Cinnamon Toasted

by Gail Oust

  Let the next elimination round begin.

  CHAPTER 32

  WHEN I RETURNED from McBride’s place, I found a note from Melly anchored to the kitchen table with a pepper mill. Apparently, Mavis Gray had invited her for a light supper and then to play bridge. Ever so thoughtful, she instructed me not to wait up. It wasn’t exactly like she was a teenager with a curfew. Next, she’d want me to “friend” her on Facebook. A glance at the clock told me Lindsey wasn’t due home for another hour.

  Adrenaline still fizzed through my veins. Even though it was dark outside, it wasn’t late. There was still time for a quick jog. I changed out of my jeans and into an old pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, and my sporty running shoes. After chasing squirrels all around McBride’s yard, Casey didn’t seem eager to join me, so I let him snooze.

  After a brisk walk to warm up my muscles, I broke into a slow, steady gait. I opted in favor of a residential route and turned down Jefferson Street. Fall wreaths adorned the front doors of many homes that I jogged past. Cheery yellow and orange mums had replaced plantings of petunias and impatiens. Soon lawns would begin to sprout Halloween decorations.

  My feet seemed to slow of their own volition as I neared Melly’s home, which I had come to view as the “scene of the crime.” I stopped and studied the house. Déjà vu all over again. Nothing had changed from several nights ago, when I’d discovered Melly unconscious in her living room. I’m not a believer in coincidence. McBride’s mantra came back to haunt me. For once, we were in total agreement. The blown fuses, faulty heating system, and cut phone line had been intentional, not coincidental. A deliberate attempt on Melly’s life.

  I gnawed my lower lip in indecision. A survey of the street assured me the neighbors were hunkered down in front of their television sets for the evening. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hurried around to the back of the house. I tried the rear door but found it locked. I fervently wished I had the key ring with me that held Melly’s house key. Not wanting to jingle while I jogged, I’d opted to carry only the key for the rear door of Spice It Up!

  Not ready to concede defeat, I struggled to recall where Melly kept a spare key hidden. A flower pot? A ceramic frog? A plastic rock manufactured to look real? Then the answer came to me. I lifted a small panel on a decorative birdhouse next to the walkway and—presto!—felt the cool metal.

  I let myself into the kitchen and flicked on the light, grateful someone—McBride, perhaps?—had thought to replace the fuse. Everything looked neat and tidy. Blue and white place mats rested on a pine table. Except for a glass canister set and a stoneware crock filled with kitchen utensils, the counters were clutter-free. The ticktock of a distant clock sounded overly loud in the otherwise still house.

  The closed basement door called my name. Nothing I hated more than movies where a girl without a lick of common sense and too stupid to live creeps down creaking stairs while the audience screams a warning. And here I was, a grown woman too stupid to live.

  Movies were movies, I reminded myself. This was Melly’s home—not a soundstage. There were no evil monsters—or serial killers—about to hack me into tiny pieces with an ax. Five minutes. In and out. That’s all it would take. One fast look, then I was out of there.

  Feeling marginally better after my pep talk, I flipped the switch at the top of the stairs. Light, anemic and jaundiced, illuminated a steep flight of steps. Melly apparently was a stickler for conserving energy by using low-wattage bulbs. I held on to the wooden handrail as I made my cautious descent. The thought of Melly navigating these steps carrying a heavy laundry basket was frightening. Images of an elderly woman calling for help after a fall flashed through my brain. I needed to speak to CJ about buying her one of those medical alert devices for seniors advertised on television. I don’t know if Melly would appreciate having one foisted on her, but it sure would make me feel better.

  Even with the dim light, I could make out a discolored area on the cement floor a short distance from the base of the stairs. A bloodstain. Even if Chip hadn’t broken his neck in the fall, he would likely have succumbed from the impact of his skull colliding with concrete. McBride had mentioned a splinter in Chip’s hand, made during one last, futile attempt to stem the momentum. I lightly ran my fingers along the edge of the handrail and felt the roughness of exposed wood.

  I shivered. Would Melly ever be able to live comfortably in this house again after all that had happened here? A man died in her basement. She had almost died.

