Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  McBride zapped CJ with a look from his laser blue eyes. “Seems strange your mother’s visitor suffered a fatal fall down the basement stairs without her knowing anything about it until the next day.”

  Melly opened her mouth to protest, but CJ cut her off. “Momma, I’m warnin’ you, don’t say a word. Not a single word, and that’s on the advice of legal counsel”—he thumped his chest for emphasis—“and that would be me.”

  My stomach clenched at hearing this. If CJ intended to act as Melly’s lawyer, she was in even greater trouble than I’d first imagined. She’d have a better chance of him winning her case if she’d tripped over her bedroom slippers and stubbed her toe.

  McBride was relentless in his quest for information. “Mrs. Prescott, tell me everything you can remember about the last time you saw Mr. Balboa. You mentioned he complained of a headache?”

  “How many times do I have to go over this?”

  “Let’s run through it one more time, step by step.”

  “But I’ve already told you everything that happened.”

  “Really, McBride, is it necessary to badger my mother-in-law?” I protested.

  “Ex-mother-in-law,” CJ and Melly both corrected automatically.

  McBride, after some consideration, relented. I was pleased to see that he wasn’t completely hard-hearted. “All right,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Let’s continue this line of questioning later. I’ll need a full statement from both of you ladies.”

  Happy at the temporary reprieve, I heaved a sigh of relief. “Fine by me, but it’ll have to wait till after business hours. I have a shop to run.”

  He nodded. “CJ, you might want to take your mother someplace quiet where she can get a little rest while we process the scene.”

  “Sure, good idea.” CJ rubbed his jaw and, frowning, turned to his mother. “Wish I could take you home with me, Momma, but I’m afraid the painter’s there. Amber complained the rooms were too vanilla for her taste. Said she wanted colors that ‘popped.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

  “Melly’s welcome at my place. She can use Lindsey’s room for a few days.”

  “Where’s Lindsey gonna sleep?”

  “She’ll have to make do with the sofa bed, like Chad does on semester breaks.” Our son, Chad, was in premed at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. On his infrequent visits home, he preferred to stay at my small but cozy apartment rather than his father’s spacious new golf course home. Although Chad hadn’t come right out and said so, I didn’t think he was enthralled with CJ’s future bride, Miss Amber Leigh Ames, any more than I was. I privately referred to the home wrecker and former beauty queen as Miss Peach Pit.

  McBride replaced his notebook in his uniform pocket. “Sorry to interrupt housekeeping details, but I don’t suppose either of you could tell me where I might find Mr. Balboa’s business partner. I’ll need to notify the next of kin.”

  I pointed behind him toward the front door. “Turn around,” I said. “He’s right behind you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  RUSTY TULLEY, his hand poised to knock, stood on the front porch. Spotting me through the screen, he gave me an uncertain smile. “Sorry, looks like this is bad timing, but I just need a minute.”

  I opened the door for him and stepped aside but avoided eye contact. CJ and Melly, I noticed, took the same cowardly route. CJ stared at the polished toe of his shoe. Melly twisted the gold wedding band she wore on her right hand around and around. None of us, it seemed, wanted to be the bearer of bad news. None of us wanted to tell Rusty his friend and business partner was dead.

  “Why are police cars out front?” When no answer was forthcoming, Rusty turned to the man with a badge. “What’s up?”

  McBride wordlessly took Rusty Tulley’s measure from the top of his two-toned head to the turned-up collar of his polo shirt down to the bare feet stuffed into pricey loafers.

  Rusty shifted under McBride’s scrutiny. “Um … look, I can come back later if this is inconvenient.”

  His appraisal completed, McBride introduced himself and asked, “And you are?”

  “Rusty Tulley.” Rusty stuck out his hand for a handshake, then apparently had second thoughts and slipped it into his pocket instead. “I thought I’d find my partner, Chip Balboa, here, but I see I was mistaken.”

  I fixed my gaze on an African violet plant on an end table by the window. The plant seemed to be thriving under Melly’s care. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Chip.

  “Is there a problem of some sort? Care to clue me in?” Rusty’s expression seemed more puzzled than worried. “Curious” might have been an even better word choice.

