Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  Several plays later, Doug grimaced at a pileup of young bodies, then turned to me. “Clients of mine know Rogers’s father. Apparently, he and his son moved here from Atlanta following a messy divorce. The mother remarried recently, and the stepdad didn’t want a teenager underfoot. My clients say Sean’s a good kid.”

  “I hope so. Lindsey hasn’t always been wise in her choice of boyfriends.”

  My gaze fastened on the cheerleaders, who were performing choreographed gymnastics. Lindsey’s blond ponytail danced and swayed as she bobbed up and down. The sight of her tugged on my heartstrings. My girl seemed impossibly young yet impossibly grown-up. In the blink of an eye, she’d be graduating high school and off to college, just as my Chad had done.

  And my nest would be empty. I’d be alone.

  Gerilee nudged me in the ribs. “How’s Melly holding up? Pete tells me she’s staying with you these days.”

  “She set up camp in Lindsey’s room until McBride gives her the go-ahead to return home.”

  Pete offered popcorn from the half-empty tub. “I noticed Sandy Granger coming out of your shop this afternoon. She put in a big order for all kinds of German sausages. Bratwurst, knockwurst, mettwurst, you name it.”

  “Sandy and Craig want the real deal,” Gerilee continued while the teams gathered in a huddle. “Luckily, Pete knows a butcher in Helen who can help supply what he needs.”

  Doug winked at me. We’d talked about visiting Helen, Georgia, located on the Chattahoochee River in northeast Georgia. The town resembled an alpine village, complete with cobblestones and old-world towers. Doug had read about a charming bed-and-breakfast, perfect for a romantic weekend getaway. So far, that’s all it had been—talk. Work was the excuse we used most often to postpone our trip, but deep down, I think both of us were being cautious when it came to dipping our toes into the relationship pool.

  “Have you decided what you’re taking to the Oktoberfest?” Gerilee asked Doug.

  “I’m thinking of trying my hand at sauerbraten,” he said. It hadn’t taken long for Doug to earn the reputation of being a “foodie.” I had to hand it to him; the man certainly knew his way around a kitchen. Fortunately for me, he liked to experiment with various cuisines—many that called for unusual spices. As a matter of fact, we’d first met when he wandered into Spice It Up!—even before its grand opening—to purchase saffron.

  A grin spread across Pete’s face at the mention of sauerbraten. “I’ll set aside a couple real nice bottom rounds.”

  “Great.” Doug chuckled before turning to me. “The recipe I found calls for lots of spices, including juniper berries, so I hope you’re well stocked.”

  “Doesn’t sauerbraten also include gingersnaps?” Gerilee, not waiting for an answer, continued, “Why don’t you ask Melly to supply the cookies? No one makes better gingersnaps than Melly.”

  Poor Melly, I thought. I wondered if she’d forever associate her favorite cookies with Chip Balboa’s visit to Brandywine Creek and his subsequent tumble down her basement stairs. There was no time to ponder the question further, because just then, the crowd erupted in a frenzy of excitement. Sean Rogers sent the football sailing down the field, where it was caught by a receiver for a touchdown. By halftime, the Brandywine Bearcats led by a score of 21–3.

  “Kid’s got an arm,” Pete commented, climbing to his feet. “Gonna get me some of those deep-fried Oreos the Booster Club always sells.”

  Gerilee stood and stretched. “I’ll go with you. There’s always a long line for the ladies’ room.”

  Doug shrugged on his sweater. “Temperatures really drop at night, now that fall’s here. How about some hot chocolate to warm up?”

  “Sounds great.”

  We scrambled down from the bleachers to join the throng headed toward the concession stands. As luck would have it, CJ and Amber materialized alongside us. Amber was dressed in football chic: dark slimming jeans that accentuated her mile-long legs, a cashmere turtleneck the shade of ripe apricots, and a waist-length coffee-brown leather jacket. I felt frumpy—and short—walking next to her in my jeans and sweatshirt.

  “Hey, y’all.” Amber flashed a smile, revealing a mouthful of teeth whiter than God ever intended. “Fancy runnin’ into you.”

