by Gail Oust
My earlier feeling of dread returned, this time in spades. Uneasy, I tucked a curl behind one ear, stalling for time. “I, um, I’m doing a little investigating. I wondered what you did after rehearsal the night of the murder.”
Marcy’s lips curled but without mirth. “You want to know if I have an alibi.”
Danny stepped nearer to his wife and rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t owe her an explanation. The only one you have to answer to is Chief McBride.”
A smile curved Marcy’s mouth, this one genuine. “Danny, I think we’re looking a gift horse in the mouth. We can go to your cousin’s birthday party after all. Piper has kindly consented to babysit the twins.”
My tongue twisted, fumbling for words, but nothing came out.
When she saw my dismay, her smile broadened into a grin. “Come into the nursery with me while I explain how we do things. Danny and I are into crunchy parenting.”
Crunchy parenting? Why did the sound of that make me skittish? Babies were still babies, weren’t they? The only “crunchy” I was familiar with came in an orange bag labeled CHEETOS.
Five minutes later, after a set of hasty instructions, I waved as Marcy and Danny backed out of the drive. Marcy had been so eager to leave that she hadn’t even taken time to repair her eye makeup. All I needed to do was babysit two infants for a couple hours. Danny assured me they’d sleep the entire time. In exchange, Marcy would supply easily verified alibis not only for herself but also for one other person of interest.
I’d raised two children of my own, and they’d not only survived but thrived. How hard could it be?
CHAPTER 22
HOW HARD COULD IT BE?
No sooner had Marcy and Danny departed when those five little words came back to haunt me. Danny had started to elaborate on crunchy parenting. Before Marcy had shushed him he’d rattled off items such as cloth diapers, breast milk, and baby wearing. Well, the baby wearing certainly explained the cloth sling Marcy wore and the backpack-like contraption Danny had strapped to his chest. Somehow, they’d magically disconnected the sleeping infants from their carriers and placed them in matching cribs.
I’d just lowered myself onto the sofa when I heard a baby cry. I sprang up and raced to the nursery before he—or she—could wake its sibling. The girl baby—Jillian?—her face screwed up and beet red, was obviously unhappy and not shy about letting me know. I scooped her up, held her against my shoulder, and swayed back and forth, hoping she would find the motion soothing. “Shh, shh,” I said, darting an anxious glance at the infant in the adjacent crib.
That’s all it took—one look—for Jillian’s twin to join the chorus. The boy’s cries were even lustier than his sister’s. I feared the neighbors would report the racket as disturbing the peace. How in the world did Marcy manage to comfort not one, but two, unhappy babies? With one crying pitifully and the other howling his lungs out, they nearly drowned out the sound of a knock on the door.
“Be right back,” I told Infant Number Two, who I think Marcy said was named Jackson, as I rushed to answer the door.
After fumbling with the dead bolt, I swung the door open. Looking official in crisp navy blues, Wyatt McBride stood on the stoop, his hand poised to knock again. His eyes widened fractionally when he saw me holding a squalling infant before his bland cop mask slipped into place. “What are you doing here?”
“Who said there’s never a policeman around when you need one? Don’t just stand there, McBride,” I said. “Come in, come in.”
The second he stepped across the threshold I thrust the baby into his arms and wheeled in the direction of the nursery. “Wait!” McBride shouted. “Don’t leave—”
Little Jackson lay in his crib, arms and legs flailing, crying mightily. I picked him up, held him, patted his back, but the volume increased in intensity.
McBride, clutching the baby girl awkwardly, watched from the nursery’s doorway. “What’s wrong with them? Are they sick?” he asked, his expression bordering on panic. “Should we call a baby doctor?”
I wanted to smile at the sight of McBride struggling with little Jillian. No, actually, I wanted to laugh out loud at seeing a man accustomed to confronting dangerous criminals on a regular basis completely out of his element with a twelve-pound bundle of baby girl. I felt a little tug on my heartstrings, too.
“I think the situation calls for less drastic measures,” I said, raising my voice to be heard above the noise. “Let’s try changing them first. They might be wet.”
