by Gail Oust
“Tsk, tsk.” Melly clucked her tongue. “I wonder if Chip suspected his wife of being unfaithful?”
The front door of the shop burst open. “Yoo-hoo!” a familiar voice sang.
The three of us quit gossiping as Dottie Hemmings, clad in a royal blue pantsuit and frilly blouse, sailed into the shop. Her blond bouffant beehive was lacquered to withstand gale force winds.
“Hey, Dottie,” I said. “What can I help you with?”
Dottie ignored my question and reached for a cookie. “Oh, lucky me. Just in time for a tea party.”
I nudged my tea in her direction. “Here, have mine. I haven’t touched it yet.” Truth was, I really didn’t care for sweet tea. My Yankee taste buds rebelled at the syrupy sweet drink so many loved here in the Deep South. Melly always kept a pitcher on hand when she was at home, and I wanted her to feel at ease while at my place.
“Don’t mind if I do.” Dottie took a big bite from her cookie and grimaced. “Melly Prescott, what have you gone and done to these? They taste terrible.”
Melly looked stricken. “Why, Dottie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s the same recipe I’ve been using for years. I’ve made these gingersnaps so often, I know the recipe by heart.”
Dottie wasn’t about to back down. “Don’t take my word for it. Taste one for yourself. You’ll see what I mean.”
Reba Mae and I swapped nervous glances as Melly did what Dottie suggested. She immediately reached for her tea and washed down the cookie. “I must have forgotten some of the spices—the ginger and coriander. And the cardamom,” she added in a small voice.
“They’re not so terrible as Dottie said,” I consoled, patting her back.
Reba Mae’s head bobbed in agreement. “Just not quite up to snuff, is all.”
Melly’s eyes filled with tears, but she sniffed them back. “I’m so absentminded lately. I don’t know what’s come over me.” With that, she slipped off the stool, picked up the plate of gingersnaps, and marched off, leaving us staring after her openmouthed.
Dottie was the first to recover. “Well, don’t that beat all. I didn’t mean to insult her. The cookies weren’t all that bad, just not as good as usual.”
“You still haven’t said what brings you here, Dottie,” I said, trying to steer the discussion away from Melly’s cookie disaster.
She polished off the last of her gingersnap and brushed the crumbs from her fingers. “I got to wondering if you had more cloves or ginger?”
“I’m afraid you cleaned out my stock the other day,” I said. “I’ve reordered, however, and expect to get a shipment later this week.”
Dottie beamed happily. “Call me when it comes in. I’ll hurry on over.”
Reba Mae crossed one ankle over the other. “Long as I’ve known you, Dottie Hemmings, you’ve never been of a mind to spend time slavin’ over a hot stove.”
“Can’t teach this old dog new tricks.” Dottie laughed. “It’s my turn to host bunco this month. Thought we’d do something a little different than roll dice. I want to show the ladies how to make those little spice sachets to keep the spiders away. No sense payin’ top dollar for an exterminator.”
“I’ll call my supplier, double my order, and ask him to put a rush on it.”
“You’ve turned into a regular businesswoman, Piper. Who knew?”
At the sound of the front door opening, the three of us glanced up. Rusty Tulley, as dapper as ever, entered wearing a pale pink mesh polo shirt with its collar turned up, stone-colored chinos, and loafers sans socks. A pair of aviator-style sunglasses was shoved on top of his head. He smelled faintly of expensive men’s cologne. “Ladies,” he said.
Dottie rushed over to him. “You must be Mr. Tulley, the dear departed’s best friend,” she gushed. She took his hand in hers and squeezed. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Tragic thing, him falling down a flight of stairs like that and breaking his neck.”
Rusty disengaged his hand, then flexed his fingers to make sure they were still in working order. “I beg your pardon. Have we met? Who are you?”
Dottie smiled. “I’m Dottie Hemmings. My husband, Harvey, is the mayor.”
I stole a peek at Reba Mae. She hadn’t met either of the dot-com partners during their brief visit to Brandywine Creek. From the expression on her face, I could tell she was waffling between a hug and a handshake. In the end, she extended her hand, opting for the traditional. “I’m Reba Mae Johnson,” she said. “My condolences.”
