Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  I stood inside the threshold of Creekside Realty and took a moment to gaze around. The office hadn’t changed much—same two utilitarian metal desks, same dented filing cabinets—since the day I’d signed my John Henry to a pile of paperwork making me the proprietor of a building dating back to before Prohibition. Framed photos of listings covered walls painted a neutral shade. I spotted Vicki behind a desk inside a glassed-in cubicle, but she wasn’t alone.

  When she saw me, Vicki ceased her conversation with a slender young man I estimated to be in his mid-thirties. He looked familiar, yet I couldn’t quite place him. I racked my brain to put a name with the angular face, high forehead, and slicked-back brown hair. Both he and Vicki watched me approach.

  “You probably don’t remember me,” the man said, sticking out his hand, breaking the awkward silence. “Zach VanFleet, mortgage loan officer at Creekside Savings.”

  “Right, right.” I returned the handshake. “Nice to see you again, Zach.” Our previous meeting had been brief, but I’d come away with the impression he was efficient and personable, a young man on his way up. Rather than take out a mortgage, however, I’d decided to purchase the building destined to be my home as well as my place of business outright with money I’d received in my divorce settlement. At least that way if Spice It Up! failed, I’d still have a roof over my head.

  Vicki gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Zach knows I’m new to all of this. He was kind enough to stop by and offer his assistance.”

  “That’s very thoughtful of you, Zach.”

  “Shirley had several mortgages pending, so I wanted to give Vicki an update since she’ll be taking over the office in Shirley’s … absence.”

  “In Shirley’s absence” sounded ever so much more civilized than saying after Shirley was found naked and dead in a fishing hole. “I imagine you and Shirley must have worked closely together.”

  “Yes, we did, and I’ll miss her.” He slid his hands into the trouser pockets of his gray business suit, his expression somber.

  My mental gears spun into action. “Worked closely together” was subject to a variety of interpretations. Exactly how close was “closely”? Was Zach VanFleet the mystery lover Hoyt suspected Shirley was with in Savannah? While Zach seemed younger than Shirley, I doubted a trivial detail such as age would have prevented her from pursuing a man to whom she was attracted. I tried to recall if he’d been wearing a wedding ring, but with no success. Zach’s position as loan officer might have been enough cause for discretion. Or, perhaps, I was subject to regard every man beyond puberty as Shirley’s potential love interest.

  “Shirley lived and breathed buying and selling property,” Zach went on. “She was the heart and soul of this company.”

  I nodded in silent tribute to Shirley’s work ethic and noted her brass nameplate was still on the desk Vicki now occupied. An oversight, which in all probability would soon be rectified.

  “I hope, Zach, people don’t expect me to put in the same amount of hours as Shirley did.” Vicki fidgeted with a stack of papers in front of her. “There’s more to life than working 24/7. My golf handicap would suffer, and I’d have to drop out of my mixed doubles league.”

  “Shirley viewed her work not as a job but as a career.” I regretted the words the instant they popped out of my mouth. If looks could kill, I’d be sprawled on the floor deader ’n a skunk. Before now Vicki had never held a job, and she resented the fact that her ex-husband had been miserly in the divorce, causing her to seek employment for the first time in her pampered existence.

  “Ah, um…” Zach edged toward the door. “Guess I’d better head back to the bank. I have a few loose ends to tie up before I call it a day. If you have any questions, Vicki, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  He beat a hasty retreat.

  “He seems quite nice,” I said at last.

  “He is,” Vicki agreed. “It’s a relief to have someone with his expertise to rely on in case I run into problems. I’ve got mounds of files and documents to review to bring me up to speed that I hardly know where to start. So, Piper, unless you’re here on business…”

  I refused to take the not-so-subtle hint and leave. I’d been kicked out of better places in my lifetime. “I realize how busy you must be”—I mustered a sympathetic smile—“but I started wondering. Since you and Shirley were friends, do you know if she had a special someone in her life?”

  Vicki frowned. “Why do you want to know?”

