Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  “McBride told me the medical examiner puts the time of death between ten and midnight. Technically speaking, I could still have killed Mario, then rushed the dog to the vet’s.”

  Reba Mae stretched her long legs. “Okay,” she drawled, “but why would you stab a helpless little animal in the first place?”

  Leave it to Reba Mae to find the hole in my logic.

  “I wouldn’t, of course. Being a ‘person of interest’ is making me crazy.” Frustrated, I ran a hand through my hair, mussing my already messy red curls. “I haven’t a clue what goes on inside McBride’s head. Maybe he thinks I stabbed the dog to keep him quiet, then in a fit of remorse rushed him to the vet’s to save his life. The man’s so intent on me being the guilty party, he’s not even looking for any other suspects.”

  Reba Mae gave me a hard stare. “What are you gettin’ at?”

  I blew out a breath. “I’m worried that since McBride is a stranger in Brandywine Creek, he might not ask the right people the right questions. As the newly appointed chief of police, he must feel compelled to wrap this case up quick. He needs to look good in front of Mayor Hemmings and the town council.”

  “I’m not sure where you’re headin’ with this, honeybun. Care to enlighten me?”

  An idea, although vague, was starting to form in the recesses of my brain. “I think he needs help is all,” I confessed.

  “Help?” she asked. “What kind of help?”

  I looked her in the eye. “Our kind.”

  “Girl, what on earth are you talkin’ about?”

  Reba Mae’s voice had crept up loud enough to wake the pup. He raised his head and cocked one ear. Reaching down, I patted him and he immediately settled down again.

  “Between the two of us, we know most everyone there is to know in these parts. You hear all sorts of gossip at the Klassy Kut. Maybe we need to keep our ears open. Check out a few folks.”

  “Like who?”

  I could tell from her expression she was skeptical—skeptical but curious—so I forged ahead. “We could start with Tony Deltorro. Gina said he and Mario went way back. Said they had ‘big plans’ once upon a time. At Mario’s funeral, Tony didn’t make any bones to hide his dislike.”

  “In case you haven’t figured this out, sugar, watchin’ cop shows on TV doesn’t make us detectives.”

  “You’re right, but…,” I said, warming to the idea, “McBride gave me a tutorial on how to catch a killer. All we have to do is find someone with motive, means, and opportunity. Other than me, that is.”

  “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  I nodded grimly. “How hard can it be for two reasonably intelligent women to find the solution to a real-life whodunit?”

  Reba Mae appeared to give the matter some thought, then broke into a wide grin. “What are friends for?”

  We high-fived.

  CHAPTER 14

  MOST SMALL TOWNS in the South are homes to either a Mexican or a Chinese restaurant. At least that’s the way it seems to me. Brandywine Creek is fortunate enough to have one of each. CJ, being strictly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, didn’t care for either. He was more a prime rib at the country club sort. When he was out of town, however, I’d take the kids to either North of the Border or Ming Wah. Somehow I felt it was my duty to educate their palates as well as their minds. As a result, Lindsey developed a fondness for Moo Goo Gai Pan while Chad loved nothing better than to chow down on a beef and bean burrito. CJ complained his children had been unduly influenced by a Yankee.

  I glanced at my watch, then made a final entry into the computer. Sadly, none of my stock needed to be reordered. Business had slowed to a trickle and, if it didn’t pick up soon, I didn’t know what I’d do. To borrow from CJ’s poker glossary, I was “all in”—every red cent. If I didn’t win this hand, I’d go bust. Mostly though, I didn’t want to give CJ the satisfaction of saying, “I told you so.” I couldn’t keep from believing that being a suspect in a murder investigation was having a negative effect on business. Seemed like folks I’d known all my married life had started avoiding me. This gave me even more incentive to do a little snooping around. But that would have to wait. Tonight I had other plans.

  Doug said he’d be by a little after six o’clock to pick me up. With North of the Border just around the corner, we agreed he’d leave his car here and, since the weather was so nice, we’d walk the short distance. I had to admit I was more than just a tad nervous. Dating was for youngsters Lindsey’s age, kids in high school, not women who’d been married twenty-plus years. I tried to convince myself this wasn’t really a “date.” Just two people getting better acquainted over dinner. No different than Reba Mae and I sharing a pizza. Yeah, right! I’d picked up the phone at least a half dozen times to cancel our undate, then changed my mind. I’d never been a coward. Didn’t intend to start now.