Rusty shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks.”
“Is there something I can help you with, Rusty?” I asked.
“Ah, yes…” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “This might seem odd, seeing as how Chip and I are strangers to your town, but I’m having a reception of sorts—I’m calling it a remembrance—in Chip’s honor. I’d be pleased if you’d attend.”
“A memorial service?”
“Memorial services I’ve attended always seemed so … depressing. I’d like something more relaxed, less formal. More a celebration of life. I need a chance to talk with others about the Chip Balboa I knew—a remembrance. I suppose I could postpone this until I return to California, but what’s the point? As long as Chief McBride wants me to stick around, I thought, why wait? Selfish of me, but I’m hoping this will bring closure.”
Touched by his thoughtfulness, I reached over and lightly placed my hand on his arm. “Of course I’ll be there.”
“Chip was a loner. His job was his life, so that didn’t leave much time for socializing. Except for a few distant cousins, he didn’t have family. If I don’t do something to mark his passing, no one will.”
“Aww…” Reba Mae’s constraint broke, and she hugged Rusty.
“I’ll come, too.” Dottie’s eyes gleamed with anticipation. “Just tell me when and where.”
I refrained from rolling my eyes at hearing this. To the best of my knowledge, Dottie had never even seen Chip Balboa, but couldn’t ignore the chance for free food and juicy gossip.
“You’re welcome also, Ms. Johnson,” Rusty said, including Reba Mae in the invitation.
“Folks call me Reba Mae,” she told him. “And I think it’s real sweet what you’re doin’ for your friend.”
“It didn’t seem … right … not to have a gathering of some sort.” Raising his hand, Rusty massaged the back of his neck as if to erase tension that had settled there. “His wife refuses to make any effort.”
“Guess that’s understandable, considering they were on the verge of divorce. Still…” My voice trailed off.
An awkward silence fell.
“Well, at least Chip had a loyal friend in you,” Reba Mae said to fill the void.
“A friend in need is a friend indeed,” Dottie intoned solemnly.
“What time do you want us?” I asked.
“It’s set for four o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Felicity said we could use the front parlor at the Turner-Driscoll House. She even volunteered to provide refreshments.” He started for the door, but turned back. “Be sure to include Melly in the invitation. Tell her that I don’t hold her responsible for what happened to Chip.”
“What a nice young man,” Dottie cooed as the door closed behind him. “No sense in dyin’ if no one’s around to mark the occasion.”
* * *
Buzz Oliver showed up just before closing time. Buzz—short and stocky, dressed in a blue uniform and ball cap with a smiley-face insect logo—was the senior exterminator at Bugs-B-Gone, a job he’d held since graduating from high school. “Hope I’m not too late,” he said, referring to the three o’clock appointment the office manager had scheduled.
“No problem,” I told him, glancing up from a pile of mail order catalogs I’d been studying.
“My truck blew a tire, or I woulda been here sooner,” Buzz explained as he hauled in paraphernalia. Casey took one look at all the equipment and hightailed it upstairs to join Melly.
I went back to making notes about items I w
anted to stock, now that the holidays were fast approaching. Things that would make good gifts, like chef’s aprons, saltshakers and pepper mills, and an assortment of recipe cards. I also hoped to sell the soup cookbooks the ladies at the Lutheran church had compiled to benefit a women’s shelter. Since my business was now on more solid financial footing than in the past, I planned to diversify. I’d start small, but would include a variety of cooking accessories if my ideas proved profitable. The production of Steel Magnolias was bound to bring in groups such as Red Hatters and senior citizens by the busloads. And those folks loved to shop.
“Reba Mae’s boy Caleb was busier than a one-arm paperhanger at the garage.” Buzz took off his cap and ran a hand over his bristly crew cut, which had earned him his nickname.
“There isn’t a car made that he can’t fix,” I said. Caleb managed Cloune Motors while its owner, Diane Cloune, searched for a buyer. Her husband, Dwayne, was currently a guest of the Georgia Department of Corrections as a result of killing his third cousin once removed. So far, no one had shown much interest in the garage. Diane bragged about wanting to move soon to Buckhead, a ritzy suburb of Atlanta, and leaving Brandywine Creek in the dust.
