Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  I’d no sooner scanned an ad for a pricey Range Rover when I heard a loud wail come from the direction of McBride’s office. This was followed by a series of harsh guttural sobs.

  “The Widow Balboa,” Dorinda said.

  “Widow? I thought Chip was divorced.”

  “So did the chief.”

  More wailing and sobbing followed. Nothing—not rain, sleet, or hail, nothing—was going to make me budge from my ringside seat. I had to see for myself a woman capable of such gut-wrenching sounds.

  Fortunately, I didn’t have a long wait before a door opened and I heard McBride say, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Balboa. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stick around for a few days until matters are resolved.”

  I eavesdropped so blatantly, my ears twitched like antennas. Even Dorinda stopped typing and cocked her head to listen.

  “Very well, since you insist,” Cheryl Balboa sniffled. “When will my husband’s body be released?”

  “Soon, I expect. The ME should release it by tomorrow at the latest.”

  “Not until then? Tomorrow’s Saturday,” the widow whined. “That means I probably won’t be able to have my husband cremated until Monday.”

  “Cremation isn’t my department,” McBride said. “You might want to stop at the Eternal Rest Funeral Home and talk with John Strickland, the undertaker. John also happens to be county coroner.”

  “Fine, I’ll do that,” Cheryl replied. “I’m eager to have things settled and return to California. I plan to call my attorney this afternoon and apprise him of the situation. I’ll want to set up an appointment as soon as I get back. Seeing how Chip and I were still married, I’m the sole beneficiary of his estate. There’s a great deal of business to attend to.”

  I heard the click of high heels on tile. Pretending interest in a Porsche ad—it could have been an ad for Cheerios, for all I cared—I peeked over the top of the magazine for my first glimpse of the widow. Cheryl Balboa paused not more than three feet in front of me. I watched her toss a wadded-up tissue in the general direction of a corner trash can, then extract an iPhone from a Kate Spade handbag.

  She was pretty in a mannequin sort of way. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, she wore a short skirt showing a mile of slender, tanned leg. I estimated her salon cut with its highlights and lowlights cost more than Reba Mae earned in an entire day.

  “Hey, babe,” Cheryl said into the phone as she walked toward the exit. “You hungry?”

  I stared after her, thinking I was missing something. Then it hit me: There wasn’t a single drop of moisture on her cheeks, no reddened eyes, no runny mascara. In spite of all the wailing and carrying on, her makeup remained flawless. So much for her grieving widow act.

  McBride peered down the short hallway and noticed me sitting on the bench. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to see me, but him being a public servant and me being a taxpayer, he crooked a finger and beckoned. I didn’t wait for an engraved invitation.

  Dorinda narrowed her beady eyes and shot me a warning look as if to say, State your business but make it brief. Ignoring her, I hurried toward McBride before he changed his mind.

  “Something you wanted to add to your initial statement? Or is this a social call?”

  “Neither.” After skirting past him, I plopped down in the chair reserved for visitors.

  He closed the office door, then sat on the edge of his desk, his gaze never leaving my face. “Then what brings you here?”

  I tucked an errant curl behind one ear. “I keep thinking of what you said last night when I left your office. A cryptic remark about how things aren’t always what they appear. What exactly was that supposed to mean?”

  His expression impassive, he picked a pen off his blotter. “What do you think I meant?”

  If I wanted to play word games, I’d get an app for my phone. “I took your parting comment to mean that just because something looked like an accident, sounded like an accident, or smelled like an accident, didn’t necessarily mean it was an accident. Am I hot or cold?”

  He studied the logo on the pen for a protracted moment before zapping me with his laser blues. “As I told you last night, we’re treating Chip Balboa’s fall as suspicious.”

  “Suspicious,” I repeated. “Is that because the coroner ruled Chip died hours before Melly reported it?”

  “That and because of the ME’s preliminary report. Seems he found an unusual pattern of bruising. A pattern more consistent with a shove than a fall.”

  “A shove?”