McBride nodded. “How do you find out if they’re wet or not?”
“You do the diaper test.” I unsnapped several fasteners on Jackson’s sleeper and slid a finger inside the diaper. I repeated the action on his sister with McBride assuming the role of skeptic. “Yep, they both need a diaper change.”
“Oh no,” he protested. “Changing diapers wasn’t part of my job description.”
“Don’t be a wuss, McBride. It’s not rocket science.” I set Jackson down on a changing table. “All you have to do is follow my lead.”
I searched the room, looking for the familiar box of disposable diapers, but when I didn’t see one my self-confidence took a nosedive. Instead of disposables, I discovered baskets stuffed with tiny panties in whimsical prints and bright colors that were lined with absorbent cotton cloths. Cloth diapers? Was this what Marcy meant by “crunchy parenting”? As Bob Dylan sang, the times they are a-changin’. I felt adrift in a world where everything old became new again. What next? I wondered distractedly. Polyester leisure suits?
Gamely I grabbed one of the newfangled diapers and, after a false start, wrangled with the snaps and Velcro fasteners to get it in place on a squirming infant. Mission accomplished, I blew out a breath and picked up Jackson. “See, McBride, nothing to it. Piece of cake.”
McBride placed a whimpering, wriggling Jillian on the changing table and unsnapped her flowered diaper cover. Immediately he wrinkled his nose in disgust and turned his head. “It wasn’t bad enough she wet. Now she pooped and just put her foot in it.”
I laughed at seeing him so disgruntled. “That’s what baby wipes are for, Pops. Here,” I said, feeling magnanimous. “I’ll trade babies with you.”
McBride happily accepted charge of Jackson in exchange for his odiferous sibling. “I don’t see baby powder anywhere,” McBride said. “I thought that’s what parents used when changing diapers.”
I’d noticed its absence, too. “Not all of them apparently. Maybe they worry it might damage babies’ lungs should they inhale any.”
McBride bounced and jiggled, but the baby he held wasn’t easily mollified. Reaching over, I handed McBride a pacifier from the changing table’s side pocket. “See if he’ll take this.”
Jackson responded by spitting it out, informing us in no uncertain terms that that wasn’t what he wanted. In the meantime, Jillian tried to squeeze her entire fist into her tiny mouth. When this failed, her face scrunched up and she began a reprise of her earlier aria.
“I think they’re hungry.”
“Look, Piper, maybe we should call their parents. Tell them to get home. That this is an emergency.”
“Don’t be a spoilsport.” I stuffed the soiled diapers into a cloth bag hanging from the changing table that I assumed was used for that purpose. I left the nursery followed by McBride cradling the unhappy Jackson in the crook of his arm. “This is probably Danny and Marcy’s first night out as a couple since the babies were born. Let them have some fun.”
“Changing diapers. Feeding babies. Once this gets around the department, my officers will snicker behind my back. I’ve got a tough-cop image to maintain.”
“Make yourself comfy.” I ducked my head in the direction of a plaid recliner in front of a flat-screen television and went in search of sustenance.
From the kitchen, I could hear Jackson practicing vocal calisthenics. Fortunately, before running off Marcy had told me where to find the babies’ bottles. I returned to the living room in short o
rder and handed one to McBride along with a spit-up diaper from a stack on the coffee table.
“Now what?” he asked.
I settled myself in a corner of the sofa. “Do what comes naturally. Feed the hungry child.”
Neither twin needed any encouragement to latch on to the bottle’s nipple and start sucking. McBride and I sat for a spell, savoring the blessed silence.
He gave me a nod of approval. “You sure didn’t waste any time preparing formula.”
“It isn’t formula. It’s breast milk.”
“Ohh!… You know, don’t you,” he said after a lengthy pause, “that this is above my pay grade? By the way, do these rug rats have names?”
“The one in pink is Jillian. Your bundle in blue is Jackson.”
“Jack and Jill?” McBride’s face broke into a grin, causing the dimple in his cheek to make a rare appearance.
“Cute, huh?” I grinned back at him. “You have a God-given knack for child care, McBride. If push comes to shove, you could always supplement your income babysitting.”
