Rosemary and Crime

by Oust, Gail

  A big, black Lincoln.

  Frozen in place, I stood on the sidewalk as the car accelerated down Main Street and disappeared around the corner. It was then I noticed the dealer logo on the rear bumper. A grinning circus clown with the slogan: DON’T CLOWN AROUND, VISIT CLOUNE MOTORS.

  The exact same logo I’d seen on the car that had nearly ground me into mincemeat. A tingling sensation started at the base of my spine and crept its way up my scalp as my brain processed this information.

  Memory’s a funny thing. McBride’s words came back to haunt me.

  CHAPTER 30

  SO WHAT IF Diane Cloune drove a big, black Lincoln. Diane had no reason to want me dead. Or at the very least, seriously injured. Unless, that is, she was Mario’s killer. I quickly dismissed the notion as ridiculous. I’d heard Diane tell Vicki Lamont that her affair with Mario ended amicably some time ago. Diane’s driving a car similar to the one that tried to run me down was coincidence.

  Coincidence. Pure and simple.

  Besides, how would that explain the larger of the shoe prints?

  As I continued on my merry way, I waved to Pete Barker, who stood in the doorway of Meat on Main. He waved back. Guilt nipped at my conscience. I’d raised the finger of suspicion and leveled it smack-dab at his midsection. But if Pete was innocent, why lie to his wife about his whereabouts the night of the murder? The time to start eliminating possible suspects was long past due. And Pete’s name ranked high on my persons-of-interest list. I thought again about the footprints we’d found at the crime scene. Hmm, I mused, I wonder what size shoe Pete wears. The situation called for a consultation with my BFF. I needed to drop by the Klassy Kut for a little brainstorming, but first I decided to swing by Proctor’s Cleaners and pick up my trench coat, which I’d dropped off last week.

  Bitsy Johnson-Jones glanced up from the paperback novel she was reading when the overhead buzzer announced my arrival. “Hey, Piper.”

  “Hey yourself, Bitsy,” I returned. Bitsy, bless her heart, was as sweet as could be, but there was nothing even remotely “bitsy” about her. The woman loved to eat and it showed with every jiggle of her plus-size figure. “I’m here for my raincoat,” I said, handing her the crumpled ticket I’d excavated from my purse.

  “Oh, yeah, I know the one. Mr. Proctor said to make sure you sign a waiver when you came to get it.”

  “A waiver?” That sounded ominous. “What kind of waiver?”

  “It acknowledges your coat was torn when you dropped it off.” Bitsy pressed a button on a remote control device and a ceiling-mounted track began revolving. Clothes sheathed in plastic whooshed past, leaving a trail of noxious fumes in their wake. I felt my headache increase in intensity. Finally the whirring and whooshing stopped. Bitsy separated my trench from dozens of look-alike bags.

  “Here it is.” With a flourish, she ripped off a pink sheet of paper that had been stapled to the plastic and handed it to me along with a pen. “Sign at the bottom.”

  I quickly scanned the document. By signing it, I agreed not to hold Proctor’s Cleaners responsible for any damages.

  “I didn’t realize the coat was torn when I brought it in,” I said in self-defense as I scrawled my signature on the waiver.

  “Mr. Proctor said the garment looked as though it’d been through hell and back. Wanted me to tell you he did his best. He could see from the label that the coat was expensive so he spent a lot of time trying to remove the stains. That’s why there’s an extra charge.”

  “Be sure to thank him for me.”

  Great, I thought, I’d just paid a ridiculous sum for dry-cleaning a coat that in all likelihood would wind up at Goodwill. Draping the plastic-encased garment over my arm, I bid Bitsy good-bye and headed for the Klassy Kut.

  “Hey, girlfriend.” Reba Mae stopped mixing a vile-smelling potion and gave me a distracted smile as I entered. “Don’t suppose you brought a starving hairdresser some lunch?”

  I could see at a glance she was busy. One client sat with strands of hair wrapped in aluminum foil. Another, her head covered with perm rods and encased in a plastic bag, leafed through the pages of a gossip magazine. I motioned Reba Mae aside and lowered my voice. “Sorry for the interruption, but we need to talk.”