  I needed to complete my inspection and get the heck out of Dodge. This dark basement, this empty house, were creeping me out. My eyes gradually acclimated to the pale light. Gray cinder block walls, utility-grade metal shelving loaded with plastic storage bins, washer, and dryer. A half dozen small windows spaced high up probably allowed only obstructed light even in midsummer, due to a profusion of plantings around the house’s foundation. An ancient furnace squatted in the center. Huge pipes stretched upward into the exposed floor joists like giant tentacles.

  I had turned to leave when something caught my eye on the floor near the furnace. I ventured closer and discovered a laundry basket half-filled with articles of clothing. I picked up one of the items and examined it. A man’s long-sleeved cotton dress shirt. I frowned. How strange. Melly had been a widow for more than twenty years. Why would she keep a man’s shirt? As I was about to drop it into the laundry basket, I froze.

  Directly overhead came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Did whoever was upstairs know I was here? He or she must. I’d left the kitchen light on, a dead giveaway. I swallowed a nervous giggle at my choice of words.

  But why didn’t the person call out a greeting? Why remain silent? Unless, of course, the goal was to terrorize me. If so, it was working.

  Taking deep yoga breaths to steady my nerves, I searched for something to use as a weapon. A jug of bleach, a box of detergent? All those would achieve was clean clothes. Finally I spied a broom leaning in a corner. Not much, but it would have to do. Just as I reached for it, I saw a disembodied hand at the top of the stairs switch off the light.

  My scream echoed off the cinder block walls. The next sound I heard was that of a door closing. I waited for what seemed a small eternity, but I knew, could sense, I was once more alone in Melly’s house. With my heart knocking against my ribs like a woodpecker on steroids, I crept back up the stairs.

  My unidentified visitor must’ve been as energy conscious as Melly, because he—or she—also turned off the overhead light fixture in the kitchen. Swallowing my fear, I proceeded across the room and turned it on. The room appeared the same as before—with one notable exception.

  A bottle of Visine sat in the precise center of a blue and white place mat.

  * * *

  “Are you sure it wasn’t there before?”

  “Positive.”

  Reba Mae poured me a shot of Jack Daniel’s. “Here, this will take the edge off.”

  “Thanks.” I downed the whiskey in one gulp and welcomed its burn. I’m not one for hard liquor—margaritas being the exception—but at this point, I would have drunk turpentine if it would stop the shakes.

  “So what did you do then?” Reba Mae asked.

  “I did what any sane person would do and got out of there as fast as I could.” After my adventure at Melly’s, I found Reba Mae’s familiar kitchen comforting. The script for Steel Magnolias was spread open on the table next to a half-empty mug of coffee. I noticed her lines were highlighted in yellow.

  Reba Mae’s pretty brown eyes mirrored her concern. “Want me to call Wyatt?”

  “And listen to another sermon?” I asked. “Nothing McBride can do anyway. Someone was just trying to give me a scare.”

  “Or send a message,” Reba Mae said, nodding solemnly. “I saw this movie once where the bad guy didn’t want to hurt anyone, just wanted to scare the person snoopin’ around.”

  I toyed with the shot glass. “Backing off isn’t an option. If I don’t give McBride a reason to st
op him, he’s going to arrest Melly. You know how proud she is. That would be slow death.”

  “So what do you propose to do?”

  I dragged my hand through my hair. “Wish I knew, but I’ll think of something.” Reba Mae took a mug from the cupboard, poured me coffee, then refilled her own mug before sitting across from me. “Anyone with eyes could see Judge Herman’s sweet on Melly. I don’t think he’d send her to jail.”

  “If he refuses to sign a warrant, McBride will find a judge who will. Thanks to you, I narrowed the suspect list down to just Troy and Rusty.”

  “Shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nuthin’,” she said in an exaggerated Western accent, then turned serious. “Think Cheryl’s pool boy offed Chip for his insurance money?”

  “It’s possible.” I sipped my coffee and found it hot and strong, just the way I liked it. “Money is a pretty strong motivator. Whether an accident or a homicide, Chip’s death qualifies as double indemnity. The insurer will pay twice the amount of the policy’s face value.”

  Reba Mae whistled. “Should bring ’em a bundle.”