  Call it denial if you will, but I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the notion that Chip’s death was a homicide. I rubbed my arms against a sudden chill. If that were true, McBride would come gunning for the killer … and he had Melly lined up in his sights.

  CHAPTER 10

  MELLY GAVE ME a wan smile. “Enjoy your lunch, dear?”

  My idyllic lunch with Reba Mae on a park bench seemed eons ago. In reality, it was less than an hour. I’d returned to Spice It Up! more confused—and more worried—than ever. “It’s a beautiful day to be outdoors,” I said as I slipped on my apron. “You should take a walk, get some fresh air.”

  “Maybe later.” Melly neatly restacked a pile of cooking magazines that I subscribed to in the hope inspiration would strike for new and novel uses for spices. “I looked across the way, but you weren’t there.” Melly made no effort to disguise the mild rebuke: Shame on me for not being in plain sight.

  “Since I haven’t jogged the last couple days, I decided I’d go for a little stroll, get some exercise.”

  I had no intention of informing Melly of my conversation with McBride. She’d learn soon enough that Chip’s death was deemed suspicious. That the ME’s findings were more consistent with a shove and not a fall.

  A shove not a fall?

  The words rattled around my brain like tiles in a bingo cage. What really happened the night Chip died? Was McBride the only person who was being closemouthed? Or did Melly know more than she was telling? What secrets hid beneath the sweaters and pearls? No time like the present to polish my Nancy Drew, girl detective, skills.

  I ran a hand over my unruly curls and opted for casual: “You never told me what brought Chip over to your house the other night.”

  “He wanted to talk.”

  “Talk?” I tipped my head to one side, imitating an attentive pose I’d seen actors do on soap operas. “About what?”

  “Business,” Melly snapped. “Software things that don’t concern you.”

  All righty, then. I guess she’d put me in my place. Time for another tactic. “You’re absolutely right, Melly. When it comes to computers and such, all I need is for them to work. You, on the other hand, are a natural.”

  “Hmph!”

  Flattery wasn’t helping me gain much ground, either. What would Nancy do? Or, for that matter, Jessica Fletcher or Miss Jane Marple? I opted for a direct approach. “You never said any more about Rusty and Chip’s proposal. Was the amount they offered satisfactory?”

  “No! Not even close to what they initially led me to believe. And before I forget”—she abruptly changed the subject and pointed to a cardboard box partially hidden at the base of the counter—“the FedEx driver dropped this off while you were off gallivanting.”

  Picking up the box, I cleared a space on the counter, then set it down and read the label. “This is a shipment of spice from my supplier on the West Coast. Before you know it, people will start thinking of holiday goodies. I wanted to make sure I had an ample supply of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.”

  “The delivery man insisted on a signature, but since you weren’t here, I signed for you.” She whipped the yellow apron over her head. “I hope that was all right.”

  I slit open the box. “Thanks.”

  “Doug phoned.” Melly painstakingly folded the apron as if her life depended upon perfect creases. “He said he’d be here at six o’clock to pick you up.”

  I struggled to corral my
thoughts, which flitted between a tumble down the stairs to baking Christmas stollen. Finally it dawned on me what she meant. Football. Friday Night Lights. Football was a big deal in small towns across America. I’d promised Lindsey that Doug and I would be in the bleachers to cheer the new routines she’d been practicing all week.

  Melly stowed her apron under the counter. “Doug mentioned you were having a bite to eat at High Cotton before the game. I’ve never been there personally. I’ve heard the place is rowdy.”

  “Maybe late at night, but not early on.” I unpacked a bundle of cinnamon sticks and couldn’t resist sniffing their sweet, spicy fragrance before setting them aside. “High Cotton is known for its great burgers and chili cheese fries.”

  Melly shuddered. “All those calories and cholesterol can’t be good for a person.”

  “Probably not,” I agreed. Melly, it seemed, was more willing to talk about the hazards of chili cheese fries than about what had transpired between her and Chip Balboa. However, I wasn’t about to abandon my inquisition so easily. “So,” I said, “did you and Chip argue when he came to visit?”

