Rosemary and Crime (13 page)

Nacho, one of the owners of North of the Border, seemed happy to see us. “A booth or table, señor?”

“Table.”

“Booth.”

We answered simultaneously.

Confused, Nacho looked from one to the other.

“The lady would prefer a booth, so a booth it is.” Doug placed a protective hand at the small of my back as we followed Nacho.

Maybe it was silly, but the tables were near the front. I didn’t want to be conspicuous to everyone passing by. Thus far, I found the evening more stressful than fun. I hoped things would improve with time.

Nacho deposited a basket of warm tortilla chips and thick salsa in front of us. As soon as he’d left with our drink orders—margaritas, frozen, no salt—Doug leaned over and lowered his voice, “Isn’t ‘Nacho’ an odd name for the proprietor of a Mexican restaurant?”

I matched my tone to his. “I used to think so, too, until I learned it was a nickname for his real name—Ignacio.”

“Well then, that makes perfect sense.” Behind wire-rimmed glasses, his brown eyes twinkled with humor.

Our drinks arrived along with menus. Doug studied the extensive list of specials and combinations with single-minded concentration. I didn’t bother. I invariably ordered the same thing. While Doug was trying to decide, I let my gaze roam.

Colorful sombreros hung on the brightly painted walls along with photos of various locales in Mexico. Mariachi music seeped out of speakers. What North of the Border lacked in sophistication, it made up for in service and tasty but inexpensive food. Judging from the lack of customers, however, most folk weren’t in the mood for Mexican on this particular night. Except for us and another couple in a booth at the rear, the place was virtually deserted.

I recognized the pair as Vicki Lamont and Kenny, her estranged husband. As though sensing me watching, Vicki glanced up, then quickly turned away. Vicki and I had never been what you might call pals, but we’d traveled in the same social circles during my marriage to CJ. Now she didn’t even acknowledge me. Fine, I thought, I can take a hint. I know when I’m not wanted.

“Have you decided on a name for your dog yet?”

Doug’s question jerked me back to the present. “Um, no. Not yet.”

Just then Becca Dapkins and Buzz Oliver entered the restaurant. Becca, the brazen hussy, was the reason Buzz jilted his long-suffering fiancée, Maybelle Humphries. Maybelle was Brandywine Creek’s undisputed queen of Southern cuisine. Becca, to put it mildly, was not.
Had the woman exhausted her repertoire of mushroom soup recipes?
I wondered as Nacho led them past us. Or had Buzz, tired of food swimming in a gluey gray sea, pleaded amnesty?

“Hey Becca,” I said.

Buzz was about to stop and gab, but Becca clutched his arm and hurried him along, making me feel even more like a pariah. Doug scowled at their rudeness and was about to comment, but I dipped a chip into the salsa and pretended I didn’t notice the slight.

“Umm, good salsa,” I murmured around a mouthful. “Could have used a bit more heat, though. Poblano or jalapeño peppers would have been a nice addition.”

Doug gallantly pretended he didn’t notice the snub, either, and we retreated to the neutral territory of my pet’s current state of health. I was happy to report it seemed excellent, and that the pup suffered no ill effects from the recent trauma.

When Nacho arrived with our dinners—a chicken chimichanga for me, beef fajitas for Doug—I happened to glance again at the corner booth. I was surprised to see Vicki and Kenny holding hands and acting all lovey-dovey. Reba Mae had mentioned Vicki had filed for divorce. She’d heard Vicki had been having an affair, but not the name of her lover. Mario Barrone had been mentioned as a possibility. From the looks on their faces, I surmised the couple were reconciling.

“Everything all right, señora?” Nacho asked anxiously when I failed to attack my meal.

I assured him that it was, and he retreated to the kitchen. I added a dollop of sour cream to my chimi, then turned my attention back to my … date. “How is your father doing after his heart attack?”

“Great. He’s ready to start cardiac rehab soon. Mom’s bought a half-dozen heart healthy cookbooks. They’re determined to eat better and exercise more.”

“By the way, what did you do with my dog while you were away? Did you take him with you?”

Doug speared strips of steak and peppers and heaped them on a warm tortilla. He had nice hands, I noticed. The fingers were long, square-tipped, competent yet gentle. “I left the pup with a friend from veterinary school. He has a practice about fifty miles from here. The dog needed to be closely monitored. I knew I couldn’t do it so I asked Josh to keep an eye on him for me as a favor.”

