by Gail Oust
“Probably a slow news day.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “Sandy and Craig must have loads of friends in high places.”
We scooted aside to let Bob Sawyer, reporter for The Statesman, Brandywine Creek’s weekly newspaper, stake out a better camera angle. “I didn’t even have to reschedule my next client,” Reba Mae confided. “Shelly Ann Bixby beat me to the punch. Soon as Shelly Ann heard there was gonna be TV coverage, she called to cancel. She wants to be available in case she’s asked to do one of those in-depth interviews. You know the kind where a reporter randomly picks someone from the crowd and asks, ‘How well did you know the victim?’”
“Yeah, I see them all the time. Most of those interviewed are clueless.”
“Guess a former baton twirler like Shelly Ann never tires of wantin’ to be in the limelight. The leaves have been showin’ their backsides all mornin’,” Reba Mae said, changing the subject. “That’s a surefire sign it’s gonna rain.”
As if to prove her point, a rumble of thunder rolled through, the sound a little louder than before. Seconds later, the bell from St. Mark’s Episcopal Church over on Sycamore Street tolled the hour of twelve. Right on cue, the courthouse doors swung open and out marched Mayor Harvey Hemmings followed by Wyatt McBride. The pair was followed by members of the city council and police officers Beau Tucker and Gary Moyer. Council members huddled on the left; police, on the right. Their deliberate positioning reminded me of choosing sides in a child’s game of Red Rover. Or, worse yet, a town divided.
“Judging from his expression, McBride doesn’t look happy,” I whispered. “Holding this press conference goes against the grain.”
“The mayor is used to gettin’ his own way. Doesn’t like to take no for an answer,” Reba Mae whispered back.
Harvey Hemmings, a short, rotund man with a head shaped like a bowling ball, stepped to the podium. A fringe of gray hair circled his mostly bald head like a laurel wreath and a gray caterpillar of a mustache crawled across his upper lip. His chest seemed to visibly swell with self-importance as he surveyed the crowd and spied the news crews. “Testing, testing,” he said, leaning into the mic.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Reba Mae muttered. “Just get the show on the road.”
“Hurmph!” Hemmings, apparently satisfied with the sound system, cleared his throat, then addressed those assembled, “Ladies and gentlemen, so good of y’all to come on such short notice. On behalf of the town council and myself, I’d like to welcome any visitors among you to our fair city. We only wish that it was under happier circumstances. I’d like to personally invite each and every one of you to return in the future and enjoy all the amenities Brandywine Creek has to offer.”
“Sounds like a campaign speech,” I muttered under my breath.
Reba Mae tugged her sweater tighter around her body. “Harvey probably campaigns in his sleep.”
“How do you explain the rash of murders in your town, Mayor?” an attractive brunette in slacks and a blazer wanted to know. She bore a striking resemblance to a new hire on another of the Augusta affiliates, but I couldn’t be sure which one.
“Why, ah, I’d hardly describe what happened in those terms, young lady.”
From the way her expression turned rigid, she didn’t appear happy at being called a young lady. “Mayor, you can’t deny Ms. Granger’s murder isn’t the only violent death to occur in Brandywine Creek’s recent history.”
“I’m not tryin’ to deny any such thing…,” Hemmings sputtered.
“Mayor”—the blonde from Channel 26 consulted her notes—“according to the station’s files, a local chef was found stabbed to death in his restaurant, Trattoria Milano, last spring. Is that true?”
“Yes, yes, but that case was closed, and the alleged murderer is awaiting trial.” The mayor’s round-as-a-dinner-plate face flushed pink as a newborn’s. “The restaurant’s under new ownership. Even has a new name—Antonio’s. Y’all should drop by for lunch. Be sure to order cannolis for dessert. They’re homemade.”
“Mayor…?” This interruption came from the reporter from CNN, a handsome young dark-skinned male I’d seen on television a time or two. “Isn’t it also true that in July a woman was bludgeoned by a brisket during your annual barbecue festival?”
“True.” Harvey Hemmings took a snowy linen handkerchief from his pocket and blotted sweat from his brow. “I’ll have you know that the case was solved by the time the last pitmaster pulled up stakes and hightailed it to the next town on the barbecue circuit.”
