Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  “What on earth?” I bent for a closer look, and was surprised to find a knife with a long, slender blade similar to those used for boning. Odd, I thought. Had rumors I’d heard about Mario been true? One tale that had spread like poison ivy through Reba Mae’s salon concerned Mario actually throwing a steak knife at his hapless sous chef. Hoping no one had gotten hurt, I picked up the knife and went up the steps.

  “Mario…”

  The rear door swung open even though I barely touched it. I passed through a service area that ran the width of the building. A fully stocked pantry occupied one side, a commercial freezer the other.

  “Mario,” I called again. As I shoved aside the swinging door dividing the service area from the kitchen proper, I smelled alcohol. I sniffed. Then sniffed some more. The odor was distinctly woodsy, tangy, and unmistakably like juniper. Or … gin.

  Dammit!

  Gin? This early in the day? I vowed if Mario was in no condition to demonstrate how to roast a leg of lamb to a shop full of women, he’d rue the day. “If you’re drunk…”

  It was then I found Mario.

  The man wasn’t dead drunk. He was just plain dead.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE KNIFE I’D found dropped from my nerveless fingers and skittered across the floor.

  Mario lay sprawled on his side. Blood darker than a habanero chili pepper pooled around his body. I stared, transfixed by the sight. Then, I dragged my gaze to his face. His eyes were shut. His usually swarthy complexion was a sickly gray-white. Bile, hot and bitter, rose in my throat. I swallowed it down.

  Gradually, I became more aware of my surroundings. Juniper berries had rolled off the counter and onto the floor, where they’d been crushed underfoot. Juniper berries, I’d learned, are responsible for giving gin its distinctive flavor. No wonder I’d assumed the poor man was a drunk. Shame on me. That should teach me not to rush to judgment.

  Somewhere in the nether region of my brain, I knew I ought to do something. But what? Holler my fool head off? Throw up? Faint? Nothing in my relatively uncomplicated life had prepared me for discovering a dead body. Was there a certain protocol to follow?

  Brrrrg!

  The shrill sound of a phone ringing penetrated my shell shock. I pivoted slowly and spotted an old-fashioned wall phone hanging near the door I’d just entered. In a daze I moved to answer it, but the ringing ceased. The sudden silence seemed deafening.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Mario—who I was rapidly coming to think of as the “corpse.” Should I feel for a pulse like how they did on TV cop shows? I recoiled inwardly at the notion of tiptoeing close enough to press my fingers against his neck. Even to a novice such as myself, the man was obviously a goner. Why risk ruining my favorite sandals traipsing through blood and gore? Though it might seem heartless to some, there are times a woman has to be practical, especially when it comes to an expensive pair of shoes. Funny, the thoughts that cross your mind in a crisis.

  As the hours crept by—in reality it was only minutes, but it seemed much longer—the neurons in my brain began firing. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I forced myself to think. I couldn’t just stand here. I had to do something. Summon help. Report the crime. Something.

  I groped through the pockets of my slacks before remembering I’d left my cell phone at home on the charger. Reaching for the grubby wall phone, I punched in 911 with a trembling hand. After listening to my stammering explanation, the dispatcher instructed me to remain on the line until help arrived. Stretching the spiral cord to its limits, I edged my way out of the kitchen and into the service area to await the arrival of Brandywine Creek’s men in blue.

  Seeing as how the police department was located on Lincoln Avenue, two blocks over, I didn’t have long to wait before the wail of sirens and the flash of red and blue lights disturbed the quiet April morning.

  Beau Tucker was first on the scene. The policeman happened to be one of CJ’s poker buddies. Genial and good-natured, he shared my ex’s fondness for Wild Turkey and fat, smelly cigars. But the man’s usual jovial persona wasn’t evident now. His round, moon-shaped face was more serious than I’d ever seen it.

  “Hey, Piper,” he greeted me. “What’s goin’ on? Dorinda said somethin’ about you findin’ a dead body.”

  Clutching the phone so tightly my knuckles shone white, I pointed wordlessly toward the kitchen.

