Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  I turned to Melly. “Why don’t you go upstairs and rest.”

  “I will right after I call Reba Mae and ask her to squeeze me in. I can’t go to the Grangers’ party tonight looking a mess. What will people think?”

  “They’ll think you just survived a terrible experience.” I donned the yellow apron that Lindsey had hastily discarded. “You can’t be serious about going to the Oktoberfest after everything that’s happened?”

  “I not only can, but I will be at that party. I’m not about to give the gossipmongers in this town any more ammunition. Now,” she said, heading toward the stairs, “I think I’ll make a phone call and take that nap.”

  I longed for a nap, too. It had been after one o’clock in the morning before the doctor had signed my discharge papers. Lindsey had stayed the entire time and driven me home. But my siesta would have to wait.

  * * *

  A steady parade of customers passed through the shop. Most dropped by to tell me how happy they were that I suffered no ill effects after my harrowing escape. Others hailed me as a hero for saving Melly’s life. Some lowered their voices and confided they were praying Melly would find a way out of the “depths of despair.” One, who shall remain anonymous, had the gall to sympathize with Melly’s “desire to end her life.” The person expounded that no life at all was preferable to one behind bars. Fortunately, Melly was at the beauty shop and wasn’t around to overhear the remarks.

  My phone rang, and I excused myself from a particularly odious do-gooder. At hearing Doug’s voice, my mood lifted considerably.

  “I must be living in a vacuum,” he said. “I just heard a few minutes ago about what happened. I can’t believe Lindsey didn’t call me last night. Are you all right?”

  “Other than needing a cat nap, I’m fine,” I assured him.

  “How’s Melly?”

  “She’s at the Klassy Kut right now, having her hair done. She’s determined to go to the party tonight, come hell or high water.”

  “Wish I could run over and see for myself that you’re all right and not just putting on a brave front. Unfortunately, I can’t leave the clinic untended. A Yorkie devoured a slice of chocolate birthday cake. He’s recovering, but I need to keep an eye on him.”

  “Any luck finding a receptionist?”

  “Not yet, but I think the situation is about to change. I’ll keep you posted, but right now I’ve got a couple worried dog owners coming up the walk.”

  “See you tonight.”

  I’d no sooner disconnected than Dottie Hemmings charged in. “I couldn’t believe my eyes!” she said, waving her hands wildly. “Here I was at the Klassy Kut, waitin’ on Reba Mae to pick up a can of hair spray, and who waltzes in? Melly Prescott, bless her heart, that’s who. Been me after what she’s been through, I’da been curled up in bed, the covers pulled over my head.”

  “Melly’s determined to go to Oktoberfest tonight.”

  “You sure she’s up to all the excitement?” Dottie wagged her head. “She’s not gettin’ any younger.”

  “Well, far be it from me to break the news.” Knowing Dottie wasn’t here to shop, I used the temporary lull to restock a shelf with small bags of whole nutmegs. Ten seconds of rubbing one against a small-holed grater yielded a half teaspoon of aromatic fresh ground nutmeg, I liked to advise customers.

  “Your mother-in-law’s a strong-willed woman.” Dottie sighed, then brightened. “Wait till you see the costume I made for my husband the mayor to wear at the party.”

  I didn’t bother correcting Dottie about my relationship to Melly—or lack thereof. “Can’t wait.”

  “Wish I could stay and chat, but I have to finish hot-gluing plastic flowers to the suspenders he’s wearing with the lederhosen I made out of an old pair of overalls. Let me tell you, Herr Burgomeister will be the talk of the town.”

  Hizzoner the mayor in lederhosen? Oh my!

  I didn’t have time, however, to ponder the mental image Dottie had painted. McBride, his expression grim, strode into the shop. If the look on his face wasn’t cause for alarm, the object he carried was. I pointed to the evidence bag. “My birthday isn’t until February.”

  His expression lightened fractionally before dimming again. “I’m here to talk to your mother-in-law. She available?”

  “I don’t know why I have to keep reminding everyone that she’s my ex-mother-in-law.” I tucked a wayward curl behind one ear. “And no, she’s not available at the moment, but she should be back any minute if you care to stick around.”

