Rosemary and Crime (31 page)

Whoever was on the other end was as persistent as I was hesitant. Eventually persistence won. Trudging over to the counter, I picked up the blasted phone. Much to my delight, I heard Doug Winters’s voice, and not Precious Blessing’s.

“Hey, Piper,” Doug greeted me, sounding chipper. “Just wanted to call and tell you I’ve been thinking about you. How’re things going?”

“I’m adopting a new policy around here: don’t ask, and I won’t tell.”

Doug chuckled. “That bad, eh?”

I smiled in spite of myself. “Worse.”

“You sound as though you could use a diversion. How about a burger and a movie on Saturday night? I’ll even sit through a chick flick if that’s what you want.”

“Um, I don’t know, Doug,” I prevaricated, reluctant to inflict my ill humor on such a sweet guy. “I don’t think I’d be very good company.”

“Consider it doctor’s orders. So how about it?”

Who was I to question doctor’s orders? A night in Doug’s company would act as an antianxiety, antidepressant, and mood elevator all rolled into one. “All right,” I said with a sigh. “It’s a deal.”

“Great. I’ll pick you up around six.”

My spirits felt lighter when I put down the phone. Switching off lights as I went, I made my way toward the rear of the shop. I’d already started up the stairs when I remembered the trench coat still hanging in the cupboard. I’d yet to examine the damages done when I vaulted over my Beetle. Retracing my steps, I plucked it off the hook and slung it over my shoulder. Casey scampered along behind me.

Once inside my apartment, I peeled off the protective plastic covering. The grass and mud stains on the front panels were barely visible. Mr. Proctor was to be commended for the splendid job he’d done. I flipped the coat over. At first glance everything seemed intact. Maybe the tear wasn’t as bad as Bitsy made it out to be. Maybe the waiver releasing Proctor’s Cleaners from responsibility was merely a formality. I was about to heave a breath of relief when I saw it. A small piece of cloth torn from the hem of the back vent.

I spread the coat on the kitchen table for a better look. A triangular bit of fabric had been ripped away, leaving a ragged edge. I sank down on a chair—the very one Wyatt McBride had occupied when he’d lapsed from foe into almost friendly—and closed my eyes. I replayed the events leading up to the tear.

Memories unwound like the spool of one of those old-fashioned eight-track tapes my father used to own. It had been raining that night. Doug insisted on giving me leftovers: tandoori chicken and cucumber salad. I half-turned, container in hand, when I’d been blinded by the glare of headlights and deafened by the roar of an engine. Out of nowhere, a sleek black car raced toward me. I could still smell its exhaust fumes. Feel the heat from its engine.

I idly fingered the frayed tear. The bumper must have grazed the hem of my coat and torn off a small fragment. That was the only logical explanation I could come up with. I broke into a cold sweat, knowing how close I’d come to nearly being squashed like a bug.

Mario Barrone’s killer clearly didn’t like me snooping around. Asking questions. Poking into alibis. In fact, he disliked it so much that he sought to silence me—permanently. Then, another thought occurred to me. My eyes popped open. I sat up straighter. What if the scrap of fabric was still wedged in the car’s bumper? All I had to do was find the car. Piece of cake, right?

Find the car. Find the killer.

I reached for my cell and did what any sane woman would do in the similar circumstances. I dialed my BFF.

*   *   *

“Takeout again,” Lindsey had whined earlier when leaving with Amber. Takeout versus home-cooked. Her complaint had seemed valid. Yet here I was at the Pizza Palace once again. My daughter’s words conjured up visions of the home-cooked meals I’d served my family on a regular basis: savory stews, mouthwatering meat loaves, tender roast chicken, spicy lasagna. CJ confided once he preferred my pot roast to his mother’s. His compliment made me feel I’d been crowned Queen of the Kitchen. Somehow, though, home-cooked meals weren’t as tasty when eaten alone. I confess these days I often resorted to take-out menus and frozen dinners. But pizza, when devoured in a restaurant, really wasn’t the same as takeout, I rationalized, as I waited for Reba Mae to join me.

I’d just taken a sip of wine when my friend pushed through the door. Reba Mae looked as tall and formidable as an Amazon as she strode toward me in her espadrilles with three-inch wedge heels. She’d taken the time to change from work clothes into form-fitting black crop pants and a bold-striped shirt. Chandelier-style earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders. By comparison, I could pass for a wallflower in my denim capris and yellow knit V-neck.