  I shrugged. “There’s bound to be a memorial service as soon as the medical examiner releases her body. I thought maybe there was someone who ought to be notified. Perhaps a person who might not be aware of what happened. Was Shirley romantically involved with anyone?”

  “Other than Wyatt McBride, you mean?” Vicki picked up a ballpoint with the Creekside Realty logo and started clicking it. “I can’t recall Shirley mentioning a boyfriend. Her life revolved around work. It was all she ever talked about—that and the big old monstrosity she planned to renovate.”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a life.”

  Click, click, click went Vicki’s ballpoint until I wanted to snatch it out of her hand. “I can’t wait to get out of here tonight,” she complained. “All I want is a nice, hot bath and cold glass of wine.”

  “What’s keeping you?” I asked. “Most places in town have already closed for the day.”

  “I still have an appointment with a newcomer who’s interested in buying a single-family home in or around Brandywine Creek. He’s due any minute. Then,” she said, heaving a sigh worthy of Joan of Arc, “when we’re done, Ned Feeney is coming to replace the lock on the back door.”

  “Good idea,” I said. “It’s probably wise to change the locks now that you’re the one in charge. No telling how many people might have keys.”

  “That’s not the reason.” Vicki tucked a loose strand of hair back into her low ponytail.

  I had half turned to go but turned back. “Why? What happened?”

  “Nothing serious, but it has me on edge. When I arrived at the office this afternoon, my key wouldn’t turn in the lock on the back door. That’s when I noticed it had been jimmied. Probably kids with too much time on their hands getting into mischief.”

  “Was anything missing?”

  “Not that I’m aware of,” Vicki said, frowning. “At first I thought Shirley’s computer might’ve been stolen; then I remembered she never let it out of her sight. She always took it home with her. It was an expensive top-of-the-line MacBook. Called it her lifeline.”

  “Did you report this to the police?”

  “Naturally!” she snapped. “I’m not an idiot. Beau said not to worry. Being as how nothing was missing, there was no rush. Said he’d send an officer over tomorrow or the next day to take a report.”

  Time’s they are a-changin’, as Bob Dylan sang. With McBride out of the picture and Beau Tucker in charge, the police department was already falling into bad habits. “Would you feel better if I stuck around until your client arrived?”

  “Thanks, Piper, but he just walked in.”

  I looked over my shoulder as Vicki pushed herself to her feet to greet him. I recognized the new arrival as Colin Flynn, the stranger who had stopped into my shop on Monday to inquire about Shirley. “Mr. Flynn,” I said. “I thought you might’ve become discouraged and decided to pursue your search for real estate someplace with less notoriety.”

  “Hello again, Mrs. Prescott,” he said. “As you can tell, I took you and your friend up on the advice to contact Ms. Lamont. And please, call me Colin.”

  I watched as Colin and Vicki shook hands and formerly introduced themselves.

  Vicki’s demeanor had noticeably brightened with the prospect of a commission. “I’ve got several properties lined up to show you. I hope you’ll find one of them to your liking. If not, I’ll keep at it until we find exactly what you’re looking for.”

  “I’m not one to give up easily. I’ve been told I’m tenacious.” Colin smi
led, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “People tell me it’s one of my most outstanding characteristics.”

  “Then let’s not waste any more time.” Vicki lowered herself into her chair, her movements stiff, cautious, and took a file folder out of a drawer, and opened it. “I thought we’d start with these homes.…”

  Both Colin and Vicki bent their heads over an array of photos Vicki spread across her desk while she rattled off such information as square footage, number of bedrooms, and carpeting versus hardwood floors. Neither paid any attention as I quietly exited Creekside Realty.

  I walked home slowly. It was the dinner hour in Brandywine Creek. My adopted hometown was postcard pretty, peaceful, and quaint. A marble statue of a Confederate soldier, rifle in hand, guarded the town square with its crushed-shell pathways and wrought-iron benches. Businesses had all closed for the day. Main Street was virtually deserted except for a compact car sporting a sticker from a rental agency that I assumed belonged to Colin Flynn. Vicki must have parked her vehicle behind the office, which was how she’d discovered the lock had been jimmied on the back door. I hoped the incident wasn’t a sign of things to come. The town didn’t need to be besieged with a rash of break-ins. It had enough to contend with as it was.

