by Gail Oust
Dottie patted her hair. “Shirley deserves a real nice send-off. The women’s guild at St. Mark’s always puts on the loveliest funeral luncheons. Harvey swears the Methodist ladies make the best desserts, but when it comes to fancy, the Episcopal women can’t be beat.”
“Anything else?” I asked Gerilee, hoping to sidetrack Dottie before she delved into doom and gloom.
Gerilee must have been operating on the same wavelength, because she quickly followed my lead. “While you’re at it, I’ll take a small jar of powdered mustard. I used up the last of mine, and I like to add it to my glaze.”
“Does Shirley have family close by?” Dottie asked. “I don’t recall her mentioning anyone.”
“I believe she has a brother in Macon, or maybe Albany.”
I had returned to the counter with the powdered mustard and started to ring up the sale when Mary Beth Wainwright walked into Spice It Up! Mary Beth was the wife of CJ’s longtime law partner, Matt Wainwright. Only five foot four with a muscular build, Mary Beth wore her streaked hair short in an easy-to-care-for style. She kept busy volunteering at the high school where she had worked as PE teacher. Once upon a time we had been friends of sorts, but our friendship had waned since my divorce.
“Hey, Mary Beth,” I said with a smile. “I’ll be with you soon as I finish helping Gerilee.”
Mary Beth didn’t return the smile. “Take your time.”
“I was surprised you and Matt weren’t at the wedding,” Dottie commented. “Did you and Melly have a falling-out?”
“No, of course not,” Mary Beth replied, her tone curt. “Something came up, so we sent our regrets along with a generous gift.”
Gerilee handed me a twenty. “Terrible about Shirley, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s all everyone is talking about.”
I glanced up from making change. “Did you know her well, Mary Beth?”
“Not very, but Matt was her attorney. Not long ago Shirley had him draw up her will. He didn’t think a thing of it at that time, but in retrospect…” She shrugged.
Dottie’s bleached bubble of hair bobbed up and down in agreement. “A will is the only sensible thing for a single person to do. My advice is don’t die without one.”
“Dottie’s right, you know,” Gerilee said. “Pete’s cousin Judy died without a will and it took him more than two years as executor to settle her estate.”
“What about you, Piper?” Dottie asked. “Do you have a will?”
“Um, no, I don’t.”
“Shame on you.” Dottie wagged her finger at me. “Now that you and CJ are divorced, you need to step up. Face your responsibilities. Surely you don’t want your poor children to be saddled with tough decisions. Besides a will there are dozens of details to address. You need to let your loved ones know what you want to wear at your viewing. And don’t forget to divide up your good jewelry. Last thing you’ll want is for Lindsey and Chad to squabble over who gets your engagement ring and who gets your pearls.”
Gerilee rolled her eyes, then took the bag of spices I handed her. “Thanks for the coffee, Piper. Sorry, but I’ve got errands to run.”
Mary Beth looked as though she’d like to race her to the door. “I can’t stay either, Piper. I only stopped by to ask if you’d be willing to serve on the Parents Prom Committee. As you know, senior prom is almost here, and there are still some vacancies to fill.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sign me up. I’ll be glad to help wherever I can.”
“Great! I’ll get back to you.” With that, she turned and departed.
Dottie stared after her. “That’s odd. Mary Beth seemed more concerned about the prom committee than she did about Shirley.”
“You know Mary Beth is involved in most of the school activities. She probably has a lot on her mind. Plus, it wasn’t as if she and Shirley were buddies.”
“I suppose, but don’t you’d think she’d at least show some emotion?”
Wishing Dottie would leave, too, I’d just taken another sip of coffee and discovered it had grown cold when a stranger wandered through the door. A man, who appeared to be in his late twenties, stood in the center of the shop and gazed around looking perplexed. Dottie stared at him as though he were an alien from another planet.
The stranger could have been the poster child for Mr. Average American. Average in height, weight, and build, with medium-brown hair cut short and neatly parted, he wore tortoiseshell eyeglasses that lent him a professorial air. His shirt and jeans were as crisp as a newly minted dollar bill. He was the type to easily blend into a crowd and instantly become invisible.