“What can you tell us about the latest murder?” called the intrepid Bob Sawyer.
Before the mayor had time to respond, the CNN guy intervened, “One of my coworkers informed me Brandywine Creek is getting quite a reputation. He described it as the Cabot Cove Syndrome.”
“Uh-oh,” I murmured. Reba Mae and I exchanged glances. Once upon a time, we were huge fans of the Murder, She Wrote series. Cabot Cove, as aficionados are aware, was the fictional home of Jessica Fletcher. Each week, regular as clockwork, a citizen was murdered. And each week, the ever so clever Mrs. Fletcher would solve the crime.
“Sorry, y’all,” the mayor apologized. “’Fraid I don’t know what that means.”
“Idiot!” Reba Mae scoffed. “That means he doesn’t want to comment.”
“Time’s come to turn your questions over to Brandywine Creek’s chief of police, Wyatt McBride.” The mayor in his eagerness to escape further questioning bumped the mic, causing it to screech so shrilly that it set everyone’s teeth on edge.
McBride, his expression hard as stone, stepped forward. His icy gaze swept over the onlookers and gawkers, calm, cool, and collected as you pleased. I had to hand it to the man. He wasn’t easily rattled by microphones, cameras, or a pack of fervid reporters.
“Good afternoon,” he said, his voice a pleasant baritone. “My statement will be brief. The body of Ms. Sandy Granger, a resident of Brandywine Creek, was found yesterday morning at approximately ten fifteen A.M. by Mr. Ned Feeney, custodian of the Brandywine Creek Opera House. The cause of death appears to be strangulation. The coroner places the time of death between the hours of ten o’clock and midnight the previous night, which has been confirmed by the medical examiner in Atlanta. Her husband has been notified and is returning from a business trip in London, England. My department requests that anyone who might have seen anyone or anything suspicious come forward.”
Questions flew through the air like projectiles.
“Can you describe the murder weapon?”
“Do you have any suspects?”
“Did Ms. Granger have any enemies?”
“No comment. This is an active investigation.” McBride stepped away from the mic. His tone left no room for argument. The CNN guy seemed chagrined but reluctant to pursue the issue. The girl reporter from Augusta followed his example and also remained silent.
“Dang!” Reba Mae cried. “Just my luck! There goes my theory about the husband bein’ the killer. Craig wasn’t only out of town, but out of the country. That’s sure not how it works on TV.”
“Cheer up, Reba Mae,” I said. “Try to think of it as one suspect eliminated.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she grumbled.
“Don’t sound so glum.” I gave her a friendly jab with my elbow. “We still have plenty of names on our persons of interest list.”
“Folks, don’t rush off. I have an important announcement to make.” Mayor Hemmings wasn’t quite as eager as McBride to back away from the spotlight. Rubbing his pudgy hands together, he quickly moved forward before the crowd could disperse. “Mr. Granger wanted y’all to know he’s offerin’ a ten-thousand-dollar reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of his wife’s killer. A hotline’s bein’ established right this very minute.”
I saw McBride’s eyes widen a fraction before his cop mask slipped firmly into place. I’d bet my last jar of saffron this was the first he’d heard of any reward—or any hotline. He d
idn’t look pleased at the prospect.
Heads bobbed as people raided their memory banks for stray details that might lead to a hefty addition to their checking accounts. I had no doubt the line wouldn’t be merely hot, it would be steaming. I sent up a prayer that one or two “tips” would lead suspicion away from Reba Mae and down a different path.
“One last item, folks,” the mayor was saying. “The opera house is considered a crime scene and is off-limits. Production of the play Steel Magnolias has been suspended indefinitely.”
“I’ve heard enough,” I said, turning away.
“Me, too,” Reba Mae echoed. “I’ve got a cut and color due in five minutes.”
Reba Mae headed toward the Klassy Kut while I started to return to Spice It Up! Vicki Lamont fell into step next to me. “Poor Craig,” she crooned. “He must be devastated. I think I’ll bring him a casserole.”
