Rosemary and Crime (18 page)

“Stop being obtuse.” I plunked myself back in the styling chair and gave it a spin. “I’ve seen Pete filet tenderloin quicker than you can say Jack Robinson.” That got Reba Mae’s undivided attention, so I continued, “According to McBride’s theory, Pete has motive and means. All he lacks is opportunity.”

“So what are you gettin’ at?”

“We need to find out whether Pete has an alibi for the night Mario was killed.”

“Duh!” Reba Mae bopped herself in the head with the heel of her hand. “Of course, that’s what we
need
to do. Only question, how do you propose we do it?”

“I was hoping you’d help think of a way.”

Reba Mae was silent for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across her face. “Leave it to me, sugar. I have an idea.”

C
HAPTER
20

I
CONSIDERED, DISCARDED,
then reconsidered the notion of trailing Pete. From my vantage point across the square, I’d watched him lock up Meat on Main and drive off. Curious to see if he did anything shady after hours, I followed him home. I parked a discreet distance down the block and waited. Fifteen minutes later, Pete emerged from the attached garage wearing baggy jeans and a John Deere T-shirt, and pushing an ancient lawnmower. The only time he came close to anything “shady” was when he mowed the grass under a Japanese maple, so I finally gave up. Later that evening, Reba Mae and I did a drive-by past Pete’s place. We watched as his buddies, armed with six-packs of Budweiser, started to congregate.

“Baseball game,” Reba Mae informed me succinctly. “Atlanta Braves versus Arizona Diamondbacks.”

“Plan B, here we come.”

The two of us decided on an encore performance of “Lucy and Ethel on Stakeout.” We followed Tony Deltorro at a safe distance to avoid detection in my trusty VW bug, as he deposited the night’s receipts from the Pizza Palace. Instead of driving home as expected, he’d headed for a section of town known as the historic district. Stately antebellum homes, some meticulously restored to their former glory, some patiently waiting for a fresh coat of paint, lined the streets. Tony had turned into a circular drive of one of the former, a drive that once had been used by carriages and gentlemen on horseback. I’d parked the Beetle a couple houses down, partially concealed from the house in question by towering oaks, and we settled down to wait.

“What do you s’pose Tony’s doin’ here of all places?” Reba Mae took another noisy slurp of her Diet Coke.

“Beats me.”

“Whose house is this anyway?”

I reached for a handful of Doritos. “Beats me.”

“Some place,” Reba Mae commented, peering through the window for a better look at the two-story plantation-style structure complete with Doric columns and a wraparound porch.

“You don’t suppose this belongs to Tony, do you?”

“Uh-uh,” Reba Made disagreed. “No way. This end of town’s reserved for those with real money, old money. It’s too rich for my blood. Most of these homes have been in the same family for generations.”

“Maybe the owner’s so wealthy that Tony personally delivers the pizza. Maybe the guy’s a big tipper.”

“Whatever.” Twisting around, Reba Mae rummaged through a sack of food on the backseat. “All this surveillance works up an appetite. I brought subs, but told ’em to hold the onions … just in case.”

“In case of what?” I asked, peeling the wrapper from the one she handed me. Turkey, lettuce, tomato, pickle, banana peppers, and a sprinkling of oregano. Just the way I liked them.

“In case of whatever,” she replied, nonplussed. “Diet soda?”

I shook my head. Reba Mae’s thirst apparently matched her appetite because she popped the tab of her second Diet Coke and took a swallow before attacking her sandwich.

“Don’t suppose you’ve concocted a brilliant scheme to discover whether Pete has an alibi for the night Mario was murdered?” I asked, after polishing off my sub.

Reba Mae brushed crumbs from her black hoodie. “Consider it a done deal, sugar.”

I glanced at her sharply. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just so happens…” She let me stew, giving me a broad grin, followed by another swig of Coke. “Pete’s wife, Gerilee, came into Klassy Kut this afternoon to be treated for a severe case of hair trauma. Her niece is goin’ to beauty school and needed some practice so Gerilee, bein’ a nice auntie, volunteered. Gerilee told the girl she wanted it layered. Well, it was layered all right. Took me almost an hour to
un
layer it.”

“Nothing worse than a bad haircut,” I agreed, my impatience barometer steadily rising. “But what did she say about the night Mario was killed?”

At times, Reba Mae couldn’t be rushed and this was one of them. If anything, she seemed to relish my mounting frustration. “Well,” she drawled, once she was satisfied I was chomping on the bit, “I decided to have a little fun with it. We played ourselves a game called Where Were You When…? Started off with something simple like where were you when Dale Earnhardt crashed during the last lap of the Daytona 500.”

