Curried Away

by Gail Oust

  Bitsy fired up a cigarette. “Yeah, sure. Soon as I finish my smoke.”

  I waved. “See you inside.”

  Reba Mae lowered her voice as we continued on our way. “Bitsy claims cigarettes help cut down on food cravings. The day I did her highlights, she was in and out so many times for smoke breaks, I needed a revolvin’ door. Took twice as long as it should’ve.”

  “Surely you’re exaggerating.”

  We passed through a corridor lined with glass display cases filled with trophies for various sports. Photos captured teams past—young men, boys really, in football gear, clutching basketballs or holding bats and catcher’s mitts. I wished I had time to search for McBride’s face among them. As captain and star quarterback of his high-school football team, he’d led his squad to regionals. CJ had been on the team, too, but from all accounts his performance had been lackluster.

  “I considered orderin’ pizza since it was so late,” Reba Mae continued, “but knew if I did Bitsy would break out another pack of smokes and I’d be there till midnight.”

  “You have to admit, Bitsy looks hot.”

  “Smokin’,” Reba Mae agreed, and we both burst out laughing.

  We were still laughing as we shoved through the gym’s double doors. I caught a whiff of sweat and testosterone that not even Pine-Sol could obliterate. High-school gyms, I concluded after a cursory glance, hadn’t changed much since I’d been a teenager: bleachers stacked along each wall, basketball hoops and scoreboards on either end, polished wood floor. Someone, probably McBride, had placed a large blue mat in the floor’s center. I estimated two dozen women were ready and waiting for the class to begin. Reba Mae and I mounted a couple rows in the bleachers to join Precious Blessing.

  Precious scooted over to make room for us. “Thought you girls might unfriend me for bein’ a snitch and reportin’ you for sneakin’ around the opera house.”

  “No harm, no foul.” I slipped out of my jacket, feeling inordinately pleased with myself for using a sports expression.

  Reba Mae set her purse by her feet. “Don’t worry, Precious. You were only doin’ your job.”

  “I worried whoever killed Miz Granger might be skulkin’ around. Then there’s those durn ghost stories. Ghosts can give folks heart attacks. Didn’t want to chance that happenin’ to either of you nice ladies.”

  “Good to know you’re lookin’ out for us, Precious,” Reba Mae said. “For the record, snoopin’ was Piper’s idea, not mine. I just went along for protection. Kinda like a bodyguard.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Fine bodyguard you’d make. You’d trample me in a heartbeat in your hurry to get out the door.”

  I swept my gaze over the crowd. Bunny Bowtin, Vicki Lamont, and Shirley Randolph were dressed in formfitting stretch pants as though they’d just come from yoga class. The other women for the most part wore loose clothing. Pinky was proudly introducing her daughter-in-law to her friends. Other familiar faces in the crowd included Gerilee, who was gabbing with Sylvia Walker, Lindsey’s Language Arts teacher, and Trish Hughes. Bitsy, one of the last to arrive, took the remaining space on the bottom bleacher. I noticed she’d failed to score in the dress code department. Instead of loose or functional, she’d chosen a hot pink knit top, skintight jeans, and ankle boots with three-inch heels. I didn’t see Madison so assumed she’d had second thoughts about attending. Mary Lou wasn’t present either.

  At seven o’clock on the dot, the door leading to the locker rooms swung wide and McBride strode out followed by Officer Gary Moyer. Though both men were in uniform, McBride carried with him a commanding presence that easily marked him as the alpha male. He stationed himself in front of the bleachers, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. The room grew so still I could hear the tick of the shot clock.

  “Good crowd on short notice,” he drawled. “Thought y’all would be home baking pies.”

  An uncertain titter went up from the audience.

  “Police officers call it a gut feeling; women call it intuition. I can’t stress strongly enough the importance of paying attention to subtle warning signals. That little tickle along the back of your neck or twinge in the pit of your stomach. Pay attention to it. Fear can be the gift that keeps you safe.” Assured he had everyone’s attention, he went on, “Self-protection allows a person to prevent, identify, and avoid violence. Self-defense is what you do when that isn’t enough. Self-defense is what we’re going to focus on tonight.”

  I noticed women nodding their heads.

