by Oust, Gail
“Afternoon, Piper.” He ran a hand over dark hair liberally salted with silver, slicked back from a high forehead. “You here to settle up on that battery?”
I fished my checkbook from my purse. “Nice of you to let Caleb install it during his break.”
“If you’re short of cash, all you needed to do was say so. I’da cut you some slack. CJ and I been friends for years.” He flashed his best vote-for-me grin.
“That’s kind of you, Dwayne, but I’m doing just fine,” I lied. I’d repent later.
He rattled off a figure, and I scribbled a check. I waited while he made an entry into the computer and printed out a receipt. Glancing around, my gaze rested on a stack of glossy posters against the far wall. Dwayne the candidate posed in front of the courthouse with the American flag prominently displayed in the background.
“I see the rumor’s true,” I commented, gesturing at the posters.
“Yes, indeedy.” His head bobbed with emphasis. “It’ll be a tough fight, but I aim to give the incumbent a run for his money.”
I rose to my feet and tucked the receipt into my purse. “Well, good luck.”
“Here’s a little somethin’ for you to take along.” Reaching into a drawer, he handed me a ballpoint pen bearing the image of a clown scary enough to give toddlers nightmares and I DON’T CLOWN AROUND printed in large red letters.
“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, consigning it to the nether regions of my purse.
“By the way,” he said, treating me to another patented preelection smile, “expect an invite to a reception I’m hosting for local businesspeople. I hope to see you there.”
The thought of a party boosted my flagging ego. I felt pleased to be numbered among Brandywine Creek’s professionals. Once my shop was on more solid ground, I planned to join the chamber of commerce. Maybe the Rotary Club, too. “Great,” I said. “I’ll be watching for it.”
“Wonderful.” He lounged back in his swivel chair. “I’ll tell Diane you plan to attend. She thinks it’s the perfect venue to welcome our new chief of police to town.”
“Sounds like fun,” I managed, after finding my voice.
About as much fun as a root canal.
I decided to take the Scarlett O’Hara approach and obsess over McBride’s welcome reception another day. As long as Marcy was minding the store, I’d make the most of the afternoon. This was a good time to put my ideas for the upcoming BBQ Festival into action. For this I needed to visit Pete Barker, my friendly neighborhood butcher at Meat on Main.
Except for my ex-mother-in-law, I found the market void of customers.
“Piper,” she said, giving me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “Shouldn’t you be minding your shop instead of out gallivanting? That’s no way to run a business.”
I tensed at the censure in Melly’s voice. My former mother-in-law has a God-given talent for getting my back up. “Marcy Magruder’s ‘minding the shop’ while I run a few errands.”
“Marcy, eh?” Melly’s lips pursed. “Heard the girl is … in the family way.”
“Pregnant?” The heck with propriety. I wasn’t afraid to come right out and say the word. “Yes, Marcy told me she and Danny are expecting.”
“Oh, my,” Melly gasped. “I do hope they plan to marry before the baby’s born.”
“That’s not for me to say. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Marcy or Danny what their plans are.”
Before Melly could voice a reply, Pete Barker emerged through the double set of swinging doors behind the meat counter. “Will that be all, Miz Melly?”
Frowning, Melly examined the chuck roast he held out for her inspection. “That’ll do nicely, Pete. Much better now that you trimmed off all that nasty fat.”
“Have this ready for you in a jiff.”
While Pete busied himself weighing and wrapping, Melly turned to me with a smile. “CJ and Lindsey are coming for dinner tonight. You know how CJ loves red meat. The town’s certainly fortunate to have a butcher like Pete. The man can carve a side of beef with the best of them. He certainly has a way with knives, doesn’t he?”
Her purchase completed, she waved and sailed out the door.
A way with knives …
“Piper…?”
Startled, I swung back to Pete.
“Caught you wool gatherin’,” he said with a grin. “I asked what can I get you this afternoon.”
“S-sorry,” I replied, collecting my scattered wits. “I need some baby back ribs, nice and lean.”
“You don’t want ’em too lean,” he cautioned. “Ribs need a little fat to give ’em a decent flavor, that’s what makes ’em good and juicy.”
