by Gail Oust
“Your mother sends her regards, CJ,” I said, accepting the glass.
CJ took a swig of Wild Turkey. “How’s Momma these days?”
“Just peachy, considering she’s a murder suspect.” I took a sip of my Chardonnay, enjoying the cold, crisp taste. I preferred my wines sweeter, but as Chardonnays go, this wasn’t half bad. “I’m trying to convince your mother to stay with me until Chief McBride arrests the person responsible for Chip’s murder.”
Cheryl didn’t meet my eyes. Neither did Troy.
“We’d have invited CJ’s mother to stay with us,” Amber hastily explained for the benefit of her guests, “but with paint fumes an’ all, we didn’t think it would be good for her. Poor dear, she’s gettin’ on in years.”
I gazed around the room in frank admiration. As much as it irked me to admit, the new paint colors were … transformative. Instead of plain vanilla, the walls and throw pillows were soft muted shades of blues and greens. New artwork also added a nice touch. “The color palette your decorator chose is truly amazing.”
“Mona referred to it as ‘Summer in Savannah.’” Amber smiled condescendingly.
I smiled back. “Funny, I think of summers in Savannah as hot and sweaty. At least that’s the way I remember from the times CJ, the kids, and I vacationed on nearby Tybee Island. Isn’t that right, CJ?”
CJ sank deep into the sectional, rested his arm along the back. “Ninety-five in the shade—if you could find any—and humidity just as high.”
“Before you barged in, Piper,” Amber said stiffly, “Troy was about to tell us about a business venture.”
“I’m all ears.” I sipped my wine.
Cheryl gave a practiced head toss that sent blond highlighted hair whipping over her shoulder. If I tried that move, everyone would hear my vertebrae creak. “When we return to California, Troy intends to open a chain of fitness clubs.”
Troy leaned forward, his handsome face earnest. “Going to start off small—one, maybe two—in key locations in L.A. If all goes well, we’ll expand.”
“Our goal is to have one in every major city. New York, Chicago, Dallas, Phoenix, San Francisco.”
“Not Brandywine Creek?” My veiled attempt at humor bombed. No one cracked a smile. “Sounds ambitious,” I said after clearing my throat. “But aren’t there already a lot of fitness clubs?”
“Not like ours,” Cheryl corrected. “Ours will be cutting-edge. We’ll offer things like plyometrics, pound, Zumba, and spinning.”
Troy nodded as vigorously as a bobblehead doll. “Once we’re established, I want to add stand-up paddleboard yoga. Maybe even circus arts, provided I can find the right instructors.”
I pretended I knew what they were talking about. I knew jogging, had a passing acquaintance with yoga, but as for the others, I didn’t have a clue. “You must need a great deal of capital to set things in motion.”
Troy rested his hand lightly on Cheryl’s thigh. “Thanks to my girl, we’ll be able to start the ball rolling as soon as we get back.”
Not thanks to Cheryl. What he really meant was thanks to Cheryl’s money. Money Chip had accrued. I circled the rim of my wineglass with an index finger. “So this is a joint venture?”
“We’re still hoping to find investors.” Troy aimed the full wattage of his charm toward CJ.
CJ gulped Wild Turkey and headed to the bar for a refill.
CHAPTER 26
WHEN I ARRIVED home from jogging the next morning, Melly was busily packing her bags. “The coffee’s on. I used the Blue Mountain beans you seem to favor lately. Your granola and yogurt are on the table.”
Casey made a beeline for his water dish. I chugged down a glass from the tap. “Who’s going to have breakfast ready and waiting for me after you leave?”
“I’ll miss you, too, dear, but it’s high time I get out of your hair. I must admit, in spite of your many shortcomings, you’ve been a very gracious hostess. Some of our famous Southern hospitality must’ve rubbed off on you.” Melly placed her coffee cup in the dishwasher. “For the life of me, I don’t know why a body wants to live in a place where it’s cold enough to snow every winter.”
I placed a scoop of dog food in Casey’s dish and watched him chow down. “Lots of people enjoy the cold and snow. They stay active with sports like snowmobiling, cross-country or downhill skiing, even ice fishing on the lakes.”
