Rosemary and Crime (11 page)

He held up a bag marked
EVIDENCE
. “I’m afraid it’s not going to work that way.”

Lindsey edged closer to my side. “Mom, what did the police find? What’s in the bag?”

I tried to think what they might have discovered, then groaned aloud when the answer came to me with knock-the-breath-out-of-you clarity.

“Care to explain the bloodstained shirt and bath towel we found in the trash?”

My mouth was suddenly as dry as burnt toast. “I know this looks bad, but it’s not what you think.”

“Then enlighten me.”

CJ’s head swiveled back and forth between us in a fair imitation of a spectator at Wimbledon. “What’s the guy talkin’ about, Scooter?”

I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue, then directed my next words at McBride. Beau Tucker and his cohort listened with undisguised curiosity. “We’ve been over this before, McBride. I told you. I found a small dog, hurt and bleeding, outside my shop the night of the murder. I did what any person would do. I wrapped him in a towel and raced him to the vet’s.”

McBride widened his stance, his expression set. “That explains the blood on the towel, but not the shirt.”

“Are you dense?” I asked, exasperated that I had to spell it out for him when it should be crystal clear. “Apparently, I got blood on my shirt when I assisted Dr. Winters putting a chest tube in the dog.”

“A dog?” Lindsey asked. Forget about the bloodstains, I thought, “dog” was the only word that had lodged in Lindsey’s consciousness. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you had a dog?”

“I don’t
have
a dog. I
found
a dog. There’s a difference,” I pointed out.

She tugged on my sleeve. “Is he all right? Are you going to keep it?”

“Honey, right now, I have no intention of owning a pet,” I explained as gently as I could, knowing how much my daughter loved animals and hating to disappoint her. CJ and I had argued endlessly on the merits of owning a pet, always with the same results. CJ wanted nothing to do with cats or dogs. He claimed he had allergies to both. And that, as they say, was that.

Placing my hand on Lindsey’s back, I made small circles like I used to do when she and Chad were my babies. “The dog was scarcely more than a pup, a mutt actually. I’m afraid he was seriously injured. At this point, honey, I have no idea whether he survived or not.”

“Hmph!” Officer Moyer snorted. “A likely story.”

“Quiet,” McBride growled, and the policeman lapsed into a sullen silence.

“It seems the vet was called away on a family emergency so I have no way of knowing the outcome,” I said, in an attempt to clarify the situation.

“No alibi, eh?” CJ shoved his hands into pants pockets. “Not looking good, Scooter.”

“Dammit, CJ,” I flared. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Ma’am,” McBride interrupted the potential feud. “You need to come down to the station with me for further questioning.”

“Am I under arrest?” I was embarrassed to hear the quiver in my voice.

“Depends on how the questioning goes.”

“Daddy,” Lindsey squealed. “Don’t just stand there! Do something.”

“Sure thing, baby.” CJ drew on his meager theatrical talent to appear concerned. “Scooter darlin’, don’t say a word without an attorney present.”

“You her attorney, Prescott?” McBride wanted to know.

“Sorry, that rules me out.” CJ shed McBride’s question as easily as water off a duck’s back. “I’d be more than happy to offer representation, but considerin’ our history together, it’s probably not a wise decision. Unfortunately, what my ex-wife needs is a criminal lawyer. Not my area of expertise.”

“Thanks,” I muttered as McBride led me away.

C
HAPTER
12

M
CBRIDE PROPELLED ME
past Precious Blessing, who seemed engrossed in the nail art on her index finger, and down a short hallway. “Why are you doing this to me?” I asked.

“Doing what?”

“Treating me as though I’m a murder suspect.”

“Don’t make this personal.”

I thought I detected a flicker of regret in McBride’s icy blues, but it vanished so quickly I thought maybe I’d imagined it.

“I’m only doing the job the good citizens of Brandywine Creek hired me to do.” He opened the door of a small windowless room and motioned me inside. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

The room was bare except for a narrow table and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Dingy beige walls and speckled brown tile comprised the décor du jour.