  But what if it hadn’t been a random burglary? What if Creekside Realty had been targeted? Could the break-in be related in any way to Shirley’s death? Again, I had an uneasy feeling about Colin Flynn. There was something about him that struck me as odd. Almost as though he was hiding his real self behind a fade-into-the-woodwork façade.

  Crazy? Maybe, yet I couldn’t dismiss the notion.

  CHAPTER 11

  UPON MY RETURN to Spice It Up!, I was met with an enthusiastic greeting from Casey. My furry friend bounced up and down like a yo-yo and multitasked by wagging and barking. He clearly telegraphed the fact that he had been cooped up all day and was ready to romp.

  “Well, boy, consider your wish granted.” I snapped on his leash, grabbed my purse as an afterthought, and headed out. I didn’t expect Lindsey home from her scouting expedition for the most amazing pair of shoes on the planet until late. And I wasn’t keen on a solitary dinner in a too-quiet apartment. I wanted to coax Reba Mae into sharing a pizza with me but remembered she planned to visit her aunt Ida, who was convalescing from knee surgery.

  Casey and I took off at a brisk pace—too slow for jogging, too fast for a walk—which suited us fine and dandy. While I was jog-walking, my mind replayed the events of the day. First off, the town council met in a special session. As a result, McBride was jobless—placed on indefinite suspension. Then, according to Lindsey, CJ had been named interim mayor, giving Amber even more reason to gloat. Next, Hoyt offhandedly reported seeing Shirley at the St. Patrick’s Day Parade in Savannah and mentioned her strange behavior. No reason for Shirley to act secretive if she had nothing to hide. So the question was, what—or whom—was she hiding? If she had been in Savannah with a lover, why keep his identity secret unless there was a good reason? Last, but not least, an unknown person, or persons, had attempted to break into the real estate office, but nothing was missing. That didn’t make sense—unless they were looking for something specific but couldn’t find it and left empty-handed and disappointed.

  I rounded a corner of Main Street and turned down Lincoln Street. Though Shirley’s death hadn’t been officially termed a homicide, it was simply a matter of time before that changed. After all, I’d seen the fax from the medical examiner’s office with my own eyes: No water found in lungs. My female intuition ruled out suicide. No way, Jose, would a woman as savvy as Shirley buy a big old house in the historic district, plan to spend a bundle on renovations, then jump into a frigid pond and drown herself!

  But if her death was not suicide, who wanted her dead? I was positive McBride wasn’t the guilty party, but who—and when? There were still too many unknowns. Some solid information would be useful, especially time of death. McBride had given his guesstimate, but knowing time of death for certain would be an invaluable way to eliminate suspects once I made my persons of interest list. All I’d have to do was find out who had an alibi and—more important—who didn’t. Easy peasy.

  Without conscious thought, I found myself in front of the Brandywine Creek Police Department. Karma? Far be it from me to question the ways of the universe.

  “Hey, Precious,” I said, grinning at my favorite dispatcher. Judging from the smell of garlic and her half-finished plate of pasta, I knew I’d caught Precious in the middle of her dinner.

  Casey, the model of obedience, sat at my feet.

  “Hey yourself,” she returned. “How can I help you?”

  “Thought as long as I was in the neighborhood I’d drop in and see if Sergeant Tucker might be able to answer a question or two.” Beau Tucker might be interim chief of police, but he hadn’t earned the nickname Sergeant Blabbermouth because of his discretion.

  “Sorry, sugar, but Sarge already clocked out for the day.”

  “Oh,” I said, disappointed. It hadn’t occurred to me Beau might not be there. McBride worked long hours, never just nine to five. Especially when a homicide needed solving.

  Precious wiped her fingers on a paper napkin. “Sergeant Tucker—he’s insistin’ on bein’ called Chief, but I keeps forgettin’—said his wife fixed mostaccioli for dinner and he didn’t dare be late. Sounded so good, I splurged and ordered me some from Antonio’s. Had Ned Feeney deliver it.”

