie spice as payment.”

  “Deal.” Before Hoyt could crack another peanut I’d whipped off my apron, snatched my purse, and was out the door.

  * * *

  Brig Abernathy lived in a stately antebellum home in the historic district not far from Felicity Driscoll’s bed-and-breakfast where Melly and Cot had been married. Although the sky was overcast with the possibility of showers later that evening, the ride was a pleasant one. Bright yellow daffodils and perky red tulips sprouted from flower beds in carefully maintained lawns.

  I turned into a circular drive that once upon a time had been used by carriages and gentlemen on horseback. A gigantic magnolia tree, probably as old as the house itself, occupied pride of place in the side yard. In another month, its dinner plate–size blooms would be showstoppers. Brig’s home could have been the set for Tara in Gone with the Wind. The stately white two-story house was complete with black shutters, Doric columns, and wide porch. It was meticulously maintained and practically reeked of old money.

  It wasn’t until I let the heavy brass knocker fall that I began doubting my impulse to visit. Nervously I smoothed my hair and wished I’d taken the time to freshen my lipstick—or at least peek into a mirror. What was I doing here? I asked myself. What did I hope to gain from talking to a shrewd old man who could trace his ancestors back to the Mayflower? Then the answer crystallized, as clear and bright as a ray of spring sunshine. Brig Abernathy was possibly my connection, my link, to unearthing a killer.

  The door was opened by a slender black man of indeterminate age with snowy white hair and coal black eyes. “May I help you?”

  I plastered on my friendliest smile, hoping I wouldn’t be mistaken for an Avon Lady. “I’m here to see Mr. Abernathy.”

  “Is Mr. Abernathy expecting you?” he asked, unimpressed by my friendly-stranger act.

  “No, he isn’t, but I promise not to take up much of his time.”

  “If you give me your name, I’ll see if Mr. Abernathy is receiving guests.”

  “I’m Piper Prescott. I own the spice shop on Main Street.” When that failed to elicit a flicker of recognition I hurried on, “He doesn’t know me, but tell him I was once married to Attorney CJ Prescott and I’m friends with his mother, Melly Prescott-Herman.”

  “Wait here.” He closed the door in my face. Though it couldn’t be characterized as a slam, it was definitely a close relative.

  I mentally reviewed a litany of questions while I cooled my heels. Who, what, when, where, and why. I intended to pick Brig Abernathy’s brain cleaner than a turkey buzzard on roadkill.

  “Follow me,” the manservant said upon his return, then stepped aside to allow me entry into the hallowed halls. “Mr. Brig will see you in the library.”

  He led me down a broad central hallway, past two rooms that had probably served as a formal parlor and less formal one for the family’s use to a library at the rear. As I passed, I got the impression of dark, stuffy rooms with high ceilings and old-fashioned furniture. The library was a bit cheerier with lots of natural light spilling across the honey-hued heart pine floors. A walker rested against a window frame. Glass-fronted mahogany bookshelves were weighted with volumes both incredibly old and remarkably new. The glaring concession to the twenty-first century was a two-foot-wide computer monitor resting on a massive antique desk.

  “My great-great-grandfather oversaw his varied business ventures behind this same desk. I like to think he’d be proud I carried on the tradition.” Brig Abernathy peered at me over wire-rimmed spectacles. A bulky-knit cardigan hung loosely on his skeletal frame. Though his body might be frail, his faded blue eyes were eagle sharp. “To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit?”

  Did I imagine it, or did he put subtle emphasis on “unexpected”? “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

  “Short notice?” he snorted. “No notice at all if you ask me. You young people think it’s perfectly acceptable to barge right in. Well, what’s so all-fired important?”

  I didn’t know whether to be flattered at being considered young or insulted at being reprimanded for my poor manners. I’d ponder that later; right now I had an interrogation to conduct. “I hoped you’d answer a few questions for me.”

  He pointed a gnarled finger to the grandfather clock in one corner. “Tempus fugit, young lady.”

  My Latin was a bit rusty, but I think he was telling me to hurry. I glanced at the wingback chair in front of his desk but didn’t get an invitation to sit, so remained standing. “It’s my understanding you own Creekside Realty.”

