by Gail Oust
I was pleased to see the petition filling up. I’d no sooner finished slipping another sheet on the clipboard for additional signatures when Doug strolled into Spice It Up! Seeing him never failed to bring an automatic smile to my face. But my smile quickly faded, pushed aside by the memory of our last encounter. “Hey there,” I said as I came out from behind the counter to greet him. He looked very put-together in a casual sort of way in a heather green half-zip sweater and plaid shirt. “You’re looking very GQ this morning.”
“Hey yourself,” he said.
“What brings you into town in the middle of the day?”
“I thought this was where the bake sale was being held.” He scratched his head, pretending to look perplexed. “I could’ve sworn I smelled gingersnaps all the way from the clinic.”
“Guilty as charged. I’ve resorted to using baked goods as bribery to lure people into the shop.” I indicated the clipboard next to the cash register. “Care to add your name?”
“So this is the petition everyone’s talking about?” He quickly scanned the text, then signed.
“I’m keeping my fingers crossed it will have the desired effective on McBride,” I said. “When he put the idea for a women’s self-defense course on the back burner, I decided to take matters into my own hands. The women are scared. They don’t want to wait to get the ball rolling.”
Doug raised a brow. “Does McBride know about your petition?”
I avoided his question by rearranging spices on a nearby shelf. “Most of my customers aren’t familiar with mace or mahlab, but I’m encouraging a few of the more adventurous cooks to give them a try. How about taking a jar home with you?”
“I’m wise to your change-the-subject tactic whenever you want to avoid a particular topic—and no, I’ve never heard of mahlab,” he confessed. “What is it?”
I showed him the label. “It’s made from the pits of tart black cherries that are ground into flour. The flavor has a hint of almond, which makes sense since cherries and almonds are kissin’ kin, as they say here in the South.”
“Sold,” he said. “You know me; I’m fearless in the kitchen.”
“I wish all my sales were that easy.” I took the mahlab to the register. “You still haven’t told me why you’re in town.”
He handed me his credit card and waited patiently for me to run it though the machine. “I needed a couple items from Gray’s Hardware. While I was there, Mavis mentioned she has a potential buyer for the store.”
“Mavis must be overjoyed at the prospect. Rumor has it she wants to move to Florida to be closer to her sister.” I returned Doug’s Visa.
Doug took off his eyeglasses and polished the lenses on the sleeve of his sweater. “I’m taking Madison away for the weekend. I think a change of scenery might be just what the doctor ordered.”
“Sounds nice.” I carefully placed the jar of mahlab into a bag. “Where are you thinking of taking her?”
“Atlanta. I’ll close up the clinic at noon tomorrow; then we’ll drive over. Jersey Boys is playing at the Fox. I managed to locate tickets.”
I cringed to think what Doug must have paid a scalper for tickets. He’d talked once about taking me to see Jersey Boys when it returned for a limited engagement. Guess my turn would have to wait. Don’t even go there, Piper, I warned. This is no time for a pity party with you as guest of honor. The play probably wasn’t as good as everyone claimed anyway, I rationalized. What was so great about a show featuring a rock band popular in the sixties and seventies? As a last resort, I could always rent the movie version from Netflix. I forced a smile and said, “I’m sure Madison will love it.”
He inspected his eyeglasses for any stray smudges. “I thought we’d spend the night, next day do some retail therapy at Lenox Square, then have dinner in Buckhead before heading back.”
“Sounds like a perfect weekend getaway. You might even be able to get an early start on your Christmas shopping.”
He slid his glasses back on. “While at the mall, I’d like to visit one of those jewelry stores that sell those charms all you women are so crazy about.”
“Pandora?”
“Yes, I think that’s the name of the place. Madison lost one of those dangly things from a charm her grandmother had given her. A little gold key attached to a silver heart. She thinks she might’ve snagged it on a set at the opera house during the last rehearsal.”