  McBride walked back and forth in front of the bleachers as he talked. “When you find yourself in a confrontation, you may only have seconds to react before being overpowered. Once the situation turns physical, it’s hurt or be hurt. Aim for parts of the body where you can do the most damage in the least amount of time. Places such as eyes, nose, ears, neck, groin, knee, and legs.”

  Motioning for Officer Moyer to join him on the blue mat, McBride proceeded to demonstrate techniques for disabling an attacker. In spite of the subject matter, my thoughts drifted. I looked at the faces of the women surrounding me, all paying rapt attention to McBride. Was Sandy’s killer present among them? Or absent?

  “What if an attacker comes up behind us?” Vicki wanted to know.

  McBride smiled his approval. “I’m glad you asked.”

  With Officer Moyer playing the victim and himself as the assailant, McBride demonstrated several basic techniques to ward off an attacker. I must have left my concentration back at Spice It Up! because my attention wandered again. I’d ruled out most cast members—and tonight I’d check out the alibis of two more—but a few names remained on the list. Bunny, who’d been hurt and humiliated by Sandy, swore she’d gone straight home and into a bubble bath after rehearsal. How could I prove or disprove this? Vicki Lamont, though not a cast member but the deceased’s best friend, was happily wooing the recent widower with golf and goodies. Then there was Wanda Needmore. The paralegal had motive and stubbornly refused to answer my questions.

  “Let’s see if you ladies were paying attention,” McBride said from the floor. “I need a volunteer.”

  Hands waved in the air like a field of daisies in a breeze. Ignoring them, McBride leveled a finger at me.

  “Me?” I squeaked, jolted back to the present.

  “You,” he said in a tone that brooked no further argument.

  CHAPTER 25

  “DAMN, GIRL, YOU sure got all the luck,” Precious chuckled, giving me a playful poke as I clambered down from the bleachers. “I traded hours with Dorinda in order to see my boss in action and he picks you.”

  I felt everyone’s eyes on me and my cheeks burned. “What do you want me to do?” I asked when I joined McBride on the blasted blue mat.

  “Turn around,” he ordered gruffly.

  “If Piper isn’t willing, I’ll be your partner!” Vicki shouted out.

  Sheesh! Could the woman be any more obvious?

  “No!” Precious cried. “Pick me.”

  All the women laughed, albeit a trifle nervously. Being partnered with McBride had its advantages and disadvantages. He had a reputation for being tall, dark, and dangerous. Tall and dark were okay, but a prudent woman should avoid dangerous like the plague.

  “Turn,” he repeated.

  Gamely I did as instructed and turned my back. Moyer assumed a position slightly behind us and to the left.

  “Officer Moyer’s job will be to offer advice and criticize technique,” McBride explained.

  I wiped damp palms on the sides of my pants and wished I’d paid closer attention to McBride’s lecture rather than zoning out trying to solve a murder.

  “Nervous?” McBride’s baritone rumbled in my ear, soft enough not to be overheard by the rest of the women.

  “Nervous,” I replied, licking my dry lips. “Why would I be nervous?”

  “Perhaps because your mind wasn’t on the lesson?”

  I heard the smirk in his voice, and it irritated me. “So what are you goin
g to do, McBride? Send me to the principal’s office?”

  “Piper is going to be the victim,” he addressed those gathered, “and I’ll pretend I’m the assailant. If you recall, the rear stranglehold is one of the most common used by muggers.”

  My pulse quickened as McBride’s arm slid around my throat. I felt his breath, light as a feather, against my ear. His hold tightened marginally. Instinctively I pulled McBride’s elbow, needing more breathing room. I didn’t know if it was his proximity—or my vulnerability.

  “You have only seconds to react before your assailant renders you unconscious,” Moyer counseled. “Tuck your chin into the crook of his arm. Now raise your arm and strike. Ribs, groin, head.”

  Graceful as a ballerina, McBride shifted his weight and avoided my blows with embarrassing ease.

  “Lift the attacker’s elbow and pull on his wrist,” Moyer coached from outside my field of vision. “Turn, step back, and slip out of his hold.”

  I did as he instructed and drew in a deep gulp of air, happy to be free.

  “You forgot a step!” Pinky shouted.

  “What…?” Frustrated, I shoved a riot of messy curls out of my flushed face.

  “You forgot the part where you break the perp’s elbow,” Gerilee offered helpfully.

  “You know—put the guy out of commission while you make your getaway,” Bunny reminded me.