  Melly’s lips flattened. “Both those young men mistook me for a dotty old woman without a lick of sense. I wasn’t about to sign over my software modifications and lose all my equity. I told them straight-out I wasn’t interested. Chip thought he could soften me up, convince me to change my mind.”

  Mental alarm bells sounded. Some people might construe that as motive to give the cheap dot-com guy a shove or two. “Have you mentioned this to McBride?”

  “He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer.” Her back ramrod stiff, Melly turned on her heel and marched off.

  Perplexed, I stared after her. Melly had a delicate build. It was hard to imagine her strong enough to push a seemingly healthy, mildly overweight thirty-something down a flight of stairs. And heartless enough to let him lie there until the following morning. No, I told myself: That wasn’t the Melly Prescott I knew.

  I’ve found nothing soothes me like performing some mundane task. After taking out a feather duster, I methodically ran it over shelves lined with spices from the four corners of the earth. Those spices had become my extended family, my friends. I knew their countries of origin, how they were harvested, and how they were used. Studying about them had been a virtual tour of places I’d never heard of, could barely pronounce, and definitely couldn’t spell.

  Casey trailed after me as I systematically worked my way around the shop. He eventually tired of my slow progress and settled down in a patch of sunlight streaming through the front window.

  I’d progressed to a display of various salts and peppercorns when the shop door opened. I recognized the newcomer instantly as none other than Sandy Granger, Brandywine Creek’s hostess with the mostess. I wedged the duster between jars of sea salt from the Mediterranean and peppercorns from Borneo. “Hey, Sandy,” I greeted. “What can I do for you?”

  “I’ve been meaning to stop by ever since Craig and I returned from our trip around the world.”

  “I heard you were home.” And planning a huge party to which I haven’t been invited, I added silently. “How was your trip?”

  “Fabulous, just fabulous.” Sandy’s green eyes sparkled at the memory. “Eight countries on five continents. We were so exhausted, we stayed in London a couple extra weeks to catch our breath.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  “I’d love to tell you all about it, but I don’t have time. You’ve probably heard from Reba Mae that I’m directing Steel Magnolias at the opera house. It’s scheduled to kick off the winter theater season. I’m on my way to a meeting with the set designer, but I wanted to stop by for a few items first.” She dug through a designer tote and produced a shopping list. “I need saffron, a gram ought to do it—I prefer coupe,” she added. “Vanilla—beans, not extract—and cardamom. Seeds, no shells.”

  “No problem.” Humming to myself, I plucked the requested spices from the shelves. Any sale of saffron always lightened my mood.

  Sandy handed me her American Express card. “I know saffron is horrendously expensive, but a little goes a long way.”

  Still humming, I rang up the items and bagged them. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks,” she said. “But before I run off, I wanted to extend a personal invitation to a party Craig and I are throwing next Saturday—an Oktoberfest. I’m asking all my guests to bring a German dessert or side dish to share.”

  At last, the long-awaited invite. “Can’t wait. I’ll be there,” I said, but she was already out the door. Apparently, all was forgiven. My thoughtless remark about her extensive travel was now water under the bridge.

  I resumed dusting the shelves, my mind now on food. What should I take? Potato dumplings with a sprinkle of grated nutmeg? Or apple strudel with a generous teaspoon of Vietnamese cinnamon? Maybe lebkuchen, a German spice cookie. Oh, how I wished all my problems were this simple.

  * * *

  Doug was prompt as usual, dressed casually in jeans, a long-sleeved rugby shirt, and a sweater draped across his shoulders in readiness for later, when the temperature dipped. I’d dressed even more casually than Doug, in jeans and a sweatshirt in red and gold, the team colors.

  “Hey”—he grinned—“no one can say you don’t have school spirit.”

  “Is this too much? Does the sweatshirt clash with my hair?”

  He tugged a curl and pulled me in for a kiss so warm and sweet, it made my toes curl. A noise from the floor above startled us apart. “Your houseguest, I presume.”

