by Gail Oust
“Doug was acting very strangely, standoffish. At first, I thought he was angry with me.” I waited a heartbeat for Lindsey to say something, but when she didn’t speak, I continued. “Turns out, he wasn’t angry at all, but hurt. Seems he’d phoned a number of times, but couldn’t understand why I never returned his calls.”
Lindsey remained quiet.
“He said that each time, he’d left a message with you and asked that I return his call.”
“Guess I forgot,” Lindsey said, sounding defensive. “You know how busy senior year can be. Between cheer practice and getting ready for homecoming and pep week, there’s never time.”
Granted, there was a grain of truth in Lindsey’s words, but it was what she didn’t say that bothered me. “That’s what I told Doug.”
“If that isn’t enough, there’s always a quiz to study for or an essay to write. I hardly have a minute to myself,” Lindsey whined. She stood and picked up Casey, who lathered her chin with kisses. “Are you finished?”
“Not quite. Is there anything else you might’ve forgotten to tell me?” I asked, giving Lindsey an opportunity to explain why she’d told Doug that her father and I had been spending time together.
Lindsey studied the ceiling. “Um … now that you mention it, Doc called tonight while you were out. I told him you were at Lowe’s.”
“Did he leave a message?”
“He wanted you to call him back if it wasn’t too late. Is that all?” she asked plaintively. “I have to get up early and still need to dry my hair.”
Oh, to have so many pressing demands on my time. “G’night, Linds.” I sighed. “In the future when someone calls, write it down on the notepad next to the phone.”
“Whatever.” In her haste to leave, she’d shed the damp towel that had been wrapped around her wet hair.
I climbed out of bed, picked it off the floor, and folded it. I’d been under the impression Lindsey liked Doug. She had been on his pit crew during the annual Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival last July. She occasionally worked at his animal clinic. Now she habitually “forgot” to relay his messages. What was that about? And then there was all the talk about divorced couples remarrying each other. Even with CJ’s impending marriage to Amber, did Lindsey still harbor hope for the two of us reuniting like in some made-for-television movie?
The clock on the nightstand told me it was too late to return Doug’s call. I resolved to phone him first thing in the morning. Yawning, I returned the towel to the bathroom towel rack. Lindsey wasn’t the only one with a busy day ahead. A visit to the Turner-Driscoll House was in order. I planned to pump Felicity for information on Rusty and Chip’s argument.
And I planned to be an uninvited guest at CJ and Amber’s little dinner party. I was curious to learn more about Troy, Reba Mae’s fantasy pool boy. What sort of man was he? Did he possess a volatile temper? Or was he the type easily manipulated by others? And last but by no means least, did he stand to benefit from Chip Balboa’s death? Tomorrow promised to prove interesting.
CHAPTER 22
“I CAN’T TELL you how sorry I am,” Melly said for the zillionth time.
“It was an accident, Melly,” I replied for the zillionth time. “Accidents happen.”
I finished my morning coffee, rinsed my cup, and put it in the dishwasher. I was feeling virtuous after having gotten up early for my run. I’d half-expected to find CJ on my doorstep, but there’d been no sign of him. I couldn’t wondering if he’d given up on being in tip-top shape or if he was delaying further exertion until his consultation with a personal trainer.
Melly brushed crumbs from her English muffin off her navy slacks. “Well, I insist on paying Ned for the installation.”
No sooner had she spoken than a knock on the rear door signaled Ned’s arrival. I hurried downstairs and let him in. He’d arrived promptly at nine o’clock, as promised.
“Hey, Miz Piper.” He doffed his ever-present ball cap with its Georgia bulldog logo and gave me a loopy grin that never failed to put me in mind of the Gomer Pyle character ably played by Jim Nabors. “Heard you needed an expert.”
“Come in,” I said, stepping aside. I’d briefly considered doing the installation myself rather than trust Ned Feeney. I didn’t share Melly’s conviction that he was the right man for the job, but since she was holding the purse strings …
Ned followed me up the stairs. “I told Miz Melly that I’d be more ’n’ happy to fix you up. Told ’er I wouldn’t charge y’all an arm and a leg, either.”
