by Gail Oust
I’d worry about gift baskets and cash versus credit later. “Melly, did you know Bunny Bowtin drinks?”
“Everyone drinks, dear.” She smiled at me as though I was slow-witted. “Doctors recommend eight glasses of water a day.”
“No, no.” I lowered my voice so as not to be overheard by a trio of women in the far corner, who were debating the merits of various types of peppercorns. “I’m not talking water; I’m talking spirits. Hard liquor.”
Aghast at the notion, Melly pressed a blue-veined hand against her apron-clad bosom. “Lord have mercy, give me strength. Surely you don’t mean…?”
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
Lindsey moved closer to join the conversation. “I overheard kids at school talking about Mrs. Bowtin. Anthony’s embarrassed. He hardly ever invites friends over.”
I thought of the pimply-faced youth who’d run out of the house as I arrived and felt a rush of sympathy for the teen. It was bad enough to have your parents argue, but worse yet to know your mother’s drinking was the root of the problem. We ceased our discussion of the Bowtin family when Amber and CJ strolled in.
Amber flashed a smile bright enough to be a lighthouse beacon. “Mother’s hostin’ a dinner party tonight. Her cook’s preparin’ a dish that calls for fennel so Mother sent us over to see if you might carry it. Fennel? Whoever heard of fennel? If folks never heard of it, how will they miss it? I tried to explain this to her cook, but the woman wouldn’t listen.”
CJ slid his arm around his fiancée’s waist. “That’s my Sweetums. Always a deep thinker.”
“Fennel has been around forever.” I forced a smile of my own, though not nearly as bright. “In ancient Rome, fennel was considered a symbol of prosperity and good health.”
Amber smothered a yawn, which made the temptation to torture her with trivia too great to resist. My bad. “Fennel fronds resemble dill but taste much sweeter. I read that in Italy asparagus and fennel are used to make a classic antipasto that’s on practically every café menu.”
Amber perked up at the mention of Italy and gazed at CJ adoringly. “Pooh Bear,” she cooed, “promised to take me to Italy. As soon as we get back from our weddin’, I’m callin’ our travel agent and havin’ him make reservations. Sightseein’ in Rome, museums in Florence, a gondola ride in Venice, and then shoppin’ in Milan.”
My blood pressure must have climbed the Mount Everest of blood pressure readings at hearing this. During the years we’d been married, I’d pestered, cajoled, begged, and pleaded with CJ for a trip to Europe. France, England, Italy, didn’t matter where. But for the vacation CJ had in mind, we didn’t need a travel agent. Pointing the car due east was all it took, and we’d wind up in Myrtle Beach or on Tybee Island. Once a year, I’d pack up the kids and head north to Michigan to visit my parents. Detroit might be my hometown, but its Renaissance Center can’t compare with the Eiffel Tower. And eating a Coney dog smothered in chili, cheese, and onions can’t compete with sipping wine in a French bistro or in an Italian trattoria.
Lindsey—smart girl—correctly interpreted the storm warnings. “Wait here. I’ll get the fennel,” she said, darting off.
Oblivious to gathering storm clouds, Melly’s lips curved in a dreamy smile. “Being newly retired, Cot wants to indulge his love for travel. Just the other night, he showed me brochures for China and the Far East.”
“Momma, you have a reputation to protect.” CJ’s brows beetled in a frown. “Sure hope you’re not plannin’ to go traipsin’ all over hell and creation with him. What would Daddy think?”
“CJ, your father has been dead for years,” Melly said, no longer smiling. “I no longer have to ask his permission for every single thing.”
You go, girl, I silently applauded.
“If you’ll excuse me, Son, I see several customers in need of my help.” Head high, Melly marched off to answer any questions the three ladies in the peppercorn section might have.
“Here’s the fennel.” Lindsey returned with the jar.
“Will that be all?” I inquired.
CJ took out a gold money clip and peeled off a twenty. He was old-school and preferred the flash of cash over the glint of plastic. I made change while Amber and Lindsey huddled to discuss Amber and CJ’s forthcoming wedding in Punta Cana.
CJ lowered his voice and leaned in. “Heard Reba Mae took off, her whereabouts unknown.”
“No comment.”
“Folks are askin’ why run if you’ve nothin’ to hide?”
