Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  Felicity rang a little silver bell to get people’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the parlor, where Rusty will share memories of his dear friend, Chip Balboa.”

  With Felicity leading the way, we filed after her. The parlor still retained its formality from when the house was first built. Brocade draperies, velvet settees, Aubusson carpet, and precious antiques all contributed to the ambience. Late afternoon sunlight filtered into the room through double-hung floor-to-ceiling windows along two walls. A mahogany sideboard held a series of photographs chronicling Rusty and Chip’s friendship through the years.

  Rusty stood next to the fireplace. Cheryl, I noted, preferred to stand apart from the others. “First of all,” Rusty began, “I want to thank you all for coming this afternoon to honor a man you didn’t know. I hope when you leave today, you’ll feel acquainted with a man I regarded as a brother.”

  A strangled sound that might have been a sob—or a laugh—came from the widow.

  Rusty pretended he hadn’t heard anything and continued. Hands stuffed in his pants pockets, he spoke about meeting Chip in college, sharing a dorm room, and about their decision to form Trustychipdesign.com.

  “Tell us about the road trip you and Chip were on,” Melly encouraged when he seemed to falter.

  Rusty’s smile was tinged with sadness, but he readily complied. He held up a photo showing the two of them with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. “We started our odyssey in San Francisco, then moved on to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Birmingham before traveling to Atlanta and eventually Brandywine Creek.”

  Cheryl cleared her throat loudly. “I didn’t come prepared for this little show-and-tell, but I do happen to have our wedding picture with me.” She drew out a framed photograph that had been hidden behind Rusty’s display. Her face screwed up until she looked like she was going to burst into tears.

  “There, there, dear.” Dottie reached out and patted her arm. “You’re among friends.”

  At the sight of Dottie’s plump hand on her forearm, Cheryl sniffed her unshed tears into submission. “I want everyone to know our wedding day was the happiest day of our lives. True, our marriage had hit bumps in the road, like many marriages often do, but Chip and I loved each other in spite of our … differences.”

  I swore she was about to say “divorce” but changed it into “differences” at the last second.

  Cheryl dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Chip phoned, and after a long talk, we agreed to work on our problems. We planned to reconcile.”

  Rusty snorted at hearing this, and Cheryl returned a look as lethal as a poisoned dagger. “My husband and I loved each other—deeply,” she concluded, her lower lip quivering.

  “You poor thing.” Dottie enfolded her in a bear hug. Cheryl’s arms flailed as she tried to wriggle free, but Dottie only clung tighter.

  I placed a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. Shame on me. I didn’t dare glance at Reba Mae for fear we’d both break down and laugh. Once the giggling started, stopping wasn’t easy.

  Felicity clapped her hands, much like Mother Superior back at St. Agnes Grade School. “If y’all will follow me, refreshments are waiting in the dining room.”

  Everyone trailed out except for Reba Mae and me, who lingered to examine the photographs. I picked up a candid shot of the partners high-fiving with a Trustychipdesign logo in the background. “They look so happy in this one. I wonder what they argued about the night Chip died. I’m going to have to ask Felicity if she knew.”

  Reba Mae didn’t answer. Instead she was staring intently at Chip and Cheryl’s wedding picture. “Take a gander,” she said. “I swear it’s been Photoshopped. Looks like the groom was cut out of the photo, then put back in. What do you think?”

  I examined the photo, too. “You might be right. Chip’s face is identical to the one in the Trustychipdesign snapshot. Right down to the smudge on one lens of his eyeglasses.”

  “Well, don’t that beat all?” Reba Mae murmured. “Why do you suppose she’d go to all the trouble?”

  I thought of Cheryl Balboa’s theatrics and histrionics and knew the answer. “Because she wants people to think they were a loving couple. And to point suspicion away from her.”

  “It’s most always the wife or the husband, isn’t it?” Reba Mae linked her arm in mine. “Let’s go eat.”

  Halfway across the entrance hall, we paused. Red and blue lights strobed through the sidelights of the front door. Seconds later, someone jabbed the doorbell three times in quick succession. Felicity hurried to answer. I noticed the others guests, including McBride, had migrated into the entrance hall to find out why the commotion.