I mustered a thin smile. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate your thoughtfulness.” And the thoughtfulness of a dozen other women, I said to myself. The casserole-to-the-grieving-widower brigade had commenced. I wondered if I should ask Vicki to suggest that Craig clear out his freezer for the onslaught of home-cooked dishes.
“Do you suppose anyone will come forward to claim the reward?” Vicki asked. “Ten thousand dollars is a lot of money.”
“Hmm,” I murmured, only half listening to Vicki’s ramble. I was too worried about Reba Mae to think about the reward money. Pressure was on to find a killer.
Craig might have had a solid alibi, but did everyone else on our list? No time like the present to do a little sleuthing. “See you later,” I said, veering in the opposite direction and leaving Vicki staring after me with a puzzled expression.
CHAPTER 10
I TOOK A shortcut and ducked through the narrow passage that separated Yesteryear Antiques from Second Hand Prose. The space was barely wide enough to accommodate one not very large person. I certainly wouldn’t recommend the route to anyone subject to claustrophobia. I wasn’t claustrophobic, but, even so, I was happy to emerge from the tight confines into the open expanse of the vacant lot behind Spice It Up!
I jogged across the lot to my VW Bug parked at the curb, climbed inside, and drove off. I could just as easily have walked to my destination, but driving was faster and gave me less time to reconsider my plan. I shuddered to think of the lecture McBride would give me if he suspected what I was up to. Doug would sing the same tune if he got wind of it. But Reba Mae was in the top slot on McBride’s list of suspects. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t help a friend in need? I wouldn’t be able to sleep nights. I wouldn’t be able to look at myself in a mirror. That wasn’t how I rolled.
If I had to start scratching names off the list, someone had to be first, so I selected Wanda Needmore, CJ’s paralegal, for no special reason except that she was CJ’s paralegal and the person on the list I liked least. Wanda had been cast in the role of Clairee Belcher, a widow and grande dame, in Steel Magnolias, yet another brilliant example of typecasting. Madison had let it drop to her father that Wanda and Sandy argued at rehearsal. And furthermore, Reba Mae had said Wanda and Dorinda had been so disgruntled that they’d been on the verge of staging a mutiny. Yes, Wanda bore further scrutiny and now was as good a time as any.
The law office belonging to CJ and his partner, Matt Wainwright, was located in a handsome Victorian-style home near the historic section. The elaborate gingerbread trim and wood siding had been painted various shades of sage, sand, and cranberry. In warmer weather, wicker rockers and trailing Boston ferns welcomed clients as they mounted the steps of the wraparound porch. Knowing CJ’s taste, I was certain he’d have preferred a more contemporary setting for his practice, one more in keeping with his newer, “hipper” image. His business partner, however, had persuaded him that the current location was ideal to attract the sort of clientele they wanted. There was no sign of CJ’s Lexus or his partner’s Bimmer in the drive, which had been widened to accommodate clients and personnel. I assumed the Honda Accord belonged to Wanda. Parking my Beetle behind her car, I hurried inside. In less than a half hour I was due to reopen my shop. My mission here shouldn’t take long.
The reception area was deserted. I assumed the young woman—I couldn’t recall her name—who currently served as receptionist/secretary was at lunch. I remembered from my tenure as the “boss’s wife” that Wanda’s office was down a short hallway and on the left. Farther down were a small conference room, an even smaller break room, and a restroom. CJ and Matt occupied two spacious offices at the rear of the building that overlooked a flagstone terrace and sloping lawn. In the spring and summer, the firm often utilized this area for hosting cocktail parties—none to which I’m invited. CJ’s soul mate, Amber Leigh Ames, now has the title of hostess with the mostess. During my reign as CJ’s wife, the hors d’oeuvres were homemade. Amber keeps the caterer’s number on speed dial.
Through the partially open door of Wanda’s office, I could see her on the phone. At my knock, she looked up and then signaled me to enter. “I’ll need a copy of the deposition,” she continued her conversation with the party on the other end. “Fax it first thing tomorrow morning if you want Mr. Prescott to file a motion on your behalf.”