  My stomach gurgled in response, a reminder I hadn’t eaten yet. “I’d hoped Beau could clear up a few details for me about Shirley’s death. Kind of set my mind at ease.”

  “Things? What sort of things?”

  I jumped at the sound of Officer Gary Moyer’s voice coming from a hallway behind the information desk that led to a series of small offices.

  Moyer scowled when he saw me. Scowled, not frowned. There is a difference, I know. Scowling involves the entire face, brow to jowl, and this was a scowl if ever there was one. “What brings you here, Mrs. Prescott?”

  “Officer Moyer,” I said, recovering from my initial surprise. Moyer was a man of few words and fewer smiles. According to McBride, Moyer had served two tours with the army in Afghanistan. His rigid posture and buzz cut were also clues he was ex-military. “I, um, wondered when Shirley’s body will be released.” I ad-libbed, sensing he’d never divulge even a smidgen of information in an ongoing case.

  His murky gray eyes gave me a probing stare, making me wonder if he’d learned the technique from McBride or if it was something taught at the police academy. “Why do you want to know?”

  Precious, bless her heart, leaped to my aid. “S’pose folks want to give her a real nice send-off. Ms. Randolph seemed a classy lady.”

  “Yes, exactly.” I shot Precious a grateful look. “Who better to know when we can schedule the service than the police department?”

  “The body could be released as early as tomorrow,” he said, his tone flat.

  “Was the medical examiner able to determine how long Shirley had been dead before her body was discovered?” In for a penny, in for a pound. The most he could do was toss me out on my ear.

  Ignoring my question, Moyer shifted his scowl from me to Casey. “What’s that dog doing here? Didn’t you read the sign posted on the door? Only service animals allowed.”

  Casey blinked his chocolate brown eyes at Moyer as if to question how anyone dare speak so harshly about his adorable self.

  “Casey is a therapy dog,” I said, the first thing to cross my mind.

  Moyer’s scowl deepened. “What kind of therapy?”

  From the corner of my eye, I saw Precious roll her eyes. “Casey is an emotional support animal,” I elaborated, grateful for learning about this designation recently on a nightly news segment. “Emotional support animals provide comfort and relieve anxiety. It’s a highly developed skill set.”

  Precious disguised a chuckle behind a half cough, half hiccup.

  “Just when I think I�
��ve heard it all.” Moyer shook his head in disbelief, then addressed his next words to Precious: “I’m starting rounds. You know how to reach me.”

  “Before you go”—the words came out in a rush—“Vicki Lamont told me someone tried to break into Creekside Realty last night. Should I be worried that my shop might be next?”

  “Probably just kids. Nothing was taken, so they probably got scared and ran.”

  “But what if the person, or persons, did gain access? What if they were searching for a particular item but left when they couldn’t find it?”

  “I hardly see where that’s any of your concern. This is police business.” He leveled a finger at me. “Stay out of it.”

  “Yes, sir.” I tamped down the urge to salute.

  “Woo-ee!” Precious blew out a breath after the door closed behind him. “That’s one cold fish.”

  “No argument there.” I patted my thigh, a signal for Casey to follow.

  “Tony Deltorro sure makes a mighty fine mostaccioli. You oughta give it a try.” Precious pulled her plate closer and, in the process, knocked papers sitting at the edge of her desk to the floor. “Oops! Clumsy me. Do me a favor, sugar, and pick those up while I polish off what’s left of my supper.”

  “Happy to help,” I said, bending to collect them. It wasn’t my nature to return them without scanning them first, so I did. One of them was a report signed by Officer Gary Moyer. Moyer apparently had been given the task of dusting Shirley’s Cadillac for prints. Odd thing, though, according to the report I held, no prints were found. The car had been wiped clean.

  “When you see the chief—the real chief, not the imposter—be sure to tell ’im Precious says hey. I’d tell ’im myself, but Sarge gave us strict orders that no one in the department speak to ’im.”