by Gail Oust
“Maybe I’ll do that,” she said, brightening. “I think I’ll stop by Gray’s Hardware and surprise Thompson with a visit. We always seem to find some computer-related topic to discuss. One nerd to another, as Thompson is fond of saying.”
Melly had no sooner left than the phone rang. It was Doug calling to break our date for that evening. Seems he had a sick dog with anxious owners who needed his attention. Apologizing profusely, he promised to make it up to me, then disconnected.
Restless, I rapped my fingertips on the counter. Saturday night stretched ahead of me like a long and winding country road. But I had more on my mind than a broken date. A nasty thought worked its way into my mind. I knew Melly hadn’t killed Chip—but that meant someone else had. Did Cheryl Balboa have reason to want her husband dead? I needed a sounding board. So I did what came naturally. I dialed my BFF.
* * *
Reba Mae slipped into the booth across from me at North of the Border. Nacho, one of the owners, dropped by our table with a basket of warm tortilla chips and spicy salsa, and then left and returned minutes later with our drinks. After an eventful week, Reba Mae and I were both ready for a little R & R, which translated into margaritas and girl talk. For a short while, I allowed myself to set my worries aside and relax.
“I thought you might bring Melly along,” Reba Mae said after taking a sip from a frosted glass rimmed with salt.
“I invited her, but she had a better offer. Thompson Gray’s mother’s bridge group had a last-minute cancellation, and she asked Melly to fill in. Melly was hesitant at first, but I convinced her it would help take her mind off things.”
Reba Mae dipped a chip into the salsa. “Never could get the hang of bridge.”
I picked up a menu. “Me neither. I’m still hunting for a game I’m good at.”
“Well, besides bridge, you can rule out golf and tennis.”
I grimaced at the reminder. When I was a country club wife back in the day, I tried tennis. My backhand was nonexistent. My forehand wasn’t much to brag about, either. Golf wasn’t much better. Seems I had no muscle memory whatsoever when it came to sports. Nacho returned to our table, order pad in hand. I ordered my favorite chicken chimichanga while Reba Mae was more in the mood for quesadillas. “How’s my favorite premed student doing in Chapel Hill?” Reba Mae asked as the owner scurried off.
I warmed to the mention of my son. “Chad’s more determined than ever to keep up his grade point average so he can get into one of his top picks for medical school.”
“Wish my Clay was as motivated as your Chad.” Reba Mae twirled the stem of her margarita glass, her expression wistful. “Caleb is happy as a clam when he’s tinkerin’ under the hood of a car, but Clay seems to be driftin’. He’s taken a class here or there at the community college and works construction pretty steady, but has no clear plans for the future.”
“It takes some kids longer than others to figure out what they want to do with their lives. Take Lindsey, for example. In the last couple months, she’s wanted to be a veterinarian, a videographer, and lately she’s talking about going to New York to study fashion. Who knows what next week will bring?”
Reba Mae grinned. “Maybe she’ll decide to be a brain surgeon.”
I took a swallow of my margarita, enjoying its sweet-tart taste, and let my gaze roam the colorful surroundings. Since it was Saturday night, most of the tables and booths were occupied. Red, green, and yellow sombreros, along with posters of Mayan ruins, sunny beaches, and quaint adobe churches, hung on the bright orange walls. The photos reminded me of vacations in Mexico with CJ. Reminded me of the good times. During the last year or so, I’d let the bitterness of our divorce overshadow happier memories. I was proud to say I was overcoming that tendency.
“Earth to Piper.” Reba Mae snapped her fingers in front of my face. “I almost forgot to tell you, McBride asked Clay’s help with some renovations he’s doin’.”
“Hmm.” As I dipped a chip into salsa generously seasoned with cilantro, I noticed a woman seated at the rear of the restaurant. After straightening in my seat, I leaned forward for a better look.
“What’s up, honeybun?” Reba Mae turned, curious to find out what had captured my attention.
“See the blonde in the back booth? That’s Cheryl Balboa. Chip’s widow.”
“Who’s the guy she’s with?”
