by Gail Oust
I prepared Melly’s tea, set it before her, and watched as she took a cautious sip. She seemed calmer now, more in control. I cleared my throat, then said, “Melly, there is a favor I’d like in return.”
Melly wrapped her hands around the mug, savoring its warmth. “Certainly, dear. All you have to do is ask.”
“I’d like you to put your computer skills to the test. Find out everything you can about Trustychipdesign’s financial situation. Dig deep.”
She raised a brow askance. “Their finances were in excellent condition when I researched them last spring.”
I picked a bloody piece of gauze up by its corner and dropped it into the wastebasket, then scrubbed my hands. “Things may have changed in the interim. Nothing ever stays the same.”
“I’ll start on it as soon as I clean up this disaster area. Online research will keep my mind occupied. All I seem to do these days is worry that I’ll be arrested for a crime I didn’t commit.” Tears pooled in her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a tissue from a box on the kitchen table. “I don’t want my grandchildren to see their meemaw behind bars.”
I went over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Melly. We’ll get this figured out. It just takes time.”
Ten minutes later, I went downstairs to open Spice It Up! I admitted privately that I wasn’t feeling nearly so optimistic as I tried to make it sound. Time was proving to be Melly’s enemy, not her friend.
* * *
People drifted in and out all morning to inquire about Ned’s accident. Reba Mae’s appearance following the noontime rush was a welcome diversion.
“Stopped by the Pizza Palace for calzones,” she announced, brandishing a paper sack. “Hope you’re hungry.” Not waiting for my response, she handed me one.
“Not hungry, starved.” I produced a couple cans of Diet Coke from the fridge in the back.
Reba Mae unwrapped a calzone, and instantly the shop was filled with the delicious aromas of tangy marinara sauce and spicy pepperoni. “The Klassy Kut’s buzzin’ about how Melly beaned Ned on the noggin.”
I popped the tab on my soda. “Melly didn’t hit Ned. When all the facts come to light, Ned will be the one to blame for the accident. I suspect the old disposal was heavier than he anticipated. It probably slipped from his hands and knocked him silly.”
“I didn’t really believe what the ladies were sayin’.” She took a bite of calzone and washed it down with soda. “I heard the hospital’s keepin’ him overnight for observation. He keeps mumblin’ about a stainless steel flange. Not makin’ a lick of sense.”
“Does he ever?” I was instantly ashamed of myself. Even though Ned was one sandwich shy of a picnic, he had a heart of gold. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”
“S’all right.” Reba Mae plucked a piece of pepperoni from her sandwich and chewed. “I can’t face tomorrow night starin’ at the tube. Want to be my date for the football game? Unless you and Dr. Doug have plans.”
“Sure. I’ll go with you.” I wiped my greasy fingers on a paper napkin. “Funny, but Doug hasn’t mentioned the game.”
“You two have a fight?”
“Not that I know of.” It had become a habit of Doug’s and mine to attend the Brandywine Creek Bearcats’ home games together. Doug was convinced that it was a good policy for local business owners to be visible in the community. Talk of Doug only served to remind me I’d forgotten to return his call. I stifled a groan and promised myself I’d phone right after lunch.
“How’s Melly holdin’ up these days?” Reba Mae asked.
“Umm … she’s doing okay, considering the circumstances. Right now, she’s baking a batch of gingersnaps for Doug’s sauerbraten.”
Reba Mae swung her leg, causing her black suede clog with its three-inch cork sole to dangle from her foot. “Dottie Hemmings came in for a color and cut. She says her husband, Hizzoner the mayor, is pressurin’ McBride to make an arrest. The mayor claims an unsolved murder is a black mark on the town in general—and McBride in particular.”
“Hizzoner the mayor happens to be an old windbag.”
“Maybe so”—Reba Mae shrugged—“but McBride still has to answer to him and the city council if he wants to keep his job.”
For reasons I didn’t wish to explore, I disliked the thought of McBride moving elsewhere. “I ran into McBride at Lowe’s last night. Helped him choose a couple appliances.”
“Clay wishes McBride would make up his mind on cabinets and countertops. The man might know his way around a Smith and Wesson, but he doesn’t know diddly-squat about renovations.”
