by Gail Oust
“What sort of side effects?” Reba Mae demanded.
“High blood pressure for example, which can lead to heart attack or stroke.”
“Weren’t neither of them things.”
Our heads swiveled at the sound of Ned’s voice. We’d been too engrossed in our conversation to notice Ned had discarded the oxygen mask and ambled over. The EMTs were too busy gabbing with a firefighter to notice that their patient had absconded.
“Was the silk scarf around her neck that done it,” Ned announced, his tone matter-of-fact.
“Scarf…?” The fine hairs along my nape stood at attention.
Reba Mae’s hand flew to her throat. “Neck…?”
“Right pretty scarf it was, too,” Ned continued. “Someone wrapped it around her neck real tight, cuttin’ off her air.”
Doug studied Ned with a critical eye; then his medical training kicked in. “Ned, you don’t look well. Maybe you need a little more of that oxygen the EMTs were giving you.”
Ned dismissed the suggestion with a shake of his head. “Don’t need any more air out of a tank,” he said. “Some of the old-fashioned kind supplied by Mother Nature oughta do the trick.”
Impulsively I looped my arm through his and drew him away from the crowd and the excitement. “How about we take a nice little stroll? I know a park bench that would be a perfect spot to sit a spell. Some peace and quiet is just what you need right now.”
I darted a glance over my shoulder and, except for Doug and Reba Mae, no one seemed to be paying us any mind as the two of us made our getaway. Everyone was too busy speculating or gossiping to be bothered watching two figures retreating in the direction of the town square. Ned and I took a seat in the shadow of a lone Confederate soldier, rifle at the ready, who guarded the town with sightless eyes. It was peaceful here. Sunlight filtered through the leafless canopy of willow oaks overhead. A gray squirrel scampered off, its cheeks fat with acorns.
From our vantage point, Brandywine Creek looked postcard pretty. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, the town reflected the holiday season. Fall wreaths with bright orange and gold plaid bows decorated lampposts. Businesses had carried out the theme with displays of colorful pumpkins and gourds in their windows. Americana at its finest.
Except for a dead woman in the opera house.
I turned to Ned. He appeared shaken and pale after his ordeal. He sat slumped forward, his head in his hands. “Do you want to talk about it?” I asked quietly.
Ned’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed noisily. “Chief said I wasn’t s’posed to talk about it.”
“That’s all right. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to.”
“Talkin’s good for folks, ain’t it?” he asked after a lengthy silence.
Leaning back, I rested an arm along the back of the bench. “Way I see it, talking is the reason the good Lord created psychiatrists.”
“Havin’ a real person—someone not a cop—hear me out would sure take a load off my mind. Guess I could think of you as my therapy person.” He speared me a hopeful look. “Chief can’t fault me for talkin’ to my therapy person, can he?”
Chief of Police Wyatt McBride could and, moreover, probably would. The guy was a stickler for protocol—especially when it came to murder investigations. For the time being, though, I kept my opinion to myself. If Ned was troubled and needed a sympathetic ear, far be it from me to deny the poor man solace. “Don’t let that worry you, Ned. Go ahead if you like; tell me what happened.”
He rested his palms on his knees, scuffed the toe of his sneaker in the brittle grass. “Seein’ Miz Granger like that, then hearin’ the ghost walkin’ around downstairs, would be enough to send lesser folk to the loony bin.”
“If it’s any consolation, you and I are members of the same elite club.”
“What club is that, Miz Piper?”
“The Finders of Dead Bodies Club. We members share a certain kinship, a bond. Who better to understand what it’s like? The shock, disbelief, horror.” And the nightmares, I added silently, but Ned would soon discover that fact for himself.
“Damn straight!” He slapped his knee for emphasis.
I stared up at the bright blue sky and saw a wispy vapor trail left by a jet probably bound for Hartsfield Airport in Atlanta. My sluggish conscience stirred to life. What I was doing was wrong. I never should have lured Ned away from the crime scene without McBride’s consent. I rationalized, telling myself I was acting out of friendship—not curiosity. Although, to be honest, I was curious. Curiosity, to my way of thinking, is a more commendable trait than nosiness.
