Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  “Did Shirley leave a note?” I asked

  “If she did, we haven’t found it.”

  I trailed after him as he started toward the door. “No suicide note? Isn’t that unusual?”

  “Not really.” He shook his head. “Sadly, only a small percentage of suicide victims leave a note.”

  I followed so closely I nipped at his heels. “The ME will be able to rule out natural causes, won’t he? Except for mild indigestion, Shirley insisted she was in excellent health, unless…”

  McBride stopped and turned so abruptly we nearly collided. “Unless what?”

  I’d seen that icy glare before and refused to be intimidated by it. “Unless it was homicide. Just sayin’, is all.”

  “And who do you think might’ve wanted her dead?”

  “Who knows?” Reba Mae trailed after us. “Could be most anyone.”

  I pointed an accusatory finger at my BFF. “I once heard you say you’d kill for shoes like Shirley’s.”

  “Stop tryin’ to get me in a mess of trouble. You know that was just a figure of speech. An innocent remark like that already got me into one jam,” Reba Mae reminded me, referring to an incident a few months back when she had narrowly escaped being measured for a prison jumpsuit.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Listen, McBride, if it were up to me to put together a list of suspects, I’d make sure Vicki Lamont’s name was on it. I noticed the women arguing at Melly’s bridal shower. From the conversation Reba Mae had with Mary Lou Lambert this morning, Vicki was one unhappy camper.”

  “Haven’t I warned you about making a persons of interest list? You’ve alienated half the people in town as it is.”

  “It’s how I whittle down the number of people on my Christmas card list,” I fired back. “Off the record, McBride, what’s your theory?”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Still working on one.”

  “Surely there must be at least one small detail you can part with,” I wheedled. Subtle has never been my strong suit.

  He sighed in resignation. “Since it’ll be public knowledge soon enough, I don’t suppose it will do any harm. My men found Shirley’s Cadillac hidden in the brush not far from where the body was found. I had Officer Moyer dust the car for prints. Never know what that might turn up.”

  “Any idea what time she died?”

  “Still too early to draw any conclusions. I’ll know more when I get the preliminary report from the medical examiner in Atlanta. From the condition of the body, I don’t think she’d been in the water long. Probably less than twenty-four hours.”

  Reba Mae and I watched him leave.

  Less than twenty-four hours?

  “That would put the time of death late Saturday night or early Sunday morning,” I said aloud. “And it sounds to me like someone went to a great deal of trouble to hide her car.”

  “You’re not thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin, are you?”

  “Uh-huh.” I nodded. “If a person was planning on killing themselves, why bother to hide their vehicle? That doesn’t make sense. Can’t help but wonder if Shirley was murdered and whoever did it wanted to point the blame at McBride.”

  Reba Mae rolled her eyes heavenward. “Boy howdy! Now that’s a real dog’s dinner.”

  CHAPTER 6

  LEFTOVERS ARE A boon to a working mom’s busy schedule, and I was no exception. After being on my feet all day, I’d looked forward to coming upstairs to my apartment, kicking off my shoes, and doing nothing more strenuous than reheating goulash. Lindsey quickly put an end to my pipe dream. “I thought you loved Reba Mae’s goulash,” I protested when she nixed my meal plan.

  “I do, but”—Lindsey patted her trim tummy—“way too many calories. Prom’s less than two weeks away. I’m watching my weight so I look good in my dress.”

  “Linds, you’ll look amazing with or without a plate of goulash.”

  “Sorry, Mom, can’t take the chance. Until prom, I’m sticking to only salads for dinner.”

  I’d decide later whether to freeze Reba Mae’s specialty or binge and eat it all myself. For the time being, however, I’d join my daughter on the rabbit food diet. Reluctantly, I slid the container of goulash into the fridge and pulled out an assortment of veggies.

  While I concocted a salad, Lindsey set the table. “Amber told me that during beauty pageants contestants practically starve themselves before the bathing-suit competition.”

  I gritted my teeth and wished—not for the first time—that satin sashes and rhinestone tiaras came with expiration dates. I vented my frustration slicing and dicing a hapless tomato and cucumber. “I hardly think you’ll be wearing a bathing suit to prom.”