“Can I help you?” I asked, reverting to my role as friendly shopkeeper.
He gave me a tentative smile. “I noticed women coming in and out of here so I decided to find out what the attraction was. Is this a cooking store of some sort?”
“To be more exact, this is a spice shop. Every spice a cook might possibly need from A to Z, anise to za’atar.” I had yet to make my first sale of za’atar, a Middle Eastern table condiment blended from a multitude of spices, but I liked to boast that I literally stocked everything from A to Z. “Feel free to browse. I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
Not waiting for an introduction, Dottie stuck out a pudgy hand. “I’m Dottie Hemmings. My husband’s the mayor of Brandywine Creek. I don’t recall seeing you before. You must be either new in town or a visitor.”
“How do you do?” he said, shaking Dottie’s hand. “I’m Colin Flynn. This is my first visit to Brandywine Creek. I’m thinking of buying a place here and settling down.”
I folded my arms across my chest and studied the earnest young man. “Why choose Brandywine Creek?”
He shrugged. “I was looking for a place off the beaten path. Somewhere peaceful and quiet.”
If he were familiar with the town’s recent history, Colin Flynn might have decided to hightail it out of here as fast as he could. “If there’s any way we can be of help…”
“Actually, there is.” He tugged his earlobe. “I planned to check out some real estate. I had a meeting scheduled for this morning with a Realtor, but there must’ve been a miscommunication. Creekside Realty has crime scene tape strung across the entrance.”
Dottie and I looked at each other, neither one of us eager to break the news about Shirley.
“I don’t suppose,” Colin continued, “you know where I might find Ms. Randolph. We’ve corresponded a number of times via email. She promised to have a few properties lined up to show me. I’ve been calling and texting her, but no response.”
I tucked a wayward strand of hair behind my ear. “I, ah, hate to be the bearer of bad news, but Shirley Randolph’s dead.”
“Dead…?” His jaw dropped and his eyes widened in shock. “How? What happened?”
“Do you want a glass of water?” I don’t exactly know what miracle water is supposed to perform, but it seemed to be the standard remedy in times of stress.
“Thanks, no,” he said with a slight shake of his head. “Do you know what happened?”
“It’s too soon for anyone to know the details, but her body was found yesterday afternoon,” I explained.
“She drowned,” Dottie volunteered. “It might’ve been the result of a lovers’ quarrel.”
“This is all quite a surprise,” he murmured. “I don’t want to sound callous, but will someone be taking over for her at the real estate agency?”
I hadn’t given the matter much thought, but his question was valid. “I’m not sure,” I said slowly.
Dottie snapped her fingers. “Vicki Lamont. She’s the person you need to contact. She’s relatively new to the business, but I’m sure she’ll be more than happy to help you. Her name’s in the phone book. L-a-m-o-n-t.”
“Thanks, I’ll look her up. Appreciate your help, ladies.”
As he turned to leave, I noticed the price tag still attached to the back pocket of his jeans.
Dottie’s brow puckered in a fr
own. “Can’t quite put my finger on it, but there’s something fishy about that young man.”
CHAPTER 5
LATER THAT AFTERNOON Reba Mae swung into Spice It Up! holding a take-and-go container. “Hey, honeybun, I brought you leftovers.”
I took the container from her and peeked inside. “Mmm, yum, your grandmother’s goulash. What’s the occasion?”
“Nothin’ special.” Reba Mae stooped to pat Casey on the head, then waltzed over to the coffeemaker and filled a mug with coffee. “Couldn’t settle after gettin’ home yesterday, so I did some kitchen therapy. Made enough to feed a small army.”
“Well, your leftovers found a good home.” I placed the container in the fridge, then, even though I’d already met my daily quota of caffeine, poured myself another cup.
“Cook up some noodles, reheat the goulash, and you’ll have a nice meal for you and Lindsey.”
