by Oust, Gail
I nodded, my mouth too dry to speak. Squinting, I managed to make out a figure approaching the driver’s side. With the other car’s brights trained on us, it was nigh unto impossible to identify who its driver might be.
Reba Mae clutched my hand. “Next time, I’m gonna be packin’.”
“Packing what?” I whispered hoarsely.
“That means comin’ armed and dangerous. I’m bringin’ a gun.”
“You don’t own a gun,” I reminded her tersely.
“Then I’ll get me one. You should, too,” she added as an afterthought.
My heart practically leaped out of my chest at a sharp knock on my window.
“Problem, ladies?” a rich baritone inquired.
I slowly released a pent-up breath, knowing the voice didn’t belong to Tony Deltorro but to Wyatt McBride. Part of me was grateful, the other part annoyed. “No problem, officer.” I forced a smile so wide it hurt my face. “We’re fine. You can move on.”
McBride didn’t budge. Instead he shined a Maglite around the interior of my Beetle. “Wondered what y’all were doing sitting in an alley with the lights off, but now I know. You girls were having yourself a nice little picnic.”
Reba Mae leaned over. “We were just out for a little drive, and all of a sudden, the car stopped. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers to demonstrate. “No tellin’ about cars, is there?”
“No, ma’am, there sure isn’t.”
McBride gave her a slow—and sexy—smile. It occurred to me this was the first genuine smile of his I’d seen. And damn, wouldn’t you know, the man had the cutest dimple in his right cheek. Don’t know why that irritated the heck out of me, but it did. I’d always harbored a secret fondness for dimples.
“You must be Reba Mae Johnson. We weren’t properly introduced the last time we met,” McBride said, turning on charm like a faucet. “Heard you and Piper were good friends. Sorry to learn about your husband. Butch was a couple years behind me in high school. I didn’t know him well, but remembered he played junior varsity back then.”
“Both our boys made varsity, followed in their daddy’s footsteps.”
“You must be proud.”
”You’re darn right I am. Neither of ’em ever gave me a lick of trouble. They’re good kids, both of ’em,” Reba Mae informed him. “Just before you drove up, I was about to call one of ’em and ask for help, but maybe you have a set of jumper cables in that big ol’ police cruiser of yours.”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” Another killer smile. “Be right back.”
“Now look what you’ve gone and done,” I fumed as soon as McBride was out of earshot. “You’re consorting with the enemy. Next thing, the two of you will be comparing high school yearbooks.”
“Tsk, tsk,” she clucked her tongue, unfazed. “No need to get your panties in a twist. I was just bein’ sociable is all. Besides, he’s a real looker. Not bad body-wise, either, near as I can tell.”
“Shame on you, Reba Mae, flirting with a man who’d like nothing better than to lock me up and throw away the key.”
I had to give the man credit, though, I admitted grudgingly. McBride knew his way around a set of jumper cables. Within minutes, my VW coughed a time or two, then purred like a kitten with a bowl of cream.
“I’ll follow to make sure you ladies get home safely,” he announced after he replaced the cables in his trunk.
“Thanks, but don’t bother,” I said hastily. “I need to drop Reba Mae off first.”
“No bother,” he assured us. “Don’t forget there’s a killer on the loose.”
“Just peachy keen,” I muttered under my breath. I drove off with a police cruiser practically on my rear bumper.
A sidelong glance in Reba Mae’s direction found her grinning ear to ear. “Hello, tall, dark, and handsome,” she drawled, channeling Mae West with a distinct Southern accent.
CHAPTER 17
“A NEW BATTERY?” I wailed.
“Sorry, Miz Prescott.” Caleb Johnson stuffed a greasy rag into the pocket of his jeans.
“But I don’t understand why I need a new battery. My car’s only two years old.” The whine in my voice refused to give up the ghost. The only time I liked wine was when it was served up with cheese and crackers. Or a steaming bowl of pasta. “Dwayne swore on a stack of Bibles when I traded in my BMW that the Beetle was in mint condition.”
Caleb shrugged linebacker-sized shoulders. “These things happen, Miz Prescott. Rest of the Beetle seems to be in good shape, though.”
