Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  “I’m only doing the job the good citizens of Brandywine Creek hired me to do.” He opened the door of a small windowless room and motioned me inside. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  The room was bare except for a narrow table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Dingy beige walls and speckled brown tile comprised the décor du jour.

  Too restless to sit, I made laps around the table. Part of me rebelled at the notion that anyone might even remotely think me capable of killing a man. The other part was too frightened to think clearly. I wanted to turn tail and dodge out the back door. I wished I’d never heard of Mario Barrone, much less cajoled him into performing a cooking demo. Now, all because of him and some stupid juniper berries, I was about to be thrown into the slammer.

  Tired of pacing, I slumped down in one of the chairs. McBride let me stew for a good fifteen minutes, then returned carrying a tape recorder and a file folder in one hand, a brown bag in the other. If his ploy was to make me nervous, it worked like a charm. If I knew the notes, I’d sing like a canary.

  I eyed the recorder warily. “Do I need a lawyer?” I swallowed. “Of the criminal variety?”

  “That’s up to you,” he replied, his tone noncommittal. “You’re not under arrest. Just here for questioning.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, knowing the gesture was defensive, but didn’t care. “I didn’t do anything. I have nothing to hide.”

  “Good. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

  “Fine.” I sat up straight.

  McBride took the chair opposite me and clicked on the recorder, stating our names for the record along with the date and time. This was as official as it gets. Reba Mae was going to get an earful once this was behind me. The two of us would probably share a good laugh comparing reality against TV shows and movies. But this wasn’t TV. Wasn’t a movie. And I was scared spitless. At what point would McBride read me the Miranda rights? Oh yeah, I remember, when they slap on handcuffs and announce I’m under arrest …

  … for murder.

  Unbelievable.

  Then fear left me, replaced by red-hot anger. “Why are you wasting your time questioning me when you should be hunting down the real killer?” I demanded.

  “Allow me to give you a brief tutorial on the way things work in law enforcement,” McBride said, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “At the moment, you happen to be the prime suspect in the death of Mario Barrone. The three fundamentals of a homicide investigation are motive, means, and opportunity. You score high on all three counts.”

  Generally speaking—with the exception of golf—I like being a high scorer. In this instance, however, I didn’t want to be an overachiever. I wanted to retaliate with some smart-aleck remark, but thought it wise to remain silent. Instead, I fixed an unblinking gaze on McBride. For the first time, I was aware of the thin scar bisecting his brow near the corner of his left eye. I shifted uneasily. Too much information. I didn’t want to know about his scars. Or wonder if he got them in the line of duty or on the football field.

  “First off,” he said, unaware of my unruly thoughts, “your prints are a positive match to those on the murder weapon. That provides ‘means.’”

  “Haven’t you been listening?” I snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you I found the knife outside the Tratory? Of course the prints match. Why wouldn’t they?”

  He leaned back, his eyes never leaving my face. I’d like to think my counterattack caught him off guard, but it was impossible to tell what was going on behind that cop mask of his. “Why in the world would I kill Mario?” I’d discovered asking questions held more appeal than answering them. “I needed Barrone’s help to get my shop off to a running start. I was depending on his cooking demonstration to bring in a slew of customers.”

  “You seemed to handle the demo without his help—more or less.”

  Narrowing my eyes, I regarded him with suspicion. Was he poking fun at me? I wondered, recalling how the juniper paste splattered Bertha Fox minutes before the leg of lamb took flight.

  “A number of people witnessed your argument with Barrone just hours before he was killed. Melly Prescott, your former mother-in-law, attests to the fact you have a temper.”

  “Of course I have a temper,” I flared. “I was married to her son, who happened to be cheating on me with Miss Peach Pit. That would be enough to rile Mother Teresa.”

  “Here’s a possible scenario. There was bad blood between you and Barrone as demonstrated by your disagreement. You went to confront him after his restaurant closed for the night. One thing led to another. Things got heated, and the situation got out of control. He ended up dead and you fled the scene.”

