by Oust, Gail
Then I heard it, too. A muffled footstep. Like someone trying hard to be quiet—but not quite succeeding.
Scarcely daring to breathe, I straightened, clicked off the flashlight, and listened intently. Had the killer returned to the scene of the crime? Wasn’t that their modus operandi? Or was that an urban myth? Maybe owning a handgun wasn’t so crazy after all. I frantically searched for a weapon of some sort. Half-turning, I felt along the countertops. Almost of their own volition, my fingers curled around the rim of a pan. I snatched it up. With both hands around the handle, I assumed a softball stance, feet spread, bat at the ready.
Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights flashed on.
“Freeze!”
Squinting against the harsh glare, I saw a gun barrel pointed at my midsection. A lump of fear lodged in my throat. My gaze slowly traveled from the gun to the man who held it.
Wyatt McBride, his expression grim, stood in the doorway separating the kitchen from the service area. “Might’ve known,” he muttered. “Drop your weapon.”
I did as he said and a sauté pan fell to the floor, the noise like a gunshot.
McBride slid his pistol into a leather holster at the small of his back. “You alone, or did you bring your sidekick?”
Reba Mae, hands in the air, rose from a crouched position behind a prep table. “We under arrest?”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growled.
Reba Mae and I exchanged uneasy glances, but wisely remained silent.
“S’pose I could charge you with interfering with an investigation,” he said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Or maybe breaking and entering?”
I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me further. “Nice try, McBride, but you can’t make a case for breaking and entering when I have a key.” Bending down, I retrieved the sauté pan, and placed it on the nearby gas range. I used the opportunity to slip the small object I’d found into my pocket, and then pulled out the key and dangled it in front of him. From his frown, I could see he didn’t appreciate my showmanship.
“The real estate people were under strict orders not to allow anyone access without my expressed permission. Did you ladies fail to see the crime scene tape stretched across the back door? What part of ‘do not cross’ don’t you understand?”
“It must have been the ‘not.’”
Reba Mae shot me a warning glance that clearly said do not poke a bear with a stick. “Since you’re not going to arrest us,” she said, “guess we’ll be on our way.”
I wasn’t as eager as she to leave, however. “Have you discovered who those shoeprints belong to?” I asked McBride.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation.”
“Ah, c’mon, McBride, you can tell me,” I wheedled. “It’s not as though you’re selling government secrets to a foreign spy.”
He ignored my question in favor of one of his own. “Exactly what did you expect to find?”
“Piper thought she mighta dropped an earring when she found Mario. We wanted to take a look around. See if we could find it.”
Quick thinking, girlfriend. I made a mental note to compliment her later.
“Ah,” he drawled. “So a lost earring’s an occasion for you two to get all dolled up in your cat-burglar finery?”
I felt my cheeks burn with irritation. “Maybe we’re making a fashion statement. It isn’t a crime to dress in black.”
He raised a brow, but stepped aside. “Luckily for you, Trattoria Milano is no longer off-limits. A fax just came through that GBI is done here. I thought I’d take down the crime scene tape before heading home. That’s when I noticed the door ajar and caught a glimpse of light.”
I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Since this is no longer off-limits and I have a key, you have no reason to detain us. Say good night to the nice policeman, Reba Mae.”
Reba Mae gave him a cheeky grin. “G’night, Wyatt.”
A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “G’night, Reba Mae.”
Once outside, it was all I could do not to pinch her. “Since when are you and that man on a first-name basis?”
Reba Mae shrugged. “He dropped by the shop the other day with an old picture he found of Butch in his football uniform. He thought the boys might like it.”
“Hmph.” McBride disguised as Mr. Nice Guy? It was hard to wrap my mind around the notion.
We’d already reached Spice It Up! before I remembered the small object I’d found beneath the fridge. I fished it out of my pocket and studied it under a nearby street light. It wasn’t a pebble after all. Neither was it a black-eyed pea or a juniper berry.
Reba Mae hovered alongside and together we examined the item I held in the palm of my hand. “What is it?” she asked. “A piece of glass?”