  “Guess I don’t have much choice. I’m afraid I’ve delayed this interview too long as it is. She wasn’t in any shape to be questioned last night. By the time I got to the hospital today, they told me she’d been discharged. I have some questions for you as well.”

  I gestured toward the rear of the shop. “Step into my office. Have a seat,” I said, indicating a stool. While McBride looked on, I took the cookie dough I’d made days ago out of the fridge, unwrapped it, and placed it on the lightly floured surface of my worktable. To be honest, in all the commotion, I’d nearly forgotten about the lebkuchen.

  “So that’s how it’s done,” McBride muttered, watching me wield a rolling pin, then cut the dough into small rectangles.

  Not looking up, I carefully placed the cookies on a baking sheet. “What did you want to ask?”

  He cleared his throat. “Carbon monoxide can cause a hazy memory. I was wondering if you recalled any more details from last night.”

  “Just what I already told you.” I tried not to stare at the evidence bag he’d casually placed nearby, but subtle wasn’t part of my repertoire. “Is that the alleged suicide note?”

  He nodded.

  Before I had a chance to question him further, Melly, her hair freshly washed and styled, sailed into the shop. “Mercy!” she said, spotting McBride. “I can’t seem to rid myself of Brandywine Creek’s finest these days.”

  “Can’t be helped.” McBride rose. “I brought something along for you to examine.”

  “Very well,” she said in a martyred tone. “For your information, my son is having the heating system inspected. I’ll have the workman send you a copy of the report. I take full responsibility for what happened. I should have better maintained my furnace.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” McBride slid the evidence bag toward her. “Do you recognize this?”

  I slid the cookie sheet into the oven and scooted closer.

  Melly studied it from several different angles, then handed it back. “It appears to be my notepaper and my handwriting. How do you happen to have it?”

  “It was found on the floor of your kitchen last night.”

  Squinting, I tried to read Melly’s spidery cursive through the thick plastic. “What does it say?”

  “Two words,” McBride said. “‘I’m sorry.’”

  “Sorry for what?” I asked.

  Melly gave her head an impatient shake. “That could mean any number of things.”

  “Such as?” McBride hooked his thumbs in his belt.

  Melly threw up her hands. “I’m sorry I missed your birthday. I’m sorry I can’t attend your garden party. I’m sorry I forgot to water your African violets while you were on vacation. Pick any one of the above.”

  “In view of what happened last night, there are those who think it might’ve been a suicide note.”

  “Rubbish!” Melly flung her purse on the counter. “Why would folks even think such a thing, much less say it out loud? Don’t they have better things to do?”

  “You know how people love gossip, Melly,” I soothed. “Some thrive on drama.”

  Hands on her hips, Melly addressed McBride. “You can’t actually believe I tried to take my own life.”

  He gave a small shrug. “That was the initial assumption after finding the note you’d written. The theory tossed about was that you were responsible for Chip Balboa’s death and couldn’t face the guilt—or the penalty.”

  Melly looked McBride squa
re in the eye. “Seems to me, young man, I’ve already been tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion. Are you here to arrest me? If so, I’d like to call my attorney.”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Mrs. Prescott. Granted the case against you is circumstantial, but it doesn’t look good. However, I still have a few unanswered questions so I’m holding off on making an arrest for the time being.”

  I heard Melly gasp. Cocking my head, I studied the man with the shiny gold badge pinned to crisp navy blues. McBride was a “damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead” kind of guy. He’d do his sworn duty and worry about the consequences later. “You’re leaving something out, McBride—and it isn’t because you’ve developed a sudden fondness for grandmotherly types.”

  McBride brought out his notebook and flipped it open. “Let’s review what happened last night.”

  When he finished reciting the details I’d recalled in the emergency room, he zapped me with his laser blues. “Did I miss anything?”

  Where was this conversation heading? I wondered.

  McBride turned to Melly. “I returned to your home, Mrs. Prescott, after leaving the hospital last evening. Just as Piper mentioned, the light switches on the main level weren’t functioning. The thermostat on the furnace was jammed. And last but not least, the phone line had been severed.”

  Melly frowned. “Coincidence?”

