Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  Casey yipped impatiently while I scanned her list. “Sorry, pal,” I told him. “Breakfast is on the way.”

  I poured pet food into his doggy dish, then brewed a pot of Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee. My taste buds clamored for something sweet. A quick search of my cupboards and refrigerator revealed I had the necessary ingredients for morning glory muffins. Raisins, coconut, crushed pineapple, carrots, and apple. Healthy with a capital H. To add even more zing, I’d add a teaspoon of the special baking spice I’d concocted from cloves, nutmeg, and several types of cinnamon.

  While the muffins baked, I showered then blow-dried my unruly mop of red curls, pinning them back with tortoiseshell clips. I dressed for the day in rust-colored denims, oversize cream and rust sweater, and slipped my feet into soft-soled ballet flats. A swipe of mascara, blush, and lip gloss, and I was all set.

  Over a second cup of coffee—and a second muffin spread with the delicious cinnamon honey butter I’d whipped up—I reviewed Melly’s wish list. It should be a quick in and out. Easy peasy.

  CHAPTER 14

  IT WAS SUNDAY, my only day off.

  A distant church bell tolled the hour of noon. I finished loading the dishwasher and reached for my purse. Casey, his eyes like shiny black buttons, watched hopefully. “Want to come along, boy?”

  Casey didn’t need coaxing. He answered my question with enthusiastic tail wagging.

  Usually I walk the short distance to Melly’s, but since I’d be carrying an armload of clothes when I returned, I elected to drive instead. Within minutes, I turned down Jefferson Street. Two blocks later, Melly’s Victorian came into view. I groaned out loud as I spotted McBride’s black Ford F-150 pickup in the driveway. I pulled in behind it and cracked the window for Casey. “Sorry, buddy, but I don’t think the chief would appreciate a canine—even a cute one—traipsing through his crime scene.”

  The door was ajar, so I let myself in. I stood for a moment, expecting McBride to appear any second, but instead heard someone moving about in the basement. Assuming he wouldn’t appreciate an interruption, I went directly upstairs to Melly’s bedroom. With luck, I’d complete my mission and be on my way before McBride even knew I was here.

  Thanks to Melly’s detailed list, it didn’t take long to gather the specified items. I filled a tote with undergarments, being careful not to look too closely. It made me uncomfortable knowing what Melly wore under her twinsets. An invasion of privacy. Next, I moved on to the closet. She’d underlined the words “don’t wrinkle” several times, so I took the outfits, hangers and all, and draped them over my arm.

  Pleased with myself for being so efficient, I started downstairs, my arms piled high. My ballet flats made little sound on the carpeted steps. Just as I predicted: In and out. Easy peasy.

  “Police!” a male voice thundered. “Hands in the air.”

  Startled, I dropped the tote bag. It thudded down the stairs, strewing the steps with Melly’s unmentionables. The slacks, skirts, and blouses in my arms flew through the air like snowflakes in a blizzard.

  Wyatt McBride materialized from around the corner of the hall closet, his gun in a two-handed grip aimed at my midsection, his expression as serious as sunstroke. My eyes widened at the sight.

  Seeing me, he slowly lowered the weapon. “Should’ve known it was you.”

  My heart rate gradually returned to normal. “McBride,” I gasped, “you scared the living daylights out of me.”

  He tucked the pistol into a holster at the small of his back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “When was the last time you had an eye exam?” I made a sweeping motion with my hand to indicate the clothing all helter-skelter. “What does it look like?”

  “This place is off-limits.”

  I descended several stairs, pausing along the way to pick up a blouse here, a skirt there. I found a small button—probably from one of Melly’s many cardigans—that must’ve come loose and slipped it into the pocket of my jeans. “If it’s ‘off-limits,’ then you should’ve had enough sense to lock the door.”

  “I did,” he growled.

  “It’s an old house.” I picked up a dove gray pleated skirt. “The door needs an extra nudge to engage the lock.”

  McBride stooped to help. “I’ll try to keep that in mind—provided there is a next time.”

  “Since you’re out of uniform, what are you doing here on your day off?”

  “I wanted to check the handrail on the basement stairs one more time.”

  “Why?” I added a pair of camel slacks to the steadily mounting heap.