“If so, maybe Ned Feeney found it while cleaning his first day as custodian. I’ll ask the next time I run into him.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
A wave, a smile, and he was gone, leaving me feeling out of sorts. A friendship that had once seemed so effortless now felt strained and awkward. Maybe when Sandy’s killer was found things would revert to the way they were. Maybe …
Since I was experiencing a temporary lull in business, I decided to phone Reba Mae. She never needed much persuasion to meet after work for dinner and margaritas. This time was no exception. We agreed to meet later at North of the Border. I’d no sooner disconnected when Ned ambled in.
“Hiya, Miz Piper.” He thumbed up the bill of his ball cap. “Mr. Strickland over at the Eternal Rest is missin’ some of his foldin’ chairs. I was in a dither after findin’ poor Miz Granger that day. Wondered if I might’ve left a couple here by mistake?”
“No, I would’ve seen them.” I held out the plate of cookies, and he took two. “Did you check at the police department? They borrowed chairs when they set up a command center.”
“Thought I’d check with you first.” He bit into a cookie. “Don’t tell no one, but Miz Kunkel scares me. Always looks like she’s about to bite my head off.”
“Ned, when you cleaned at the opera house did you happen to find a tiny gold key that might have come off a charm bracelet?”
“Well, let me think,” he said, tugging an earlobe. “Matter of fact, I did find an itty-bitty key. Nearly forgot about it. Picked it off the floor backstage near some plywood.”
“It sounds as though it might be the one Madison Winters lost.” I offered him another cookie to help jog his memory. “Remember what you did with it?”
“Put it in the lost and found box in the front office. That’s what Miz Granger told me to do when she hired me.”
“Good thinking, Ned. Madison will rest easier knowing it’s in a safe place.”
“Can’t be no safer place than the opera house what with yellow crime-scene tape strung around it like lights on a Christmas tree. Wonder if Chief ever replaced the lock on the back door. It’s older’n Methuselah. Jiggle it just right, the door pops open. See ya,” he said, snatching the lone cookie on his way out.
“See ya,” I echoed. I wondered how long McBride planned to keep the opera house off-limits. The crime-scene techs from the Georgia Bureau of Investigation had long since come and gone. The building ought to be released soon. Pity Mayor Hemmings had suspended theatrical productions until further notice.
I dialed Pets ’R People to tell Madison her charm was safe, but the call went to voice mail. Rather than leave a message, I’d try to reach her later with the news. Next I refilled the plate with cookies and brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Throughout the remainder of the afternoon, women streamed in and out. I was quite pleased at the dozens of names I’d accumulated thus far. Tomorrow, being Saturday, would probably be the busiest day of the week. By day’s end, I should have enough signatures to impress a reluctant McBride. Should he prove obstinate, I was prepared to present copies of the petition to Mayor Hemmings and the town council.
It was close to closing time and the shop empty of customers when I belatedly remembered a purchase I’d made last weekend. I’d driven out into the country and stopped at a farm stand where I bought an assortment of gourds and small pumpkins along with some homemade jams and jellies. With everything that had happened since, I’d completely forgotten about them. But it still wasn’t too late to set them out and lend Spice It Up! a more Thanksgiving atmosphere.
“Care to tell me about this petition of yours?” he growled.
“If you’ll kindly set my gourds on the counter”—I summoned calm and casual in the face of fuming and furious—“you’ll find the petition there, too. Feel free to read and sign.”
Stalking to the counter, McBride dropped the box of gourds on it with a resounding thud. “I had to hear about the petition from the mayor’s wife, Dottie. The woman went on and on about the number of signatures you’ve managed to collect. I thought she’d never leave my office.”
I removed an odd-shaped green and yellow gourd from the box. “Last I checked, taking up a petition didn’t require a permit.”
McBride’s frown darkened into a scowl. “Ms. Hemmings said you were bribing folks with coffee and cake. This some kind of marketing ploy?”
