by Gail Oust
SHORTLY BEFORE NOON the next day, Vicki waltzed into Spice It Up! “What’s the occasion?” I asked, eyeing the fashionable cherry red boiled-wool jacket and dark-washed jeans that clung to her long, shapely legs.
“I’m out of that fancy cinnamon you sell.” Vicki flipped her low ponytail over her shoulder. “I’ve been slaving over a hot oven all week.”
“You … baking?” I came out from around the counter and plucked a small jar of cinnamon from the Hoosier cabinet, then, on second thought, replaced the smaller jar with a larger one. “Are you having a party?”
“Parties—at least the type I’m accustomed to throwing—are expensive. Kenny is being a regular Scrooge in our divorce negotiations. If I don’t watch my budget, heaven forbid, I’ll have to find a job.” She shuddered at the prospect.
“That’s terrible,” I said with mock sincerity. I doubted the woman had ever worked a day in her life. “I’ve been told that the chamber of commerce has a position open.”
Vicki arched a brow. “Maybelle Humphries’ old job?”
“Maybelle Mahoney now,” I said, returning to the counter. “She and Tex were married recently in Las Vegas.”
“Ah, yes. Tex Mahoney, champion pitmaster. Who knew despite the plain-Jane exterior our Maybelle would snag her Prince Charming—and a wealthy one at that.” Settling her large handbag on the counter, Vicki riffled through the contents.
I waited patiently for her to produce a credit card. “So, if you’re not having a party, why all the baking?”
“I’ve been bringing goodies over to Craig. Poor man. Even a grieving widower has to eat. I keep reminding him of the importance of keeping up his strength during trying times. I’m certain Sandy, bless her heart, will rest easier knowing her man is well fed. After all, what are friends for?” She finally located and surrendered her Visa.
Yes, what are friends for, I wondered silently, if not to ply bereaved spouses with baked goods—especially if that spouse happens to be attractive and wealthy?
“I made Craig bread pudding yesterday,” Vicki said. “I remembered Sandy saying that was his favorite dessert. Today I’m bringing him an apple pie and blueberry-nut bread.”
“I’m sure he appreciates your efforts.” I ran her credit card through my machine and returned it to her.
“Craig has a lot of friends—important, influential people—who stop by with condolences. I even met a state senator, but”—she giggled—“I neglected to tell him I voted for his opponent.”
For someone who had just suffered the loss of a close friend, Vicki seemed unusually cheerful and upbeat. Strange, she appeared more focused on the widower’s well-being than Sandy’s demise. Was it possible Vicki had her sights set on becoming the next Mrs. Craig Granger? And what lengths would she go to in order to make that a reality?
“Is there going to be a funeral?” I asked while waiting for the receipt to print.
“I haven’t asked.” She put on a sad face. “No sense bringing up painful subjects. Craig needs to get on with his life. I suggested a round of golf might be good therapy. Tennis was another option. I even offered to be his partner in mixed doubles. Exercise is a form of grief therapy, you know.”
“Really?” I said, hoping my skepticism didn’t show.
“I might’ve heard that on Dr. Phil. I watch his show faithfully every day.”
I bagged the cinnamon and handed it to her. “If exercise is grief therapy, maybe Craig should sign up for a half marathon.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that.” She turned to leave, then hesitated. “Oh, I almost forgot, Bunny said to sign your petition.”
I slid the clipboard with the petition across the counter. “Here you go.”
“Monday!” she exclaimed at seeing the notation I’d penned across the top of the clipboard with the date, time, and place of the self-defense class. “Why do you suppose McBride scheduled it so close to Thanksgiving? Women will be trying to get a head start on preparations—things like cooking, cleaning, and manicures.”
“Manicures?” My gaze flew to my short, unadorned nails. Call me crazy, but having my nails freshly manicured was never top priority when it came to executing a holiday meal. “It’s a wild guess on my part, but I think McBride planned it that way on purpose, hoping for a small turn-out. He can tell the mayor he responded to our request in a timely manner, but the women really weren’t interested after all.”