“That’s not simple,” I protested. “Why not ask where were you on nine-eleven?”

“That’s too depressin’, darlin’. Besides, every Southern gal worth her salt knows where she was the day Dale Earnhardt, one of NASCAR’s all-time greats, bought the farm. February 18, 2001. Know it like my own birthday. Anyway, from there, I led into some other questions. When I asked, how do you and your sweetie spend your Friday nights—takin’ into account it was a Friday night when Mario ended up deader ’n a skunk—I thought Gerilee would burst into tears.”

I tapped my fingers on the steering wheel. “Why was that?”

“Seems Fridays, Gerilee sits home alone. She said Pete’s been on a Friday night bowlin’ league for the last couple months. He’s always home no later than ten o’clock, but by then it’s too late to go out to for Chinese like they used to do.”

“Terrific,” I muttered. “Since McBride said the coroner placed the time of death between ten o’clock and midnight, might as well cross Pete off the list of possible suspects.”

“Sorry.” Reba Mae placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a burp. “But don’t let that get you down-in-the-mouth. That still leaves Tony. And didn’t you mention Mario not only owed Danny money, but had weaseled out of payin’ him medical benefits?”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

“Course, I am, now stop your broodin’. How about a brownie? Chocolate’s always good for what ails you.”

Truer words were never spoken, so I helped myself to not one but two of the brownies Reba Mae had brought in a take-and-go container. No sooner had we licked the last traces of chocolate from our fingers when Reba Mae announced, “I shouldn’t have had that last can of soda. Now I have to pee.”

“Fine time to think about it,” I grumbled. “Guess we’ll have to call it a night?”

“Shucks, no,” Reba Mae said, already reaching for the door handle. “A client of mine owns the bed-and-breakfast down the block. She’s a night owl. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind if I popped in and begged to use the facilities.”

“How do you intend to explain why you’re in her neighborhood this time of night?”

“I’ll think of somethin’.” Reba Mae stood on the curb, practically doing the Texas two-step. “I’ll tell her that a friend and I were out walkin’ her dog when the urge hit. After five kids, she’ll relate to a weak bladder.”

“Fine, but make it snappy,” I said, but Reba Mae was halfway down the block before I finished my sentence.

Without Reba Mae’s company, the minutes crawled by. Stakeouts certainly weren’t as glamorous as they looked on TV or in the movies. How did real detectives survive the long, lonely hours? Read? Listen to music? And what did they do for emergencies of a personal nature? My mind didn’t want to go there.

I thought of switching on the radio but was afraid of running the battery low. Even with a new one, I didn’t want to take the risk. If I had my MP3 player with me, I could listen to music and not have to worry. Once business perked up maybe I’d buy myself a fancier version like Lindsey’s.

Leaning forward, I squinted through the windshield at the house we were watching. Tall trees—magnolias probably—shrouded it in shadow. Even so, I could see lights on in a room to the left of the entrance. An old-fashioned parlor? I caught an occasional glimpse of Tony as he moved about, but didn’t see anyone else. To whom did the house belong? I wondered. And why was Tony visiting at such an odd hour? Was there another woman in his life? If so, it wouldn’t be wise if Gina Deltorro got wind of the affair. Gina was more than a wife; she was his business partner. Wasn’t there a saying about hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?

I peeked at my watch. What was keeping Reba Mae? It wouldn’t be the first time she started talking and lost track of time. Suddenly, headlights loomed in the rearview mirror. I slunk down in the seat, pulled my knit ski cap lower, and tried to act invisible. No such luck. The car drew to a stop directly behind me.

I tensed.

The sharp sound of knuckles rapping against the driver’s side window signaled my vanishing act was a total flop. With a sigh, I slowly, reluctantly, straightened and turned my head.

“Damn,” I muttered when I found Wyatt McBride staring back at me. “What are you, some kind of stalker?”

Not even the tiniest hint of a dimple was evident on McBride’s face. Dirty Harry and Dick Tracy all rolled into one. His expression stern, he motioned me to roll down my window. I smiled and faked incomprehension.

“Now,” he growled, clearly not buying into my theatrics.

Much aggrieved—and more than a little nervous—I did as he asked. “This is a public street. It isn’t a crime to park here.”

“True,” he agreed, “but it’s my job to investigate when the captain of the neighborhood watch calls the station about a suspicious vehicle parked on her street. She demanded we send someone out to check.”