As the evening progressed, we chatted about any number of things. My mood gradually changed from nervous to relaxed to simple pleasure. Doug loved his work and was interested in mine. As I’d suspected, he was a fledgling gourmet cook who enjoyed experimenting with various cuisines and trying new spices. He readily fit the profile of my ideal customer.

The subject gradually shifted from the mundane to the personal. Doug confessed that he, too, was divorced and knew what it felt like to be dumped. His wife had left him for a former high school sweetheart she’d reconnected with at a reunion. “She hoped to find a pilot’s life more exciting than a veterinarian’s,” he confided. “After the divorce, I decided a change of scenery was in order. I quit a busy animal clinic in a Chicago suburb and moved south.”

“Children?” I asked.

My question was met with a long pause. “One—a daughter. She attends Northwestern and lives with her mother.”

Reaching across the table, I gave his hand a sympathetic squeeze. I knew how much that must hurt, but he seemed reluctant to say more so I didn’t pursue the subject. We were debating whether to share an order of sopapillas when the front door opened and in sauntered Wyatt McBride.

“There goes my appetite.” I sighed.
And my good mood.

Doug glanced over his shoulder and nodded at the lawman. “He seems a decent sort, but I can understand why you might have a different opinion.”

“Brandywine Creek’s a small town. People know I’ve been hauled down to the police station for questioning. That I’m the prime suspect in a murder case.” I toyed with the stem of my empty margarita glass. “If McBride is the hotshot, big-city detective he’s purported to be, he should be tracking down the real perpetrator before my reputation—and business—are a shambles.”

I slid a glance sideways and was dismayed to find McBride, still in uniform, heading our way. Suddenly, the spicy salsa started giving me heartburn. Or maybe McBride had the same effect on me.

McBride hooked his thumbs in his belt, canted his head, and stared down at us without smiling. “Somehow I was under the impression you two didn’t know each other before Mrs. Prescott found a wounded dog on her doorstep.”

“That’s an apple from another tree. He
wasn’t
on my doorstep,” I explained in a tight voice. “He was in the vacant lot behind my shop.”

“I stand corrected. Again,” he added.

I gave him a resentful look, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but he didn’t budge. “Actually, Doug came into my shop before it officially opened, looking for saffron.”

“I was making paella,” Doug explained. “You can imagine how thrilled I was to discover she carried Spanish coupe saffron. Piper doesn’t disappoint.”

I felt heat rush to my cheeks. “What Doug meant to say was that my
shop
doesn’t disappoint.”

I disliked the speculative gleam in McBride’s cool blues as his gaze traveled back and forth between the two of us. “So, Winters,” McBride said, widening his stance slightly, “I take it you’re something of a cook?”

“I like to experiment with various dishes, though I’m far from being a gourmet.”

“Take me, for instance.” McBride shrugged one shoulder. “I’m just the opposite. If it weren’t for takeout and frozen dinners, I’d probably starve. Maybe it’s time I learn to experiment. Broaden my horizons.”

Nacho approached our booth and handed McBride a see-through bag loaded with Styrofoam carry-out boxes. “Here you go, Chief. Nice and spicy, just like you ordered.”

McBride thanked him and favored us with his trademark humorless smile. “See you around.”

I watched him leave with a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with the chimichanga I’d just consumed and everything to do with Wyatt McBride. I didn’t trust the way his mind worked. I could easily imagine him wondering whether Doug Winters had furnished me with an alibi because it was the truth—or for personal reasons. Had opportunity, one of the unholy three, just returned for an encore?

C
HAPTER
15

“
Y
OO-HOO!” DOTTIE HEMMINGS
glided into Spice It Up! with all the majesty of the QE2 gliding into New York Harbor.

I glanced up from the supply catalog I’d been thumbing through. If—I mean when—business perked up I wanted to carry a variety of cooking accessories. Nothing grand, just things like pepper mills, salt cellars, recipe cards, and such.

“Afternoon, Dottie,” I said, closing the catalog. “What can I help you with?”

“I have some time to kill before bridge at Patti’s so thought I’d stop by and say hello.”

“Well,” I said brightly, “as long you’re here, take a look around. You might find something you’d like to try or replace.”