He zoomed a look at me from his laser blues. “You never explained why you’re here.”
I was reluctant to admit I’d been bribed to babysit. It wasn’t this girl’s first rodeo. If he knew I’d come tonight to ask Marcy about her alibi, I’d be subjected to another of his stay-out-of-police-business lectures. “Strictly a social visit,” I said glibly, then volleyed his question with one of my own. “What brought you knocking on the Boyds’ front door? Here on official business?”
“Sorry. You know I can’t comment on an active investigation.”
“Can’t blame a girl for trying.” I wiped milky residue from the baby’s chin. “C’mon, McBride, loosen up. Have you made any progress on the case? Did the hotline bring in any leads other than an anonymous tipster claiming to see Reba Mae?”
“Reba Mae lied through her teeth about being home alone. It took a hotline to ferret out the truth. She finally admitted she’d gone to the opera house for the sole purpose of confronting Sandy about a part in a play.”
I shifted the baby from the crook of my arm to my shoulder and thumped her on the back. “Reba Mae didn’t kill Sandy. You know it as well as I do. Are you even looking at other suspects?”
“I have to follow where evidence leads. I can’t decide on a person’s guilt or innocence based on whether I like them or not.” McBride eyed me suspiciously. “Why are you hitting that child?”
I heaved an exaggerated sigh at his ignorance. “It’s called burping. You might want to do the same with Jackson.”
“I don’t do burping.”
“Give me a break, McBride. Burping is second nature for most guys.”
“Jackson’s not finished eating. What if I take his dinner away and he starts crying all over again?”
Jillian let out a dainty burp and resumed feeding. “Burp the baby, McBride,” I said, “or the poor kid will end up with a tummy ache.”
McBride raised the baby to his shoulder, but before I could advise him on the use of the spit-up diaper little Jackson dribbled a stripe of curdled milk down the back of McBride’s pristine navy blue shirt.
“Oh-oh!” I stood abruptly, juggling Jillian in one arm, her bottle wedged under my chin, and started dabbing at the stain.
“What’s wrong? What are you doing?”
“I’m wiping off baby spit-up.”
McBride surged to his feet and craned his neck to view the damage.
“Umm, McBride, I don’t know how to tell you this, but…”
“But what?”
I caught my lower lip between my teeth to keep from smiling. I pointed to a dark splotch on his pant leg. “I think the diaper leaked.”
He stared at the infant who was now sleeping angelically, then down at his soiled uniform. “I can’t conduct an interview covered in pee and spit-up. When Marcy gets home tell her I’ll be by tomorrow to speak with her.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” I reminded him.
“I’ll make an exception.”
We tiptoed into the nursery and gently, so as not to wake the sleeping twins, placed them in their respective cribs. After quickly changing Jackson’s soggy diaper I walked McBride to the door. “Don’t worry, McBride,” I said. “Consider your image secure. Your secret’s safe. I promise I won’t breathe a word about your misadventure in babysitting.”
He reached out, caught my chin between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted my face up to his. “I’ll hold you to it,” he said, his voice a husky baritone.
Then he turned and strode down the walk toward his cruiser. I stared after him, half-dazed. For a moment—a very brief moment—I thought he might kiss me. A traitorous part of me wished he had. I reminded myself of Doug, a wonderful, caring individual, and instantly felt disloyal. Resolutely I closed the door on both McBride and my wayward imaginings.
The remainder of the evening passed uneventfully. Needing something to pass the time, I sorted through a pile of gossip magazines on the coffee table. At the bottom of the stack was the script for Steel Magnolias. I flipped it open and saw Marcy’s lines highlighted in yellow. This reminded me of the script I’d found onstage at the opera house. Steel Magnolias was a deeply moving play, I mused, showing women at their finest. Pity Sandy’s production had ended before it had begun.
True to their word, Marcy and Danny returned a few minutes after ten o’clock. “How were the babies? Did they sleep for you?” Marcy asked, slipping out of her coat.
Danny dug into his pant pocket for his wallet. “What do we owe you?”
