Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  I welcomed the interruption. Reba Mae was a ray of sunshine after a downpour—the downpour being Elaine. “Elaine and I were just getting acquainted.”

  “Shirley said you and your hubby are thinkin’ of buyin’ Gray’s Hardware and movin’ here. How do you like Brandywine Creek so far?”

  The look Elaine gave Reba Mae could have withered tomatoes ripe on the vine. “So far, I hate everything about this town. In fact, I could shoot Kirby for coming up with this harebrained notion. As for Shirley, she’s also in my sights for encouraging him. This isn’t how I planned to spend retirement. Now if you ladies will excuse me”—she set down her wineglass—“I’m off to find a bartender who can make a decent martini.”

  Reba Mae leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Did that woman really threaten to shoot her husband?”

  I took a sip of my wine before answering. “An innocent remark. I’m sure she didn’t mean it.”

  “Let’s hope Kirby doesn’t end up with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.”

  I surveyed the crowd. Vicki and Shirley were off in a corner and, from their grim expressions, were still exchanging heated words. Elaine Dixon accosted poor Gina Deltorro and was demanding a martini. Tony Deltorro poked his head out of the kitchen long enough to glare at me, then ducked out of sight. Was this the bridal shower that would live in infamy?

  As though attuned to my glum thoughts, Reba Mae looped her arm through mine. “C’mon, honeybun. Let’s have us some fun before someone gets killed. Wait till Melly sees the undies I bought her at Victoria’s Secret.”

  I chuckled in spite of myself. “Embarrass Melly in front of her friends and you’ll wind up the murder victim.”

  CHAPTER 2

  IT WAS A perfect day for a wedding.

  The Turner-Driscoll House provided the ideal venue for April nuptials. The lawn looked as lush as cut green velvet. Masses of pink and white azaleas flanked the flagstone patio while a trellis groaned under a profusion of dainty yellow Lady Banks roses. Deep purple wisteria fairly dripped from the eaves of the gazebo where the ceremony would take place. Women in pretty summery dresses and men sporting suits and ties congregated in small groups while others had already taken their seats. It looked like a scene straight from the pages of Southern Living.

  Reba Mae tugged my arm and prodded me toward the rows of white folding chairs that had been positioned on either side of a crushed-shell path leading to the gazebo. “Let’s sit where we can take a gander at who’s who.”

  We slipped into chairs in one of the back rows. I motioned toward the people in the front row. “That must be Cot’s daughter and her family from Atlanta.”

  “Too bad Chad couldn’t get away for his meemaw’s weddin’. Sure would have been nice, him seein’ Melly marry her Prince Charmin’.”

  I sighed. “I wish he could be here, too.”

  My son’s studies as a pre-med student at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, took precedence over everything else. As one of a group of elite students, Chad had been selected to attend a seminar in Boston this weekend where one of his professors was a guest speaker. Chad had been torn with indecision, but, in the end, Melly had made the choice easier by reminding him of the bright future awaiting him. They agreed to share quality time together during his summer break.

  Mavis Gray, a sour-faced woman in her mid-to-late sixties and one of Melly’s bridge buddies, paused next to us. “Has either of you seen Shirley? She said she was bringing the Dixons with her.”

  I twisted in my seat and scanned the crowd. “No. Sorry, I haven’t seen her or the Dixons.”

  Mavis clucked her tongue. “Shirley promised to do everything in her power to make a favorable impression on the couple. She knows how desperate I am to sell.”

  After Mavis moved on to a vacant seat next to Mayor Hemmings and his wife, Dottie, Reba Mae leaned closer and said, “I thought for sure Shirley would be here, dressed to the nines, and bring Wyatt as her date.”

  I shot Reba Mae a look designed to let her know I didn’t want to hear about McBride and his love life. “Great turnout,” I said, refusing to rise to the bait. “This was originally supposed to be a small, intimate affair, but the guest list kept growing and growing.”

  “Why do you suppose Melly invited that Dixon couple to her weddin’? She only met Elaine last week at the shower.”

  “Shirley asked that they be included. It turns out, Cot is acquainted with Kirby’s uncle who is also a judge. Years ago, they were on the same panel at a symposium in upstate New York. Small world, isn’t it?”

