Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  My declaration was met with stunned silence.

  “I suppose you’d view things differently if you weren’t the only suspect,” Diane said, regaining her equilibrium.

  “Really, Piper,” Vicki chimed, “it’s no secret Judge Herman signed a search warrant for your place. The whole town’s talking about it.”

  “And,” Diane was quick to add, “I heard from a reliable source that the police confiscated several items simply covered in blood.”

  Instantly, I leaped to my own defense. “I found a dog behind my shop the night Mario was killed. He was hurt, so I wrapped him in a towel and took him to the vet.”

  Diane made an exaggerated show of searching under shelves and peering around corners until I wanted to shake her. “A likely story. I don’t see any dog. So…,” she drawled. “Where is this mystery animal of yours?”

  I marched over to the stairs. “Casey,” I yelled. “Here, boy.”

  At hearing his name called, the pup bounded down the steps and slid to a stop when he encountered the baby gate I’d installed across the bottom. “Not all my customers appreciate a puppy underfoot,” I explained, unlatching the gate.

  Casey scampered into the shop, a furry, wriggling mass of excitement and enthusiasm. He tap-danced at my feet until I rubbed behind his ears, then he raced over to welcome the visitors with a flurry of yips and tail wags. Unfortunately his enthusiasm got the better of him, and he peed on the floor, the spray narrowly missing Diane’s sandaled foot.

  She leaped back. “Well, I never!”

  “Casey loves meeting people. If anything, he’s overly friendly.” I tried to keep the smile off my face, but wasn’t sure if I’d succeeded keeping it out of my voice.

  “These sandals are Ferragamo,” Diane huffed. “Do you have any idea how much they cost?”

  “Tsk, tsk,” I scolded the little dog who now cowered at my feet. “Bad puppy. Go show the nice lady you’re sorry.”

  “No, no, that’s all right.” Diane leaped back as though she’d just stepped into a mound of fire ants.

  Vicki skirted the puddle. “Diane, didn’t you mention stopping by the antique shop? Let me pay for these berries and then we’ll go.”

  I rang up the sale, happy it was time for the Vicki and Diane Show to hit the road. Feeling generous, I stuffed the recipe for roast lamb into the bag as a goodwill gesture. “Y’all come back now,” I said as the door swung shut behind them.

  I’d no sooner finished cleaning up Casey’s accident when Doug Winters strolled in. Canting my head to one side, I studied him as he approached. After meeting him at the welcome reception for McBride, Reba Mae had nudged me and exclaimed over and over how “cute” he was. And I had to agree with my friend. Prematurely silver hair. An engaging, boyish charm. Eyes the color of melted chocolate. Yes, definitely a cutie. Why had it taken me this long to pay closer attention?

  “I brought some new doggy snacks one of my vendors dropped off.” He set a bag on the counter. “I saw a couple women leave a few minutes ago. Business picking up?”

  “Hardly.” I peeked inside the bag and discovered treats resembling Tootsie Rolls. “If I had to depend on those two, I might as well declare bankruptcy.”

  Doug chuckled. “Not much on cooking, are they?”

  I chuckled, too. “Their favorite recipes are box dinners and the pop-in-the-microwave variety. Vicki, however, plans to woo Kenny, her estranged husband, with a home-cooked meal. Roast lamb with rosemary and juniper, to be precise.”

  Doug stooped to pet Casey, who was prancing at his feet in a bid for attention. In exchange, the vet’s face was lathered in wet puppy kisses. “Do you like Indian food?” Doug asked me as he straightened.

  “I’ve only tried it once, but I’m game. What do you have in mind?”

  “I came across a recipe for tandoori chicken. Thought I’d try it out, provided I could find a suitable victim … er, volunteer … for my experiment. Are you free tomorrow night?”

  I couldn’t think of a single reason to refuse, then realized I didn’t want to. I genuinely enjoyed the man’s company. Besides, it’s just dinner—not sex. “Gee, let me check.” I thumbed through an imaginary datebook. “Seems I have an opening. Pencil me in.”