  I powered down the computer and pulled my compact out of my purse. Flipping it open, I checked my reflection and reapplied lipstick. Ever since he’d invited me for Mexican, I’d debated what to wear. In the end, I’d settled on black chinos with tapered legs and a tailored yellow blouse. A chunky necklace I’d purchased years ago on a trip to Cancún completed my attempt at casual chic. I was as ready as I was going to get.

  Doug tapped on the front window and, with butterflies flitting in my stomach, I hurried to let him in. “My, don’t you look pretty,” he said, giving me a once-over, his voice warm with approval.

  “Thanks,” I replied, feeling a telltale blush creep into my cheeks. I’d nearly forgotten how good it felt to be on the receiving end of a man’s full attention. “It’ll only take a minute to lock up.”

  “Brought you something,” he said, holding out a heavy paper sack.

  I peeked inside and smiled. Doggy chews and a book titled How to Train a Puppy. “No one can ever say you’re not a smooth operator.”

  Now it was Doug’s turn to look all shy and boyish. And charming and cute as all get-out. “I thought about flowers, or candy, but didn’t want to scare you off so I brought these instead.”

  Minutes later, we strolled down Main Street. A soft breeze wafted through the willow oaks in the town square. Boys on bikes whizzed past as we turned onto Washington Avenue. I felt self-conscious, jittery, knowing people would report seeing us together and speculate on our relationship, but Doug seemed oblivious to the fact we’d be fodder for gossip. He kept the conversation light, and by the time we reached the restaurant, I’d begun to relax.

  Nacho, one of the owners of North of the Border, seemed happy to see us. “A booth or table, señor?”

  “Table.”

  “Booth.”

  We answered simultaneously.

  Confused, Nacho looked from one to the other.

  “The lady would prefer a booth, so a booth it is.” Doug placed a protective hand at the small of my back as we followed Nacho.

  Maybe it was silly, but the tables were near the front. I didn’t want to be conspicuous to everyone passing by. Thus far, I found the evening more stressful than fun. I hoped things would improve with time.

  Nacho deposited a basket of warm tortilla chips and thick salsa in front of us. As soon as he’d left with our drink orders—margaritas, frozen, no salt—Doug leaned over and lowered his voice, “Isn’t ‘Nacho’ an odd name for the proprietor of a Mexican restaurant?”

  I matched my tone to his. “I used to think so, too, until I learned it was a nickname for his real name—Ignacio.”

  “Well then, that makes perfect sense.” Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes twinkled with humor.

  Our drinks arrived along with menus. Doug studied the extensive list of specials and combinations with single-minded concentration. I didn’t bother. I invariably ordered the same thing. While Doug was trying to decide, I let my gaze roam.

  Colorful sombreros hung on the brightly painted walls along with photos of various locales in Mexico. Mariachi music seeped out of speakers. What North of the Border lacked in sophi
stication, it made up for in service and tasty but inexpensive food. Judging from the lack of customers, however, most folk weren’t in the mood for Mexican on this particular night. Except for us and another couple in a booth at the rear, the place was virtually deserted.

  I recognized the pair as Vicki Lamont and Kenny, her estranged husband. As though sensing me watching, Vicki glanced up, then quickly turned away. Vicki and I had never been what you might call pals, but we’d traveled in the same social circles during my marriage to CJ. Now she didn’t even acknowledge me. Fine, I thought, I can take a hint. I know when I’m not wanted.

  “Have you decided on a name for your dog yet?”

  Doug’s question jerked me back to the present. “Um, no. Not yet.”

  Just then Becca Dapkins and Buzz Oliver entered the restaurant. Becca, the brazen hussy, was the reason Buzz jilted his long-suffering fiancée, Maybelle Humphries. Maybelle was Brandywine Creek’s undisputed queen of Southern cuisine. Becca, to put it mildly, was not. Had the woman exhausted her repertoire of mushroom soup recipes? I wondered as Nacho led them past us. Or had Buzz, tired of food swimming in a gluey gray sea, pleaded amnesty?