  Beau unsnapped his holster and drew out an impressive-looking weapon. What threat could a dead body pose? I wondered. It seemed a bit overkill—sorry about the pun—but then our highly trained police officers didn’t often get a chance to use all the skills they’d accumulated over the years at seminars and such.

  Beau disappeared inside, but returned moments later. He pried my fingers from the phone and barked into the receiver, “Dorinda, find the chief. Tell him to get his butt over to the Tratory. Pronto!”

  “Mind if I go outside and sit a spell, Beau?” I asked in a little-girl voice that didn’t sound like my own. “My knees are feeling a bit rubbery.”

  “Sure thing, Piper,” he agreed, eyeing me closely for the first time. “You’re lookin’ a mite peaked. Have a seat in the patrol car so as not to contaminate the crime scene. Don’t want the new chief thinkin’ we’re a bunch of yokels.”

  I climbed down the crumbling concrete steps and crossed to the squad car, where I slid onto the seat Beau had vacated—the driver’s seat. I had no intention of sitting in the rear behind heavy wire mesh like a common criminal.

  Tires squealed as more vehicles entered the alley and screeched to a halt. EMTs spilled out of a van. Not far behind were more local police as well as deputies from the county sheriff’s department. I spotted Bob Sawyer, the reporter with The Statesman, among the new arrivals. Several men pointed or nodded in my direction. I might as well have been wearing a scarlet T-shirt emblazoned with I FOUND A DEAD BODY, WHAT HAVE YOU FOUND LATELY? Self-conscious under their scrutiny, I removed myself from the patrol car and took a position off to one side where I wouldn’t be in the way.

  Shock was gradually being replaced by cold hard logic. I took a quick look at my watch and grimaced. I had tons of things to do before Spice It Up! opened for the first time. I’d soon have people knocking on the door, peering in the windows, expecting to see a hotshot chef prepare his acclaimed roast lamb with juniper berries. But my grand opening wasn’t going be very grand without Mario Barrone’s showmanship. I brought myself up short. Shame on me. A man, still in his prime, had died and here I was only thinking of myself. While Mario would never be a buddy, I respected the man’s skill and ambition.

  To keep myself from thinking of him practically floating in a crimson lake of blood, I reviewed possible options. Hanging an OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the front window wasn’t one of them. And although it held great appeal, neither was going to bed and pulling the covers over my head.

  I fought the urge to wring my hands. That wouldn’t do. I never wring my hands. Far too melodramatic for my taste. Still …

  My mind raced. What to do? What to do? I formed and discarded plan after plan. My mind kept circling back to the only possible solution to my conundrum. I’d have to perform the cooking demo myself. The recipe was fairly straightforward. Mario had explained it in detail when I delivered the juniper berries last night. Actually, he’d decided to do two separate legs of lamb. One he’d prep, refrigerate overnight, then pop it into the oven right before the demo was scheduled to start. The second one would be prepared before an audience. By the time he finished his tutorial, the first leg of lamb would be ready to come out of the oven—voilà!—and presented to the crowd with a flourish. Just like what the famous chefs do on the Food Network. Stand aside, Bobby Flay. Be warned, Tyler Florence. Mario Barrone was a man on a mission.

  Another quick glance at my watch told me I had no time to lose if I wanted to put my plan into action. What was keeping Brandywine Creek’s new police chief anyway? I couldn’t stand around all morning; I had things to do. I consoled myself thinking
it would only take a minute, two at the most, to tell him I had nothing to do with Mario’s death. My sole involvement consisted of opening the back door, finding him on the kitchen floor, and dialing 911.

  No sooner did these thoughts run through my mind when a spanking-clean Crown Vic turned down the alley and braked alongside the EMS van. As I watched, the dark-haired man I’d glimpsed the day before jumped out. He stood about six foot one or so and looked to be in his mid to late forties. From all the spine straightening and gut sucking taking place around me, I assumed the man must be the new head honcho. I grudgingly admitted that the newcomer would probably have quite an effect on the ladies as well. Broad shoulders, trim waist, narrow hips, Brandywine’s new chief of police was the total package, all right. Tall, dark, and rugged, if you liked the type. He might cause Reba Mae’s heart to flutter, but not mine. I’d sworn off men. Marriage to CJ had been enough to make me consider entering a convent. And I’m not even Catholic.