Vicki signed her name with a flourish. “Well, Thanksgiving week or not, I plan to attend. It might be the only chance I’ll ever have to be up close and personal with Wyatt McBride. Lord knows, I’ve sent out enough signals, stopping short of being a hussy, to telegraph my interest, but the man ignored all my hints. You don’t suppose…?”
“Don’t suppose what?” Her insinuation struck me as so ludicrous that I burst out laughing. “Vicki, just because a man doesn’t flirt with you doesn’t mean you should question his sexuality. In all likelihood, it’s simply a lack of chemistry. Or he’s busy tending to law and order.”
“I suppose,” she said, “but I’ve been flirting since middle school and have perfected it into an art form. If there’s any blood flowing in a man’s veins, I usually get a response.”
“Well, in McBride’s case I think you need to find a different target.”
“Perhaps.” She lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug. “Shirley Randolph mentioned McBride’s been coming into Creekside Realty to visit. I may be a master flirt, but Shirley’s a close second. Who knows, maybe she and McBride will become an item—provided the mayor and council don’t release him from his contract. See you Monday.”
After Vicki left, I replayed our conversation. I’m not sure which tidbit I found more upsetting—Shirley and McBride becoming a twosome or the thought of McBride losing his job. I mentally put the brakes on thoughts racing through my brain like a runaway freight train. McBride was a free agent. Who he saw—and what happened with his job—was absolutely no concern of mine. I’d reacted because Shirley and Wyatt seemed totally unsuited for each other. McBride struck me as a chips, dip, and a beer sort of guy, while Shirley favored caviar and champagne. It was hard to overcome such vast differences. One or the other would realize this eventually and was bound to get hurt. As for McBride’s position as chief of police, Brandywine Creek benefited from his experience as a Miami-Dade detective. He’d be hard to replace.
“Hello, dear,” Melly sang out as she entered. She was accompanied by Cottrell “Cot” Herman. By no means handsome, with craggy, irregular features, the retired judge exuded an air of authority. Dark, deep-set eyes peered out from beneath shaggy brows.
I smoothed my curls into submission as I went to greet them. “Hello, Melly. Judge.”
Melly glanced around the shop and frowned. “No customers? Shouldn’t that worry you?”
“Of course it worries me, Melly,” I replied. “Especially since I ordered extra stock in anticipation of Steel Magnolias bringing in busloads of tourists. When it came to marketing and promotion, Sandy is … was … gifted.”
“That she was,” Cot agreed, his voice sonorous, his tone solemn. “Only the other night over cocktails, the mayor described Sandy as Brandywine Creek’s ambassador at large.”
Melly nodded. “Harvey praised Sandy for her ‘off the beaten path’ strategy. She even garnered the play a blurb in Southern Living.”
“The mayor is determined to bring whoever’s responsible for this heinous crime to justice.” Cot brushed a shock of iron gray hair off his forehead only to have it fall back seconds later.
“I only hope an innocent party isn’t caught up in the rush to justice,” I said.
“Reba Mae, bless her heart, is right in the middle of all the controversy.” Melly fingered the strand of pearls around her neck. “Harvey mentioned that Chief McBride brought her in for questioning.”
“Melly, you know Reba Mae nearly as well as I do. Surely you don’t think she had anything to do with Sandy’s death.”
Melly
didn’t meet my eyes. “Of course not, dear, but you have to admit it doesn’t look good.”
“Melly’s right, you know; it doesn’t look good for your friend.” Cot rubbed his chin. “Rest assured, Chief McBride will conduct a thorough investigation. He’ll want an airtight case before making an arrest.”
Arrest? I felt my heart drop to my knees. I drew in a shaky breath to steady myself. Once my heart was lodged in my chest where the good Lord intended, my resolve to help prove Reba Mae’s innocence hardened even more. Most of the cast of Steel Magnolias had an issue of one sort or another with Sandy. All I had to do was discover which one had reached their boiling point. Easy, right?
Melly twisted her strand of pearls around her index finger. I studied her quizzically. “Melly,” I ventured at last, “is anything wrong?”
“No, no, I’m fine. Absolutely fine,” she replied, perhaps a shade too quickly. “Why do you ask?”
“Because whenever you’re nervous or upset you have a habit of playing with your pearls. Over the years, I’ve come to regard them as worry beads.”