  “Great.” He grinned and pulled a slip of paper from his pants pocket. “I brought along a list of the spices I’ll need for garam masala: cumin seeds, Tellicherry black peppercorns, coriander seed, cardamom seed, whole cloves, and mace.”

  As I wandered along the shelves of spices, picking up items as I went, I felt proud I had done my homework. Garam masala, I’d learned, was an aromatic blend of spices often used in Indian cuisine. “I’ll even grind them if you like,” I offered.

  “Deal.” Doug trailed after me.

  After consulting a reference book on the exact amounts, I carefully measured the ingredients into a coffee grinder reserved exclusively for spices. I finished my grinding and was surprised to find Wyatt McBride patiently watching from just inside the doorway. I found his presence unsettling. Maybe it was the gun-and-badge thing. Maybe the don’t-mess-with-me expression. Or, even more unsettling, maybe it was the man himself.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t hear you come in over the sound of the grinder.”

  “We need to talk.”

  Frown lines appeared between Doug’s brows as his eyes darted back and forth between the two of us.

  “You in the market for garam masala, McBride?” I asked. “It’s the spice du jour.” He’d once called me prickly, and I had to admit that whenever he was around I was. Best defense is a good offense, as CJ used to say. Or was it, a first offense deserves a good defense? Words to that effect, at any rate.

  “Consider this an official visit,” he said, ignoring my offer.

  I nervously wiped my hands on my apron. “Can it wait until I finish with my customer?”

  At his curt nod, I gave the grinder an extra go-round, more for effect than necessity. I smiled at Doug as I transferred the mixture from the grinder into a lidded container and added a label. “If memory serves, translated garam masala literally means ‘sweet mix.’”

  “Nice,” Doug said, sniffing the concoction I’d just whipped up. “What makes garam different from curry powder?”

  I didn’t know if Doug was a culinary whiz kid masquerading as a bespeckled veterinarian or was merely attempting to keep the conversational balloon afloat. Whichever the case, I was grateful. “Garam lacks the heat of chili peppers and turmeric as a base.”

  “Interesting.” Doug’s gaze slid to McBride’s impassive face. “Um, how much do I owe you?”

  I was in no frame of mind for high finance. “Let’s call it an even trade, shall we? Doggy treats for garam.”

  “Thanks, Piper,” Doug said, accepting the container I held out. “Want me to stick around?”

  I wiped sweaty palms on my apron. Touched by Doug’s protectiveness, I managed a brave smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

  Doug’s nod conveyed reassurance. “See you tomorrow night then. Six o’clock okay?”

  “Six is perfect.” I watched him leave, then, with a sinking sensation, I turned to McBride. “Well,” I said, “are you here to arrest me?”

  CHAPTER 24

  “ARREST YOU?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest knowing, but not caring, that McBride might interpret the gesture as defensive. His analysis would be spot on. I admit I felt anxious about the possible reason for McBride’s visit. Could it be because of the damned purple T-shirt someone had hidden in plain sight? The man tended to make me jittery—even in the rare times he was being nice. “I’m not in the mood for games,” I snapped. “You said you were here on official business.”

  “The forensics report came back on the bloodstains on the bath towel and T-shirt that we found when we executed the search warrant of your place.”

  I knew the bloodstains belonged to Casey, not Mario, but what if the lab had made a mistake? Mistakes were made all the time. Innocent pe
ople went to jail. Some even were condemned to death row. Reaching down, I scooped Casey up and held him like a shield against bad news.

  McBride eyed me cautiously. “Are you going to sic your dog on me?”

  “I might.” I stroked the little animal’s silky head, but kept my gaze fastened on McBride. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s a trained attack dog.”

  McBride raised a brow as he studied the pup that was starting to doze off in my arms. “Consider me warned.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” I said, reading his skepticism of Casey’s hidden talent. “What did the lab say about the bloodstains?”