  She stopped stirring and looked at me quizzically. “Looks like someone’s got her panties in a twist.”

  “We need to come up with a way to find out Pete Barker’s shoe size.”

  “Well, honeybun,” Reba Mae drawled, “Pete’s feet are gonna have to stand in line behind highlights and a perm.”

  “Fine,” I agreed. “I’ll talk to you later, but promise to give it some thought before those fumes start destroying brain cells.”

  When I returned to Spice It Up!, Melly smiled as she came out of the storeroom. “Did you enjoy your little outing, dear?”

  I hung my coat in the cupboard. I’d take it upstairs later. “Fine,” I said. “I hope you weren’t bored while I was out.”

  “Not at all,” Melly said. “While you were away, I took the liberty of alphabetizing your spices. Your customers will be able to find things much easier now that everything is in alphabetical order instead of scattered helter-skelter.”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. All my clever groupings? My eye-catching displays? Gone, all of them? “You didn’t…”

  “You don’t have to thank me. I was happy to help.”

  I looked around to find my precious spices lined up with more precision than cadets at a military academy. Baking spices mingled with those used for barbecue. Sweet cohabitated with nutty. Warm and earthy with bitter. Middle Eastern bordered Southwest. The entire place was a disaster of gigantic proportions.

  Melly’s hand flew upward to fondle her pearls. “You don’t look pleased. I hope you’re not angry with me, Piper.”

  Shaking free from the initial shock, I stared at my ex-mother-in-law, seeing her clearly for the first time in ages. A network of fine lines fanned out from eyes the same silver-blue as my daughter’s. Somehow she seemed a smaller, frailer version of the steel magnolia I always envisioned. Lastly, I noticed the slight quiver in her lower lip, as if she might burst into tears any moment, and my irritation faded. “I’m just amazed you managed to rearrange everything so … quickly.”

  Melly’s expression cleared. “I’ve been planning this for weeks as a surprise,” she confided. “It’s how I’d keep things if I owned a shop like yours. I love working here, dear. Anytime you need to run errands, all you have to do is call. I’ll drop everything and run right over.”

  I summoned a weak smile as I escorted her to the door. Once she was on her way, I took a box from the storeroom and went about setting things back to their prealphabetized state. Another time, another day, I’d explain my “helter skelter” system to Melly.

  I’d just placed the last jar of cinnamon alongside the cloves in the Hoosier cabinet when the phone rang. It was Precious Blessing at the Brandywine Creek Police Department, calling to inform me McBride wanted to see me down at the police station.

  “ASAP,” she said, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Just between you, me, and the fencepost, it might be wise to bring a lawyer.”

  “Lawyer?” I squeaked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she assured me in a more normal tone. “That would be a right good idea.”

  She hung up without saying another word, but she’d said enough. My headache ratcheted up a notch; a sick feeling churned in the pit of my stomach. I never would have thought to bring an attorney. Why should I? I had nothing to hide. Since I divorced the jerk I’d married, I didn’t even have an attorney. But …

  My hands shook as I punched in the number of CJ’s office. His secretary informed me he’d already left for the day, but could be reached on his cell phone. Imagine the headlines, he’d said only yesterday. “PROMINENT ATTORNEY DEFENDS EX-WIFE ON HOMICIDE CHARGE.” Was the man clairvoyant?

  “CJ?” I didn’t give him a chance to say more than hello when he answered. “I need a
lawyer. You won by default.”

  “Hey, Scooter. What’s up?”

  I could hear the clink of ice cubes. “Put down your bourbon and meet me at the police station. McBride wants to question me again, and I think I should have a lawyer along for the ride.”

  “Whoo-eee!” he chortled. “Wouldn’t pass up a chance to meet that sumbitch on his home turf. Wait up, baby. I’m on my way.”

  “And CJ,” I added, “don’t call me ‘baby.’”