Too restless to sit, I made laps around the table. Part of me rebelled at the notion that anyone might even remotely think me capable of killing a man. The other part was too frightened to think clearly. I wanted to turn tail and dodge out the back door. I wished I’d never heard of Mario Barrone, much less cajoled him into performing a cooking demo. Now, all because of him and some stupid juniper berries, I was about to be thrown into the slammer.

Tired of pacing, I slumped down in one of the chairs. McBride let me stew for a good fifteen minutes, then returned carrying a tape recorder and a file folder in one hand, a brown bag in the other. If his ploy was to make me nervous, it worked like a charm. If I knew the notes, I’d sing like a canary.

I eyed the recorder warily. “Do I need a lawyer?” I swallowed. “Of the criminal variety?”

“That’s up to you,” he replied, his tone noncommittal. “You’re not under arrest. Just here for questioning.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, knowing the gesture was defensive, but didn’t care. “I didn’t
do
anything. I have nothing to hide.”

“Good. Let’s get started then, shall we?”

“Fine.” I sat up straight.

McBride took the chair opposite me and clicked on the recorder, stating our names for the record along with the date and time. This was as official as it gets. Reba Mae was going to get an earful once this was behind me. The two of us would probably share a good laugh comparing reality against TV shows and movies. But this wasn’t TV. Wasn’t a movie. And I was scared spitless. At what point would McBride read me the Miranda rights? Oh yeah, I remember, when they slap on handcuffs and announce I’m under arrest …

… for murder.

Unbelievable.

Then fear left me, replaced by red-hot anger. “Why are you wasting your time questioning me when you should be hunting down the real killer?” I demanded.

“Allow me to give you a brief tutorial on the way things work in law enforcement,” McBride said, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “At the moment, you happen to be the prime suspect in the death of Mario Barrone. The three fundamentals of a homicide investigation are motive, means, and opportunity. You score high on all three counts.”

Generally speaking—with the exception of golf—I like being a high scorer. In this instance, however, I didn’t want to be an overachiever. I wanted to retaliate with some smart-aleck remark, but thought it wise to remain silent. Instead, I fixed an unblinking gaze on McBride. For the first time, I was aware of the thin scar bisecting his brow near the corner of his left eye. I shifted uneasily. Too much information. I didn’t want to know about his scars. Or wonder if he got them in the line of duty or on the football field.

“First off,” he said, unaware of my unruly thoughts, “your prints are a positive match to those on the murder weapon. That provides ‘means.’”

“Haven’t you been listening?” I snapped. “How many times do I have to tell you I found the knife outside the Tratory? Of course the prints match. Why wouldn’t they?”

He leaned back, his eyes never leaving my face. I’d like to think my counterattack caught him off guard, but it was impossible to tell what was going on behind that cop mask of his. “Why in the world would I kill Mario?” I’d discovered asking questions held more appeal than answering them. “I needed Barrone’s help to get my shop off to a running start. I was depending on his cooking demonstration to bring in a slew of customers.”

“You seemed to handle the demo without his help—more or less.”

Narrowing my eyes, I regarded him with suspicion.
Was he poking fun at me?
I wondered, recalling how the juniper paste splattered Bertha Fox minutes before the leg of lamb took flight.

“A number of people witnessed your argument with Barrone just hours before he was killed. Melly Prescott, your former mother-in-law, attests to the fact you have a temper.”

“Of course I have a temper,” I flared. “I was married to her son, who happened to be cheating on me with Miss Peach Pit. That would be enough to rile Mother Teresa.”

“Here’s a possible scenario. There was bad blood between you and Barrone as demonstrated by your disagreement. You went to confront him after his restaurant closed for the night. One thing led to another. Things got heated, and the situation got out of control. He ended up dead and you fled the scene.”

“Ridiculous!” I scoffed. “Have you ever considered writing fiction?”

He ignored my jibe. “All that goes to supply motive. And last, but by no means least, the third member of the triad—opportunity.”

The air in the small room suddenly seemed heavier, harder to breathe. I watched him carefully, dreading what he’d say next. Meanwhile, the tape recorder quietly whirred away. Recording every angry syllable. Every nervous swallow.

McBride opened the file folder and flipped through the pages. “The medical examiner gives the time of death as between ten o’clock and midnight. Need I remind you that you have no alibi for that period of time?”