  “Hey Becca,” I said.

  Buzz was about to stop and gab, but Becca clutched his arm and hurried him along, making me feel even more like a pariah. Doug scowled at their rudeness and was about to comment, but I dipped a chip into the salsa and pretended I didn’t notice the slight.

  “Umm, good salsa,” I murmured around a mouthful. “Could have used a bit more heat, though. Poblano or jalapeño peppers would have been a nice addition.”

  Doug gallantly pretended he didn’t notice the snub, either, and we retreated to the neutral territory of my pet’s current state of health. I was happy to report it seemed excellent, and that the pup suffered no ill effects from the recent trauma.

  When Nacho arrived with our dinners—a chicken chimichanga for me, beef fajitas for Doug—I happened to glance again at the corner booth. I was surprised to see Vicki and Kenny holding hands and acting all lovey-dovey. Reba Mae had mentioned Vicki had filed for divorce. She’d heard Vicki had been having an affair, but not the name of her lover. Mario Barrone had been mentioned as a possibility. From the looks on their faces, I surmised the couple were reconciling.

  “Everything all right, señora?” Nacho asked anxiously when I failed to attack my meal.

  I assured him that it was, and he retreated to the kitchen. I added a dollop of sour cream to my chimi, then turned my attention back to my … date. “How is your father doing after his heart attack?”

  “Great. He’s ready to start cardiac rehab soon. Mom’s bought a half-dozen heart healthy cookbooks. They’re determined to eat better and exercise more.”

  “By the way, what did you do with my dog while you were away? Did you take him with you?”

  Doug speared strips of steak and peppers and heaped them on a warm tortilla. He had nice hands, I noticed. The fingers were long, square-tipped, competent yet gentle. “I left the pup with a friend from veterinary school. He has a practice about fifty miles from here. The dog needed to be closely monitored. I knew I couldn’t do it so I asked Josh to keep an eye on him for me as a favor.”

  As the evening progressed, we chatted about any number of things. My mood gradually changed from nervous to relaxed to simple pleasure. Doug loved his work and was interested in mine. As I’d suspected, he was a fledgling gourmet cook who enjoyed experimenting with various cuisines and trying new spices. He readily fit the profile of my ideal customer.

  The subject gradually shifted from the mundane to the personal. Doug confessed that he, too, was divorced and knew what it felt like to be dumped. His wife had left him for a former high school sweetheart she’d reconnected with at a reunion. “She hoped to find a pilot’s life more exciting than a veterinarian’s,” he confided. “After the divorce, I decided a change of scenery was in order. I quit a busy animal clinic in a Chicago suburb and moved south.”

  “Children?” I asked.

  My question was met with a long pause. “One—a daughter. She attends Northwestern and lives with her mother.”

  Reaching across the table, I gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. I knew how much that must hurt, but he seemed reluctant to say more so I didn’t pursue the subject. We were debating whether to share an order of sopapillas when the front door opened and in sauntered Wyatt McBride.

  “There goes my appetite.” I sighed. And my good mood.

  Doug glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the lawman. “He seems a decent sort, but I can understand why you might have a different opinion.”

  “Brandywine Creek’s a small town. People know I’ve been hauled down to the police station for questioning. That I’m the prime suspect in a murder case.” I toyed with the stem of my empty margarita glass. “If McBride is the hotshot, big-city detective he’s purported to be, he should be tracking down the real perpetrator before my reputation—and business—are a shambles.”

  I slid a glance sideways and was dismayed to find McBride, still in uniform, heading our way. Suddenly, the spicy salsa started giving me heartburn. Or maybe McBride had the same effect on me.

  McBride hooked his thumbs in his belt, canted his head, and stared down at us without smiling. “Somehow I was under the impression you two didn’t know each other before Mrs. Prescott found a wounded dog on her doorstep.”

  “That’s an apple from another tree. He wasn’t on my doorstep,” I explained in a tight voice. “He was in the vacant lot behind my shop.”

