by Gail Oust
“Dorinda asked me to switch hours with her. Company’s comin’ from Alabama to see the new baby, and she wanted to help Lorrinda get ready. With the little one wakin’ every two hours for a feedin, Lorrinda’s feelin’ sleep deprived.”
“Lorrinda’s lucky to have her mother live close enough to help out. “
“You can say that again, girlfriend. What you got in that there basket?” Reaching over the counter, Precious peeked under a corner of the cloth covering my basket. “Those blueberry muffins? Blueberries my favorite.”
Taking the none-too-subtle hint, I presented her with a muffin. “I saw the chief’s truck out front. Suppose he’d mind an interruption?”
“Not if the interruption comes bearin’ gifts. Give him a minute or two before you bust in on him. He’s finishin’ a call with the GBI.”
“So, Precious, how are things going?”
Precious beamed, her dark face glowing. “Goin’ good, real good. The new man in my life likes a woman with a little meat on her bones. Says he doesn’t go in for those anorexic types.”
“Glad to hear it. Bring him around sometime soon. I’d like to meet him.”
“Might do just that,” she said, taking a bite of muffin. “He’s gonna be helpin’ my brother Bubba with his barbecue. Bubba’s callin’ his outfit Bub-Ba-Cue. Catchy, ain’t it? My brother Zeke will be at the festival, too.”
“Does he cook?”
“Heck, no,” she chortled. “Zeke can’t fry taters without burnin’ ’em. But there’s hardly an instrument he can’t master. He plays in a blues band. They’re performin’ downtown Friday night. You oughta stop by. You’re in for a treat.”
“I’ll do that,” I told her. “I promised Doug I’d meet him for the shag contest on Saturday. It’ll be fun to see his moves on the dance floor.”
“Since Jolene Tucker’s still recoverin’ from a broke ankle, others should have a chance at winnin’ this year. Her and Butch used to party down in Myrtle Beach. They learned the shag from pros.”
“Word’s out this year’s crowd will be bigger than ever.”
“Damn straight.” Precious nodded, causing the colorful beads woven into her braids to clack together. “Nothin’ like a killin’ to get folks’ attention. Bubba’s all fired up waitin’ for the festival to start. He’s braggin his ribs are so tasty it’ll make your momma cry.”
All this talk of food reminded me I hadn’t eaten yet. “I hope your brother will be giving out samples.”
Another nod, another clank of beads. “He’s plannin’ enough ‘samples’ to feed a battalion. Claims word of mouth is the best advertisement.”
“Let him know I got in a fresh shipment of chili peppers.”
“I’ll be sure to tell ’im.” Precious glanced at the switchboard and gave me a thumbs-up. “Chief’s done with his call. Get outta here with those freakin’ good muffins while there’s still some left.”
When I cracked the door and poked my head into his office, I found McBride poring over pages in a folder. I held out my basket of goodies. “Busy?”
He smiled, one of those rare genuine smiles that showed off his dimple. It might reflect poorly on my character, but I’m a sucker for dimples. “If this is a bribe, I have to warn you there might be consequences.”
“I’ll take my chances.” Entering the office, I placed the basket on an uncluttered corner of his desk. I took out plates, napkins, coffee mugs, a thermos, and a larger plate of muffins. Not even Melly could fault my presentation.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked, a bemused expression on his face.
“Rumor around the department has it you like your java good and strong. I thought you might enjoy Kona coffee along with some blueberry muffins.”
“My instincts warn me to beware of pretty redheads bringing fancy coffee and baked goods to an overworked, underpaid civil servant.”
I felt my face grow pink and my pulse quicken. I told myself his compliment didn’t effect me in the least. Liar, liar, pants on fire. “One muffin or two?”
He flashed that darn dimple again. “One—for starters.”
I centered a muffin on a small tangerine-colored Fiestaware plate. Next, I poured steaming Kona coffee into a mug the color of lemongrass. I repeated the process for myself, then sat down in the chair across from hm. I raised my mug in a toast. “Cheers!”
“Cheers!” he toasted back. He let out a sigh of appreciation when he tasted the rich brew, another when he bit into a muffin. “So,” he said at last. “What’s the occasion?”
