by Gail Oust
Tall, lanky, and with a prominent Adam’s apple, Thompson never failed to remind me of Anthony Perkins, the actor who played Norman Bates in Psycho, my all-time-favorite scary movie. Like the character in the movie, Thompson lived with his widowed mother and ran the family business. Thankfully, hardware—not motels. Also unlike the movie, Thompson’s mother was alive and well.
“Glad I caught you.” He ran a hand over thinning mouse-brown hair. “Mother’s making apple cobbler for dessert. She told me not to come home unless I brought some of your special cinnamon with me. Ever since trying it, she refuses to use anything else. Claims even everyday recipes taste better with spices from your store.”
“Well, that’s music to my ears.”
Casey glanced up, but seeing it wasn’t one of his favorite patrons, put his head on his paws and regarded us through heavy-lidded eyes.
Mrs. Gray, I knew, favored the Vietnamese variety for its rich, sweet flavor. Her cinnamon rolls were a surefire hit at every bake sale. “This one’s on me,” I told him when he started to go for his wallet. “I wish everyone would follow your mother’s example instead of using spices that have stood on a pantry shelf for years.”
“Thanks, Piper. That’s mighty nice of you.” Taking the sack I handed him, he sniffed the air. “It sure smells good in here. A little bit like being inside a bakery.”
I glanced at my watch, hoping he’d take the hint. No such luck.
“Your mother-in-law dropped by earlier. She was with Reba Mae.”
“Melly’s my ex-mother-in-law, seeing as how CJ and I are divorced,” I reminded him.
“Right, right,” he said. “Melly said she’s making a grand announcement at computer club tonight. Refused to give me any details. I don’t suppose you’d like to give me a heads-up what’s so all-fired important?”
“Sorry, Thompson, I promised Melly. Mum’s the word.”
“Guess I’ll just have to wait along with the rest of the members.” He gave me a halfhearted wave as he left.
“Guess so,” I muttered, locking the door behind him. I wouldn’t spoil Melly’s time in the limelight for all the spice in Grenada.
CHAPTER 4
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, customers drifted in and out. Everyone was talking about the Oktoberfest bash Sandy Granger and her husband, Craig, were throwing. A pair of Brandywine Creek movers and shakers, the Grangers loved big splashy affairs—Mardi Gras parties, Fourth of July celebrations, and pig roasts on the final day of the Masters Golf Tournament. This year, in a nod to their busy travel schedule, they planned to host an Oktoberfest that promised to be an all-out, no-holds-barred event. Sandy, an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with a stylish chin-length bob, had told Reba Mae that after the party, she intended to give her undivided attention to her directorial debut in Steel Magnolias.
It seemed most of the town had been invited, but thus far, I hadn’t received an invitation. I suspected Sandy was still miffed by a comment I’d once made. No sooner had the couple returned from their condo in Grand Cayman than Sandy told me about a trip around the world they were about to embark upon. “Don’t you two ever stay home?” I’d blurted, part admiration, part envy. I hadn’t meant that as an insult. Maybe my lack of an invite was payback time.
Oktoberfest guests were asked to bring a German dish of some sort. Foods like sauerkraut, goulash, schnitzel, and strudel were hot topics among my clientele. Dottie Hemmings, the mayor’s wife, quizzed me about German desserts. Gerilee Barker asked my advice on German potato salad. “Add a teaspoon of celery seed,” I’d told her, “but not too much. It has a strong flavor.”
Finally, a lull. I’d just been about to unwrap a tuna sandwich I’d made for lunch when Melly waltzed in. From her freshly washed and styled hair, I could tell that Reba Mae had squeezed her in for an appointment. She was accompanied by two men I’d never seen before, but I had no doubt as to their identities. They were the pair destined to make Melly wealthy.
“Piper, dear,” she cooed, her voice dripping honey. Apparently, with little or no effort on my part, she’d forgiven my past transgressions as a daughter-in-law. Seems it no longer mattered I’d once held the dubious honor of having the highest handicap on the women’s golf league. Or that my finesse at bridge had been nonexistent.
