Ginger Snapped

by Gail Oust

  Leaning back against the throw pillows, I processed this bit of information. Shirley had been worried about her own health, not that of an anonymous friend. Next I scrolled through the list of side effects and learned they included stomach cramping, nausea, and vomiting. No wonder Shirley sought the medicinal properties of ginger whether in the form of ginger root, ginger ale, or ginger tea. But what, if anything, did this have to do Shirley’s death?

  CHAPTER 21

  MONDAY. I WENT about the business of being a shopkeeper halfheartedly. I kept glancing at the regulator clock on the wall. I’d seen turtles move faster than the hands on that darn clock. Soon Doug would board a plane in Atlanta and fly off to Chicago. By now he’d have signed his John Henry to a stack of papers at Creekside Savings transferring the deed of Pets ’R People to its new owners. I doubted our paths were likely to cross in the future.

  I picked up a feather duster and began making the rounds. Dinner last night had been anticlimactic. At evening’s end, we’d exhausted our supply of small talk and were both ready for our final good-byes. As I stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, I’d felt a slight tug on the heartstrings.

  A slight tug, then nothing. I wished him well.

  I ran the duster over and around jars of dried herbs, which served as a reminder of my plan for fresh herbs. Hoyt had phoned to report that my garden plot at McBride’s awaited planting. Hoyt, bless his heart, said he’d even fenced it with chicken wire to keep the “varmints” out. As soon as I closed shop for the day, I intended to transfer plants from their pots into organically enriched soil.

  “Hey, Miz Piper.” Ned Feeney loped into Spice It Up! and gave me a wide grin. “Things are slow over at the Eternal Rest since Miz Randolph passed. Wondered if you might have any chores needed doin’? I’m real handy, you know.”

  Ned had a heart of gold and a God-given talent for complicating even the simplest task. “Thanks, Ned,” I said, “but not at the moment.”

  He shoved up the bill of his ever-present ball cap with its Georgia bulldog logo. “Well, whatever you do, don’t get it into your head to lift any heavy boxes like Miz Vicki. She hurt her back somethin’ fierce on a Saturday afternoon and couldn’t see her doctor till Monday. Lucky for her, the doc prescribed some heavy-duty pain pills.”

  I paused to stare at him. “I don’t suppose you remember when this happened.”

  “Yes, ma’am, sure do. It was the weekend Miz Melly and the judge got hitched. I remember because I stopped by Miz Vicki’s house on my way to the weddin’ Sunday afternoon to see how she was feelin’ and found her sound asleep on a heatin’ pad. She said them pain pills the doc ordered knocked her for a loop. She was still dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearin’ the day before. Hadn’t been for me droppin’ by, she’d’ve missed the weddin’.”

  Ned had jogged my memory. With everything else that had been happening, I’d nearly forgotten Vicki talking about a pulled muscle. Sadly for my suspect pool, Ned had just unwittingly confirmed that Vicki would have been in no condition to kill Shirley, drag her body out of the bathtub, and transport it where it could be found on McBride’s property. I mentally scratched Vicki’s name off my persons of interest list.

  * * *

  After Ned departed, I plugged in the vacuum and vented my frustration on stray dust bunnies hiding in corners and beneath shelves.

  “Piper—?”

  I almost jumped out my skin at a tap on my shoulder. I whirled around to find Mary Beth standing behind me. I had no idea how long she’d been there. The drone of the vacuum had drowned out the sound of her arrival. Switching off the vacuum, I busied myself rewinding the power cord. “Hey, Mary Beth.”

  “Sorry I startled you.” Mary Beth extracted a three-ring binder from the side pocket of a sleek leather tote. “I meant to come by earlier, but I’ve been tied up in meetings with the various prom committees all afternoon.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if she was here as a result of the conversation I’d had with her husband after Shirley’s funeral. “Is there something I can help you with?” I asked warily.

  “Actually, there is.” She opened her binder and consulted her notes. “Last week you agreed to serve on a prom committee if needed. Are you still willing to help?”

  “Sure,” I said, envisioning myself knee-deep in tissue paper flowers. Or wasn’t that sophisticated enough for teens in this day and age? High school gyms had lost their popularity, too, as prom venues. Lindsey’s class, partly due to CJ’s recommendation, had booked the country club for the event.

