Rosemary and Crime (19 page)

I staged my arrival to avoid the receiving line. Or more succinctly to avoid having to “make nice” to a man who regarded me with blatant suspicion, skepticism, and curiosity. Like a heat-seeking missile, I zeroed in on McBride off to one side, out of uniform and looking spiffy in a navy three-button blazer and tan chinos, and cut a wide swath.

“Piper, good to see you.” Diane Cloune, dressed in matte black jersey, smiled the gracious hostess smile. “I was afraid you might not show, considering your recent … trouble.”

My lips stretched into a tight smile. “I wouldn’t have missed your little party for the world.”

“Hmm.” Her shrewd dark eyes gave me the once-over. Probably inspecting me for signs of jailhouse pallor or police brutality. “Nice earrings. A craft bazaar?”

“No,” I replied, not caring if I sounded smug. “Tiffany’s.” Diane tended to be a name-dropper, but two could play this game. In the not-too-distant past, I could navigate my way through the upscale malls on Atlanta’s Peachtree Road—namely Phipps Plaza and Lenox Square—like a veteran. Nowadays, my shopping trips to Atlanta are restricted to the farmers market in the pursuit of fresh and exotic spices.

“Tiffany’s is overrated,” Diane sniffed. “Bar’s over there.” She pointed toward the far wall, then breezed off leaving a cloud of designer fragrance in her wake.

I threaded my way through knots of guests happily imbibing and noisily chattering. I’d been surprised to discover that McBride’s reception was being held at the Clounes’ two-story Tudor home rather than the country club. But maybe the venue wasn’t strange after all, given Diane’s newly remodeled kitchen. Not that Diane cooks, mind you, but a realtor friend had insisted kitchens and baths can make or break a sale. Thus, gleaming granite countertops, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances, hardwood floors, and custom cabinets. Nothing but the best for a city councilman with political aspirations and his social-climbing wife.

“Hey, Piper,” I heard someone call my name.

“Ned?” I did a double take at the man behind the bar. “I hardly recognized you without your ball cap.”

“Miz Cloune ordered me to leave it in my pickup. Said it wasn’t fittin’ for this sort of shindig.”

“I didn’t know you moonlighted as a bartender.”

“Overheard Danny mention he was fixin’ to hire one, so I offered my services.” He treated me to a lopsided grin. “Can I pour you a nice glass of wine? We have either red or white, but if you want, I could mix ’em. Makes a real pretty pink that way.”

“White will be fine, thanks.”

Scratching his head, Ned pondered his choice of wineglasses, then selected the narrower one. “Beats me why the shape of a glass makes a difference, but Miz Cloune gave me specific directions. Fat glass for red wine, she said; skinny for white. You’d think wine would taste the same even in a jelly jar, but what do I know. Be sure ’n help yourself to the food,” Ned advised, handing me my drink. “Danny coaxed Maybelle Humphries into givin’ him her recipe for pimento cheese spread. Maybelle sure is the bomb when it comes to cookin’.”

Dottie Hemmings bustled up to the makeshift bar and offered her empty glass for a refill. “Heard you mention Maybelle’s pimento cheese spread. Once, for bridge club, she made teensy sandwiches shaped into hearts, clubs, and spades.”

“What happened to diamonds?” I couldn’t help but ask.

Dottie wagged her heard sorrowfully. “Ever since Buzz Oliver broke off their engagement and asked for the ring back, Maybelle can’t stand to look at a diamond.”

“Poor Maybelle.” Ned clucked his tongue. “She had her heart broken.”

Dottie patted her bleached blond helmet. “Can’t blame her none. Her and Buzz been dating for eight years.”

“And engaged another five,” Ned added.

It didn’t seem to occur to either of them that I wasn’t participating in the conversation. Had I wanted to join in, I might’ve volunteered that Maybelle was fast becoming Spice It Up!’s one and only best customer. The woman was determined to become the best cook in Brandywine County and make Buzz rue the day he dumped her for Becca Dapkins.

“Did you hear about Sue O’Connor?” Dottie asked, changing the subject. “Poor thing’s been havin’ a terrible, terrible time with psoriasis. The last medication Doc gave her caused a rash to break out all over her body. She was itchin’ something fierce.”

“Excuse me,” I murmured. “I just saw someone I need to talk to.”

I eased away from the pair. Knowing Dottie’s love of the morbid, a discussion was bound to follow of the side effects of various medications, ranging from changes in behavior to risk of suicide, and concluding with warnings not to drive a car or operate a blender.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted McBride literally cornered by Harvey Hemmings, Dwayne Cloune, and the former chief, Joe Johnson. No one was smiling. From their expressions, I guessed some serious dialogue was taking place.

