Rosemary and Crime (21 page)

With those words, I was summarily dismissed. I’d been relegated to the role of shopkeeper, the ex-wife who no longer belonged to a country club. I went back to entering the day’s receipts into the computer. I tried not to eavesdrop, I really did, but found it impossible not to and soon gave it up as a lost cause.

“Don’t lose sleep over Kenny, sweetie,” Diane advised her friend. “You’ll have him eating out of the palm of your hand in no time.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking in the first place. Mario just caught me in a weak moment. Kenny was taking me for granted, not paying a lick of attention to me and, I guess, it was nice to meet a man who did. For a time, I foolishly thought I’d found my soul mate.”

“Leave it to Mario.” Diane chuckled. “The man could turn charm on and off like a light switch. If you recall, I tried to warn you about falling head over heels for the swine. Now that he’s dead, hon, you can tell me, your very best friend, who called it off. You? Or did he?”

“Let’s just say, the bastard broke my heart, then stomped on it.”

Diane let out an unladylike snort. “Say no more, girlfriend.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Vicki pick up a jar of cinnamon and take a sniff. “What about you, Diane? You’re a fine one to talk.”

“Mmm, perhaps.” Diane examined a display of peppercorns. “When I got involved with Mario, I knew exactly what I was letting myself in for. Neither of us wanted, or were looking for, a serious relationship. Our paths happened to cross in Atlanta. I was bored; he was horny. You know the rest.”

Vicki swung toward me, a container of juniper berries in one hand. “Piper, are these the things you used in your cooking demonstration the day your shop opened?”

I glanced up from my computer. “Yes,” I replied. “Juniper berries.”

“I don’t suppose you still have a copy of that lamb recipe laying around?”

“I’m sure it’s here somewhere. Let me take a look while you browse.”

Diane frowned at her friend. “I thought you hated cooking.”

“I do,” Vicki admitted, laughing. “But isn’t there an old saying about the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

“Aren’t you the sly one for trying to seduce poor Kenny.”

“A home-cooked dinner, candlelight, soft music, an expensive bottle of wine. And for dessert, I thought I’d serve him Victoria’s Secret. By the time I’m finished, he won’t know what hit him.”

“
If
I was in the market for seduction,” Diane drawled, “I’d set my sights on the new chief of police. He’s hot.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. My mind churned with possibilities. Vicki had sounded furious when talking about Mario. He wouldn’t be the first man killed by an angry ex-lover. I went through the motions of sorting through a folder, but my attention remained focused on the conversation of the two potential customers. And perhaps one potential murderer?

“Pinky Alexander swears she saw his picture in
People
with some Hollywood starlet in South Beach.”

“Well, any seduction of Wyatt McBride better take place before it’s too late.”

“Why’s that?” Vicki smoothed her already smooth ponytail as she continued to prowl the aisle.

“Shirley Randolph and I were having our nails done the other day. You know, don’t you, that Shirley works part-time at Creekside Realty?” Diane picked up a bottle of Spanish paprika, scanned the label, set it down again. “Well, anyhow, she told me McBride is interested in making an offer on the old Walker place he’s currently renting out on Route 78. But according to Dwayne, if the man doesn’t make an arrest soon, he might as well kiss his shiny new badge good-bye. All those commendations from Miami won’t be enough if he can’t deliver the goods. How hard can it be to find a murderer in a town the size of Brandywine Creek?”

Vicki cast a sly look in my direction. “Just think, the killer could be under our noses right this very minute.”

I couldn’t keep my mouth shut at hearing this. How dare they? I fumed at the notion of being tried and found guilty in the court of public opinion. “I’m sure finding a killer, ladies, is harder than you make it out to be. I’m no expert on the subject, but my guess is Chief McBride is more concerned about finding the real killer than harassing innocent citizens just so he looks good in front of the mayor and the city council. And if McBride doesn’t discover who killed Mario, I swear I’ll do it myself. I’m sick and tired of everyone looking at me as if I’m some deranged ax murderer.”

My declaration was met with stunned silence.

“I suppose you’d view things differently if you weren’t the only suspect,” Diane said, regaining her equilibrium.

“Really, Piper,” Vicki chimed, “it’s no secret Judge Herman signed a search warrant for your place. The whole town’s talking about it.”