  I tried in vain to recall the guy’s name, but all I remembered was CJ’s obvious dislike. And according to CJ, the feeling was mutual. A dislike so malevolent, it might even filter down to family members—or in my case, former family members. A shiver wormed its way down my spine in spite of the warm April sunshine.

  As I looked on, Beau conferred with the chief, then pointed a stubby finger in my direction. The man nodded once, then without a single glance my way, disappeared inside the Tratory. Beau sauntered over, his face set in what I was coming to think of as his “official business” mode. “Chief McBride said you’re to wait here.”

  “Will this take long?” People always seem to crave nicotine during times of stress. If I smoked—which I don’t—I’d haul out a pack of Marlboro’s about now and light up. I seemed to be suffering a severe case of opening-day jitters. Or of finding-a-dead-body jitters. Nervously, I checked my watch again. “I need to get to my shop.”

  “Don’t worry none,” Beau said. “Shouldn’t take but a minute or two. Just a few routine questions is all, then you can be on your way.”

  “Fine,” I muttered as he walked over to greet a slightly stooped, balding man who’d just arrived at the scene. I recognized the newcomer as John Strickland, the local mortician who doubled as county coroner.

  Gloves and paper booties seemed to be the uniform du jour. As I waited impatiently, a couple of Brandywine Creek policemen, along with a sheriff’s deputy, entered the building. One toted a large stainless steel box that looked suitable for fishing tackle, but with one notable exception: the word FORENSICS was stenciled along the side in bold letters. An elaborate camera dangled from his neck. Another man unwound a spool of yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the Tratory’s rear entrance.

  At last the chief reappeared, but instead of acknowledging my presence, he stood with his back turned and spoke into his cell phone. I didn’t even know the man and I was starting to dislike him already. He was not only rude, but also inconsiderate of a private citizen with a business to run.

  Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I marched up and tapped him on the shoulder. “S’cuse me.”

  He whipped around, his hand automatically reaching for his weapon.

  “Whoa there, big fella,” I said, taking a quick step back.

  “Never sneak up on a cop from behind,” he growled.

  “I didn’t sneak. I approached,” I corrected primly. “There’s a difference.”

  He removed his hand from the butt of his gun. “Next time, give me fair warning before you approach from behind.”

  I dearly wanted to inform him in no uncertain terms that there wouldn’t be a next time. I had no intention of approaching him again—front, back, or sideways. Ever. Instead, I got down to the matter at hand. “I have work to do. How soon will I be free to leave?”

  He folded his arms across his chest and eyed me coolly. “Is a murder investigation disrupting your schedule?”

  His eyes, I noted for the first time, were blue—a pale, icy blue—fringed with girly long lashes. A killer combination. I stifled a giggle at the inappropriate pun. “I’m sorry,” I backpedaled. “I didn’t mean that the way it must’ve sounded. I feel terrible about Mario, but other than discovering him on the floor of his kitchen, there’s not much I can add.”

  He reached into the pocket of his crisp navy blue uniform and withdrew a notebook and pen. “Let’s start at the top, shall we. I’m Wyatt McBride, chief of police, and you are…?”

  “Piper. Piper Prescott.”

  “Prescott, eh?” A lengthy pause ensued. “Any relation to Chandler Jameson Prescott … the Third?”

  Dismay, thicker than day-old plum pudding, congealed in my chest as the cool blue eyes turned even frostier.

  CHAPTER 5

  “I’LL REPEAT,” HE said. “Any relation to Chandler Jameson Prescott the Third?”

  I recalled CJ’s comment that the two had been archenemies once upon a high school. Forgive and forget, right? Both men were adults now. Both mature and moderately successful. Surely not the types to hold grudges? Staring up at McBride’s implacable expression, however, it occurred to me that being grown—and moderately successful—didn’t necessarily equate with mature.

  Or forgiving.

  I shifted my weight from one sandaled foot to the other and chose my next words with care. “CJ and I are what you might call … formerly related. All we share now are the children.”