  Sergeant Beau Tucker stood on the doorstep, puffed with self-importance. He adjusted his utility belt with one hand while his other hand clutched a document of some sort. “I have something for the chief that can’t wait.”

  McBride shouldered his way between Dottie and Thompson Gray, who gawked unashamedly. “What is it, Sergeant?”

  Beau Tucker shoved the sheet of paper at him. “Thought you’d want to see this ASAP.”

  Seeing McBride’s expression upon scanning the document, I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “What is it?” I asked.

  “Toxicology report,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 18

  “IT WAS NICE of Thompson to go to Chip’s remembrance, wasn’t it?” Melly asked.

  Melly and I had just returned to Spice It Up! from the Turner-Driscoll House. The clock on the wall told me it was almost time to lock up for the day. Upon seeing us, Lindsey had been more than happy to take a break from her schoolwork and take Casey for a romp in the park.

  “Thompson has always struck me as the thoughtful type,” I said as I opened the drawer of my antique cash register and began to count the day’s receipts.

  Melly watched, her fingers toying with her strand of pearls. “Thompson met Chip only the one time when I’d introduced him as president of our local computer club. He’s such a lovely man. You can see that in the way he treats his mother. Shame he never married. He would have been a good catch for some lucky woman.”

  I half listened as Melly droned on. Instead of concentrating on the cash I was counting, my mind roamed. I kept wondering about the significance of the toxicology report. McBride indicated it was important for reasons he didn’t care to divulge. Beau Tucker’s attitude when he’d arrived at the bed-and-breakfast reinforced the notion of its importance.

  Seeing how the amount never tallied, I finally gave up counting bills and switched tasks. As I slipped quarters into coin rollers, I made a mental note to ask McBride if he’d made any progress in obtaining Cheryl Balboa’s phone records. The woman certainly would reap enormous financial rewards as Chip’s widow rather than as a divorcée. If McBride could prove she’d trailed her husband across the country and was in Brandywine Creek the night of Chip’s fatal fall, well, that would certainly move her up a notch on his persons of interest list.

  “I don’t understand why Chief McBride was at the remembrance.” Melly shot me a disapproving look when she saw me slip a nickel in with the quarters. “Doesn’t that man ever smile?”

  I started separating dimes from pennies. “I suppose McBride was there to observe. That’s part of his job description, his training.”

  Melly pursed her lips. “Well, if you want my opinion, it seems disrespectful. Let the dead rest in peace, I always say.”

  I snatched a penny in time to keep it from rolling off the counter, then looked up as the door opened, expecting to see Lindsey and Casey. Instead McBride strode into Spice It Up!, trailed by Officer Gary Moyer. My stomach lurched at the sight of McBride—and this time it had nothing to do with him being tall, dark, and hunky. McBride, I noted, had changed out of civvies and back into uniform. The expression on his face spelled trouble. “Well, speak of the devil…,” I muttered.

  Ignoring me, McBride went directly to Melly and handed her a folded document. �
��This is a warrant signed by Judge Herman to search the premises at 239 Jefferson Street.”

  Melly’s mouth opened and closed in astonishment.

  I snatched the paper from her and scanned the contents. Anger and frustration sizzled in my blood as I returned the document to her. “Unbelievable!” I fumed. “Why the search warrant? What do you expect to find in Melly’s home besides an AARP card?”

  “New evidence has come to light,” he said, still not looking at me. “We initially treated Balboa’s death as accidental and didn’t do an extensive search. Now, because of the report from the GBI, we have probable cause.”

  Before I could question him further, Lindsey burst into the shop. And she wasn’t alone. The young man with her was tall with short, wavy brown hair and hazel green eyes. If there were a shred of doubt in my mind as to his identity, it would have been dispelled by the name embroidered on his varsity jacket—SEAN ROGERS. I groaned silently. What a time she’d picked to introduce her family to her homecoming date.

  Lindsey skidded to halt when she spotted McBride. Her gaze traveled back and forth between me and her grandmother. Sean hung back, uncertain. “What’s wrong?” Lindsey asked.

