Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  Reba Mae inched behind me. “It’s too dark to see colors on a snake. What if I get bit?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll rush you to the ER.”

  “Thanks,” she grumbled. “I’ll do the same for you.”

  I stopped and swept my gaze across the back of the motel. Not a single rear exit in any of the guest rooms. So much for my theory. I was about to admit defeat when a thought occurred to me. Although they didn’t have a door, each room had a window—probably a bathroom window—that faced the woods. Ones that to my mind looked large enough for a person to wriggle through.

  “Reba Mae”—I turned with a grin—“you and I are about to embark on a scientific experiment.”

  “I hate when you use that tone of voice. It usually spells nothin’ but trouble.”

  “Follow me,” I said.

  I entered the motel office while Reba Mae elected to wait outside. “I’d like a room,” I announced.

  The desk clerk, a stoop-shouldered man with frayed gray strands of hair valiantly trying to camouflage a bald spot, barely glanced up. In a bored voice, he stated the price and slid an old-fashioned plastic key ring across the counter.

  I marched down the concrete walkway to room 127, two doors away from the one Cheryl and Troy had occupied, threw open the door, and switched on the light.

  Reba Mae wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What a dump!”

  I couldn’t disagree. The room exuded a musty odor not even disinfectant sprays could dispel. The furnishings consisted of faux walnut bed and dresser, dingy shag carpeting soiled in places, and faded gold-colored spread and drapes. “No wonder Cheryl bailed in favor of the Turner-Driscoll House.”

  “Can we go now?” Reba Mae asked plaintively.

  “Five minutes, tops. Soon as you climb out the bathroom window.”

  “Me? Why can’t you be the one doin’ the climbin’?”

  “Because I’m smaller than Cheryl, but you’re about the same size. If you can fit through, so could she. You don’t want Melly arrested while Cheryl gets off scot-free, do you?” I added when she looked about to refuse.

  “Orange is the new black, you know,” she informed me.

  The bathroom possessed the essentials: commode, sink, and a chipped porcelain tub. Just as I thought, the window was located over the tub, covered by a thin curtain on a metal rod.

  “If this isn’t the dumbest idea ever.” Reba Mae wagged her head but gamely stepped into the tub and shoved the curtain aside. “There’s a screen. What do I do now?”

  “Slide those two little doohickeys out of the way, and the screen should pop out.”

  It did, falling into the tub with a loud clatter. Reba Mae and I froze. Ears peeled, we strained to listen. I released a sigh of relief when I didn’t hear any sounds to indicate someone else had heard the crash and was coming to investigate.

  “Okay,” I said in a stage whisper. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

  Reba Mae muttered something unintelligible under her breath as she cranked open the window. A welcome blast of cool night air burst into the room. “Good thing I took gymnastics as a kid.”

  I watched as she levered one foot sideways against the rim of the tub, braced both hands on the sill, and heaved herself up. In a flash, she disappeared out the window—at least the top half of her body did. She wiggled her hips, once, twice, but nothing happened.

  “Stop it, Reba Mae,” I scolded. “Quit clowning around.”

  “I’m not cuttin’ up!” she yelled back. “I’m stuck!”

  “Hush! Let me help.” I climbed into the tub, grasped her thighs, and shoved.

  Nothing budged.

  “So help me, Piper Prescott, if you don’t get me out of here this instant, I’m gonna scream bloody murder.”

  “Shh, Reba Mae! I’m coming outside to yank on your arms.”

  I scrambled out of the tub, across the room, and out the door. A man’s face peered through a slit in the drapes of the adjoining room as I raced past. Reba Mae dangled half in, half out a partially open window from a room midway down the back of the motel. Now that I was outside, I could see the problem. The window was the crank kind, the sort that opened from the bottom outward.

  “Good news, Reba Mae,” I said to my red-faced BFF, who looked angry enough to spit nails. “It’s not you, it’s the window that’s stuck.”

  Reba Mae pounded on the brick with both fists. “Get me out of here. Now!”

  “Stay put,” I told her, as if she had a choice in the matter.

