by Oust, Gail
“I, ah, I’m failing math.”
“You’re what…? Since when?” I shook my head in disbelief. Lindsey’s never pulled the same kind of grades as her brother, but overall managed to maintain a B average. “Each time I asked about your classes, you told me things were fine.”
“Everything was … except math.”
I huffed out a breath. Counted to ten. Tapped my toes. “I don’t remember receiving any progress reports to that effect.”
Lindsey fiddled with her charm bracelet. “I asked the school to send them to Daddy.”
She’d spoken so softly I had to strain to hear her. But when their full impact hit, I aimed an accusatory stare at CJ. “Why didn’t you tell me she was failing math? And furthermore, why didn’t you do something about it? Hire a tutor, check her homework, take away privileges, ground her? Something.”
“It’s no big deal, Mom,” Lindsey muttered. “I’m going to summer school.”
“Summer school, eh?” Narrowing my eyes, I gave Lindsey my best mom-means-business look. “Well, young lady, I intend to make it my personal mission to see that you pass at the top of your class. You can do your homework right here in the shop between customers.”
“Mom…,” she wailed.
“That was the other thing we wanted to talk to you about.” CJ rocked back on his polished loafers. “Lindsey and I agreed that she needs to focus on her studies.”
As I glanced from father to daughter, I had the unmistakable feeling I was being outmaneuvered. “Exactly what does that mean?”
CJ made use of the smarmy smile that showed off the caps on his teeth to perfection. “Surely, you can’t expect to keep Lindsey busy twenty-four-seven. A girl needs to be able to relax, go out with her friends. Have a little fun now and then. After all, you’re only young once.”
Only young once? Unless, that is, you were CJ Prescott III. The man seemed to be going through his second childhood. Or was this phase called a midlife crisis? Amend that, I thought, to middle-age crazy.
What had I ever seen in the man? I asked myself, and not for the first time. Young and dumb, as the saying goes, I’d fallen head over heels for a handsome face and breezy Southern charm. We’d met one hot June afternoon when we were both counselors at a church camp in the wilds of Upper Michigan. Before summer ended, I was ready to follow CJ to the ends of the earth—in his case, law school at University of Georgia, this Yankee’s first time south of the Mason-Dixon Line. My folks were furious I’d dropped out of college. But I thought I had all the answers. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have hightailed it for the Canadian border.
I dragged my thoughts back to the problem at hand. “You’ll have plenty of time to socialize, Lindsey, but once school lets out next month I expect you to help in the shop at least two afternoons a week and half a day on Saturday. I know Meemaw will back me up on this.”
Meemaw, Southern-speak for Grandmother, was none other than CJ’s mom. Not even CJ, a fully grown man, ever argued with his mama and won—at least not to my recollection. I knew for a fact Miss Melly blamed both of us for spoiling Lindsey rotten, and she’d gladly side with me in this instance.
“Whatever,” Lindsey capitulated in her best bored-teen tone of voice.
She’d used that same tone with me plenty. It might not be very charitable on my part, but I was glad CJ was getting his share of Miss Teenage Attitude.
“Let’s consider this matter settled, shall we,” CJ said, assuming we’d exhausted the subjects of math and summer school. Little did he know that I planned to take this matter up with him next time we were alone. Right now, Lindsey didn’t need to witness her parents arguing.
CJ pointed to the kitchen area I’d had installed at the rear of the shop. “Whatcha gonna do back there? Give cookin’ lessons?”
“Chef Mario Barrone from the Trattoria Milano’s agreed to demonstrate the use of juniper berries,” I said stiffly.
“What the Sam Hill are juniper berries?”
“Juniper happens to be often overlooked when it comes to spices, but it’s quite popular in northern European and particularly in Scandinavian cuisine.”
“I thought Barrone was Italian.”
“He is.” I absently rubbed my hands on my faded jeans and noticed my nails were chipped and ragged. I mentally added a manicure to my to-do list. “Mario’s making one of his specialties. A roast leg of lamb with juniper berries and rosemary, that’s to die for.”