“You’re starting to irritate me, McBride.” I set a round, whiteand-green gourd next to its sibling. “Don’t come to me with your high-handed, Mr. Hotshot Chief of Police attitude, and try to bully me.”
That seemed to take him aback, but he quickly regained lost ground. “I thought I made myself clear. I’m not opposed to organizing a course, but I’ve got my hands full right now.”
I blew out a breath. “Look, McBride, I’m not asking for a liver transplant. All we need is an hour or two of your time.”
“My day doesn’t come with extra hours.”
“It can’t wait. The time is now—the need is now.” I gathered the remaining gourds in my arms to distribute among the shelves of spices. “Should another woman get attacked or assaulted in the meantime, it’ll take far more of your precious time. And could even cost you your job.”
One of the gourds dropped from my arms and, before I could catch it, rolled across the floor. I started after it, but McBride was quicker. He snatched it up, cradling it in one palm as though trying to gauge its weight. I watched his face but was unable to read the thoughts.
“Understand I only agree to this on one condition. To be effective, self-defense can’t be a single class but a series of classes. Do you think you ladies are ready to make the commitment?”
“Ready as we’ll ever be, McBride.” I hoped I wasn’t speaking only for myself.
“All right then, you win,” he said at long last, carefully placing the runaway gourd on a shelf behind him. “Monday night. Seven o’clock. High-school gym. Spread the word.”
He turned and left without another word, leaving me staring after him, surprised and confused by his about-face. As I placed the colorful gourds and small pumpkins in strategic locations around my shop, it occurred to me that Monday was the start of Thanksgiving week. McBride, the wily bastard, had scheduled it that way on purpose to call my bluff. He was counting on the fact that women would be too busy with holiday preparations to attend a self-defense class. He’d then be able to proclaim to the mayor—and anyone else who’d listen—that he’d made an effort to cooperate, but attendance was sparse.
But he was wrong. I’d wager my last jar of pumpkin pie spice against his shiny gold badge that we’d have a full house Monday night. Bring it on, McBride.
CHAPTER 17
BUSINESS AT NORTH of the Border was bustling, but then again, it was a Friday night. If a restaurant doesn’t bustle on the weekend in a small town, it might as well post a GOING OUT OF BUSINESS sign in the window. I arrived late, and Reba Mae waved at me from a back booth. She’d evidently arrived early to get a head start on a frozen margarita. On the way to join my friend, I stopped to exchange a few words with Pete and Gerilee Barker. Not even the incentive of having a butcher for a husband and choice cuts of meat at her disposal could entice Gerilee to cook when she could have a sizzling platter of fajitas appear before her like magic.
I’d no sooner slid into a seat across from Reba Mae when Nacho, owner and our favorite waiter, appeared, menus in hand. “What will it be, senora?”
I pointed at the frosty margarita. “I’m having what she’s having.”
Reba Mae raised her glass in a toast. “I’m drinkin’ a gallon of these things tonight,” she said as Nacho scurried off. “I need a brain freeze.”
The gaily colored sombreros hanging on the walls and peppy mariachi music coming over loudspeakers contrasted sharply with Reba Mae’s glum expression. “Honey, if this is happy hour, you should ask for a refund.”
“Wish I’d had one of these last night. Maybe it would’ve frozen my tongue so I wouldn’t have blabbed to Wyatt. Should’ve listened to CJ and kept my big mouth shut.”
“That’s a little like locking the barn door after the cow ran off.”
We fell into silence as Nacho returned. After delivering my margarita along with the requisite basket of tortilla chips and salsa, he promised to be back shortly and disappeared.
“Thanks, by the way, for givin’ CJ a heads-up. Without him makin’ objections every five seconds, things coulda been worse.”
“CJ has aspirations of broadening his horizons.” I dunked a chip into salsa and savored the taste of cilantro. “I think he envisions himself giving sound bites in front of TV cameras on the courthouse steps.”
Ignoring the chips, Reba Mae took another swallow of margarita. “Think I should hire me one of those Perry Mason type lawyers?”