I’d been too preoccupied with Wyatt McBride to notice I was about to be ambushed until it was too late.

“Well, well, well,” CJ boomed. “How ya doin’, Scooter?”

“CJ,” I returned, hoping my voice sounded cool, calm, and collected. “Shouldn’t you be rubbing elbows with the movers and shakers instead of wasting time with little ol’ me?”

“Business must be picking up if you can afford to take the afternoon off.” His signet ring flashed as he ran a hand over his hair.

I had to admit Reba Mae might be on to something when she insisted he was coloring it. I remembered it being more sandy, less brassy. I forced a smile. “I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to congratulate our new chief of police on the stellar job he’s doing here in Brandywine Creek.”

Smirking, CJ shot a look in McBride’s direction. “Stellar isn’t exactly the word I’da picked, darlin’. Heard the mayor and city council aren’t too happy about the lack of progress in the Barrone killin’. Told me they planned to give him a good talkin’ to.”

I followed the direction of CJ’s glance. McBride wore the impassive expression he seemed to don with ease. The other three made no effort to hide their agitation. I almost—
almost
—felt sorry for McBride.

“His lack of success isn’t for lack of trying. He did his darndest to blame Mario’s murder on me. Too bad, he didn’t succeed. The mayor would be pinning a medal on his chest this very minute.”

“You’re no more a killer than I am,” CJ scoffed. “McBride gives you any more grief, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” And I meant it. It was nice to know CJ believed in my innocence—in spite of the rumors and innuendos bandied around town.

“Hell, darlin’, you were even squeamish about squashin’ bugs. McBride’s case against you doesn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell. If gettin’ you riled is all it took to be a dead man, well, shoot, I’d be six feet under instead of standin’ here talkin’.”

I felt some of my resentment toward him soften. CJ wasn’t such a bad guy after all. True, he could be an insensitive clod at times, but he had his moments.

“There you are, Pooh Bear.”

Even before I turned, I recognized the sweet-as-honeysuckle-on-the-vine voice as belonging to Miss Peach Pit, otherwise known as Amber Leigh Ames.

“You naughty boy, I’ve been lookin’ for you high ’n low,” she scolded, tucking her hand in the crook of CJ’s elbow.

“Hello, Amber,” I said, mustering a smile for the former beauty queen.

In spite of my antipathy, I had to admit she was striking, with flowing mahogany locks that would have made a shampoo manufacturer weep with envy and limpid gray-green eyes framed with spiky lashes. Her slender, but curvy, figure had won the swimsuit competition hands down. If I had to find a flaw—and with her being the “other woman,” I felt obligated to do so—it would be her smile. She had big teeth. Not only big, but unnaturally bright. The glow-in-the-dark kind. I often wondered if she and CJ used the same dentist.

And to make matters worse, she wore a snappy red dress, one very similar to the one I wore.

Amber treated me to a toothy smile. “I do hope, Piper, that you won’t make a scene.”

Even if it killed me, I was determined not to let my dislike show. “Why would I make a scene, Amber?” I answered sweetly. “The fact we’re wearing practically the same dress only goes to show we both have exquisite taste in clothes.”

“I wasn’t talkin’ ’bout the dress, hon.” She extracted her hand from the crook of CJ’s elbow and held it up for me to see. A huge diamond—at least two, maybe three, carats—twinkled on her ring finger.

I was rendered speechless. Why so stunned, I couldn’t comprehend. I’d listened while CJ talked ad nauseam about needing more freedom. Needing “space.” And, God help me, I’d believed him. I’d swallowed his pathetic ramblings, hook, line, and sinker. Silly, foolish me!

“Congratulations.” I squeezed the word through partially paralyzed vocal cords.

“We haven’t set a date yet,” CJ hastened to add.

As I stared at the couple, Amber slipped her arm through CJ’s once more and looked up at him adoringly. For a second, I swore she actually batted her lashes at him, but in my dazed condition I could have been mistaken. Only heroines in Victorian novels batted their lashes, right?

“We’re thinkin’ a destination weddin’ would be nice. Somewhere tropical. Maybe the Dominican Republic. Or Costa Rica. I’m plannin’ to ask Lindsey to be my maid of honor. Surely you don’t mind?”

“Not at all. Why would I?” I couldn’t shake the feeling that this entire conversation was surreal. “I’m sure Lindsey will be flattered.”

Amber gave CJ’s arm a squeeze. “Imagine me, a stepmother.” She giggled. “I’m not much older than Lindsey.”