  “I stand corrected. Again,” he added.

  I gave him a resentful look, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but he didn’t budge. “Actually, Doug came into my shop before it officially opened, looking for saffron.”

  “I was making paella,” Doug explained. “You can imagine how thrilled I was to discover she carried Spanish coupe saffron. Piper doesn’t disappoint.”

  I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “What Doug meant to say was that my shop doesn’t disappoint.”

  I disliked the speculative gleam in McBride’s cool blues as his gaze traveled back and forth between the two of us. “So, Winters,” McBride said, widening his stance slightly, “I take it you’re something of a cook?”

  “I like to experiment with various dishes, though I’m far from being a gourmet.”

  “Take me, for instance.” McBride shrugged one shoulder. “I’m just the opposite. If it weren’t for takeout and frozen dinners, I’d probably starve. Maybe it’s time I learn to experiment. Broaden my horizons.”

  Nacho approached our booth and handed McBride a see-through bag loaded with Styrofoam carry-out boxes. “Here you go, Chief. Nice and spicy, just like you ordered.”

  McBride thanked him and favored us with his trademark humorless smile. “See you around.”

  I watched him leave with a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the chimichanga I’d just consumed and everything to do with Wyatt McBride. I didn’t trust the way his mind worked. I could easily imagine him wondering whether Doug Winters had furnished me with an alibi because it was the truth—or for personal reasons. Had opportunity, one of the unholy three, just returned for an encore?

  CHAPTER 15

  “YOO-HOO!” DOTTIE HEMMINGS glided into Spice It Up! with all the majesty of the QE2 gliding into New York Harbor.

  I glanced up from the supply catalog I’d been thumbing through. If—I mean when—business perked up I wanted to carry a variety of cooking accessories. Nothing grand, just things like pepper mills, salt cellars, recipe cards, and such.

  “Afternoon, Dottie,” I said, closing the catalog. “What can I help you with?”

  “I have some time to kill before bridge at Patti’s so thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

  “Well,” I said brightly, “as long you’re here, take a look around. You might find something you’d like to try or replace.”

  “Replace? Oh, I don’t think so, dear. I’ve ha
d some spices in my cupboard for ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years. They last forever.”

  I shuddered at the notion of dried, tasteless powders masquerading as spice. “Experts recommend buying a year’s supply of ground spice, and a one- to two-year supply of whole spices.”

  “Oh, pooh, what do the experts know?” Dottie brushed aside my advice with a wave of her pudgy hand. “My husband, the mayor, likes my cooking fine the way it is.”

  I could see the suggestion fell on deaf ears, so I gave up.

  Dottie picked up a jar of crystallized Australian ginger, then, uninterested, set it back down. “Pinky Alexander was telling everyone at the Klassy Kut how Jolene Tucker had a nasty trip and fall last night.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. Jolene was the wife of police sergeant Beau Tucker. We’d served together on various PTA committees in the past. “I hope she’s all right.”

  “Poor thing.” Dottie wagged her helmet of blond curls, but it was so stiff nary a strand moved. “Doctor told her she needs pins and plates to put her ankle back together.”

  “How awful!” I exclaimed, imagining painful surgery and months on crutches.

  “It happened coming out of Bunco at Shirley Randolph’s. If you want my opinion, too much drinking goes on during those wild dice games.” Dottie nodded knowingly. “Ned Feeney told me their trash bins are filled with empty wine bottles the next day.”

  “I’ll call Jolene and take a meal over.”

  “Becca’s already sending over a pan of her famous tuna noodle casserole. She’s the clever one when it comes to soup. You have to admire a woman who knows that many ways to use cream of mushroom.”

  “As you said, Becca’s a clever one.”

  Failing to recognize my sarcasm, Dottie rattled on. “As I was saying to my husband, the mayor, just the other day, you’re a clever girl, too. I don’t care what anyone says.”

  “Why, thank you,” I said, for lack of a better response.

  “Don’t let life get you down, dear. “She reached out and patted my hand. “CJ’s just sowing his wild oats with Amber Leigh. Men are always attracted to younger, prettier women. It’s a problem many face as they grow older and can’t compete anymore.”