Buzz replaced his cap. “Heard Miss Melly was staying here.”
“Only until Chief McBride gives her the okay to return home. Shouldn’t be much longer.” I continued leafing through the glossy catalogs, pausing here and there to earmark a page.
Buzz energetically pumped a large metal canister containing chemicals. “Darn shame about what happened, ain’t it?”
“It certainly is,” I replied, my tone neutral, my gaze fastened on the page in front of me.
“Ran into Ned Feeney down at the Cloune Motors while waitin’ to get my tire fixed.” Buzz walked around the shop’s perimeter, the nozzle of his sprayer aimed at the baseboards. “Ned overheard the widow talkin’ to Mr. Strickland at the Eternal Rest. She told ’em not to expect her to shed no crocodile tears. Said she’s been tryin’ to get that husband of hers outa her life for nearly a year. She was sorry he was dead, but life goes on. Ask me, she sounds more coldhearted than brokenhearted.”
“Mmm. Interesting.”
Ned stopped spraying long enough to mop his brow with a red bandanna. “The wife’s a real looker. Not my type, but a looker all the same. Her and her male friend seemed pretty chummy when I saw them check into the Beaver Dam Motel.”
Cheryl and her companion seemed “pretty chummy” the night Reba Mae and I had spotted them, too, I mused. I made a check mark next to a couple of cute chef’s aprons. I thought briefly about ordering one for Doug that read REAL MEN BBQ AND GRILL. He’d love it. Another apron had OCD stitched in bright letters. Underneath was written OBSESSIVE CUPCAKE DISORDER. That might work for Melly if I could get it customized as OBSESSIVE COOKIE DISORDER.
Buzz seemed oblivious of my preoccupation with aprons. “The whole time, the wife kept askin’ me what I was doin’ at the motel. Wanted to know if I’d inspected all the rooms. Asked if I was usin’ organic pesticides.”
With a sigh, I closed the catalog. “When was this?”
Buzz stopped spraying and squinted, his round face screwed up with concentration. “Wednesday, late afternoon. I was just finishing up my last job of the day.”
Wednesday?
Chip’s body wasn’t discovered until early Thursday—but the coroner had ruled that Chip died the night before. Everyone had assumed Cheryl was in California, thousands of miles away, at the time. Unless Buzz Oliver was mistaken, Cheryl had been as snug as a bug in a rug—pardon the play on words—at the Beaver Dam Motel.
“Buzz,” I said, choosing my next words carefully, “are you certain you saw Cheryl and her friend on Wednesday, not Thursday?”
“Yep, positive. I remember ’cause Wednesday’s my bowlin’ league. I knew I had to hurry if I wanted to grab a shower and a bite to eat before meetin’ the guys. The woman insisted that I spray her room a second time to make sure I didn’t miss anything. Because of her, I showed up late, and my team had to forfeit points.”
I practically shoved Buzz out the door the instant he quit spraying. I could barely contain my excitement. Cheryl would benefit if Chip died while they were still married. She might even have an accidental-death benefit written into his life insurance claim. Did double indemnity still exist? I remembered seeing an old movie with Barbara Stanwyck and Fred MacMurray with the pair plotting to kill her husband for the insurance money, an almost perfect crime that involved a train track. Train track. Flight of stairs. Either way, dead was dead.
“Melly!” I called up to her. “Dinner’s in the Crock-Pot. If I’m not home in an hour, you and Lindsey eat without me.”
Not waiting for a response, I grabbed my purse and flew out the door. I couldn’t wait to tell a certain somebody what I’d just learned.
CHAPTER 16
MCBRIDE’S TRUCK WASN’T in its usual space, but I didn’t let that deter me. He could just as easily have commandeered one of the marked cars for his use. I jumped out of my Beetle and shoved through the door of the Brandywine Creek Police Department.
Precious Blessing sat ensconced behind the front desk, munching on a submarine sandwich. Her face broke into a wide grin at seeing me. Other than Precious, the office appeared deserted. “Is the chief in?” I asked, not bothering with our usual pleasantries.
Precious set her sub next to an opened bag of potato chips and a can of Dr Pepper. Her smile faded when she saw my expression. “Don’t go tellin’ me you found another dead body?”