  “I’m not a big believer in coincidence,” McBride admitted. “When I took a good look around, I discovered the fuse box in the basement, as well as the thermostat, appeared to have been tampered with. The phone line leading into the house had been cut.”

  “Surely, you can’t think Melly did all that?” I asked in disbelief.

  “No one doubts that your … ex- … mother-in-law is a very shrewd woman. She’s perfectly capable of doing all three of those things. It’s also possible the phone line could’ve been cut accidentally when someone mowed her lawn. It’s possible, too, that someone wanted her death to appear a suicide.”

  Melly’s brow furrowed. “But why?”

  McBride slipped the notebook into his pocket. “With you out of the picture, Chip Balboa’s case would likely come to a dead end and be closed. The real killer would be home free. Until I conclude my investigation, I want you ladies to stay extra vigilant.”

  His gaze lingered on me a couple of extra beats; then he was gone. Attempted suicide versus attempted murder?

  I didn’t like the choices.

  CHAPTER 29

  THE GRANGERS MUST have invited the entire town to their Oktoberfest celebration. Even at a distance, I could hear the sounds of Zeke Blessing and his blues band performing a down South rendition of oompah music. My mind, though, wasn’t on music, parties, or parking spots. It was on persons of interest. Instead of eliminating suspects, I’d gone and added one—Cheryl Balboa—back on my list. What did that say about my sleuthing skills? The answer was simple: not very much. Rather than add, I needed to eliminate. Cheryl, Troy, or Rusty? Where should I start? Cheryl Balboa, that’s where. My plan to revisit the no-tell motel last night had been interrupted by a detour to the emergency room, but tonight would work just as well. A quick look-see was all it would take. A visit would either rule her out or keep her on my short list. Child’s play, right? And I’d do it before the night was over.

  Frustrated at seeing cars line both sides of the road, I heaved a sigh. Finding a parking space, even one small enough to accommodate my Beetle, would be a challenge. I disliked the thought of having to hike half a mile to reach the Grangers not so much for myself, but because I didn’t cotton to the notion of Melly venturing over unfamiliar terrain in the dark.

  “I’m going to feel as though I’m under a microscope,” Melly fretted. “Maybe I should’ve stayed at your place.”

  I slowly cruised past a cavalcade of parked SUVs and sedans. “If the evening gets to be too much for you, Melly, we can leave early.”

  “Folks will either flock around me like carrion or avoid me like a pariah.” Melly stared straight ahead. “I can’t believe people I’ve known all my life would even think for a minute I’d try to take my own life.”

  “Umm … that’s human nature.” I debated the wisdom of trying to squeeze between the front bumper of a Cadillac and the rear bumper of Mercedes but thought better of it. My “squeezing” left a lot to be desired. “Give everyone time, and they’ll find something new to gossip about.”

  “Mmm, I suppose,” Melly said, but she sounded doubtful.

  “Why don’t I drop you at the foot of the drive so you can join the party while I look for a place to park?”

  “Fine.”

  As soon as I slowed to a stop, Joey Tucker, Beau and Jolene’s middle boy, ran to greet us. “Hey, Miz Prescott.”

  “Hey, Joey.”

  “Mr. Granger hired a bunch of us seniors to be parking valets. Guys got to drive some really cool cars. Carter parked Mr. Wainwright’s Porsche. Neatest of all, Randall drove Mr. Bowtin’s ’67 Corvette Stingray, since he’s the only one who knows how to drive a stick shift. How cool is that?”

  “Pretty cool.” I couldn’t help smiling at Joey’s unbridled enthusiasm for a classic car. It was good to know that at least one member of the Tucker family didn’t bear a grudge for the patriarch’s being on probation.

  Joey opened the VW’s passenger door for Melly, then hurried around to open mine. “We drew straws to see who got to park the hottest cars. I lost.”

  “Sorry about that.” I reached into the back for the lebkuchen I’d brought. Joey hopped inside the Beetle and adjusted the seat. “Doc Winters said if I saw you that I should tell you he’d be waiting near the food tent.”