Caleb was employed as a mechanic by Dwayne Cloune, owner of Cloune Motors. After his mom had told him about my car troubles the night before, Caleb had offered to come by and check out my car before starting work that morning. Like Reba Mae always said, she had good kids.
I did some mental calculations. A battery would make a serious dent in my checking account. My budget didn’t allow for unexpected auto repairs. Before my divorce, I’d never had to contend with anything under the hood of a car, that was CJ’s department. He’d either whip out his trusty American Express card or have the bill forwarded to his office. Unfortunately, I didn’t own an AmEx card, or for that matter, have an office. I was simply the proprietor of a struggling spice shop, a shop largely ignored by the general population.
“I have to get over to the garage. Tell you what, Miz Prescott. What if I bring over a new battery at lunchtime? I’ll do the labor for you free of charge. You can come down later and pay Mr. Cloune for the battery.”
“Thanks, Caleb. I’d really appreciate that,” I told him. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or embarrassed that he sensed my financial dilemma. “I’ll have lunch ready for you.”
“Gee, Miz Prescott, don’t go to any trouble on my account.”
“No trouble at all,” I assured him.
Soon as Caleb left, I raced upstairs to my apartment. Reba Mae’s pride in her sons was justified. They had grown into considerate and generous young men. Caleb and his twin, Clay, were big, strapping boys with Reba Mae’s dark brown hair—minus her current magenta shade—and Butch’s hazel eyes. Caleb’s hair always looked in need of a trim, while Clay favored a shorter, almost military, style. That’s how I told them apart. If Caleb ever got a decent haircut, I didn’t know what I’d do.
I decided right then and there that one good deed deserved another. Recalling how much the twins loved my chili, I set about making some. While ground beef sizzled in a pan, I tossed the remaining ingredients into a Crock-Pot—tomatoes, chopped onion and green pepper, minced garlic, and, of course, plenty of spices. I liked my chili best with a little heat. Not scalding, mind you, but hot enough to take notice. To achieve this effect, I was often a little heavy-handed with the ancho chili pepper, cayenne, and cumin.
I drained the meat when it finished browning, added it to the Crock-Pot along with some kidney beans, and lugged it all downstairs. Soon my entire shop was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of simmering chili. I tasted a sample, then added a dash of cinnamon. Mmm. Perfect.
True to his word, Caleb returned shortly after noon, toting a spanking new battery. A wide grin split his face when he caught a whiff of my chili. “Boy, that sure smells good. I’m hungry as a bear.”
In no time flat, he’d installed the battery and wolfed down two large bowls of chili along with three hunks of cornbread I’d whipped up.
No sooner had he left Spice It Up! when several potential customers wandered in. I recognized one of the pair as Maybelle Humphries, former fiancée of Buzz Oliver’s and sworn enemy of Becca Dapkins. Maybelle introduced the other woman as Charlotte Gibbons, her houseguest from Florida. After browsing for a few minutes among the shelves, the women asked what smelled so good. I gladly gave them each a sample. That launched a lively discussion of spices used in various chili recipes. We agreed nothing added better flavor to a meal like well-chosen spices. Needless to say, I was pleased as punch when both ladies left with purchases.
I had just given my chili another stir
when in strolled Wyatt McBride. I barely stifled a groan. Groans always seemed to be my first reaction whenever I saw the man. Setting down the spoon, I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him, my head cocked to one side. “Come to arrest me?”
“Are you always this feisty?”
Feisty? I decided not to pursue the subject. “What can I do for you, McBride? You in the market for some cinnamon?”
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” he said.
He shot me an impudent grin. Much to my chagrin, that darn dimple in his cheek made a brief appearance. My stomach did a strange little flutter. I blamed it on the chili peppers.
“I can’t fry an egg without breaking the yolk,” he confessed, looking anything but helpless in his starched and pressed navy blues and shiny gold badge.
“I’d be happy to recommend a good cookbook,” I said, my smile saccharine sweet. “I believe there’s one titled How to Boil Water.”
Instead of being insulted, he sniffed the air appreciatively. “Is that chili I smell? Don’t suppose you provide takeout orders to underpaid lawmen?”