“And,” Diane was quick to add, “I heard from a reliable source that the police confiscated several items simply covered in blood.”

Instantly, I leaped to my own defense. “I found a dog behind my shop the night Mario was killed. He was hurt, so I wrapped him in a towel and took him to the vet.”

Diane made an exaggerated show of searching under shelves and peering around corners until I wanted to shake her. “A likely story. I don’t see any dog. So…,” she drawled. “Where is this mystery animal of yours?”

I marched over to the stairs. “Casey,” I yelled. “Here, boy.”

At hearing his name called, the pup bounded down the steps and slid to a stop when he encountered the baby gate I’d installed across the bottom. “Not all my customers appreciate a puppy underfoot,” I explained, unlatching the gate.

Casey scampered into the shop, a furry, wriggling mass of excitement and enthusiasm. He tap-danced at my feet until I rubbed behind his ears, then he raced over to welcome the visitors with a flurry of yips and tail wags. Unfortunately his enthusiasm got the better of him, and he peed on the floor, the spray narrowly missing Diane’s sandaled foot.

She leaped back. “Well, I never!”

“Casey loves meeting people. If anything, he’s overly friendly.” I tried to keep the smile off my face, but wasn’t sure if I’d succeeded keeping it out of my voice.

“These sandals are Ferragamo,” Diane huffed. “Do you have any idea how much they cost?”

“Tsk, tsk,” I scolded the little dog who now cowered at my feet. “Bad puppy. Go show the nice lady you’re sorry.”

“No, no, that’s all right.” Diane leaped back as though she’d just stepped into a mound of fire ants.

Vicki skirted the puddle. “Diane, didn’t you mention stopping by the antique shop? Let me pay for these berries and then we’ll go.”

I rang up the sale, happy it was time for the Vicki and Diane Show to hit the road. Feeling generous, I stuffed the recipe for roast lamb into the bag as a goodwill gesture. “Y’all come back now,” I said as the door swung shut behind them.

I’d no sooner finished cleaning up Casey’s accident when Doug Winters strolled in. Canting my head to one side, I studied him as he approached. After meeting him at the welcome reception for McBride, Reba Mae had nudged me and exclaimed over and over how “cute” he was. And I had to agree with my friend. Prematurely silver hair. An engaging, boyish charm. Eyes the color of melted chocolate. Yes, definitely a cutie. Why had it taken me this long to pay closer attention?

“I brought some new doggy snacks one of my vendors dropped off.” He set a bag on the counter. “I saw a couple women leave a few minutes ago. Business picking up?”

“Hardly.” I peeked inside the bag and discovered treats resembling Tootsie Rolls. “If I had to depend on those two, I might as well declare bankruptcy.”

Doug chuckled. “Not much on cooking, are they?”

I chuckled, too. “Their favorite recipes are box dinners and the pop-in-the-microwave variety. Vicki, however, plans to woo Kenny, her estranged husband, with a home-cooked meal. Roast lamb with rosemary and juniper, to be precise.”

Doug stooped to pet Casey, who was prancing at his feet in a bid for attention. In exchange, the vet’s face was lathered in wet puppy kisses. “Do you like Indian food?” Doug asked me as he straightened.

“I’ve only tried it once, but I’m game. What do you have in mind?”

“I came across a recipe for tandoori chicken. Thought I’d try it out, provided I could find a suitable victim … er, volunteer … for my experiment. Are you free tomorrow night?”

I couldn’t think of a single reason to refuse, then realized I didn’t want to. I genuinely enjoyed the man’s company. Besides, it’s just dinner—not sex. “Gee, let me check.” I thumbed through an imaginary datebook. “Seems I have an opening. Pencil me in.”

“Great.” He grinned and pulled a slip of paper from his pants pocket. “I brought along a list of the spices I’ll need for garam masala: cumin seeds, Tellicherry black peppercorns, coriander seed, cardamom seed, whole cloves, and mace.”

As I wandered along the shelves of spices, picking up items as I went, I felt proud I had done my homework. Garam masala, I’d learned, was an aromatic blend of spices often used in Indian cuisine. “I’ll even grind them if you like,” I offered.

“Deal.” Doug trailed after me.