  “Chief McBride dropped by to present your meemaw with a search warrant,” I told her. No point in sugar-coating the facts, I thought glumly. News like this spreads faster than kudzu.

  “What for?” Lindsey cried. “What did she do?”

  “I didn’t do a thing,” Melly replied, indignant. “The man is trying to justify his salary by harassing a law-abiding senior citizen.”

  Under ordinary circumstances, I would have smiled at hearing Melly play the senior citizen card. She did that only on rare occasions and only when it worked to her advantage. These, however, weren’t “ordinary” circumstances.

  Lindsey unfastened Casey’s leash, and the little mutt trotted over to sit at McBride’s feet, expecting his usual scratch behind the ears. Not even the hopeful gleam in the pup’s dark eyes softened McBride’s demeanor.

  I cleared my throat. “The warrant specifies chemical substances. Precisely what type of substances are you looking for, McBride? Illegal drugs?”

  Melly gasped at the implication. “That’s preposterous! The only drug I take is for high blood pressure.”

  Which was probably about to shoot through the roof, I thought. “When is this warrant going to be executed?”

  “My men are standing by, awaiting the word.” With that, McBride turned and left the shop with the silent Officer Moyer close behind.

  I dived into my pocket for my cell phone. “I’ll call CJ,” I told Melly. “I’ll ask him to meet us at your place.”

  Melly reached for her purse. “Tell him to get a move on.”

  We formed a caravan of sorts. McBride and Moyer in their squad car led the parade. Melly accompanied me in my Beetle, and Lindsey and Sean brought up the rear in his beat-up Impala. Much to Sean Rogers’s credit, the kid didn’t bolt and run at the first sign of trouble. Or maybe he just wanted a front-row seat at what would turn out to be a circus.

  Soon, drawn like fleas to a hound, a crowd began to gather on porches and sidewalks near Melly’s house. Gerilee Barker chanced to be taking Bruno, her black Lab, for a stroll. Thompson Gray’s mother, Mavis, muttered something about returning a book she’d borrowed. Jolene Tucker, no doubt alerted about the festivities by her husband, Beau, didn’t bother with pretense. In her haste, she hadn’t paused long enough to take the rollers from her hair. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be an eyewitness to the most exciting event since the Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival.

  CJ’s sleek Lexus screeched to a halt behind one of the police cars at the curb. He leaped out and jogged to where I stood with Melly. Lindsey and Sean remained at a short distance apart from the others. “What in Sam Hill’s goin’ on?” he thundered.

  “Apparently, McBride and his troops are looking for a chemical substance of some sort,” I explained.

  “Does the fool think Momma’s runnin’ a meth lab in her cellar?”

  “CJ, really!” Melly darted a look around. “What will the neighbors think at hearing that kind of talk?”

  CJ draped an arm across his mother’s slim shoulders. “Momma, you should be back at Piper’s restin’. Watchin’ all this can’t be good for a body.”

  “Nonsense.” Melly drew her sweater tighter. “I’m not going to sit by while a bunch of men ransack my home.”

  “Daddy,” Lindsey wailed. “Can’t you do something?”

  “Wish I could, baby.”

  “Isn’t Judge Herman an old friend of the family?” I asked. “He and your mother were bridge partners not long ago.”

  CJ frowned. “I gave Cot a call on the way over. He claimed his hands were tied. Told me to assure Momma this is nothin’ personal.”

  I could make out men’s figures moving back and forth inside the house. “What do you suppose they’re looking for?”

  “Damned if I know.” CJ tunneled his fingers through his salon-styled hair. “Chemical substances could be anythin’ from cough syrup to furniture polish.”

  “I’m scared, CJ,” I confessed in a low voice. “I don’t like the direction this is all heading.”

  “I’m scared, too, darlin’.” CJ slipped his free arm around my waist and pulled me closer.

  Leaning against him, I rubbed my cheek against his starched shirt and inhaled the familiar scent of his cologne. He felt strong, solid. Comforting. For a moment, it seemed almost like old times.