We locked eyes, during which I silently dared him to blink. “You’ve known Reba Mae as long as I have, CJ. You can’t possibly think—even for a nanosecond—that she strangled Sandy.”
“Everyone’s capable of murder given the right circumstances. Just sayin’ is all.” He dropped his gaze. “Speakin’ of friends, should you talk to that vet friend of yours, tell ’im I’ve got some documents ready for him. I can have my girl put them in the mail unless he’d rather pick ’em up. I’ve been tryin’ to get ahold of him but no luck.”
“Doug and his daughter are away for the weekend, but I’ll be sure to relay the message if I hear from him.” I slid the fennel into a small bag.
Her conversation with Lindsey over, Amber slipped her arm through the crook of CJ’s arm. “From everythin’ I hear, Doug spends all his free time with his daughter. Doesn’t leave much time left over for the two of you, does it?” Amber said with false sympathy.
“Madison is having a difficult time adjusting. And Sandy’s murder doesn’t make things easier. Doug’s putting his daughter first. I admire a father who does that.”
CJ flushed at this. My jab hadn’t been intentional, yet it hit its mark. CJ didn’t ignore his children, but his priorities tended to get skewed.
Amber clung to CJ like moss to a rock—any closer she’d be crawling inside his shirt—and smirked. “Another little tidbit makin’ the rounds is that Wyatt McBride and Shirley Randolph are an item. The two are seein’ a lot of each other. Hangin’ out at her office. Havin’ cozy dinners at local eateries.”
“I’d hardly classify chili cheese fries at High Cotton as a ‘cozy’ dinner, but”—I shrugged—“nothing wrong with two single people enjoying each other’s company. I couldn’t care less how McBride chooses to spend his off-duty time.”
I was so relieved when they started to leave I practically shoved them out the door. If I was the “other” woman—which would never happen in a million years—I certainly wouldn’t flaunt it in front of the ex-wife. Amber, however, must’ve been absent when the subtle gene was distributed. Since it was next to impossible to avoid her in a town the size of Brandywine Creek, I gritted my teeth and prayed for patience.
Later in the day, business slowed to a trickle. I sent Melly home, and Lindsey went upstairs to primp for her date with Sean. After straightening and restocking the shelves, I went into the storeroom and brought out a large box filled with Christmas decorations. Now that Thanksgiving was over, it was time to switch into Christmas mode. Tomorrow being Sunday and the shop closed, I’d devote the day to setting out decorations. Starting Monday, I’d serve customers mulled cider and home-baked cookies to put them in a festive mood.
Dottie Hemmings, a plastic dry cleaners bag draped over one arm, blew into Spice It Up! under full sail. “I didn’t think Bitsy would ever stop talking. She kept going on and on about how everyone had it in for Sandy. I gathered she didn’t care for the woman much herself.”
“Hmm,” I said as I began to unpack Christmas decorations. “I was under the opposite impression. I thought Bitsy liked Sandy.”
“Speaking of Sandy, what’s all this about Reba Mae gone missing?” Dottie demanded. “It’s all everyone’s talking about. I had to hear about it thirdhand when I’m usually the first to know. Why, it’s downright insulting.”
I unwrapped a ceramic snowman. “Thirdhand would be preferable to breaking news as broadcast by Wyatt McBride.”
“Where is she?” Curiosity sparkled in
Dottie’s eyes. If she’d been a bloodhound hot on the trail, her nose would have twitched.
“I have no idea.”
“Really, Piper!” Dottie wagged her head in disapproval. “I can’t believe Reba Mae wouldn’t tell her best friend where she hightailed it off to.”
“Unfortunately, neither can McBride.” I huffed out a sigh.
“Has the man been giving you a hard time, dear? Gerilee said Pete worked late at the butcher shop last night. He noticed McBride parked out back. They’re wondering if there might be some hanky-panky goin’ on”—she winked—“not that I could blame you. McBride’s a fine-looking man. If I was younger—and single—I’d give you some stiff competition.”
“Let me set your mind at ease, Dottie; where McBride and I are concerned there’s no hanky-panky involved.” I removed a string of hopelessly tangled twinkle lights and set them aside.
Dottie plunked her oversize carryall on the counter, a sure sign she intended to stay awhile. “Chief McBride seems to think Reba Mae’s guilty. If not, why disappear?”