  “Forensics identified them as canine, not human.” He paused a beat before adding, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

  I walked across the shop and sank down on the stool behind the counter. “I hope the news didn’t come as a shock,” I told him peevishly. “I told you that from the beginning.”

  “I know you did.” He sauntered closer, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Until now, however, we—meaning law enforcement—had only your word for it. Now with the GBI report to back it up, all doubts are gone. You can rest easy.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting about the purple T-shirt? You said yourself that you thought the results would come back positive for Mario’s DNA.”

  “I still think that, but I’m also convinced the shirt was planted to throw suspicion your way.”

  “But will anyone believe you?”

  “I’m ready to swear in a court of law if need be that the shirt wasn’t present at the time of the search. Why would I perjure myself?”

  Hearing that should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Even though McBride believed the evidence was planted, once forensics unequivocally identified the bloodstains as Mario’s, it could still be an uphill battle to convince everyone else. I was still in a boatload of trouble—and my boat kept springing leaks. “Did your men find any prints on the lock?”

  “’Fraid not. Whoever planted the evidence must’ve worn gloves.”

  “Great,” I muttered as I continued to pet Casey. Icy water kept spurting into my imaginary leaky craft. “Surely your men could see the lock had been tampered with?”

  “Good point.” McBride ran a hand over his thick dark hair. “Any prosecutor worth his salt might claim you did it yourself.”

  “But why would I jimmy a lock on my own door, plant a bloodstained item that was certain to incriminate me, then call the police to report a burglary? That doesn’t make any sense.”

  “An even better point,” he agreed. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. My theory is that the killer planted the bloody garment in your shop. If you hadn’t dialed nine-one-one when you did, I’m equally certain an anonymous caller would have phoned in a ‘tip.’ Told us right where to look. You’re being set up, Piper.”

  I let out a shaky breath. “Find the killer, McBride,” I said. “Find the danged killer and let me get on with my life.”

  * * *

  The hour was late—and except for Reba Mae and me—not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Conditions were perfect for the plan I was about to set in motion.

  Reba Me darted a nervous look over her shoulder, then followed me down the dark alley. “Tell me again what we’re doin’ here?”

  “We’ve discussed this a gazillion times,” I reminded her. “We’re going to check out the scene of the crime. See what we can find.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” I repeated, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. “Because someone is making me the fall guy, and I’m really, really pissed. McBride doesn’t seem to be making any headway solving Mario’s murder—and neither do we. All we’ve done so far is put together a list of possible suspects. It’s time to start eliminating a few. Besides, aren’t you more than a little curious who really killed Mario?”

  “Course I am,” she replied heatedly. “Just wish we could do it without all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

  Since technically Trattoria Milano was still an official crime scene, we agreed it best to keep our mission on the down low. I’d finagled a key from Shirley Randolph at Creekside Realty on the pretext of having a rich friend who might counter Tony’s offer for the place. Dollar signs had replaced any misgivings the realtor might’ve had. She handed over the key along with a warning not to get caught. With that in mind, we’d decided to walk rather than advertise our presence with a VW that resembled a scoop of lime sherbet. We’d also dressed for the occasion in all black.

  Reba Mae clutched my sleeve. “I think I saw somethin’ move.”

  We paused, our senses on high alert. A crescent moon played hide-and-seek behind a cloud bank, swathing the alley in shadows. Trash cans hunkered down behind various business establishments like a bevy of Jacob Marley’s ghosts. Bottles, cans, and Styrofoam containers littered the cracked pavement. Just then a trash can toppled over, its lid clattering noisily to the ground, and we nearly jumped out of our skin. With a blood-curdling howl, a cat leaped from behind one of the cans, streaked down the alley, and disappeared between two buildings.

  “See,” I said in a shaky voice. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Speak for yourself, sugar.” Reba Mae reluctantly released her death grip on my arm. “Meemaw used to say a black cat crossin’ your path at night was bad luck.”

  “That’s just superstition,” I said, refusing to acknowledge my own fright. “Anyway, the cat wasn’t black. It was a tabby.”