“Whatever you say, Pete. You’re the expert.”
“Have some choice ribs in the back if you don’t mind waitin’ a minute or two while I fetch ’em.”
“No hurry,” I assured him.
Pete hustled into the back in a quest for the perfect baby backs. I stared into the display case at the various cuts of pork and beef without really seeing them.
A way with knives…? Funny thing was, Pete did have a way with knives. I’d seen him slice tenderloin with the precision of a surgeon.
And Mario had been stabbed.
Pity, I hadn’t stayed at the murder scene long enough take in details. Had Mario been stabbed repeatedly? Or had a single, well-placed knife wound been responsible for his death? McBride would surely know. Too bad I wasn’t on better terms with the man, or I’d ask him.
Pete returned, triumphantly hoisting a giant slab of meat. “This here’s just the ticket.”
“Perfect,” I murmured.
Pete wiped gloved hands on the heavy cotton twill apron that swathed his ample girth, leaving bloody streaks against bleached white. I observed this with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Just bought a couple hogs off a farmer over in Lincoln County. This is as fresh a slab of ribs you’ll ever set eyes on. So fresh it’s practically oinkin’.”
Who was more skilled with a knife than someone who dissected dead animals for a livelihood? The notion caused my stomach to clench.
Pete peered at me over the scale, his usually cheerful countenance serious. “You’re looking a bit green around the gills, Piper. You okay?”
“Fine,” I fibbed. “Could you cut the slab into sections of about four ribs apiece?”
Selecting a wicked-looking blade, Pete finessed his way through meat, fat, and connective tissue. “You fixin’ to have a party?”
“I, um, I’m thinking ahead to the Barbecue Festival. I’m going to experiment with various spices, find out which ones work best for a rub, which work best for sauce.”
“Heard this year’s festival is gonna be bigger and better ’n ever. Always brings in quite a crowd.”
“I certainly hope you’re right. I could use the business.” No time like the present, to do a little amateur sleuthing. Pretending to admire a neat row of pork chops in the meat case, I cast about for a clever way to slip Mario’s name into the conversation. Not feeling particularly creative, I cleared my throat and dove in headfirst. “Rumor going around town that the Deltorros are taking over Trattoria Milano.”
“More than rumor, it’s a fact.” Pete plopped the ribs—now cut into riblets—onto a sheet of white butcher paper. “Met with Tony this morning. Says he wants me to be his main meat supplier. He’s bound to be a damn sight easier to deal with than Barrone. Compared to him, Deltorro oughta be a walk in the park.”
I smiled inwardly. Sleuthing was proving easier than I imagined. I seemed to have a natural flair for detective work. “I heard Mario could be temperamental.”
“Temperamental?” Pete huffed out a breath. “Insane is more like it. And a crook to boot.”
“A crook?”
“The man owed me five hundred bucks for some Kobe-style beef he had me special-order for an event. I tried to tell him the dang stuff was way overpriced, but would he listen? No sirree. Said he wouldn’t settle for second best. Cla
imed he was catering a private dinner, and everything had to be top-notch.”
“What happened?”
“Oh, I got it for him, all right. Cost me an arm and a leg, too. When the time came, Barrone weaseled out of paying me. Claimed the meat was tough. Accused me of trying to pass off an inferior grade as Kobe. I threatened to take him to small claims court.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“You got any idea how much lawyers charge?” I started to speak, but he cut me off with a humorless chuckle. “Of course you do. You were married to a shyster. Next thing, I’d have to take a day off work. Who’s gonna look after this place if I’m not here? Besides”—Pete shrugged his pudgy shoulders—“Barrone said he’d take his chances with the judge. Went as far as boasting he had ‘connections.’”
As I walked slowly back to Spice It Up!, my mind gnawed like a puppy with a milk bone on everything I’d just learned. Motive, means, and opportunity, McBride had said. The “means” in this case were a cinch to name. Knives were tools of the trade to butchers the world over. And knives were readily available in the kitchen of a restaurant. Large and small—paring knives, butcher knives, boning knives, to name just a few.