  I ran back inside, placed a chair in the bathtub and, standing on tiptoe, gave the window frame a solid whack with the palm of my hand. It might have been wishful thinking on my part, but I thought it budged just a fraction. Taking that as an omen, I whacked it again. The metal frame screeched in protest, but the window shifted slightly.

  “Okay, hang in there. I’ll have you out in a jiff.”

  I sprinted outside and around the building. “Give me both of your hands. I’m going to count to three.”

  Reba Mae complied. “I swear to God, Piper, if I live through this, I’m gonna be a new woman. I’m goin’ on a diet, quit colorin’ my hair, and givin’ up pizza.”

  “Don’t go making promises you know you won’t keep.” I tightened my grip, planted one foot against the brick, and tugged as hard as I could. Reba Mae popped out like a shot from a cannon. Her time in gymnastics stood her in good stead as she executed a neat tuck and roll. My tumble wasn’t nearly so graceful. I landed with a plop on my bottom, my skirt rucked up to my waist.

  “Freeze!” a voice commanded.

  I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare of a flashlight aimed in my face.

  “What the—?”

  Reba Mae was the first to recover her wits. “Hey, Wyatt, that you?”

  “Might’ve known.” McBride lowered the powerful Maglite in his hand and reholstered his weapon. “You two have some explaining to do.”

  I shoved my skirt down and scrambled to my feet. Hovering behind McBride, I recognized the desk clerk as well as the occupant from the next room. Summoning a weak smile, I asked, “Suppose it’s too late for dessert?”

  CHAPTER 31

  IN A FRENZY born of frustration, I cleaned and scrubbed until not even a marine drill sergeant could have found fault. The floor was spotless; the counters gleamed. My freshly laundered clothes smelled like a bouquet of spring flowers. And I’d consumed enough coffee to rival rush hour at Starbucks. I still smarted from the dressing-down McBride had given me the previous night. A dressing-down so acerbic, not even a thick slice of Black Forest torte could sweeten it. Granted, in hindsight, having Reba Mae attempt to climb out a motel window to prove a point seemed rather … silly. Yet, at least in my mind, it had eliminated Cheryl Balboa for once and for all as a possible suspect. McBride’s lecture, on the other hand, had had the opposite effect he intended. It left me more determined than ever to discover the truth. I needed to prove to him I wasn’t a complete moron.

  I plunked myself on the sofa and grabbed a magazine. The apartment was much too quiet. Lindsey had deserted me in favor of hanging out with her friends. Melly had accepted CJ’s spur-of-the-moment invitation to brunch at a new restaurant in Augusta. I flipped through the glossy ads without really seeing them. I sensed a trap about to spring shut on Melly’s freedom. I could almost hear the hinges squeak.

  Tossing the magazine aside, I snatched the television remote and idly scrolled through the channels. Time had come to move on to the next person of interest on my checklist. Rusty Tulley’s name was on the top. Rusty wanted Chip out of the picture for reasons both personal and professional. I wasn’t nearly so satisfied as McBride was with Rusty’s alibi. The men had argued. Rusty wanted Chip to resign. And killing him would be a resignation of the permanent variety. Supposedly, Rusty had been alone in his room. But when it came to alibis, home alone was a tough one to prove.

  I clicked off the remote. “C’mon, Casey. Let’s go for a ride.”

  On
ce again, I found Rusty Tulley comfortably sprawled in a rocker on Felicity’s front porch. A squishy tobacco-brown leather courier bag rested on the floor at his feet. At my approach, he looked up from his laptop. “If you’re here for Felicity, she just left for the country club. A friend of hers is playing in a tennis tournament.”

  “That’s all right,” I said, taking a seat in the adjacent rocker. Casey sat, too, rested his head on his paws, and looked out toward the street. “You’re really the one I wanted to talk to.”

  “About what?”

  I peered over my shoulder. “Where’s your friend? Tulip, right?”

  “Napping. She complained she had jet lag.”

  A gentle push of my toe started the chair rocking. “Planning on heading out soon?”

  Rusty flipped his laptop closed. “Another day or two. I’m thinking of attending a trade show in Orlando, then flying back to L.A. Why the interest?”

  “I was just curious as to why you were still in Brandywine Creek now that Chip is … no longer with us.”