Wasn’t that the same question CJ had voiced? I lifted an object wrapped in Bubble Wrap from the box of decorations. “Did you stop to consider Reba Mae was afraid she’d be arrested for a crime she didn’t commit? Maybe she hoped the real killer would be caught during her absence? And…” I paused. “Maybe no concern of yours.”
“Well,” she huffed. “I only stopped in for a friendly chat, but clearly you’re not in a friendly frame of mind. That’s no way to run a business, my dear girl, especially in a small town where news of your rudeness could get around.”
“I’m not your ‘dear girl.’” I unwound a yard of Bubble Wrap and unearthed a Santa cookie jar I’d bought at a Christmas shop when the kids were little.
“Hmph!” Dottie picked up her carryall and flounced out, nearly bumping into Vicki on her way in.
“Excuse me,” Vicki said to Dottie, her tone chilly enough to put frost on a pumpkin.
“Watch where you’re going!” Dottie barked. “You nearly knocked me over.”
“Believe me, if I knocked you over, it wouldn’t be an accident,” Vicki fired back.
Dottie’s eyes narrowed in anger, her cheeks flushed. “Such insolence! No wonder you need to resort to extremes to attract a man.”
“Why, you old bag,” Vicki hissed.
Dottie’s face went from flushed pink to bright red. “Be careful who you call an old bag.”
“Ladies, please.” I came out from behind the counter, afraid the two women were about to come to blows and ready to step between them. “Is that any way for friends to talk?”
“Make that former friends,” Vicki snarled.
I looked from one angry face to the other. “Surely, there’s a simple solution…,” I began, adopting the role of peacemaker.
“Simple?” Dottie snorted in disgust, then directed her wrath at Vicki. “Thanks to my husband’s influence, I’ve had you removed as cochairperson of the annual Christmas party at the Children’s Home. So there!” Satisfied she’d had the last word, or perhaps worried the verbal combat would turn physical, Dottie stalked out, banging the door behind her.
I stared after Dottie, puzzled by what I’d just witnessed. “In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never seen Dottie so riled. What was that all about?”
Vicki tossed her head, sending her dark hair flying. “Dottie acts all holier-than-thou, but underneath she’s nothing more than a gossipy old biddy.”
“That shouldn’t come as a surprise,” I said as I headed back to finish unpacking holiday decorations. “Dottie Hemmings craves gossip like some women do chocolate.”
Vicki raised a brow in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you haven’t heard what she did to me?”
“Sorry,” I said. “I’ve had too much on my mind recently to pay attention to the rumor mill. Care to enlighten me?”
After looking to make sure no one else was around, Vicki leaned her face close to mine. “Can you see them?” she whispered.
Decorations forgotten, I leaned, too, and studied her face for flaws. Her makeup was perfect as always. Her eyebrows expertly arched. Lipstick freshly applied. Then I spotted what some might view as a slight imperfection while others would call it a beauty mark. “Are you talking about the small mole on your right cheekbone?”
“No, not the mole,” she replied impatiently. “I’m talking about the crow’s-feet.”
Feeling I’d just flunked Observation 101, I studied her again, more intently this time. Her skin appeared smooth, almost satiny beneath her foundation. “Maybe I need my eyesight checked, but I don’t see any crow’s-feet.”
“Exactly.” She preened. “You don’t see them because I don’t have any. At least not anymore thanks to the collagen injections.”
“Ohh,” I said, intrigued at the notion. “I’ve heard collagen injections are expensive—and painful.”
“Both,” Vicki admitted. “I’ve had them before. But the last time, something went wrong, and I had a reaction. Oh, nothing terrible,” she explained hastily at seeing my expression, “but bad enough that I didn’t want to show myself in public. My doctor recommended cold compresses until the redness and swelling subsided. By the next day, the residual effects were easily concealed with makeup.”
I resumed unpacking decorations—Santas on the left, snowmen on the right—and set the empty box on the floor. “I still don’t understand what your collagen injections have to do with your feud with Dottie.”
“Dottie and I were supposed to meet at her house the night Sandy was killed, which happened to be the same day as my reaction.”
The same night…? I struggled to grasp the significance.