  “Great,” Mary Beth said with a nod of approval, making a check mark next to my name. “I’m short on chaperones. Prom is a black-tie affair. And, Piper, we prefer couples. Do you suppose you can round up a date for the evening?”

  “Umm…,” I hedged.

  “Wonderful.” She frowned when my clock bonged the hour. “Have to run if I don’t want to be late for my kickboxing lesson.”

  “Kickboxing?”

  Mary Beth tucked her notebook back into her carryall. “You ought to give it a try. Punching and kicking is a great way to rid yourself of stress—and builds muscles you didn’t know you had.”

  After she left, I flipped the CLOSED sign and locked the door. Mary Beth had provided food for thought. The woman was physically fit, active in sports, and game to take on new challenges. What if she—not Matt—had killed Shirley? She might’ve suspected their affair, confronted the “other” woman, and, in a rage, turned a hair dryer into a lethal weapon.

  After all, men didn’t corner the market on murder. It was entirely possible Shirley’s killer had been female. And both Elaine Dixon and Mary Beth Wainwright topped my short list of suspects.

  “Let’s go plant us some herbs,” I said aloud to Casey. “Nothing like some good honest labor to help give us some perspective.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later with Casey along as my trusty sidekick, I turned down McBride’s drive. It was déjà vu all over again. It appeared I wasn’t McBride’s only visitor. Squad cars were parked willy-nilly on his newly mowed lawn. I wedged my Beetle into a space behind a Crown Vic and newer-model Ford Taurus, climbed out of my car, and clipped on Casey’s leash.

  Uniformed men could be seen moving back and forth inside McBride’s house. I spotted McBride lounging against the hood of his pickup, cradling his cat, Fraidy. I approached with caution. “Just a crazy guess, but I’d say Beau convinced a judge to sign a search warrant.”

  He zapped me with a look from his laser blues. “You here to gloat?”

  “C’mon, McBride. You know me better than that.” I settled beside him, imitating his casual stance minus the cat. Casey, as though sensing McBride’s dark mood, lay down quietly at my feet. “What happened a year ago is water under the bridge,” I continued. “You were only doing your job.”

  McBride grunted; Fraidy snarled.

  “What do they expect to find?”

  “I asked Beau the same question.”

  “And what did he say?”

  McBride’s shoulders rose and fell. “Said he’d know when they found it.”

  “You’re a cop, McBride. Make a wild stab at it. What do you suppose they’re looking for?” I peered up at him, but his features appeared carved in granite.

  “Tucker might be inexperienced when it comes to homicide investigations, but he isn’t stupid. My best guess is that he’s looking for something—women’s clothing, toiletries, jewelry, or the like—to link me to Shirley. He’s trying to prove we were having a hot and heavy affair.”

  “And will he find any of those things?” I despised myself for asking but couldn’t seem to help myself.

  “Our relationship was strictly business,” he reiterated. “Don’t know why folks made such a big deal over the two of us grabbing a bite to eat a couple of times. Far as I know, it’s not a federal offense to share a meal while discussing pros and cons of buying or selling property.”

  “I wonder if this is the heat wa
ve Officer Moyer warned about.” I nodded toward the collection of police vehicles. “I doubt the Weather Channel or Doppler radar could’ve been more accurate.”

  “Moyer’s a good guy, a good cop. Probably his way of sending a message.” McBride absently stroked Fraidy’s glossy black fur. “So, if you didn’t come to gloat, why are you here?”

  “Hoyt called and said my garden plot was ready, so I brought my herbs to plant.” I deliberately omitted telling him my visit had a secondary motive. This didn’t seem an ideal time to ask him to be my date for senior prom.

  “Leave the herbs. I’ll plant them tomorrow. These days, I’ve got more time on my hands than I know what to do with. I’d rather keep busy.”

  After this exchange, we fell silent, content to stand side by side, waiting and watching. Officer Gary Moyer came out on the porch, talking into a cell phone. He glanced in our direction, then gave us an almost imperceptible nod before resuming his conversation and returning inside. At last, the men began to troop out of the house and down the steps. They piled into their patrol cars amid much door slamming and drove away. All of them, especially Reba Mae’s son Clay, avoided eye contact with McBride. Beau Tucker, looking particularly glum, was the last to leave.