  “’Fraid so,” I said. “I offered to fix Melly dinner, but she said she’d make something later.”

  Doug placed a hand at my waist and steered me toward the door. “Any idea how long she’ll be staying?”

  “I’m not sure.” I had a sinking feeling that Melly’s house would remain off-limits for some time. I turned my key in the lock. “It could be awhile.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You know what a stickler McBride is for detail.” For some odd reason, I felt reluctant to discuss the ME’s preliminary findings with Doug. After all, “preliminary” meant just that—preliminary. It might amount to nothing. Nothing at all. Melly was entitled to the benefit of the doubt. When did I turn into such a Pollyanna?

  “No telling when the painters will finish at CJ’s,” I said. “Amber insists on having the entire house redone. She consulted an interior designer at some fancy furniture store in Augusta, who told her the current color scheme is all wrong. And,” I added, “I think Melly’s leery of broaching the subject of her return home with McBride.”

  Doug held open the door of his SUV. “If she has nothing to hide, she has no reason to worry.”

  I slid inside the car. It sounded simple enough—provided Melly had nothing to hide. But what if she did?

  Doug climbed into the driver’s side, and we headed in the direction of High Cotton. As Doug talked about everyday things, my thoughts wandered. Melly had admitted Chip’s visit was for more than milk and gingersnaps. She’d been disappointed with Trustychipdesign’s offer. Had their last conversation been friendly? Or contentious? She’d mentioned Chip complained of a headache, but what had preceded it?

  Even stranger, I thought as the SUV turned into the gravel lot of High Cotton, was the ME’s impression that the bruising on Chip’s body was more consistent with a shove than with a fall. I’d bet my last jar of saffron that McBride knew more than he was letting on.

  The situation called for a quarterback sneak. I knew just the person to ask in order to gain some yardage.

  CHAPTER 11

  BY THE TIME Doug and I arrived at Brandywine Creek High School, the football field was lit up as bright as day. Doug parked the SUV in the adjoining lot. Friends and acquaintances called out greetings as we strolled hand in hand toward the ticket gate. Judging from the rat-a-tat-tat of drums punctuated by blares of trumpets, trombones, and French horns, the band was in top form for the school’s big game against their
archrivals.

  After Doug paid for our tickets, we wormed our way through the crowd. We stood at the foot of the bleachers, scanning the sea of red and gold for a place to sit. Gerilee Barker, a large-boned woman with permed hair a determined shade of brown, sat next to her husband, Pete, the town’s butcher, halfway up. She caught my eye and motioned for us to join them. Amidst a chorus of apologies to those already seated, Doug and I edged along the row toward Gerilee and Pete.

  Gerilee scooted over to make room for us on the hard metal bleacher. “Hey, y’all. Seems half the town turned out for the game.”

  “Everyone’s sayin’ the team has a good chance to go all the way to the state championships this year.” Pete dipped his hand into a striped tub of popcorn nearly as big as his head.

  Just then, the two opposing teams ran out onto the field and were met with a cacophony of cheers, catcalls, and stomping feet. I craned my neck to watch Lindsey, who along with her fellow cheerleaders, shook giant red and gold pompons and exhorted the crowd to give them a B. The crowd roared back.

  A voice over the loudspeaker introduced each player and his position on the team. In turn, each boy stepped forward to a smattering of applause. “Which one is Lindsey’s current heartthrob?” Doug asked.

  I nodded toward the player who had garnered the noisiest response from the crowd. “Number seven. Sean Rogers.”

  “The quarterback?”

  “The one and only.” I strained forward, trying to get a better glimpse of the young man everyone was talking about. Other than being tall, the boy was hard to make out beneath the helmet and protective padding. “Lindsey’s keeping her fingers crossed he’ll ask her to the homecoming dance.”

  “I’ve heard there’s a good chance he’ll be recruited by one of the college scouts. Georgia Tech, maybe Georgia Southern or even University of Georgia. Have you met the kid?”

  “Not yet.” The kickoff return interfered with any more conversation.