“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. If and when it does, maybe Melly’s boyfriend, Cot, can make a recommendation. Cot presided from the bench for as long as I can remember. He’d know who’s good—and who isn’t.”
Reba Mae’s mouth tightened. “There goes my life savings. Right down the tubes.”
“Don’t put the cart before the horse.” The instant the words came out I wanted them back. Where did these stupid clichés come from? I wasn’t raised on a farm. I grew up in Detroit. The Motor City. Motown. Yet, I was talking about horses, cows, and barns. Sheesh!
I was grateful for the reprieve from my own idiocy by Nacho reappearing, order pad in hand. I ordered a beef burrito while Reba Mae requested a taco salad. When he left for the kitchen, I directed my attention to Reba Mae. “You drove home with your boys last night, so we didn’t get a chance to talk. Care to tell me about what happened with McBride?”
Reba Mae stirred her slushy margarita with a straw. “Lizzie Borden would’ve gotten a warmer welcome.”
“It couldn’t have been all that bad,” I said but didn’t even convince myself. I’d sat across from him once in an interrogation room and knew he was relentless.
“The whole time we talked, I felt he was takin’ my measure for the latest in prison attire.” Reba Mae sampled a chip and salsa, then shoved the basket of chips aside and slouched in a corner of the booth. “All I wanted was one last chance to convince Sandy to let me play Truvy Jones. Surely she must’ve discovered Mary Lou can’t memorize a dang grocery list. Knowin’ Sandy was always last to leave after a rehearsal, I hung around until everyone left. I thought I could reason with her, coax her into giving me a second chance. Instead, she complained she was fed up with everyone and their brother beggin’ for parts. She said she already had a friend lined up for the role.”
“What did you do then?”
“Did the only thing I could—” She shrugged. “—thanked her for her time and walked home.”
“How did Sandy seem when you left her?”
“Do you mean was she breathing or had she turned blue? Well, the answer is no! She was fine.”
“Reba Mae, shame on you. You know that’s not what I meant,” I scolded. “Was Sandy acting strangely, like she was nervous—or maybe scared?”
“No, none of the above. You’re beginnin’ to sound like McBride. He asked me those same questions.”
“Nice to know he and I have something in common,” I said drily. I traced the condensate on my margarita glass with a fingernail. “Reba Mae, do you realize you were
probably the last person—except for the killer—to see Sandy alive? The killer could easily have been hiding in the shadows, biding their time, waiting for just the right moment to make his, or her, move.”
Reba Mae sat up straighter, hugging her arms around her waist, and shivered. “That gives me the willies.”
I leaned closer. “The killer might very well be the person who called in the anonymous tip. Can’t think of a better way to get away with murder than point the finger in someone else’s direction.”
Our conversation ended when Nacho arrived with our orders. I didn’t waste time digging into my burrito, but Reba Mae toyed with her taco salad, moving lettuce and tomatoes around like checkers on a board. Abruptly she stopped pretending to eat and aimed her fork at a spot over my left shoulder. “Don’t turn around,” she cautioned as my neck started to swivel in that direction.
“How am I supposed to see what you’re pointing at if I don’t look?”
“It’s the devil himself. And he’s not alone.”
“McBride?” I speared another piece of burrito. “So what if he’s not alone? What’s the big deal?”
“He’s with a woman,” Reba Mae whispered. “Looks like he’s on a date.”
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “who’s he with?” It shouldn’t come as a surprise that McBride dated. He had every right to see whomever he wanted, whenever he wanted, and how often he wanted. It was no concern of mine.
“You’ll never guess in a million years,” she smirked.
“Take pity on me. I don’t have a million years.”
“Shirley Randolph.”
“Shirley…?” Now I did turn. Fortunately for me, the couple was studying menus and didn’t notice me gawking. McBride, I noted, had traded his starched navy blues for jeans and a black T-shirt and bomber jacket.