  I wasn’t about to enter the fray without full battle regalia. This in mind, I raced upstairs and threw open the closet. I decided on a silky turquoise shirt with a bateau neckline and tailored slacks. For an extra pop, I added a necklace fashioned from thin strands of silver interspersed with colorful Swarovski crystals. All I needed now were shoes. Nothing like a drop-dead pair of shoes to give a girl confidence. And this girl needed all the confidence she could get. As the pièce de résistance, I slid my feet into a killer pair of leopard-print pumps with four-inch heels. A swipe of blush, a dab of lip gloss, a squirt of perfume, and I felt armed and dangerous. As an added precaution, I downed two Tylenol. I was good to go.

  CJ let out a wolf whistle when he saw me. “Between you and me, baby, we’ll bring McBride to his knees.”

  We didn’t speak on the short ride over. CJ parked in one of the slots reserved for visitors. My feet had already hit the asphalt before he had time to come around to open the door. “Remember,” he said, taking my elbow and escorting me toward the entrance. “you have the right to remain silent.”

  “Silence has never been my strong suit,” I reminded him, lengthening my stride to match his.

  “Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.”

  Precious Blessing looked up from her post at the front desk as we entered. I made a mental note to thank her later for the heads-up, but right now I had more urgent things on my mind. Precious gave me the once-over and a thumbs-up. “Lookin’ hot, Miz Prescott. Lookin’ hot. Interrogation room’s first door on the left. Chief said for y’all to go right on in.”

  Dead man walking was the phrase that popped into my head. “Beau said your prints were on the murder weapon. That true?” CJ asked, his voice low.

  “Yes, but that was before I knew it was a murder weapon. I’d never have picked it up otherwise.”

  “Right,” he nodded. “What about the bloodstains the police found the day they searched your place?”

  “Canine.”

  “Good, good,” he muttered. “You made a fine mess of things without me around to look after you.” He paused just outside the hated interrogation room. “McBride’s a cagey bastard. He’ll try to trip you up. Don’t say a word unless I tell you it’s okay.”

  Nerves twisted my stomach into a knot at the sight of McBride already seated behind the table, a tape recorder in front of him, ready to record every swallow and stammer. A not-too-subtle reminder that anything—and everything—could be used against me in a court of law. Lordy, what was I in for?

  “Have a seat,” McBride said without preamble.

  CJ set his briefcase on the table, and took a seat in one of the faux-leather and chrome chairs. “So, McBride, what’s this all about?”

  McBride’s gaze lingered on me a moment or two, then traveled to CJ. “Nice to see you, too, CJ,” McBride replied, his expression neutral. “Are you here in an official capacity as Mrs. Prescott’s attorney? Or did you want to see if I’d spent the city’s money on redecorating my office?”

  “Hell, no.” CJ crossed one leg over the other, careful not to ruin the crease in his trousers. “You won’t be in town long enough to worry about paint swatches.”

  “That so? Well, we’ll see.”

  “I tried to convince the mayor and city council you were the wrong man for the job, but they wouldn’t listen to reason. Guess some folks still remember back in the day when a piece of trailer trash came up with the game-winnin’ play during regionals.”

  McBride shrugged. “Ever stop to think I might be the best qualified for the job?”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, gentlemen, can we please get on with the business at hand?”

  McBride opened a folder and scanned a report inside. “This just came back from GBI. According to forensics, the bloodstains on an item of clothing found in your shop, Mrs. Prescott, match those of Mario Barrone’s.”

  I stared at him uncomprehendingly. “We talked about this before. I thought we agreed its presence could be easily explained. Why…?”

  “Have to follow protocol in these matters,” he explained tersely. “I need your statement as part of a public record.”

  “I object.” CJ started to rise.

  McBride motioned him to sit. “Save your breath, CJ. This is an interview, not a courtroom. There’s no jury here to impress.”

  CJ swung around to face me, his face red, whether from indignation or indigestion, I couldn’t say. “What item of clothin’ is he talkin’ about, Scooter?” he demanded. “You told me the bloodstains were canine.”

  McBride addressed his next remark to me. “Care to bring your husband up to speed?”

  “Ex-husband,” we said in unison.

  “Okay, darlin’,” CJ drawled, “do as the man says and bring me up to speed.”

  I cringed, aware of how flimsy my explanation might sound, but told him the abridged version of how a second bloody T-shirt had been found following a break-in at Spice It Up!