Cradling my mug in both hands, I leaned next to Reba Mae at the counter and savored the peace and quiet after a nonstop morning. Somehow my little shop had become a hub when it came to exchanging of information—I prefer the term “information” rather than “gossip.” Today all the women were eager to learn and rehash details surrounding Shirley’s death. At last count, the pendulum of popular opinion was swinging toward suicide. No one wanted to consider the alternative. Yet the notion of a homicide lingered in the air like the smell of a cheap cigar. I couldn’t help wish the cause of death had been determined. If so, it would put an end to much of the speculation running rampant.
“The first anniversary of Spice It Up! is coming up soon,” I said to Reba Mae as a diversion. “I want to do something special to mark the occasion. I’m thinking along the lines of a cooking demonstration and giveaway. Would you be willing to show everyone how you make your Hungarian goulash?” I held up my hand to forestall the objections I saw brewing. “I know you don’t have a bashful bone in your body, so don’t try to tell me you get nervous talking in front of people.”
“I’m not sure folks would be all that interested. What if no one shows? You know how easily my feelin’s get hurt.”
“You don’t have to give me your answer this minute. All I’m asking is for you to sleep on it. You’ve been making that recipe for years and could probably fix it in your sleep.”
Reba Mae narrowed her eyes and shot me a calculating look. “What’s in it for me?”
“How about next time we go to North of the Border it’s my treat?”
Reba Mae pretended to ponder my offer, then grinned. “Sure, why not? Guess I can be bought for the price of margarita and a beef burrito.”
“Fantastic. I’ll set the wheels in motion.” We clinked coffee mugs to seal the deal. “A stranger wandered into the shop earlier,” I continued in a different vein. “He claimed he had an appointment with Shirley to view some properties but hadn’t been able to reach her. Dottie and I had to break the news that Shirley was dead. Don’t suppose any of your clients might’ve mentioned if, or when, Creekside Realty might reopen?”
“Mary Lou Lambert was in the Klassy Kut early this mornin’ for a touch-up. Accordin’ to her, Vicki Lamont’s the one who’ll most likely be takin’ over. Also accordin’ to Mary Lou, Vicki was madder than a wet hen at Shirley. Said she won’t be sheddin’ any tears at her memorial service.”
How mad could a “wet hen” get? I wondered. “I thought Vicki and Shirley were good friends. Especially since Shirley helped Vicki break into the real estate business when she desperately needed a job after her divorce from Kenny.”
Reba Mae nodded. “It was either that or take a job at the water department.”
“What happened to cause a rift?”
“From what I heard, Vicki considered them good friends, too, until Shirley showed her true colors.”
“I want details, nice, juicy details.” I crossed one ankle over the other and sipped my coffee.
Reba Mae copied my casual pose. “Shirley stole a potentially hefty commission right from under Vicki’s nose, that’s what happened.”
“No way.”
“Way.” Reba Mae bobbed her head for emphasis. “Mary Lou said Vicki told her that she was the one who first mentioned showin’ the Granger house to the Dixons. You know it’s stood empty since Craig moved back to Michigan. Next thing Vicki knew, Shirley was showin’ the Dixons around, actin’ like it was all her idea. Vicki called it a double dip. Both listin’ and sellin’ the place would bring in a sizeable sum.” She rubbed her thumb and fingers together to simulate show me the money.
“That must’ve gotten Vicki’s goat.”
“Not just her goat, hon, the whole freakin’ farm. Vicki was livid. Absolutely livid. Ask Mary Lou her opinion, she’ll tell you Shirley needed to buy herself a Kevlar vest.”
“Interesting,” I said. “Vicki’s been struggling with finances ever since her divorce. She counted on Kenny setting her up with the lifestyle to which she’d grown accustomed.”
“Instead, Kenny declared bankruptcy.” Reba Mae gestured with her coffee mug. “Talk has it, he’s tendin’ bar at some sleazy dive in Key West. Vicki’s convinced he’s hidin’ his money in the Caymans, but can’t prove it. She complained she’d been out-lawyered.”
“Who was her lawyer?”
“None other than your ex.”
I finished my coffee. “CJ found his niche with trip and falls. He shouldn’t venture out of his comfort zone.”
“Uh-huh,” Reba Mae agreed. “Vicki’s makin’ noise about suin’ CJ for incompetence but can’t afford to.”