  Hundreds, maybe thousands, of multicolored lights sparkled among the tree branches. A blue and white banner strung across the drive bade guests WILLKOMMEN. Lanterns lit the walkway leading to the outdoor festivities. The throaty blast from a tuba and playful notes of an accordion signaled the party was in full swing.

  “Showtime,” Melly announced.

  Upon seeing us, the crowd parted as if by magic. I stole a glance at Melly. Head held high, she sailed through undaunted, nodding and smiling at friends and acquaintances as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired. I felt proud of her. Under her sweater sets beat the heart of a steel magnolia.

  A large tent had been designated for food. Judging from the tall stacks of dinnerware, the meal would be served buffet style. Long tables covered in white cloths held an assortment of chafing dishes. Several smaller tables were set aside for desserts. A gas grill large enough to roast a cow occupied the far end of an outdoor kitchen Bobby Flay would covet. Pete Barker in a tall chef’s hat and wielding tongs guarded a mound of sausages.

  “Hey, pretty lady.” Doug materialized at my side and snatched the plate of cookies from my hand. Not caring who watched, he kissed me soundly. Self-conscious at the public display of affection, I gently disengaged myself. Melly cleared her throat, but not the least bit repentant, Doug winked at her. I’d overheard people refer to Doug as my “boyfriend.” Part of me wrestled with the term. It’s probably just me, but “boyfriend” seemed more suited for kids Lindsey’s age, not adults over forty. On the other hand, Doug and I saw each other frequently, didn’t date others, and enjoyed each other’s company. Maybe that did qualify to make us boyfriend and girlfriend. As soon as the situation with Melly was resolved, I promised myself to give more consideration to how our relationship was perceived by others.

  Melly rearranged some platters on the dessert table to make room for my cookies. “You young people mingle. I’ll be fine once I have a glass of wine.”

  “Liquid refreshments are over there.” Doug pointed toward a tent with a red and white striped awning where people were lined three deep. “They’re serving beer along with several German wines, including Riesling.”

  Melly was quickly swallowed up by the throng. Turning, Doug produced two glasses of wine he’d hidden behind a tiered plate of cookies. His boyishly yout
hful face wore a worried expression. Brown eyes usually brimming with humor looked anxious. “I’m not about to let you out of my sight for an instant. I don’t want to lose you. It scares me to death to think what almost happened last night.”

  I summoned a smile. “Then let’s not think about it.”

  “All right,” he said, taking my hand. “Did I tell you that you look particularly fetching in that getup?”

  “Women never tire of compliments.” I dropped a curtsy. I’d resurrected a costume I worn ages ago to a Halloween party—a peasant blouse and red dirndl skirt cinched at the waist with a corset that laced. From what I’d seen so far, the dress code varied from pseudo-Bavarian to country club casual.

  Hand in hand, we followed Melly’s suggestion and began to mingle. We hadn’t progressed far when we met CJ and Amber. CJ and I stared at each other for a protracted moment, then burst out laughing.

  “You must be Gretel.” CJ grinned.

  I grinned back. “And you must be Hansel.” CJ must have remembered that long-ago party as well, for he was in lederhosen—worn a little lower than the last time to allow for an expanding waistline—and a natty alpine hat set at a jaunty angle.

  “Hansel and Gretel,” Amber drawled. “My, my, don’t y’all make a cute couple.”

  I eyed Amber’s short, short skirt and low, low neckline. A wide girdle was laced so tightly that two grapefruit-sized medical enhancements threatened to spill over the bodice of her peasant blouse. Thigh-high white stockings were tied with black grosgrain ribbons. “And you must be Gretchen,” I said, “the sexy beer girl.”

  Amber twirled a pigtail around an index finger. “Aren’t you supposed to be babysittin’ Melly?”

  “Melly doesn’t need a sitter,” I said stiffly.

  “Amber’s fixin’ to come over one day soon. Take Momma out to lunch. Maybe visit the mall for some retail therapy.”

  Amber rested her head on CJ’s shoulder and smirked. “Like I told Pooh Bear, I think it best to wait a bit. Make sure his mother’s … more stable.”

  “Melly Prescott happens to be one of the most ‘stable’ people I know,” I snapped. “Present company included.”