  “That a question or a statement?” he growled. “Why do you ask? Are you interested in buying it?”

  “Are you interested in selling?”

  “Time’s come for me to downsize my holdings. Thought I had a buyer, but she … died.”

  “Shirley Randolph wanted to buy your real estate agency?”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?” Brig snarled. “Are you dim-witted?”

  “Um, no, not usually.” Fidgety, I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “Mind if I sit?”

  His thin lips turned downward. “Go ahead, sit if you must, but don’t take that as permission to linger.”

  All righty then. “I’m investigating Shirley’s murder. Do you know if she made any enemies in the real estate business?”

  “My dear girl, every businessperson, man or woman, makes enemies. You’ll find this out for yourself if your little store stays around long enough.”

  I tucked this advice away for future reference. “Let me rephrase, do you know of anyone who wanted her dead?”

  He studied me over steepled hands liberally dotted with liver spots. “No, most folks liked Shirley. She worked hard. Her goal was to save up and buy me out. That’s why she put a halt to those extravagant renovations on that house of hers.”

  I nodded. That explained why she postponed remodeling her master bath—including bringing the electrical up to code. “Shirley had expensive tastes. Car, clothes, house. Do you think her real estate commissions were her only source of income?”

  “Truth is, I often wondered that myself. Some things weren’t adding up.”

  “Did you trust her?”

  “Yes and no,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I was considering hiring the services of a forensics accountant to go over the books. Unfortunately, Shirley died before I got around to it. If you’re curious about Shirley’s real estate dealings, Mrs. Prescott, my advice is follow the money.”

  Follow the money? That’s precisely what I intended to do.

  CHAPTER 30

  I THANKED BRIG Abernathy for his time and fled. Back in my loaner, I phoned Hoyt and asked—make that begged; I’d grovel if necessary—him to continue his duties as my sales clerk. Hoyt assured me he has having a fine time chatting up customers and ringing up sales. He even suggested the idea for a monthly recipe exchange. He explained that his brainchild would encourage women to brag about their favorites and tempt others to experiment with the tried and true recipes of friends and neighbors. And, in the process, they’d stock up on spices not currently residing on their pantry shelves. I concluded our call knowing Spice It Up! was in capable
hands.

  During our final dinner together, Doug Winters had confided the amount he’d received for the sale of his veterinary practice. Since Shirley was the Realtor of record who had handled all the negotiations and paperwork, I was curious to see if the amount on the deed corresponded with the figure Doug had mentioned. He hadn’t been thrilled with the final offer, but, not knowing when a better one might come along, he’d accepted it.

  * * *

  My next stop was the Brandywine County Courthouse situated at the far end of the town square. Mayor Hemmings always liked to boast that the courthouse bricks had been made from the Georgia red clay the building stood on. I parked next to a battered pickup with a rusted bumper and faded red paint. Most county offices, I knew, were open nine to five, which gave me plenty of time to check on a recent deed.

  I ran up the concrete steps at the rear entrance. Once inside, I stood for a moment to let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit interior. The heavy smell of floor wax competed with an underlying stale odor that older buildings sometimes acquired. I spotted a directory tacked to a wall with the offices listed. Recorder of Deeds seemed to be my preordained destination. When I asked a man in bib overall for directions, he aimed his thumb over his shoulder.

  The floorboards creaked beneath my feet as I walked past a series of offices with impressive titles neatly stenciled on frosted-glass doors. COUNTY TAX ASSESSOR. AUDITOR. PLANNING AND ZONING COMMISSION. ECONOMIC DEVELOPMENT. Finally, I arrived at the Recorder of Deeds. Taking a deep breath, I shoved open the door.

  The office was small, cramped, but maybe it only appeared that way because of the mountain of paperwork. Ledgers on utility shelves were piled nearly to the ceiling. Behind a counter, a harried-looking black woman manned a desk with an ancient computer. The desk’s surface was nearly buried beneath manila folders and colorful binders. On a stand next to a printer/copier, stackable letter trays brimmed with papers yet to be filed.

  The woman looked up from a computer screen when she heard me clear my throat. “Yes, can I help you?”