“Would you believe I’m here to make amends for drinking your coffee the day Casey found Becca’s body?”
“It’s a little late for ‘amends.’ What’s the real reason you’re here?”
I fluttered my lashes, vamping it up. “Can’t put anything over on you, can I?”
“Not for lack of trying on your part.” He helped himself to another muffin. “I suppose you’d like to ask if we found the culprit who helped himself to your petty cash.”
“When you do, kindly inform him it cost me a new lock.”
“I’ll do just that.” He washed down a bite of muffin with a swig of coffee.
“I heard there was a second burglary.”
He stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug, his blue eyes cool, his expression unreadable, and waited for me to continue. I recognized his give-her-enough-rope-to-hang-herself tactics.
Clearing my throat, I elaborated, “Maybelle Humphries had her wallet stolen while at work when her back was turned. Ned Feeney told me all about it when he came to replace my lock.”
“We’re checking into it. Miss Humphries admitted she never kept more than twenty dollars in her purse. From the way she was carrying on, I suspect there was more to the story than she was telling. I don’t suppose you know why she was so upset.”
I studied the half-eaten muffin on my plate. Apparently Maybelle hadn’t come clean, admitted to McBride she lied, and told him her alibi had disappeared along with her twenty bucks. What kind of friend would I be if I ratted her out? What kind of law-abiding citizen would I be if I didn’t? A conundrum of the worst kind.
“Somehow I can’t rid myself of the notion that you’re on the receiving end of information I’m not privy to,” McBride said, his voice calm and deliberate.
My gaze flew to his face. It had been a mistake thinking I could ferret information from a grand master of ferreting. The all-around champ of prying information from hapless miscreants. I started gathering the Fiestaware and loading it into the basket. “Hope you enjoyed breakfast, but I have to go. It’s nearly time to open my shop.”
He zapped me with a look from his laser blues. “I’m planning to question Miss Humphries later today. I also intend to speak with Buzz Oliver again. See if he can shed any light on the situation. Like I always say, memory’s a funny thing.”
I wedged the empty thermos into the basket. “I only came this morning out of curiosity. I keep wondering if you’re any closer to finding Becca’s killer,” I said, trying for casual. “Are you?”
“This is an active investigation. I’m not at liberty to discuss details.”
“What do I look like? A reporter from the National Enquirer?” His pat answer annoyed me. “If you recall, I happen to have a vested interest since I … er, my dog found the body.”
“Thanks for the coffee and muffins.” McBride picked up the file folder he’d been perusing before I entered.
Case dismissed.
CHAPTER 25
MY IMPROMPTU MEETING with Wyatt McBride had proven counterproductive. I returned home to find Lindsey behind the counter wearing a crisp apron and a sunny smile. Her long blond hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls befitting a shampoo commercial. Her makeup was prom perfect.
“Don’t you look nice,” I commented. “Beauty pageant material. Ready to be crowned Miss Spice It Up!?”
“Mo-om.” She rolled her eyes.
I headed for the kitchenette at the rear to wash th
e Fiestaware. When designing Spice It Up!, I planned to host occasional cooking demonstrations. My first had been a disaster, pure and simple. I wasn’t quite ready to climb back on the horse that threw me, but every now and then I’m tempted. I’m thinking of persuading Doug to demo his Chicken Tandoori, which incidentally calls for saffron. I stock top-grade Spanish coupé-quality saffron, the priciest of the priciest. “Why the outrageous cost?” people often ask. Saffron comes from the stigma of the crocus, which makes harvesting labor-intensive. It takes a plot of land the size of a football field to grow enough flowers to produce a single pound.
“Need help?” Lindsey joined me.
“Sure,” I said, handing her a dish towel. “I’ll wash; you dry.”
She made a face but didn’t mutiny. “Ms. Quinlan called while you were out.”
I squirted liquid detergent into a small sink and turned on the tap. Although Lindsey was valiantly trying to rein in her excitement, I could see she was bursting at the seams to tell me her news. “Did Ms. Quinlan state what she wanted?”
“She wanted to ask you if it would be all right if she and Carter came by after lunch to shoot a segment for her show. How exciting is that!” Lindsey squealed. “Isn’t that the most amazing thing ever?”