I shoved my sandwich back into the wrapper and stashed it under the counter, out of sight. “Melly, how nice of you to stop by.”
“These are the gentlemen I was telling you about yesterday—the brains behind Trustychipdesign.com. Allow me introduce Mr. Russell Tulley and Mr. Charles Balboa.”
The taller of the two stuck out his hand. “No need for formalities. Call me Rusty.”
The second man popped the remainder of a Snickers bar into his mouth, wiped sticky fingers on a pant leg, then offered his hand. “Not even my mother, God rest her soul, called me Charles. I’m Chip,” he said around a mouthful of chocolate, nougat, and caramel.
“Nice to meet you both,” I said, intrigued by the disparity between the partners.
They couldn’t have been more different if they’d tried. Rusty Tulley was the neat-as-a-pin pretty-boy type. The top layer of his dark hair was skillfully lightened to a burnished chestnut and swept back from a handsome face with deep brown eyes and strong features. Fashionable stubble shadowed his jaw. Chip, on the other hand, was frumpy and overweight. His pale blond hair was falling victim to male-pattern baldness. His rumpled slacks bore food stains; his shirt was partially untucked at the waist. I estimated them to be in their early to mid-thirties.
Rusty looked around. “Nice place you have.”
“Thanks,” I told him. The term “metrosexual” popped into my head. I’d heard the word used a time or two on TV. If my assumption was correct, it referred to an urban male with discretionary income to spend on grooming products and shopping. They had facials, manicures, and knew the best clubs, gyms, shops, and hairdressers. Until Rusty, I’d never met one in the flesh. Not many metrosexuals in a town the likes of Brandywine Creek.
“I’m giving the boys a guided tour,” Melly announced.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Rusty flinch at hearing himself referred to as a “boy.”
“Do you plan on staying in Brandywine Creek awhile?” I asked. “Or are you just passing through?”
“We’re on a road trip,” Chip said. “We started in Stanford, then worked our way across the country.”
“We rented an SUV,” Rusty volunteered. “We’ll fly home out of Miami.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“It has been,” Rusty agreed. “We’re managing to mix business with pleasure.”
Chip shoved his hands into his pants pockets. “We’ve made it a point to stop at various trade shows and leading distributors along the way.”
“They’ve already been to L.A., Phoenix, and Birmingham,” Melly informed me. “They just attended an international computer conference in Atlanta.”
Rusty picked a jar of anise from a shelf and read the label. “Anise,” he said. “Great for baking. My grandmother used to put this in cookies.”
Chip, evidently uninterested in Grandma’s cookies, cleared his throat. “Since Brandywine Creek and Atlanta are close, we thought we’d pay Mrs. Prescott a visit. So much nicer when one can conduct business in person, don’t you think?”
“Um … I suppose.” I didn’t feel qualified to answer, since except for my customers, my business was conducted either over the phone or online. I’d met very few of my wholesalers face-to-face.
Melly chattered on. “Rusty and Chip are staying at Felicity’s bed-and-breakfast while they’re in town.”
“I’m sure Felicity will treat you to some good old-fashioned Southern hospitality.” The town’s historic Turner-Driscoll House had been restored to its antebellum state through the dint and determination of Felicity Driscoll. She’d invested a great deal of her savings restoring a ramshackle building to its former glory.
“Felicity’s done a great job,” Rusty agreed. �
�Not only does she have impeccable taste, but a keen eye for antiques as well.”
“The upkeep on a house that old must cost a small fortune.” Chip looked as though he mentally calculated the price of heating and cooling a home dating back to the 1800s and found the sum astronomical.
“Don’t mind Chip. My partner’s always looking for ways to cut corners. He’s the chief financial officer. The money man behind Trustychipdesign.” Bored with the anise, Rusty picked up a container of vanilla beans imported from Madagascar. He raised a brow when he saw the price.
“Felicity offered us use of her parlor to discuss business,” Melly said.
Before I could respond, Lindsey bounded through the door, swinging her backpack. “Hey, y’all.”
I had to give Lindsey credit—the girl knew how to make an entrance. Her blond hair fell in loose curls around a pretty face with eyes the same blue-gray as her grandmother’s. Her Southern accent notwithstanding, she could have passed for the quintessential California girl.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said. “What are you doing home this early?”