  He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I thought you knew. Chief McBride ‘requested’ some of us to stick around until he has a suspect in custody. Meanwhile, I discovered that without all the distractions of L.A., I can get a lot more work accomplished.”

  I gazed out over the manicured yard with its meticulously groomed shrubs. A bright green gecko darted across the walk and disappeared under a loropetalum bush. I rocked back and forth. “Certain people might leap to the conclusion you had a lot to gain from the death of your partner.”

  Rusty’s affable pose vanished in the blink of an eye. “What are you hinting at?”

  Casey’s ears pricked up at Rusty’s sharp tone. Reaching down, I stroked my pet’s head to reassure him. “You and Chip had a bitter disagreement the night he died. From all accounts, Trustychipdesign was floundering. In your opinion, Chip was too preoccupied with marital woes to give the company the attention it deserved. To make matters worse, he messed up the deal with Melly by reneging on the initial offer.”

  As Rusty lunged to his feet, I noted the top button of his polo shirt dangled by a thread, but didn’t think this was the time to mention it. In his haste to stuff the laptop into his courier bag, the contents of one of its pockets spilled. Highlighter, Montblanc pen, iPhone charger—and a small bottle of Visine.

  “Eyedrops,” I gasped. “You use eyedrops?”

  “What of it? Lots of people do.” He stuffed the items back into the bag and closed the flap.

  “Did you know eyedrops contain a chemical called tetrahydrolozine?” I asked, my heart beginning to beat faster. I was suddenly aware that except for my mutt-of-dubious-breeds, no one else was around. The street was as quiet as a church on Monday morning. A wiser person would’ve turned tail and run. Instead, I soldiered on. “Tetrahydrolozine can cause symptoms such as blurred vision, headaches, and dizziness. It can kill.”

  “I don’t ingest the damn things,” he snapped. “I have allergies.”

  I rose to my feet and edged toward the steps. “The lab found tetrahydrolozine in Chip’s stomach contents.”

  “You need to go. Now!”

  Casey growled deep in his throat.

  “C’mon, Casey.” I tapped my thigh, a signal for him to follow. “We know when we’re not wanted.”

  I felt proud of myself for sedately driving away when I wanted to burn rubber. My encounter with Rusty Tulley had revealed a nasty temper beneath the charm. Had Chip’s behavior provoked Rusty until he lashed out? The men had known each other since college; they knew which buttons to push. It wasn’t inconceivable to think Rusty had killed Chip.

  On autopilot, I cruised out of town and turned onto Route 78. I needed a sounding board. Doug immediately came to mind. He was a terrific listener. He had a way about him that made you feel every word you spoke was important. He’d listen to me politely, but I already knew what he’d say: Step away from the crime. Then he’d lecture me on the dangers involved. Problem was, I wasn’t in any mood for another lecture. Doug would conclude by reminding me that finding Chip’s killer wasn’t my job. And he was 100 percent correct; it wasn’t.

  But I knew whose job it was.

  Since I was more than halfway there, I decided to take a chance and see if McBride also had the day off and might be home. Minutes later I pulled into his drive. I immediately spotted his pickup, but there was no sign of the man himself. My knock at the door went unanswered. I sat on the porch steps prepared to wait him out while Casey romped through grass in need of mowing. Resting my elbows behind me on the top step, I closed my eyes and tipped my head back to feel the warm kiss of the sun on my face. Birdsong filled the air, interspersed with a rustling sound as Casey scampered through a carpet of oak leaves. I felt a heavy lethargy starting to overtake me when the spell was broken by Casey’s excited barks.

  My eyes popped open to see McBride emerge from the woods that surrounded his property. He held a fishing rod but nary a fish. In a denim shirt that flapped open over a grungy T-shirt and faded jeans, he could have posed for an ad in Outdoor Life. Sign me up, sister, for a five-year subscription.

  “Looks like you scared the fish, McBride.”

  “Saves me the trouble of throwing them back.” He climbed the steps and propped the pole in a corner of the porch. “What’s the occasion?”

  “What makes you think there’s an occasion? Maybe I just wanted to see how the handyman special was coming along.”