Now, I have to admit, it’s difficult to recognize someone by the back of their head, but Brandywine Creek is a small town, and I knew many of its residents by sight if not by name. The sun-bleached mop of hair and bronzed nape didn’t ring a bell. “Don’t have a clue.”
“Maybe he’s related to Chip?” Reba Mae suggested.
I frowned. “Somehow, I doubt it. According to the grapevine, Chip doesn’t have much family.”
Reba Mae helped herself to another tortilla chip. “His wife probably needed a shoulder to cry on. Might’ve brought a friend along from California for moral support.”
Before I had a chance to speculate further on Cheryl’s dinner companion, our meals arrived. I cut into my chimi, but without my usual gusto. All the while, my attention kept straying to the couple in the far corner.
Reba Mae added a dollop of sour cream to her quesadilla. “Have you decided what you’re taking to Oktoberfest?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered absently. I saw the mystery man reach across the table and take Cheryl’s hand. Was that a simple act of comfort? I wondered. Or was there more to the gesture? Cheryl’s openly flirtatious manner confirmed the notion. Even from a distance, it was clear to me she’d already found a replacement for her pudgy, disheveled husband. I tried to tell myself I was being overly suspicious, even cynical. Yet I couldn’t help wondering—since they were still legally wed—if Chip had been less eager than she to dissolve their marriage. Had he stalled signing the divorce decree? Could that have prompted a frustrated, impatient woman to give the poor guy an angry shove down a steep flight of stairs? Or perhaps Chip had a large life insurance policy with her the recipient? Money topped the motive list when it came to murder, so I’d heard on 48 Hours. Or was it on Dateline?
“I’m thinkin’ of makin’ apple strudel,” Reba Mae said, unmindful of my mental meanderings.
I took a bite of my chimi. “Why do you think Cheryl is in such a hurry to have Chip cremated?”
Reba Mae shrugged. “She’s probably just anxious to get on home.”
“Maybe…” I told myself I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
“I ran into Doug at the Piggly Wiggly. He said he’s going to try his hand with sauerbraten.” Reba Mae pushed her plate aside.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Cheryl Balboa laugh at something her companion said. In my humble opinion, she seemed too animated, too carefree for a woman who’d recently lost her husband. She acted as though she was on a date rather than in mourning.
We’d barely finished our dinners when Cheryl and her “friend” got up to leave. Sun-streaked hair, Hollywood handsome, tall and tan, all the dude lacked was a surfboard. Although I tried not to stare, I noticed him casually drape an arm around Cheryl’s shoulders. To my mind, the gesture seemed more affectionate than consoling.
The instant the couple disappeared from sight, I jumped to my feet and tossed some bills on the table. “C’mon,” I said to a startled-looking Reba Mae. “Let’s go on a little road trip.”
CHAPTER 13
WE HOPPED INTO Reba Mae’s five-year-old Buick, parked at the curb in front of North of the Border. I pointed at a set of taillights moving down the street. “Follow that car.”
Reba Mae gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t question me. Shifting into gear, we headed down Washington Avenue, then turned onto Main Street in hot pursuit of a car that bore a striking resemblance to one I’d seen outside the Brandywine Creek Police Department earlier that day.
“Keep a couple car lengths behind. I don’t want the occupants to get suspicious.”’
“Jeez Louise,” Reba Mae
grumbled. “What do you think this is—an episode of Hawaii Five-0?”
“Good analogy. Pretend I’m Detective Steve McGarrett.”
Reba Mae pouted. “Guess that makes me Danno. Why can’t I be McGarrett?”
“Next time.” I peered through the windshield, trying to make out the logo on the car’s trunk.
“Mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the rental car Cheryl Balboa’s driving. I want to see where she and her friend are going.”
Keeping the sedan in sight wasn’t a problem, since traffic was a rare commodity in a town no bigger than a flyspeck on a map. The difficult part was remaining inconspicuous. I was grateful for Reba Mae’s Buick. My gecko-green VW Beetle would’ve stood out like … a gecko-green VW Beetle.
The car ahead of us sped up as it left the business district behind. A mile farther down, the driver slowed and turned onto a county road that eventually led to the interstate. When the flash of brake lights revealed the distinctive BMW logo on the vehicle’s trunk, I knew my instincts were spot-on. “It’s Cheryl Balboa, all right,” I said with satisfaction.