“If you say so.” CJ shrugged, straining the shoulder seams of his designer suit. “Give me a rare prime rib any day over some fancy shit concocted by a hotshot who claims to be a chef. I heard Barrone used to flip burgers at McDonald’s.”
“Whatever the rumor, Mario’s a true culinary artist.”
“If the man’s so all-fired good, what’s he doin’ in a place like Brandywine Creek? Why isn’t he in Atlanta or Charlotte?”
I’d asked myself the same question numerous times. Mario’s credentials might not be as top-notch as Le Cordon Bleu, but his ambitions were. He’d just finished creating a new menu, copies of which would be distributed at Spice It Up! I had a sneaky hunch, however, he wanted more than to merely attract new customers. Mario had higher aspirations. He wanted to be “discovered” and to hit the big time.
“Daddy…,” Lindsey whined. “I’m bored. Can we go now?”
“Sure thing, baby.”
I watched, feeling resentful as CJ patted Lindsey’s hand, and caught a glimpse of the gold Rolex on his wrist. A Rolex I’d given him for our twentieth anniversary. In return, I’d gotten a card from the dollar store. Should’ve been a clue the romance was over.
CJ gave me the patented grin identical to ones on billboards up and down the Interstate. “Got new clients comin’. Husband had a trip ’n fall in one of them big-box stores. Told ’em I could practically guarantee he and the missus a hundred thou for their pain and sufferin’.”
I was trailing CJ and Lindsey toward the door when CJ halted so abruptly I nearly stepped on his heels.
“Sumbitch!” he swore under his breath.
“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Lindsey asked.
“It’s him. Wyatt McBride, in the flesh.” CJ pointed to a Ford Crown Vic emblazoned with the Brandywine Creek Police Department emblem, which was slowly circling the town square. “Guess rumors were true after all. Behold, Wyatt McBride, Brandywine’s new chief of police. Seems the mayor didn’t take my advice to heart and hired the sumbitch anyways.”
“I take it you don’t care for the man.”
CJ’s eyes narrowed as he followed the cruiser’s progress. “McBride was always too big for his britches, even back in high school. We hated each other’s guts then, still do. I’d watch out for him, Scooter darlin’. He’d like nothin’ better than to hassle anyone with the name of Prescott.”
“But…”
He cut me off as if he read my mind. “Won’t matter we’re no longer married. He gives you any trouble, you hear, give me a call. You know my number.”
Swell. Just peachy keen, I thought. Like I don’t have enough to worry about. “Bye, sweetie,” I said glumly, giving Lindsey a quick hug.
I waited on the sidewalk as CJ climbed into his Lexus. Lindsey slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. She gave me a little wave as the car drew away from the curb.
I watched them go with mixed feelings.
CHAPTER 3
FOR DINNER THAT evening, I didn’t even bother going upstairs to my apartment. Instead, I nuked the last of the goulash Reba Mae had sent over earlier that week in the tiny microwave at the rear of my shop. Closing my eyes for a moment, I savored the lingering hint of sweet Hungarian-style paprika she’d used for seasoning. Maybe one day, I could convince Reba Mae to share her recipe in front of an audience. It might take a bit of arm twisting, though. Some folks are funny about parting with family secrets.
Bone-tired, I glanced around Spice It Up! one last time before heading to my apartment. Tempting selections of spices from arou
nd the world—tamarind from Madagascar, sumac from Sicily, galangal from Indonesia, to name a few—were artfully displayed on free-standing cabinets I’d commissioned from a local carpenter. I’d stripped layers of paint off a Hoosier cabinet I’d found at a flea market down to the original oak. It now housed jars filled with the spices commonly used in baking: ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and, of course, vanilla beans.
Thanks to a flattering article in Georgia Life, Brandywine Creek was becoming quite the tourist destination. Folks were drawn to its antique shops and quaint town square. Now that the Opera House had undergone a complete renovation and was celebrating its hundredth anniversary, even more people were discovering the village’s charms. I hoped to cash in by enticing tourists and locals alike to throw away old bottles of spices, and even older tins, in exchange for fresh and aromatic varieties from my store.
