by Gail Oust
I’d just finished placing an order with a supplier when Mary Lou entered the shop.
“I’m not much of a cook, but my sister insists everyone bring a dish Thanksgiving,” she announced. “I’m fixing a boxed dessert from the cake mix aisle at Piggly Wiggly. The directions say a sprinkle of cinnamon is optional. Everything came in the box except the cinnamon. You’d think it would be included, but no. Someone must have forgot to add it.”
I walked over to the Hoosier cabinet where I kept the baking spices. “I carry several varieties, Vietnamese, Chinese, and Ceylon.”
“Since I’m fussing, I want the best sprinkling cinnamon you carry.”
“This one is extra fancy.” I plucked a jar from a shelf. “Vietnamese cinnamon is the richest and sweetest. It’s also the strongest of the cinnamons, so don’t overdo your sprinkle.”
“Thanks, Piper.” Mary Lou fumbled through her wallet for cash.”I’m awfully busy right now, but I plan to come tonight.”
I accepted the ten-dollar bill she handed me and made change. “What’s going on tonight?”
“Silly.” Mary Lou giggled. “The self-defense class in your petition.”
I slid the cinnamon into a bag. “That was last night, Mary Lou.”
“Last night?” she moaned. “I thought it was tonight. Hank really wanted me to go. He said Chief McBride needs to earn his salary seein’ how he can’t keep the town safe from thieves and murderers.”
I wondered how many others shared Hank’s opinion. Until her alibi had checked out last night, Mary Lou had been a viable person of interest for that crime. I was curious to know why she went to a bar instead of straight home after the final rehearsal. I had my theory, of course, but I’d like it validated. “Reba Mae and I went to High Cotton after the self-defense class,” I said offhandedly. “Did you know Monday is karaoke night?”
“Sounds fun.”
I held her purchase slightly out of reach. “Have you ever been there?”
“Um … once, maybe. Hank doesn’t like me goin’ to bars. He’s afraid men will start hittin’ on me.”
“Our waitress recalled a woman matching your description belting out a memorable version of an Aretha Franklin hit.”
Mary Lou’s baby-doll blue eyes shone at what she interpreted as a compliment. “If you promise not to tell, I’ll let you in on a little secret.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” I said, relinquishing the cinnamon.
“Rehearsal didn’t go well that last night. When it ended, Marcy and I decided to blow off some steam. The twins really keep Marcy tied down these days. Her momma’s good about babysittin’ while she’s at rehearsals, but the kids keep her runnin’ the rest of the time. She wanted to kick up her heels a bit before goin’ home. We stayed till the DJ quit. Don’t let it get out that I was singin’ karaoke. Hank would be fit to be tied.”
“My lips are sealed.” Although Mary Lou had nothing new to report, at least my assumption had been correct. “Hope your dessert is a success.”
“Thanks,” she said in a rush. “If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for my appointment at the Klassy Kut. Since I’m no longer trying to imitate Dolly Parton trying to imitate Truvy Jones, I’m ready for a change of hair color. I’m thinking a nice strawberry blond. Hank’s awful partial to strawberries.”
Five minutes later, Cot and Melly strolled in. It seems these days I seldom saw one without the other. Melly, on the one hand, looked especially pretty in a lilac cashmere twinset and tailored dove gray slacks. Cot, on the other hand, managed to look rumpled even in permanent press.
“Hello, dear,” Melly chirped, then looked around and frowned. “What? No customers?”
“A temporary lull,” I told her, stifling a spurt of irritation.
“Hmm, if you say so.” She caressed the strand of pearls around her neck. “As I mentioned before, Cot’s daughter invited me to join the family for Thanksgiving. Since I’ll be meeting them for the first time, I want to make a good impression.”
The judge gazed at her fondly. “I keep telling you, Melly, my dear, you needn’t worry on that score. With all your charms, how could anyone find fault?”
“You’re always so sweet.” She flashed him a smile, then turned to me. “I thought I’d bring along an assortment of spices as a hostess gift.”