“Replace? Oh, I don’t think so, dear. I’ve had some spices in my cupboard for ten, fifteen, maybe twenty years. They last forever.”

I shuddered at the notion of dried, tasteless powders masquerading as spice. “Experts recommend buying a year’s supply of ground spice, and a one- to two-year supply of whole spices.”

“Oh, pooh, what do the experts know?” Dottie brushed aside my advice with a wave of her pudgy hand. “My husband, the mayor, likes my cooking fine the way it is.”

I could see the suggestion fell on deaf ears, so I gave up.

Dottie picked up a jar of crystallized Australian ginger, then, uninterested, set it back down. “Pinky Alexander was telling everyone at the Klassy Kut how Jolene Tucker had a nasty trip and fall last night.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I replied. Jolene was the wife of police sergeant Beau Tucker. We’d served together on various PTA committees in the past. “I hope she’s all right.”

“Poor thing.” Dottie wagged her helmet of blond curls, but it was so stiff nary a strand moved. “Doctor told her she needs pins and plates to put her ankle back together.”

“How awful!” I exclaimed, imagining painful surgery and months on crutches.

“It happened coming out of Bunco at Shirley Randolph’s. If you want my opinion, too much drinking goes on during those wild dice games.” Dottie nodded knowingly. “Ned Feeney told me their trash bins are filled with empty wine bottles the next day.”

“I’ll call Jolene and take a meal over.”

“Becca’s already sending over a pan of her famous tuna noodle casserole. She’s the clever one when it comes to soup. You have to admire a woman who knows that many ways to use cream of mushroom.”

“As you said, Becca’s a clever one.”

Failing to recognize my sarcasm, Dottie rattled on. “As I was saying to my husband, the mayor, just the other day, you’re a clever girl, too. I don’t care what anyone says.”

“Why, thank you,” I said, for lack of a better response.

“Don’t let life get you down, dear. “She reached out and patted my hand. “CJ’s just sowing his wild oats with Amber Leigh. Men are always attracted to younger, prettier women. It’s a problem many face as they grow older and can’t compete anymore.”

Was I suddenly old, ugly, and out of the race?

I couldn’t help but wonder how Dottie would react if Harvey Hemmings, “her husband, the mayor,” suddenly developed the hots for someone younger and prettier in a short skirt. I doubted she’d be quite so philosophical.

Dottie’s gaze swept around Spice It Up! “This shop of yours is such a cute little place—and always smells so good. Sorry to hear it’s on the verge of bankruptcy.”

I bit back an angry retort. Leave it to Dottie Hemmings to spread her own particular brand of doom-and-gloom. I forced a smile when I really wanted to scream.

“Granted, business has been slow, but I’m hoping things will improve once the annual Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival gets nearer. I’m planning a special display of spices that ought to attract cooks.”

“I hope so, dear, for your sake.” Dottie absently rearranged a selection of baking spices on a shelf. “Other than Jolene’s unfortunate accident, the only topic of interest is Mario getting himself stabbed to death. Things like that just don’t happen in Brandywine Creek. Folks are bundles of nerves what with a killer on the loose. Some are locking their doors for the first time ever. Lot of talk about buying guns.”

I shuddered at the notion of a local militia. Someone was bound to shoot themselves.

“Everyone will sleep better once Chief McBride makes an arrest. My husband, the mayor, said the man had a top-notch reputation as a detective in Miami.”

“So I heard,” I added drily.

“The sooner the guilty party’s caught, the better it will look for him. Some members of the city council are starting to have second thoughts about hiring him.” Dottie ran her finger along a shelf and inspected it for dust. “By the way, I almost forgot one other little tidbit of gossip. The Deltorros are taking over Trattoria Milano. And not wasting any time doing it, either.”

“Do they intend to close the Pizza Palace?”

“Well, I suppose.” Dottie checked her watch for the time. “It doesn’t make sense to operate two restaurants. Talk is, they plan on turning the Tratory into, as Gina described it, a more user-friendly Italian eatery. Not serve the hoity-toity kind of food Mario favored.”

The front door opened, and I welcomed a reprieve from Dottie Hemmings. I felt even better when I saw the new arrival was none other than my daughter. She carried a plastic garment bag draped over one arm.

“Hey, sweetie.” I quickly went and gave her a hug. “What brings you here this afternoon?”