Rosemary and Crime (16 page)

I couldn’t really afford help, but the poor girl looked so dejected, I didn’t have the heart to tell her no. In an odd way, she reminded me of Casey the night I’d found the little pup, frightened and injured. I couldn’t ignore the plea in Marcy’s eyes any more than I could’ve ignored Casey’s. “Well, actually,” I heard myself say, “I do have a couple errands to run. Think you could mind the shop for an hour or so?”

“Sure thing.” She beamed me a smile that transformed her narrow face from plain to almost pretty. “Does that mean I get to wear one of those cute little aprons?”

“Here,” I said, “wear mine.” I quickly slipped my apron off and gave it to her. “I don’t expect there will be many customers but, if so, do you remember how to work the register and operate the credit-card charge machine liked I showed you?”

“Don’t you worry none. I’ve got a good memory for that sort of stuff. I’m real good with computers, too.”

I stored this information away for later. If my business ever took off, I might need help with the software I’d bought to track inventory and sales. “If there’s a problem, you can always call my cell. The number’s next to the register.”

“I’ll be fine. And, Piper, thanks. Danny says things will be looking up for us real soon. Once the Deltorros get the Tratory up and running, he’ll have a steady job again.”

I pawed through the contents of my purse, searching for my car keys. “I don’t believe you ever mentioned why Danny no longer worked for Mario.”

Marcy tucked a limp lock of shoulder-length hair behind one ear. “The two men never did get along. Mr. Barrone got so mad at Danny once he even threw a meat cleaver at him. Didn’t hit him, of course, but Danny claimed it was the last straw. He quit right then and there, but Mr. Barrone said he couldn’t quit ’cause he was already fired. Never did pay Danny what he was owed. Try explaining that to your landlord.”

“Right,” I muttered. Apparently, Danny Boyd numbered among those persons Mario had managed to antagonize. As I left the shop, I wondered how many others there were walking the streets of Brandywine Creek.

C
HAPTER
18

S
TEPPING OUT OF
Spice It Up!, I paused to draw a deep breath. The air smelled as fresh as newly laundered clothes left in the sunshine to dry. The sky overhead was a robin’s egg blue, and in the square across the way, wrens warbled in the willow oaks. Instead of driving, I decided to enjoy the lovely April afternoon by walking the short distance to Cloune Motors.

As I passed Second Hand Prose, Brandywine Creek’s used-book store, I collided with Shirley Randolph carrying an armload of books. I bent to help retrieve several she’d dropped. The hero on the cover of
Passion’s Surrender
reminded me of Wyatt McBride so I hastily shoved the book back at her.

“Sorry I haven’t been into your store since it opened,” Shirley apologized, but avoided eye contact. “I’ve been meaning to try the lamb recipe you demonstrated.”

“I’ve still got plenty of juniper berries in stock. Any time you want to experiment…”

“I’m kinda busy right now, what with getting ready for the Friends of the Library’s annual fund-raiser. Maybe when it’s over.…”

“Sure,” I replied as I watched her scurry off with her treasure.

Next, I spotted Judge Malcolm R. Herman, briefcase in hand, trotting down the front steps of the stately courthouse that occupied one end of the square. Maybe I should rush over and personally thank him for signing the search warrant that allowed McBride and his crew to ransack my place. Yeah, right. Over my dead body. We studiously ignored each other.

I continued on my merry way, determined to enjoy playing hooky from the role of shopkeeper. The bay door of the garage was open as I approached Cloune Motors, and I saw Caleb bent over the engine of a late-model Ford. He responded to my greeting with a quick grin, then went back to work.

I entered the front office and found Dwayne Cloune behind his desk, talking on the phone. He acknowledged my presence with a nod, and motioned me to have a seat while he finished his conversation.

This gave me an opportunity to study him. Dwayne—of I-Don’t-Clown-Around fame, an annoying slogan seen on print ads and repeated ad nauseam in radio spots—was an entrepreneur, dabbling in everything from repairs and sales of autos to real estate to city politics. Judging from his dapper, button-down appearance, one would never guess he owned a grimy repair shop. Dwayne struck me as the persnickety sort, not the type to dirty his hands. He made a practice of hiring young, top-notch mechanics such as Caleb to do the work for him. The grease-under-the-fingernails look was unbefitting a city councilman with aspirations of becoming state senator.