I sank down in the cushy upholstered chair opposite her desk and waited for her to complete the call. Not much had changed in her office since my last visit. Same pale blue walls, same white wainscoting. Same family photos. Wanda hadn’t changed much either. She wore her steel gray hair in a flattering bob, kept her makeup to a minimum, and preferred skirts to pants. My guesstimate put her in her early sixties. She had been CJ’s paralegal ever since he started his practice. Three years ago, Wanda had lost her husband, Yancy. He’d retired early to enjoy life only to suffer a massive heart attack while playing golf. Who said life was fair?
Her conversation completed, Wanda gave me a smile that waffled between polite and not quite friendly. “Piper, I’m surprised to see you here. CJ didn’t mention you stopping by. What can I do for you?”
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything important,” I said, returning the smile. “I realized we hadn’t seen each other in some time so decided on a spur-of-the-moment visit.”
Wanda raised a perfectly arched brow, one, not both, in a gesture I’d like to emulate. “I like to use this time when everyone is at lunch, and the office quiet, to get caught up on things.”
I shifted my weight. Suddenly the comfy chair wasn’t as comfy as it had been minutes earlier. I’d have to be thick as a brick not to get the message. She was clearly letting me know she valued her peace and quiet and didn’t care to squander it in idle chatter with the boss’s ex. “Actually,” I said, trying a different tactic, “I hoped to find CJ. I don’t suppose you’d know if he’s heard from our son recently? I’d like to know what Chad’s plans are for Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll have CJ call you when he returns from lunch.” Wanda scribbled a note on a memo pad. “Is that all?”
I refused to take the hint and slink away quietly. “Were you aware that the mayor called a press conference for noon today? I’m surprised I didn’t see you there.”
“Why would I be?”
I shrugged. “Since you were part of the cast of Steel Magnolias, I assumed you’d be interested in finding out the details surrounding Sandy’s death.”
“Naturally I’m interested, but some of us have work to do. I’m sure I’ll hear the details sooner or later.”
Was she insinuating I had nothing better to do than satisfy my curiosity? I decided to overlook the sly insult. “I understand Mayor Hemmings and the town council issued Chief McBride an ultimatum: Put an end to the rumors regarding Sandy’s death and find her killer—or else.”
Wanda stared at the phone as though willing it to ring and end my visit. “Or else what?” she inquired politely.
“I’m assuming McBride’s job is on the line unless he makes an arrest quickly.” I drummed my fingertips on the chair’s armrest. I didn�
��t like to dwell on that possibility. McBride often irritated, provoked, or challenged me, but for some reason I liked knowing the man was around. “It’s almost as if the mayor holds him personally responsible for the town’s recent … misfortunes.”
“Hmm.” Wanda cast a surreptitious glance at her wristwatch.
“McBride asked the public’s help finding the killer.”
“What else did the chief have to say?”
“He kept his comments brief but said the coroner was able to estimate the time of death, which was confirmed later by the medical examiner in Atlanta.” I watched Wanda carefully for a reaction but didn’t see one. Was she really as indifferent to a woman’s death as she appeared?
“And what time did the murder take place?” Wanda might as well have been asking if I preferred my coffee with cream and sugar.
“Most likely occurred between ten o’clock and midnight.”
“I see,” Wanda said. “That means Sandy must’ve been killed shortly after rehearsal ended.”
“That’s the present theory,” I agreed pleasantly. “Did you go straight home after rehearsal?”
She gave me a tight-lipped smile. “I hardly think that’s any of your business.”
“You’re right, of course, it isn’t my business, but it will be McBride’s. I assume he’ll question everyone connected with the play.” I could tell from the surprise that flickered across her face that I’d finally succeeded in capturing her interest. “McBride also mentioned the cause of death.”
Wanda fiddled with the long gold chain around her neck. “Let me guess,” she said. “Did one of the cast members lace her latte with cyanide?”
“No,” I said when I recovered my voice. Her total lack of empathy had caught me by surprise. “Sandy was strangled. I take it you didn’t care for her.”
Wanda leaned back in her executive chair, the picture of composure. “I had no idea when I auditioned for the part of Clairee that Sandy would turn out to be such a bitch. Dorinda Kunkel and I both considered quitting and leaving her scrambling to replace us this late in the game. It would’ve served the woman right. Other than Madison Winters, Dorinda and I were the only ones in the entire cast who had our lines down cold.”