  “Work’s at a temporary standstill.” He shoved a shock of black hair from his forehead. He was wearing it a bit longer than the military-style cut he’d favored when he first came to town. “Clay tells me I need to make some hard decisions right quick if I want to have a kitchen before cold weather sets in.”

  “What seems to be the holdup?”

  “In a nutshell?” he asked with a rueful grin. “Blame it on a pretty redhead who keeps finding dead bodies, and a grumpy old mayor demanding the poor, befuddled police chief find the culprit.”

  “Ohh…”

  He seemed to find my woefully inadequate response amusing. “I know you don’t care for beer, but if I look real hard, I might find a Diet Coke hiding at the back of the fridge.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Sounds good.”

  He left only to return minutes later with a diet soda in one hand, a beer in the other. Sinking down next to me on the porch step, he took a long pull from a frosty, long-necked bottle.

  I pulled the tab on my Diet Coke and drank. “You don’t look like the type to keep diet soda on hand. So what’s the deal? Afraid of losing your figure?”

  “One can’t be too careful.” He took another swallow of beer, then slanted me a look. “Okay, now tell me what you’re doing on my doorstep.”

  I looked out across the yard to a stand of sweet gums that were turning bright gold. Shadows were starting to lengthen as dusk crept in. “I want to use you as my sounding board.”

  “Use away.”

  “I’m afraid you’re about to charge Melly with the murder of Chip Balboa. True or false?”

  “True.” Casey bounded up the steps, and McBride absently scratched the sweet spot behind the pup’s ears. “Someone’s responsible for Chip Balboa’s death. The man deserves justice. Gotta go where the trail leads.”

  “But what if you’re following the wrong trail?”

  “What other trail is there?”

  “Are you aware Rusty and Chip argued the night Chip died? Do you know that their software company is in jeopardy? Rusty blamed Chip for the trouble. He even asked for Chip’s resignation.”

  McBride zapped me with a look from his cool blues. “How do you know all this?”

  I resisted the urge to squirm and took a swallow of diet soda instead. “Felicity let it slip about the argument. I had Melly research Trustychipdesign.com. She confirmed the company is losing market share. Rusty didn’t deny it when I asked him. And he doesn’t have an alibi for the night Chip died. He insists he was alone in
his room the entire time but can’t prove it. But that’s not the best part—”

  “I’m afraid to ask.” McBride’s grip on the beer bottle tightened.

  I tucked a curl behind one ear. “Rusty uses the same brand eyedrops you confiscated from Melly’s house. I saw them when they fell out of the courier bag where he keeps his laptop. Rusty was furious when I asked about them. He ordered me to leave.”

  “That all?” he asked, his voice taut.

  “Don’t you see how simple it would’ve been for Rusty to sneak down the servants’ stairs, kill Chip, and return without Felicity knowing? A perfect slam dunk.”

  “Here all this time, I thought you were dead set on Cheryl Balboa and Troy Farnsworth being the perps.”

  “I eliminated Cheryl, but Troy’s still a possibility,” I said in defense of my original theory. “I’m pretty sure he uses eyedrops, too.”

  McBride peeled the label from his beer bottle with a thumbnail. “I ran a background check on Troy Farnsworth and got a hit. Farnsworth was arrested for bilking an older woman out of her life savings, but the charges were dropped.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that happening. Troy’s good looking, probably a smooth talker, when the mood strikes, who could ingratiate his way into a woman’s bank account.”

  “How many times do I have to remind you this is a murder investigation, not a frivolous party game?” McBride’s tone was even harsher than last night, his eyes colder. “The stakes here are life and death. Killing comes easier the second time around. If you get too close for comfort, you could be next. Stop meddling!”

  I rose to my feet, chilled by his words, and left without so much as a backward glance. I knew McBride meant well, but I couldn’t stand idle while someone I cared for was about to be sent to prison.

  It wasn’t until I was almost home that I recalled my conversation with Danny Boyd at Friday night’s football game. Danny had denied seeing a BMW in the motel’s lot the night Chip died. Where had Troy been? Was it far-fetched to think a man who had possibly cheated a gullible woman out of her savings would be averse to shoving a man down a flight of basement stairs? Rusty Tulley. Troy Farnsworth. Both men stood to profit from Chip’s death—and both used eyedrops.