  “And if he didn’t kill Chip, there’s Rusty Tulley to consider.” I leaned back in my chair, my hands cradling the coffee mug. “Rusty blamed Chip for Trustychipdesign.com’s failure to thrive in today’s market. Only this afternoon, I saw eyedrops in the courier bag Rusty uses for his laptop—the same brand McBride found at Melly’s. I’m pretty sure Troy uses eyedrops, too.”

  “There’s gotta be a way.” Reba Mae tugged on a flashy earring that hung nearly to her shoulder. “Remember how detectives in old black-and-white movies like Charlie Chan—or on TV shows like Columbo—always used to do? They’d gather all the suspects in the same room and force the guilty one to confess. I loved when that happened.”

  “Me, too,” I murmured. “Too bad life can’t imitate art.”

  CHAPTER 33

  “IS THIS YOURS?” Melly asked when she came downstairs into Spice It Up! the next day.

  I stopped inventorying stock to inspect a small shiny object Melly held in her palm. A button? Dark, flat, and round, it looked vaguely familiar. “Where did you find it?”

  “In the washing machine,” Melly explained. “It was caught in the lint filter.”

  Taking the button from her, I examined it more closely. I was about to return it when I remembered where I’d last seen it. “It looks like the one I found at your house the day I went to collect some of your clothing. I assumed it belonged to you. I slipped it into my pocket and forgot about it until now. It must’ve fallen out when I did laundry.”

  “Mercy!” Melly clucked her tongue. “Well, it’s not mine. I never laid eyes on it before.”

  “Hmm.” I rolled it between my fingertips. “I could’ve sworn the button was from one of your cardigans.”

  “Dear, do I strike you as the sort who wouldn’t replace a loose button?” Melly asked indignantly. “As a young girl, I learned to sew on buttons and darn socks along with my ABC’s. I never could understand why boys weren’t taught the same skills.”

  Inventory forgotten, I only half listened to Melly. Where had I seen a loose button recently? The answer came to me in a rush. Just yesterday I’d noticed a button dangling by a thread on Rusty Tulley’s polo shirt. Most polo shirts, I knew, sported similar-type buttons. Polo shirts, I’d observed, were also a staple in Troy Farnsworth’s wardrobe. Had either Rusty or Troy lost a button while at Melly’s? What business would they have had there? Unless it was Chip they’d come to see, not Melly …

  I tried to discount the notion. True, Rusty was in Melly’s living room when he’d come in search of his partner, but he’d been nowhere near where I found the mystery button. He claimed he’d been in his room the entire evening Chip was murdered. But was he? And what about Troy? If he was with Cheryl as she’d implied, why wasn’t their rental car anywhere in sight? Curious and curiouser.

  McBride professed he wasn’t a believer in coincidence. If I happened upon a shirt minus an identical button, it would throw suspicion in another direction and away from Melly. McBride would have to investigate. Attempt to poke holes in weak alibis. Problem was, Troy and Rusty would soon be leaving Brandywine Creek. I needed to act—and act quickly.

  My mind working feverishly, I tapped a fingernail against the button. “Melly,” I said at last, “I have an idea.…”

  * * *

  It had taken every ounce of salesmanship I possessed to convince first Melly, then Reba Mae, to agree to my plan. The three of us were about to descend en masse upon the Turner-Driscoll House. I knew from a comment Dottie Hemmings had made that Troy had moved into the bed-and-breakfast and shared a room with Cheryl Balboa. Dottie had expressed her disapproval to anyone within earshot. Tulip Jackson, I knew, was staying there as well.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.” Melly nervously fingered the strap of her Vera Bradley tote bag.

  “You’ll do fine.” I kept my eyes on the road. “All you have to do is distract Felicity and her guests long enough for Reba Mae and me to take a look around upstairs. Nothing to it.”

  She nodded solemnly. “I brought wine—two bottles—and cheese straws. Everyone loves my cheese straws.”

  “Just remember that you’re there to wish them safe travels. Tell them you feel responsible for them coming to Brandywine Creek. If not for you, Chip might still be alive. Play on their sympathy so they’ll sit in the front parlor and have a glass or two of that nice California wine.”

  “Think this is gonna take long?” Reba Mae piped up from the backseat. “I got lines to memorize.”