Reba Mae darted a look my way. “What next? A stakeout?”
“Humor me, okay? I just want to see what Cheryl and her guy friend are up to. Consider this my early birthday present, if you will.”
“Your birthday is in February,” she reminded me. She flicked on her turn signal and kept the BMW in sight. “This is only October.”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of paying it forward?”
“By the time February rolls round, you’ll have forgotten I did you a favor back in October. That’s the drawback of payin’ it forward. Folks tend to forget. They still expect cards, presents, and cake when their big day comes.”
Up ahead, the yellow and green neon sign of a small motel lit up the night sky. The Beaver Dam Motel. Part of the sign, however, was currently malfunctioning. It now read THE DAM MOTEL.
The BMW pulled into the paved lot. “What are you doing?” I shouted when Reba Mae kept driving.
“You’ll see.” She smirked. She braked to a stop in front of a defunct gas station, executed a perfect three-point turn, and headed back in the direction we’d just come. Smiling, she shut off her headlights and dimmed the dash while she eased to a stop at the far end of the motel parking lot.
Fortunately for us, the couple under surveillance was too engrossed in each other to notice our arrival. In the flash of neon, I saw the silhouette in the front seat separate into two separate figures. A man climbed out, then hurried around to the passenger side. Cheryl was let out of the car, embraced her companion briefly, then laughing, disappeared with him into one of the rooms. A light flicked on, visible through a narrow slit in the drapes.
“Why’s Cheryl stayin’ at the no-tell motel?” Reba Mae switched off the ignition. “Judgin’ from the way she’s dressed and car she’s drivin’, it doesn’t look like she’s hurtin’ for money. Her purse alone cost more than a week’s stay at this fleabag.”
“Good question.” I stared at the motel through the windshield. It was a low one-story redbrick building built in the ’70s and had seen better days. It consisted of two wings separated by a shabby office. “My guess is Cheryl brought a friend along but wants to keep it quiet.”
“Well, if they’re ‘friends,’ they’re mighty good ones,” Reba Mae observed. “Considerin’ she’s a recent widow, Cheryl’s not lettin’ any grass grow under her feet.”
“Rusty, Chip’s partner, is under the impression that the Balboas’ divorce was final.” I lounged back on the cloth seat. “I found out only by accident that they were still married.”
Reba Mae leaned back, too, and drummed her nails on the steering wheel. “I bet she was cheatin’ on Chip with this dude. Bet five bucks he’s the reason for the divorce. Think he’s her pool boy?”
“What I think is, you’ve been watching too many reruns of Desperate Housewives on Lifetime.”
“Cheryl’s guy friend is hot.” Reba Mae made a fanning motion with her hand. “Never met an honest-to-gosh pool boy, but he’s got that look. All sun-streaked hair and fabulous tan.”
I shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position. “I’d be willing to wager half the people in California don’t even own a pool—and most of those who do clean it themselves.”
“If I lived in California—and if I had a pool—I’d hire someone who looked like Cheryl’s guy friend to clean it whether it needed cleanin’ or not. I’m just sayin’…,” she added. “Why all the interest in the Widow Balboa?”
“I’m worried Melly might be charged with killing Chip,” I admitted.
“Ridiculous!” Reba Mae shook her head so emphatically, her dangly earrings swayed. “Surely, no one who knows Melly believes she’s that coldhearted.”
“There’s more.” I fiddled with the radio to buy time to organize my thoughts, settling for an oldies station. “Beau Tucker told me—off the record—that the ME’s preliminary report stated there was less bruising, fewer fractures than expected. All Chip suffered during the course of the fall was a broken neck.
“And if that isn’t bad enough, Beau said the ME found a bruise between Chip’s shoulder blades the size of a hand.”
“Whoo-ee!” Reba Mae whistled. “That’s pretty heavy stuff.”
“If McBride pursues the case as a homicide and not an accident, Melly is going to top his persons of interest list. I intend to find out if others might’ve had a motive to want Chip dead. Try to draw attention away from Melly and force McBride to consider other possibilities.”
