by Gail Oust
“I’ve heard folks rave about Chicago-style deep dish.” McBride tore off several sheets from a roll of paper towels and handed me one to use as a napkin.
“Never been to Chicago, but I don’t know how it could top this.” I scooped up a mushroom that had managed to escape from the gooey mozzarella. “What’s your trick for getting pizza home while it’s still hot?”
“I keep one of those hot-and-cold insulated bags in my truck. It also keeps ice cream from melting between the Piggly Wiggly and here.”
I looked at him skeptically as I helped myself to a second slice. McBride was fit and trim. He didn’t carry an extra pound. I wished I knew his magic formula. “I’d never have taken you for an ice cream–loving kind of guy.”
McBride took a swig of beer. “Strawberry’s my favorite. What’s yours?”
“Blue Bell’s butter pecan,” I answered, naming not only the flavor but also the brand. “In my humble opinion, they make the best. I think it’s all the pecans they add.” I took a sip of my water. “Gee, McBride, this conversation’s turning personal. What next, favorite TV shows?”
He took another slice of pizza—it might have been his third, but who was counting? “Okay, I’ll play along. You go first.”
“I’m a big CSI fan, and, of course, I love the Food Network.”
“Figures.”
I ignored his sarcasm. “Now your turn.”
He studied the label on the beer can before confessing, “I like Dancing with the Stars.”
I couldn’t have been more surprised. Leaning back in my chair, I decided to test him. “Humor me, McBride. If you like Dancing with the Stars so much, which winners were your favorites?”
“Hines Ward, for one.”
“Hmm.” I nodded. “Wasn’t he a professional football player?”
“Fourteen years with the Pittsburgh Steelers, voted MVP of the Super Bowl. Also played for the University of Georgia. And”—he grinned as he snatched the last slice of pizza—“Hines won perfect scores for both the Argentine tango and the quickstep.”
“You probably read all that in Sports Illustrated. If you’re such a huge fan, who else?”
“Emmitt Smith.”
“Another football player?”
“Dallas Cowboys most of his career. A great running back.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “I’ve got two left feet when it comes to dancing. Never did learn the shag. I turned green with envy, watching Doug and Reba Mae take home the trophy at the barbecue festival for their fancy footwork.”
I felt a stab of guilt at the mention of Doug’s name. I was enjoying Wyatt McBride’s company far too much. Doug Winters was the one I should have been with sharing likes and dislikes with, not McBride. My loyalty rightfully belonged to Doug, a mild-mannered veterinarian. Not a hunky policeman who looked better than he ought to in faded jeans and scruffy sweatshirt.
“Dessert?” Unmindful of my inner turmoil, McBride rummaged through the cardboard box and unearthed a half-eaten bag of Oreos.
“Sure.” Pizza and cookies? My metabolism couldn’t compete with his. I made a mental note to resume jogging, a habit I’d fallen out of since Melly’s grisly discovery.
McBride wolfed down a couple of Oreos, then leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “Now, what brought you out here in the first place?”
I felt a frisson of anticipation, now that the “reveal” was at hand. “You can cross Melly off your persons of interest list.”
“That so?”
I nodded so vigorously, my curls bounced. “You need to check out Cheryl Balboa. She should be your number one suspect.”
“Exactly why do I ‘need’ to do this?”
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” I replied succinctly. “Cheryl has all three. With Chip dead, Cheryl is entitled to inherit everything—house, cars, cash, and half of Trustychipdesign.”
“Aren’t you overlooking one important fact? Cheryl Balboa was in California the night her husband was killed.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” I paused for dramatic effect, then played my trump card. “Cheryl was right here in Brandywine Creek the entire time.”
McBride lifted one dark brow, the one bisected with a small scar, ever so slightly. “And you came by this information how?”
“Because Bugs-B-Gone offered a twenty-five-dollar coupon to customers who signed a year-long contract. Termites, spiders, ants. They promised to spray every other month, whether you need it or not.”
“You lost me.” He tapped the empty beer can on the tabletop. “What do bugs have to do with any of this?”