  The search of Melly’s house turned out to be mercifully brief. I straightened and drew away from CJ as McBride bounded down the steps, an evidence bag clutched in one hand. Lindsey and Sean moved closer until the five of us resembled refugees huddled against a storm.

  McBride went directly to Melly and held up an official-looking bag containing a small plastic bottle. “This yours?”

  “Yes, of course it’s mine,” she snapped. “Whom else would it belong to?”

  “What did you find, McBride?” CJ, his shoulders braced, stood as tall as his five-foot-ten-inch frame allowed. “As her attorney, I have a right to know what you consider evidence.”

  “Check your law books, CJ,” McBride said. “You’re jumping the gun. Far as I know, evidence isn’t shared until the discovery phase of a trial, and we’re not there … yet.”

  Clearly upset, Melly wrung her hands. “I don’t understand why I’m being treated like a common criminal. All this fuss because of a little disagreement about the low offer Trustychipdesign wanted to pay me. Why, any red-blooded person would’ve been insulted. Naturally, I was angry and upset. Who wouldn’t be?”

  “Momma”—CJ held up his hand—“on the advice of your son—and your attorney—don’t say another word.”

  Hearing CJ volunteer to represent his mother made me shudder. While he fancied himself Perry Mason, he lacked Perry’s finesse in front of a jury. His specialty was trip-and-falls that were settled out of court. Heaven forbid if Melly needed a criminal defense lawyer and chose him.

  CJ motioned toward the evidence bag. “What’s this all about, McBride?”

  A tick would have merited more attention. “Mrs. Prescott,” McBride addressed Melly, “you need to come down to the department for fingerprinting.”

  Melly’s eyes widened with shock. “Whatever for? I’m no felon.”

  “Just routine,” McBride informed her, his tone neutral. “We need to exclude your prints in case more than one set are present on the container.”

  “Don’t you worry none, Momma,” CJ said, then turned to McBride. “I’m comin’ along.”

  McBride headed for his patrol car. “Suit yourself.”

  “We’ll all go,” I said with finality. “Times like this, families need to stick together.”

  “We’re coming, too, Meemaw,” Lindsey called out. I noticed she and Sean were holding hands.

  “Remember, Chief McBride said this is only routine.”

  Melly shook her head. “All this
bother over a little bottle of eyedrops. I swear, I don’t know what this world’s coming to.”

  “Eyedrops?” CJ’s voice rose. “Is that what McBride took as evidence? You sure ’bout that?”

  “Son, I saw the container plain as day.” She took my arm as we turned to leave. “I often suffer from eyestrain after staring at a computer monitor hours on end. I keep eyedrops on my kitchen table along with a few pens and pencils in a sweetgrass basket I bought years ago at the City Market in Charleston. You know … the kind of basket the Gullah ladies make.”

  CJ stood planted on the walk and scratched his head. “Don’t see how eyedrops could get you into a heap of trouble. McBride’s had it in for me ever since our scuffle in high school. Might be this is his way of gettin’ back at me.”

  I steered Melly through the looky lous, toward my car. “This isn’t about you, CJ,” I reminded him over my shoulder. “It’s about your mother.”

  And a bottle of eyedrops—not to mention Chip Balboa’s dead body.

  CHAPTER 19

  WHY ARE GOOD HABITS so difficult to acquire and so easy to lose? The morning after Melly’s fingerprinting, it was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. That is if sneakers, hoodie, and ball cap could be equated with a saddle. I needed to resume my jogging routine, which had been disrupted ever since Melly had found a body in her basement.

  Casey watched me tie the laces of my sneakers, his tail thumping rhythmically on the floor. His button-bright eyes gleamed with anticipation. He was telling me in doggy terms he’d also missed our morning runs.

  “All righty, boy,” I whispered, reaching for his leash. I quietly closed the kitchen door behind us, not wanting to wake Melly. Lindsey had already left for school. Together Casey and I ran down the stairs as noiselessly as possible and slipped out the rear door into the vacant lot behind my shop.

  “Hey, Scooter. Care for company?”

  I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of CJ’s voice. My hand flew to my chest, where I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage. Casey, bless his furry little soul, growled low in his throat, read to serve and protect.