Gina Deltorro approached our table, an order pad in her pocket instead of in her hand. “The usual?”

I nodded, and she left the two of us alone.

Reba Mae settled her straw tote on the seat of an empty chair. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s see if I got this straight. You think you tore your coat when you dove head over teacups over the hood of your car?”

“That’s the only explanation I can come up with. No way I would’ve entirely forgotten tearing a designer trench coat I bought at half price.”

“So, sugar, what do you propose we do? Track down every big black car with a clown decal?”

Now that Reba Mae voiced my brainchild out loud, I was beset with doubt. I fiddled with the stem of my wineglass. I was grasping at straws, but desperation makes people do strange things. “I admit, it does sound sort of lame,” I confessed, then brightened. “How about we start our search with all the big black cars at Cloune Motors?”

“Guess that might work.” Reba Mae sounded skeptical. “Here’s another glitch in your plan. Caleb says the Clounes own multiple vehicles. They switch off drivin’ ’em. Sometimes Dwayne drives the Lincoln, and Diane the SUV or snazzy convertible. Dwayne even rotates ’em through the lot, periodically hopin’ someone will make an offer. He shuffles cars slicker than a card shark in Vegas.”

The usually talkative Gina delivered our pizza without a single word, then disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Strange, I thought, but chalked it up to the stress of opening a new restaurant soon.

“Let me tell you the clincher.” I glanced around to make certain our conversation wouldn’t be overheard. The only other patrons at the moment were a young family seated along the opposite wall. A tow-haired toddler intent on throwing everything within arm’s reach on the floor kept them occupied.

Reba Mae slid steamy slices onto two plates. “I’m all ears.”

Between bites of pizza, I described Casey’s strange behavior during the Clounes’ visit. Reba Mae shook her head, amazed by all the snarling, growling, and teeth baring.

“Whoo-ee,” she whistled when I finished. “The mutt’s more apt to lick a person to death than to attack ’im.”

“Exactly,” I agreed, wiping greasy fingers on a paper napkin. “And what’s more, Diane wasn’t wearing her diamond earrings. When I mentioned them, she claimed they were being appraised.”

Reba Mae’s eyes widened in surprise. “You don’t say.”

Encouraged by her response, I launched into an idea that had been marinating. “A missing earring and a barking dog won’t be enough to link Diane with the murder. We need something more concrete before we approach McBride with our newest theory. It can’t hurt if we mosey over to Cloune Motors for a look around? Scout out the used cars. See if we turn up anything big, black, and suspicious.”

Reba Mae helped herself to another gooey slice. “Not ‘used,’ honeybun. Pre-owned,” she corrected.

“Right,” I muttered. “I keep forgetting.”

“We need to cook up a cover story.”

“Cover story?”

“Like they do in the movies.” Reba Mae plucked a mushroom off her plate and popped it into her mouth. “We need to convince Dwayne we’re serious shoppers.”

“How do we do that?” I shoved my plate away. “My Beetle’s only a year old. I can’t very well tell Dwayne I’m in the market for a new car—used or pre-owned.”

Reba Mae leaned both elbows on the checkered tablecloth and gave the matter some thought. “I have it!” she said, snapping her fingers. “We can pretend we’re lookin’ for a car for Chad. Say the one he has now is givin’ him grief, breakin’ down all the time. Since he’s too busy to do it himself, CJ asked you to scout around. See what you can find.”

I clinked my wineglass against hers. “That oughta do it.”

Pleased with herself, Reba Mae grinned back at me. “How about tomorrow afternoon? Strike while the griddle’s hot.”

“Deal.”

“Uh-oh.” Reba Mae pointed her index finger over my shoulder. “Here comes trouble.”

I turned to see who she was pointing at, half-expecting to find McBride. This time, however, trouble was personified in the form of Tony Deltorro. “Uh-oh,” I repeated, noting the scowl on his face.

“You…!” His swarthy face an unhealthy shade of red, Tony jabbed a finger at me. “Who the hell do you think you are? Who gave you the right to butt into my business?”

Gina hovered close by, wringing her hands and looking worried. The family with the toddler snatched their child from the booster seat and left hurriedly.

“Me?” I said, taken aback by the vehemence of Tony’s attack.

Reba Mae tried to intervene. “Look, Tony, Piper and I…”

“Stay out of this, Reba Mae,” Tony snapped. “This doesn’t concern you.”

I tried to diffuse the situation with humor. “Sorry I upset you. Next time I’ll order a calzone instead of pizza.”