Heaving a weary sigh, I decided Spice It Up! was as ready as I could make it before flipping the sign in the window to OPEN tomorrow morning. Switching off lights as I went, I passed through the storage room at the back and was about to ascend the steps when I heard an eerie, bone-chilling sound that made the fine hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.
I froze. Listened.
I tried to convince myself that my ears were playing tricks on me. Then it came again. A high-pitched keening that sent my heart knocking against my rib cage.
I stood there wallowing in indecision … and fear. It was late. The town had long since rolled up its streets. And I was alone. I no longer had an overweight husband or a brawny son to call upon to kill spiders or to check out things that went bump in the night. The only thing separating me from imminent danger was a flimsy wood door with an even flimsier lock. I gnawed my lower lip, debating my next move. What if someone was injured? Needed my help? And I ignored them. How would I be able to look at myself in the mirror?
Cracking open the door, I cautiously peeked out. With the moon tucked behind a cloud bank, the night was dark as pitch. I added “buy flashlight” to my lengthening to-do list right below “manicure.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the sound again. It was different this time—more whimper, less keening. More animal than human. Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the dark.
Spice It Up! backs up to a vacant lot, which separates it from the street beyond. At first, I failed to see anything out of the ordinary. Then I spotted a slight movement in the weeds off to my right. My feet inched forward of their own volition. As I drew nearer, I made out what at first appeared to be a bundle of rags tossed haphazardly into long tufts of grass poking through the hard-packed earth. Then I saw a tail wave.
On closer inspection, the “rags” transformed into a small dog, a mutt of indeterminate breed, not much larger than a puppy. The animal looked at me with pleading in its liquid brown eyes. A look that melted my heart.
“What’s the matter, girl?” I murmured, reaching out to stroke the matted fur. My fingers came away sticky with blood.
The little dog answered with another weak flop of its tail. It seemed to be having difficulty breathing. I knew I had to act.
And act quickly.
“Be right back, puppy dog.” I raced back inside, ran upstairs, and grabbed a bath towel along with my purse. Outdoors again, I gently wrapped the dog in the towel and scooped it up. Minutes later I was headed away from town in my VW Beetle, with the injured animal next to me on the passenger seat.
Though I didn’t own a pet—CJ claimed he had allergies—I knew where the animal clinic was located. I’d even met the vet a time or two, a nice gentleman by the name of Doug Winters. Cooking happens to be Dr. Doug’s hobby. Curiosity had prompted the doc to check out Spice It Up! even before I finished stocking the shelves. He’d gone away pleased as punch with “coupe” grade Spanish saffron, the highest quality of saffron on the planet, for the paella he planned. Considering saffron is the costliest of all spices, I hoped paella would become a mainstay in his diet.
Several miles out of town, the VW’s headlights illuminated a sign: PETS ’R PEOPLE, DOUGLAS WINTERS, DVM. I hung a right into the long drive leading to a rambling ranch–style building with white siding and black shutters that served both as a home and an animal clinic. I saw the flicker from a TV screen in a window at the far end. A signpost with an arrow and OFFICE printed in block letters directed pet owners to an entrance reserved for clients.
“Hang in there, puppy dog,” I crooned as I pulled to a stop. My words of encouragement were greeted by a tail wag even more pathetic than the previous one. Being careful not to jostle the poor little creature, I picked her up and hurried down the walk, hoping I wasn’t too late.
I jabbed the doorbell repeatedly. “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I muttered under my breath like a mantra.
After what seemed like an hour, but in all likelihood was only a minute or two, a porch light came on and the clinic’s door swung open. Kind brown eyes peered out of a boyishly attractive face. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses had been shoved atop a mop of prematurely gray hair. Dressed casually in jeans and a rugby shirt, the vet took in the situation at a glance.
“Follow me,” he ordered. He led me down a short hallway, flicking on lights as he went. Turning into the second room on the left, he motioned toward an exam table.
“Piper, isn’t it? From the spice shop?”
I nodded, carefully lowering the small bundle of canine onto the cold stainless steel.