“I asked Dottie if she’d mind coming to my house instead so I could continue with the compresses,” Vicki elaborated. “Dottie readily agreed. Personally, I think she was happy that she could eat my snacks rather than the stale cashews she usually serves. She stayed till nearly midnight. I don’t think she stopped gossiping long enough to draw a breath.”
My stomach dropped to my toes. Dottie had unwittingly supplied Vicki with an airtight alibi for the night of the murder. What had started out as a laundry list of suspects had slowly dwindled down to … one. Only Wanda Needmore’s name remained. I stuffed a pile of tissue paper and Bubble Wrap into the box to be reused after the holidays. “I assume Dottie questioned the need for compresses.”
Vicki nodded. “Dottie kept harping on the subject till I finally confided I’d been having collagen injections ever since Kenny left me. I made her swear not to say anything, but telling Dottie a secret is like keeping water in a leaky sieve. I’ve just learned she’s gone and spread it all over town. Now no one can look me in the eyes because they’re too preoccupied searching for invisible wrinkles and puncture sites.”
I cleared my throat, wishing I could clear my frustration as easily. “I, um, you haven’t mentioned what brought you here.”
“Oh, right.” She withdrew a sheet of paper from her designer bag and handed it to me. “The chamber of commerce is asking all the local merchants for a donation to their No Child Without a Christmas Fund. Fill in the blanks and drop the form at the chamber office by the end of next week.”
It wasn’t until I turned the lock on the front door and flipped the CLOSED sign that I replayed my entire conversation with Vicki. Though Vicki envied Sandy’s position, wealth, and belongings, it would’ve been impossible for her to kill Sandy under Dottie’s watchful eye. Each time I thought a solution was at hand, I discovered it was still out of reach. Times like this called for a margarita or a glass of wine. And my BFF.
CHAPTER 31
I PERFORMED THE usual end-of-day rituals. Chores like sweeping the floor, emptying the trash, and totaling the day’s receipts. None of these, however, kept my mounting anxiety at bay. In my head, I could hear the imaginary ticktock of a bomb about to explode. It was only a matter of time—minutes, hours, days—before Reba Mae’s hiding place was discovered and she wou
ld be arrested. She was counting on me for help and, so far nothing, nada, zip, bupkis. If this was the game Beat the Clock, I’d be the biggest loser. Correction—that title would belong to Reba Mae.
“Later, Mom,” Lindsey called as she flew down the stairs and out the door for her date with Sean.
“Later,” I echoed to an empty space.
Casey, who lay at my feet, stared up at me with hope gleaming in his button-bright eyes. If he could speak, he’d be asking, Is this all there is?
“Sorry to disappoint you, pal, but it’s just you and me,” I told him.
Casey thumped his tail on the floor in a canine version of understanding. I was grateful for my furry companion and wondered how I’d managed as long as I’d done without his shaggy presence. I may have saved his life once upon a time, but he’d also come to my rescue a time or two.
Time hung heavy. Pre-Madison, Doug and I usually met for dinner on Saturday evenings, occasionally taking in a movie. Recently his weekends were occupied introducing Madison to the charms of a Southern lifestyle. During those times, Reba Mae and I would meet for pizza, Mexican, or popcorn and a DVD at her home or mine. Tonight I was bored and restless. A wicked combination.
I looked at Casey; he looked up at me. “Want to go for a ride?”
Casey didn’t need an engraved invitation. He beat me to the door, tail wagging the dog.
Minutes later we were in the VW with Casey riding shotgun.
I’d looked but hadn’t seen any sign of McBride either in front of or behind my shop. I assumed this meant he’d given up shadowing me. Or maybe it was still too early for surveillance. At any rate, I took full advantage of my freedom and started driving with no particular destination in mind. For an instant I toyed with the notion of going to the mall but just as quickly dismissed it. No way was I in the mood to fight my way through a crush of holiday shoppers.
For a while I drove aimlessly. At one point, I found myself on Old County Road. I slowly cruised past Pets ’R People on the off chance Doug and Madison might have returned early. I could use the documents CJ had referred to as my excuse for a visit. Their home/clinic, however, was dark, so I continued roaming. Without conscious intent, I turned right onto Route 78. McBride’s fixer-upper was just down the road a piece, as Southerners would say.