“Nothing, but Buzz Oliver does,” I said. “If you recall, Buzz is the senior tech at Bugs-B-Gone. Buzz came by Spice It Up! this afternoon to perform routine pest control. While he was there, he let it slip that Cheryl and her boyfriend checked into the Beaver Dam Motel late Wednesday afternoon.”
“Is he sure about the date?”
“Not just sure, he’s positive. Cheryl was the reason he was late for bowling. His team had to forfeit points.”
I could almost see the cogs in McBride’s brain start to grind.
“Chip’s body wasn’t found until Thursday morning,” I reminded him needlessly. “Both the coroner and ME concluded he died Wednesday evening. You’ve been under the impression Cheryl was two thousand miles away when you called to inform her that Chip was dead, but she was right here in Brandywine Creek the whole time.”
He leaned forward, hands loosely cupped around the empty beer can, his expression thoughtful. “When I phoned Cheryl Balboa, she told me she’d be here as soon as she could make travel arrangements.”
“Some travel arrangements,” I scoffed. “All the way from the Beaver Dam Motel to the police department, where she auditioned for the role of grieving widow.”
“You referred to Cheryl Balboa’s ‘boyfriend.’ Tell me what you know about him.”
“The guy looks like he was born with a surfboard tucked under his arm. He’s the Ken doll to her Barbie. You know the type—tall, bronzed, and built. Lots of sun-streaked blond hair. Reba Mae wants to hire him for a pool boy.”
He seemed puzzled. “Reba Mae doesn’t have a pool.”
“Point made.”
“How long have you been aware of Cheryl’s friend?”
I shifted my weight. Had the chair suddenly gotten harder? “We—Reba Mae and I—saw them canoodling in a back booth at North of the Border on Saturday night. So we tailed them to the Beaver Dam.”
“Tailed them?” McBride pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Please don’t tell me you women are playing detective again. How many times do I have to warn you to stay away from trouble?”
I raised my chin defiantly, but the action was wasted on him. “We saw them embrace, then go into a motel room together.”
“Interesting.” Climbing to his feet, he discarded the pizza box and paper plates in the nearby trash can.
“Interesting? Is that all you’re going to say?” I huffed out an impatient breath. “Aren’t you going to bring Cheryl in for questioning? Subpoena her? Grill her? Find out why she lied about being in Brandywine Creek? See if she has an alibi? Ask her the last time she talked to Chip? The last time she saw him?”
One side of McBride’s mouth quirked in obvious amusement. “I’m looking for someone to replace Sergeant Blabbermouth. Care to fill out an application?”
My mouth dropped open. “You’ve fired Beau?”
“I put him on probation. The man needs to learn the meaning of privileged information in an ongoing investigation. And to keep his mouth shut.”
“Don’t blame Beau.” I tugged my lower lip between my teeth. “It’s my fault. I cornered him at the football game and forced him to tell me everything he knew.”
McBride’s beer can clanged as he dropped it into a plastic bin labeled RECYCLE. “Did you use thumbscrews? Or did you resort to water boarding?”
“Beau was caught between a rock and a hard place. It was e
ither answer my question or the cheese on his nachos would congeal.”
“Tough choice.”
I rose from my chair and neatly pushed it against the table. “You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do about Cheryl. Why not get a copy of her cell phone records like they do on TV? They should be undisputed proof to show where she was when you called to tell her about Chip.”
“Since you seem to know so much, you ought to know I can’t do that without a court order.”
“So,” I challenged, “what are you waiting for?”
A loud meow sounded before he could reply. My head jerked around at the cry. I watched a cat slink out a door that I assumed belonged to a bedroom. The feline looked dressed for the opera, its fur like a black tux with a snowy-white shirt front. Its eyes glowed like twin emeralds. Half of one ear was conspicuously absent, ruining the cat’s haughty pose.
“A cat? You have a cat?” I asked in amazement.
“She’s a feral cat. At least part feral. She sort of adopted me. Kept coming up to the porch, looked half-starved, so I started feeding her. When the temperature dropped a couple weeks ago, I finally let her inside. Now she doesn’t want to leave the house.”
