by Gail Oust
“The Wyatt McBride I know has the constitution of a rhinoceros. He probably eats Wheaties for breakfast and chews nails for a snack.”
The instant the light changed, I pressed hard on the gas pedal. There was almost no traffic to speak of on a Sunday afternoon as I left Brandywine Creek behind me. I stared straight ahead out the windshield. “Accidents happen all the time. People, seemingly healthy people, have heart attacks, strokes. Aneurysms.”
The remainder of the ride was done in silence.
McBride’s fixer-upper was located off Route 78, a two-lane county road about five miles out of town. I braked and turned down a gravel drive marked by a shiny black mailbox with MCBRIDE neatly stenciled on the side. I navigated my Beetle through a maze of emergency vehicles parked haphazardly, half on, half off the grass. EMTs congregated next to their orange and white ambulance gossiping with a group of firefighters. I counted six police cruisers of various vintage. Depending on the city’s budget, they ran the gamut from the old standby Ford Crown Vic to several late-model Ford Tauruses. I wedged my VW into a gap between John Strickland’s sensible Buick and a spit-polished Harley-Davidson.
“Hey, hon, wait up!” Reba Mae called as I hopped out and rushed toward a group of first responders gathered by the tree line behind McBride’s house.
I didn’t pause to answer her. Ned Feeney, leaning against the bumper of the coroner’s van, gave me a halfhearted wave as I flew past. McBride’s black Ford F-150 pickup, I noted, was parked in its usual spot. Was that a good sign or not? I couldn’t escape the heavy sense of dread that threatened to overwhelm me. The coroner hadn’t been called away in the middle of a wedding for a trip and fall. No, something bad happened. Something really bad.
Reba Mae caught up with me. “What do you s’pose is goin’ on?”
“Wish I knew.” I felt as though I’d run for miles, so I slowed my pace to catch my breath.
“Just wait, hon; you’ll see.” Reba Mae put her arm around my shoulders and squeezed. “Wyatt’s gonna be right as rain.”
But what if he wasn’t? a little voice inside my head whispered. I was a grown woman, no longer naïve. I’d learned that bad things happen to good people all the time.
And for no apparent rhyme or reason.
“Hey, look! There’s my boy.” Reba Mae singled out a strapping six-footer with dark hair wearing a uniform with an arm patch declaring him AUXILIARY POLICE. “Clay will tell us what’s goin’ on.”
Hope surged through me at the thought of having some questions answered.
“Yoo-hoo, Clay!” Reba Mae waved her arm wildly. “Over here.”
Not only Clay but the entire gathering turned to stare at the two women, dressed in wedding finery, who pranced toward them while trying not to snag their high heels in the tall grass or Georgia red clay.
As we drew nearer, I noticed yellow crime scene tape cordoned off the stretch of woods behind McBride’s house. My heart slammed against my rib cage. “Clay, what’s going on? What happened?”
“Sorry, Miz Prescott.” Clay shifted his weight from one foot to the other. His hazel eyes, so like his daddy’s had been, looked troubled. “I’ve been assigned crowd control. Got strict orders to keep my mouth shut and folks out.”
“Surely that doesn’t apply to your momma,” Reba Mae protested, outraged at the notion. “Son, you been confidin’ in me since you were knee-high.”
Clay’s face reddened, as he knew everyone was watching the exchange between him and his mother. “Sorry, Momma, but my lips are sealed. You don’t want me to lose my new job now, do you?”
Reba Mae huffed out a breath but didn’t press her son for information. Frustrated by Clay’s lack of cooperation, I scanned the crowd in search of a friendly face. I considered approaching Bob Sawyer, but the reporter was involved in an intense conversation with a dark-skinned man who appeared to be a fisherman, while feverishly writing in a small notebook. My gaze happened next on a bearded man somewhere in his late fifties or early sixties who was the leader of a local motorcycle club that boasted an unlikely assortment of members. Hoyt and I first met last November when he’d caught me trespassing on his property. After lowering his shotgun, he introduced himself. Since then he’d become a regular customer of mine at Spice It Up!
Summoning a smile, I beckoned to him. “Hoyt, I’m surprised to find you here.”
