Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  “’Fraid you’d say that.” She tossed the color sample back in the drawer. “Lindsey brought a couple of her friends by the other day. Some girls think it would be cool to have streaks in their hair match the color of their prom dresses.”

  I held my hand against my heart. “Please don’t tell me Lindsey wants colored streaks in her hair. If so, just take me out and shoot me.”

  “No,” Reba Mae laughed. “Actually Lindsey seems content her hair is natural blond. She said Amber told her that pageants frown on wild variations. They think it shows lack of character.”

  “Well, for once, I’m grateful for Amber’s influence, but”—I aimed a finger at her—“if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

  Reba Mae made a twisty motion in front of her mouth with thumb and forefinger. “My lips are sealed.” She pantomimed throwing away a key. “By the way, how did your mother-daughter shopping trip go?”

  “Great. We happened across an adorable pale pink dress in a bridal boutique that’s suitable for prom. Lindsey looks like an angel in it and,” I added, “it’s much more age-appropriate.”

  “Can’t wait to see her in it.”

  Glancing down, I spied a square cream-colored envelope peeking out from beneath a month-old issue of People. “Looks like you got an invite, too. You going?”

  “Of course.” Reba Mae’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “And you are, too.”

  “But—”

  “No ifs, ands, buts, or maybes. You’re goin’.”

  I’d looked forward to Mario’s funeral with greater anticipation than a party welcoming McBride.

  As close friends sometimes do, Reba Mae read my mind. “If you don’t show, sugar, people will talk. You’re not only goin’ to show up, but you’ll act like you’re havin’ yourself a gay ol’ time.”

  “Fine.” I made a face at my own reflection. “And if I manage to pull that off, I’ll audition for a role in the next production at the Opera House.”

  “Wear somethin’ hot that makes a statement. Like that sassy red number of yours.”

  “Great,” I grumbled. “I can masquerade as the scarlet woman.”

  She ignored me. “Be sure to wear those killer heels you bought at Neiman Marcus before CJ shredded your charge card. They make your legs look a mile long.”

  “If McBride doesn’t zero in on the real killer soon, I could be wearing one of those awful prison jumpsuits. You know orange clashes with my hair.”

  “Don’t be so down in the dumps, hon. He’ll find the guy.”

  I fiddled with a teasing comb left lying next to a curling iron. “Easy for you to say. You’re not number one on McBride’s personal hit parade.”

  “Call me a romantic, but my gut feelin’ is your bein’ number one on his hit parade has nothin’ to do with Mario gettin’ hisself killed. I saw the way Mr. Wyatt McBride, chief of police, looked at you when he didn’t think you were lookin’ back.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “You’re not a romantic, girlfriend, you’re delusional. Certifiably stark, raving bonkers. McBride’d like nothing better than to slap on the handcuffs.”

  Reba Mae smiled a sly, knowing smile. “Now that’s what I call bein’ on the same page.”

  “Enough about McBride.” Suddenly restless, I got up from the chair and started prowling the confines of the beauty salon. “I stumbled across another name to add to the list of suspects this afternoon.”

  “Who?” Reba Mae spun around. “Bet it’s a woman. Mario had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man. First Diane Cloune, then Vicki Lamont … and it didn’t bother him none they were married.”

  I stopped pacing to give Reba Mae a long, hard look. “You don’t really think a woman stabbed Mario?”

  “I’m not sayin’ it was a woman. Just that it could’ve been a woman.” Reba Mae replaced the cap on a can of hairspray. “Rumors in the salon were thicker ’n molasses for a while. I knew Diane and Mario had had a fling, but assumed it ended ages ago. Vicki, however, was another matter.”

  I nodded thoughtfully. “I gather their affair was hot and heavy.”

  “Yeah.” Reba Mae nodded knowingly. “One of my clients heard her describe Mario as her ‘soul mate.’”

  “Makes her sound like a teenager.”

  “Makes her sound like a woman in love.”

  “And women in love do crazy things when it comes to keeping their man.”

  Reba Mae nodded in agreement. “Stabbin’s too messy for most women. Besides, it’s a surefire way to ruin perfectly good clothes. Last I heard, Mario had a new woman in his life.”