“We appreciate that, Ned,” I said, entering the kitchen.
“Morning, Ned.” Melly greeted him. “Care for a cup of coffee? Piper always likes those fancy kinds. Today she made us Blue Mountain coffee all the way from Jamaica.”
She referred to an extravagance of mine. Kona from Hawaii. Blue Mountain from Jamaica. I usually hoarded them for special occasions—or when my sprits needed a boost. Once, feeling generous, I’d brought a thermos of freshly brewed Kona coffee and blueberry muffins to McBride. Of course, I’d hoped for something in exchange, in the form of information. Typical McBride, he was stingy as usual.
“No thanks, ma’am,” Ned said. “Filled up on coffee at the Gas and Go. One more punch on my Coffee Club Lover’s card, and I get a free twelve-ounce cup of their house blend.”
Call me a snob, but anyone who prefers Gas and Go coffee—which tastes like varnish—over beans grown in Jamaica is unworthy of my precious cache.
Ned jiggled the tool belt sagging from his scrawny waist. Pliers, screwdriver, and wrench clanked together. “Brought my tools. Never know what you might need. Be prepared’s my motto.”
I was tempted to remind Ned that his motto “Be Prepared” also belonged to the Boy Scouts of America. If memory served, it was also the title of a song from The Lion King. Given more time, I’d hum a few bars.
“Show me to it,” Ned said, rubbing his palms together.
I motioned at the box on the kitchen floor. Ned read the description printed on the label, then nodded knowingly. “You picked a good one, Miz Piper. Stainless steel flange and all. This baby oughta last a long time, unless you go droppin’ spoons down the drain.”
Melly winced. I rushed to sidetrack yet another apology that had started to form. “I’ll leave you to get started on the disposal, Ned. If you need anything, Melly will be close by.”
“Piece of cake. Nothin’ to it.” Ned hitched up his baggy jeans. “Could install this little number in my sleep.”
“Great,” I replied as I headed down to Spice It Up! “Nice to know I can leave the installation in your capable hands.”
Since I still had time before opening for business, I grabbed the feather duster and started making the rounds. I’d barely had time to flick the duster over jars of cinnamon and cloves in the Hoosier cabinet when Melly hollered down for me. “Piper! Quick! Get up here!”
I dashed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Casey, instantly awake from one of his multitude of naps, bounded after me. I slid to a halt on the threshold of the kitchen. Casey, the victim of too much momentum, sailed across the floor on a sea of water and sewage that spilled from a pipe below the sink.
Ned—half in, half out of the cabinet—pressed his hand against the pipe gushing waste, futilely attempting to staunch the tide. Melly watched the goings-on, horrified. I grabbed a mop bucket and, sidestepping the mess, shoved it under the leak to catch what hadn’t already drained out.
“Didn’t see that one comin’.” Ned eased out from beneath the counter and accepted the towel I handed him.
“Gracious!” Melly exclaimed.
“Not to fear, Miz Piper. I’ll have this mess cleaned up in a jiffy,” Ned assured me.
My cell phone buzzed just then. As luck would have it, Felicity Driscoll was calling to ask if I carried fenugreek. I assured her I not only stocked fenugreek seeds but would also be more than happy to deliver them personally. I overruled her objections and said I’d run them right over.
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“Melly,” I said, turning to my former mother-in-law. “I need to take Felicity something. I shouldn’t be long.”
She brightened. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll mind your little shop if you’re not back by ten.”
Melly loved playing shopkeeper. If anything, she loved it a tad too much. Once, when I’d been running errands, she took it upon herself to rearrange all my spices alphabetically. Another time, she’d made changes on my pricey point-of-sale software without asking. I shuddered to think what creative “improvements” she might make in my absence.
“Thanks,” I said. I snatched my purse and left.
Minutes later, Felicity, perfectly groomed, met me at her door. “So nice of you to do this, Piper. I’m making curry tonight. The recipe calls for fenugreek seeds. Naturally, I thought of you.”