  His round face creased into a scowl at the sight of McBride and me leaning against the pickup. Hitching up his pants, he swaggered toward us. “Place is all yours, McBride,” he said. “Didn’t collect any evidence, but that’s not surprising. You’ve had plenty of time to dispose of anything that might be incriminating. Only girlie thing we found was a six-pack of Diet Coke.”

  “There wasn’t any evidence to find—not then, not now.”

  “Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Way I see it, you and Shirley got into it, argued, matters got heated, one thing led to another. Shirley ended up dead. Crime of passion, plain and simple.”

  “Nothing simple about it,” McBride said calmly. “How do you account for the fresh burn mark on the palm of her hand?”

  Beau’s scowl deepened. “Your guess is as good as mine. Likely had nothing to do with getting herself killed. She might’ve burned herself grabbing a hot pan out of the oven or pot off the stove. Happens to my wife all the time.”

  “That might be the case with Jolene, but Shirley never cooked,” I informed him. “She was a takeout or pop-a-frozen-dinner-in-the-microwave sort of woman. What did the ME give as cause of death?”

  Fraidy started to growl, low in her throat, so McBride petted his cat’s head to soothe her.

  Beau shot a worried look at Fraidy as if the feline might spring out of McBride’s arms any second and attack him. “Verdict’s still out,” he said, nervously clearing his throat. “Can’t comment on an active investigation as you damn well know. Hope you’re not planning to leave town anytime soon, McBride. You might could be called in for further questioning. See you around.”

  Beau didn’t try to hide his smile as he turned on his heel and strode toward his vehicle. It was plain as day he enjoyed having the upper hand at McBride’s expense.

  McBride didn’t move a muscle, but Fraidy’s good ear twitched.

  “Let’s go inside,” I ventured after a lengthy silence. “I’ll help you clean up.”

  “Appreciate your offer, but no thanks.” Pushing away from the pickup, McBride drew himself upright. “Nothing personal, but I’ve had enough people pawing through my belongings for one day.”

  “I understand,” I replied. And I did. I knew from personal experience what it felt like to have my cupboards and drawers ransacked by persons looking for evidence that might connect me with a murder. McBride was a proud man. My heart ached knowing it was worse for him since the search had been conducted by men he’d once directed—and ones who had trusted him.

  “Hey, McBride, wait up!” I called as he started to stride off. I’d suddenly remembered the secondary reason for my visit. Now was as good a time as any to pop the question. “You busy Saturday night?”

  He stopped and turned. “Why? You asking me out on a date?”

  “Not an ordinary date … the prom.” I shifted my weight, scrounging up courage that had skittered off. “I thought, maybe, if you had nothing better to do, you could take me to the senior prom.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “Serious as a heart attack.” Nervous, I tucked an errant curl behind one ear. “Mary Beth’s committee is short on chaperones. She prefers couples.”

  He studied me for what seemed an eternity; then one corner of his mouth curled in a smile. “Sure, I’ll be your date. Nothing better to do.”

  “Great,” I said, releasing a long breath. “Oh, McBride, there’s one more thing.”

  Master of the pregnant pause, he lifted a brow and waited.

  “It’s black-tie,” I blurted. “Don’t suppose you own a tux…?”

  “Might could rustle one up if I tried real hard.” This time his smile was genuine, not the dimple-teasing favorite of mine, but a smile nonetheless.

  “Good, that’s good.” I wiped my sweaty palms on the sides of my jeans. “See you Saturday.”

  Once McBride disappeared inside his house, I had the presence of mind to set my box of herbs on the lawn where he was sure to see them. I drove home feeling both elated and depressed. On one hand, I was excited as a teen for having a date for senior prom, but on the flip side, I was scared silly. Beau Tucker might not be the sharpest tack in the box, but he was as tenacious as a pit bull. He was determined to see McBride arrested for Shirley’s murder. And equally determined to be appointed Brandywine Creek’s next chief of police. My resolve hardened anew. All I had to do was find the guilty party.

  Easy peasy, right? Who was I kidding?