“I don’t suppose McBride has much time to be worrying about fixing up a kitchen with a homicide to solve.” I balled up my sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the trash. “I’m going to crash CJ and Amber’s dinner party later tonight. Care to join me? I want to get better acquainted with the lovebirds. Cheryl might have an alibi, but I’m not one hundred percent certain about the boyfriend. He could have a motive to want Chip dead.” And after my conversation with Felicity, I was beginning to suspect Rusty might as well.
“Wish I could, honeybun, but I’ve got lines to memorize.” She patted her recently dyed blond hair. “Truvy Jones is a central character in Steel Magnolias. She’s in every scene. I need to be prepared.”
I cringed. Seems “be prepared” was the slogan of the day.
Reba Mae wrinkled her nose. “What’s that I smell?”
Now I smelled it, too. The scorched odor of burned baked goods. This was followed by the sound of metal clattering on floor tiles. Reba Mae and I looked at each other. “Melly’s gingersnaps,” we said in unison.
“I’ve got highlights waitin’ on me,” she said, moving toward the door. “If I were you, hon, I’d stay clear of upstairs and let Melly simmer down.”
I took Reba Mae’s advice. Discretion is the better part of valor, as a wise man once said. I was reaching for my cell phone to call Doug when a group of women garbed in red hats and purple outfits descended on Spice It Up!
“Fran,” called a pretty woman with reddish-blond hair peeking out from a red hat trimmed with purple feathers. “Wait till you see this place. It’s right up your alley. Fran’s a gourmet cook,” she explained.
A gray-haired woman with warm brown eyes laughed off the compliment. “Maureen’s being kind. I just like to cook, is all. Try different things.”
“It’s true,” Maureen insisted. “Fran even makes pasta from scratch.”
I suffered an acute case of hair envy at the sight of Maureen’s stylish and well-behaved reddish hair. My salesmanship, however, eventually overrode my spate of hair envy. “Feel free to browse,” I told the Red Hat ladies. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”
“What a cute place,” commented a tall, athletic woman with short auburn hair graying at the temples. “Are you the owner?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m Piper Prescott. Where are you ladies from?”
“My name’s Joan, by the way,” she said, introducing herself. “We’re from a small town you’ve probably never heard of in South Carolina.”
“We’re making a day of it,” said a woman with a marked New York accent. “Our husbands are on their own for dinner tonight.”
Curious, I said, “Brandywine Creek is off the beaten path. How did you ladies hear about our little town?”
“Maureen—she’s our ‘queen’—read an article about it in a magazine,” Fran explained. “She arranged a fabulous lunch for us at Antonio’s.”
“And before lunch, we toured the opera house,” offered a petite brunette, the most fashionably attired of the group. She turned to Joan. “What was the woman’s name who showed us around?”
Joan shook her head in annoyance. “Oh, heavens, I don’t remember. I hate that I can’t recall names like I used to.”
Fran laughed. “That’s one of the advantages of living in a retirement community. None of us remember names.”
The women all chuckle
d.
“I think it was Sandy,” the petite brunette replied.
“Leave it to Janet to come up with the name,” Joan grumbled good-naturedly.
“That must’ve been Sandy Granger,” I said. “I’m sure she mentioned the opera house is over one hundred years old. Did she tell you about the resident ghost? There’s even a chair reserved for it on the third-floor balcony.”
Through an open doorway, the New Yorker spotted Casey lying in the storeroom at the foot of the stairs. Apparently he, too, had been avoiding Melly. “What a cute dog!” she exclaimed. “Is he a cairn terrier like Toto in The Wizard of Oz?”
“Rosemarie’s secretary of our local humane society,” Maureen explained.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “Casey’s from a long distinguished line of mutts.”
The women spread out in all directions. I was happy to see most of them took one of the small wicker baskets near the register.
“Hi, I’m Jan.” A tall woman with short, light brown hair and a red visor approached me. Earrings with tiny red hats swung from her earlobes. “I’m chairing a golf outing at the club. I asked the food service to do a German theme. I showed the chef a recipe that calls for juniper berries, but he told me the Food Lion doesn’t carry them, and he doesn’t have time to drive to Augusta or Atlanta. I don’t suppose…?”