“Well, consider it checked. Job done.” I made to roll up the window.

“Not that simple.” Curiously, my bad temper didn’t faze him. “You’re making some of the residents nervous. They need to be reassured that they’re in no imminent danger of robbery.”

“R-robbery…?” I sputtered.

“You heard me.”

“Give me a break, McBride. Do I look like a robber?” The minute the words popped out of my mouth, I wanted them back.

McBride raised his Maglite and let the beam play over me. His shrewd icy blues didn’t miss a trick. “Judging from your attire, I’d say you could be the poster child for the well-dressed cat burglar, right down to the knit cap and black turtleneck.” He paused a beat, then asked, “Don’t suppose you have a ski mask tucked away somewhere?”

“Of course not!” I returned indignantly.

Resting his free hand on the roof of the Beetle, he swung the flashlight beam around the interior of the car, the light picking up discarded sub wrappers, empty Diet Coke cans, and a half-empty bag of Doritos. “You having another of your impromptu picnics?”

“Look, McBride, we’re not doing anything illegal.”

His eyes narrowed, sharpened. “We…?”

“Hey there, Chief.” As if on cue, Reba Mae cheerily announced her return. “Fancy meetin’ you again.”

“Might’ve known,” he said, shaking his head. “Care to explain what you two are up to?”

I clamped my mouth shut. Unfortunately, Reba Mae didn’t share my reticence. “We’re on a stakeout.”

“A stakeout?” His lips twitched, and I could swear he was trying to hide a smile. “Ladies, take a piece of advice from a pro on the matter of stakeouts. Next time—heaven forbid, there is a next time—choose a vehicle less conspicuous than a gecko-green Volkswagen Beetle.”

“We’re checking out Tony Deltorro,” Reba Mae volunteered.

I gave her a dirty look for spilling the beans, which she, in turn, ignored. If hauled into an interrogation room at police headquarters, she’d fold like a cheap suit. Five minutes tops.

“Our theory is that Tony might’ve offed Mario.”

“That’s some theory.” McBride shook his head. “As far-fetched as it might sound, my guess is you two are watching way too many cop shows on TV. Might be a good time to switch to the Lifetime Channel.”

Folding her forearms on the roof of the VW, Reba Mae leaned forward and expounded on our theory. “Doesn’t Tony Deltorro buyin’ the Tratory so soon after Mario’s death strike you as a little … suspicious? He could’ve been plannin’ all this from the get-go.”

“It isn’t against the law to expand your business.”

Reba Mae snorted in disbelief. “Before Mario’s ashes even cooled?”

“Did you know Tony and Mario had a long-standing feud?” I asked, part question, part challenge. “Everyone in town knows they both had hot tempers. If you weren’t so
fixated
on pinning the blame on me, you’d be trying to find out who had a motive for wanting Mario dead. Checking to see who had alibis—and who didn’t.”

Sensing tension in the air, Reba Mae drew away from the car and looked uneasily from me to McBride. “Um, Piper,” she said, clearing her throat and breaking the strained silence, “guess we should call it a night.” She got back into the car.

McBride stepped back, but kept his gaze fastened on me. “Leave the investigation to the professionals. Word gets out to the wrong person, the killer for instance, and you could find yourself up to your cute little butt in alligators.”

I cranked the engine and drove off.

“What do you s’pose he meant by that?” Reba Mae asked.

“I guess he’s worried we might stumble across the truth.” I tried to convince myself his warning hadn’t scared me. But, truth was, it had.

“That, too,” Reba Mae said. “I liked the part best about your ‘cute little butt.’ Shows he’s payin’ attention to detail.”

Lucky me,
I thought with a sigh.

C
HAPTER
21

B
Y THE TIME I
arrived, the welcome reception was in full swing. I’d taken Reba Mae’s advice and donned my snappy red dress and the four-inch stilettos that cost nearly as much money as my shop had made since it opened. Silver drop earrings were my only accessory. I’d bought them as a consolation prize a couple years back after CJ canceled our trip to Hawaii in favor of a bar association seminar in Minneapolis. Instead, he magnanimously offered to take me to Oktoberfest held every year in Helen, Georgia. Nothing against a Bavarian village, Georgia style, but it can’t compete with Maui. Not even if you throw in tubing down the Chattahoochee River as a bonus. I did get suspicious, however, when CJ returned from Minnesota with a tan. Especially since the Weather Channel reported torrential downpours during his stay there.