by Gail Oust
Precious glanced down at the switchboard, then motioned in the direction of her boss’s office. “Chief finished his call. Go on in. You know the way.”
I knew the way all right. Didn’t need a GPS. In fact, I’d been there often enough that I could find McBride’s office during a blackout. My tentative knock was answered by a gruff, “What is it this time?”
“Food delivery.” Cracking open the door, I extended the hand with the food carrier. “Someone call for takeout?”
“What the…?”
“Even grumpy, beleaguered police chiefs need sustenance,” I admonished, undeterred by his ill humor. “Unless you’re a teenage girl dieting to fit into her prom dress, no one can refuse Reba Mae’s scrumptious Hungarian goulash.”
McBride gestured at his desk, which was piled high with folders and stacks of reports. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I don’t have time to socialize.”
“This isn’t a social call. Think of this as meals on wheels.” I looked around for a place to set my offering. “The goulash comes loaded with carbohydrates, guaranteed to boost your energy and increase your waistline. Man can’t live on black coffee alone.”
Climbing to his feet, he reluctantly cleared a space on his cluttered desk. “You’re starting to sound like Precious.”
“Don’t blame Precious,” I said, unpacking the contents of the carrier. “I know you well enough to be aware of your bad habits.”
“Sweetheart,” he drawled, “I’ve got bad habits you’ve never heard of.”
“Really?” The idea intrigued me more than it should have.
“Yeah, really.” He chuckled watching my face flush, the curse of being a redhead.
I concentrated on removing an aluminum foil–covered dish without spilling. I added a napkin, silverware, along with a dinner roll and small slice of carrot cake I’d scavenged from my freezer.
“You shouldn’t have to gone to all the bother—but I’m glad you did.” Picking up a fork, he peeled back the foil and dug in as though he hadn’t eaten for days.
“No bother. They’re only leftovers.” I took one of the two chairs reserved for visitors opposite his desk. He wolfed down the meal like he did most things, with economy and efficiency. “You’re actually doing me a favor by polishing off the goulash. I should thank you for removing temptation and preserving my girlish figure.”
He broke off a piece of the roll. “Nothing wrong with your figure from what I’ve seen.”
“What?” I said with a laugh. “Was that a compliment? That’s hardly your style, McBride. What’s this world coming to?”
“To hell in a handbasket if you want my opinion.” He used the rest of his dinner roll to mop up what was left of the sauce.
“Made a fresh pot.” Precious bumped the door wider with one hip. “Coffee oughta go mighty good with that slice of carrot cake sittin’ there.” She set a steaming mug of coffee in front of each of us, then, after giving me a broad wink, departed.
“Share it with you,” McBride offered. When I indicated I wasn’t interested in his dessert, he dove into the cake with gusto. When there was nothing left except a smear of icing, he pushed the plate aside. “Care to clue me in as to the real reason behind your visit? I suspect there’s an ulterior motive other than trying to fatten me up with home cooking.”
I feigned innocence. “A suspicious mind must be a job requirement for a cop.”
“Yep.” He smiled at me over the rim of his coffee mug, treating me to a glimpse of the elusive dimple in his right cheek. “Ranks right up there next to a fondness for Krispy Kremes. Now tell me what’s really on your mind?”
“I didn’t think my motives were so transparent.” I blew on my coffee, stalling for time, trying to organize my thoughts. “I’m sure even barricaded behind your desk with Precious and Dorinda as guard dogs,” I said referring to the daytime and afternoon dispatchers, “you must be aware of the rumors circulating.”
McBride’s expression turned glum. “I’d have to be comatose not to be. Right or wrong, folks will think what they want. Left to their own devices, they’ll draw their own conclusions.”
My gaze caught his and suddenly I knew with clarity why I’d come. “I wanted to reiterate that I don’t believe you had anything—even remotely—to do with Shirley’s death.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Nice to know.”
I couldn’t tell by his dry tone if he was being sincere or sincerely sarcastic, so I forged ahead. “I’ve given Shirley’s death a great deal of thought and ruled out suicide as a possibility.”