  “Ridiculous!” I scoffed. “Have you ever considered writing fiction?”

  He ignored my jibe. “All that goes to supply motive. And last, but by no means least, the third member of the triad—opportunity.”

  The air in the small room suddenly seemed heavier, harder to breathe. I watched him carefully, dreading what he’d say next. Meanwhile, the tape recorder quietly whirred away. Recording every angry syllable. Every nervous swallow.

  McBride opened the file folder and flipped through the pages. “The medical examiner gives the time of death as between ten o’clock and midnight. Need I remind you that you have no alibi for that period of time?”

  Bingo! There it was—the elephant in the room.

  “You’re wrong,” I said, with all the bravado I could muster. “I do have an alibi.”

  “Right.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Some wild fabrication about finding and taking an injured dog to a vet. Too bad it can’t be verified. All we have is your word for it. Thing is, Piper”—he leaned forward, his look intent—“the vet disappeared. No telling when he left—or when he might return. For all I know, he might’ve been called away on a ‘family emergency’ days before Mario was killed. To make matters worse, there’s no trace of a dog—injured or otherwise.”

  He paused to let this sink in.

  “You need to give it more time. Be more patient. Dr. Winters has a booming practice. He wouldn’t just abandon it.” I was grasping at straws, and we both knew it.

  Reaching down, McBride opened a paper sack and produced the sealed evidence bag I’d first seen in Spice It Up! “As you already know, our search of your apartment uncovered this hidden in the trash.”

  I huffed out an indignant breath. “It wasn’t ‘hidden,’ it was stuffed. If I’d ‘hidden’ it, you’d never have found it. But I stuffed it, so you did.”

  I could see from the pained expression on his face that this interrogation wasn’t going exactly according to his game plan. But I wouldn’t allow myself to feel sorry for the man, so I resumed attack mode. “You’re going to have egg on your face when the lab results prove the blood is canine and not human.”

  McBride pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and regrouped. “Piper, are you sure you aren’t holding something back? It’ll go much easier on you if you just come out with it and admit you killed Barrone. The prosecutor will likely call it a crime of passion and reduce the charge to second degree. After all, you never went to Trattoria Milano intending to kill Barrone. You simply lost your temper and…” He shrugged. “These things happen.”

  I jumped to my feet so suddenly the chair toppled backward. “Are you freaking nuts? I want a lawyer, and I want one now!”

  With the racket caused by my shouting and the noise from the chair clattering to the floor, neither of us heard the quiet knock until it was repeated.

  “Chief…?” Precious Blessing’s muffled voice came through the closed door. “Someone here to see you.”

  “Tell them to take a number,” McBride growled. “I’m busy.”

  “Er, Chief, I really think you’re going to want to talk to ’im.”

  McBride shot me a look and, rising to his feet, strode toward the door. The instant it opened, a tan ball of fur charged through, trailing a leash. Amid tail wa
gging and excited barks, the small dog spotted me and vaulted into my arms, covering my face in wet kisses from its raspy pink tongue. I laughed out loud at the exuberant greeting, my mood lighter than it had been in days.

  “Easy, boy,” I said, stroking the pup’s shiny coat. “Easy.”

  Glancing over the pup’s head, I became aware of both Precious Blessing and Doug Winters watching the reunion with varying degrees of amusement. McBride hid his reaction beneath his usual bland expression. Probably displeased to discover his “prime suspect” was no long quite as prime.

  “Sorry for any confusion my absence might’ve caused,” Doug Winters said, with an apologetic smile, one I found quite endearing. “I drove here as soon I found the chief’s card stuck in the door and listened to Piper’s messages. Thought it might be better if I clear this matter up in person rather than with a phone call.”

  “Since I didn’t think you’d mind me interruptin’, Chief,” Precious said, “I brought along another chair.” She uprighted the toppled chair, which I sank onto gratefully, and she placed the other next to it.

  After she left, the two men shook hands and introduced themselves while the pup lay curled in my lap and wagged his stubby tail. Running my hand along his side, I felt the newly healed scar and a stiff row of sutures. Thankfully the pup seemed no worse for wear after his close brush with death.