  “Hello, Amber.” I forced a smile as well. The two of us would never be friends. I couldn’t even pretend. My acting ability just wasn’t that great. I’m sure even Bette Davis had limitations.

  CJ stuck out his hand, and the men shook. “That Rogers kid got an arm on him,” he said, parroting Pete Barker’s assessment.

  “You come to check out Lindsey’s new beau?” Amber asked, falling into step beside me.

  “No, not really,” I said. “I wanted to show my support for all the hours she poured into learning the new routines.”

  “Our girl looked good out there, didn’t she?” CJ multitasked by nodding and grinning at the same time. “Prettiest one on the squad.”

  Amber tossed glossy mahogany locks. “When it comes to boyfriends, I told Lindsey if she wants to be homecoming queen, to set her sights on the quarterback. It’s a surefire way to win votes.”

  I fumed at the implication Lindsey was interested in Sean Rogers only because of his prowess on the football field. My girl wasn’t that shallow. I bit my tongue to hold back an angry retort.

  CJ placed a possessive hand on Amber’s waist. “Quarterbacks, in my estimation, are overrated. Give me a good running back any ol’ day.”

  “Wasn’t Wyatt McBride quarterback the year your team went to state?”

  I knew my barb hit its target when a dull red flush crept up CJ’s neck. The animosity between McBride and my ex dated back to their high school days. I had never learned all the details, but knew enough to know there was no love lost between the two men.

  As we neared the concession stand, Amber’s gaze swept over a balding, overweight man carrying a plate heaped with deep-fried Oreos. A vertical line formed between her penciled brows at the sight. “Those things kill one’s figure. They go directly to the hips. I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Well, you’re in luck,” Doug said with a smile I knew wasn’t genuine. “There’s not a ten-foot pole in sight.”

  Failing to recognize the thinly veiled sarcasm, Amber patted CJ’s tummy. “I keep tellin’ Pooh Bear he needs to start workin’ out if he wants to be in shape for our weddin’.”

  “Have you lovebirds set a date yet?” I asked, bolstered by Doug’s hand in mine.

  Amber gave another head toss. I wondered if she ever worried about dislocating a vertebra. “Sometime between Christmas and New Year’s,” she said. “Mother’s havin’ a procedure done and wants us to wait until she’s fully recovered.”

  It was a poorly kept secret that Amber’s mother was a frequent passenger on the cosmetic surgery express. Amelia Ames’s obsession with her appearance might explain her daughter’s self-absorption.

  CJ waved at a well-dressed couple standing off to one side. I recognized Dennis and Bunny Bowtin from our country club days. He was a successful banker; she, the reigning queen of the tennis courts. “Glad we had a chance to chat,” he said. “Gotta run.”

  “Dennis just hired CJ’s firm. Quite a coup on Pooh Bear’s part,” Amber explained as they ambled off. “Their son’s on the team. He’s the runnin’ back.”

  So that explained why CJ was at the game. It wasn’t his love of high school football. It wasn’t interest in his daughter’s cheerleading. It wasn’t a promising young quarterback. No, CJ’s sole purpose tonight was to cozy up to a new client. One with deep pockets. He’d never once asked how his mother was getting along. Whatever happened to the idealistic young attorney I’d married?

  Doug squeezed my hand. “You all right?”

  I squeezed back. “People change over time, drift apart. Seeing CJ and Amber together used to upset me, but not anymore. It’s been downgraded to minor annoyance. Goes to show I’m making progress. Quite frankly, I’m happy with
the life I’ve created without him.”

  Doug scowled. “Looks like the line at the concession stand is a mile long. Why don’t you find a spot to watch the band’s halftime show while I get the refreshments.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “Seeing we’ve already clogged our arteries with burgers and chili fries, let’s have some deep-fried Oreos with our hot chocolate?”

  “You sure know how to treat a gal,” I teased, waving him off. I’ve even seen Double Stuf deep-fried Oreos on a menu at a popular restaurant in Augusta. To add insult to injury, the restaurant topped these off with Hershey’s chocolate syrup and served them with vanilla ice cream. A heart attack on a fancy plate.

