Rosemary and Crime (10 page)

I shifted to see Marcy Magruder and Danny Boyd huddled together. Danny had fixed a plate of food and was coaxing Marcy to take a bite.

“They make the cutest couple. See how he waits on her hand and foot.”

“Well, I’m happy Marcy’s finally over the stomach flu.”

“Stomach flu? Sugar, where have you been?” Reba Mae stared at me in amazement. “The girl wasn’t down with no flu bug. She’s preggers. Two or three months along.”

I felt like a fool. I’d been so focused on my own problems it simply hadn’t occurred to me that the girl might be pregnant. My biggest problem being a handsome lawman who didn’t believe my alibi. Glancing McBride’s way, I saw that he finally succeeded in disengaging himself from the loquacious mayor.

“I’m famished,” I said, grabbing Reba Mae’s arm. “Let’s hit the buffet table while there’s any food left.”

“Fine by me, but I’ll have to eat quick. I have to get back to the shop in time to do highlights.”

“That works for me. I left a note on the door saying Spice It Up! would reopen at two.”

We headed for the buffet. Luckily there was no line since most of the people had already consumed their fill of casseroles and side dishes. Reba Mae and I piled Styrofoam plates with the best Southern kitchens had to offer. Glazed ham, mac and cheese, mashed sweet potatoes, green bean casserole, cornbread, the works. Our plates loaded, we found ourselves a quiet spot in a corner half hidden behind an artificial ficus.

“With all the healthy choices, such as my tomato aspic, I simply don’t understand why folks gobble up Becca Dapkins’s green bean casserole. Everyone knows Becca’s heavy on the cream soup—and not a fat-free version, either.”

Hearing my ex-mother-in-law’s voice, I looked up and found her standing in front of us, perfectly groomed, wearing timeless black Chanel and her ever-present pearls. “Hello, Melly,” I said. “Care to join us?” I secretly hoped she’d refuse. But my luck was in its usual state—absent.

“Well, maybe just for a minute or two, dear,” she said, easing herself into the chair next to Reba Mae. “Hope you didn’t mind me rearranging some of your spices the other day.”

I forced a smile. “Of course not.”

“You get your best food at funerals, don’t you think?” Reba Mae commented, sensing tension. “This your tomato pie, Piper? It’s delish.”

“I added a teaspoon of curry along with the mayonnaise.”

“Curry?” Melly frowned. “Those spicy dishes don’t agree with my digestion.”

Speaking of digestion, make mine indigestion, I thought as Wyatt McBride appeared seemingly out of nowhere, holding a plate with a slab of coconut cake the size of Kansas.

“Mind if I join you ladies?” Not giving us time to refuse, he plunked himself down next to me. “Good cake,” he said, spearing a chunk.

Melly smiled and nodded. “Lottie Smith’s Can’t-Die-Without-It Coconut Cake is always a big hit at funerals. Piper,” she said, turning her attention back to me, “you need to convince Lottie to use the vanilla from that little store of yours instead of the awful imitation stuff she buys by the gallon at one of those wholesale warehouses.”

I fiddled with my butter beans. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Quite a turnout,” McBride remarked.

“You’ve been in the big city too long, young man. You’ve forgotten folks in small towns come out for their own.”

“Who knew Mario was
this
popular?” Reba Mae said, in a valiant attempt to relieve the awkward silence that followed Melly’s comment.

“Who knew,” I echoed.

“Well, I, for one, think it’s mighty gracious of Piper to not only attend Mario’s funeral, but to bring her tomato pie. Especially in light of the huge argument they had the very day he got himself killed.”

McBride stopped eating cake. “Argument…?”

“It was nothing, really.” I wished I could disappear in a puff of smoke.

“Oh, you’re wrong, dear. It happened right out on Main Street,” Melly elaborated. “I must’ve heard about the ruckus from at least three different people.”

“This is the first I’ve heard. Care to tell me what it was about?” McBride’s cool blues cut through me like Luke Skywalker’s laser.

I shrugged, busy making furrows through my sweet potato casserole. “Mario threatened to cancel his cooking demo at the last minute. I persuaded him to change his mind. Like I said, it was nothing.”

“I’m certain everyone will tell you that Mario had quite a temper,” Melly persisted, then gave me a sweet smile. “And Piper does, too—when provoked. It comes with being a redhead.”