  McBride shrugged his broad shoulders. “Wanted to see if a piece was missing.”

  I paused to stare at him. “Do you think the handrail was defective?”

  “No, nothing like that. Don’t suppose there’s any harm in telling you. The ME found a long wooden splinter embedded in the vic’s palm. I wanted to confirm that it happened during the fall.”

  “And did it?”

  “Looks like a strong possibility.” McBride handed me Melly’s favorite silk blouse, the one she claimed enhanced the blue in her eyes. “Can’t say for sure, but my guess is it’ll be a match.”

  I nodded. “Melly’s been asking when she can return home.”

  “Not until I get the toxicology back.”

  “You think Balboa had drugs in his system that contributed to his fall?”

  “We’re exploring all avenues.” McBride picked up a pair of lavender panties and hurriedly shoved them in my direction. I felt my cheeks warm. I snatched the panties, and I stuffed them into the tote bag. Who would have guessed my former mother-in-law favored lacy and frilly when it came to lingerie? Next time her birthday came around, I’d surprise her with a gift card from Victoria’s Secret.

  I surveyed the staircase. Satisfied I’d retrieved the last of Melly’s scattered belongings, I straightened. Standing as I was on a step above McBride, I was able to almost look him in the eye. “How would drugs explain the hand-sized bruise between Chip’s shoulder blades?”

  McBride’s jaw clenched. His blue eyes narrowed, icy cold. “Who told you that?”

  I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from a pair of navy permanent press slacks. I was a terrible liar, and I hated to rat out Beau Tucker. My face grew warmer, the curse of being a redhead. “I … ah…”

  McBride shook his head in disgust. “As if I didn’t know—Sergeant Blabbermouth.”

  I’d overstayed my welcome. Shifting the bundle of clothing I held, I decided a dignified retreat was in order. McBride watched me go. At the front door, I turned for a final parting shot. “Surely you can’t believe Melly had anything to do with Chip’s fall?”

  For a fraction of a second, I thought I detected a flicker of regret. “Sorry, Piper. I know you’re fond of your mother-in-law, but the evidence will speak for itself.”

  I hurried out the door and toward my car, feeling as though I’d been kicked in the solar plexus. McBride seemed fixated on Melly’s culpability in Chip’s death. I needed to prove him wrong …

  … before it was too late.

  I drove around aimlessly for a while. Lindsey had called earlier to ask permission to have dinner at a friend’s house, promising to be home no later than eight o’clock to finish a report for Language Arts. And even though Melly had probably returned from brunch by this time, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her just yet. Reaching over, I scratched Casey behind his ear.

  “I need to find out what really happened, Casey.” The little dog thumped his tail to show he listened attentively.

  Before I realized where I was going, I cruised past the Beaver Dam Motel—minus the BEAVER. I noticed a maid’s cleaning trolley parked outside the door to Cheryl and her guy’s love nest. There was no sign of Cheryl’s rental car. I wondered where she and her “friend” were off to this sunny October afternoon.

  Before I could talk myself out of it, I executed a U-turn, pulled into the lot, and got out of the car to investigate. An ancient Hoove
r propped open the door to Cheryl’s room. “Excuse me,” I called out, poking my head inside.

  The maid, an overweight girl in her late teens with a bad case acne and bleached blond hair scraped back in a ponytail, peered out from the bathroom she’d been scrubbing. Thankfully, she was someone I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. “Guests s’posed to check in at the front office.”

  “Ah, I’m not a guest.” I tried to portray a friendly stranger while my mind scrambled to come up with a plausible excuse for my visit. “I … ah … I’m expecting company from out of town, and since I don’t have an extra bedroom, I was wondering—”

  “Feel free to look,” the maid said. “But if I had company, I wouldn’t put them up in this dump.”

  “Thanks,” I told her. I’d hoped the girl would resume her cleaning, but instead she stood sentinel in the bathroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. I don’t claim to have ESP, but I knew from her watchful expression she didn’t trust me not to filch the occupants’ possessions.