  “I’m sorry to inform you,” McBride said. “Mr. Balboa took an unfortunate fall down a flight of stairs.”

  “Chip’s always been something of a klutz. I assume he’s already been transported to the local hospital?”

  CJ cleared his throat. Melly smothered a sob. I wished I were in the Caribbean, shopping for nutmeg or cloves.

  “You’re starting to worry me.” The look on Rusty’s face changed from puzzled to concerned. He shoveled his fingers through his hair. Every strand fell perfectly back into place. “How seriously was he hurt? Which way to the hospital? I want to see him.”

  Impatient, he half turned toward the door when McBride detained him with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr. Balboa is dead. He suffered a broken neck in the fall. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Rusty’s knees buckled, and he sank into a nearby armchair. Beneath the California tan, his complexion turned pasty. “No, I don’t believe it. This must be some mistake. A joke of some sort.”

  “Let me get you some water,” I offered. Not waiting for a reply, I raced to the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard, and twisted the tap. I wished I had something fancier to give him. Evian or Perrier. Rusty was sophisticated, a possible metrosexual, probably accustomed to costly bottled brands, not the kitchen-sink variety. Funny, the inconsequential thoughts that can run through your mind during periods of stress.

  I hurried back. Everyone was still locked in the same pose as when I’d left them. The only amendment to the tableau was that McBride had retrieved his pen and notebook from his shirt pocket.

  “Here you go,” I said, handing the water to a stunned-looking Rusty.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled before downing half the contents.

  I wasn’t exactly sure why people worked up a thirst at hearing bad news. I made a mental note to ask Doug Winters. Even though Doug was a vet and not a people doctor, his medical knowledge wasn’t limited to animals alone.

  “When did you last see Mr. Balboa?” McBride asked.

  “Last night.”

  “Do you recall the time?”

  Rusty stared into his half-empty glass as if he might find answers floating in the water. “Must’ve been eight thirty or so, give or take. We had dinner together at the Mexican place, then I needed to catch up on some work on the computer. We agreed we’d meet for breakfast to talk over strategy. When he didn’t show, I went to his room and was surprised to find his room was unlocked and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

  “What made you come to Mrs. Prescott’s in search of your friend?” McBride asked.

  “Chip wanted to visit Melly one more time before we headed out. If he had plans for the remainder of the evening, I thought he might’ve mentioned them to her.” Rusty raised his eyes to search Melly’s. “What happened?”

  She lifted her hands, then let them drop. “I don’t know.”

  “Just for the record,” CJ snarled, “my mother had nothin’ to do with your friend’s death.”

  “Just for the record,” McBride replied, his tone even, “no one implied that she did.”

  “This morning I went to get a jar of strawberry preserves from the basement and found Chip. He was lying at the bottom of the steps.”

  Rusty’s grip tightened on the glass he held. “Oh my God, you don’t suppose he
—?”

  McBride cut him off. “Can you tell me who I might contact for next of kin?”

  Rusty nodded and swallowed. “Chip really didn’t have any family to speak of. Cheryl, his ex-wife, would know whom to call. I think I still have her number somewhere.”

  While Rusty fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, the coroner, John Strickland, made a loud hrmph noise from the doorway. McBride glanced his way, and John beckoned him over. The four of us watched the men confer, but they kept their voices low, and we weren’t able to overhear their conversation.

  After a minute or two, McBride returned. “You’re all free to leave for the moment, but, Mr. Tulley, I’d like you to stick around town another day or two until this is all sorted out.” He turned to address Melly and me. “I’m going to need an official statement from both of you ladies later today.”

  “If you think you’re going to browbeat Momma without an attorney present, McBride,” CJ growled with lawyerly fervor, “then think again.”

  I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his theatrics. “C’mon, Melly,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “After the doctor checks you over, I’ll make you a nice cup of chamomile tea and tuck you in for a nap.”

  * * *

  Although it was only midafternoon, it felt like I’d already put in full day’s work. I’d just finished the last of my yogurt—a late lunch—when I heard the front door open. I looked up and saw Reba Mae enter the shop.