She dropped her backpack next to the counter. “Teachers’ workshop this afternoon.”
“Right, right. I forgot.” Now that she’d reminded me, I vaguely recalled finding a crumpled reminder to that effect protruding from an algebra textbook. “Meet your meemaw’s … um, business associates. Mr. Tulley and Mr. Balboa.”
“Call me Rusty,” said Rusty.
“Call me Chip,” said Chip.
I swore both men stood a little taller at the sight of an attractive girl. I smiled proudly as Lindsey politely introduced herself, using manners I’d drilled into both my children since they were knee-high. The formalities over, she gave her grandmother a peck on the cheek. “Hey, Meemaw. Is it true you’re going to be famous?”
Melly’s eyes sparkled with pleasure. “Mercy! Where did you hear that nonsense?”
“All the kids in school are talking about how smart you are. My friends can’t believe anyone your age even owns a computer.”
“Then they’ll really be impressed to learn I have a Facebook page and a Twitter account.”
Chip smiled indulgently. “Your—meemaw—could give your classmates a lesson or two about navigating their way around a computer.”
Lindsey’s eyes widened as she regarded her grandmother in a new light. “Joey Tucker told me that Mayor Hemmings told his dad that he might even award you a key to the city—whatever that means.”
“Joey Tucker is a know-it-all.” Melly waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Who needs a key to a city where no one even locks their door at night?”
“So, Melly,” I said, “what have you shown Chip and Rusty so far?”
“We just came from the Brandywine Creek Opera House. Sandy Granger happened to be there. You know, don’t you, she’s directing Steel Magnolias. Anyway, Sandy very graciously gave us a tour of backstage as well as its history. For instance, did you know it once hosted vaudeville acts and dance revues? According to local legend, Fanny Brice made an appearance back in the day.”
“Speaking of tours, weren’t you going to introduce us to your friend from the computer club?” Rusty smoothed his already smooth hair.
“Mr. Black or was it Mr. White?” Chip frowned. “Never can remember names.”
“Thompson Gray,” I said, amused at hearing a computer whiz confess to memory problems. Goes to show geniuses are human after all. “Thompson runs the hardware a couple stores down.”
“We’d best be off,” Melly said. “See you later, dear.”
Melly marched out like a commanding general leading her troops. Rusty and Chip trailed obediently. Melly was queen for a day. The toast of the town. And enjoying every second of her fifteen minutes of fame.
“You’re going to the game Friday night, aren’t you?” Lindsey asked as she walked into the storeroom and emerged with Casey’s leash. Casey immediately jumped to his feet, his furry brown body wriggling in anticipation.
“Who do the Bearcats play this week?”
“The Johnsonville Giants.” She clipped Casey’s leash to his collar. “Wait till you see the awesome routine we’ve been practicing at cheerleading. Brittany used to take gymnastics. You’ll freak when you see her backflips.”
I confess, backflips made me a trifle nervous. I was happy Lindsey’s arm had been in a cast the fall her friends had registered for gymnastic lessons. By the time the cast came off, Lindsey’s interest had shifted. Tap, jazz, and ballet had become her passion. Now, although she was a cheerleader, she left the backflips to others.
“I’ll be at the game—provided the Band Boosters are selling their deep-fried Oreos.”
Lindsey grimaced. “Do you know how fattening those things are? Good thing you’re into jogging to burn off extra calories.”
“Fattening, yes—but oh-so scrumptious.” All things in moderation was my motto, including Oreo cookies dipped in pancake batter, deep fried, then dusted with powdered sugar.
“And if you’re at the game, you’ll get to see Sean in action. He’s hoping for a football scholarship at University of Georgia.”
“Mmm,” I said, trying to keep my tone noncommittal.
“He is sooo cute—and sooo nice! He’s been voted team captain.”
“Really?” I was bursting with curiosity to find out more about Sean Rogers, the boy who’d captured my daughter’s fancy. The mother of a teenage girl has to walk a tightrope. Too interested, your daughter clams up. Yet at the same time, you want to find out all you can. I wanted to ask what kind of student he was. Learn about his family. What his plans were for after graduation.