“Afternoon, Piper.” He ran a hand over dark hair liberally salted with silver, slicked back from a high forehead. “You here to settle up on that battery?”

I fished my checkbook from my purse. “Nice of you to let Caleb install it during his break.”

“If you’re short of cash, all you needed to do was say so. I’da cut you some slack. CJ and I been friends for years.” He flashed his best vote-for-me grin.

“That’s kind of you, Dwayne, but I’m doing just fine,” I lied. I’d repent later.

He rattled off a figure, and I scribbled a check. I waited while he made an entry into the computer and printed out a receipt. Glancing around, my gaze rested on a stack of glossy posters against the far wall. Dwayne the candidate posed in front of the courthouse with the American flag prominently displayed in the background.

“I see the rumor’s true,” I commented, gesturing at the posters.

“Yes, indeedy.” His head bobbed with emphasis. “It’ll be a tough fight, but I aim to give the incumbent a run for his money.”

I rose to my feet and tucked the receipt into my purse. “Well, good luck.”

“Here’s a little somethin’ for you to take along.” Reaching into a drawer, he handed me a ballpoint pen bearing the image of a clown scary enough to give toddlers nightmares and
I DON’T CLOWN AROUND
printed in large red letters.

“Gee, thanks,” I muttered, consigning it to the nether regions of my purse.

“By the way,” he said, treating me to another patented preelection smile, “expect an invite to a reception I’m hosting for local businesspeople. I hope to see you there.”

The thought of a party boosted my flagging ego. I felt pleased to be numbered among Brandywine Creek’s professionals. Once my shop was on more solid ground, I planned to join the chamber of commerce. Maybe the Rotary Club, too. “Great,” I said. “I’ll be watching for it.”

“Wonderful.” He lounged back in his swivel chair. “I’ll tell Diane you plan to attend. She thinks it’s the perfect venue to welcome our new chief of police to town.”

“Sounds like fun,” I managed, after finding my voice.

About as much fun as a root canal.

I decided to take the Scarlett O’Hara approach and obsess over McBride’s welcome reception another day. As long as Marcy was minding the store, I’d make the most of the afternoon. This was a good time to put my ideas for the upcoming BBQ Festival into action. For this I needed to visit Pete Barker, my friendly neighborhood butcher at Meat on Main.

Except for my ex-mother-in-law, I found the market void of customers.

“Piper,” she said, giving me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. “Shouldn’t you be minding your shop instead of out gallivanting? That’s no way to run a business.”

I tensed at the censure in Melly’s voice. My former mother-in-law has a God-given talent for getting my back up. “Marcy Magruder’s ‘minding the shop’ while I run a few errands.”

“Marcy, eh?” Melly’s lips pursed. “Heard the girl is … in the family way.”

“Pregnant?” The heck with propriety. I wasn’t afraid to come right out and say the word. “Yes, Marcy told me she and Danny are expecting.”

“Oh, my,” Melly gasped. “I do hope they plan to marry before the baby’s born.”

“That’s not for me to say. I’m afraid you’ll have to ask Marcy or Danny what their plans are.”

Before Melly could voice a reply, Pete Barker emerged through the double set of swinging doors behind the meat counter. “Will that be all, Miz Melly?”

Frowning, Melly examined the chuck roast he held out for her inspection. “That’ll do nicely, Pete. Much better now that you trimmed off all that nasty fat.”

“Have this ready for you in a jiff.”

While Pete busied himself weighing and wrapping, Melly turned to me with a smile. “CJ and Lindsey are coming for dinner tonight. You know how CJ loves red meat. The town’s certainly fortunate to have a butcher like Pete. The man can carve a side of beef with the best of them. He certainly has a way with knives, doesn’t he?”

Her purchase completed, she waved and sailed out the door.

A way with knives …

“Piper…?”

Startled, I swung back to Pete.

“Caught you wool gatherin’,” he said with a grin. “I asked what can I get you this afternoon.”

“S-sorry,” I replied, collecting my scattered wits. “I need some baby back ribs, nice and lean.”

“You don’t want ’em too lean,” he cautioned. “Ribs need a little fat to give ’em a decent flavor, that’s what makes ’em good and juicy.”

“Whatever you say, Pete. You’re the expert.”

“Have some choice ribs in the back if you don’t mind waitin’ a minute or two while I fetch ’em.”

“No hurry,” I assured him.