  “I see,” he replied.

  I thought I detected a lingering trace of Georgia in his deep baritone as I cast another sidelong glance at my wristwatch. My heart rate bumped up a notch when I saw the time. “I’d like to hang around, but I really have to be going.”

  He ignored my sense of urgency. “Divorced or separated?”

  “Divorced,” I snapped. I really wanted to inform him that my marital status was none of his damn business. But what was the point? In a town not much larger than a postage stamp, he was bound to find out sooner or later that CJ had tossed me aside like an old pair of sneakers.

  “What was your relationship to the vic?”

  “The vic…?” I inwardly cringed at hearing Mario—belligerent, larger-than-life Mario—being referred to with such a clinical term. “My relationship…?” I echoed.

  “Barrone your boyfriend? Lover?”

  I nearly laughed aloud at the absurdity. “Surely, you’re joking?”

  “Do I look like I’m joking, lady?” he growled. “We’re talking a murder investigation.”

  Murder?

  Being dumped in a bucket of ice water would have had the same effect. Goose bumps reared on my arms like mounds of fire ants along the shoulder of the road. In spite of a day that promised to be warm and sunny, I shivered. Until that moment, I hadn’t allowed myself to contemplate how Mario had died, only that he was dead. For all I knew, he could have fallen on a meat cleaver. Or suffered a bleeding ulcer like my uncle Henry and hemorrhaged to death. Or slipped on spilled grease, striking his head against the counter. Head wounds, as most moms know, bleed profusely. Furthermore, head injuries are known to be fatal even without a lot of bloodshed.

  How naïve of me not to think murder! Murder was something for books, newspapers, television. Not something that happened in peaceful, safe Brandywine Creek, Georgia. I shook my head to clear it, bringing my thoughts back to the present, only to find McBride watching me closely and waiting patiently for an answer.

  I moistened lips suddenly gone dry with the tip of my tongue. “I, ah, Mario and I weren’t even friends. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even like the guy very much.”

  “What brought you to Trattoria Milano so early in the morning?”

  The man was relentless. “Call it dumb luck,” I said with a shrug. “Or bad karma.”

  He scowled, obviously not pleased with my response. I knew I must’ve sounded flip and that my attitude wasn’t winning any brownie points. Seems like finding a corpse in the kitchen was having an adverse effect on my usually upbeat disposition. I wasn
’t happy to start the day this way, and I guess it showed.

  “Juniper berries,” I answered sullenly.

  He blinked. “Come again?”

  “Mario happens—happened,” I corrected, shifting to past tense, “to be a fantastic chef. He agreed to demonstrate how to roast a leg of lamb at the grand opening of my spice shop.”

  “What’s the connection between a leg of lamb and juniper berries?”

  “Juniper berries happen to pair well with lamb and rosemary.” From his frown, I could see he wasn’t the sort who liked to share cooking tips.

  “Right,” he growled. “Tell me again, but in greater detail, why you were at the murder scene.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Like I already explained, it was because of the juniper berries. Yesterday, I gave Mario all those I had in stock with the understanding he’d return the rest this morning. I came by to collect them and review today’s schedule.”

  He made a note of this in his little book. “Tell me about finding the body.”

  I looked toward the rear entrance of the Tratory, which was now festooned in yellow plastic tape. “I knocked on the back door and when it opened—even though I barely touched it—I walked inside. That’s when I spotted Mario sprawled on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood and dialed nine-one-one.”

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Chief?”

  McBride glanced over his shoulder. Curious, I looked, too, and saw John Strickland, the coroner, on the back step of the restaurant, beckoning to him.

  “There’s something here you ought to see,” Strickland said, and I thought I detected an undercurrent of urgency in his tone.

  McBride nodded. “Be right with you.”

  “Am I free to go now?”

  “Fine.” He tucked his notebook and pen into his shirt pocket. “You’ll need to drop by the station later to make a formal statement.”

  I started to leave, but turned back. “Ah, McBride, I need to ask a favor.”

  He arched a dark brow. “Isn’t this a little soon to be asking favors? Shouldn’t that wait until we’re at least on a first-name basis?”