I stooped down. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I crooned.
The cat responded with another plaintive meow, turned tail, and retreated back into the bedroom.
“Well, I guess she told me in no uncertain terms,” I said, both irritated and amused at the animal’s behavior. “Does your pet have a name?”
“Fraidy.”
I rolled my eyes. “As in ‘fraidy cat’?”
“The name suits her. Fraidy doesn’t trust people,” he admitted. “I keep her in the bedroom when workmen are around.”
Would wonders never cease? Not only did the man love watching Dancing with the Stars, but he’d befriended a homeless feline, too. What else was hidden beneath the tough-guy exterior?
“G’night, Wyatt,” I said.
“G’night, Piper.”
I left him standing in the center of his self-proclaimed work in progress. It wasn’t until I was almost home that I realized I’d called him by his given name.
CHAPTER 17
LINDSEY PRACTICALLY FLOATED through the front door of my shop. “Sean asked me to homecoming.”
I stopped sorting credit card receipts at the counter. “That’s wonderful, sweetie.”
“I worried he was going to ask Brittany Hughes, but he was waiting by my locker after French class.” She plunked her backpack on the floor, grabbed me around the waist, and twirled me in a circle. “Can you believe it? Sean Rogers asked me to homecoming.”
Casey, who had been indulging in his favorite pastime—napping—woke up and wanted to be part of the celebration. Barking excitedly, he wagged his tail back and forth and pranced about.
“You’ll really like him, Mom,” Lindsey said, releasing me and scooping up Casey.
I gazed into my daughter’s flushed face, her sparkling eyes, and felt my breath catch. Before I knew it, she’d be off to college. The years had flown. One minute it’s diapers and teething; the next, they’re finishing high school and choosing a career. I cleared my throat. “I think Sean Rogers is one smart guy for picking you.”
She stroked Casey’s shaggy brown fur until the pup almost purred like a kitten. “Sean’s cool. He listens, he really listens when I talk.”
I smiled once more. I knew exactly what she meant. Doug Winters did that very same thing whenever we talked. My smile dimmed when it dawned on me I hadn’t heard from him recently. That wasn’t like Doug. Was something wrong? I made a mental note to find out.
“I want to meet this young man you talk so much about. Why not invite him for dinner soon?” I said, taking the receipts up again and tucking them into an envelope.
“I will, promise.” Casey licked Lindsey’s chin with his wet, raspy tongue, making her giggle. “And we need to shop for a dress. Something amazing. There’s a good chance Sean will be voted homecoming king.”
I put the envelope in a drawer of the cash register. “Does that mean you might be elected queen?”
Lindsey set Casey on the floor. “Oh, Mom, there are a lot of girls prettier than me who’ll get votes.”
Still, I could read my daughter’s mind. I knew she knew that she was in the running for that coveted honor. “Let’s set time aside soon to go to the mall. I heard there’s a new Italian restaurant nearby we might like to try.”
“Sure, sounds like fun.” Lindsey found Casey a doggy treat from a jar under the counter and handed it to him. “Okay if Amber comes along? She knows the managers of all the boutiques from her pageant days.”
Two’s company; three’s a crowd. That might be a cliché, but in this case, no truer words were ever spoken. I forced a smile again even though I feared my face would crack. “No problem.”
“Great. I’ll text her.”
A glance at my watch told me I’d better hurry if I didn’t want to be late for Chip Balboa’s remembrance. I intended to keep a close eye on the Widow Balboa. Could she—would she—shed a tear for her dearly departed? Or merely display the cool detachment of an about-to-be ex-wife who’s already moved on? Better yet, maybe I’d detect a flicker of guilt for having hastened her husband’s untimely demise. “Are you sure, Lindsey, that you can manage the shop by yourself?”
“It’s never very busy this time of day.” She went over to her backpack and leaned down to pull out a three-ring notebook covered in hearts and flowers. “This will give me time to study for the history quiz tomorrow.”