Cot gave Melly an affectionate smile. “I’ve noticed the same telltale trait, my dear.”
I folded my arms across my chest and looked Melly in the eye. “All right,” I said, assuming my best no-nonsense tone. “No more beating about the bush. Tell me what’s bothering you.” Melly cast an uncertain glance at Cot, who, in exchange, nodded his head in encouragement. “I’ve been tempted to call the hotline myself,” she confided.
I blinked in surprise. “Whatever for? Did you see or hear anything suspicious?”
“No, a little odd is all.” Melly ceased torturing her pearls and patted them into place. “On the night of the murder, bridge at Mavis Gray’s ended late. As Cot drove me home, we noticed Wanda Needmore turning down Main Street. I thought it strange for her to be out and about at that hour when she had to be at work bright and early the next day. Wanda always opens CJ’s law office. And one other thing struck me as unusual.”
“Melly!” I snapped. My lack of patience earned me a disapproving scowl from Cot. With an effort, I tempered my tone. “Other than the late hour, what else did you think out of the ordinary?”
Melly’s brows drew together in concentration. “Wanda, as you know, is always neat as a pin, every hair in place. Well, she looked … disheveled.”
“Hmm, interesting.” That was unusual and not like the prim and proper Wanda Needmore I’d known for years.
“There’s something else you might not be aware of,” Cot interjected. “Wanda filed a complaint against Sandy on the day of the murder alleging breach of contract. Only reason I’m telling you this is because it’s a matter of public record.”
“Sandy, I’ve been told, threatened a countersuit,” Melly said. “Wanda prided herself on never being a defendant in a lawsuit. She must have been livid.”
“Do you know what the breach of contract stemmed from?”
“Not all the details, but it had something to do with a property dispute,” Cot explained. “Wanda wanted to purchase a tract of land that Sandy owned on which to build a retirement home. She thought it was a done deal, but Sandy apparently reneged when she got a more lucrative offer.”
Melly placed her hand in the crook of Cot’s arm. “Anyway, dear, that’s not what brought Cot and me here this afternoon.”
Cot placed his larger hand over Melly’s. “I’ve asked Melly to accompany me on a European river cruise—and she accepted.”
My jaw dropped—literally dropped—at hearing this. “B-but what will people think?” I stammered.
“Don’t get any fool notions in your head, young lady,” Cot warned. “We’ll have separate staterooms.”
My eyes darted from one face to the other and found them smiling and happy. Did people their age still have sex? Of course they do, I answered my own question. They’re not dead. “That’s wonderful,” I managed.
“It’s called a Christmas Market Cruise.” Melly beamed. “Twelve days on the Danube from Budapest to Prague. It’s something I’ve always wanted to do, and when Cot broached the subject I couldn’t agree quickly enough.”
“Have you told CJ?”
Melly’s smile dimmed. “That’s our next stop. We wanted to use you as our sounding board, see how the idea went over.”
“Sort of take it on the road before opening on Broadway,” Cot said, patting Melly’s hand.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Melly asked, her cheeks flushed with pleasure. Not waiting for an answer she continued, “Cot and I are spending Thanksgiving at his daughter’s home in Buckhead. He wants me to meet his family.”
I smiled as I gave her a hug. “I’m sure they’ll approve of their father’s … friend.”
Minutes later, I watched the couple leave, arm in arm. I didn’t remember ever seeing Melly so happy she was almost giddy.
The two lovebirds, however, had given me more to think about than romance in the golden years. The information about a lawsuit involving Wanda and Sandy had been a revelation. That would explain the argument Madison mentioned. Furthermore, Wanda had refused to tell me if she’d gone directly home after rehearsal the night of the murder. Instead, she’d told me to mind my own business. What was the paralegal trying to hide?
CHAPTER 20
NOT LONG AFTER Melly and Cot left to break the news of their impending river cruise to CJ, business turned brisk. Melly would have been pleased at the rate merchandise disappeared from the shelves. With Thanksgiving right around the corner, spices, not gift items, were by far the most popular items. Some of my customers preferred sage for their stuffing recipes; others insisted poultry seasoning, a blend of many spices including allspice, marjoram, and thyme, resulted in the most flavorful dressings. Two women waged a lively debate over which spices worked best in sweet potato pie. Both agreed cinnamon and vanilla were must-adds but differed on whether to use ginger or nutmeg.