  My gaze swept over the room. King-size bed with rumpled sheets. Tan slacks draped over the back of a chair. A smattering of coins on a faux walnut dresser. Designer-brand perfume bottles. Jars of expensive skin-care products. Supplies belonging to a contact lens wearer, which included a travel-size container of wetting solution, a bottle of Visine, and a blue plastic lens case. Nothing that flashed “clue” in bright neon letters.

  Disappointed, I murmured my thanks to the maid and turned to leave.

  “No skin off my nose,” the girl called after me, “but if I was you, I’d put my company up in one of them newer motels off the interstate.”

  As I headed toward home, I couldn’t escape a ballooning sense of urgency to uncover the truth. I’m no expert, but it seemed to me that if Chip’s death had been deliberate, not accidental, it had possibly been a crime of passion. A crime of opportunity. Rage, resentment, or greed could’ve precipitated the act.

  But if Melly wasn’t responsible, then who? Who would be brazen enough to kill a person in another person’s home—especially when the homeowner could reappear at any given moment? It angered me to think whoever that person might be, he—or she—was content to sit back and let Melly shoulder the blame.

  A sudden thought occurred to me. Sitting up straighter, I slapped the steering wheel. Casey cocked one ear as if to ask why the excitement. I rubbed his head. “It’s okay, boy. I just had a brilliant idea and got a little carried away.”

  No one knew Chip better than his partner, Rusty Tulley. The two had been friends since college. Maybe Rusty could shed some light on the sort of man his partner was. And whom Chip might’ve angered. I was also curious to learn if Rusty knew Cheryl’s male companion.

  With that in mind, I headed for the historic district.

  I parked at the curb in front of the Turner-Driscoll House and walked up the curving drive. Casey trotted alongside as if he owned the place. The Turner-Driscoll House, the bed-and-breakfast where Rusty was staying, never failed to remind me of Scarlett O’Hara’s beloved Tara in Gone with the Wind. I spotted Rusty slumped in one of the white rocking chairs, his smartphone and an untouched drink sitting on a wicker table beside him. I wondered why he was still in town, but assumed McBride had ordered everyone to stay put until the case was resolved. Rusty raised his head when he heard me call his name. I sat next to him; Casey curled at my feet. “I thought I’d drop by. See how you were doing.”

  “Not good,” he admitted glumly. “Still can’t believe Chip’s dead.”

  I felt sympathy for Rusty. Unlike Cheryl’s theatrical performance, his grief seemed genuine. The guy looked in need of a hug. “Losing a close friend must be difficult.”

  Rusty plowed his fingers through his longish hair. “Yeah, we’ve been buddies since sophomore year at Southern Cal.”

  Nudging the porch floor with the toe of my shoe, I set the rocker in motion. “College? Is that where Chip met Cheryl?”

  “They might’ve been in a couple classes together early on but didn’t really start dating until they hooked up at an alumni party. Cheryl was more interested in performing arts.”

  I stole a page from McBride’s book and kept quiet. When it came to the school of pregnant pauses, the lawman was a graduate student.

  Rusty hunched forward, hands between his knees, eyes downcast. “I told Chip right from the start, Cheryl was nothing but trouble. But Chip refused to listen. He couldn’t believe his luck—that a woman with her looks would be interested in a nerd like him.”

  “He sounds like a man in love.”

  “Ha, he was a fool!” Rusty snorted. “Cheryl wouldn’t have given him the time of day if Trustychipdesign hadn’t already made its first million.”

  “I only met him once, but Chip seemed like an easygoing sort of guy.”

  “He was, and except for Cheryl, he was no pushover. Besides owning half interest in Trustychipdesign, Chip was also our company’s CFO. Losing him is a blow in more ways than one.”

  I recalled Melly complaining that the two men were reneging on their original offer to purchase her software. “Being chief financial officer of a successful company must mean having to make some hard decisions. Did Chip have any enemies that you’re aware of?”

  Rusty slanted me a look. “What are you getting at?”

  “Nothing,” I said hastily. I wasn’t ready to stick my foot into the homicide versus accident quagmire. I’d leave that for McBride. “I suppose with Chip dead, you’ll have to share control of the business with his wife.”

  Rusty’s expression darkened. “You mean ex-wife, don’t you?”

  I hesitated a moment, then took the plunge. “Cheryl and Chip were still married at the time of his death.”