  CHAPTER 22

  WHEN I ARRIVED home from McBride’s, I found Lindsey working on her laptop. Textbooks, spiral notebooks, and highlighters were scattered across the kitchen table. She eyed my worn jeans and T-shirt with disgust. “Where have you been?” she asked. “It’s late.”

  “It’s not that late,” I said after darting a glance at my wristwatch. “I went to Chief McBride’s to plant my herbs.”

  “Well, you should have left a note. That’s what you’re always reminding me to do.”

  “You’re right; I should have.” I headed toward the fridge. “Hungry?”

  “I already ate.” She returned to tapping on the keyboard. “I saved you some salad.”

  Properly chastened, I took out a bowl covered in plastic wrap and a jar of my homemade poppy-seed dressing. After scooping dog food into Casey’s dish, I cleared a space at the table and sat down. “Mrs. Wainwright stopped in today to ask a favor. You’ll never guess what it was.”

  Lindsey didn’t look up. “I’m not in the mood for guessing games tonight, so just tell me.”

  I speared a forkful of lettuce and studied my daughter’s face. I didn’t have to be clairvoyant to know something was troubling her. I hoped my news would cheer her up. “I’m going to be one of the chaperones at your prom,” I announced merrily.

  “You’re what?” Lindsey ceased typing. Her eyes widened in surprise.

  I smiled at her reaction. “You heard me. Mrs. Wainwright said she prefers couples, so I asked Wyatt McBride to be my date—and he accepted.”

  “Mother!” she wailed. Shoving away from the table, she jumped to her feet. “How could you do this to me?”

  “I didn’t do anything to you,” I protested, dismayed. “I simply volunteered to help Mary Beth any way I could.”

  “How will it look that my mother is at prom—with a date, the chief of police of all people—while I sit home?” Lindsey made a wild sweeping gesture. “What will the kids say? It’ll be all over school.”

  I rose from the table. “What do you mean, I’ll be there while you ‘sit home’?” I asked, choosing my words carefully.

  “Sean and I had a fight. All he’s done lately is complain about how much money prom is costing—renting a tux, buying flowers, hiring a limo. When he suggested we have dinner
before prom at Billy’s Buffet Barn, I told him I’d had enough.” Lindsey sniffed back tears. “We broke up.”

  I wrapped my arms around her. “Oh, Linds, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  “Now you’ve got a date, and I don’t,” she blubbered, resting her head against my shoulder. “And even if we do make up before prom, my face is breaking out. I’m getting a zit!”

  A zit? The ultimate tragedy for a teenager before prom. I patted my girl’s shoulder, rubbed her back, and tried with limited success to convince her that the world wasn’t coming to an end.

  She was mopping up tears with a wad of tissues when her cell phone rang. “It’s Sean,” she said upon reading the display. After letting the phone ring a respectable number of times before answering, she finally picked up.

  “I’m sorry, too,” I heard her say as she wandered into her bedroom and closed the door for maximum privacy.

  No longer hungry, I refrigerated what remained of my salad to have for lunch the next day. Although it wasn’t early, it wasn’t exactly late either. I hadn’t jogged in what seemed like ages, and the idea of working off some steam appealed to me. Before I could change my mind, I slipped into my running shoes and zipped a hoodie over my T-shirt.

  When I opened Lindsey’s bedroom door to inform her of my plan, Casey bounded inside and leaped up on her bed. “I won’t be long,” I said, patting my pockets to make sure I had everything, including a canister of pepper spray.

  Lindsey gave me a thumbs-up and went back to her conversation with Sean. From the snippits I overheard, Sean and Lindsey’s coupleship was back on track. I ran downstairs and outside. After a few warm-up exercises, I started out slow but gradually increased my pace and found a rhythm.

  It was a lovely night for jogging. Clouds lazily floated across a waning sliver of a moon, and the air smelled … fresh … that unique scent of buds and blossoms bursting into life. I chose a route through the residential streets. Melly’s house appeared buttoned up tight, no pile of unread newspapers, no overflowing mailbox, to indicate her absence. Only that morning, I’d received a brief text from her: Loving Italy. I guess those two words said it all. Lights were on in Mavis Gray’s house and I could see the television flicker through the living room window. The only sounds were crickets chirping in the bushes and the slapping of my soles against concrete.