  I found a vantage spot not far from the main gate to observe the goings-on. The band struck up the school fight song and strutted up and down the field, drums rattling and trumpets blaring. I glanced over my shoulder to check on Doug’s progress in time to see Beau Tucker, out of uniform and casually dressed, separate from the crowd at the concession stand. Beau balanced a cardboard tray loaded with snacks and sodas as he threaded his way back to the bleachers.

  “Hey, Beau.” A kernel of an idea burst into bloom as I hailed him. Now, I don’t usually prey on a man’s weakness, but I was about to make an exception in Beau’s case. I knew he loved to boast about his experiences in the police department. McBride might be closemouthed, but no one could accuse Beau of that.

  “Hey, Piper.” A broad grin wreathed his round face. “Some game, ain’t it?”

  “Sure is. That Rogers kid has quite an arm.” That seemed to be the comment du jour.

  Beau made to move off and take my opportunity with him.

  “Wait up, Beau. Mind if I ask a question before you go?”

  He readjusted the tray he carried. “Shoot.”

  “Chief McBride said something that’s still bothering me. I hope you can shed some light on the subject. Put my mind at ease.”

  Beau eyed the nachos dripping gooey yellow cheese and loaded with jalapeños with obvious longing. “Yeah, I guess. What exactly did the chief say?”

  “McBride told me Chip’s death was being viewed as ‘suspicious.’ He said the preliminary findings were more consistent with a shove rather than a fall. I keep wondering what he meant by that.”

  Beau stared down at his cache of goodies. The yellow cheese dripping over nacho chips was beginning to congeal. He seemed eager to get back into the stands and chow down before it cooled completely. “Since McBride told you about the prelim, guess there’s no harm telling you why the ME said what he did.”

  I affected a casual shrug. “Guess not.”

  “The ME reported there was less bruising than expected.” Beau shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “If Balboa had hit most of the stairs on the way to the bottom, there would’ve been considerably more bruising, more fractures, as a result of coming into contact with the risers. Only fracture the vic suffered was a broken neck.”

  “A broken neck’s bad enough,” I said.

  Beau nodded. “The theory is that Chip Balboa was propelled down the stairs with a force great enough to send him directly to the floor below. Sort of like in the Monopoly game. You know: Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

  “Interesting,” I murmured. From the corner of my eye, I saw Doug approaching.

  “Yeah, interesting. Same thing the chief said.” Beau half turned to leave, then stopped. “One other thing—there was a bruise shaped like a handprint between the vic’s shoulder blades. Suspicious, don’t you think?” Not waiting for my response, he hurried off, muttering how Jolene was going to give him whatfor if the nachos were ruined.

  Handprint?

  I stared after Beau, watching him get swallowed up by the crowd. I’d lost my appetite for deep-fried Oreos. The chili cheese fries I’d eaten earlier weren’t sitting too well, either. The roar from the stands nearly drowned out the buzzing in my head. Like it or not, Melly had become the prime suspect in a murder investigation. I vowed then and there to do everything in my power to find out who was really responsible for killing Chip Balboa. Melly’s freedom—her life—hung in the balance.

  CHAPTER 12

  “POINT ME TOWARD THE GINGER,” Dottie Hemmings requested the next morning as she reached for one of the small wicker baskets.

  My jaw dropped. Dottie tended to be a looky lou. Although she frequently visited Spice It Up!, it was to gossip. She never purchased a thing. Dottie was convinced spices retained their freshness into the next millennium. I’d been trying to convince her otherwise but thus far had failed.

  “Ginger?” I asked, coming around the counter to offer assistance. “Do you want ground, crystallized, or root?”

  “Better give me some of each,” Dottie instructed.

  Before she reconsidered, I snatched a jar of ground, grabbed a bag of crystallized, and added handful of knobby rhizomes to her basket. “Planning to do some baking?”

  “Good gracious, no.” She chuckled. “Piper, shame on you. You know me better than that. Whenever my husband the mayor gets a hankering for baked goods, I head straight for the Piggly Wiggly.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “What was I thinking?”

  Dottie plucked two jars of cloves from a shelf, dropped them into the basket. “Did you hear Fred Higgins has shingles? Irma’s been nagging him to get the vaccine—but did he listen? No, he’s stubborn as a mule.”