“Taylor thinks Sean might ask me to homecoming.” With this parting salvo, Lindsey and Casey departed.
Hmm. I went back to the counter. I noticed my tuna sandwich waiting where I’d left it, but realized I was no longer hungry. I idly thumbed through a catalog from a supplier, my thoughts on Sean Rogers. Due to his prowess on the football field, Sean was everyone’s favorite son. I’d heard he transferred here from a much larger school in Atlanta to live with his father following his parents’ divorce. I hadn’t met him yet, but I had the feeling that would soon change.
* * *
I was tying the laces on my poison-apple green running shoes the next morning in preparation for jogging. The autumn morning had a chill in the air. Temperatures dipped overnight, and it took the day awhile to recuperate. After debating what to wear, I’d chosen a pair of leggings that I’d used for yoga in my former life. A nondescript gray hoodie over a faded UGA T-shirt with a grinning bulldog prominently displayed across my modest bosom completed my ensemble. My cell phone rang just as I was about to tuck it into the pocket of my hoodie.
No good news ever arrives before nine o’clock. My first instinct was to let it go to voice mail, but guilt kicked in. Lindsey might be calling to tell me she’d forgotten her Language Arts assignment. Or it could be one of the rare, sporadic calls from my son, Chad, begging me to send chocolate chip cookies—and a check. Reluctantly, I pulled out the phone and checked the display.
Melly’s name appeared on the screen. Odd, she never called this early.
“Hello,” I answered warily.
“Piper, I need you. Drop what you’re doing and get over here this instant.”
“Melly, what’s wrong?”
“Hurry…,” she whispered, her voice strained.
I stared at the phone as if looking for answers, but the line had gone dead.
After snatching my keys, I raced down the back stairs and outside. I jumped into my VW Beetle and drove the short distance to Melly’s house on Jefferson Street. I chased away images of her falling, then crawling, helpless and in pain, to summon help. I pulled up in front of Melly’s old Victorian on a street lined with old Victorians. She was waiting for me on the front porch, already dressed for the day in one of her signature twinsets and pearls. Her face was bone white, and as I climbed from the car, I noticed she clutched her cardigan tigh
tly around her shoulders against the early-morning chill.
“Melly, are you ill? Let me drive you to the emergency room.”
“Come with me,” she said.
Taking the porch steps two at a time, I hurried to catch up with her. She passed through the living and dining rooms into the kitchen. Wordlessly, she opened a door that led to the basement, and pointed.
I peered over her shoulder. The light in the basement could best be described as murky. Melly’s entire lower level was filled with splotches of dim light interspersed with shadow. I made a mental note to have CJ replace his mother’s low-wattage bulbs with higher-powered energy-efficient ones.
My eyes slowly traveled downward and came to rest on a crumpled form at the base of the steps.
CHAPTER 5
FROM MY VANTAGE POINT at the top of the stairs and judging from the clothing, the body appeared to be that of a male. I scooted around Melly for a closer look. My heart knocked furiously against my rib cage. Fear and dread turned my mouth as dry as dust.
“Who is it?” I croaked.
“I don’t know,” Melly replied, her voice quavering. “I asked, but he didn’t answer.”
Being careful to hold on to the handrail, I slowly descended the steep stairs. I could see that whoever it was had been dressed casually in a plaid shirt and khakis. A shirt and pants that looked vaguely familiar. I’d seen that same combination recently, but where? My gaze happened to settle on a smudge of brown along one side of the man’s khakis.
And a memory flooded back.
In that instant, I remembered the remains of a Snickers bar being popped into a hungry mouth, and sticky fingers wiped on a pant leg before a hand was offered in greeting. The crumpled heap at the bottom of the steps now had a name—Charles “Chip” Balboa.
“It’s Chip,” I called over my shoulder.
“Well, I don’t care who he is, I want him out of my house. Please tell him to leave, right now. Right this instant!”
I edged closer. “I don’t think he’s going to leave any time soon.” Or under his own power, I added silently.