McBride arched a brow and studied me. “Mind explaining to this simple country boy how you reached your conclusion?”
I leaned forward in my chair, hands around my coffee mug. “Shirley was a bit of a narcissist. She never stepped foot in public looking less than runway perfect. Hair, makeup, wardrobe. The whole ball of wax. If she’d had any say in the matter, she wouldn’t have been caught buck naked and facedown in your fishing hole.”
McBride nodded, whether in agreement or because of a crick in his neck I didn’t know. “I think your supposition would be ruled insufficient evidence in a court of law.”
“Think about it, McBride. You knew Shirley better than I did. Er, what I meant was…”
“No need to backpedal!” he growled. “I know what you meant.”
“I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Didn’t think you did.”
I placed my mug of coffee next to a mountain of paperwork on his desk. “If one rules out accident and suicide as the cause of death, that leaves homicide. In Shirley’s line of work, she was bound to have a long list of satisfied—and dissatisfied—clients. When it came to business, she had a reputation for being a barracuda.”
“And your point is?”
The gleam in his laser-sharp blues made me squirm. “I’m here to offer my assistance any way I can.”
“I don’t need your help!” McBride slammed his hand down on the desk for emphasis. “Remember, I’m the detective. A highly trained officer of the law, not some wannabe girl sleuth you read about during school vacations.”
“Ouch!” I sprang to my feet and began collecting plates and silverware and stuffing them willy-nilly into the carrier. “Unless my memory is failing, you were more than happy for my assistance a time or two.”
Pulling a stack of file folders closer, he flipped open the top one. “As I recall, your so-called assistance nearly got you killed twice—and me once.”
Though it pained me to admit, I could hardly dispute the truth of what he’d said. Was he reminding me of the time he burst through my kitchen door like Eliot Ness swooping down on Al Capone and, thus, saving my life? Or was he referring to the time we both faced off an ex-mafioso in a dark street like Wyatt Earp and company at the O.K. Corral? So what was the big deal? The bullet wound he sustained had only been superficial. I pieced together my shredded pride before responding, “Like it or not, McBride, Spice It Up! has become information central. My customers like to talk, and I’m privy to a lot more than casual gossip. I already know the names of a couple persons who weren’t fans of Shirley and who won’t shed tears now that she’s gone.”
“All right, fine,” he said, his tone laced with resignation. He made a show of picking up a pen and flipping to a page on a yellow legal pad.
His display of indifference, however, had come a millisecond too late. I knew the man better than he gave me credit for. I’d seen interest perk before he donned his cop mask, and I felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at making him wait for my answer. Slowly, I zipped the carrier shut, then centered it on the only available space on McBride’s desk.
“Piper,” McBride purred like a tiger about to pounce, “do I have to charge you with withholding information or are you going to tell me?”
“Write down Vicki Lamont’s name. Vicki is … was … furious with Shirley for stealing a hefty commission right from under her nose. Vicki’s been struggling to make ends meet ever since her divo
rce, when Kenny hid his assets in the Caymans. In my humble opinion, Vicki would qualify as a person of interest.”
“‘Humble’ isn’t exactly how I’d describe your opinion,” McBride mumbled under his breath.
I ignored his snarky comment. “Have you met the Dixons? Kirby and Elaine?”
“No, should I have?”
“The Dixons are the couple from New York—Syracuse, to be exact—who are considering making an offer on Gray’s Hardware. Kirby is keen on the notion, but his wife, Elaine, is at the opposite end of the spectrum. From what I’ve seen, the woman has a mean temper. She’s convinced that with Shirley out of the picture Kirby might change his mind about the deal. She’s not wild about living in a town without a fitness center.”
“That it?”
“For now. I promise I’ll keep you in the loop if I learn anything else.”
I was about to pick up the carrier and leave when a fax machine atop a file cabinet sputtered to life. Next thing I knew it shot out a sheet of paper like a chunk of hot dog during a Heimlich maneuver. Not giving it a second thought, I stooped to retrieve the paper, which had landed at my feet. The bold heading read: GEORGIA BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION. But it wasn’t the heading that captured my interest.
