by Oust, Gail
Lindsey’s eyelids slid to half-mast. “Tell ’im I’m sorry.”
I sighed. “Don’t worry about it now. We’ll deal with everything in the morning.” I brushed a kiss across her brow, but she was already sound asleep.
As I turned to leave, I noticed Casey perched on the threshold. Judging from his bright eyes, I gathered the little dog had followed the goings-on with interest. As though reassured all was under control, the pup hopped onto Lindsey’s bed and snuggled down. Knowing my daughter was in capable hands—make that paws—I quietly closed the door behind me.
I’d nearly forgotten about McBride, or more likely I’d hoped he’d get tired of waiting and leave. No such luck. I found him sitting at my kitchen table.
“She all right?” he asked, his expression unreadable in the dim light.
I shoved an unruly mop of curls away from my face. “As well as can be expected—considering the circumstances.”
I peered at him more closely as I approached. He looked tired, somehow more vulnerable, less intimidating. Approachable. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe the shadows. Whatever the reason, I heard myself ask if he’d like coffee.
“Coffee sounds great, but can you make it decaf?”
I measured decaf into a filter, added water, and clicked on the pot. “Care to fill me in on the gory details?”
He leaned back, causing the ladder-back chair to squeak in protest. For the first time that evening—make that morning—I noticed he was dressed casually in jeans with a windbreaker pulled over a T-shirt instead of his usual uniform. “A complaint was logged in about a disturbance. Caller said there was loud music and a wild party going on next door. Since all my men were out assisting the sheriff’s department to reroute traffic around an overturned semi on the Interstate, I took it upon myself to check things out.”
While the coffeemaker gurgled, I got mugs down from the cupboard and put some of Miss Melly’s gingersnaps on a plate. The coffee done, I filled our mugs and sat opposite him at the kitchen table. “What did you find when you answered the call?”
“A lot of underage drinking.” He took a sip of coffee, then helped himself to a cookie. “I broke up the party and called the parents to come get the kids who hadn’t already fled the premises.”
“I see.” I cradled my hands around the coffee mug, savoring its warmth. “Precisely where did this so-called wild party take place?”
McBride locked eyes with me over the rim of his coffee mug. “At the home of your ex-husband.”
“CJ’s…?” This bit of information caught me off guard. “Where was CJ when all this underage drinking was going on?”
“Nearest I can tell after talking to your daughter, CJ and his … friend … planned to take in a Braves game in Atlanta, then spend the night.”
I sipped my coffee, needing a moment to digest this. Lindsey must have been aware of their plans from the beginning—and schemed accordingly. Between CJ’s and the Wainwrights’ fully stocked bars, a generous liquor supply shouldn’t have posed a problem.
McBride studied me guardedly. “I couldn’t very well leave your daughter alone in her condition so I brought her here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it,” I told him, my voice husky with emotion.
“You’re welcome.”
I cleared my throat. “Will there be any legal ramifications?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Since it’s a first-time offense, I didn’t cite the kids. I let them off with a stern warning instead.”
“Thanks again.” Though I didn’t like being beholden to McBride, he was being unexpectedly nice. He could just as easily have called me like he did the other parents and had me fetch Lindsey. But he didn’t. He’d brought my daughter to me instead. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, another of my father’s sayings, sprang to mind. To hide my confusion, I refilled our coffee mugs. “Lindsey said she threw up in your truck. Is that true?”
He grimaced. “’Fraid so. Normally, I’d have taken one of the police cruisers, but they were all in use tonight. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I managed to pull to the shoulder so the roadside got the worst of it.”
There, he was doing it again—being unexpectedly nice—and again it unnerved me.
“I’ll bring Lindsey to your place tomorrow, and she’ll clean your truck from top to bottom. No,” I said when he opened his mouth to protest, “she needs to be held accountable.”
“Can’t argue with that.” Reaching into his shirt pocket for pen and paper, he scribbled an address and shoved it across the table. “I’ve got tomorrow off so I’ll be home all day.”