  McBride gestured for Doug to take a seat. “For the record, Dr. Winters, can you tell me where you’ve been for the last week?”

  Doug raked his fingers through his silvery mop. “My mother called with news that my father had suffered a massive heart attack. I dropped everything and drove through the night to get to his side.”

  McBride picked up a pen and made a note of this. “Exactly when was this?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief when the date corresponded with what I’d told the chief.

  “Do you recall the approximate time of Mrs. Prescott’s visit?”

  “She must’ve gotten to the clinic shortly after ten. I remember because the news was still on. It was nearly one in the morning when she left. I tried to convince her that I’d done everything I could, but she insisted on staying until the pup was breathing easier.”

  I gave McBride my best I-told-you-so smirk, which he studiously ignored. “Since Dr. Winters has corroborated my so-called ‘fabrication,’ am I free to leave?”

  Rotating the pen in his hand end for end, McBride gave me a long, hard look, then turned to Doug. “One more question, Dr. Winters, if you will. Do you happen to recall what Mrs. Prescott was wearing the night in question?”

  Doug’s brow furrowed, then smoothed. “I believe she had on a green T-shirt and jeans.”

  I tensed and stopped petting the pup’s shaggy fur. Green T-shirt? No doubt the very same one I’d last seen in a bag marked EVIDENCE.

  “Do you remember what type of shoes she wore?”

  Puzzled, I glanced from one man to the other. What on earth did my shoes have to do with anything?

  “Sneakers,” Doug replied, sounding confident. “The flat-soled kind women wear for aerobics. I know because my sister’s into aerobics big-time.”

  Setting the pup on the floor, I rose, antsy to get out of the confining room and to draw a breath of fresh air. “Unless you’re charging me, I’m out of here.”

  McBride closed the folder and gave me the evil eye. “You’re free to go, but don’t leave town without checking with me first.”

  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough. Doug trailed close behind.

  “Cute dog,” Precious commented as we passed her desk. “My auntie had a schnauzer once. He a schnauzer?”

  Doug shook his head. “Nope. This little guy’s from a long line of mutts.”

  “Well, he’s a cute little mutt,” Precious said, then looked up at me. “He yours?”

  I glanced down into the pup’s big brown eyes and felt my heart turn into goo. The little dog gazed back at me with undisguised love and adoration. I wasn’t made of stone. I felt my resistance melt like a snow cone at the state fair. “He’s mine if no one claims him.”

  “Congratulations.” Grinning, Doug stuck out his hand. “Consider yourself a pet owner.”

  CHAPTER 13

  ATTEMPTING TO RELAX after my close encounter of the worst kind, I wriggled deeper into the soft, worn cushions of Reba Mae’s sofa while my newly adopted mutt snoozed alongside. A half-finished bottle of wine and an almost empty pizza box rested on the coffee table.

  Reba Mae topped off my wine. “Then what happened?”

  “Dr. Winters—Doug—asked me out.”

  Reba Mae’s jaw dropped. “No way.”

  “Way,” I answered smugly.

  “You go, girl.”

  “Call it temporary amnesia that made me forget I’d sworn off men. Doug caught me off guard, but I thought to myself, heck, why not.” Kicking off my shoes, I propped my feet on a hassock and wiggled my toes. “We’re just going for Mexican at North of the Border, not the prom. It’s no biggie.”

  “It is a big deal, sugar. How long has it been since you were on a bona fide date?”

  I pulled a face. “Twenty-some years, but who’s counting? After the grilling McBride put me through tonight, Doug’s offer was balm to my wounded spirit. Imagine McBride thinking me capable of murder.”

  “That’s his job, hon. He’s paid to be suspicious.”

  “Well, his suspicions are wasted on me. He ought to spend his time tracking down the real killer and not harassing innocent citizens. And all because my fingerprints were on the murder weapon.”