  “Looked black to me.”

  I knew nothing would convince her otherwise so I hastened my step, anxious to take a quick look around and return home. Several yards down, I spotted the rear entrance to Trattoria Milano.

  “Careful,” I cautioned as I climbed the crumbling concrete steps and inserted the key. The lock snicked open. Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, I stepped inside, with Reba Mae stuck to me like bubblegum. “Reba Mae Johnson,” I scolded. “What’s gotten into you tonight? I never figured you for a wuss.”

  She shrugged. “Midnight, dark alley, black cat … dead people. Take your pick.”

  I dug a slender flashlight out of the black patent tote bag I’d brought along and turned it on. The service area was just as I remembered. Pantry shelves stocked with industrial-size cans on one side, a jumbo freezer on the other.

  “Why go all CSI?” Reba Mae whined. “Turn on the damn lights.”

  “I don’t want to get caught snooping. Even with the key, it would be tricky to explain what we’re doing here in the dead of night. It wouldn’t take a genius long to find out there’s no rich friend interested in this place.”

  “Do you honestly think we might stumble across somethin’ the police overlooked?”

  “Won’t know until we try.” I swept the beam side to side as we passed through the swinging door that separated the service area from the kitchen proper. I wasn’t sure I’d know a clue unless it had a flashing neon sign with a red arrow pointing to it. But I wasn’t about to let inexperience stand in the way of progress.

  “Umm, ah…” Reba Mae hemmed and hawed “… where exactly did you find Mario?”

  I traced a path with the flashlight to an area near a counter. “Over there.”

  Transfixed, Reba Mae stared at the darkened floorboards. “Is that a…?”

  “Bloodstain.” I suppressed a shiver. Mario’s name might not have been on my Christmas card list, but the poor guy deserved better than to die like a stuck pig. He deserved … justice.

  Reba Mae rubbed her arms as though chilled. “This place gives me the willies. Let’s do what we came here for and blow this pop stand.”

  “Gotcha.” I stooped for a closer look, hoping to see something I might’ve missed. I recalled seeing Mario sprawled on his side. And a puddle of blood. I hadn’t stayed around long enough to take in any details.

  “This kitchen feels haunted.” Reba Mae took up a post near the door, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “You believe in ghosts, Piper?”

 
; I heaved a sigh. “No.”

  “I didn’t used to,” Reba Mae confessed, “until Butch took me to Savannah. Went on one of those ghost tours. I came away a believer. Did you know Savannah’s considered America’s most haunted city?”

  “If I did, the fact slipped my mind,” I muttered. Just then, my heart started to pound. “Look, Reba Mae.” I pointed to a series of dark splotches leading away from where I found the body.

  She edged closer and peered over my shoulder. “I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’.”

  “Do you see what I see?”

  “All I see is a floor that needs a good scrubbin’.”

  “That’s not dirt. Those are footprints.”

  I scrounged through my tote bag for supplies. Pulling out a digital camera, I snapped pictures from various angles like I’d seen done countless times on TV. Later, I’d download them into my computer and zoom in for a closer look. Next, I took out a small tape measure, a holdover from my knitting days, and measured from toe to heel and jotted the figures in a spiral notebook. That was when I noticed a second set of prints, smaller ones, probably mine.

  “I heard a noise,” Reba Mae said in a hushed tone.

  “Don’t be such a worrywart. Old buildings are full of creaks and groans.” I stowed my stuff back into my tote. “Give me another minute to look around, then we’ll go.”

  I knelt down and shone my light under the cabinets. When that failed to turn up anything more significant than dust, I ran my hand as far as it would go under the refrigerator. As every housewife knows, the floor beneath the fridge is a target-rich environment for everything from lost hair barrettes to Matchbox cars.

  “Piper,” Reba Mae whispered. “I swear I heard a footstep.”

  “Well then, that rules out a ghost,” I replied absently as my fingers closed around a small round object. A pebble? A pea? A juniper berry?