“Brrr.” Melly shuddered. “If I’d grown up in Michigan like you did, my favorite winter pastime would be hibernation.”
“It’s not all that bad, really.” I poured myself coffee as I thought about what to say next—and how to say it. I didn’t want to frighten her, but I wanted her safe. I’d broached the subject last night, but without success. It was worth another try. “I know you’re innocent, Melly, but someone murdered Chip. I’m worried whoever killed him might return and harm you, too.”
“You fret too much.” Melly patted my arm. “Everything will be fine once I sleep in my own bed again, just you wait and see.”
As I sat down to breakfast, I vowed I’d keep close tabs on her. And I’d have CJ do the same.
Melly refilled my coffee cup before I knew it needed refilling. “By the way, I nearly forgot to tell you I researched Trustychipdesign like you asked.”
About to add a generous spoonful of granola to my yogurt, I paused. “What did you learn?”
Melly sat down opposite me, her expression troubled. “Strange as it sounds, given its position earlier this year, the company seems to be struggling to hold on to its share of the market. Unless Trustychipdesign comes up with a new or an improved product soon, several up-and-coming software businesses are poised to overtake it.”
“Interesting.” I began to eat, barely tasting my breakfast. What Melly had just told me dovetailed nicely with the argument Felicity had overheard between the partners. Rusty had been eager for change—and replacing Chip had been at the top of his list. Hmm … interesting. Too bad Rusty had an alibi. Or did he? Could he have left the Turner-Driscoll House undetected? The servants’ stairs would have provided an easy exit. The idea was worth investigating.
“Rusty and Chip never should have reneged on their initial offer,” Melly complained, sounding bitter. “My modifications would have given their company a much-needed boost. I just wasn’t about to hand over my hard work for a pittance. If they weren’t willing to pay me what it was worth, someone else would. I told Chip as much the night he tried to persuade me to change my mind.”
I hoped Melly didn’t air her grievance to just anyone. I knew she wouldn’t hurt a fly, but people like to talk, and some, I feared, could misinterpret what she said. And conclude she’d acted out of anger, frustration, or greed.
Glancing at the wall clock, I realized I’d better hurry if I wanted to open on time. “Melly, if your things are ready, I’ll help you carry them out to your car, but we’ll have to get a move on.”
“No need to bother. CJ already offered his assistance. He’s even going to follow me home and take my bags up to my room.” She rose from the table. “I was going to ask Ned, but the poor man is still in the hospital.”
* * *
The day passed quickly. Before I knew, it was time to meet Reba Mae for Friday-night football.
“Let’s get the hot dogs the Booster Club’s sellin’,” Reba Mae suggested as we wandered through the crowd, stopping here and there to chat with friends and acquaintances.
“Hot dogs are fine with me,” I said, nodding to Bitsy Johnson-Jones. “I swear the woman’s lost two dress sizes since spring. I barely recognize her these days.”
Reba Mae leaned in and lowered her voice. “Don’t spread it around, but she had her tummy stapled shut. Everyone in the Klassy Kut was talkin’ about how she went to Augusta to get it done.”
I sketched a cross over my heart. “Won’t tell a soul.”
“Hey, Jolene,” Reba Mae greeted the wife of Sergeant Beau Tucker, a plump blond loaded down with food and drinks. “Nice to see you with
out crutches. How’s the ankle?” she asked, referring to a tumble Jolene had taken some months back after a wild night of bunco.
“Hey, yourself, Reba Mae. My broke ankle healed just fine.” Jolene gave me a look that would have withered tomatoes on the vine, then stomped off without another word.
“What was that all about?” Reba Mae asked as we got in a line at the concession stand.
“I think she’s mad at me.”
“Why? What did you go and do now?”
I sighed a sigh worthy of Joan of Arc. “Beau thinks I’m to blame for him being put on probation.”
Reba Mae raised a brow. “Are you?”
“Guess it’s possible.” I studied the menu scrawled on a piece of plywood. “I might have coaxed a few details from Beau that should’ve been kept confidential. McBride wasn’t happy when he found out.”
Reba Mae wagged her head until her dangly earrings swayed. “Girl, keep that stuff up, and I’ll be the only friend you have left in this town. Tony Deltorro still holds a grudge for you pointin’ a finger in his direction.”