  “I ran all the way over,” Reba Mae explained, sounding out of breath after her mad dash from the Klassy Kut. “Tried to come sooner, but I was booked solid all morning with back-to-back perms. Then, wouldn’t you know, Mary Lou Lambert messed up another do-it-yourself dye job. This time, her hair turned pea soup green. I swear a woman who never reads directions is a freak of nature.”

  I dumped my yogurt carton into the trash. “One in every crowd.”

  Reba Mae headed for the fridge at the back of the shop and helped herself to a Diet Coke. “Mary Lou came in cryin’, wantin’ me to turn her hair back to its original color. Said she’s done experimentin’. Problem was, it’d been so long, she didn’t remember what her natural color used to be.”

  I eyed Reba Mae’s jet black locks. “Sounds like someone else I know who shall remain anonymous,” I commented dryly. She was letting it grow out from the short, sleek Vampira style she’d worn the last couple months. Knowing my friend, she was itching to dip into her Crayola box for a color change.

  Reba Mae perched on the edge of the counter, crossed her legs, and popped the tab on her Coke. “Whole town’s buzzin’ about you findin’ a body in the old girl’s cellar.”

  “Technically, I didn’t find the body.” I straightened a pile of spice catalogs and food magazines I’d yet to browse through. “Melly phoned in a panic, then hung up on me. I drove over to see why the fuss, saw Chip at the bottom of the basement stairs, and made the nine-one-one call.”

  “Better have that number on speed dial, honeybun. You’re gettin’ quite the reputation. No need for a cadaver dog long as you’re around.”

  Casey, who had been snoozing under the counter, raised his head at hearing the words “cadaver dog.” He listened with one ear cocked, but when no further mention was forthcoming, he resumed his nap.

  Reba Mae sipped her soda. “Melly all right? Must’ve been quite a shock.”

  “CJ had the doctor check her over before bringing her here.”

  “What did the doc say?”

  “She’s fine other than her blood pressure being a little high. The doctor blamed it on her being upset, told CJ not to worry. He wrote a prescription for something to relieve the stress.”

  “Where’s she now?”

  “Upstairs in Lindsey’s room, sound asleep.”

  Reba Mae was gearing up to grill me like a burger on the Fourth of July. When you’d been friends as long as we’d been, you could recognize the warning signs. Thankfully, Doug Winters picked that moment to make an appearance. I wanted to rush over and hug him—and not just out of gratitude. Doug had that kind of effect on me.

  He greeted us with a smile. “Hey, ladies.”

  “Hey, yourself,” I said. “Was the seminar a success?”

  Doug had spent the week in Charlotte, learning new surgical techniques at a regional veterinary conference. My pulse did a happy dance at the sight of him. In spite of the prematurely gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, Doug’s face was boyishly handsome. While he reminded me of American Idol winner Taylor Hicks, Reba Mae insisted he looked more like a scholarly version of George Clooney. Way I saw it, didn’t matter which one, Taylor or George, both were easy on the eyes.

  “Not only was the conference successful, but I managed to get in a round or two of golf with my buddy, Josh, too.”

  “Golf, eh,” Reba Mae drawled, “that explains the casual attire.”

  Doug subconsciously smoothed the collar of his buttery-yellow golf shirt. “What’s all this I’ve been hearing, Piper, about you and your mother-in-law finding a dead body?”

  “Ex-mother-in-law,” Reba Mae and I corrected, sounding like a duet.

  “Are you both all right?” Brown eyes the color of melted chocolate brimmed with genuine concern.

  “Melly’s shaken. She’ll be staying with me for a few days.”

  “What happened?”

  “Yes, Piper, what happened? Do tell.” Dottie Hemmings, the wife of Brandywine Creek’s mayor, had apparently overheard the last of our conversation as she burst through the door. Her blond beehive hairdo was sprayed stiff enough to qualify as a motorcycle helmet. Resplendent in hot pink polyester, she advanced with the assurance of an ocean liner sailing into home port. “I’ve been in Augusta, shopping all day. I stopped at the Piggly Wiggly on my way home to buy one of those roasted chickens they sell in the deli and ran into Jolene Tucker. Jolene said you’d found another dead body. Really, Piper, that has to stop. Keep that up, folks are going to start avoiding you.”