“Right this way,” I said, leading her to a shelf where most of my ethnic spices were displayed.
“What about kala jeera?” asked Fran. “My husband, Mike, likes Indian cuisine.”
Happy to oblige her as well, I plucked a jar from the shelf. I watched Fran lift the lid. An exotic, flowery scent wafted out. “Kala jeera is also called black cumin. Use these fairly soon because they lose their flavor rapidly.”
Maureen glanced around, then asked in a raised voice, “Has anyone seen Carol? What about Ann and Claudell?”
“Carol spotted a garden shop around the corner.” Rosemarie examined the label on a jar of pink peppercorns from the French island of Réunion. “I think Ann went with her. Ann and John are replacing some shrubs. Who better than a master gardener to tag along with?”
Maureen still looked worried. “Where’s Claudell?”
“She ducked into the antiques store,” Jan supplied.
Joan laughed. “Ever since we lost Fran at an outlet mall, Maureen started taking a head count.”
Their shopping finished, the Red Hatters formed a queue at the counter. I had to admit, Fran knew her way around a kitchen. In addition to kala jeera, she purchased mahlab used in Greek dishes and galangal, a frequent ingredient in Thai cooking. The attractive brunette, whom I heard referred to as Janet, turned out to be a baker.
“My husband’s favorite pie is apple,” Janet confessed, handing me her Visa.
“Then you’ll love this combination I created from cinnamons of Indonesia and Ceylon, freshly grated nutmeg, and cloves from Madagascar,” I told her while waiting for her receipt to print.
“Is it true allspice really isn’t a blend of spices?” This question came from Jan, the golfer.
“Contrary to popular belief, allspice is a berry grown in the Caribbean and not a blend,” I said, feeling as proud as if I’d answered the question on Final Jeopardy!
Joan lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Maybe you can tell us if the restaurant where we had lunch today, Antonio’s, is the same one where a chef was found stabbed to death a few months ago.”
I glanced up and realized I had a rapt audience. “Ah, yes,” I murmured. “It is.” Wouldn’t these nice ladies be shocked to learn I not only discovered the body, but for a while was also the number one suspect in Chef Mario Barrone’s murder.
“I remember reading about it in the newspaper,” Janet said.
“There was another murder here, too, wasn’t there?” Joan persisted.
Fran fished a couple of bills from a tote bag shaped like a large red hat. “I saw it on television. A show on the Cooking Network called Some Like It Hot ran the story. If I remember correctly, a woman was bludgeoned with a brisket.”
“When my husband heard we were coming to Brandywine Creek, he wanted me to stay home. He said this town was dangerous,” Rosemarie said. “I had to promise we’d stick together.”
Maureen brought out an iPhone. “Piper, would you please take our picture?”
As the Red Hatters formed a tight cluster in front of a Hoosier cabinet filled with baking spices, my thoughts weren’t on snapping a photo. I felt sick with dismay to hear Brandywine Creek was earning a reputation for murder and mayhem. Once word of Chip Balboa’s death spread, the news would keep potential customers away in droves—or bring them here in tour buses.
CHAPTER 24
SPICE IT UP! seemed unusually quiet without the laughter and chatter of the Red Hatters. And I still hadn’t called Doug. I hesitated phoning him in the middle of the day. I didn’t want to interrupt him in the midst of a crucial nip-and-tuck procedure. Doug, I knew, planned to hire a full-time receptionist but so far hadn’t found the right person.
I slowly walked up and down the aisles, stopping here and there to straighten or rearrange. With no customers to distract me, I felt restless, edgy. It was a relief hearing Melly’s light footsteps on the stairs. I turned to find her standing tentatively on the threshold between the storeroom and shop, a paper sack in her hand.
“I assume you’ll be seeing Doug sometime between now and the Oktoberfest,” she said. “When you do, would you kindly give these to him?”
“Be happy to,” I said, taking the bag. “Matter of fact, if you don’t mind watching the shop, I’ll run this over right now. If he’s busy, I’ll just leave them at the desk.”