“Tony’s Sicilian. They’re programmed to bear grudges.”
“Danny Boyd and Marcy aren’t exactly members of your fan club, either,” Reba Mae reminded me.
I placed my order with the balding man behind the counter. “Danny and Marcy are young yet. They’ll get over it—eventually.”
“To this day, Danny skimps on the cheese whenever you order the pizza. And once he ‘forgot’ the mushrooms.”
“He needs time, is all. It’s not my fault Danny was a person of interest in a murder case. His alibi checked out okay. Cut me some slack. I’m an amateur when it comes to homicide investigations.”
“Whatever.” Reba Mae nudged me in the ribs. “Speaking of the mozzarella-skimpin’, mushroom-forgettin’ devil.”
Danny Boyd, a thin young man in his early twenties with fly-away hair and a wispy goatee, stood no more than three feet away, studying the menu board. I edged closer, an idea taking shape. Danny had provided Cheryl with an alibi for the night her husband was killed, but there were still questions I wanted answered. “Hey, Danny,” I said, aiming for casual and friendly.
At hearing his name, he looked over and gave me an uncertain smile. “Hey, Miz Prescott.”
“I’ve been wondering about something, Danny. Maybe you can put my mind at ease.”
His narrow shoulders rose and fell. “I’ll try.”
“Chief McBride mentioned you delivered pizza to Mrs. Balboa the night her husband died. Did you happen to notice her male friend in the motel room?”
“Nope,” he said. “Don’t know about any guy. All I saw was the chick.”
I made as if to turn away, then turned back. “One last question. Did you happen to notice a late-model BMW in the parking lot that night?”
“Not a Bimmer in sight. I would’ve noticed if there had been. That’s my dream car. Gonna buy me one when I win the lottery.”
“Next!” the man behind the concession stand bellowed.
Danny shuffled forward, digging for his wallet.
Our conversation might have ended, but my mind had shifted into overdrive. Reba Mae had listened to our exchange with a puzzled expression on her face. “What was that all about?”
I caught her arm and tugged her toward a table loaded with condiments. I lowered my voice. “What if Cheryl had been clever enough to establish an alibi for the night Chip was killed? Then, knowing the pizza delivery person could vouch for her whereabouts, she sneaked off down the road to where her lover was waiting with a car? The pair could have done the dirty deed and returned to the motel with none the wiser.”
Reba Mae heaped relish and ketchup on her hot dog. “Honeybun, try to sell that story to McBride, he’ll think you’re crazy as a betsy bug.”
I grimaced. That wasn’t exactly the response I’d hoped for, I thought as we slowly wandered back toward the bleachers. Maybe Troy had been the designated hit man all along and tracked Chip to Melly’s house. Or perhaps the pair had worked as a tag team. Cheryl could have spiked Chip’s drink with eyedrops, then sent Troy off to finish the job.
“Tomorrow’s the Grangers’ party,” Reba Mae said, taking a bite of her dog. “I finally decided what to bring—apple strudel.”
Only half-listening to Reba Mae ramble, I pondered ways to prove my newly hatched theory regarding Cheryl’s so-called alibi. Did the no-tell motel rooms have rear exits? A means to escape detection? If so, Cheryl Balboa was back on my persons-of-interest list. I decided, then and there, to scout out the Beaver Dam Motel soon as the game ended. But before I did that, I needed to check on Melly.
“You haven’t heard a single word I’ve said,” Reba Mae said, her tone accusatory.
“Of course I have. You were saying something about…” I drew a blank.
“Gotcha.” She smirked. She licked a dab of ketchup from her thumb. “I was sayin’ as how I was gonna make apple strudel.”
“Strudel sounds good.”
A cheer rose from the stands as the teams returned to the field.
“Clay bought a bushel of apples at a roadside stand while up in the North Georgia mountains. Winesap, Mutsu, Jonagold, and Rome beauty. The farmer told ’im all of ’em were good for cookin’ and eatin’.”
I made a concerted effort to corral my wayward thoughts—at least temporarily. “What was Clay doing in apple country?”