“I’ll take care of it, honey,” Marcy said. “Why don’t you take a peek at the twins while I say good night to Piper?”
At the door, Marcy dropped her voice so Danny wouldn’t hear. “You wanted to know if I had an alibi for the night Sandy died. Well, I do,” she said almost defiantly, “and so does Mary Lou. After rehearsal, we went to High Cotton for karaoke night. I’m not drinking alcohol since I’m breast-feeding but thought I was entitled to a night out.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Both you and Mary Lou were at High Cotton?”
“Check with the bartender; he’ll back up my story. It was after midnight when we left. Mary Lou and I rocked the place singing ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T’ by the Queen of Soul herself, Miss Aretha Franklin.”
With this, she shut the door in my face, leaving me standing on the front porch. My mind worked trying to process what she’d told me. If Marcy was telling the truth, she’d just eliminated not one, but two, persons from the suspect pool. But I couldn’t simply take Marcy’s word. For the sake of thoroughness, I intended to check out their alibis myself. Karaoke night, here I come.
And the tune I’d likely be singing was “Another One Bites the Dust.”
CHAPTER 23
SUNDAY MORNING DAWNED crisp and clear. I postponed my usual housekeeping chores in favor of jogging. I donned a pair of gray sweats, tucked my hair under a knit cap, and clipped Casey’s leash to his collar. Casey, knowing we were about to get us some exercise, instinctively stretched his legs. I left a note for Lindsey in case she woke up before we returned and wondered if we’d been abducted. I slipped my cell phone into a pocket along with a house key and off we went.
The thermometer hovered near the fifty-degree mark, but the day promised to be a beauty once it warmed up. After a few preliminary exercises to loosen tight muscles, my trusty mutt and I started out slow, then picked up our pace. Forty-five minutes later, feeling pleasantly fatigued yet invigorated, I slowed to a walk near Cloune Motors not far from my home. The garage was owned by Diane Cloune and operated by Reba Mae’s son Caleb. The previously owned car business no longer existed, but the garage, under Caleb’s mechanical wizardry, continued to thrive and supply Diane with a steady income. The expansive concrete lot that had once been crowded with vehicles sporting FOR SALE signs was currently empty except for a lone car—a shiny red Mazda Miata—that I recognized as belonging to Madison Winters.
In the
course of my run, a shoelace had come untied. Casey and I seemed to have separate agendas. As I bent to retie my shoe, he wandered the length of his leash to relieve himself on the tire of Madison’s car.
“Bad dog,” I scolded. “Can’t you find a tree?”
Casey ignored me. He was more intent on sniffing and snooping.
“C’mon, boy.” I straightened and lightly tugged his leash. “Let’s go.”
Casey didn’t budge, which was unlike his agreeable furry self. I was the stubborn half of this duo, not my pet. “What’s wrong, pal?”
I walked over to see what had him enthralled and immediately spotted the problem. The car was sitting lopsided, lower on the passenger side than the driver’s. Along with the realization came a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. Two of the tires were flat. Not just ordinary flat, but flat as in having been punctured by a sharp object in a malicious act of vandalism. Who could have done this? And why? I wondered.
I took out my cell phone and dialed the police.
As luck would have it—bad luck—McBride answered the phone. I explained the situation, and he told me to sit tight, he’d be right over. My next call was to the Johnson residence. Reba Mae picked up on the third ring, and I gave her the condensed version of what had happened. She said she’d relay the message to Caleb. I killed minutes waiting for McBride by doing some stretches and leg lifts to keep my calf muscles from seizing.
McBride drew up at the curb and got out of a patrol car. I was surprised to see him in his go-to wardrobe of jeans, dark T-shirt, and bomber jacket. “Don’t tell me little Jackson christened your last clean uniform last night?”
His mouth twisted in a semblance of a smile. “Matter of fact, he did. Been working long hours lately. Haven’t had a chance to pick up my uniforms from the dry cleaners.” He strolled over to the Miata, stooped down, and examined the puncture marks in the sidewalls of the tires.
“What do you think?”