“Hey there, how’s my favorite redhead?” he asked, separating himself from the group. “I bought myself one of those police scanner thingamajigs so thought I’d ride over, see for myself what was going on.”
Determined not to be ignored, Reba Mae stuck out her hand. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintance. I’m Reba Mae Johnson. That handsome young police officer—who refuses to give his momma the time of day—happens to be Clay Johnson, one of my twins.”
“Friends call me Hoyt.”
“Hoyt?” Reba Mae arched a brow. “That a first or last name?”
“S. W. Hoyt at your service, ma’am. Mostly I answer to just plain Hoyt.”
I gave Reba Mae a sharp jab in the ribs. My BFF had picked a fine time for a flirtation when there were more important matters at sake. “Hoyt, what have you been able to find out so far?”
He folded his arms across his burly chest and shook his head. “Not much. All I know is folks claim a body was found floating facedown in McBride’s favorite fishing hole.”
My stomach lurched at hearing this. The little bit I’d eaten at the wedding reception threatened to return for an encore. “Do you have any idea who the body belongs to?” I asked; my voice was barely above a whisper.
“Nope,” Hoyt said with a shake of his head. “Don’t have a clue.”
“Where’s Chief McBride?” a male voice bellowed. “I demand he tell me what the Sam Hill’s goin’ on!”
Everyone turned to see Mayor Harvey Hemmings, trailed by his wife, Dottie, make his way toward the cordoned-off area. Impatient with the lack of parking, the man had driven his Chevy Impala as close as he could before getting out, even though it meant leaving ruts in McBride’s lawn. The mayor’s round-as-a-dinner-plate face was flushed an unhealthy shade of red. Sweat dripped from his brow. Dottie, stiffly corseted in a pink-flowered dress, hurried to catch up with her husband.
“Isn’t that just like hizzoner?” Reba Mae muttered. “Reelection’s comin’ up right quick. Hope next time around the mayor’s finds some tough competition.”
“’Bout time,” Hoyt agreed.
Reba Mae’s son Clay observed Hemmings heading straight toward the roped-off area and stepped forward to intercept him.
“Out of my way, sonny!” the mayor growled, and made to brush Clay aside.
Clay held firm. “Sorry, sir, but with all due respect, no one is allowed beyond this point. It’s a crime scene.”
“Crime scene!” the mayor hollered. “I told McBride, in no uncertain terms, no more crime scenes.”
“Harvey, dear”—Dottie patted her husband’s arm—“remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.”
“This town—my town—is getting a bad reputation.” He poked a pudgy finger in Clay’s chest. “I’m warnin’ you, son, let me pass, or you’ll be out on your ear. I’ve got clout around this town, so don’t test me.”
As though by magic, McBride emerged from the woods. “Lay another finger on my officer, Mayor, and I’ll bring you up on charges of assault and battery.”
Hemmings dropped his hand as though burned.
A profound sense of relief washed over me at McBride’s sudden appearance. I stared at him. I simply couldn’t drag my eyes away. He wasn’t dead but hale and hearty and as handsome as ever. Instead of a uniform, he wore faded jeans, ripped at the knee, and a gray T-shirt bearing the logo of the Miami-Dade Police Department, where he’d worked as a detective before returning to his hometown. His dark hair was mussed as though he’d plowed his fingers through it countless times. But he was alive. Alive and unharmed.
“You threaten
ing me, Chief?” Hemmings demanded. Sucking in his rotund belly, he drew himself up to his full five foot six, which still left him more than six inches shy of McBride’s height.
“More than a threat, Mayor.” McBride didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. A look at his glacier blue eyes told everyone that he meant business.
Reba Mae nudged me. “See what Wyatt’s holdin’?” she whispered.
It was then that I noticed the plastic evidence bag he carried. I moved forward a fraction for a better look and made out the shape of a shoe. A woman’s shoe.
The crowd, me included, drew closer, propelled by an invisible force field called a need to know. Which, in my case, translated into just plain nosiness.
Bob Sawyer wasn’t easily intimidated. An attribute that made him excel at his job as a reporter. “Chief, were you able to identify the victim?”
His jaw set, McBride started up the lawn toward where the emergency vehicles were parked. “No comment.”
“What happens next?” Bob persisted, following McBride like a bloodhound on the heels of breaking news.