“Great.” I fished my compact out of my purse and inspected my makeup a final time. I hoped the heavier-than-usual coat of mascara would draw attention to my eyes and away from the blasted freckles peeking through the light foundation I’d applied earlier. I wasn’t sure what the appropriate attire was for this afternoon’s final tribute, so I’d chosen every woman’s go-to—the little black dress. Equally suitable for cocktail parties or funerals. “See you later,” I said as I went out the door.
* * *
Cars filled the drive of the Turner-Driscoll House, so I parked at the curb and walked up the circular drive as quickly as my slim skirt and three-inch heels allowed. I spotted Cheryl’s rental parked in front of Reba Mae’s Buick. Reba Mae, bless her heart, had squeezed Melly in for a wash and set, then volunteered to give her a ride over. The dark Cadillac belonged to Dottie Hemmings. I wasn’t sure who owned the Toyota Corolla.
Felicity greeted me at the door, her somber expression befitting the occasion. “Everyone is congregating in the entrance hall. The remembrance will begin in just a few minutes in the front parlor.”
Felicity effortlessly oozed charm and chic. Her silver hair was worn in a short, no-nonsense style. Smile lines bracketed lively brown eyes. She’d been married to a prominent Birmingham physician. After his death, she’d moved to Brandywine Creek determined to restore a house that had been in her husband’s family for decades. She was a people person, loved to entertain, so operating a bed-and-breakfast proved a perfect fit.
The entrance hall, which ran the length of the house, was large enough to accommodate a marching band. I stood for a moment to get my bearings. Guests formed small clusters on the black and white marble checkerboard floor. A staircase with a mahogany banister gracefully curved to bedrooms on the second level. An ornate gilded mirror hung above an antique console decorated with a gorgeous centerpiece of white hothouse roses and rosemary. Unable to resist, I leaned forward for a whiff of the peppery-pine fragrance.
“Rosemary is for remembrance,” Felicity said from over my shoulder. “I thought it would add a nice touch.”
“I’m sure Rusty appreciates the gesture.”
“He’s been struggling to deal with the loss of his friend. The two had a terrible row the night of Chip’s unfortunate accident. I think this is Rusty’s way of making amends for the harsh words.” Felicity nodded toward the doorway of the parlor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need
to check on the refreshments.”
Before I had a chance to fully process what Felicity had just told me, Reba Mae separated herself from a group that included Melly, Dottie, and Thompson Gray. “Hey, honeybun,” she said. “I been waitin’ on you. You’re not usually late. Thought you might’ve had a change of heart and decided not to come.”
The front door opened to admit a latecomer. McBride stood for a moment, his cool blue eyes surveying the assembled guests.
“Whoo-ee!” Reba Mae fanned herself. “That man sure cleans up well.”
“Mmm.” I tried to keep my tone neutral, although I secretly agreed he looked handsome in dark blazer, pale blue shirt, and gray pants.
“By the way,” I said, hoping to sound offhand, “I drove out to his place last night. We shared a pizza.”
Reba Mae waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Anythin’ else you care to share?”
I leaned closer and spoke softly, “Cheryl Balboa wasn’t in California the night her husband died. She was here the entire time.”
Reba Mae’s eyes widened. “You’re kiddin’, right?”
“I think she might’ve had something to do with Chip’s death.”
The babble of voices in the entrance hall faded into silence. I glanced around to find the cause. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the staircase. Cheryl Balboa, stunningly dressed from head to toe in black, befitting a recent widow, her blond hair swept into a fashionable chignon, slowly descended the stairs. I had to give the woman points. She knew how to make an entrance.
“I saw an actress with that hairdo on The Young and the Restless. Been wantin’ to try it ever since,” Reba Mae said, referring to the off-center knot at Cheryl’s nape.
“Nice,” I murmured. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied Rusty’s expression. His face looked pinched as he observed Cheryl’s slow descent. I wondered where Cheryl had stashed her boyfriend. Had she sent him packing? Or was he still holed up at the Beaver Dam Motel while she called on her limited acting skills to portray a grieving widow?