“Good. We’ll be there.” I nudged the plate of cookies closer to him. “Melly’s gingersnaps have won blue ribbons at the county fair.”
He took the hint and scarfed down his third—but who’s counting—cookie. “That would be Melly Prescott, CJ’s mother?” At my nod, a tiny smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I’ve always wondered, does she even wear her pearls when she bakes cookies?”
“I think she sleeps with them,” I replied, straight-faced.
My response prompted an honest-to-goodness smile. The sort that showed off the cute little dimple in his cheek. It was easy to see how a Hollywood starlet would fall prey to its devastating effect, much less a humble li’l shopkeeper like moi. I jumped up to refill cups that didn’t need refilling. “Ah … more coffee?”
When I glanced over my shoulder, I saw his attention wasn’t on the coffeepot but on the expanse of thigh visible below my robe. “I thought you told me purple wasn’t your color,” he said.
I carefully replaced the carafe on the warmer. “It isn’t.”
He pointed to my scraped knee and the bruises visible below the hem of my short robe. Amethyst and grape, lilac and plum, a palette of purple. “Oh, those,” I said. “Souvenirs from my flying leap over the hood of my Beetle. If I’m going to pursue a career as circus acrobat, I need to work on my landings.”
“I read Tucker’s report.” There was not even a ghost of a smile now; he was sober as a judge. “You need to back off, Piper. You’re playing with fire and you’re bound to get burned. Leave the investigation to the professionals. Now,” he continued, his tone less stern, “why don’t you give me a first-person account of what happened the other night?”
I slowly lowered myself into a chair. “There’s not much to tell. I didn’t see the driver. Couldn’t tell make or model of the vehicle. Big and dark is the best I can do.”
“Memory’s a funny thing,” he mused. “Sometimes details come back later when you least expect them.”
CHAPTER 28
MCBRIDE’S PREDICTION OF a hangover had been right on the nose. Lindsey woke late the next morning with a walloping headache. I quickly smothered a tiny pang of sympathy as she stumbled into the kitchen. It was the time for tough love not “poor baby” pats on the head.
“Mornin’, Lindsey,” I said perkily. I held out a tumbler. “Hair of the dog that bit you?”
She eyed the concoction in the glass with barely disguised horror. “Mo-om, what are you tryin’ to do? Poison me?”
I smiled sweetly. “Did you know that in Poland the cure for a hangover is pickle juice?”
Lindsey paled at the notion, but I continued, heartless mother that I was. “In Ireland, the poor sod might be buried up to their neck in moist river sand.” I slammed the tall glass on the table, and Lindsey winced at the sound..
“Booze…?” Her shocked gaze darted from the glass, then back to me.
“It’s a Virgin Mary—a Bloody Mary minus the vodka,” I explained. “Tomato juice and celery are rich in vitamins.”
“Are you trying to kill me or cure me?”
“Drink,” I ordered. “And when you’re finished, I want you to take a shower and brush your teeth while I fix lunch.”
“Food…? I don’t think…”
I turned to the stove and picked up a spoon. “I made a pot of vegetable soup while you were sleeping. It’s chock-full of more o
f those vitamins you lost after ‘puking,’ as you so eloquently phrased it.”
Lindsey whimpered but drained the juice. Minutes later, I heard the shower running. When she returned to the kitchen, she looked more like my child than the glammed-up version of the night before.
I set soup and crackers on the table and dug in. Lindsey, a martyred expression on her pretty face, took a cautious spoonful. Then another and another until she’d finished most of the bowl.
“I thought we’d bring Chief McBride some homemade vegetable soup as a thank-you,” I commented as I loaded the dirty dishes into the dishwasher. “Now that you’re done eating, we’re going to take a ride over to his place. I put together a bucket of rags and cleaning supplies.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re going to make me clean his house?”
“Not his house, sweetie. His truck,” I corrected. “In case your memory’s a little hazy, you threw up in it while he was driving you home.”
“Mo-om,” she wailed. “What’ll the kids at school say if they find out you made me clean the ick out of his truck?”