“The body will be sent to the GBI crime lab in Atlanta for an autopsy to determine cause of death.”
“Can you at least tell us if the victim was male or female?”
“Female!” Reba Mae called out. “I’d know that suede leopard print pump anywhere. It’s Shirley Randolph’s.”
“Shirley’s?” I gasped.
The mayor scratched his head. “Why in tarnation would Shirley’s shoe be floatin’ in a fishin’ hole?”
“Are you positive the shoe was hers?” Bob Sawyer asked Reba Mae, his notebook out, his pen poised.
“Of course I’m positive.” Reba Mae turned to me for support. “Do I know shoes, or don’t I?”
I nodded. “Reba Mae is my go-to person whenever it comes to footwear.”
“I suffered a severe case of shoe envy the first time I saw Shirley in them shoes,” Reba Mae proclaimed for everyone to hear. “They must’ve cost a pretty penny.”
“What do you suppose Shirley was doing way out here?” Dottie Hemmings asked, sounding innocent as a lamb.
Harvey took out a snowy linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. “How am I supposed to know what goes on in a woman’s head?”
“Were Shirley Randolph and the chief … sweet on each other?” Hoyt stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels.
“Rumor has it that Shirley and McBride were an item,” Dottie informed him, looking smug. “Maybe they had a lovers’ quarrel?”
“Really?” I’d heard enough. There were few things in life Dottie loved more than gossip. If gossip wasn’t readily available, she’d create some. “Dottie, are you implying Shirley drowned herself because she and McBride argued?”
Dottie patted her blond beehive that was lacquered harder than a linebacker’s helmet. “Women in love, dearie, have been known to behave foolishly.”
Bob Sawyer cocked his head to one side. “So, Dottie, you’re telling me you believe Shirley and McBride were lovers? You think McBride might’ve wanted to break it off and, as a result, Shirley committed suicide? Can I quote you on that?”
“No comment. Come, Dottie.” Mayor Hemmings took his wife by the arm and dragged her away.
From the look on Dottie Hemming’s face, I could tell she wasn’t happy at leaving. If she’d had her way, they would’ve stayed until the last juicy morsel had been squeezed dry. Why would anyone think Shirley killed herself? I wondered. Shirley seemed to have it all: beauty, brains, money, career. And why chose to do the deed on McBride’s property? I know she and McBride had a friendship of sorts—was friendship another name for relationship?—because I’d seen them dining together a time or two. Had that progressed into something more than sharing a plate of chili cheese fries?
Bob Sawyer turned his attention on me. “What about you, Piper? You’ve earned a reputation as an amateur sleuth. Surely you must have a theory or two you’d like to share with our readers.”
Before I could frame an appropriate reply, a trio of men, led by the coroner, John Strickland, broke through the woods bearing a body bag on a stretcher. The coroner held a second evidence bag, this one containing what appeared to be women’s clothing. Silence greeted the men’s appearance. Slowly, wordlessly, the entourage made its way across McBride’s yard to the van waiting to transport Shirley’s body to the state’s crime lab.
I frowned. The women’s clothing didn’t make sense. It was too early in the season—even for kids—to go skinny-dipping. I couldn’t imagine Shirley undressing, jumping into a spring-fed pond, then dying. In my humble opinion, it almost seemed the clothes had been planted at the site as an afterthought.
But if not suicide, then what? Homicide…?
CHAPTER 4
MONDAY, MONDAY, CAN’T trust that day …
The lyrics of the Mamas & the Papas classic played through my head as I scooped coffee beans—Colombian—into the grinder in my kitchenette at the back of my shop and turned on the switch. I’d spent a restless night trying to piece together the puzzle of Shirley Randolph’s death. Reba Mae and I had hung around till the last of the emergency vehicles rolled out. Next, Hoyt roared off on his Harley. As best as I could calculate from comments I’d overheard, the vote was split fifty-fifty between homicide and suicide with a few holdouts in favor of accidental drowning. Personally, I wasn’t ready to cast my ballot.
“So, do you think McBride’s responsible for what happened to Shirley?” Dottie asked as she breezed through the door resplendent in purple polyester.