  Reba Mae nodded, sending her chandelier earrings dancing. “The Kevin Bacon principle strikes again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You know,” she said. “Six degrees of separation.” At my blank look, she went on to elaborate. “It’s based on the theory that no one is more than six relationships away from any other person in the world. Apparently it started as a parlor game, Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, where players linked celebrities to Bacon by movies they had in common.”

  McBride, I knew, was a movie buff just as I was. I wondered how he’d score playing the game. It might be fun to find out—provided he wasn’t spending all his free time with a certain real estate agent.

  All conversation ceased at the first notes of a processional from a string quartet who were stationed a discreet distance from the gazebo. That was the cue for Cot and a man with a clerical collar whom I recognized as the priest from St. Mark’s Episcopal Church to proceed down the path to the gazebo.

  Melly would be proud as punch of her bridegroom. For someone who managed to be rumpled even in permanent press, Cot appeared uncharacteristically dapper and wrinkle-free in a three-piece navy suit. For his special day, he’d even trimmed his mustache and tamed his mop of gray hair into submission.

  As Cot and the clergyman climbed the steps of the gazebo and took their places, all heads turned toward the house. French doors of the Turner-Driscoll House opened, and a little five-year-old girl stepped onto the flagstones. Melly had informed me that Cot’s pride and joy, his great-granddaughter, Emma Grace, was to be part of the ceremony. Emma Grace, all bouncing curls, ruffles and ribbons, smiled shyly, then, at a nod of encouragement from Great-Granddad, started forward sprinkling rose petals along the way from a small basket.

  Lindsey, who was acting as her grandmother’s maid of honor, appeared next. My heart swelled with maternal pride at the sight of my girl, pretty as a picture, all grown-up, yet still my baby. The silk of her pale blue dress rustled as she slowly walked down the crushed-shell pathway holding a single white calla lily.

  Behind her, Melly, positively radiant in a dupioni silk suit that was the same blue gray as her eyes, advanced down the path on the arm of her son. CJ cut a fine figure, his blond hair gleaming in the late-afternoon sunlight. My heart gave an unexpected lurch at the sight of him, then settled back into place. It wasn’t that I still harbored feelings for my ex, yet for a fleeting second my mind flashed back to another time, another life. Under a veneer of sophistication, he still bore traces of the sunburned youth I’d fallen head over heels in love with light-years ago.

  Melly mounted the steps of the gazebo and stood beside Cot facing their wedding guests. After giving his mother a kiss on the cheek, CJ took his place alongside Amber, who occupied a prominent seat in the front row across from Cot’s family.

  The priest opened the Book of Common Prayer. “We are gathered here today in the presence of family and friends to unite…”

  “Sorry, sorry.” An out-of-breath Vicki Lamont squeezed past Reba Mae and me to take the single remaining seat. “I know, I know, I’m late, I’m late.”

  I didn’t know whether to be annoyed at her tardiness or amused by her rendition of the White Rabbit. Poor Vicki, the woman really did seem harried. She hadn’t even taken time with her hair or makeup, which was totally out of character for the divorcée. I decided to cut her some slack and returned my attention to the w
edding in progress.

  “For richer, for poorer…”

  Off to my left, I heard the heart-thumping, full-of-foreboding, iconic theme song from the movie Jaws. I craned my neck to find the source and saw Beau Tucker, sergeant in the Brandywine Creek Police Department, frantically digging through the pockets of his too-tight sports coat while his wife, Jolene, gave him the stink eye.

  “In sickness and in health…”

  I noticed that Beau finally managed to silence his phone but after listening to the caller scrambled from his seat and hurried off.

  “To love and to cherish from this day forward,” the priest continued, unfazed. “To share the good times and the bad. Till death do us part.”

  As if conjured by the word “death,” the unmistakable chalk-on-a-blackboard screech from Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho shrilled loudly. It was as though an invisible hand pulled a switch. Everyone did a freeze-frame. Even the musicians ceased playing. In front of me, John Strickland, mortician and country coroner, rose and, cell phone in hand, eased out of his seat. “’Scuse me,” he muttered as he hastily made his exit.