“The seeds need to be ground to release their flavor. They combine well with cardamom,” I said, handing her the small jar. “I planned to call you later today. There are some questions I’d like to ask. Do you have a couple minutes?”
“Your timing’s perfect. I was just about to sit down for a cup of coffee.”
I followed her down the long marble entry hall to the kitchen. The kitchen, large enough to accommodate a small restaurant or café, was as modern as the rest of the house was antebellum. The appliances were high-end stainless steel; the countertops, pale quartz. White glass-fronted cabinets stretched to a high ceiling and were filled with neatly stacked china and crystal. The most stunning feature, however, was the view. A bank of windows overlooked a meticulously landscaped yard and gardens with flowering shrubs. Because the weather had been unseasonably mild, many plants, such as clematis and knock-out roses, were reblooming. A gazebo stood in the center, the perfect site for a wedding.
“Have a seat.” Felicity gestured toward a table and six ladder-back chairs. She poured dark, rich coffee into thick white mugs and set them on the distressed wooden table along with a plate of iced cinnamon rolls speckled with dried currants. “I made these for my guests, but they decided to sleep in.”
How could anyone in their right mind refuse homemade cinnamon rolls? It was downright uncivilized. I wouldn’t dream of insulting my hostess by declining her gracious offer, so I took the only option open and helped myself.
“The coffee beans are from Ethiopia,” Felicity said, taking a seat that gave her an unrestricted view of the garden.
I’d probably be hyper for the rest of the day, considering all the caffeine I’d consumed, but I’d take my chances. “Felicity,” I said, breaking off a small piece of cinnamon roll, “you mentioned something at Chip’s remembrance that started me thinking. You told me the two partners argued the night of the accident.”
“Goodness, I’d nearly forgotten.” Felicity spread a cloth napkin embroidered with violets across her lap. “I happened to be delivering fresh linens to one of my guest rooms when I overheard raised voices.”
I sampled my coffee and wasn’t surprised to find it as delicious as advertised. “Did you hear what the men were arguing about?”
Her mouth turned down in distaste. “I don’t like to be a teller of tales.”
“Normally, I wouldn’t ask it of you.” I crossed my fingers under the table, where she couldn’t see. “Problem is, I’m worried sick about Melly. I thought if I knew more about Chip and Rusty’s relationship, it might shed some light on what happened later. Often even the smallest detail can turn out to be significant.”
Felicity regarded me in silence for a long moment, then nodded slowly, her decision made. “Since you put it in that light,” she said. “Their disagreement had to do with business. Rusty seemed angry that Trustychipdesign was losing market share. He blamed Chip for its recent poor performance. Rusty accused Chip of allowing his personal life to interfere with work.”
I popped the last morsel of the roll into my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you recall anything else?”
“How shall I phrase this?” Felicity watched a Carolina wren flit through the boughs of a Japanese maple. “Rusty … suggested … Chip might consider stepping down, resigning.”
I leaned back in my chair. That didn’t seem like a simple disagreement.
“It’s not as harsh as it sounds,” Felicity said as though reading my mind. “I’m certain Rusty regretted the words he said in the heat of the moment. He was genuinely distraught after hearing his friend had passed. I’m convinced the lovely remembrance service he initiated was his way of making amends.”
I finished the last of my coffee and neatly refolded my linen napkin. “One more thing, Felicity. Do you know where Rusty was the night Chip was killed?”
“Why, he was right here. He spent the entire evening in his room. I assumed he was working.”
“Did you actually see him?”
Felicity pondered the question. “Well, I can’t say that I did. He kept the door of his room closed, but his light was on, so I presumed he was there. I was arranging flowers in the entrance hall. I certainly would have seen him come down the stairs.”
Rusty’s alibi seemed a slam dunk. I’d reached a dead end. Nothing against Rusty personally, but after hearing about his argument with Chip, I’d hoped it would take the investigation in another direction.
“Thanks for the coffee and cinnamon roll,” I said. As I rose to my feet, another thought struck me. “Felicity, is there another set of stairs, by any chance?”