“There’s one surefire way to tell.” I swiped the object in question along the edge of the window and a faint scratch was instantly visible. “It’s not glass, Reba Mae. It’s a diamond.”
“Some rock,” she breathed. “Has to be at least a carat. Who do you suppose lost it?”
My eyes locked with hers. “Good question.”
CHAPTER 25
IT STARTED TO drizzle as I was about to leave for dinner with Doug. I grabbed my trench coat from a hook near the back door and sprinted across the vacant lot toward my VW on the street behind my shop. A little inconvenient, but I didn’t want to break a city ordinance banning overnight parking on Main Street. The last thing I needed was parking tickets to tax my already overtaxed budget.
My wipers slapped to and fro at the moisture on the windshield. Tuning in to a country-western station, I sang along with a song about tequila making some woman’s clothes fall off. It brought to mind Reba Mae’s comments about my love life—or the lack thereof—so I switched stations. The only time my clothes fell off these days was before taking a shower. Sad, but true. The drizzle had turned into a light rain by the time I turned down the drive leading to Pets ’R People. Doug must have been watching for me because he stood in the opened doorway. I threw my trench over my head and made a mad dash for the house.
“I should have met you with an umbrella,” Doug said, taking my coat. “Never seem to have one handy.”
“Something else we have in common,” I laughed. “I doubt my umbrella knows what a raindrop feels like.”
While Doug stowed my coat in the guest closet, I indulged my curiosity. I’d been in the clinic portion of his home, of course, but never the living quarters. The foyer opened into a spacious living room decorated in I’m-a-bachelor style. Neutral beige walls and Berber carpet. Black leather sectional. Pricey stereo equipment. Flat-screened TV that took up most of one wall. Little artwork and no live plants completed the décor.
“How about a glass of wine?” he asked.
“Sounds great.”
I followed him into a dining nook complete with candles, an opened bottle of wine, and soft music—jazz, not country-western. Doug might have shared notes on how to stage a seduction with Vicki Lamont. With the exception of Victoria’s Secret for dessert. Maybe the thoughts I’d had postdivorce of becoming a nun were a bit premature. I had to admit, it felt good spending time with a man who found you attractive. One who seemed sincerely interested in what you had to say. Not to mention a man who cooked you dinner. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”
“No trouble at all. I like to cook, but it’s more fun to cook for two. An appreciative audience is a crucial ingredient, especially when trying a new recipe. That’s where you come in.”
I sniffed the air. “Dinner smells wonderful.”
“Finding the right combination of fresh spices is key.” He opened the oven and poked the chicken with a fork.
“If it tastes even half as good as it smells, I want the recipe. I’ve learned cooking attracts customers. Aromas waft out, customers drift in.”
“Sounds like a solid business practice. I chilled a nice pinot grigio. Why don’t you pour us a glass while I plate the salad.”
; I did as requested and, when he was finished with the salad, handed him a glass, then took a sip of my own. “Mmm.” I smiled my approval. “Cold and crisp, light and fruity. The perfect pairing.”
He shot me a boyish grin. “Hoped you’d like it.”
“What else can I do to help?”
“Nothing. Let’s enjoy the salad while the rice steams.”
Like the wine, the salad was perfect. Thinly sliced cucumber and red onion in a refreshing, tangy dressing perfectly seasoned with dill. “You missed your calling, Doug. You should be the one opening a new restaurant, not Tony Deltorro.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Doug laughed, obviously pleased at the compliment. “Cooking should be fun,” he said as he collected the empty salad plates. “I think I’d find it more stressful than enjoyable if I had to do it for a living.”
“Mario Barrone didn’t seem to be find cooking fun,” I commented, watching Doug arrange the tandoori chicken on a bed of long-grain basmati rice.
He garnished a platter with slices of tomato and lemon. “I didn’t know Mario well, but I got the impression he was an intense sort of guy.”
“I guess you’d say his was an artistic temperament. Difficult to please, impatient, volatile. Ambitious.”