“You know how I was all conflicted. Should I start at the bottom and work my way up? Or start at the top and work my way down? I was havin’ trouble makin’ up my mind. I woulda flipped a coin like Dr. Doug suggested, but I left all my change at home, so I did the next best thing. I compromised by starting in the middle; Miz Granger said not to touch anything on the stage, so I just gave it a quick look around.”
“Then what?” I urged when Ned seemed reluctant to continue.
Taking off his ball cap, he shoveled his fingers through thinning mouse brown hair. “Figured I’d do the balcony next.”
“And…?”
He studied the logo on the bill of his cap as though he’d never seen it before. “And that’s when I found ’er. Sittin there, nice as you please. In the same chair reserved for the ghost. At first, I thought she was sleepin’ or maybe restin’. I didn’t want to startle her, so I gave her a nudge on the shoulder. Just a little one, and said, ‘Hey, Miz Granger. Nice day, ain’t it?’”
I sensed what was coming next. Goose bumps pebbled my arms as a cool breeze drifted through the naked branches.
“Before I could stop her, Miz Granger toppled out of her chair and landed kerplunk on the floor. I could tell by her face she was a goner. The color put me in mind of eggplant. Never did care much for eggplant. Not even when Momma used to fry it up for supper.”
I sat, my arms wrapped around myself for warmth, trying to digest everything Ned had told me. Sandy Granger had been viciously murdered. Strangled with her own scarf. But when? Why? And, most important, by whom? I thought back to yesterday and the complaints I’d heard about her management style. So what if she was a hard taskmaster, a woman with high expectations, one who wanted everything perfect for a play she was producing? That certainly wasn’t reason enough to be killed. Or was it?
“So there you are!”
Ned and I both jumped at hearing the angry baritone close behind us.
Ned’s head automatically swiveled toward the sound. “Uh-oh.”
I didn’t have to look to identify the source. I mentally braced myself for the confrontation I knew was forthcoming.
Chief Wyatt McBride’s long legs ate up the distance that separated us. He stopped in front of the wrought-iron bench and glowered at us. “Feeney, I warned you not to discuss the case with anyone until you made a formal statement.”
“I-I, er,” Ned stammered, clearly discombobulated by an irate police chief.
I rose to my feet, nonplussed by McBride’s obvious irritation. I’d seen that stormy expression on his face before and refused to be intimidated. “Ned needed a few minutes to collect himself. It isn’t every day one finds a dead body. It’s traumatic. Shame on you, McBride, for bullying him.”
“I’m not ‘bullying’ him,” McBride retorted stiffly.
McBride towered over my petite frame by nearly a foot, but I stood my ground. Dark hair, laser blue eyes, movie-star handsome features, he could have been the poster boy for Internet dating. Lonely widows and divorcées—make that any woman with a drop of estrogen—would respond in droves. Computers would crash. Networks would fail.
I gestured toward Ned. “Can’t you see the man’s upset? Cut him some slack.”
“I thought my instructions were clear. I told you to stay put.” McBride directed his words to Ned, the reprimand razor sharp.
Poor
Ned, he looked ready to crumple like a cheap suit. Taking the initiative, I placed my hands on my hips ready to do battle and huffed out a breath. “Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute before you go throwing your weight around, McBride. It’ll get you nowhere.”
“I’ve got a murder to deal with. You had no right to sequester him.”
I flung my hand out. “You call this sequestering? We’re smack-dab in the middle of the town square. We couldn’t be more unsequestered if we’d tried.”
McBride took a deep, calming breath and released it. When he spoke again, he modified his tone. “Ned, I’d like you to come down to my office while the details are still fresh in your mind.”
“Okeydokey,” Ned responded, less frightened now, and eager to please. He climbed to his feet and replaced his ball cap. “Miz Piper, you’re a real nice lady for hearin’ me out. I’m feelin’ much butter since you let me get everythin’ out of my system. You’d make a real good therapy person once you set your mind to it.”
“Thanks, Ned,” I said, and smiled. “Anytime you need to talk, I’m here for you.”
“Therapy person?” McBride muttered as he left with Ned. “Just when I thought I’d heard it all.”