  “Ginger happens to be one of the most widely used spices,” I said, in hope of diverting her from tales of misery and suffering. “I have a collection of recipes you might be tempted to try if you ever decide to experiment.”

  “Nice of you to offer, Piper, but if I want homemade goodies, I’ll wait for the next funeral. In my opinion, the Methodist women are the best bakers in town. Harvey and I always take a sample or two home with us.”

  Dottie and her hubby were notorious for asking the kitchen crew for to-go boxes, then filling them with choice tidbits from the dessert table. Since Harvey was “Hizzoner the mayor,” folks tended to look the other way.

  “Can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I found out Chip Balboa was gonna be cremated. Here I was hoping the Thursday Night Bingo Ladies would step up to give the man a decent send-off. Show him some old-fashioned Southern hospitality.”

  I moved toward the cash register with Dottie trailing. “It’s my understanding Chip lived in California. Whatever made you think his service would be held in Brandywine Creek?”

  “Ned Feeney was at the Eternal Rest when the deceased’s widow came to call on John Strickland. She demanded her husband be cremated the instant his body’s released. When John questioned her, she said since her husband had no family to speak of, she saw no reason to dawdle.”

  “I suppose that makes sense,” I said, unloading the bags, jars, and rhizomes onto the counter.

  “Mr. Balboa’s widow complained about the high cost of transporting a corpse. Said the price was astronomical, and the money would be better spent elsewhere.” Dottie fished a credit card out of her purse. “Don’t understand why all the rush.”

  Frankly, I didn’t, either. My first impression might’ve been wrong, but Cheryl didn’t strike me as a grieving widow. She seemed more interested in meeting someone for lunch than in mourning her dearly departed. Added to that, Rusty Tulley, trusted friend and business partner, had been under the impression that the couple was divorced. However, as I’d learned at the police station, the couple was still married. Had they reconciled? Or had one or the other delayed signing the final papers?

  “Now, take me, for instance”—Dottie patted her lacquered blond beehive—“when I pass, I’ve given my husband the mayor strict orders that I expect standing room only at First Baptist. Have you given any thought to arrangements?”

  My mind went blank. “Arrangements?”

  “Don’t leave the important decisions to others,” Dottie counseled. “There are dozens of things to consider—casket, favorite hymns, type of flowers
. Don’t forget to put in writing what clothes you want to be wearin’. You’ll be wantin’ to look your best when folks come to pay their final respects.”

  This conversation was creeping me out, so I abruptly changed the topic. “You never mentioned what you were going to do with the ginger.”

  “Spiders,” Dottie replied succinctly.

  “Spiders?”

  “Noreen McCarthy, a friend in Florida, uses ginger to rid her house of the pesky little buggers. Noreen said she hasn’t needed an exterminator in years. Saves her a bundle.”

  “Interesting,” I replied for lack of a better word.

  “I’m going to make little sachets, fill them with ginger, and place them in strategic spots all around the house. Thought I’d add some cloves and nutmeg for good measure. Noreen swears by this method. It’s so much better than those noxious sprays most folks use. Heavens, it can’t be good to breathe those fumes. My niece’s second cousin twice removed met a very untimely end, and all because of a spray can.”

  I handed her a receipt along with her purchase. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Toodle-oo,” she sang out as she departed with a merry wave.

  “I thought I heard Dottie Hemmings’s voice.”

  I turned to find Melly coming down the stairs. Casey’s tail thumped in greeting, but when no doggie treat was forthcoming, he resumed his snoozing.

  “Thanks to Dottie, I have to order more ginger. The woman’s on spider patrol.” As Melly neared, I noticed she looked wan. Her blue-gray eyes were shadowed with worry and fatigue. “You don’t look as though you slept well.”

  She gave me a weary smile. “I tossed and turned half the night. I’ll be glad when I can sleep in my own bed again.”

  “McBride should finish his investigation soon, and things can return to normal.”

  “Normal?” Melly shuddered. “I keep thinking of that poor man lying in my basement the whole time I was sound asleep. I hope he didn’t suffer in the fall.”

  “It’s a beautiful day outside. Why not take a little walk? Some fresh air will do you a world of good.”