“Don’t mind a bit. I’m trying to stay busy, keep my mind off things.”
The thought of vanishing from my shop for an hour or so filled me with guilty pleasure. I deliberately shelved any lingering qualms I had about leaving Melly in charge. Suddenly, I was a kid about to play hooky. After reaching for my purse under the counter, I retrieved my compact, snapped it open, and applied fresh lipstick. “I shouldn’t be too long.”
“No need to rush,” Melly replied as she donned a Spice It Up! apron. “While you were busy waiting on customers, I took the liberty of starting a pot roast for dinner tonight.”
“Pot roast?” I stared at her, my mind blank.
“You’re forgetting that Lindsey invited Sean Rogers for dinner. A person can’t go wrong with old-fashioned meat and potatoes.”
“Right, right,” I muttered. Though I had met Sean only once, I already liked him. A search warrant and subsequent trip to the police station had been a baptism of fire for the young quarterback. Certainly less than ideal conditions under which to meet your homecoming date’s family. Instead of bolting, he’d stuck by Lindsey’s side throughout the ordeal. He’d earned his pot roast. “Melly, do you suppose you’ll have time to make biscuits? Mine are never as good as yours.”
Melly smiled the first genuine smile I’d seen in days. “Piper, dear, Southern girls are born knowing how to make light and fluffy biscuits.”
“So”—I returned the smile—“the secret’s finally out. It’s all in the DNA.”
On impulse, I tucked a small jar of kala jeera into my handbag, a peace offering of sorts. Doug would be pleased to have the key ingredient for an exotic Indian dish he’d talked about making. If it turned out as tasty as predicted, I intended to corral him into doing a cooking demonstration sometime soon.
Ignoring the reproach in Casey’s dark doggy eyes at being left behind, I hurried to my car. I waved to Pete Barker, who was sweeping the walk in front of Meat on Main, then continued down Old County Road toward Pets ’R People. Not even the overcast sky could dampen my spirits. Cattle grazed in a farmer’s field. The oaks and sweet gums were a blaze of gold. The scene was peaceful, bucolic. I could almost—almost—forget my troubles.
All too soon I reached my destination, a rambling ranch-style house with white vinyl siding and glossy bla
ck shutters. One end of the building served as Doug’s living quarters; the other, an animal clinic. The first thing I noticed was the police cruiser in the drive. Worried, I snatched Melly’s bag of cookies and my handbag, jumped out of my Beetle, and dashed inside.
The reception area was deserted with one notable exception: Wyatt McBride. He lounged in a visitor’s chair, idly thumbing through an issue of Modern Cat.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded, hands on hips. “Shouldn’t you be hiding behind a billboard, waiting to give speeding tickets to unsuspecting motorists?”
He flashed me a lazy smile that hinted of dimple. “Good afternoon to you, too.”
I tucked a rebellious curl behind one ear. “Seriously, don’t you have a murderer to catch? According to Klassy Kut gossip, Mayor Hemmings and the city council are breathing down your neck.”
“That so?” He resumed his reading.
“And if that isn’t enough, a group of nice Red Hat ladies informed me Brandywine Creek is on the road to wrack and ruin. It’s time for you to put on your cape and save the town from destruction.”
He flipped a page. “No can do. My cape’s at the dry cleaners’, and I have to pick up my cat.”
I slumped into the seat next to him. “Guess we all have our priorities.”
“Fraidy’s here for her well-cat visit. I dropped her off on my way to work this morning.”
The notion of McBride as a cat lover was taking some adjustment. I set the bag of cookies on an end table and picked up a magazine called—of all things—Bark. Modern Cat and now Bark? Who knew? I browsed through ads and advice columns before stealing a sidelong glance at McBride. “Don’t suppose there are any new developments in the case that you’d care to share?”
“New developments? Can’t say for sure, but I might could be bribed. For instance,” he said, his expression sly, “how do you feel about countertops?”
“Well, let me think.” I pretended to ponder the matter. “Countertops are a handy place to make sandwiches. They’re useful when cooking—but, oops, I forgot—you prefer takeout. You’re probably the only person I know who could get along without countertops.”