“Your dog?” He jammed on his eyeglasses, then tugged on a pair of latex gloves.
“No.” I swallowed hard. “Just tell me she’s going to be all right?”
Doug gently unwrapped the bath towel I’d swaddled her in. Next he reached for his stethoscope and proceeded to press its bell against the blood-matted fur as the dog struggled to catch its breath. He scowled at me from across the table. “Care to explain what happened?”
“I heard sounds like someone or something moaning coming from the vacant lot behind my shop. When I went to investigate, I found this poor thing lying in the weeds. Why?” My worry ratcheted up a notch. Or three. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Him,” Doug corrected absently as he began assembling instruments and supplies. “The laceration in his side looks like a knife wound. Probably punctured a lung.”
“Stabbed?” I recoiled in horror. “He’s been stabbed…?”
“You’re not the squeamish sort, are you?”
Doug stared at me over his rimless eyeglasses and challenged me not to turn tail and run. I drew a shaky breath, then let it out. “What do you want me to do?”
While Doug cleansed the wound and inserted a slender tube into the dog’s chest cavity, I did what I could to soothe the animal. I stroked, I petted, I prayed, all the while talking nonsense in the singsong voice I’d once used to calm fretful infants.
At long last, the pup’s breathing less labored, Doug assured me there was nothing more to be done. I left him in the vet’s very capable hands.
* * *
When I awoke the next morning, kettle drums beat an exuberant tattoo against my skull. My eyes felt gritty. Lack of sleep? Stress? A combination of the two? Not exactly how I envisioned feeling at the kickoff of my new career. There was still a dozen things I needed to do before Spice It Up! officially opened for business at ten o’clock. But one thing took precedence. I had to find out how the dog had fared since I’d left him at the vet’s in the wee hours of the morning. I reached for the phone and dialed.
Doug had promised to do what he could to locate the dog’s owner, but warned me it was probably a stray. If the owner couldn’t be found I’d promised to pay for the dog’s care. A dog may be man’s best friend, but time had come for man—or in this case, woman—to step up and be dog’s best friend. Doug had taken pity on a penniless divorcee, however, and said he’d barter his services in exchange for saffron and other spices.
The phone at Pets ’R People went unanswered, but I realized it was early yet. Doug was probably either busy tend
ing the injured mutt—or still fast asleep. I’d try again later. One thing for certain, I couldn’t keep referring to the dog as “dog.” He needed a proper name, even if it might only be temporary until someone claimed him. I’d ask Lindsey to put on her thinking cap and come up with something suitable for a scruffy, but adorable, pup.
After swallowing a couple Tylenol, I stood under the needle-sharp spray of the shower until I felt human again. I quickly dressed in a pair of slim black chinos, a crisp white cotton blouse with three-quarter sleeves, and my favorite citron green sling-back sandals. For good measure, I added a chunky necklace to my ensemble. Makeup was minimal since I no longer felt compelled to hide the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose. A little eye shadow, mascara, and a swipe of lip gloss, and I was good to go. A final glance in the mirror told me I looked okay for an impoverished woman in her mid-forties.
Breakfast consisted of a cup of tea and yogurt, to which I added my personal blend of trail mix—bits of crystallized ginger being my secret ingredient—then sprinkled on Ceylon cinnamon for extra oomph. When finished, I decided to make Mario Barrone my first order of business. I’d dropped off my entire stock of juniper berries at the trattoria last night. I figured this way Mario could pick and choose the ones he wanted, but I needed the remainder for any customers who might want to recreate his magic with a leg of lamb. Mario had already started prepping the lamb and had indicated that he planned to refrigerate it overnight. He’d also mentioned he was an early riser. Besides retrieving what was left of the juniper, we needed to review the timetable one more time. I didn’t want any last-minute glitches in front of an audience and members of the press.
The Trattoria Milano was on a side street a block off the square. Knowing I’d find the front locked, I went down the alley leading to the rear of the restaurant. Trash cans flanked either side of the back entrance. Two steps with broken concrete led to the door. I was about to knock when I spotted the sun glinting off something metal in the weeds.