  I was curious. “By any chance, did this ‘new’ woman in Mario’s life have a name?”

  “Nope.” Reba Mae toed off her shoes and wiggled her feet. “He kept whoever it was under wraps. Probably the best-kept secret in Brandywine Creek since Buzz Oliver started seein’ Becca Dapkins behind Maybelle Humphries’s back.”

  That brought a smile. “Didn’t take Maybelle long to figure out Buzz developed a fondness for recipes featuring cream of mushroom soup.” I remembered the incident well. Maybelle had made the connection at the Methodist church supper. She’d picked up a coconut cream pie and hit Buzz smack-dab in the face with it. The woman had quite an arm on her.

  “So who is this possible suspect you’re referrin’ to? Anyone I know?”

  “Pete.”

  “Pete who?”

  I threw up my hands, exasperated. It wasn’t as if Brandywine Creek was filled to overflowing with men named Pete. “Pete Barker. The butcher at Meat on Main.”

  “Why would Pete want to murder Mario?”

  “Because Mario special-ordered some pricey beef, then refused to pay. Each time Pete tried to collect, Mario’d stonewall him. Claimed Pete sold him an inferior cut and tried to pass it off as Kobe-style.”

  “Why didn’t he just sue him? Ever see Judge Judy in action? She would have made mincemeat out of Mario.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe Judge Judy makes Pete nervous.”

  Reba Mae nodded knowingly. “She has that effect on people.”

  “Who is more skilled with a knife than a butcher?” I challenged.

  Reba Mae scrunched a brow. “A surgeon?”

  “Stop being obtuse.” I plunked myself back in the styling chair and gave it a spin. “I’ve seen Pete filet tenderloin quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.” That got Reba Mae’s undivided attention, so I continued, “According to McBride’s theory, Pete has motive and means. All he lacks is opportunity.”

  “So what are you gettin’ at?”

  “We need to find out whether Pete has an alibi for the night Mario was killed.”

  “Duh!” Reba Mae bopped herself in the head with the heel of her hand. “Of course, that’s what we need to do. Only question, how do you propose we do it?”

  “I was hoping you’d help think of a way.”

  Reba Mae was silent for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. “Leave it to me, sugar. I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER 20

  I CONSIDERED, DISCARDED, then reconsidered the notion of trailing Pete. From my vantage point across the square, I’d watched him lock up Meat on Main and drive off. Curious to see if he did anything shady after hours, I followed him home. I parked a discreet distance down the block and waited. Fifteen minutes later, Pete emerged from the attached garage wearing baggy jeans and a John Deere T-shirt, and pushing an ancient lawnmower. The only time he came close to anything “shady” was when he mowed the grass under a Japanese maple, so I finally gave up. Later that evening, Reba Mae and I did a drive-by past Pete’s place. We watched as his buddies, armed with six-packs of Budweiser, started to congregate.

  “Baseball game,” Reba Mae informed me succinctly. “Atlanta Braves versus Arizona Diamondbacks.”

  “Plan B, here we come.”

  The two of us decided on an encore performance of “Lucy and Ethel on Stakeout.” We followed Tony Deltorro at a safe distance to avoid detectio
n in my trusty VW bug, as he deposited the night’s receipts from the Pizza Palace. Instead of driving home as expected, he’d headed for a section of town known as the historic district. Stately antebellum homes, some meticulously restored to their former glory, some patiently waiting for a fresh coat of paint, lined the streets. Tony had turned into a circular drive of one of the former, a drive that once had been used by carriages and gentlemen on horseback. I’d parked the Beetle a couple houses down, partially concealed from the house in question by towering oaks, and we settled down to wait.

  “What do you s’pose Tony’s doin’ here of all places?” Reba Mae took another noisy slurp of her Diet Coke.

  “Beats me.”

  “Whose house is this anyway?”

  I reached for a handful of Doritos. “Beats me.”

  “Some place,” Reba Mae commented, peering through the window for a better look at the two-story plantation-style structure complete with Doric columns and a wraparound porch.

  “You don’t suppose this belongs to Tony, do you?”