Reba Mae considered this thoughtfully. “And you’re thinkin’ Cheryl Balboa might’ve had somethin’ to do with her husband breakin’ his neck?”
“With Chip dead, Cheryl is set to inherit all his assets,” I said, voicing thoughts that until now had remained unspoken. “I’ve read enough about celebrity divorces in People and watched enough Entertainment Tonight to know California is a community property state. If the divorce were final, she’d only have been entitled to half.”
Reba Mae’s jaw dropped. “You’re not sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’?”
“It’s something to consider is all, I replied.”
The implication hung in the ensuing silence. Finally Reba Mae spoke. “Aren’t you overlookin’ one important fact, hon? I know women have been known to kill for money, but Cheryl was in California the night Chip bought the farm.”
I hated whenever logic interfered with a perfectly thought-out motive, but instantly perked up when a new thought occurred to me. “What if … what if … she offered to pay someone to do the dirty deed for her?”
“Murder for hire?” Once more, Reba Mae nodded slowly. “Saw a movie on Lifetime just last Saturday—”
Just then, the light in Cheryl’s room blinked out.
We sat and stared at the darkened motel room for another twenty minutes before Reba Mae said, “Let’s blow this pop stand before one of my boys drives by and wonders what his momma’s car’s doin’ at the Dam Motel.” With that, she switched on the headlights and pulled out of the lot. “I like to set a good example for ’em.”
* * *
Once home again and in bed, I couldn’t sleep. Who would want to hurt Chip? Who wanted him dead? My mind kept sorting through the puzzle pieces. I turned on my side and punched my pillow. Cheryl Balboa had the most to gain from her husband’s death, but she’d been clear across the country at the time of his death. Try as I might, she didn’t fit my image of a grieving widow. Her weeping and wailing in McBride’s office could’ve been heard clear out on the street, yet I didn’t notice a single tear when she’d waltzed out. Seeing her behavior tonight, first at North of the Border, then at the Beaver Dam Motel, led me to believe she’d been having an affair.
I flounced onto my back and stared at the ceiling as though the answers to my questions would magically appear on the plaster. Who was the man Cheryl was with? They acted like lovers.
Had the two conspired to kill Chip? While Reba Mae binged on the Lifetime channel, had I spent too much time watching shows like 48 Hours and Dateline? Only thing I knew for sure was that Melly was innocent. True, she was annoyed Chip and Rusty had reneged on the amount of money they’d initially offered, but that irritation didn’t constitute motive. Or did it? Of course not! Melly was a paragon of virtue. She didn’t drink hard liquor, smoke, or cuss. And she certainly never lost her temper.
Even before I heard the snick of a key in a lock, Casey woke and growled deep in his throat. I tensed, waiting, then let out a sigh of relief when I recognized Melly’s light footsteps. “Melly?”
“Sorry if I woke you, dear,” she called. “I tried to be quiet as a mouse.”
Casey relaxed his guard, put his head down on his paws, and resumed his interrupted night’s rest in his doggy bed near the bedroom door.
“No problem.” I yawned. “Have a good time tonight?”
“Absolutely. I’d forgotten how much I enjoy playing bridge. Mavis is going to put me down as a regular substitute.”
“Good for you, Melly. G’night.” Another yawn. Rolling over, I punched my pillow a final time and promptly dropped off to sleep.
When I opened my eyes again, Sunday morning sunshine streamed through the blinds. The clock radio told me I’d slept much later than usual. The apartment was still. Lindsey had spent the night at her friend Taylor’s, and Melly was most likely at church.
I lay there for a moment, enjoying the peace and quiet, knowing I had the day to do as I pleased.
I hauled myself out of bed, but judging from Casey’s prancing and dancing, I knew my pooch needed out more than I needed coffee. I threw a hooded sweatshirt over my pajamas, clipped on his leash, and let him roam the vacant lot behind my shop until he took care of business.
Once I got back inside, I discovered Melly had left a note on the kitchen table. She informed me that she was going to brunch after church and not to expect her until midafternoon. Since McBride insisted on treating her home like a crime scene, she asked if I’d do her a favor and retrieve more of her clothing.