“I gather Barrone didn’t endear himself to a lot of people.”
“In addition to his personality flaws, Mario owed some people money and refused to pay. Who knows”—I shrugged—“there could be more I don’t know about.”
“Any truth to the rumors that he was quite the ladies’ man?”
“I have to admit I never understood Mario’s appeal.” I helped myself to a dinner roll. “Granted, the man was attractive enough—if you favor the Rudolph Valentino or Latin-lover type. I don’t. Mario was much too arrogant, too into himself.”
Doug set the platter in the center of the table and motioned for me to help myself. I selected a piece of chicken and a healthy portion of rice. Doug watched anxiously as I cut off a small bite and tasted it. Instantly, my taste buds were assaulted with the rich infusion of spices. Ginger, mace, and cardamom among others. “Umm,” I said, sighing with pleasure. “Delicious. Incredible.”
Happy his experiment was deemed a success, Doug relaxed. Over a plate filled with chicken and rice, he resumed the conversation where we’d left off. “I overheard the two women who came out of your shop yesterday mention Mario. I got the impression they’d both known him rather intimately at one time or another.”
“One of the pair, Diane Cloune, Councilman Cloune’s wife, ended the affair with Mario some time ago.”
Doug sipped his wine. “What about the other woman?”
“Vicki Lamont.” I speared another bite-size piece of chicken. Just as I’d anticipated, Doug proved an excellent cook. A culinary wizard. A vague idea began to crystallize. If—and that’s a pretty big if—I managed to keep Spice It Up! afloat, maybe I could persuade Doug to do a cooking demo. The tandoori chicken and pungent garam masala were a great example of Indian cuisine.
“How does Vicki figure into all this?” Doug asked, pulling me back to the present.
“Ah, yes, Vicki,” I said. For Doug’s benefit, I rehashed info I’d recently discussed with Reba Mae. “Vicki’s affair with Mario was fairly recent. She was serious enough about him to leave her husband. Their relationship nearly destroyed her marriage. From what I can gather, she was quite upset when Mario broke it off. Now she’s trying to worm her way back into her estranged husband’s good graces.”
“You don’t suppose…” Doug stared at me over the rim of his wineglass.
I stared back. “… that the killer could be a woman?”
Doug shook his head, his brown eyes serious. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a jealous—or estranged—husband.”
A jealous husband? Duh! Why hadn’t that occurred to me before? Goes to show I was a rookie in the private detective department. This meant I needed to add Dwayne Cloune and Kenny Lamont—as well as a good share of the husbands in Brandywine Creek—to my growing list of subjects. And this could possibly explain the man-size shoe print found at the scene. I set my fork down, no longer hungry.
Over coffee and dessert, we lapsed into small talk. I discovered Doug and I shared a lot of the same likes and dislikes. What’s more, Doug was a good listener, a trait many women find sexy, me included. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my children, was sympathetic to my divorce woes, and understanding when I expressed concerns about my fledgling business. Since he owned a small business of his own, he could identify with the demands and uncertainties.
At the end of a pleasant evening, after helping me on with my coat, Doug gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. I must admit that deep down, I felt a trifle disappointed, then gave myself a mental shake. No need to rush things, Piper. You have plenty of time to get to know each other.
* * *
The rain beat harder on the roof of the VW as I turned onto the county road and aimed for home. The wipers kicked up a notch to match the rain’s pounding tempo. My thoughts roamed as I tuned out the voice of a late-night DJ offering advice and playing song requests. By the time I got home, Casey would be practically dancing a jig, ready to be let out for his nighttime ablutions. I made a mental note to grab an umbrella before snapping on his leash.
I cruised to a stop in my usual spot behind Spice It Up! Except for a darkened car halfway down the block, the street was deserted. No surprise there. Frowning, I peered across the bleak, rainy expanse that separated me from my shop and upstairs apartment. As usual, I’d forgotten to leave the back light on. Did I dare, just this once, defy the ban on overnight parking along Main Street? After weighing the matter, I decided against it. To borrow a word from Lindsey’s lexicon, Lady Luck had “unfriended” me. With my spate of bad karma, the VW would be towed to an impound yard.