  “Don’t forget half the town knows about your argument with Barrone.” Reba Mae studied nails painted with a color she called Cat House Carmine. “Like McBride or not, you’ve got to admit he’s got it all over Uncle Joe in the looks department. I bet he could pose for GQ if he had half a mind to.”

  I sipped my wine. “You’re welcome to him. I’ll take sweet, mild-mannered Dr. Doug, premature gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, over tall, dark, and dangerous any day of the week.”

  “You want the last slice of pizza?”

  Reaching down, I scratched the pup behind his ear. “Go ahead, you take it.”

  “Better yet, I’ll let the boys fight over it.”

  “How’s Clay’s computer class coming along?” I knew Reba Mae’s twins were her pride and joy. I had to hand it to her: she’s done a great job raising them since Butch died. Caleb and Clay were the same age as my Chad. The three had been inseparable before Chad, bent on becoming a doctor, headed off to college in Chapel Hill.

  “Okay, I guess, but unlike Chad, Clay has no idea what he wants to be when he grows up. For now he’s content to work construction, take an occasional night class at the technical college, and leave the more serious stuff to others.”

  “What about Caleb? He still happy with his job?”

  “Dwayne pays him a decent wage as a mechanic at that garage and used-car lot of his.”

  “Pre-owned,” I corrected, more from habit than political correctness.

  “Whatever. Long as it doesn’t interfere with his bowlin’ league, Caleb’s not gonna complain.”

  “You’ve got great boys, Reba Mae. Except for a couple shenanigans, they’ve never given you a moment’s grief.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Once in a blue moon they even take out the garbage without being told. If I could only teach ’em to put the toilet seat down, I’d die a happy woman.”

  “Lindsey’s failing language arts,” I blurted.

  “I thought she was failin’ math.”

  “That, too. According to her language arts teacher, she hasn’t even started a report that counts for nearly half her grade.”

  “CJ know about this?”

  “No sooner had I told Lindsey she couldn’t go to a concert this weekend when he went right over my head. Said she could write the report on Sunday. That Amber would help her.”

  Reba Mae gave an unladylike snort. “Amber Leigh? The only wr
itin’ that girl does is to sign her name to a credit-card receipt.”

  That was it in a nutshell. With nothing more to be said about Amber Leigh’s writing skills, we lapsed into a companionable silence. My newly acquired pet lazily opened one eye, then promptly closed it again after making sure I hadn’t gone off and abandoned him.

  Reba Mae aimed a thumb at the pup. “Looks like a dog Butch’s cousin had. A wheaten terrier, but it’s kinda small for a Wheaton. So what are you goin’ to do with your new BFF?”

  “Unless someone comes forward to claim him, which is unlikely, he’s all mine. Besides, he’ll be good company, what with Lindsey spending the majority of her time at CJ’s.” I reminded myself to speak to CJ regarding the disproportionate amount of time our daughter spent with him. Let him know in no uncertain terms I was unhappy with the present arrangement. That it needed to change. And while I was at it, we needed to establish that when one parent said no, it meant end of discussion.

  “A watchdog’s not a bad idea with a killer on the loose.”

  Reba Mae’s words struck home and brought me back to the present. With McBride focusing all his attention on me, the real murderer was free to prowl the streets of our peaceful little town. Would there be other victims? I wondered. Or had Mario’s death been an isolated “crime of passion”?

  I made a mental note to invest in a security system as soon as my finances were in better shape. For the time being, however, a stouter lock on my rear door would have to suffice. A watchdog would also act as a deterrent. I smiled to myself. The little animal napping peacefully at my feet didn’t look capable of defending itself against fleas, much less a hardened criminal.

  “Well, he’s a cute little bugger,” Reba Mae continued, unaware of my worries. “At least you don’t have to worry about him leavin’ the toilet seat up.”

  I stared into my half-empty wineglass. “You know, in spite of Doug coming to my rescue in the nick of time, I still don’t feel like I’m off the hook.”

  Reba Mae took oversized gold hoops out of her ears and placed them on the coffee table. “What do you mean?”