  I parked a discreet distance down the block. Reba Mae had lost her zest for sleuthing after Saturday night. McBride had scared her witless with talk of charges such as disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct. As for me—I didn’t scare that easily. “Once look is all,” I said. “Not long.”

  We climbed out of the car and walked up the street. Reba Mae and I had dressed for the occasion in what I considered stealth mode chic—black turtlenecks, black jeans, and sneakers. Melly—surprise, surprise—wore a teal blue twinset and tailored slacks. When we reached the house, Melly squared her shoulders and purposefully marched up the drive. Reba Mae and I scooted around the back and ducked into the shrubbery to await our cue.

  When the doorbell chimed, I counted to ten, then signaled Reba Mae to follow. We sprinted across the terrace and through the French doors into the kitchen. I dashed up the servants’ stairs, which were located just left of the pantry. Reba Mae followed so closely, I could practically feel her breath on my neck.

  “What do we do now?” she whispered.

  I paused to get my bearings. If memories from a previous scouting expedition were correct, there were four large rooms, two on either side of a wide center hallway. Each of them bore a brass plate engraved with the name of a general from the Civil War era. Too bad I didn’t know who resided where.

  “Start with the two guest rooms at the back,” I whispered. “I’ll check the ones up front.”

  “Nuh-uh,” Reba Mae grunted. “I’m stickin’ to you like a burr on a jackrabbit.”

  “Fine.” It was easier—and faster—to agree than to argue. When I turned the knob of the first room, I found my assumption that the door would be unlocked was correct. I hoped my luck would hold with the rest of the rooms as well. No reason for Felicity’s current guests to worry about theft of their property with everyone downstairs in plain sight of one another. I slipped inside a room bearing the name of Brigadier General Henry L. Benning. In the narrow beam of a penlight that I’d remembered to bring, the room appeared uninhabited. “Let’s move on.”

  The room across the hall proved just the opposite. Garments, both men’s and women’s, were strewn over a padded brocade bench at the foot of the bed. At the bottom of the heap, I spotted the black leather mini Tulip had worn to the Oktoberfest and so knew this was the room she shared with Rusty.

  Reba Mae stood in the center of the room and clicked on a small flashlight I’d
insisted she bring also. I didn’t want to chance Felicity or one of her guests looking upstairs and spotting a lamp shining under a bedroom door. “Where’s the dang closet?” she asked.

  “There isn’t one. Houses way back then didn’t have closets.”

  “Who’d be crazy enough to build a house without closets?”

  “Guess people didn’t have so much stuff,” I said, heading for the armoire. “Check the chest of drawers. I’ll look in here.”

  “Hey,” she said seconds later, holding up a pair of scanty panties. “These oughta be X-rated.”

  I flipped through a neat stack of men’s shirts, mostly polo, a handful of oxford cloth. “We’re not here to look at ladies’ undies.”

  “Wow! Get a load of this.” A frilly lace teddy danced from her fingertips. “If I ever get me a boyfriend, I’m gonna find out where she shops.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Buttons, Reba Mae. Buttons.”

  Since our search didn’t yield any results, I quietly closed the door behind us. A runner down the center of the hallway muffled the sound of our footsteps. From below, I heard Melly launch into the topic of cheese straws.

  “Cheese straws are like deviled eggs,” she announced. “Every Southern cook swears hers are the best.”

  I hoped the Californians would be duly interested in learning Melly always added garlic powder and a dash of cayenne to hers while Felicity preferred a dash of black Tellicherry pepper.

  Suddenly, a heart pine floorboard groaned under our weight. My pulse hammered in my ears. I stood stock-still, waiting. I felt Reba Mae’s nails dig into my forearm. Her face told me she was ready to bolt.

  “What was that noise?” Cheryl demanded.

  Felicity laughed softly. “Nothing to worry about, dear. This is an old house.”

  Melly hurriedly inquired about the difference between Napa Valley wines versus those from Sonoma. When the conversation resumed, I drew in a shaky breath. At my signal, Reba Mae followed me into the Brigadier William T. Wofford room. This room was also occupied. A silk negligee was draped across a chaise. Judging from the array of face creams and cosmetics on a dressing table, I surmised the suite belonged to Cheryl and Troy.