  “Seriously, Mom. Amber says it’s never too early for a woman to cultivate good eating habits. She said it’s imperative to create a positive self-image and to never underestimate the importance of an attractive appearance.”

  For protein, I added a hard-boiled egg, cubed some cheddar, and diced two lone slices of turkey breast from Piggly Wiggly’s deli. “I’ve read it’s unhealthy for young women to become obsessed with body image. It leads to eating disorders such as anorexia and bulimia.”

  Salad completed, Lindsey sat opposite me at the kitchen table. “Don’t worry. I like ice cream too much to ever become anorexic.”

  “Thanks for putting my mind at ease.” I speared a forkful of salad.

  Lindsey splashed a miserly amount of my homemade oil and vinegar dressing on her salad. “Amber is buying a whole new wardrobe for her trip abroad with Daddy this summer. But she’s waiting until Italy to buy shoes. She swears Italian leather is the best.”

  If it was possible to be vaccinated against certain virulent diseases, why couldn’t someone do humanity a favor and discover a vaccine against toxic people? Amber Leigh Ames-Prescott acted on me like an appetite suppressant. I shoved my salad aside, no longer hungry.

  Apparently Amber didn’t have the same effect on my daughter, because Lindsey devoured every last morsel of Romaine on her plate. “Mind if I go to Taylor’s after dinner? We’re reviewing a list of college courses one more time before making our final decision.”

  “Sure, go ahead. I’ll clean up.” Though Lindsey would be barely eighteen, my baby girl would enroll in college this fall. I was delighted her ACT/SAT scores were high enough to gain her admission to various universities. A fact that flummoxed her brother, Chad, who had always been considered the student in the family. Already I was starting to feel the empty-nest syndrome creep closer.

  “At least you won’t desert me, will you, boy?” I said to Casey, my furry friend, after Lindsey had left for Taylor’s.

  Casey thumped his tail against the floor in a show of solidarity.

  Although I was loathe to admit it, Amber’s advice to Lindsey carried a ring of truth. Now that I was a woman of a “certain age”—translated to mean a woman over forty—I’d discovered it took more effort to maintain my girlish figure than it had in my youth. While reluctant to resort to drastic measures such as giving up pepperoni and mushroom pizza, I jogged on a semi-regular basis. Not only did an occasional run help control my weight, but it also helped relieve stress and clear the cobwebs from my head.

  Ten minutes later, I’d changed into a sleek pair of black running capris and snug lime green half-zip hoodie. I’d decided to class up my act—my jogging act, that is—by cashing in gift cards I’d received for my birthday. I’d traded in my disreputable sweat pants, baggie T-shirts, and shapeless hoodies for more fashionable ensembles and morphed into a spiffier new me. After I tucked a spare house key into the zippered sleeve of my shirt and snapped on Casey’s leash, my pet and I set off at a nice, leisurely pace. Thanks to daylight savings time, it would be light for another hour or so.

  It didn’t take long to find my rhythm. Soon I turned off Main Street and onto Lincoln. As I ran past the Brandywine Creek Police Department, I wasn’t surprised at the sight of McBride’s pickup in the adjacent lot. If I k
new the man at all, he’d be putting in extra hours until the mystery surrounding Shirley Randolph’s death was solved. His connection to Shirley had become a hot topic of conversation. Long before the advent of the internet, the citizens of Brandywine Creek had perfected their own form of social media. A form that didn’t require fiber optics to get news out with lightning speed. Though McBride insisted his dinners with Shirley were strictly a matter of convenience for both parties, people preferred their own romanticized versions.

  I veered away from Lincoln Street and onto Jefferson. A block later, I jogged in place while Casey watered a sycamore two doors from Melly’s home. Her house was locked and the living room drapes drawn, giving the place an unlived-in appearance. Cot, I knew, was trying to convince his bride that the time had come to move into a condo, which meant less maintenance. I had to hand it to my ex-mother-in-law. When it came to making changes, Melly excelled. In the blink of an eye she’d blossomed from wife, mother, grandmother, and a widow in small-town USA to newlywed and world traveler.

  “C’mon, boy,” I urged Casey. “Let’s get a move on.”