  The priest cleared his throat, and everyone seemed to snap out of the strange spell. “Cottrell Herman and Melly Prescott, I now pronounce you man and wife. Cot, you may kiss your bride.”

  I couldn’t tell who looked happier, Cot or Melly. A spontaneous burst of applause greeted the couple’s first kiss as man and wife.

  Suddenly the toe-tapping strains of Garth Brooks crooning “Friends in Low Places” blared out. I couldn’t believe my ears at the timing. A glance at the musicians’ startled and confused faces showed they were equally perplexed.

  “Is this turnin’ into a karaoke weddin’?” Reba Mae asked in a low voice.

  Up front and to the right, I saw Bob Sawyer, reporter and photographer for The Statesman, Brandywine Creek’s weekly newspaper, stare at the screen of his cell phone. He mumbled excuses to his wife of thirty-some years and left the wedding with a bounce in his step that signaled breaking news.

  To their credit, Cot and Melly ignored the rash of phone calls and odd ringtones and proceeded back down the aisle as though nothing out of the ordinary had transpired.

  “Well,” I said to no one in particular. “That was certainly interesting. What do you suppose is going on?”

  “Don’t have a clue, hon, but I’m ready for a snack or two washed down by a nice glass of champagne.”

  Beside us, Vicki scooped her hair into a ponytail and fastened it with a scrunchie. “Lead the way.”

  After passing through a receiving line exchanging hugs and kisses, Vicki, Reba Mae, and I made a beeline toward a long linen-draped table laden with a wide assortment of finger foods. A three-tiered wedding cake anchored one end. We heaped our plates with dainty sandwiches, mini crab cakes, and the ubiquitous deviled eggs and cheese straws.

  While Vicki and Reba Mae discussed the pros and cons of outdoor weddings, my eyes scanned the crowd. Beau Tucker was nowhere to be seen. His wife seemed bent on making the best of her husband’s absence by sticking close to her friends Gerilee and Pete Barker. I looked but didn’t see any sign of either the coroner or reporter. All three men had simply vanished. Curiouser and curiouser.

  “Am I the only one who thinks it strange the county coroner left before the final ‘I dos’?” I asked, nibbling a tea sandwich—dried tomato and basil on a triangle of dark pumpernickel spread with cream cheese. “You don’t suppose…?”

  “Nah”—Reba Mae sampled chicken salad nestled in a lettuce cup—“we haven’t had a murder in Brandywine Creek for what? Five or six months?”

  I shuddered at the grim statistic. Our postcard-pretty town where nothing ever happened had experienced a crime wave, but, much to the relief of the mayor and town council, things had settled down. Mayor Harvey Hemmings had threatened to hand in his resignation and move to Florida the next time a body was found dead under mysterious circumstances.

  “Maybe old man Abernathy finally kicked the bucket,” Vicki suggested. “Brig must be old as Methuselah.”

  Reba Mae nodded sagely. “The old geezer is gettin’ on in years. He must be close to ninety.”

  “Shirley says Brig’s still sharp as a tack. She claims he even uses a computer.” Vicki added one of the lettuce cups to her plate. “According to her, he keeps a firm hand on the reins of the businesses he owns.”

  “Or all the fuss might could be an old lady over at the nursin’ home.” Reba Mae made room on her plate for a strawberry tart. “Probably protocol to call out the troops whenever one of their patients passes on to their heavenly reward.”

  “I suppose.…”

  Reba Mae pointed her fork at her plate. “You oughta try one of these, sugar. This curried chicken salad is so good it will make you drool.”

  “No, thanks. I’m saving room for cake.” My mind wandered from food back to the guest list. Other than Shirley and the Dixons, her perspective clients, certain people were conspicuously absent. Wanda Needmore, CJ’s paralegal, and Dale Simons, her beau, either hadn’t received an invite or had opted out of attending a garden wedding. I also realized belatedly that neither Mary Beth nor Matt Wainwright was present, which I found rather odd. Melly knew the couple well since Matt and CJ were law partners and had been for years. Surely Matt and Mary Beth would have been invited to the festivities.

  When Vicki ambled over to talk to CJ and Amber, I dragged Reba Mae away from the refreshment table. Partially hidden behind the Lady Banks roses, we were close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation Jolene Tucker was having on her cell phone. From what I could gauge from Jolene’s voice, she didn’t sound happy.