I turned off the coffee grinder and dumped the ground beans into the filter basket of the coffeemaker. I’d already had my first cup of java upstairs in my apartment, but this promised to be an entire-pot kind of day. “Isn’t it a little early to be jumping to conclusions?”
“It doesn’t take me long to make up my mind. I have a sixth sense about certain things.”
“Well, I’m glad there are medical examiners who rely on science rather than ESP.”
Dottie plunked her purse on the counter, a surefire sign she planned to stay awhile. “McBride and Shirley were seeing each other. I watched him go in and out of Creekside Realty numerous times. And once I saw them having dinner at North of the Border. They were sharing a basket of tortilla chips.”
“That isn’t exactly the same as picking out a china pattern.” I filled the reservoir of the coffeemaker, then hit the ON button.
“Everyone agrees McBride is not one to be tied down. But, then, he probably never encountered a more persistent woman than Shirley. No challenge too big, no challenge too small. Once she set her sights on McBride, he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. She wasn’t one to give up easily.”
Not many people were aware McBride was a widower, not a bachelor. He’d confided once in a rare moment that he’d been married briefly in his early twenties while serving in the army and stationed at Fort Huachuca, Arizona. The marriage had ended tragically when his young wife had been killed in a car crash. He’d never remarried.
Using a microfiber cloth, I wiped water droplets off the counter. “So you’re convinced that when things didn’t work out with McBride Shirley drowned herself?”
Dottie pursed her lips, but before she could frame a response Gerilee Barker, a sturdy no-nonsense woman with permed hair dyed a determined brown, arrived. Gerilee’s husband, Pete, owned and operated Meat on Main, the butcher shop across the square. “Morning!” Gerilee called. “Shame about Shirley, isn’t it? Can’t believe our town might have another murder on its hands.”
“Murder…?” Dottie’s hand fluttered to the neck of her ruffled blouse. “Lord have mercy, give me strength. If that’s the case, Harvey swears he’s leaving town. He’s worried about his legacy as mayor. Doesn’t want Brandywine Creek during his tenure being remembered as the murder capital of the county.”
“That’s ridiculous!” I protested. “Violent crimes aren’t restricted to big cit
ies. Brandywine Creek is simply undergoing a … a…”
“… epidemic?” Gerilee suggested helpfully.
“I prefer to think of it as an unfortunate series of events.” Draping my cloth over the faucet, I pulled mugs from a cupboard. “Coffee, anyone?”
“No thank you, dear,” Dottie said. “I have a sensitivity to caffeine. Drink even one cup and I talk nonstop.”
To keep from making a smart-aleck remark—such as How do you tell the difference?—I concentrated on pouring coffee for Gerilee and myself. “Why would Shirley kill herself?”
“Good question.” Gerilee took a sip and gave a nod of approval. “The woman had everything going for her. Beauty. Successful career. And—judging from the car she drove and the home she just purchased—an enviable income.”
“Maybe her death was an accident,” Dottie suggested. “Ned Feeney told me the body was found naked. What if Shirley decided to go skinny-dipping and ended up with that thing people get when they freeze to death?”
“Hypothermia?” I suggested.
“That’s the word. Water’s spring fed, won’t warm up till the Fourth of July.”
“Or could be she died of natural causes,” Dottie said, her supply of theories seemingly bottomless. “Am I the only one who noticed Shirley hasn’t seemed her usual self lately? I thought she looked a mite peaked at Melly’s shower.”
“Well, regardless of what happened, dead is dead,” Gerilee said with finality. “I almost forgot the reason that brought me here. Piper, I need the biggest jar of cloves you carry.”
Coffee mug in hand, I moved toward the Hoosier cabinet. “Ground or whole?”
“Whole.”
“Here you go.” I handed the cloves to Gerilee.
“Plan on making cookies?” Dottie asked her.
“I had Pete set aside a smoked ham. I thought I’d bake it up to serve at the reception after Shirley’s funeral.”
Dottie’s eyes gleamed at the prospect of a funeral. “Do you know when it will be?”
“Not yet.” Gerilee finished what coffee was left in her cup. “I need to check with Chief McBride to find out when he thinks the body will be released. Afterwards, I’ll visit the rectory at St. Mark’s Episcopal and talk to the priest.”