“That sounds like the perfect touch. If you choose the spices, I’ll make up a basket tailored especially for you and deliver it to you later.”
“Excellent. In case I’m not home, leave it on the porch. Cot and I are driving to Augusta for dinner tonight to meet old friends of his.” Taking one of the small customer baskets, she began to peruse the aisles. I let her roam at will knowing she was familiar with where I kept everything.
Cot lowered his voice. “I have it on good authority your friend Reba Mae Johnson is up to her neck in hot water. Evidence—though mostly circumstantial—is piling up against her. Might not be too much longer before McBride makes his move.”
I felt sick to my stomach at hearing this. It was one thing to sense it, another to hear the possibility voiced out loud. “I know it doesn’t look good, but—”
Taking a pen and business card from his shirt pocket, Cot scribbled on the back of the card, then handed it to me. “If your friend finds herself in need of legal counsel, have her give this man a call. He’s appeared before the bench numerous times, both here and in Columbia County. He’s a trial attorney, experienced in murder cases. The man doesn’t work cheap, but, with the predicament your friend’s in, this is no time to be penny-wise and dollar-foolish.”
“Thanks,” I whispered around a lump in my throat that felt the size of a baseball. I slipped the card in my apron pocket, knowing it would break my heart to give it to Reba Mae.
Her basket filled, Melly returned and offered me her credit card.
“Don’t worry about it, Melly.” I set the basket aside where I’d get to it later. “You can work off the cost by helping behind the counter when Christmas gets closer.”
“Giving away merchandise is no way to turn a profit, dear. You don’t have to major in business to know this for fact,” she said, shoving her Visa at me. “Besides, I’ll be away much of the time and unable to help.”
“Oh yes, the river cruise in Europe. I’d nearly forgotten.” I removed Melly’s selections, amused to see they were spices she used in her gingersnaps. I’d make sure to include a copy of her recipe in the gift basket for Cot’s daughter. “When are you leaving?”
“Cot’s travel agent just contacted him with the details. We leave in two weeks. I’m so excited. I’ve already started packing.”
“We arrive home a few days before Christmas,” Cot explained.
Melly nodded, then added, “Next we’re off to the Caribbean for CJ and Amber’s nuptials.”
At hearing this, I felt the wedding, which had seemed on the distant horizon, loom closer. A wash of emotion—resentment, regret, sadness—threatened to engulf me before I brought myself up short. Taking a deep breath, I counted my blessings instead. Spice It Up! was turning a modest profit. My children were thriving. Yes, I reminded myself, life was good.
“A friend of mine in Atlanta is having health issues,” Cot said. “He can’t make it down to Florida this winter, so he’s willing to rent me his condo in Boca Raton.” He smoothed his mustache and shot Melly a meaningful look from under a shelf of dark brows. “I’m trying to convince your former mother-in-law to join me.”
Melly shook her head. “I’d hate people to get the wrong idea. I’m still thinking it over.”
“I can be very persuasive, my dear.” Cot gave her a tender smile.
“So I’ve noticed,” Melly replied with an arch look.
A short time later I watched the couple leave. A person would have to be blind not to notice the affection between the pair. While Melly’s social life—and love life—had kicked into high gear, mine seemed to be faltering. Why should septuagenarians have all the fun? I missed Doug’s easy c
ompanionship and the fun times we had at football games, dinner dates, and movie nights.
Sighing, I went into the storeroom and rummaged through the shelves for a perfect container for Melly’s gift basket. Aroused from his nap, Casey opened one eye to watch. “Don’t mind me,” I told my pet. “When Lindsey gets home from school, she’ll take you for a romp in the park.”
Casey thumped his tail on the floor in acknowledgment and promptly resumed his snooze.
Pleased with the pretty wicker basket I’d unearthed, I returned to the counter and, since there were currently no customers in the shop, proceeded to fill it. I’d no sooner put a handful of raffia in the bottom and started arranging the spices when Craig Granger came through the door.