Motive in this case was easy—money. Mario owed Pete money, which he refused to pay. A sum great enough for Pete to consider taking Mario to court. It wasn’t a stretch to think the two might have argued and things got out of hand. Men have been killed over lesser things.
That left opportunity. Did Pete have an alibi for the night Mario was killed? My first instinct had been to come right out and ask. But I had stopped myself in the nick of time. That was a question for the police, not me. There must be a way to ferret out this information. Maybe if Reba Mae and I put our heads together.…
CHAPTER 19
NEEDING TIME TO think, I leisurely strolled down Main Street toward Spice It Up! I’d just added Pete, my favorite butcher, to my list of possible murder suspects. A short but growing list. By their own admission, Mario owed both Pete Barker and Danny Boyd money.
Follow the money.
Was that advice I’d read in a detective novel? Or heard in a movie? If I’d known I’d be involved in a real-life murder mystery, I would’ve paid closer attention. Taken notes.
With doom and gloom uppermost in my mind, I nearly bumped into Ned Feeney coming out of Gray’s Hardware. “Hey, Miz Piper,” he greeted me with his familiar loopy grin and tipped the bill of his ever-present ball cap.
“Hey there, Ned.” I tried to skirt around him, but he blocked my path.
“Heard you got a new man in your life. Whole town’s talkin’.”
Shoving a stray curl behind one ear, I mentally counted to ten. “What ‘new’ man?” I hoped my voice sounded calmer than I felt.
“Why, that nice Dr. Winters, the vet out on Old County Road.”
“We had dinner is all. We both happen to like Mexican food.”
“Becca Dapkins told Bitsy Johnson-Jones she saw you two canoodling at North of the Border the other night.” He shifted the brown paper sack he carried from one hand to the other. “Bitsy told Jolene when she brought her a tray of deviled eggs. You know, don’t you, Jolene had a nasty fall?”
I only had time for a nod before Ned’s mouth started running again. “Everyone knows Jolene, bless her heart, is such a klutz. She’ll be laid up for months. Anyways, Jolene told Lottie Smith about your new beau when Lottie dropped off a coconut cake. Lottie told Pinky Alexander, and well, I don’t need to tell you the rest.”
I hitched the strap of my purse higher. “Dr. Winters offered advice on raising a puppy.”
“Becca said you two make a right cute couple.”
I felt compelled to make a last-ditch effort to keep my private life private. “We aren’t a ‘couple,’ and we weren’t ‘canoodling.’”
I supposed I should be grateful my love life—or lack thereof—was a topic of conversation rather than my being a murder suspect. Call me crazy, but I preferred my life not be the hot topic of anyone’s conversation but my own.
“Right,” Ned said, giving me a broad wink. “Well, I’d best skedaddle. Mr. Strickland will be worryin’ what’s keepin’ me.”
I shook my head as I watched his retreating back. As long as Ned Feeney resided in Brandywine County, The Statesman would never need a gossip columnist. With him efficiently sowing rumors and spreading tales, any news would be old hat long before the ink dried.
Minutes later, I shoved open the door of Spice It Up! and discovered Marcy wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, her visitor wasn’t a customer, but her fiancé, Danny Boyd, who occupied the space near the counter. Not that I have anything against fiancés, but a cash-paying customer would have been nice.
“Hey, Miz Prescott,” Danny hailed me. “Hope you don’t mind me hanging around to keep Marcy company. She gets bored with no one to talk to.”
“Of course not.” For a split second, I envied Marcy. I wished I had a Danny to call whenever the hours dragged past.
“Here, that looks heavy. Let me help you.” Danny rushed over to take the plastic grocery bag containing the baby back ribs I’d purchased.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Where do you want this?”
“You can set it on the counter in the rear.” Reluctantly, I conceded that beneath the scruffy goatee and John Lennon eyeglasses Danny Boyd held a certain appeal. Not my type—not that I have a type—but he seemed thoughtful, considerate, and when it came to Marcy, utterly devoted.
“Looks like you’ve been to Meat on Main. This stuff weighs a ton. You planning a party?”