The indigestion gnawed yet another hole in my stomach. And I couldn’t blame it on Becca Dapkins’s green bean casserole.

C
HAPTER
11

“
M
O-OM,” LINDSEY WAILED.
“All my friends are going.”

“All your friends aren’t failing math. You are,” I reminded her. “If that’s not bad enough, your language arts teacher stopped by today and mentioned you haven’t even started a report that’s due on Monday.”

Teenage daughters, I’ve observed, often tend to make their mothers out to be more wicked than the Wicked Witch of the West. Especially when they can’t get their own way. Lindsey, unfortunately, was no exception.

“I hate Mrs. Walker.”

“I thought you liked her.”

“I used to, but she’s always picking on me.”

I glanced up from the spice catalog I was thumbing through. Grilling season was getting underway, and the chamber of commerce had set the date for the Brandywine Creek annual BBQ cook-off. I planned to do an eye-catching display featuring grilling spices: Cajun, Jerk, as well as one of my own special blends, which was heavy on coriander and paprika for a mildly spicy but intensely aromatic rub that’s terrific on both ribs and chicken. “Perhaps Mrs. Walker wouldn’t ‘pick’ on you if you completed your assignments on time.”

“But Mom…”

I held up my hand to forestall the storm I saw brewing. “Just food for thought.”

“The Wipeouts are only going to be in town one night. Taylor’s father has a friend who works at Bell Auditorium and can get us tickets close to the stage.”

I’d never heard of The Wipeouts until now, but judging from Lindsey and her friends’ taste in music, my guess would be that they were an alternative rock group. “Unless it moved, last I heard Bell Auditorium is in Augusta. That’s a good hour’s drive late at night.”

“Taylor’s a great driver. She’s never put a single dent in the bumper,” Lindsey said, rushing to defend her BFF. “Besides, Taylor said I could spend the night at her place.”

I sighed wearily. Lindsey and I had been going around and around on the subject ever since she came here after school. Since CJ had been in Charlotte all week attending a litigation seminar, Lindsey was camping out at my place. Not that CJ needed any help in the litigation department. When it came to slip and falls, he was smooth as the ice his clients claimed they fell on. He was due back soon. He’d called to say he’d take Lindsey out for dinner. The time with my daughter had been … less than stellar. Lindsey was either talking on her cell phone, at the computer, or listening to music. So much for the mother-daughter bonding I’d hoped for. It didn’t help matters any that I was preoccupied with Doug Winters’s whereabouts. It made me nervous knowing my fingerprints were on the murder weapon.

And I still didn’t have an alibi.

Well, technically I did have an alibi, but it did me little good since it couldn’t be confirmed. Where could Doug have disappeared? Did he take the pup with him? Or…? I didn’t want to think of the other possibility.

Lindsey flicked a feather duster lackadaisically over various types of salt and peppercorns. “Jason Wainwright asked me to prom.”

“That’s great, honey!” I exclaimed. CJ and Jason’s father, Matt, were law partners. We often socialized with his parents. Jason was basically a good kid, but going through a “phase.” Blame my lack of enthusiasm on my not being a big fan of tattoos and piercings. A sign of old age? I reminded myself to be more open-minded about these things and to simply remember that Jason was a decent young man from a fine family.

“Yeah, well, now I need to shop for a dress.”

Happier than I’d been since discovering Mario’s body, I grinned at the prospect of shopping with my daughter for the perfect prom dress. “We’ll make a day of it. We can drive to a mall in either Augusta or Atlanta, shop, have lunch, maybe take in a movie. I’ll ask Marcy to mind the shop. She needs the money now that she’s expecting and planning a wedding and all.”

Lindsey stopped dusting and looked at me. “Um, Mom, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“About Marcy?” I closed the spice catalog. “This sounds serious.”

“No … about shopping for prom. Amber offered to take me.”

My heart sank. I swear I could actually feel it drop to my knees. “Amber…?”

“Amber’s taste in clothes is absolutely amazing,” Lindsey rushed on. “And since we’re closer in age, she actually remembers what it’s like to be sixteen.”

It’s hard to speak after you’ve had the wind knocked out of you. Amber Leigh Ames was a thorn in my side. Not only had she usurped my place in CJ’s affections, now she was trying to insinuate her way into my daughter’s as well.

“Amber knows all the managers in all the coolest shops from her pageant days. She said they’d probably give me a discount.”