I blew out a breath. Folks were starting to think that finding dead people had become an occupation of mine. Technically, I’d found only one. Melly and Casey had discovered the others. “No, no dead body,” I said.
“Praise the Lord!” Precious pushed the bag of chips in my direction.
I pushed them back. “I need to speak to McBride.”
“The chief left ’bout a half hour ago. Let me page him for you.”
“No thanks,” I said when her hand reached for the phone. “I need to talk to him face-to-face. Did he say where he was going?”
“He mentioned somethin’ about pickin’ up a pizza before headin’ on home. Offered to get me one, too, but I was in more of a mind for a meatball sub.”
“Thanks, Precious.” I was out the door in a flash and in my car.
I wanted to witness McBride’s reaction from up close and personal when I relayed the information that Cheryl Balboa had been in town the night her husband died—not thousands of miles away, as she’d led everyone to believe. Motive, means, and opportunity, McBride liked to preach. Well, I’d been taking notes. Cheryl possessed two of the unholy trinity, motive and opportunity. All she’d needed to complete them was a steep flight of stairs, which Melly had unwittingly provided.
Shadows lengthened as I drove the two-lane county highway out of town. Days were growing noticeably shorter, now that October was here. Leaves on the oaks and sweet gum trees lining both sides of the road had started to change color. Not the blazing oranges and reds I’d known growing up in Michigan, but more mellow tones of gold and yellow.
Five miles farther, I turned into a driveway marked by a shiny black mailbox with MCBRIDE stenciled on the side. Gravel crunched beneath my tires. McBride’s house, partially hidden by a giant magnolia tree in the front yard, came into view. I caught sight of a deer poised at the edge of the woods that bordered his property—so still it might have been a statue. Then, its head lifted as though sensing danger, the deer vanished among the towering loblolly pines.
McBride’s Ford pickup was parked next to the house. I pulled up behind it, got out, and went up the walk. McBride—or someone—had done extensive yard work since my last visit. The hydrangeas and viburnum had been trimmed, the holly tamed. I also noticed another difference: A refrigerator stood on the porch in a spot previously occupied by an aluminum lawn chair. I felt like I’d wandered into an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies—minus the Beverly Hills. My knock was a
nswered almost immediately.
“Come in.” McBride stepped aside and motioned for me to enter. He’d taken time to exchange his uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt. “You’re just in time for supper.”
I found myself in the midst of a work in progress. A kitchen that had formerly been on my right now lay gutted and bare. A wooden plank resting across two sawhorses held a toaster, salt- and pepper shakers, and McBride’s George Foreman grill. The outdated red and black linoleum in the kitchen, along with threadbare carpeting in the rest of the house, had been ripped out and replaced with a plywood subfloor.
“Cozy,” I commented.
“The lady’s being facetious,” McBride said with a smile. “Eventually, I’ll have hardwood floors throughout.”
I gestured to a large sheet of plastic taped over a gaping hole. “Don’t tell me,” I drawled. “You lost your temper and put your fist through the wall.”
“Funny,” he said. “I’m having a French door put in, which will lead onto a deck.” He led the way to a drop-leaf table covered with chipped and yellowed paint with an unopened pizza box as its centerpiece. “Like anchovies?”
“Anchovies?” I blinked at the sudden change of topic. “No, not really.”
“Good, neither do I.” He flashed a grin that showed off the dimple in his cheek that I found so appealing. “Have a seat.”
I sat. “I came here to talk, not interrupt your dinner.”
“Heard women are good at multitasking. Now’s your chance to prove it.” He sorted through a cardboard box that held an assortment of kitchen items and produced two paper plates. “I even have china.”
“That isn’t china,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “It’s Chinet.”
“China or Chinet, they both hold food. What would you like to drink? I don’t have Diet Coke, so it’s either beer or water.”
“Water works for me.” I served up the pizza while he went out to the porch and returned with beverages—bottled water for me, a can of Bud Light for him.
I bit into my slice, savoring tomato sauce richly flavored with basil, oregano, thyme, marjoram, and garlic. The recipe was local chef Tony Deltorro’s carefully guarded secret. “No one makes better pizza than the Pizza Palace.”