  “What do you mean you’re not coming back?” Jolene snapped.

  Reba Mae started to speak, but I held a finger to my lips to shush her.

  “How do you expect me to get home?” Jolene asked. “Walk?”

  A silence ensued as the party on the other end gave a lengthy explanation for his absence. Assuming she was talking to her husband, Beau, who had left midway through the ceremony, I inched closer.

  “Fine,” Jolene sighed in resignation. “Of course you can’t leave a crime scene. I’ll have Pete and Gerilee give me a lift.”

  Crime scene? Reba Mae’s eyes widened at hearing this. Mine probably did the same. Had a perfect day for a wedding turned into a perfect day for a murder?

  CHAPTER 3

  FELICITY STOOD ON the flagstone patio and clapped her hands for attention. “Ladies and gentlemen. It’s time for the bride and groom to cut the wedding cake.”

  “’Scuse me.” Lindsey skirted around us. A Nikon camera, an early high school graduation present from her father, hung from a strap around her neck. She was the self-appointed unofficial photographer for the day. Guests gathered in a loose semi-circle to watch the traditional cake cutting while Lindsey snapped photos to capture the occasion.

  I didn’t need cake; I needed information. My mind was still reeling from hearing the words “crime scene.” I drifted over to where a makeshift bar had been set up at the base of a huge pecan tree. I found Ned Feeney, gofer and jack-of-all-trades, wrestling with a bottle of champagne. The champagne appeared to be winning the battle.

  “Hey, Ned,” I said. “I see you’ve been pressed into service.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, giving me a loopy grin. The handyman never failed to remind me of the character Gomer Pyle, ably played by Jim Nabors, on The Andy Griffith Show. “Beside tendin’ bar, Miz Driscoll hired me to help with settin’ up and takin’down.”

  A glance over my shoulder showed people still hovered around the wedding cake. “Um, Ned, I know you also help Mr. Strickland over at the Eternal Rest. He was here earlier, but he had a phone call and disappeared. I wondered if you knew why.”

  “Gosh, no! Better check my phone.” Ned plunked the champagne bottle on the bar and extracted a flip phone from the pocket of baggy black slacks that looked stiff and new. “Uh-oh. I’m in trouble now. Guess I forget to turn my phone back o
n after the ceremony.”

  I watched his panic escalate as he listened to a voice mail.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  Ned whipped off his bartender apron and flung it aside. “Mr. Strickland wants me to drive the coroner’s van out to Chief McBride’s place. He sounded real upset.”

  “The coroner’s van?” I echoed.

  “He said a weddin’ was no place for the van so he drove his Buick instead. He always keeps extra supplies in the trunk—in case of emergencies—but needs the van to transport the body.”

  I grabbed Ned’s sleeve before he could run off. “What body? Who died?”

  “Didn’t say.” Ned’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “Gotta run. Tell Miz Driscoll I’m on an important mission.”

  A dead body at McBride’s? McBride…?

  I shivered, suddenly chilled to the marrow of my bones. Blood hammered so fiercely through my veins I was finding it hard to think.

  “Hey, honeybun.” Reba Mae appeared at my side with a plate of wedding cake. “I wondered where you ran off to. You need to taste this. It’s amazin’.”

  I snatched the plate out of her hand and set it on the bar. “Let’s go.”

  “Go…? Go where?”

  Practically at a run, I headed for the front of the house where I’d left my VW at the curb.

  “Hey, girlfriend, slow down,” Reba Mae protested, trying to keep up with my brisk pace. “Show some mercy. I’m wearin’ brand-new four-inch heels.”

  Thankful my Beetle wasn’t hemmed in by all the vehicles clogging Felicity’s circular drive, I jumped in and started the engine. Reba Mae barely had time to slam the passenger door shut before I peeled off down the street.

  “What’s so all-fired important that we couldn’t enjoy a nice piece of cake?”

  “A body was found out at McBride’s place.”

  “Aw, c’mon. You don’t think anythin’s happened to Wyatt, do you?”

  I impatiently waited for the stoplight to change from red to green. “I don’t know what to think, but I can’t just sit around not knowing.”