“Piper…?”
I blocked out the sound of McBride’s voice as I scanned the report, my attention riveted on the concluding paragraph: No water found in lungs. Cause of death undetermined pending further investigation.
Wordlessly, I handed the medical examiner’s preliminary summary to McBride. “If Shirley didn’t drown, what happened to her?”
A lengthy silence, sticky as a spider’s web, spun out between us giving me the answer.
CHAPTER 8
WHEN WOULD I learn? I should know better than to drink high-octane coffee late at night. And, if I did drink coffee, I needed to choose the decaffeinated variety rather than the heavy-duty stuff McBride favored. As a result, I hadn’t slept well and woke up groggy and grouchy from a poor night’s rest. After taking Casey for his morning walk, I filled his bowls with food and water, then left him to snooze while I opened for business.
My first order of the day was to brew a pot of coffee. Nothing like the hair of the dog that bit you, as my grandfather used to say as he downed a shot of whiskey the morning after an all-night poker game. I hoped a slug of caffeine would have the same effect on me as Jack Daniel’s did for him.
While waiting for the coffee to brew, I took a feather duster from beneath the counter and made the rounds of the shelves. I dusted, rearranged a display of Asian spices, and made a mental note of which spices to reorder. My chore finished, I filled my coffee cup to the brim and retreated to the counter, where I started a list of ideas to entice customers to step out of their comfort zone and experiment with the unusual and unfamiliar. Spring meant Easter dinners, planting container gardens and window boxes, lighter meals, and spending more time outdoors. I also needed to cement plans to celebrate Spice It Up!’s first anniversary.
I was sorting through my stash of foodzines on the lookout for brightly colored photos with mouthwatering recipes when Dottie Hemmings arrived accompanied by Jolene Tucker, wife of Sergeant Beau Tucker.
I summoned a tired smile. “Hey, Dottie. Hey, Jolene. What can I do for you ladies?”
Attractive rather than pretty, Jolene, a woman her late thirties, wore her streaked ash-brown hair parted in the center, which made her round face seem all the rounder. Her brows grew thick and dark over shrewd brown eyes. She’d given me the cold shoulder ever since I unintentionally caused her hubby—aka Sergeant Blabbermouth—to be put on probation for divulging information in an ongoing case.
“Jolene wants some of your Italian seasoning,” Dottie volunteered. “Gerilee swears it’s way better than the brand sold at Piggly Wiggly.”
“I’m making Beau’s favorite for dinner tonight. Baked mostaccioli,” Jolene offered, sounding unusually friendly. Apparently she was ready to bury the hatchet and let bygones be bygones.
“Sure thing.” I walked over to a row of freestanding shelves and, after a nanosecond’s debate, selected the larger of the two sizes I stocked. “This is a favorite of mine,” I explained, handing it to her. “It’s a blend of five different herbs. Use some next time you make oven-roasted red potatoes. Drizzle on a little extra virgin olive oil, mince a clove or two of garlic, sprinkle on some Italian seasoning, then bake. Your family will love them.”
“Thanks, I’ll give that a try,” Jolene said, digging through her purse for her wallet and credit card. “Beau and the boys—typical men—are partial to roasted potatoes.”
“What about you, Dottie?” I asked. “Anything you need?”
“For heaven’s sake, no.” Dottie giggled. “You know I’m not much of a cook. Besides, I don’t plan on spending much time in the kitchen in the next few weeks.”
I swiped Jolene’s credit card through the machine. “Why is that? Going somewhere?”
The two women exchanged conspiratorial looks but ignored my question.
“Joey’s so excited about prom. I suppose your Lindsey is, too,” Jolene said, changing the subject. Her oldest son and my daughter had been classmates since kindergarten and were now high school seniors.
“Right now Lindsey’s on pins and needles waiting to hear from colleges.” I slid the credit card receipt along with a pen across the counter for Jolene’s signature. “Does Joey know what he wants to do after graduation?”