“What do you want, McBride?” I folded my arms over my chest. “If you’re here to hassle me, get it over and done with.”
“Are you always this prickly?”
“No,” I snapped. “My ‘prickly’ is very selective. I reserve it for folks who think I’m capable of murder. Everyone else confuses me with Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.”
Another smile. Another hint of dimple, which caused the same tummy flutter. I promised myself next time I made chili I’d cut down on the cayenne.
“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by and see if you had someone take a look at that car of yours. It isn’t safe for a single woman to be driving around with a finicky battery.” He paused a beat before adding, “Especially in alleys late at night.”
“How thoughtful, but you can rest easy.” I leaned against the counter, refusing to fall prey to this display of friendly concern. “It just so happens I bought a new battery from Cloune Motors so I don’t expect any more problems in the foreseeable future.”
“Good to hear.”
He’d turned to leave, but I saw him cast a final look in the direction of the Crock-Pot. In spite of myself, I felt my irritation soften. “Wait up, McBride.”
Before I gave myself a chance to reconsider, I dug a plastic container from underneath the counter and ladled in a generous portion of chili. For good measure, I slipped a wedge of cornbread into a plastic sandwich bag. “Hope you like spicy. I always add green chilies to the cornbread batter for a little extra kick.”
“I learned to get along with spicy while in the army. I was stationed at Fort Huachuca in Arizona, fifteen miles from the Mexican border. I developed a fondness for Tex-Mex down there.”
I had to admit I was taken aback by McBride sharing personal history. What had come over him? I wondered. I had no clue what went on in that head of his. Was he trying out a “good cop” persona rather than “bad cop”?
“In no way will this be construed as a bribe, right?” I asked, handing him a paper sack with the food.
“Just don’t let it get around town I’m easily swayed.” He started to leave, but turned back. “By the way, whatever happened to the pooch?”
“Doug couldn’t locate his owner, so I decided to keep him.”
“Doug, being Dr. Winters the vet?”
“One and the same,” I replied, trailing after him as he headed for the door.
“How’s he doing?” He paused a beat before adding, “The pooch, not the vet.”
“Great. At the moment he’s upstairs napping—the pooch, that is, not the vet. And these days, the mutt goes by Casey.”
“A watchdog’s handy to have around—especially with a killer on the loose.”
As if I needed another reminder, I thought glumly.
“Piper…?” As he reached for the doorknob, McBride turned back one last time. “Don’t be tempted to try anything foolish.”
Frowning, I watched him disappear out the door and down Main Street. What the devil did that mean? Did he think I was going to flee the country on an expired passport? Or did he suspect me of spying on Tony Deltorro? Maybe he, too, had overheard rumors of the enmity between Tony and Mario. Or worse yet. In spite of my alibi, did McBride still think deep down that I killed Mario?
I didn’t have time to ponder the matter further because just then Marcy Magruder came into my shop. Marcy was a small girl with dishwater blond hair, pale gray eyes, and a perpetually timid expression. I couldn’t help but notice the girl was developing a sizeable “baby bump.”
“Hey, Piper,” Marcy greeted me with an uncertain smile. “Hope you’re not mad at me.”
“Of course not.” I returned the smile. “Why would I be mad?”
“Well, ’cause I called in the day of your grand opening. Sorry about leaving you high and dry, but I was too sick to get out of bed. I’m pregnant and having morning sickness something fierce.”
“Congratulations,” I told her.
“Doc says mornin’ sickness is normal the first couple months.” She rested a hand on the expanding mound beneath her knit top. “I’m havin’ an ultrasound next week. We’re hopin’ for a boy.”
“This must be an exciting time for you.” Marcy, however, didn’t look the least bit pleased by the prospect.
“It would be a heap more exciting if Danny and I weren’t strapped for cash. That’s the real reason I stopped by. Wanted to ask if you need any help around here. I’m available any time you have stuff to do—or just want to take a day off.”