  “Uh-uh,” Reba Made disagreed. “No way. This end of town’s reserved for those with real money, old money. It’s too rich for my blood. Most of these homes have been in the same family for generations.”

  “Maybe the owner’s so wealthy that Tony personally delivers the pizza. Maybe the guy’s a big tipper.”

  “Whatever.” Twisting around, Reba Mae rummaged through a sack of food on the backseat. “All this surveillance works up an appetite. I brought subs, but told ’em to hold the onions … just in case.”

  “In case of what?” I asked, peeling the wrapper from the one she handed me. Turkey, lettuce, tomato, pickle, banana peppers, and a sprinkling of oregano. Just the way I liked them.

  “In case of whatever,” she replied, nonplussed. “Diet soda?”

  I shook my head. Reba Mae’s thirst apparently matched her appetite because she popped the tab of her second Diet Coke and took a swallow before attacking her sandwich.

  “Don’t suppose you’ve concocted a brilliant scheme to discover whether Pete has an alibi for the night Mario was murdered?” I asked, after polishing off my sub.

  Reba Mae brushed crumbs from her black hoodie. “Consider it a done deal, sugar.”

  I glanced at her sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Just so happens…” She let me stew, giving me a broad grin, followed by another swig of Coke. “Pete’s wife, Gerilee, came into Klassy Kut this afternoon to be treated for a severe case of hair trauma. Her niece is goin’ to beauty school and needed some practice so Gerilee, bein’ a nice auntie, volunteered. Gerilee told the girl she wanted it layered. Well, it was layered all right. Took me almost an hour to unlayer it.”

  “Nothing worse than a bad haircut,” I agreed, my impatience barometer steadily rising. “But what did she say about the night Mario was killed?”

  At times, Reba Mae couldn’t be rushed and this was one of them. If anything, she seemed to relish my mounting frustration. “Well,” she drawled, once she was satisfied I was chomping on the bit, “I decided to have a little fun with it. We played ourselves a game called Where Were You When…? Started off with something simple like where were you when Dale Earnhardt crashed during the last lap of the Daytona 500.”

  “That’s not simple,” I protested. “Why not ask where were you on nine-eleven?”

  “That’s too depressin’, darlin’. Besides, every Southern gal worth her salt knows where she was the day Dale Earnhardt, one of NASCAR’s all-time greats, bought the farm. February 18, 2001. Know it like my own birthday. Anyway, from there, I led into some other questions. When I asked, how do you and your sweetie spend your Friday nights—takin’ into account it was a Friday night when Mario ended up deader ’n a skunk—I thought Gerilee would burst into tears.”

  I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Why was that?”

  “Seems Fridays, Gerilee sits home alone. She said Pete’s been on a Friday night bowlin’ league for the last couple months. He’s always home no later than ten o’clock, but by then it’s too late to go out to for Chinese like they used to do.”

  “Terrific,” I muttered. “Since McBride said the coroner placed the time of death between ten o’clock and midnight, might as well cross Pete off the list of possible suspects.”

  “Sorry.” Reba Mae placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a burp. “But don’t let that get you down-in-the-mouth. That still leaves Tony. And didn’t you mention Mario not only owed Danny money, but had weaseled out of payin’ him medical benefits?”

  “Yeah, you’re right.”

  “Course, I am, now stop your broodin’. How about a brownie? Chocolate’s always good for what ails you.”

  Truer words were never spoken, so I helped myself to not one but two of the brownies Reba Mae had brought in a take-and-go container. No sooner had we licked the last traces of chocolate from our fingers when Reba Mae announced, “I shouldn’t have had that last can of soda. Now I have to pee.”

  “Fine time to think about it,” I grumbled. “Guess we’ll have to call it a night?”

  “Shucks, no,” Reba Mae said, already reaching for the door handle. “A client of mine owns the bed-and-breakfast down the block. She’s a night owl. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I popped in and begged to use the facilities.”

  “How do you intend to explain why you’re in her neighborhood this time of night?”

  “I’ll think of somethin’.” Reba Mae stood on the curb, practically doing the Texas two-step. “I’ll tell her that a friend and I were out walkin’ her dog when the urge hit. After five kids, she’ll relate to a weak bladder.”