  “Excellent advice, Dottie,” I said, but I think she failed to detect my sarcasm. Jolene was the wife of Beau Tucker, otherwise known as Sergeant Blabbermouth of the Brandywine Creek Police Department. Who needed fiber optics to speed communications along when they had Beau and Jolene?

  “When I came in, you were about to tell Doc Winters all the juicy details. Pretend I’m not here,” Dottie instructed.

  I sighed. How many times would I have to go over this? “Let me set the record straight,” I said. “Melly discovered a man at the foot of her basement stairs, called me to come over, and I called the police. That’s it in a nutshell.”

  “A man?” Dottie gasped. “Don’t tell me Melly was seeing someone on the sly?”

  I didn’t know if Melly would be outraged or flattered to learn some viewed her as a femme fatale—senior citizen style.

  “Did you recognize him?” Doug asked.

  Reba Mae had probably already heard this part of the story from one of her clients, but she listened attentively nonetheless.

  “I identified him as Chip Balboa, one of the partners in Trustychipdesign.com.” I realigned the stack of magazines even though it didn’t need realigning.

  “Isn’t that the company that was going to make Melly rich?” Dottie didn’t wait for an answer. “Shirley Randolph over at Creekside Realty told Jolene that Melly planned to put her house on the market. Said Melly wanted to buy herself a condo in Hilton Head.”

  Reba Mae swung her foot back and forth. “I overheard Ruby Phillips say Melly wanted to move to Key West.”

  “Key West?” This was the first I’d heard about a move to Florida. “What did she plan to do in Key West? Look for Jimmy Buffet’s lost shaker of salt?”

  Undeterred by talk of real estate, Dottie cut to the chase. “According to Jolene, poor Mr. Balboa had been dead for hours before it was reported.”

  Reba Mae choked on a swallow of her diet soda. “That true?”

  Doug looked at me quizzically while I silently counted to ten. Beau Tucker ne
eded a come-to-Jesus talking-to. And I knew just the man to do it. I’m no Miss Manners when it comes to police protocol, but it doesn’t seem very professional for an officer of the law to embellish details of a simple trip and fall.

  “C’mon, out with it, Piper. The whole town’s buzzin’.”

  I was tempted to borrow a line from McBride’s rule book, stick my nose in the air, and say smugly: I can’t comment on an active case.

  “Don’t be coy.” Dottie waggled a plump finger at me. “You can always tell your friends. When do you suppose he fell? Last night?”

  Doug scratched his head. “How could Chip have fallen and Melly not have known about it?”

  Reba Mae set down her Diet Coke. “Why would Melly wait so long to report it?”

  Doug, Reba Mae, and Dottie all looked to me for answers, but I shook my head. I had none to give. “How,” “when,” and “why” were the same questions swimming inside my own head. I shuddered inwardly. Melly was in trouble all the way up to her pearl-draped neck.

  CHAPTER 8

  AN HOUR LATER, I filled Lindsey in on all the details regarding her grandmother’s situation while Casey waited patiently at our feet for his daily run in the park.

  “Joey said Meemaw called you even before she called the police. Is that true?”

  I stifled a groan at hearing the Tucker name again. The boy had apparently inherited the blabbermouth gene from his father. Whatever information went into Sergeant Beau Tucker’s ears came out his mouth in the form of gossip. McBride needed to stuff a cork in it. “Yes,” I said, “it’s true.”

  “Why do you think she called you first?”

  “This is just a wild guess on my part, but maybe your grandmother was scared, nervous, and in a state of shock.”

  “And because she knows you’re experienced when it comes to finding dead bodies.” Lindsey reached into a jar under the counter and pulled out a doggy treat for Casey, which he accepted with alacrity. “I bet Chief McBride gave both of you the third degree.”

  “Not yet, but our reprieve is about to come to an end. Your grandmother and I are due down at the station”—I glanced at my wristwatch—“in ten minutes.”