I couldn’t really afford help, but the poor girl looked so dejected, I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. In an odd way, she reminded me of Casey the night I’d found the little pup, frightened and injured. I couldn’t ignore the plea in Marcy’s eyes any more than I could’ve ignored Casey’s. “Well, actually,” I heard myself say, “I do have a couple errands to run. Think you could mind the shop for an hour or so?”
“Sure thing.” She beamed me a smile that transformed her narrow face from plain to almost pretty. “Does that mean I get to wear one of those cute little aprons?”
“Here,” I said, “wear mine.” I quickly slipped my apron off and gave it to her. “I don’t expect there will be many customers but, if so, do you remember how to work the register and operate the credit-card charge machine liked I showed you?”
“Don’t you worry none. I’ve got a good memory for that sort of stuff. I’m real good with computers, too.”
I stored this information away for later. If my business ever took off, I might need help with the software I’d bought to track inventory and sales. “If there’s a problem, you can always call my cell. The number’s next to the register.”
“I’ll be fine. And, Piper, thanks. Danny says things will be looking up for us real soon. Once the Deltorros get the Tratory up and running, he’ll have a steady job again.”
I pawed through the contents of my purse, searching for my car keys. “I don’t believe you ever mentioned why Danny no longer worked for Mario.”
Marcy tucked a limp lock of shoulder-length hair behind one ear. “The two men never did get along. Mr. Barrone got so mad at Danny once he even threw a meat cleaver at him. Didn’t hit him, of course, but Danny claimed it was the last straw. He quit right then and there, but Mr. Barrone said he couldn’t quit ’cause he was already fired. Never did pay Danny what he was owed. Try explaining that to your landlord.”
“Right,” I muttered. Apparently, Danny Boyd numbered among those persons Mario had managed to antagonize. As I left the shop, I wondered how many others there were walking the streets of Brandywine Creek.
CHAPTER 18
STEPPING OUT OF Spice It Up!, I paused to draw a deep breath. The air smelled as fresh as newly laundered clothes left in the sunshine to dry. The sky overhead was a robin’s egg blue, and in the square across the way, wrens warbled in the willow oaks. Instead of driving, I decided
to enjoy the lovely April afternoon by walking the short distance to Cloune Motors.
As I passed Second Hand Prose, Brandywine Creek’s used-book store, I collided with Shirley Randolph carrying an armload of books. I bent to help retrieve several she’d dropped. The hero on the cover of Passion’s Surrender reminded me of Wyatt McBride so I hastily shoved the book back at her.
“Sorry I haven’t been into your store since it opened,” Shirley apologized, but avoided eye contact. “I’ve been meaning to try the lamb recipe you demonstrated.”
“I’ve still got plenty of juniper berries in stock. Any time you want to experiment…”
“I’m kinda busy right now, what with getting ready for the Friends of the Library’s annual fund-raiser. Maybe when it’s over.…”
“Sure,” I replied as I watched her scurry off with her treasure.
Next, I spotted Judge Malcolm R. Herman, briefcase in hand, trotting down the front steps of the stately courthouse that occupied one end of the square. Maybe I should rush over and personally thank him for signing the search warrant that allowed McBride and his crew to ransack my place. Yeah, right. Over my dead body. We studiously ignored each other.
I continued on my merry way, determined to enjoy playing hooky from the role of shopkeeper. The bay door of the garage was open as I approached Cloune Motors, and I saw Caleb bent over the engine of a late-model Ford. He responded to my greeting with a quick grin, then went back to work.
I entered the front office and found Dwayne Cloune behind his desk, talking on the phone. He acknowledged my presence with a nod, and motioned me to have a seat while he finished his conversation.
This gave me an opportunity to study him. Dwayne—of I-Don’t-Clown-Around fame, an annoying slogan seen on print ads and repeated ad nauseam in radio spots—was an entrepreneur, dabbling in everything from repairs and sales of autos to real estate to city politics. Judging from his dapper, button-down appearance, one would never guess he owned a grimy repair shop. Dwayne struck me as the persnickety sort, not the type to dirty his hands. He made a practice of hiring young, top-notch mechanics such as Caleb to do the work for him. The grease-under-the-fingernails look was unbefitting a city councilman with aspirations of becoming state senator.