  We circled back through the residential streets to Main Street. As I neared Spice It Up! I noticed a silver gray Mercedes-Benz with New York plates parked outside Gray’s Hardware. I slowed to a stop, bent over, and rested my hands on my knees to regulate my breathing. Who else could the car belong to other than the Dixons? I’d met Elaine briefly at Melly’s bridal shower but had yet to meet her husband. No time like the present to be neighborly, I thought, straightening.

  “Hello!” I called, slightly out of breath, through the store’s partially open door. Although it still wasn’t dark, fluorescent lights blazed inside. Yet there were no signs of occupants.

  When there was no response, I stepped inside with Casey right on my heels, his bright eyes alert for signs of trouble. “Hello!” I called again, louder this time.

  I expected to find Mavis, but instead a man emerged from a room at the rear of the store that I assumed was an office. He immediately put me in mind of a bulldog with his stocky build, pugnacious jaw, and intelligent dark eyes. A full head of hair, more salt than pepper, was swept back from a wide brow. Although he seemed puzzled at finding me, he quickly recovered and approached with a confident stride.

  “Kirby Dixon,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Piper Prescott,” I replied, returning the handshake. “I own Spice It Up! just down the block. I saw a car outside that I assume from the license plate must be yours and thought I’d drop in and welcome you to Brandywine Creek.”

  “Nice to meet you.” He smiled, a brilliant flash of white in a tanned face. “I love the friendliness of everyone in your charming little town. It’s one of the reasons I’m considering buying property and relocating.”

  “Kirby,” Elaine called from the rear, “who is it? Did your Realtor finally decide to make an appearance?”

  “Elaine, honey, we have a visitor. Come out and say hello.”

  I could be wrong—after all, I’d just met the man—but this was less request, more demand. Kirby Dixon struck me as the type who liked to be in control and have his orders obeyed without question. It was telegraphed by his casual, yet purposeful, bearing. A matter of attitude, attitude, attitude.

  Casey perched at my feet, watchful and wary.

  Elaine brushed dust from her hands as she came out of the office. Recognizing me, she smiled, but it lacked her husband’s warmth. “Hello, Piper. We’ve been out of town. Shirley gave us a key before we left, so Kirby insisted we take another walk-through before checking into the bed-and-breakfast where we’ll be staying.”

  “We expected to find Shirley waiting for us,” Kirby said. “I’ve tried calling numerous times, but her phone goes straight to voice mail.”

  “Doesn’t seem like the woman’s very interested in selling real estate if this is any indication of how she treats her clients.” Elaine stared hard at Casey, who stared back. “What type of dog is that anyway? He doesn’t look like any breed I’m familiar with.”

  I felt compelled to defend my mutt from the woman’s obvious disdain. “When it comes to breeds, Casey is one of a kind.”

  “Hmph!” Elaine sniffed. “A mutt.”

  Stooping down, I scooped Casey into my arms and addressed my remarks to Kirby. “You might try contacting Vicki Lamont with any questions or concerns you might have about purchasing Gray’s Hardware. She’ll be handling all Shirley’s accounts from now on.”

  Kirby frowned. “It’s my understanding that Vicki’s relatively new to the real estate game. I’d prefer entrusting the details to someone more experienced, such as Shirley Randolph.”

  For the second time that day, it fell on me to be the bearer of bad news. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Shirley’s dead.”

  “Dead…?” Kirby echoed.

  “I’m not all that surprised,” Elaine said. “Ask me, her color didn’t look good. She was much too pale, too thin. Too high-strung.”

  Frowning, Kirby jammed both hands into his pant pockets. “What happened?”

  “Shirley’s body was found yesterday in a small pond about five miles out of town. The cause of death hasn’t been determined yet.” I stroked Casey’s head more to comfort myself than my pooch.

  “She might’ve decided to go for a swim and then had a heart attack—or an aneurysm,” Elaine suggested helpfully. “Too bad, but without Shirley’s expertise, maybe it’s a sign to end my husband’s notion of becoming a shopkeeper. Perhaps an omen for us to explore other options.”

  “Enough, Elaine!” Kirby’s voice was sharp. “I’ve about had it with all your whining and complaining. You know I’ve worked hard and long for every dime, and I’m free to spend my money as I see fit. I’ve often dreamed of retiring to a sleepy Southern town, answering to no one but myself, maybe dabbling in local politics.”