  “Nuh-uh.” Precious wagged her finger. “Break the chief’s elbow, girl, and he’ll charge you with battery.”

  Reba Mae, I observed, kept any comments to herself. She was too intent on flying under McBride’s radar to risk drawing his attention by smarting off. For a while tonight, I thought she’d change her mind and decide not to come. She wasn’t keen on the prospect of spending time in the man’s company. In the end, though, she’d put on her big-girl panties and accompanied me.

  “Isn’t there a way for a woman to break free without ruining her hairdo?” Vicki simpered, stopping short of fluttering her lashes like a Georgia belle.

  “Ladies, when your life is at stake worry about hair later,” McBride replied sternly, apparently inoculated against blatant flirts. I started to return to the bleachers, but McBride placed a hand on my shoulder, waylaying me. “The bear hug defense is another technique that could be useful. It assumes your attacker is bigger and stronger than you.”

  “Big like you and little like Piper.” Precious nodded, clearly enjoying herself. “This I gotta see.”

  Turning me so I faced away, McBride wrapped his arms around my waist, tight but not too tight, and pinned my arms to my sides. Part of me wanted to wriggle away from the hard body pressed against me. A traitorous part wanted to snuggle closer. In hindsight, Vicki would have been a better candidate for this maneuver.

  Moyer studied our posture from several angles. “Widen your stance, Piper. Keep your knees slightly bent and your hips lower than your attacker’s,” he directed. “Now raise your arms, palms up, to create resistance. Tilt your hip—”

  Memory kicked in. I hooked my opposite leg around McBride, reached down and grabbed him behind the knees, straightened, and flipped him. I executed the movement with a precision that surprised me.

  And surprised McBride even more.

  He lay flat on his back, staring up at me, eyes wide, and I knew I was in deep doo-doo. Prudence had never been my strong suit.

  Released from its stunned silence, the gym erupted in a burst of cheers. Even Reba Mae and dour Officer Moyer cracked smiles. I bowed to a standing ovation, then offered my hand to help a flabbergasted McBride to his feet. There would be time to seek asylum later.

  “I think you ladies have the general idea.” McBride brushed the dust from his uniform. “Let’s pair up and practice.”

  It didn’t come as a shock when no one chose me as a partner.

  * * *

  “You might not shine when playing golf or tennis, honeybun, but when it comes to self-defense, you rock,” Reba Mae congratulated me as we climbed into my VW and headed for High Cotton.

  Class had ended after a reminder from McBride to develop our situational awareness. No more texting or phoning while walking to parked cars. “Stay alert,” Moyer had added, “stay alive.” I planned to do all of the above.

  Trading the highway for a dirt and gravel road, I turned into the parking lot of the bar and grill. A neon sign flickered above the door advertising beer and burgers. The place wasn’t much to look at—inside or out—but the beer was cold and burgers juicy. High Cotton hosted its fair share of Saturday night brawls, and the bartender was said to have Brandywine Creek Police Department on speed dial. Definitely not a joint to impress a first date, but the locals loved it. And so did the younger crowd from neighboring towns.

  Upon entering, Reba Mae and I stood just inside the door to give our eyes time to adjust to the dim light. Patrons lined the bar two deep while a bearded man in a Kid Rock T-shirt was kept busy filling mugs with draft beer.

  “Who knew karaoke was this popular,” Reba Mae said, gazing around in amazement.

  “I don’t hear any music, so the DJ must be on a break. Let’s find a place to sit and question the bartender about Marcy and Mary Lou when he isn’t quite as busy.”

  We threaded our way through the mostly twenties crowd to a vacant booth for two at the rear. I recognized a few faces but not many. We didn’t have a long wait before a girl who was barely legal drinking age with multicolored hair and ripped jeans approached our table. “What can I getcha?”

  I never knew when the need to interrogate might strike, so I smiled pleasantly at the girl to communicate that I was a fan of yellow, purple, and blue striped hair. “I’ll have a Riesling.”

  “Riesling?” She snapped her gum. “Don’t know that one. We have Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, Heineken, Corona, Michelob, and Yuengling. Want bottle or draft?”

  I kept my smiled pinned securely in place. “Riesling isn’t beer; it’s wine.”

  “Never heard of it,” she replied looking bored. “As far as wine goes we only have red or white.”

  “Then I’ll have white.”