Amazing? My daughter and I differ when it comes to choosing adjectives. I rinsed a plate and handed it to her to dry. “Mm, sweetie, I’m not sure I’m ready for my TV debut.”
She gaped at me. “How can you not be ‘ready’? This is the most fabulous thing to have ever happened to Brandywine Creek. Just think, Mom, you’ll be famous! Spice It Up! will be famous!”
Spice It Up! famous? I rinsed a coffee mug under the tap. “I don’t know.…”
“Oh, come on, Mom. It’ll be a blast!”
Lindsey looked so flushed and happy at the prospect that I set my reservations aside. “Fine,” I said. “It would be foolish to turn down a chance for free publicity. After all, it’s not as if I’m going to be talking in front of a huge audience. I’m perfectly capable of handling a one-on-one conversation.”
“Awesome!” Beaming, Lindsey practically did a happy dance.
I rinsed out the thermos. “Does she expect me to call her back?”
“That isn’t necessary.” Lindsey draped the dish towel over a hook to dry. “I told her you’d be happy to do an interview.”
“Pretty sure of yourself, weren’t you?!” I drained the water from the sink.
“Turn around,” Lindsey ordered. “Let me look at you.”
I obeyed, both puzzled and amused.
Narrowing her eyes, she looked me over from top to bottom. “You might want to change clothes.”
“Why?” I asked, glanced down at my ladybug capris. “What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?”
“Amber says the best way to stand out from the crowd is to wear a color that pops. Navy blue doesn’t ‘pop.’”
“Pop…?” I laughed. “Are you saying I should aspire to look like a bowl of cereal?”
Lindsey gave me a blank stare. “Is that a joke of some sort?”
“Snap, crackle, pop! Remember the Rice Krispie Treats I used to make for you and Chad?” From Detroit, Battle Creek, Michigan, otherwise known as Cereal City, was a straight shot down I-94. Guess my Yankee roots were showing, but I’d birthed Southerners.
“You need to get busy, Mom. We don’t have much time for a makeover.”
“Makeover?” My voice rose. “Why do I need a makeover?”
“Amber said first impressions are important.” Lindsey tilted her head to one side and studied me. “I bet if you ask Miz Johnson, all nice and polite, she’d squeeze you in. Do something with your hair.”
My hand flew up to brush an unruly curl off my brow. “My hair? I like my hair. It’s fine the way it is.”
“It’s just so … curly … and wild. It needs to be styled. And,” Lindsey continued, unfazed by my outburst, “I bet Miz Johnson would loan you earrings, dangly or sparkly ones. She has the coolest jewelry. One last thing, Mom. You need to apply more foundation to hide those freckles.” She dug into her apron pocket and pulled out her iPhone. “I have to call Taylor. She’ll freak when she hears Carter’s filming us.”
I stared after her as she went to the back of the storeroom where I couldn’t overhear her conversation. Apparently, in my daughter’s estimation, my appearance was sorely lacking. My clothes didn’t “pop”; my hair was wild and unruly. I didn’t hide my freckles and, what’s more, I had a lame sense of humor. Truly her father’s daughter. I was a wreck and hadn’t even realized it. What’s a mother to do?
Once I explained my dilemma, Reba Mae offered to come to my rescue. She said she’d make an exception in my case and make one of her rare house calls. She’d be there within the hour.
I’d barely hung up when Melly entered Spice It Up! toting a large cardboard box. I rushed over to take it from her. “Gracious, Melly. What do you have in here? Bricks?”
“A complete tea set.” She brushed dust from her hands. “Must I remind you, dear, that I promised to bring teacups so you didn’t have to serve your customers refreshments out of tacky Styrofoam.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind.” I set the box on the counter and peeked at the items wrapped in newspaper. “You really shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble.”
“No bother.” She unwrapped a delicate china cup. “CJ’s father and I received this set as a wedding present from his aunt Agatha but never used it. Agatha, bless her heart, had absolutely no taste. I swear the woman was color-blind.”
I removed a second cup. Melly wasn’t the only one questioning Agatha’s taste. The bone china was decorated in a garish floral pattern awash in blues and purples. If that weren’t enough, the wide gold band around the rim proclaimed these babies needed to be hand washed and dried.