  Before Elaine could turn away, I caught anger spark in her pale eyes and saw her mouth harden. Under a veneer of sophistication, the woman had a temper.

  I was about to say something—what, I didn’t know—to diffuse the tension when Vicki Lamont burst into the store.

  “Hey, y’all.” Ignoring me and oblivious of the couple’s mood, she addressed Kirby and Elaine. “I happened to be driving by and saw your car. I’ve been under the weather, but I was going to call y’all tomorrow to assure you that you were in good hands with Shirley gone. Mavis Gray and I have been bridge buddies many a time. I think I might even be able to persuade her to lower her asking price.”

  While Kirby beamed at the announcement, his wife shot daggers at Vicki.

  CHAPTER 7

  LEAVING VICKI, KIRBY, and Elaine to debate the pros and cons of life in a small Georgia town, I returned home. Vicki, on the one hand, had painted a bucolic picture of church spires, potluck suppers, and kumbaya moments. Elaine, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t interested in joining the community chorus or becoming a member of the garden club. Kirby had let the women carry on while he calmly strolled up and down the aisles, probably taking a mental inventory of the stock and cataloging changes he’d like to institute.

  “Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?” I said aloud. Casey thumped his tail once or twice to show he was listening, but I could tell from his half-closed eyes that he was more interested in a nap than a discussion.

  I thought about brewing a cup of tea but dismissed the idea. Tea made me think of Shirley. I wondered if she’d ever taken my advice and tried ginger tea for her bouts of indigestion. Had she received the shipment of ginger she’d ordered online? And what in blazes had caused her to show up dead—and naked—in McBride’s fishing hole? I couldn’t wrap my mind around the notion of her committing suicide in such a bizarre fashion. It simply didn’t fit with the image she projected. Shirley was too vain. Too fastidious. No, there had to be another explanation.

  Without conscious thought I opened the refrigerator and stared blankly at the contents much as the kids used to do when looking for “something
good to eat.” I’d once suggested—tongue in cheek—to put a television inside the fridge for their viewing pleasure. As I was about to close the door, my eyes settled on Reba Mae’s take-and-go container of goulash. Lindsey might have stuck up her nose at the savory concoction of meat and paprika, but I knew who wouldn’t have the same reaction. A quick phone call confirmed my suspicion.

  Fifteen minutes later, I sailed into the reception area at the Brandywine Creek Police Department toting an insulated food carrier. I smiled a greeting at the plus-sized gal manning the front desk. “Hey, Precious, I brought the chief dinner as promised.”

  “Hey yourself.” Precious Blessing’s round, dark face lit up with her trademark megawatt grin. “Boss has been livin’ on nothin’ but black coffee all day. Maybe a good meal will cure a bad case of the funk. The man’s ornery as a bear with a sore paw.”

  “That bad, is it?”

  “Worse.” She nodded, causing the colorful beads woven into her braids to clack together. “Mayor Hemmings been houndin’ him all the live-long day. Refuses to give the chief a minute’s peace. Mayor’s mutterin’ about callin’ a town council meetin’. Complainin’ it’s been nothin’ but one murder after another since the chief took office. To hear hizzoner talk, you’d think Chief was Jack the Ripper come back to life.”

  I switched the food carrier from one hand to the other. “Shirley’s death is all people want to talk about. Most seem to think it was a suicide.”

  “I’ve heard the rumblin’ and grumblin’. If Miz Randolph’s dyin’ turns to be self-inflicted or accidental, folks are still gonna point the blame at the chief.” Precious applied a stapler to a stack of papers with the single-mindedness of a carpenter with a nail gun.

  “Given time, people will find other things to gossip about. Shirley’s death will be all but forgotten.” Who was I trying to convince? Precious or myself?

  “Folks are dang fools if they think a fine, upstandin’ gentleman like the chief had anythin’ to do with that woman’s death. Tongues are waggin’ all because they had dinner a few times. Folks gotta eat, don’t they? Don’t matter if they’re the chief of police or a hotshot real estate lady, they still gotta eat.”