“If you are,” Marcy interjected eagerly, “Danny does catering. In spite of Mr. Barrone firin’ him, he’s a fantastic cook.”
“I wasn’t fired,” Danny corrected. “I quit.”
“That’s what I meant.” Marcy reached for her purse, then straightened. “I almost forgot, this came while you were out.”
I took a heavy cream-colored envelope from her. My name, along with the name of my shop, were written across it in elegant calligraphy.
“Mrs. Cloune delivered it personally. She said I was to give it to you the minute you returned. Said to tell you ‘no excuses.’”
I ran my thumbnail under the flap, pulled out the enclosed invitation, and scanned the contents. Diane and Dwayne Cloune requested the pleasure of my company at a reception welcoming Wyatt McBride to Brandywine Creek. All business owners and prominent citizens were cordially invited.
“Anything wrong, Piper?” Marcy’s small face pinched with worry.
I glanced up to find both Danny and Marcy watching me, concerned. I never had what CJ called a “poker” face. When I was happy, it showed. And vice versa. This happened to be one of those vice versa times.
“I’m invited to a party the Clounes are hosting for the new chief of police.”
Marcy beamed. “Danny’s been asked to do the catering. Isn’t that great?”
“Great,” I echoed. What were the odds against contracting hoof-and-mouth disease before the fateful day? I wondered.
“Mr. Cloune asked Mr. Deltorro to cater, but Tony told him he was too busy what with getting his new restaurant ready to open.” Marcy gave Danny’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Mr. Deltorro recommended Danny.”
“No biggie. Just heavy hors d’oeuvres.” Danny smiled as if to say “Shucks, ma’am, ’t weren’t nuthin’.”
I tapped the invitation thoughtfully against the palm of my hand. “Since it’s in the afternoon, Marcy, I could use your help in the shop for an hour or two that day.”
“Sure thing, Piper. Danny and I can use some extra money. Danny lost not only his job at the Tratory but also his medical benefits.”
One look at Danny’s face told me all I needed to know.
“That…” Danny’s cheeks flushed as struggled for control. “Barrone had a mean streak a mile wide. Ask me, he was a sorry excuse for a human being. Good riddance, I say.”
For long minutes after Danny left the shop,
his arm protectively wrapped around Marcy’s waist, I stared at the closed door. Finally, a tail-wagging and wiggly Casey woke from his nap and let me know in doggy terms he needed to go outside. Snapping on his leash, I waited while he did his business in the vacant lot where I’d once found him. My thoughts weren’t on the pup, however, but remained on Danny Boyd. It was obvious to me that Danny was furious with Mario. The poor guy lost not only his livelihood but his medical benefits about the same time Marcy found out she was expecting. Talk about lost and found. I could hardly blame the young man for feeling resentful. But was his resentment strong enough to build into a killing rage?
* * *
“Sure I can’t coax you into a few highlights?” Reba Mae wheedled. “A couple streaks of lavender would look great against your red.”
“No thanks,” I said. “When it comes to hair color, I’m a monochromatic kind of gal.”
The last of the Klassy Kut’s patrons, cut, curled, and sprayed, had departed for the day, leaving just the two of us alone. I snuggled deeper into one of Reba Mae’s cushy styling chairs. She sat in the other, studying her reflection in the mirror.
“I’m ready for a change,” she said, tugging at a lock of spiky magenta. “Somethin’ edgier, more hip.”
“If you looked any edgier, you’d frighten small children in the Piggly Wiggly.”
“I’m thinkin’ blue. What about azure?”
“We talking sky or hair color?”
Reba Mae’s adventures in Crayola Land never ceased to alarm and amaze me. My BFF was a brave and fearless traveler in hues I’d never dare venture. I preferred my God-given head of curly red. No artfully applied highlights of lavender, magenta, or azure would make me look or feel “hip.” Foolish, yes; hip, no. However, Reba Mae, bless her heart, could carry off the look with aplomb.
Fumbling through a drawer, she pulled out a swatch of synthetic hair the same blue as cotton candy hawked at the county fair. “What do you think?”
I tipped my head to one side, then the other, and finally shook my head. “Not unless you’re trying for carnival punk.”