Since the Oktoberfest party he and Sandy had thrown last month, Craig had lost weight and aged years. If anyone ever looked in need of a hug, it was him. I came out from behind the counter and did just that, then took a step back. “Craig, I’m so sorry for your loss. If there’s anything I can do, you only have to ask.”
“Thanks, Piper.” He ran a hand over his thick salt-and-pepper hair and sighed. “Actually, I’m here to ask a favor.”
“Certainly, anything.”
“I know from things Sandy said that women are in and out of your shop all day. I hope you’ll spread the word they can stop bringing me food. I’ve been deluged. My freezer is stuffed with casseroles. I can’t even see countertops beneath all the cakes, cookies, and pies. As soon as I leave your shop, I’m taking the baked goods to the senior center, where they’ll get used in the free-lunch program.”
“The ladies mean well, Craig. They simply want to do something useful, so they cook and bake in the belief it will help in some small way.”
“It’s not as though I don’t appreciate their efforts, Piper, but enough is enough. I’m going to Michigan day after tomorrow and don’t know when I’ll return. McBride promised to keep me in the loop regarding the investigation. Our family is there. My children and grandchildren are begging me to stay.”
“It’s understandable they’d want you close at a time like this. That might be what the doctor ordered.” I winced inwardly at the cliché.
“You sound like Vicki Lamont!” he snorted. “She’s been hounding me to play a round a golf or get out on the tennis court. According to Vicki, exercise is a form of grief therapy.”
“She claims she heard that on a talk show.” I returned behind the counter and set about arranging and rearranging small jars of ginger, cardamom, and coriander under Craig’s watchful eye.
“Truth is,” Craig confessed, “Vicki makes me uncomfortable. She’s overly friendly, too helpful.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his chinos. “She even had the nerve to offer to pack Sandy’s clothing and donate it to Goodwill.”
“They were good friends—almost inseparable.” I added a packet of recipe cards to Melly’s gift basket.
“It’s more than that. I think Vicki wanted to be Sandy.” Craig shrugged and turned toward the door.
I stared after him, my thoughts churning. Sandy, compared to Vicki, had it all. Comfortable lifestyle. Beautiful home. Doting husband. Wealth. The Grangers traveled the world, entertained on a grand scale, and had a bevy of influential friends. What’s not to envy? But after what Craig had just said, I couldn’t help but wonder how strong Vicki’s desire was to emulate Sandy. Strong enough to kill?
CHAPTER 27
THE DETROIT LIONS game was on the television, the sound muted. Old habits die hard, I guess. Watching the Lions play football on Thanksgiving Day was a family tradition. It had never mattered to my father, uncles, and cousins that our favorite team lost more often than won.
I scraped the dressing I’d made into a buttered pan. Casey was under the kitchen table, alert for any tidbits that might fall his way. This year I’d decided on the old-fashioned bread and celery variety, the kind my mother used to make with parsley, sage, rosemary, and thyme. Again the lyrics from the ballad “Scarborough Fair” played in my head.
Lindsey came out of her bedroom and did a pirouette. “How do I look?”
I stood back to admire my girl, who was quickly morphing into a woman. Long blond tendrils spilled down her back and around her shoulders to frame a pretty face. Although she’d spent a considerable time applying makeup, the result looked youthful and natural and not overdone. A red knit dress and high heels added an air of polish and sophistication. “You’ll make your daddy proud, sweetie.”
“You look nice, too,” she said returning the compliment. “That top with the big turkey on it is supercute. And the leggings and flats look comfy.”
“Comfort is the rule of the day.” I tossed Casey a crumb of the dressing, and it vanished like magic.
“I’m really sorry, Mom.” Lindsey twirled a lock of her hair around a finger. “Accepting Daddy’s invitation was thoughtless of me. I should’ve told him I’d rather spend Thanksgiving with you.”
“Nonsense. You made your decision. Stop obsessing over it and don’t let it ruin your day.” Checking the timer I’d set, I opened the oven door, removed my pumpkin pie, and set it on a rack to cool. The spicy scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves pervaded the kitchen. “Don’t worry about me, Linds; I’ll be fine. Now that your father and I are divorced, it’s only fair you alternate holidays. Next year, don’t forget it’s my turn.”