CHAPTER 6
“WHAT A MESS!” I viewed the aftermath of Doug’s aborted cooking demo from the threshold of Spice It Up! Folding chairs were no longer in neat rows but strewn helter-skelter. Jars of spices huddled at one end of the table like refugees from a storm. The cash register squatting on the counter issued a silent rebuke about the lack of sales. I’d counted on chicken curry cooking up a batch of cash to boost my end of the month totals. Only the basket of colorful vegetables added a note of cheer to the otherwise bleak scene.
“Good thing I remembered to turn off the stove before dashing out, or I’d’ve ruined one of my best pots,” Doug commented from behind me, sounding as deflated as I felt.
It was hard to mourn the death of cookware—even pricey Le Creuset—with the coroner’s van parked down the block. While relieved Ned Feeney hadn’t been the victim, I was still reeling from the fact that Sandy was dead. And not ordinary dead. Dead with a silk scarf tight around her neck. In spite of Ned’s conviction that her death was the handiwork of the opera house ghost, I was certain the perpetrator was flesh and blood. Sighing, I began the task of setting the shop in order.
Doug’s cell phone jangled. The jaunty, toe-tapping tune contrasted with the doom and gloom I was experiencing. “It’s Madison,” he said, reading the display. The phone pressed against his ear, he walked toward the rear of the storeroom, which provided a modicum of privacy.
I started with the chairs and leaned them against the far wall for Ned to return to the mortuary later. Although I tried not to be obvious, I kept sneaking glances at Doug, who paced as he spoke into the phone. I didn’t know Madison well, but the girl struck me as high maintenance. She was aloof, often rebuffing friendly overtures or refusing invites from those her age. She expected her father to be at her beck and call. Quite honestly, I’d been happy when she’d joined the cast of Steel Magnolias. Playing the role of Shelby gave Madison not only a creative outlet but also a chance to interact with various cast and crew members. In my humble opinion, it wasn’t healthy for a young woman to be so attached to her father to the exclusion of all others.
“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” I heard Doug say. “I’m on my way.”
I stopped stacking chairs. “Anything wrong?”
Doug clipped his phone back on his belt. “Madison heard about Sandy from a fellow cast mate. She’s hysterical. The poor girl is scared out of her wits.”
“I can’t say I blame her. Sandy’s death has come as a shock.”
Doug raked his fingers through his short, prematurely gray hair, making it stand on end. “I saw you wander off with Ned. Madison said the rumor making the rounds is that Ned bludgeoned Sandy with a broomstick.”
I stared at him aghast. “That’s ridiculous!” I said, regaining my power of speech. “Ned wouldn’t bludgeon a June bug, much less a human being. He quit a job at Bugs-B-Gone because he hated killing defenseless roaches.”
Doug started for the door, then turned. “Madison mentioned that except for an argument between Wanda Needmore, CJ’s paralegal, and Sandy, nothing out of the ordinary transpired at rehearsal last night. Does Ned have any idea when Sandy died?”
“Ned’s a handyman, not a medical examiner.” Scooping up an armload of spices, I returned them to the shelves. “I hardly think that qualifies the guy to determine time of death.”
“Right, right. Stupid question,” Doug said, extracting car keys from his pocket. “Goes to show how upset I am. It terrifies me no end to think of Madison rehearsing at the opera house while a homicidal maniac lurks in the wings.”
I slid a jar of the cumin next to the coriander. “Aren’t you being a little melodramatic?”
“Since I moved to Brandywine Creek, the crime rate has gone through the roof.”
“That’s not fair.” I set a bottle of fennel seeds on the shelf with more force than necessary. “Every city—big, little, or medium—has crime. No city is exempt.”
He paused, one hand on the doorknob. “I’m beginning to wonder if I should relocate. I can’t risk my daughter’s safety.”
Doug’s words gave me a jolt. Were they simply a knee-jerk reaction to Sandy’s death? Or had he already given some thought to moving elsewhere? No way could a small town like Brandywine Creek compete with suburban Chicago, where he had lived before moving to Brandywine Creek. But all this time, I’d assumed he enjoyed the slower place, the friendly atmosphere, of life in rural Georgia. I wasn’t ready to examine the effect a move of his might have on me. Like Scarlett O’Hara, I’d worry about that later.