Pete hustled into the back in a quest for the perfect baby backs. I stared into the display case at the various cuts of pork and beef without really seeing them.

A way with knives…?
Funny thing was, Pete
did
have a way with knives. I’d seen him slice tenderloin with the precision of a surgeon.

And Mario had been stabbed.

Pity, I hadn’t stayed at the murder scene long enough take in details. Had Mario been stabbed repeatedly? Or had a single, well-placed knife wound been responsible for his death? McBride would surely know. Too bad I wasn’t on better terms with the man, or I’d ask him.

Pete returned, triumphantly hoisting a giant slab of meat. “This here’s just the ticket.”

“Perfect,” I murmured.

Pete wiped gloved hands on the heavy cotton twill apron that swathed his ample girth, leaving bloody streaks against bleached white. I observed this with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“Just bought a couple hogs off a farmer over in Lincoln County. This is as fresh a slab of ribs you’ll ever set eyes on. So fresh it’s practically oinkin’.”

Who was more skilled with a knife than someone who dissected dead animals for a livelihood? The notion caused my stomach to clench.

Pete peered at me over the scale, his usually cheerful countenance serious. “You’re looking a bit green around the gills, Piper. You okay?”

“Fine,” I fibbed. “Could you cut the slab into sections of about four ribs apiece?”

Selecting a wicked-looking blade, Pete finessed his way through meat, fat, and connective tissue. “You fixin’ to have a party?”

“I, um, I’m thinking ahead to the Barbecue Festival. I’m going to experiment with various spices, find out which ones work best for a rub, which work best for sauce.”

“Heard this year’s festival is gonna be bigger and better ’n ever. Always brings in quite a crowd.”

“I certainly hope you’re right. I could use the business.” No time like the present, to do a little amateur sleuthing. Pretending to admire a neat row of pork chops in the meat case, I cast about for a clever way to slip Mario’s name into the conversation. Not feeling particularly creative, I cleared my throat and dove in headfirst. “Rumor going around town that the Deltorros are taking over Trattoria Milano.”

“More than rumor, it’s a fact.” Pete plopped the ribs—now cut into riblets—onto a sheet of white butcher paper. “Met with Tony this morning. Says he wants me to be his main meat supplier. He’s bound to be a damn sight easier to deal with than Barrone. Compared to him, Deltorro oughta be a walk in the park.”

I smiled inwardly. Sleuthing was proving easier than I imagined. I seemed to have a natural flair for detective work. “I heard Mario could be temperamental.”

“Temperamental?” Pete huffed out a breath. “Insane is more like it. And a crook to boot.”

“A crook?”

“The man owed me five hundred bucks for some Kobe-style beef he had me special-order for an event. I tried to tell him the dang stuff was way overpriced, but would he listen? No sirree. Said he wouldn’t settle for second best. Claimed he was catering a private dinner, and everything had to be top-notch.”

“What happened?”

“Oh, I got it for him, all right. Cost me an arm and a leg, too. When the time came, Barrone weaseled out of paying me. Claimed the meat was tough. Accused me of trying to pass off an inferior grade as Kobe. I threatened to take him to small claims court.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“You got any idea how much lawyers charge?” I started to speak, but he cut me off with a humorless chuckle. “Of course you do. You were married to a shyster. Next thing, I’d have to take a day off work. Who’s gonna look after this place if I’m not here? Besides”—Pete shrugged his pudgy shoulders—“Barrone said he’d take his chances with the judge. Went as far as boasting he had ‘connections.’”

As I walked slowly back to Spice It Up!, my mind gnawed like a puppy with a milk bone on everything I’d just learned. Motive, means, and opportunity, McBride had said. The “means” in this case were a cinch to name. Knives were tools of the trade to butchers the world over. And knives were readily available in the kitchen of a restaurant. Large and small—paring knives, butcher knives, boning knives, to name just a few.

Motive in this case was easy—money. Mario owed Pete money, which he refused to pay. A sum great enough for Pete to consider taking Mario to court. It wasn’t a stretch to think the two might have argued and things got out of hand. Men have been killed over lesser things.

That left opportunity. Did Pete have an alibi for the night Mario was killed? My first instinct had been to come right out and ask. But I had stopped myself in the nick of time. That was a question for the police, not me. There must be a way to ferret out this information. Maybe if Reba Mae and I put our heads together.…