  “Fine, but make it snappy,” I said, but Reba Mae was halfway down the block before I finished my sentence.

  Without Reba Mae’s company, the minutes crawled by. Stakeouts certainly weren’t as glamorous as they looked on TV or in the movies. How did real detectives survive the long, lonely hours? Read? Listen to music? And what did they do for emergencies of a personal nature? My mind didn’t want to go there.

  I thought of switching on the radio but was afraid of running the battery low. Even with a new one, I didn’t want to take the risk. If I had my MP3 player with me, I could listen to music and not have to worry. Once business perked up maybe I’d buy myself a fancier version like Lindsey’s.

  Leaning forward, I squinted through the windshield at the house we were watching. Tall trees—magnolias probably—shrouded it in shadow. Even so, I could see lights on in a room to the left of the entrance. An old-fashioned parlor? I caught an occasional glimpse of Tony as he moved about, but didn’t see anyone else. To whom did the house belong? I wondered. And why was Tony visiting at such an odd hour? Was there another woman in his life? If so, it wouldn’t be wise if Gina Deltorro got wind of the affair. Gina was more than a wife; she was his business partner. Wasn’t there a saying about hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?

  I peeked at my watch. What was keeping Reba Mae? It wouldn’t be the first time she started talking and lost track of time. Suddenly, headlights loomed in the rearview mirror. I slunk down in the seat, pulled my knit ski cap lower, and tried to act invisible. No such luck. The car drew to a stop directly behind me.

  I tensed.

  The sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the driver’s side window signaled my vanishing act was a total flop. With a sigh, I slowly, reluctantly, straightened and turned my head.

  “Damn,” I muttered when I found Wyatt McBride staring back at me. “What are you, some kind of stalker?”

  Not even the tiniest hint of a dimple was evident on McBride’s face. Dirty Harry and Dick Tracy all rolled into one. His expression stern, he motioned me to roll down my window. I smiled and faked incomprehension.

  “Now,” he growled, clearly not buying into my theatrics.

  Much aggrieved—and more than a little nervous—I did as he asked. “This is a public street. It isn’t a crime to park here.”

  �
�True,” he agreed, “but it’s my job to investigate when the captain of the neighborhood watch calls the station about a suspicious vehicle parked on her street. She demanded we send someone out to check.”

  “Well, consider it checked. Job done.” I made to roll up the window.

  “Not that simple.” Curiously, my bad temper didn’t faze him. “You’re making some of the residents nervous. They need to be reassured that they’re in no imminent danger of robbery.”

  “R-robbery…?” I sputtered.

  “You heard me.”

  “Give me a break, McBride. Do I look like a robber?” The minute the words popped out of my mouth, I wanted them back.

  McBride raised his Maglite and let the beam play over me. His shrewd icy blues didn’t miss a trick. “Judging from your attire, I’d say you could be the poster child for the well-dressed cat burglar, right down to the knit cap and black turtleneck.” He paused a beat, then asked, “Don’t suppose you have a ski mask tucked away somewhere?”

  “Of course not!” I returned indignantly.

  Resting his free hand on the roof of the Beetle, he swung the flashlight beam around the interior of the car, the light picking up discarded sub wrappers, empty Diet Coke cans, and a half-empty bag of Doritos. “You having another of your impromptu picnics?”

  “Look, McBride, we’re not doing anything illegal.”

  His eyes narrowed, sharpened. “We…?”

  “Hey there, Chief.” As if on cue, Reba Mae cheerily announced her return. “Fancy meetin’ you again.”

  “Might’ve known,” he said, shaking his head. “Care to explain what you two are up to?”

  I clamped my mouth shut. Unfortunately, Reba Mae didn’t share my reticence. “We’re on a stakeout.”

  “A stakeout?” His lips twitched, and I could swear he was trying to hide a smile. “Ladies, take a piece of advice from a pro on the matter of stakeouts. Next time—heaven forbid, there is a next time—choose a vehicle less conspicuous than a gecko-green Volkswagen Beetle.”

  “We’re checking out Tony Deltorro,” Reba Mae volunteered.