“Cut the crap.” I started to rise but he blocked the move. “I know you’re the one who sicced that damn chief of police on me. The way the guy tore into me, you’d think I was the one who murdered Barrone. Not you.”

That did it.
My chair scraped the floor as I shoved away from the table. “For your information, mister,
I
didn’t kill Barrone. McBride’s only doing what any good cop should do and checking out anyone who might’ve wanted Mario dead.”

Tony and I stood almost toe to toe. Reba Mae and Gina watched the interplay as avidly as fans at a championship baseball game with two outs and the bases loaded in the ninth inning. Tony’s dark eyes blazed. My face burned pink to the roots of my hair.

“‘Where were you the night Barrone was killed?’” he mimicked. “‘Do you have any witnesses who can verify your alibi?’”

“Honey, calm down. Remember what the doctor said about your blood pressure.” Gina placed a tentative hand on her husband’s arm, but he shook it off.

“It’s no one’s damn business where I was that night. Or who I was with,” he shouted at me. “I’ve nothing to hide. For your information, I was meeting with Brig Abernathy at his big old house in the historic district, trying to convince the skinflint to accept my offer for Trattoria Milano when Mario hightailed it for the big city.”

Brigance Abernathy, recluse and richest man in town? I’d last seen Brig at Mario’s funeral. Big house in the historic district? Could that be the same big old house where Reba Mae and I once followed him to? “Brig Abernathy owns the Tratory?” I asked, the thought mind-boggling.

“Damn right.” He waved his arm wildly. “The old codger holds the mortgage. Planned to use proceeds from the sale to finance a new project.”

Tony looked literally ready to explode. Before that could happen, I grabbed a couple of bills from my purse and slapped them on the table. Reba Mae, in need of fortification, gulped down the last of her wine, tossed down her napkin, and scrambled after me.

“McBride has some nerve,” Tony ranted as we beat an undignified retreat. “Asked me about finances. Any feuds we might’ve had. You so frickin’ desperate to get out of the limelight, you’d drop a dime on a guy trying to earn an honest buck?”

I glimpsed the anxious expression on Gina’s face before the door slammed behind us. It had just dawned on the woman that she, not me, was responsible for her husband’s interrogation. She’d told stories out of school, and it was coming back to bite her. Silently, she entreated me not to spill the beans. I didn’t have the heart to rat her out.

C
HAPTER
34

Z
EROING IN ON
my sense of urgency, Reba Mae rescheduled Wanda Buckner’s perm for later that day to allow us ample time to shop for a replacement for Chad’s hypothetical grief-causing automobile. As luck would have it—bad luck, that is, which seemed the only kind I had these days—finding someone to mind Spice It Up! wasn’t quite as easy.

After the fiasco with Melly, Marcy Magruder topped my list of possible shop-sitters. She’d answered the phone on the fifth ring. I was friendly to a fault, employer-of-the-year material. When all my questions and comments met abrupt answers, I got straight to the point and asked if she was free for an hour or so that afternoon.

She barked out a laugh. “You gotta be kidding!”

So much for pleasantries. “Actually,” I said trying to regroup. “I’m quite serious. I could use your help—”

“You’ve got some nerve asking me for favors,” she said, cutting me off mid-sentence.

“Favors?” I blinked. This was hardly the response I’d expected. “I’m not asking you to watch the shop as a ‘favor.’ I intend to compensate you for your time. I thought you’d jump at the chance to earn a little ‘pin’ money as my grandma used to say.”

“You ought to be ashamed to even call me after what you done to Danny.”

I gripped the phone tighter, trying to decipher this strange conversation.

“Marcy, what
are
you talking about? I haven’t even seen Danny recently, much less done anything to him.”

“Chief McBride cornered him the other day for a long talk. Kept asking him all kinds of questions.”

“What kind of questions?” But I had a good inkling after my confrontation with Tony Deltorro.

“Like where he was the night Mr. Barrone was murdered. He wanted to know if the man owed Danny money and, if so, how much. He asked Danny if that made him angry enough to want Mr. Barrone dead.”

“Marcy, I’m sorry if the chief’s questions upset you—”

“Upset? I’m beyond upset. I’m furious.”

“Chief McBride’s only doing his job,” I said. Inwardly, I marveled at the fact that I’d come to McBride’s defense. Surely the man didn’t need my vote in a popularity poll, but if the election were held this minute, he had it guaranteed.