“You’re forgetting this house was built before the war.” Felicity chuckled.
I’d lived south of the Mason–Dixon Line long enough to know she referred to the war—the War Between the States, as Southerners call it. They’re quick to point out there was nothing “civil” about the conflict.
“Most of these homes,” Felicity continued, “have a servants’ stairs tucked away. The Turner-Driscoll House is no exception.”
My mind churned with possibilities. In this day and age, a servants’ staircase would nicely serve a teenager trying to sneak out after curfew. Or a guest trying to leave unnoticed. “Is it still in use?”
“My darlin’ girl,” she drawled, “everything here gets used. Waste not, want not.”
I wanted to question her further, but my cell phone jingled. It was Melly. “Come home right this instant. It’s an emergency.”
“Melly!” I shouted into the phone. But too late, she’d already hung up. “Sorry, Felicity, gotta run.”
I drove the short distance home in a panic. My panic ratcheted up a notch at the sight of an ambulance, lights flashing, outside Spice It Up! I parked haphazardly at the curb. A cluster of people was starting to gather on the sidewalk. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Thompson Gray from Gray’s Hardware; Bitsy Johnson-Jones, the clerk at Proctor’s Cleaners; and Shirley Randolph, a real estate agent at Creekside Realty. Shirley put out a hand to waylay me, but I shook it off. Had something happened to Melly? A heart attack? A fall? Should I notify CJ? I flew up the stairs, the blood roaring in my ears.
I came to a screeching halt at the sight of two burly EMTs kneeling on the kitchen floor, tending to Ned Feeney. Melly hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands. From what I could see, she appeared upset but not injured. Ned, on the other hand, was another story. Casey was content to watch the proceedings from the relative shelter of the living room doorway.
Ned sat upright, legs splayed, a dazed expression on his face, eyes unfocused. One of the EMTs pressed a blood-soaked bandage against a gash on Ned’s forehead. The other waved two fingers in front of Ned’s face. “How many fingers do you see?” he ordered.
Ned blinked. “Four?”
“Mr. Feeney … Ned…,” the EMT said, “we’re going to take you to the emergency room. Let the doctor check you out. You probably have a concussion.”
“Okeydokey.” Ned gave the men a slack-jawed grin. “Didn’t see that one comin’. That durn garbage disposal has it in for me. Nowhere near as easy as it looks on YouTube.”
I turned to Melly. “What happened?”
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nbsp; “Ned was on his back under the sink. I don’t think he realized how heavy, or how slippery, the old disposal would be once he removed the last bolt. It fell and struck him on the head. I heard the thunk clear from the living room.” She wagged her head sorrowfully. “I found Ned knocked out colder than a cucumber.”
First, sewage spilled all over the floor when Ned started to disconnect the plumbing. Next, the disposal had fallen on the poor guy’s head instead of into his hands. Both accidents, I knew, could have been avoided with a little planning.
“Too bad that YouTube video didn’t come with a warning to ‘Be Prepared,’” I commented to Melly as the EMTs hoisted Ned onto a gurney.
CHAPTER 23
FROM THE WAY Melly fingered her pearls—which I was beginning to regard as worry beads—I could see she was still upset by Ned’s unfortunate accident. “I’m afraid I’m not very good in an emergency,” she fretted. “I just fall to pieces.”
My kitchen resembled the aftermath of a tornado. Tools and bloody bandages, along with various and sundry parts of my new garbage disposal, littered the floor. Ignoring the mess, I took a box of tea bags and a pretty mug from the cupboard. “Nothing like a cup of chamomile tea to settle the nerves,” I said, putting the kettle on to boil.
Melly sank onto the nearest chair. “I’ll be more myself once I’m home again.”
“You know you’re welcome to stay with Lindsey and me as long as you like.”
“No offense, dear”—Melly smiled wanly—“but nothing compares to being in your own home, surrounded by your own things.”
While waiting for the water to boil, I straightened the kitchen. “I’ll ask McBride how much longer he thinks that might be.”
“I’d be forever grateful if you did. The less I have to speak to that odious man, the better.”