“I won’t.” She munched on a piece of celery that hadn’t made it into the dressing. “I only wish you weren’t spending Thanksgiving alone. Dad, at least, has Amber.”
“Mmm.” I moved on to scrubbing the sweet potatoes. I hardly considered Amber Leigh Ames a consolation prize, but CJ viewed the former beauty queen in a different light. With her at his side, he strutted around proud as a peacock. In my humble opinion, Pooh Bear and Sweetums, as the couple had nicknamed each other, were a match made in heaven.
“I’ll bet the pumpkin pie at the country club can’t compare with yours.”
“If it does, I don’t want to hear about it.” I took a roasting chicken—a substitute for turkey—from the fridge and proceeded to wash and pat it dry.
“That must be Daddy,” Lindsey said at hearing a knock on the door downstairs. “I’ll get it.”
She raced off as fast as her heels allowed to answer the door. There went my wish for avoiding him. In spite of my brave words to Lindsey, all day I’d tried to quash memories of happier times when we had gathered as a family around the dinner table to give thanks for blessings big and small.
It took a Herculean effort on my part, but I succeeded in tamping down nostalgia and pasted on a bright smile for Lindsey’s benefit. “Hey, CJ,” I greeted my ex. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
CJ grinned at me from the top of the stairs. “Hey there, Scooter. How’s the world treatin’ you?” He straightened his silk tie and flicked a glance at the small television. “Still rootin’ for the Lions, I see. You’ve lived in Georgia for years. Past time you switch allegiance to the Atlanta Falcons.”
His hearty greeting made me want to kick him in his shin. Instead, I liberally sprinkled salt and pepper in the cavity of the chicken. “Thanks for the advice, but I’ll stand with my hometown.”
“Suit yourself.” He sauntered over and sniffed my pie. “Smells good in here. Sure do miss the amaretto cheesecake you used to make.”
“I’ll send Amber the recipe.”
“Don’t bother.” He chuckled. “That girl can’t boil water. It’s why we eat out all the time.”
“Well, at least she knows how to make reservations.”
“Heard from our son? Hope he takes time out from the books to get him some turkey.” CJ shoved one hand into his trouser pocket. “Remember from the time he could talk how Chad always wanted a drumstick?”
Ignoring the invitation to waltz down memory lane, I put a bunch of fresh thyme and a sprig of rosemary into the cavity of the chicken and added half a lemon and a clove of garlic. “Chad called earlier. He and his friend are going to a diner that advertis
es home-cooked meals.”
Lindsey, who had stood listening to our exchange, excused herself to give her reflection a final inspection.
“Even Momma raved about your Thanksgiving dinners—and you know she’s picky.” CJ darted a look over his shoulder to make sure we were alone. “Speakin’ of the ol’ gal, she’s got me worried. She’s got a wild hair to run off to visit Christmas markets along the Danube. What does Europe have that Macy’s don’t?”
“A river cruise sounds like a wonderful opportunity for your mother to visit places she’s only dreamed about. I don’t think I ever saw her so excited—or this happy.” I wound twine around the legs of the chicken and tucked the wings into a prayerful pose.
CJ rubbed the back of his neck. “Nothin’ against the judge, but Momma needs to slow things down. People are startin’ to talk about the two of ’em off gallivantin’.”
“Your mother is perfectly capable of deciding what’s best for her.” I popped the dressing, sweet potatoes, and roasting chicken into the oven. Out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed Lindsey in the hallway chatting on her cell phone. “Say, CJ, what do you know about Wanda being involved in a lawsuit with Sandy Granger?”
He shrugged. “Don’t mind sayin’, Wanda sure has her panties in a twist. All her life, she’s been on the suin’ side, and she isn’t happy the tables are turned.”
“Is it true Sandy threatened a countersuit?”
“Let me tell you, that went over like a fart in church—pardon the expression. Musta raised Wanda’s blood pressure to the top of the meter.”