“The more intelligent ones will say you got what you deserved. We’re not going to waste brain cells worrying about the rest.”
“That it?”
“No, but it’s a start. After you’re done making his truck sparkle like new, you’re going to thank the nice man for not throwing you in the clink for underage drinking, disturbing the peace, and a handful of other charges. Whether you want to admit it or not, you and your friends got off easy, but don’t expect lightning to strike twice.”
Lindsey had the good sense to drop her eyes. “Are you going to snitch to Daddy?”
I deposited a dishwashing pellet into the dispenser and punched the wash cycle. “I’m sure your daddy will figure things out for himself once he steps foot inside his home and sees the chaos you created. Not to mention seeing his liquor cabinet depleted.”
She hung her head. “Are you finished?”
“Not quite.”
Lindsey rolled her eyes. “All right, go ahead. Yell at me.”
“As tempting as that sounds, I’m not even going to raise my voice.” Yelling, I realized, would go in one ear, out the other, and in the end wouldn’t make a lick of difference. Instead, I decided on a calm, rational approach to hammer the truth home. Lindsey watched me with blatant suspicion, but I knew she was in listening mode for our come-to-Jesus meeting.
“Don’t think for one minute, young lady, that I wasn’t on to your underhanded tactics of switching one dress for another. You purposely arrived here late and counted on the fact I wouldn’t insist on you changing dresses and making a scene.”
Lindsey’s lower lip jutted out. “Pink is for babies…”
I held up my hand to forestall her paltry excuses. “Nevertheless, your actions were deceitful and unworthy of you. The underage drinking you engaged in later that evening, however, far overshadows your poor choice in evening wear. Not only is it illegal, but did you stop to consider what might’ve happened if one of your friends insisted on driving home drunk? Not only could they have been killed or seriously injured, but an innocent person as well.”
“Are you done yet?” Lindsey traced a pattern on the tabletop with a fingertip, her eyes downcast.
“Not by a long shot,” I fired back. Chopping vegetables for soup had given me plenty of time to reflect on my relationship with my daughter—and decide on a course of action. “There is no justification for your failing grades. I intend to closely monitor your work in summer school and make sure you complete the course with flying colors. In the future, if I say no, that answer is final. No running to your father for a second opinion. And if I ever hear about you drinking again, I’ll see to it that you’re grounded until you’re twenty-one. You have to learn that actions have consequences. I love you more than life itself, but I’m disappointed in your recent behavior.”
“Disappointed in me…?” Lindsey sprung to her feet, balled up the paper napkin, and tossed it down. “Well, I’m disappointed in you! It’s your fault Daddy wanted a divorce.”
Stunned by her outburst, I sank onto a chair.
Lindsey gestured wildly. “If you’d made more of an effort, tried a little harder to be more glamorous like Amber, Daddy wouldn’t have left us.”
How do I find words to make a young, impressionable girl understand the complexities of marriage? To explain that over decades people change? That goals and interests diverge with time, often in opposite directions? “Honey, think about it,” I said quietly. “If beauty and glitz were all that were needed to hold a marriage together, there would be no divorces in Hollywood. In the case of your father and me, I did try, but it wasn’t enough. It might have been a case of too little, too late, but I was no longer what your father needed—or wanted.” My gaze strayed to the ring finger of my left hand, now barren of jewelry. “I’ve been doing some soul-searching,” I confessed. “Maybe, just maybe, our divorce wasn’t such a bad thing after all. It’s giving me the chance to discover a whole new side of myself that I didn’t know existed. For years, I’ve wanted my own business, to be independent. Always standing in your father’s shadow, I never had the chance to grow, much less bloom—and now I do.”
A single tear trickled down Lindsey’s cheek, and she brushed it away. I took this as encouragement so I continued. “Our lives—your daddy’s and mine—sadly veered off-course. I’m sorry our divorce hurt you, sweetie. But the one thing that’s remained constant, and always will, is that we both love you as much as ever.”