  “What?” He stood so abruptly, his chair violently rocked to and fro.

  I stood, too. Casey immediately jumped to his feet, not sure why everyone was standing but ready to leap into the fray nevertheless. “I don’t know what happened,” I said, “only that, apparently, their divorce papers were never signed.”

  Rusty’s face reddened with anger, his hands bunched into fists. “Why, that … greedy … money-hungry…”

  Rusty never got a chance to finish his sentence because Cheryl Balboa picked that moment to cruise up the winding drive in her rented BMW and announce she was checking into Felicity Driscoll’s bed-and-breakfast.

  CHAPTER 15

  “THEN WHAT HAPPENED?” Reba Mae prompted the following afternoon. I’d been regaling her at my store counter.

  “Rusty was furious, that’s what happened! And who could blame him?” Melly asked as she walked into Spice It Up! carrying a tray with a pitcher of sweet tea and a plate of gingersnaps. “The two were supposed to be best friends, yet Chip failed to disclose that he and his wife were still married.”

  I cleared a space, and Melly set the tray on the counter. Melly took a seat on one of the stools. I took the other while Reba Mae rested one hip against the counter. We were enjoying a midafternoon lull. Reba Mae had had a last-minute cancellation and dropped by for a visit. Melly had volunteered to go upstairs to my apartment for refreshments. In this case, refreshments translated into the cookies she’d spent most of the morning baking.

  “What did you do?” Reba Mae helped herself to a cookie. “Try to calm ’im down or enjoy the ringside seat?”

  I poured the tea into glasses. “Rusty looked ready to pitch a fit. Fortunately, Felicity’s timing was impeccable. Her arrival helped avoid a showdown. The display of Southern charm she turned on would have made Paula Deen envious.”

  Reba Mae took a sip of tea, a bite of cookie. A strange expression came over her face as she chewed.

  “Wish you could’ve seen Rusty glare at Cheryl. If looks could kill, she would have keeled over right then and there.” I sampled a gingersnap, curious to learn what had caused Reba Mae’s pained look. It immediately became apparent that Melly’s cookies weren’t up to her usual high standards. They were bland rather than spicy. Something was
obviously missing. Ginger? Coriander? Ginger and coriander?

  Reba Mae pointed to the plate of gingersnaps. “Melly, I hate to be the one to—”

  I cut her off. “Reba Mae hates to be the one to tell you, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

  “Ohh,” Melly said, confused at the abrupt change of topic. “Well, I suppose we could always use a good rain.”

  Judging from the look Reba Mae shot me, Melly wasn’t the only one confused. When Melly wasn’t looking, I held my finger to my lips and signaled Reba Mae not to mention the flavorless gingersnaps. Melly had enough troubles as it was.

  “Did Cheryl mention why she bailed out of the no-tell motel?” Reba Mae slipped her half-eaten cookie into the wastebasket.

  I discreetly did the same. “I heard tell they have a cockroach problem.”

  Melly sipped her sweet tea. “I heard bedbugs.”

  “Cockroaches, bedbugs, whatever. Cheryl refused to spend another night in a rinky-dink hotel if she didn’t have to. I heard her complain that seeing an exterminator’s truck there made her itch.”

  Reba Mae scratched her arm. “Can’t say I blame her. Hate creepy crawlies. That’s why I signed a contract with Bugs-B-Gone.”

  “Here, I thought it was the twenty-five-dollar discount coupon.”

  “That too.”

  I pushed my sweet tea aside untasted. “Once she stormed inside, Rusty intimated Cheryl wasn’t the type to stay in a fleabag. She’d become accustomed to luxury. According to him, she expected Chip to become the next Bill Gates.”

  “What happened to the hot guy Cheryl was with at North of the Border?” Reba Mae idly toyed with her chandelier-style earring. “Did he check into the Turner-Driscoll House with her?”

  “Nope,” I said. “She was alone.”

  “Goodness gracious!” Melly pressed a delicate hand to her chest. “Chip’s wife has a new man in her life? Already?”

  Reba Mae smiled thinly. “From the way they were carryin’ on when we saw ’em at North of the Border, I suspect they’ve been friends with benefits for some time.”