“And Amber can walk on water,” I muttered under my breath. It so happens, Amber Leigh Ames, the bane of my existence, was Brandywine County’s former Miss Peach Blossom and first runner-up in the Miss Georgia Pageant. Privately, I referred to her as Miss Peach Pit. Amber was a role model for many local teen girls, my daughter among them. Could the week get any worse? I asked myself. But I didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

The front door swung open and in walked Wyatt McBride, accompanied by Beau Tucker and a third policeman I’d seen before, but didn’t know by name. Beau and Officer Unibrow both avoided meeting my eyes.

“If you boys are looking to buy spices, make it quick. It’s nearly closing time.”

McBride held out an official-looking document. “Search warrant.”

If my heart dropped to my knees before, it now landed on the floor. “A search warrant?” I repeated, though it was hard to form words when my lips felt numb. “Surely, you can’t be serious.”

“Do I look like I’m joking?”

That had to be the finest example of understatement I’d ever heard. I’ve seen people less solemn at a funeral.

Lindsey watched our exchange wide-eyed. “M-mom, you okay?”

“Fine, honey,” I murmured. I grabbed the warrant from McBride’s hand and pretended to read it but, in my befuddled state, the legalese failed to register.

“Tucker, take the downstairs,” McBride ordered crisply. “Moyer,” he said, turning to Officer Unibrow, “you and I will search upstairs.”

“Sorry, Piper.” Beau Tucker sent me a sheepish look, then set about searching through cupboards and drawers, looking for what, I had no idea.

I felt sick to my stomach knowing the same was going on upstairs. A shudder of revulsion rippled through me at the thought of McBride pawing through my underwear drawers—an invasion of privacy of the worst kind.

“Mom … are you going to let them get away with this?” Lindsey cried. “Call Daddy. He’ll know what to do.”

I shook my head, stubborn to a fault. “I
didn’t
do anything wrong. I
don’t
need a lawyer.”

No sooner had the words left my mouth when CJ steamed through the door.

“Hey, baby,” he beamed, addressing Lindsey, ignoring me. “Got the text message you sent. Of course, you can go to the concert. Wouldn’t want you to miss out on havin’ yourself a good time.”

I caught the look on Lindsey’s face, part guilt, part triumph. The child was growing quite adept at pitting one parent against the other. That nasty little habit needed to be nipped in the bud.

Folding my arms across my chest, I glared at CJ. “There, you’re doing it again. Undermining my authority with our daughter. Whenever I say no, Lindsey goes straight to you. What about her report for language arts? Its due Monday and counts for nearly half her grade. She hasn’t even started it yet.”

“Don’t be so uptight, Scooter darlin’. The girl’s got all day Sunday to work on that damn paper. Amber can help her if she needs it.”

“Amber Leigh Ames barely squeaked through finishing school,” I reminded him angrily.

CJ conveniently forgot concerts, failing grades, and Miss Peach Pit when he spied his poker-playing buddy emerge from the storeroom. “Hey there, Beau. Saw a couple police cruisers at the curb. Some cook need cinnamon and decide to rob the place?” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and seemed surprised when no one joined in.

Beau cleared his throat. “Chief got Judge Herman to issue a search warrant.”

“Why’d he go do a crazy thing like that?”

“Have to ask the chief.”

CJ turned to me, his face flushed. “I warned you, Scooter! The man has it in for me. Has ever since high school. Can’t say I’m surprised he’s hasslin’ you—you’re a Prescott.”

“Hate to disappoint you, CJ,” McBride said as he came down the stairs, “but this has nothing to do with you—and everything to do with your wife.”

“Ex,” I corrected. “Make that ex-wife.”

The two men stood almost toe to toe, sizing each other up, gauging the changes the years had wrought. As much as I disliked McBride, he won the competition hands down. He was trim, fit, and still possessed good looks in abundance. To be fair, however, I had to give CJ points for trying. His teeth were a dazzling white that God never intended. His hair was styled, not merely cut, and restored to its original gold brilliance. His suit screamed designer and so did his pricey cologne. A girlfriend practically half his age added to his cache in the good ol’ boys club.

“Why, Judge Herman’s known my family for years. Dated my mother way back when. What trumped-up excuse did you use to strong-arm him to issue a warrant?”

“Gentlemen.” I cleared my throat. “Need I remind you, you’re no longer in high school.” Turning to McBride, I said, “If you and your men are finished, I’d like you to leave so I can put my home back in order.”