“Sorry, Mom. I love you, too,” she said, sniffling.
I rose and gave her a hug. We stood like that for a long moment, mother and daughter, woman and child-woman. Lindsey finally stepped back. “Can Casey come with us to Chief McBride’s?”
As it turned out, Casey was overjoyed at the prospect. The little dog was an enthusiastic traveler, wagging his tail and leaping into the backseat the second the car door opened.
To Lindsey’s unbridled relief, McBride had already cleaned the worst of the mess. Attuned to the fact that this was an object lesson, he informed Lindsey the exterior of his Ford F-150 pickup could stand a good wash.
While Lindsey set to work with a bucket of soapy water and a chamois, McBride and I watched from the porch steps of his rented cottage. Casey romped about and wrestled with the garden hose until Lindsey sprayed him with water. The pup loved it and kept coming back for more, sending Lindsey into a fit of giggles.
“Great little mutt you found,” McBride commented.
“Great attack dog you mean,” I corrected, enjoying the playfulness of Lindsey and Casey.
“Sorry,” he grunted. “My mistake.”
“Casey has a ferocious bark, but right now his bark is worse than his bite. He’ll be your best friend forever, and you can bribe him with a doggy treat.”
McBride shot me a sideways glance. “By the way, thanks for the soup. I hope you don’t think I’m as easily bribed as that mutt of yours.”
“My, oh my, what a suspicious mind you have,” I said flippantly, then grew serious. “You mentioned you lived on takeout, and I wanted to thank you for last night. You could’ve thrown the book at Lindsey and her friends.”
He shrugged off my gratitude. “No big deal.”
We continued to watch Lindsey’s and the dog’s antics for a while in companionable silence. It was early May, one of my favorite months, sunny and bright, but without the humidity that plagues June, July, and August. The trees were a verdant green. Carolina wrens flitted among the branches of a huge old magnolia tree.
“I like your place. It suits you.” And it did, I thought. The style could best be described as country Southern with a dash of New England Colonial and a hint of Greek Revival thrown in for good measure. Simple and unassuming, the wide porch cried out for rockers and sweet tea.
I tilted my face up to the sun, enjoying its warmth and ignoring its freckle factor. “Rumor has it that you’re thinking of buying it.”
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He lounged back, one arm braced on the step above. “After standing vacant for some time, the house needs work but shows potential. Provided the owner accepts my offer, I’ll start with the kitchen. Maybe then, I’ll be tempted to try my hand at cooking.”
I idly tracked the path of a bright yellow butterfly as it hovered over an overgrown hydrangea bush. “Is it true that if you don’t find Mario’s killer soon, the mayor and city council might fire you?”
“Where’d you hear that?” he asked, his voice sharp.
“I overheard some women talking the other day. True or false?”
He kept his gaze fastened on the progress Lindsey was making on his Ford F-150. “There’s a ninety-day probationary clause in my contract. It reads that if the town is dissatisfied with my performance for any reason whatsoever they have the right to rescind the contract.”
“That’s a lot of pressure.”
“Pressure comes with the territory.”
“You’d make a lot of people happy if you arrested me. Life in Brandywine Creek could return to normal.”
He merely grunted.
A grunt, I realized, was difficult to interpret. Did that mean he agreed? Disagreed? “Well, then,” I challenged, “why haven’t you arrested me?”
He turned to face me and, once again, I was intrigued by the small scar at his left eyebrow. “I’m not about to make an arrest,” he said, “until I can build a case strong enough to hold up in a court of law.”
Gathering my courage, I voiced the question uppermost in my mind. “Any word from the lab on the bloodstained T-shirt you found at my shop?”
He returned his attention to the truck. “Not yet, but expect I will soon.”
My mouth suddenly felt like sawdust. “What if the DNA matches Mario’s?”
“There are other things that have to be taken into consideration beside a DNA match.”
“Such as?”
“A skilled lawyer would make mincemeat of the notion that you planted incriminating evidence in a place where it would be easily spotted, then called the police to come find it.”