“The owner of the construction company he works for wanted Clay to do some repairs on a cabin of his.” Reba Mae’s mouth turned up in a cat-with-a-canary grin. “Clay’s seriously thinkin’ of quittin’ construction and gettin’ a degree in criminal justice.”
I stopped walking and stared at her. “You’re kidding?”
“Nope.” Reba Mae’s grin grew wider. “My boy’s finally got his head on straight. And I have Wyatt McBride to thank.”
“What does he have to do with any of this?” I asked as we resumed walking toward the stands. The crowd had thinned considerably, I noticed, since the game started.
“Clay’s come down with a huge case of hero worship. In his eyes, McBride can do no wrong. He’s hoping to get hired on the police force soon as he turns twenty-one. Course, he might end up like your Lindsey and change careers every other month.”
I took a bite of my hot dog while I processed Reba Mae’s news. True, Lindsey kept switching career choices, but lots of young people did. Now, at seventeen, she was filling out college applications with no particular goal in mind. Lindsey happened to be one of the youngest in her class. At times, I wished I’d held her back a year, but she’d pleaded and begged to start school with her friends. Hindsight is 20/20. Clichés are clichés for a reason.
We’d reached the bleachers. Reba Mae scanned the packed seats for a place for us to sit. “I think what put Clay over the top was seein’ a photo of McBride in an old People magazine. Wyatt was escortin’ a starlet to a movie premiere at South Beach.”
“Jennifer Jade.”
We whipped around at the sound of McBride’s baritone directly behind us.
“The starlet’s name was Jennifer Jade,” McBride said. He was in starched and pressed navy blues, obviously working, and looked formidable. “Ms. Jade was being stalked by some nut case. My lieutenant assigned me as her bodyguard.”
Reba Mae wanted details. “Jennifer Jade—that her real name?”
“As real as the rest of her.” McBride smiled and sauntered off.
Reba Mae caught the eye of Joe Johnson, former police chief and her uncle by marriage.
He motioned for us to join him, then wiggled his girth to make room beside him on the bleacher. “That your baby girl out there, jumpin’ around?” he asked, pointing a chubby finger at Lindsey.
“That’s her, all right, prettiest girl on the squad.”
He chuckled, then returned his attention to the game.
The teams were evenly matched. For a time, the score teetered back and forth. However, when halftime rolled around, the Brandy
wine Bearcats were down by a field goal.
Reba Mae rose and stretched. “Don’t know about you, honeybun, but I’m exhausted from all the cheerin’ and such. I need me some deep-fried Oreos.”
“I’ll go with you,” I volunteered, “but slap my hand if I try to grab one.”
“Deal.”
Outside the football field, people milled about or chatted in small groups. I trailed after Reba Mae, who had her heart set on cholesterol and calories. Suddenly, I gave her a nudge. “Look,” I said. “Do you see who I see?”
Coming toward us, larger than life, were CJ and Amber, along with Cheryl Balboa and Troy Farnsworth. “Hey, Scooter,” CJ said, greeting me like we were best buddies. “Didn’t know you were a big football fan.”
“I’m just one big surprise after another.” I tried to sound mysterious, but there wasn’t much mystery left after living with the same man for more than two decades.
Amber flipped long brown locks over her shoulder. “Reba Mae, is it true what I’m hearin’? You really gonna make your stage debut?”
“Rehearsals start next week.”
Amber treated us to a dazzling display of teeth too white—and in my humble opinion, too big. As the ex-wife, I felt obligated to find fault with the “other woman.” “Reba Mae’s going to have a starring role. She’s in every scene.”
“Pity my friend Cheryl”—she indicated Cheryl Balboa with a nod—“won’t be here. She majored in Performin’ Arts at Southern Cal. She could teach y’all a thing or two.”
“That so?” I filed this away in my bank of useless information. I’d witnessed Cheryl’s theatrics from a front-row seat in McBride’s office not long ago. If that had been an indication of her acting ability, she must have finished at the bottom of her class.
Reba Mae batted her lashes at Troy Farnsworth, her fantasy pool boy. “A small-town football game must seem pretty dull compared with an excitin’ life in L.A.”
He lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a lazy shrug. “One has to make do. Not many choices here on a Friday night.”
“I, for one, can’t wait to leave this town and never look back,” Cheryl said petulantly.