  “Make that two.” Reba Mae toyed with one of her dangly earrings. “Why do you s’pose Mary Lou and Marcy ended up here after rehearsal? Mary Lou’s not a singer. Heard she was kicked out of church choir ’cause she’s tone-deaf.”

  “Marcy and Mary Lou probably needed a girls’ night out. Rehearsals were getting stressful. Both of them were unhappy with Sandy’s management style, and they wanted to unwind before going home.”

  “Marcy deserves a break. Twins can be a handful.” Reba Mae ceased fiddling with her earrings and slouched in a corner of the booth.

  Our waitress returned with two glasses of wine and a small bowl of pretzels. “DJ’s about to start up again. If you ladies have a request, you better get it in.”

  As if to prove her point, a trio of women picked their way through the crowd to the small stage that doubled as a dance floor Saturday nights. “This fine group of songbirds from Walmart is about to entertain you with a Carrie Underwood hit, ‘Before He Cheats,’” the DJ announced into a mic.

  Reba Mae raised her glass, took a sip, and made a face. “Bet they concocted this stuff in the cellar after a crash course on wine makin’. Seein’ how the bartender’s busy, whatdaya say we ask the waitress if she remembers the pair, then let’s blow this pop stand?”

  I took a cautious sample of my wine. “Best idea I’ve heard all night.”

  Reba Mae flagged the girl down as she was about to pass our table. “By any stretch of the imagination did you work last Monday?”

  “I’m here every friggin’ karaoke night.” She tucked the tray she carried under her arm. “I know the lyrics of each stupid song backward and forward till I hear them in my sleep.”

  “We wondered if you might remember a couple women who were here last week. The two would’ve come in late—ten o’clock or thereabout,” Reba Mae said.

  A brain cell fired in my cranium and a memory burst o
ut. “I think they might have requested ‘R-E-S-P-E-C-T’ by Aretha Franklin.”

  “Yeah, I remember.” The girl’s jaws worked her wad of gum, causing it to crack and snap. “The older one had canary yellow hair teased and sprayed stiff as a plank. The skinny one kept showing everyone baby pictures on her phone.”

  “Sounds like the pair,” I said. “I don’t suppose you recall what time they left?”

  “Remember that, too,” she said scowling. “The DJ usually quits at midnight, but they bribed him into one more song. The skinny one with the babies wasn’t half-bad, but the yellow-haired gal couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.”

  “Thanks for your help,” I told her. I left a generous tip on the table and Reba Mae and I slid out of the booth a short time later, our wine virtually untouched. “Now that we’ve confirmed Marcy’s and Mary Lou’s alibis, we can focus our attention on Bunny and Wanda. I also wondered about Vicki. She wouldn’t be the first person to commit murder because of envy—or greed.”

  “My money’s on Wanda. Never did care for that woman,” Reba Mae commented. “She’s too uppity if you want my opinion.”

  “Granted, Wanda seems the most likely candidate for Who Killed Sandy, but I’m not willing to place all my hard-earned cash on the odds-on favorite. Sometime it’s the long shot—the dark horse—that wins the race.”

  We wove through patrons that formed a ring around the bar. The Walmart women were leading the patrons through a lusty chorus that would have made Carrie proud. We were almost at the door when I did a double take. Sitting at a small table, Wyatt McBride and Shirley Randolph shared a plate of chili cheese fries. My earlier elation at having flipped the lawman on his backside gurgled down the drain like bathwater.

  CHAPTER 26

  PARSLEY, SAGE, ROSEMARY, AND THYME.

  The tune of a classic folk song drifted through my head nonstop. The Tuesday before Thanksgiving brought a steady stream of customers into Spice It Up! Hot-ticket items seemed to be spices needed for new recipes or to add pizzazz to family favorites. I hoped the surge in business was a harbinger of sales in the weeks leading up to Christmas. Soon I’d need to plan ahead for the quieter months of January and February. Spring arrived early in the South. By late February, daffodils would make an appearance. January’s weather, though, tended toward the unpredictable with even an occasional light dusting of snow. January might be an ideal time to lure customers into my shop with Reba Mae’s Hungarian goulash. It was impossible to ignore its mouthwatering appeal. First, though, I’d have to convince Reba Mae to part with her grandmother’s recipe. And even then, Reba Mae couldn’t very well perform a cooking demonstration if she was behind bars.