After consulting a reference book on the exact amounts, I carefully measured the ingredients into a coffee grinder reserved exclusively for spices. I finished my grinding and was surprised to find Wyatt McBride patiently watching from just inside the doorway. I found his presence unsettling. Maybe it was the gun-and-badge thing. Maybe the don’t-mess-with-me expression. Or, even more unsettling, maybe it was the man himself.

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “I didn’t hear you come in over the sound of the grinder.”

“We need to talk.”

Frown lines appeared between Doug’s brows as his eyes darted back and forth between the two of us.

“You in the market for garam masala, McBride?” I asked. “It’s the spice du jour.” He’d once called me prickly, and I had to admit that whenever he was around I was. Best defense is a good offense, as CJ used to say. Or was it, a first offense deserves a good defense? Words to that effect, at any rate.

“Consider this an official visit,” he said, ignoring my offer.

I nervously wiped my hands on my apron. “Can it wait until I finish with my customer?”

At his curt nod, I gave the grinder an extra go-round, more for effect than necessity. I smiled at Doug as I transferred the mixture from the grinder into a lidded container and added a label. “If memory serves, translated garam masala literally means ‘sweet mix.’”

“Nice,” Doug said, sniffing the concoction I’d just whipped up. “What makes garam different from curry powder?”

I didn’t know if Doug was a culinary whiz kid masquerading as a bespeckled veterinarian or was merely attempting to keep the conversational balloon afloat. Whichever the case, I was grateful. “Garam lacks the heat of chili peppers and turmeric as a base.”

“Interesting.” Doug’s gaze slid to McBride’s impassive face. “Um, how much do I owe you?”

I was in no frame of mind for high finance. “Let’s call it an even trade, shall we? Doggy treats for garam.”

“Thanks, Piper,” Doug said, accepting the container I held out. “Want me to stick around?”

I wiped sweaty palms on my apron. Touched by Doug’s protectiveness, I managed a brave smile. “Thanks, but I’ll be fine.”

Doug’s nod conveyed reassurance. “See you tomorrow night then. Six o’clock okay?”

“Six is perfect.” I watched him leave, then, with a sinking sensation, I turned to McBride. “Well,” I said, “are you here to arrest me?”

C
HAPTER
24

“
A
RREST YOU?”

I crossed my arms over my chest knowing, but not caring, that McBride might interpret the gesture as defensive. His analysis would be spot on. I admit I felt anxious about the possible reason for McBride’s visit. Could it be because of the damned purple T-shirt someone had hidden in plain sight? The man tended to make me jittery—even in the rare times he was being nice. “I’m not in the mood for games,” I snapped. “You said you were here on official business.”

“The forensics report came back on the bloodstains on the bath towel and T-shirt that we found when we executed the search warrant of your place.”

I knew the bloodstains belonged to Casey, not Mario, but what if the lab had made a mistake? Mistakes were made all the time. Innocent people went to jail. Some even were condemned to death row. Reaching down, I scooped Casey up and held him like a shield against bad news.

McBride eyed me cautiously. “Are you going to sic your dog on me?”

“I might.” I stroked the little animal’s silky head, but kept my gaze fastened on McBride. “Don’t underestimate him. He’s a trained attack dog.”

McBride raised a brow as he studied the pup that was starting to doze off in my arms. “Consider me warned.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” I said, reading his skepticism of Casey’s hidden talent. “What did the lab say about the bloodstains?”

“Forensics identified them as canine, not human.” He paused a beat before adding, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

I walked across the shop and sank down on the stool behind the counter. “I hope the news didn’t come as a shock,” I told him peevishly. “I told you that from the beginning.”

“I know you did.” He sauntered closer, thumbs hooked in his belt. “Until now, however, we—meaning law enforcement—had only your word for it. Now with the GBI report to back it up, all doubts are gone. You can rest easy.”

“Aren’t you forgetting about the purple T-shirt? You said yourself that you thought the results would come back positive for Mario’s DNA.”

“I still think that, but I’m also convinced the shirt was planted to throw suspicion your way.”

“But will anyone believe you?”

“I’m ready to swear in a court of law if need be that the shirt wasn’t present at the time of the search. Why would I perjure myself?”

Hearing that should have made me feel better, but it didn’t. Even though McBride believed the evidence was planted, once forensics unequivocally identified the bloodstains as Mario’s, it could still be an uphill battle to convince everyone else. I was still in a boatload of trouble—and my boat kept springing leaks. “Did your men find any prints on the lock?”