“His daddy’s been trying to talk him into following in his footsteps and joining the police force once he turns twenty-one, but Joey has other ideas. He’s got it in his head to join the air force. You know how kids are.”
“Piper’s girl has changed her mind so many times, it makes my head spin,” Dottie said with irritating smugness.
I bagged the Italian seasoning and handed it to Jolene. “Lindsey plans to take the prerequisites for a liberal arts degree—English, math, life sciences, and such—until she makes up her mind about a career.”
“Joey said her SAT scores even surprised the teachers.”
“Surprised herself most of all,” I said.
Dottie clucked her tongue. “And here I always thought your son was the brains of the family. Can’t make Chad very happy knowing his baby sister, the social butterfly, outdid him.”
“Chad was a little put out at the news,” I admitted. “He insists it must’ve been a computer glitch.”
“That’s siblings for you,” Dottie said, patting her blond beehive.
“A cute little place you have here,” Jolene commented, taking a good look around. “Too bad you don’t carry fresh herbs. Dried are okay, but fresh are better.”
“What a great idea, Jolene!” Instantly a vision of clay pots sprouting basil, thyme, oregano, parsley, and chives popped into mind. The front of my shop got plenty of sunlight. It would be a perfect location to grow herbs. “It’s definitely worth considering. I just might give your suggestion a try.”
Jolene grimaced when she glanced at her watch. “I’ve got to run. Mary Beth called a meeting for the heads of various prom committees. I’m in charge of refreshments.”
“And I’ve got packing to finish.” Dottie gave me a merry wave. “Toodle-oo.”
Packing? Was Dottie planning a trip? Was that what she meant by not spending time in the kitchen? Before I could arrive at a conclusion CJ sauntered into my shop as though he owned the place. “Hiya, Scooter.”
I cringed at the nickname I long ago thought charming but now loathed. My ex-husband had once been an idealistic young attorney, but somewhere along the way he’d strayed off course. Now, instead of defending petty thieves and miscreants, he’d discovered suing big-box stores and conglomerates far more lucrative. “No fall too big, no fall too small” was his slogan.
“What’s the occasion, CJ?” I asked, admiring the expert tailoring of his navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and rep tie. His blond hair, the same shade as on a box of Clairol’s Nice ’n Easy, had b
een recently cut and styled.
“Got a little time to kill before a big meetin’ so thought I’d stop by. Say hello.”
I slid Jolene’s credit card receipt into a drawer of my antique cash register. “Lindsey mentioned Amber’s shopping for a new wardrobe for your trip abroad.”
“Nothin’ that girl loves more than a mall.” He chuckled. “Unless, of course, it’s me.”
TMI! I decided to be charitable and cut the man some slack. After all, the couple were still newlyweds, having been married over the Christmas holidays in a lavish destination wedding in the Caribbean.
“Heard from our son recently?” he asked.
Something in CJ’s tone put me on high alert. “No,” I said slowly. “Why do you ask?”
“Apparently our boy is in love. He and I had a long talk last night—man-to-man.”
“I hope that doesn’t mean he came to you for relationship advice.” The thought struck fear in my heart. Based on personal experience, I didn’t view CJ as a role model for the lovelorn.
CJ smiled slyly. “Aren’t you interested in hearing about his girlfriend?”
“Naturally I’m interested. Just surprised is all.” To the best of my knowledge, Chad has never had a serious relationship. His studies always took priority.
“The girl’s from France. Her parents sent her here to immerse herself in our culture.”
“Well, let’s hope she doesn’t return home speaking French with a Southern accent,” I said. “I hope Chad’s love interest won’t interfere with the goals he’s set for himself.”
“Now, now, Scooter, don’t start actin’ like a mother hen,” CJ warned. “Chad’s not a kid anymore. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”
“I suppose,” I agreed, albeit reluctantly, but couldn’t help worry. Logic often flew out the window when love—especially young love—flew in.
CJ peered at his watch, a Rolex I’d once given him for an anniversary gift in exchange for a wilted bouquet of roses. “Sorry,” he said. “Better get a move on. Don’t want to be late.”