“I’m certain McBride will quickly have the guilty party in custody,” I said with more conviction than I felt. Experience had taught me that guilty parties don’t come with a neon arrow pointing in their direction.
“We’ll see,” he said as he stepped out the door.
“Wait,” I called after him. “What do you want me to do with the chicken curry?”
“Keep it,” he tossed over his shoulder. “Freeze it; give it away; do whatever you please. I don’t want it. Keep the chicken strips, too.”
“All righty, then,” I muttered, borrowing an expression from Ned’s phrase book. You didn’t have to hit me over the head with a brick to see that Madison’s well-being ranked higher than chicken curry. I admired Doug’s devotion to his only child, I really did, but sometimes I felt ignored. Selfish of me, I know, but there you have it.
Once the spices were in their proper places, I took the basket of veggies from the table at the rear and moved it to the counter up front. Next to it, I placed the copies of Doug’s recipe for spicy chicken curry. Maybe some stragglers would drift in and be tempted to give it a whirl—and purchase turmeric or cardamom in the process. I had stepped back to study the effect when Bunny Bowtin sailed in accompanied by Dottie Hemmings and Mary Lou Lambert. Mary Lou, a plump blonde with yellow curls, hung back to hold the door open for Marcy Boyd, formerly Marcy Magruder. Marcy maneuvered a double-wide stroller through the narrow opening with an ease born of much practice. Inside the stroller, two infants, one swaddled in pink, the other in blue, slumbered peacefully.
“Ladies,” I said pleasantly. “What can I help you with?”
The three looked at Bunny, apparently the appointed spokesperson. As best I could recall, this was the first time Bunny had stepped foot inside Spice It Up! She never cooked, and bragged the only things she made were reservations. She and her husband, Dennis, were close friends of the Grangers. More attractive than pretty with shoulder-length chestnut hair swept back from a narrow face, she’d been set to play M’Lynn, Shelby’s wealthy, socially prominent mother, in Steel Magnolias. A perfect example of typecasting.
Bunny didn’t waste time on pleasantries. “It’s our understanding you had a discussion with Mr. Feeney.”
Her word
s were more accusation than statement. “Yes, I did,” I replied cautiously. “Naturally, Mr. Feeney—Ned—was shaken. He needed time to compose himself before speaking to Chief McBride.” I omitted the part about Ned being spooked by the opera house ghost.
“That’s right neighborly of you, Piper”—Dottie elbowed Bunny aside—“but is it true Sandy was shot with a .38?”
“Shot?”
“The town’s fairly buzzing with rumors,” Mary Lou confessed. “I heard Sandy might’ve been poisoned—cyanide.”
First strangled with a silk scarf, next bludgeoned with a broomstick, then shot with a .38, and now poisoned? I shook my head in amazement. The gossipmongers were grinding out rumors at an alarming rate.
Bunny looked down her long, aristocratic nose at me. “We need to know if we should take precautions.”
“Precautions?” I repeated.
Marcy, a wispy dishwater blonde, bent down and adjusted a blanket over one of her babies. “You know … precautions.”
“Things like buying a handgun,” Dottie supplied helpfully.
Mary Lou nodded. “Or applying for a concealed-weapons permit.”
Bunny pursed her thin lips. “I was thinking of less drastic measures. Something more along the lines of a self-defense course for women.”
“A self-defense course sounds like a good idea,” I agreed slowly, “but I’m not sure why you’ve come to me with this.”
“Because, dear, you’re the most logical person to get the chief’s ear,” Dottie explained with a wink.
“Me? Why?” I gasped. My vocabulary seemed reduced to monosyllables. I hoped the condition wasn’t permanent.
Marcy tucked a strand of hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail behind one ear. “My husband, Danny, told me you and Chief McBride are buddies.”
“Buddies?” I almost laughed out loud but caught myself in the nick of time. Was this a trick question? What other rumors had been brewing? I wondered. “Circumstances have thrown us together on occasion, but I’d hardly classify Chief McBride and me as buddies,” I said, trying to explain my relationship with McBride. Granted I found the man attractive, but he was out of my league. I preferred a steady, quiet, dependable sort like Doug Winters, rather than one with lady-killer looks and a reputation to match.