Bingo! There it was—the elephant in the room.

“You’re wrong,” I said, with all the bravado I could muster. “I do have an alibi.”

“Right.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Some wild fabrication about finding and taking an injured dog to a vet. Too bad it can’t be verified. All we have is your word for it. Thing is, Piper”—he leaned forward, his look intent—“the vet disappeared. No telling when he left—or when he might return. For all I know, he might’ve been called away on a ‘family emergency’ days before Mario was killed. To make matters worse, there’s no trace of a dog—injured or otherwise.”

He paused to let this sink in.

“You need to give it more time. Be more patient. Dr. Winters has a booming practice. He wouldn’t just abandon it.” I was grasping at straws, and we both knew it.

Reaching down, McBride opened a paper sack and produced the sealed evidence bag I’d first seen in Spice It Up! “As you already know, our search of your apartment uncovered this hidden in the trash.”

I huffed out an indignant breath. “It wasn’t ‘hidden,’ it was stuffed. If I’d ‘hidden’ it, you’d never have found it. But I stuffed it, so you did.”

I could see from the pained expression on his face that this interrogation wasn’t going exactly according to his game plan. But I wouldn’t allow myself to feel sorry for the man, so I resumed attack mode. “You’re going to have egg on your face when the lab results prove the blood is canine and not human.”

McBride pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and regrouped. “Piper, are you sure you aren’t holding something back? It’ll go much easier on you if you just come out with it and admit you killed Barrone. The prosecutor will likely call it a crime of passion and reduce the charge to second degree. After all, you never went to Trattoria Milano intending to kill Barrone. You simply lost your temper and…” He shrugged. “These things happen.”

I jumped to my feet so suddenly the chair toppled backward. “Are you freaking nuts? I want a lawyer, and I want one now!”

With the racket caused by my shouting and the noise from the chair clattering to the floor, neither of us heard the quiet knock until it was repeated.

“Chief…?” Precious Blessing’s muffled voice came through the closed door. “Someone here to see you.”

“Tell them to take a number,” McBride growled. “I’m busy.”

“Er, Chief, I really think you’re going to want to talk to ’im.”

McBride shot me a look and, rising to his feet, strode toward the door. The instant it opened, a tan ball of fur charged through, trailing a leash. Amid tail wagging and excited barks, the small dog spotted me and vaulted into my arms, covering my face in wet kisses from its raspy pink tongue. I laughed out loud at the exuberant greeting, my mood lighter than it had been in days.

“Easy, boy,” I said, stroking the pup’s shiny coat. “Easy.”

Glancing over the pup’s head, I became aware of both Precious Blessing and Doug Winters watching the reunion with varying degrees of amusement. McBride hid his reaction beneath his usual bland expression. Probably displeased to discover his “prime suspect” was no long quite as prime.

“Sorry for any confusion my absence might’ve caused,” Doug Winters said, with an apologetic smile, one I found quite endearing. “I drove here as soon I found the chief’s card stuck in the door and listened to Piper’s messages. Thought it might be better if I clear this matter up in person rather than with a phone call.”

“Since I didn’t think you’d mind me interruptin’, Chief,” Precious said, “I brought along another chair.” She uprighted the toppled chair, which I sank onto gratefully, and she placed the other next to it.

After she left, the two men shook hands and introduced themselves while the pup lay curled in my lap and wagged his stubby tail. Running my hand along his side, I felt the newly healed scar and a stiff row of sutures. Thankfully the pup seemed no worse for wear after his close brush with death.

McBride gestured for Doug to take a seat. “For the record, Dr. Winters, can you tell me where you’ve been for the last week?”

Doug raked his fingers through his silvery mop. “My mother called with news that my father had suffered a massive heart attack. I dropped everything and drove through the night to get to his side.”

McBride picked up a pen and made a note of this. “Exactly when was this?”

I breathed a sigh of relief when the date corresponded with what I’d told the chief.

“Do you recall the approximate time of Mrs. Prescott’s visit?”

“She must’ve gotten to the clinic shortly after ten. I remember because the news was still on. It was nearly one in the morning when she left. I tried to convince her that I’d done everything I could, but she insisted on staying until the pup was breathing easier.”