While ringing up orders, I asked customers who hadn’t done so already to sign my petition. Even though McBride had consented—albeit grudgingly—to holding a self-defense class, I wanted to impress upon him the number of women who believed in its importance. I reminded everyone to spread the word. Seven o’clock sharp in the high school gym.
The two sweet potato pie aficionados had no sooner departed, each convinced her recipe was by far superior, when Gerilee approached the register looking uncharacteristically uncertain. “What’s wrong, Gerilee? Anything I can help you with?”
She took a small jar from her basket and glared at the price sticker. “What you’re asking for one half gram of saffron is highway robbery. I’ve half a mind to report you to the Better Business Bureau.”
I handed her my cell phone. “Report away.”
Ignoring my offer, Gerilee transferred her glare from the price tag to me. “I’ve been trying to convince myself for the last five minutes that ordinary white rice will taste perfectly fine with the curried chicken I’m fixing for company, but…”
“But saffron rice will taste even better,” I said with a knowing smile.
“Let’s just say Christmas came early.” Gerilee plunked the saffron on the counter with finality. “For the life of me, I can’t understand why this stuff is so dang expensive.”
“Harvesting is labor-intensive,” I explained as Gerilee placed jars of both hot and sweet curry powders next to the saffron. “The violet saffron crocus or roses, as they’re called, are picked at dawn. Workers remove three red stigmas from each one, where they’re toasted over a low fire. An acre of land yields only five to seven pounds of the finished product. Therefore, the expense.”
Nodding, Gerilee grumpily accepted my explanation. “I thought I’d experiment and fix Doug’s chicken curry recipe for Pete’s dinner tonight.”
“You’ll have to let me know how it turns out,” I said as I made change from the cash she handed me. “Saffron is also great in paella and risotto. By the way, do you plan on coming to McBride’s class on Monday?” I asked as she turned
to leave.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Be sure to wear comfortable clothes,” I called after her.
Mary Lou Lambert passed Gerilee on her way in. “Comfortable clothes for what?”
The woman didn’t frequent Spice It Up!, so I was surprised at seeing her. Mary Lou possessed a pretty face, a plump figure, and brassy yellow hair. Her pale blue eyes blinked open and shut like a china doll I’d once found under the Christmas tree. “Hey, Mary Lou,” I said. “How can I help you?”
“Someone, I forget who, told me I should stop in and sign your petition.”
“It’s right here.” I slid the clipboard toward her. “Even though Chief McBride has already agreed to hold the class, I’m still collecting names.”
She picked up a pen and hastily added her signature. “The same person who told me about the petition also told me where and when, but I’ve been so discombobulated lately I can’t remember which end is up.”
“Monday at seven. The high-school gym.”
“This Monday?” Her eyes opened and closed as she processed the information. “That close to Thanksgiving? What if no one comes?”
“I’m optimistic we’ll have a good turnout.” But I’d heard this question voiced so often that I was beginning to have doubts. What if I was wrong? What if no one came? I’d not only look foolish; I’d feel foolish. And McBride would have the last laugh. I could almost hear his I-told-you-so ringing in my ears.
“What kind of comfortable clothing?” Mary Lou wanted to know. “Will sweatpants work? My jeans are getting a little tight. I think I accidentally washed them in hot water.”
“Sweatpants will be fine.”
Reaching inside a squishy leather bag, she produced a shiny pink gizmo. “Look what Bunny bought me. It also came in green and purple, but pink’s my favorite color.”
I leaned forward for a closer look. “What is it?”
“Pepper spray,” she said, dropping it back into her purse. “And it works really well, too.”
I studied her quizzically. “How do you know? Have you tried it?”
“Well.” She giggled. “Not on purpose. I accidentally pushed a little doohickey by mistake and some squirted out. Good thing my poodle wasn’t any nearer. As it was, Fifi’s poor little eyes watered all day.”