I glimpsed a familiar figure clad in a navy blue uniform outside the front entrance. “Looks like we’re about to have a visitor.”
Reba Mae and I straightened automatically as Wyatt McBride strode through the door. His face with its sculpted cheekbones and strong jaw, generous gifts of DNA, wore a set expression. His mouth was a grim line and shadows underlined his cool blue eyes.
“Hey, Wyatt,” Reba Mae chirped. “You don’t look too good.”
I’d debate that point with my friend later. McBride always looked good. It wasn’t just me either; I’d bet a jar of pricey saffron most of the ladies in town would agree with my assessment of movie-star handsome. It would take more than dark circles to detract from his blatant sex appeal.
“Thanks for pointing that out, Reba Mae,” he said.
“Cheer up. Nothin’ a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
“Sleep’s not high on my priority list right now. Not after finding a body at my fishing hole.”
“It’s a shame about Shirley,” I said, smoothing an apron that didn’t need smoothing. “Everyone’s saying you were close.”
Casey scampered out of the storeroom, his tail wagging furiously, and practically begged McBride to scratch the sweet spot behind his ears. McBride obliged, then straightened. “I’d hardly call us ‘close.’ She was my Realtor. We had dinner together on a couple occasions to discuss business.”
So … they weren’t an item? I felt my mood traitorously lift at hearing this.
“Hey, Wyatt, just so you know up front, Piper and me aren’t buyin’ the gossip goin’ around about you and Shirley havin’ a lovers’ spat.”
“Good to hear, Reba Mae. I’ll rest easier knowing you don’t think I’m responsible for Shirley dying.”
“Has the medical examiner come back with a report on cause of death?” I asked.
“I’m waiting on it. Until then, my department treats every suspicious death as a possible homicide.” He pulled a small notepad and pen from his shirt pocket. “I’m making the rounds on all the merchants along Main Street who might’ve seen or talked to Shirley in the last week or two. Piper, do you recall when you last saw her?”
“Let me think.” Picking up a cloth, I rubbed an imaginary spot off the counter. “With Creekside Realty down the block, I’ve seen her come and go a few times. She always carries … carried … her computer whenever she left the office.”
McBride jotted this in his little
black book. “When did you last to talk to her?”
“We exchanged a few words the day of Melly’s bridal shower.”
“And what about the day before?” Reba Mae piped. “Remember, Shirley comin’ and askin’ you to invite Elaine Dixon, the wife of a potential buyer she had on the hook for Gray’s Hardware? Shirley wanted her client to experience a dose of real Southern hospitality.”
I abandoned my housekeeping chores. “Oh, that’s right. I’d nearly forgotten. She dropped in shortly after we watched you and Shirley on the sidewalk laughing it up.”
He raised a brow. “I didn’t realize our conversation made headline news.”
I shrugged. “Didn’t matter to me one smidgen.”
Reba gave me a look as if to say, Liar-liar-pants-on-fire.
“The last conversation I had with Shirley was about ginger,” I offered.
“Hmm.” Reba Mae gave McBride an arch look. “Shirley plannin’ on doin’ some cookin’? Maybe havin’ a certain somebody over for a cozy dinner for two?”
A muscle ticked in McBride’s jaw, a telltale clue he was irritated, but otherwise he didn’t react. “Did you think her buying ginger was significant?” he asked.
“Shirley didn’t cook.”
“If she didn’t cook, why did she need ginger?”
I tucked an unruly red curl behind one ear. “She said she’d read in a magazine that ginger relieved occasional indigestion. I suggested she try making ginger tea.”
Ginger tea and indigestion didn’t seem to merit a notation in McBride’s book. “Was Shirley acting strangely? Seem depressed? Worried?”
“Seemed on top of the world,” Reba Mae volunteered. “She appeared happy as a clam at the prospect of sellin’ Gray’s Hardware.”
“What do you suppose happened?” I watched McBride close his notebook and slip it into his pocket. “How did Shirley end up on your property?”
“Think it’s a suicide?” Reba Mae asked before he had a chance to answer.
“Haven’t figured it all out yet.”