  “Preposterous!” CJ declared self-righteously after hearing the story. “No judge or jury in their right minds would believe my ex-wife planted evidence in plain sight, then called you to come find it.”

  “Nevertheless,” McBride said, “I have to go where the evidence leads.”

  “You always were too big for your britches, McBride,” CJ snarled.

  “And you were always a pompous ass.” McBride kept his tone even. “I’d be remiss in my duties, however, if I didn’t officially request Mrs. Prescott to come in for further questioning.”

  I felt I was watching a Ping-Pong match. “Enough! Let’s get on with this, shall we?”

  Clicking on the confounded recorder, McBride stated the perfunctory info, then turned his icy blues on me. “For the record, Mrs. Prescott, does the purple T-shirt found in the storeroom of your shop”—he rattled off the specific date and time—“belong to you?”

  I opened my mouth, but before I could speak, CJ leaned over. “Keep your answers to a simple yes or no.”

  That sounded like good advice, so I took it. “No.”

  CJ leaned back and nodded his approval, probably wishing I’d always taken direction this well.

  McBride jotted my answer in a small spiral notebook. “Had you ever seen the garment before the night in question?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw CJ give a slight nod indicating I should answer.

  “No.”

  “Do you have an idea how the shirt might have gotten there?” McBride asked.

  “You’re darn right I do, and so do you” I fired back, foresaking my vow of monosyllables. “Whoever killed Mario planted it there.”

  CJ leaped to his feet. “Leading the witness.”

  I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. Amber needed to wean him off Perry Mason reruns on late-night cable.

  “Sit down, Prescott, and stop showboating,” McBride told him.

  CJ sneered. “This wouldn’t be the first time a dirty cop planted evidence to incriminate an innocent victim.”

  “Are you calling me a ‘dirty’ cop?”

  Except for the muted whirr of the tape recorder, the room went still. McBride’s eyes looked like shards of ice. I could see a muscle in his jaw twitch as he fought for control. In the old days, whenever CJ made an insensitive remark, I’d give him a discreet jab in the ribs. But this time, however, my elbow stayed glued to my side.

  CJ stubbornly refused to back off. “Everyone knows you need to make an arrest if you want to keep your job. Who better to accuse than the person who fo
und the body and innocently handled the alleged murder weapon?”

  “I’m not accusing anyone until I know all the facts.” McBride avoided my eyes as he said this.

  CJ picked up his briefcase. “My client has already informed you the shirt doesn’t belong to her. That she’d never seen it before you happened across it. Up until now, she has cooperated fully with law enforcement, but unless you plan to charge her, we’re out of here.”

  I held my breath.

  McBride drummed his fingers on the folder. “Mrs. Prescott is free to go—for the moment.”

  CJ held open the door of the interrogation room, and I breezed through. A free woman. For the moment.

  On the way out of the station, CJ paused to hand Precious Blessing one of his business cards. “Call me if you’re ever of a mind to sue the sumbitch you work for,” he told her.

  She stared back at him, puzzled. “Why would I wanna sue ’im? Chief treats me real good.”

  CJ gave her the smile hundreds recognized from billboards along the Interstate. “Sexual harassment, discrimination, whatever, I’m your man.”

  “Sexual harassment?” Precious chortled. “Whoo-ee. I should be so lucky.”

  CHAPTER 31

  “COMFORT FOOD, HONEYBUN.” Reba Mae took a plate heaped with leftover mac and cheese out of the microwave and placed it in front of me. “Take Doc Reba’s advice and eat up. Mac and cheese is one of the basic food groups here in the South. It’ll have you feelin’ better lickety-split.”

  I wasn’t hungry but dug in anyway. “I have to confess, Reba Mae, McBride had me shaking in my shoes. I felt the noose tighten around my neck, waiting to hear if he was going to charge me or not. How does the state of Georgia execute people?”

  Reba poured wine for each of us before taking the seat across from me. “Gee, hon, I think they found a new, improved method of killin’ folks. Lethal injection would be my guess.”

  “Much more civilized.” I forced myself to take another bite of mac and cheese, then pushed the plate aside and reached for my wine. “I’d much rather drift off to meet my Maker in a drug-induced haze than to dangle from the end of a rope.”