Put on your big-girl panties, I berated myself, and deal with it. You won’t melt. The worst that can happen is that you’ll get a little wet. Pulling the hood of my trench over my head, I stepped into the rain. I was about to make a mad dash across the vacant lot when I spotted the plastic container of leftovers Doug had insisted I take.
Bright lights flared behind me, blinding me in their glare. Not again, I thought irritably. I don’t care if Wyatt McBride is the chief of police, I’m going to charge him with harassment. But before I do, he’s going to get a piece of my mind. He’ll have a firsthand demonstration of redheads and their legendary tempers. I slammed the Beetle’s door shut and waited, my purse in one hand, tandoori chicken in the other.
With a throaty growl, the car’s engine sprang to life and leaped forward. I stood my ground, an angry diatribe forming in my head. I’d let McBride know in no uncertain terms that I didn’t appreciate him following me. But instead of the vehicle slowing as it approached, it accelerated.
And pointed straight at me.
Instinct took over. Fueled by sheer terror, I dove across the hood of my car in a move that would have made a Hollywood stunt double turn green with jealousy. I heard a whoosh of air as the car passed mere inches away. Smelled the exhaust. Twisting my head around, I saw it disappear around a corner, tires squealing.
I slowly picked myself off the ground, biting back a groan. My shoulder pained where it had hit the hood of the VW; my knee stung from landing on the hard-packed soil. What the heck had just happened? Had someone tried to kill me? I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the possibility. Dazed, I glanced around. My acrobatics had catapulted me into the vacant lot. The container of tandoori chicken had vanished. After retrieving my purse from where it had landed in a clump of weeds, I hobbled through a lot littered with soda cans and beer bottles.
I locked the door behind me even before flicking on the lights. Casey greeted me with a frenzy of excited barks. “Hey, boy,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound quite like my own. I absently brushed at grass and mud stains. My favorite coat looked as if it had been through a war. My slacks, I noted, were beyond repair
, ripped at the knee and bloody from my tumble.
Someone had deliberately tried to run me down.
This finally seeped through the murky haze of denial. Although running on three cylinders instead of the usual four, my brain started to function again. I knew one thing with absolute certainty. I was making someone nervous. Very nervous. I had Mario’s killer worried. Who was it? Pete? Tony? Danny? An ex-lover? A jealous husband? The possibilities made my head spin.
Sensing something was wrong, Casey whined and pranced at my feet. Picking him up, I nuzzled the furry little body, seeking comfort from an armload of puppy love. In return, Casey lathered my face with moist, raspy kisses.
Now that my initial shock was wearing off, I set Casey on the floor, located my cell phone in the jumble in my purse, dialed 911, and sat down to wait.
I nervously chewed a fingernail as the minutes ticked past. “Get a manicure” was another item I’d yet to cross off my to-do list. I wasn’t eager for still another confrontation with McBride. Confrontations seemed to be what our meetings always turned into. Would I be subjected to another lecture? Regarded with skepticism? Viewed as a hysterical woman?
Red and blue lights flashing, a police cruiser braked to a stop outside my front door. When its dome light clicked on, I saw my fears were unfounded. As I hurried to unlock the door, I could see it wasn’t McBride who’d responded to my call, but Beau Tucker. Relief warred with disappointment.
Disappointment won.
CHAPTER 26
“OH MY GOD!” With a dramatic gesture, Reba Mae pressed her hand to heart. “Sugar, that’s simply awful! Are you okay?”
I gave her an award-worthy imitation of a brave smile. “I’m fine except for a few bumps and bruises, but I had to pull the plug on a perfectly good pair of slacks. My favorite coat is a disaster. I bundled it up and dropped it at the dry cleaners. The clerk said it needed CPR.”
“A damn shame.” Reba Mae wagged her head sympathetically. She’d stopped by Spice It Up! following a long day of teasing and lacquering. “I always loved that coat. I still remember the day you brought it home.”