“It’s very generous of you, Melly, but I simply can’t accept family heirlooms.” Rewrapping and replacing the cup, I shoved the box in her direction.
Melly shoved it back in mine. “No, dear, I insist. I’ve held on to these much too long as it is.”
Smiling thinly, I nudged the tea set toward her when inspiration struck. “Why, Melly, the tea set is an heirloom. I think you should give it to Amber and CJ when they get married.”
“Hmm.” Melly’s hand rested on the box. “Perhaps you’re right, dear. Agatha always did have a soft spot for CJ.”
I heaved a sigh of relief. “Good, that settles it. As soon as Lindsey’s off the phone, I’ll have her carry the box out to your car.”
“No sense holding on to things. I still have my mother-in-law’s china as well as my mother’s. At my age, a person can only use so many tea sets.” She frowned and then brightened. “But never fear, I intend to make good on my promise. I’ll raid my cupboards and find a few mismatched cups and saucers that ought to be good enough for your little store.”
“Hey, Meemaw.” Lindsey, her phone call concluded, greeted her grandmother with a hug. “Did Mom tell you she’s going to be on TV?”
“No, dear,” Melly said with a tight-lipped smile. “She’s been holding out on me.”
I shot Lindsey a see-what-you’ve-done-now look. “It’s no big deal.”
“I beg to differ,” Melly corrected me. “It is a ‘big deal.’ It’s not every day that a family member—make that ‘former family member’—makes a television appearance.”
“Barbie Quinlan is going to interview Mom for Some Like It Hot. Isn’t that awesome?”
Melly turned her full attention on me. “Certainly you’re not wearing what you have on, are you? And your hair,” she continued, before I had a chance to answer, “well, perhaps Reba Mae can work a miracle.”
“Sweetie, would you please carry this box out to your grandmother’s car?”
Melly didn’t take the hint that it was time to leave. “Piper, you’ll need help while you’re being interviewed. What time do you want me to return?”
“Really, Melly, that isn’t necessary. I wouldn’t
dream of imposing.”
“Nonsense.” Melly dismissed my objection with a flick of her wrist. “I wouldn’t dream of not being here when you’re in dire need. After all, that’s what families are for. Now I must run home and find something to wear. Something bright, something that pops. I think my blue silk blouse might be just the ticket. Folks always say it brings out the blue in my eyes. And I need to reapply my makeup—you too, dear. Bright camera lights cause one to appear washed-out and sickly.” She was at the door when she turned and asked, “Do you suppose Reba Mae could fit me in? I want my hair to look especially nice when my friends watch the show.”
“I’ll ask,” I replied, tempted to imitate Lindsey and roll my eyes. Unbelievable! Wardrobe, makeup, hair. Hollywood calling?
Lindsey was useless the remainder of the morning, alternating between peering at her reflection in a mirror and giggling on the phone. Shortly before noon, I sent her to the post office on an errand. When she offered to take Casey with her, I cheerfully shooed them both out the door.
I thought I’d fill the time before my makeover by sprucing up my shop. Grabbing a feather duster, I set to work. I might not “pop,” but Spice It Up! would. High on adrenaline, I was making progress when Doug Winters wandered in. I felt my pulse kick at the sight of him. “Hey, Doug.” I set my duster aside to greet him. “What brings you into town the middle of the day? Did you run out of helpless puppies and kittens to spay and neuter?”
That brought a smile. “My last owner got cold feet. She decided to breed her Corgi one last time before taking the plunge. I thought since Lindsey was working today, I’d invite you out for lunch. Afterward, I thought we might practice a few dance steps.”
Uh-oh. Busted. “Dance steps?” I echoed. “Sorry, but I’ve been too preoccupied trying to prove Maybelle’s innocence to give the shag contest much thought.”
“No problem, pretty lady, you’re about to get lesson number one.” Doug took hold of my hand before I could object. “When doing the shag, keep in mind that eight words equal eight steps. One-and-two, three-and-four, five, six.”
I watched in amazement as he proceeded to demonstrate the basics. His movements were slick as ice. The man possessed slippery feet and rubbery knees. Who knew Fred Astaire was reincarnated in the guise of a mild-mannered veterinarian?