“Imagine,” I echoed. “I wish the two of you a happy ever after.”

“Look, Sweetums, there’s Matt and Mary Beth,” CJ said, addressing Amber, then he turned to me. “If you’ll excuse us, Piper, I need to speak to Matt about a new client we just signed. We’re representing him in a suit against a concrete manufacturer and a contractor. Our client claims they made a curb too high, resulting in a sprained ankle. We think we’ve got a strong case. With the right judge, we could win a bundle.”

I watched Pooh Bear and Sweetums walk away. News of their engagement had caught me off guard. Part of me felt hurt, a little sad. We’d been blissfully happy once, and I thought our love would last forever. I’d imagined CJ and me sitting in matching rockers on the front porch, growing old together. Another part of me felt a sense of closure. As in most marriages, CJ and I had had some good times together, some bad. During the “good,” we’d produced two beautiful children whom I adored. But nothing stays the same. Time had come to put the past where it belonged and look to the future. I took another sip of wine and went to find Reba Mae.

I slipped out the French doors and found her on the patio. “There you are.” I gave her a quick hug, then stepped back. “Don’t you look pretty. You look like a gypsy … or a butterfly.”

“Like it?” She twirled around, showing off a bright, wildly patterned skirt.

“On you, it’s perfect.”

There must have been something in my voice because she looked at me strangely. “Anythin’ wrong, sugar? McBride givin’ you a hard time?”

“I’ve been avoiding the guest of honor,” I confessed. “The problem’s CJ.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “What now?” she demanded. “He promisin’ Lindsey a trip to Cancún if she cleans her room?”

“The Dominican Republic or Costa Rica would be more like it.”

“Come again?”

“He and Miss Peach Pit are engaged,” I informed her glumly.

Reba Mae let out a low whistle. “Didn’t see that one comin’. I thought he wanted to be footloose and fancy-free.”

“Amber’s wearing a rock nearly the size of a golf ball. The happy couple are planning a destination wedding with Lindsey as maid of honor.”

“Sorry, sugar.” This time it was Reba Mae who initiated the hug.

“Me, too.” I sniffed, caught in a wave of nostalgia.

“Is this a private party, or can we make it a group hug?”

We broke apart to find Doug Winters, glass in hand, smiling at us from five feet away. “Just a little girl talk,” I said, happy at finding him there.

Reba Mae held out her hand. “I don’t think we’ve had the honor. I’m Reba Mae Johnson, Piper’s BFF.”

“BFF…?” A smile played around his mouth. “I’m afraid I’m not up on the latest jargon.”

Judging from Doug’s slightly dazed expression, he clearly didn’t know quite what to make of a woman with spiky magenta hair who looked like a refugee from a gypsy camp. Color rose slowly in his cheeks as his gaze settled on her awesome cleavage. I chuckled silently. Men could be so predictable.

“Best friend forever,” Reba Mae supplied, with a laugh that made the gold hoops in her ears sway.

“Ah,” he said, releasing her hand. “Pleased to meet you Ms. Johnson. That must make me Piper’s BVF.”

“BVF…?”

He winked at me, a twinkle in his eyes. “Best vet forever.”

Smiling, I glanced away as McBride, head down, a scowl on his face, strolled onto the patio. He looked up with a frown, apparently surprised to see he wasn’t alone. “Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“No need to apologize, Chief.” Doug extended his hand. “We’re happy to have the guest of honor join us.”

“You don’t seem very perky for someone havin’ a big splash welcomin’ ’im to town,” Reba Mae commented.

“I’m not one for politics. I hoped I’d left all that behind in Miami.”

“Small-town politics can be just as vicious,” Doug observed wryly.

I took a sip of wine. “I don’t suppose ‘politics’ had anything to do with finding Mario’s killer?”

“Seems my job depends on it.”

“Well, McBride, if you don’t find the killer, I will,” I announced with quiet conviction. “My
life
depends on it.”

McBride gave me a long, searching look, but I didn’t back down, didn’t flinch. Later, back in my shop again, I wondered if I’d only imagined it, but had Reba Mae and Doug shifted closer in a flanking move as if to signal, “We’ve got your back”?

Was I being paranoid? Melodramatic? Maybe I should just take a chill pill. After all, Doug had provided me with a much-needed alibi. Still, having McBride and his men search my shop and living quarters had unnerved me. And worse yet, it made me heartsick to have folks I’d known all my married life avoid me as if I were Typhoid Mary. I missed their smiles, their friendliness, their acceptance. I’d heave a huge sigh of relief when the lab confirmed the bloodstains found on my T-shirt were canine—not human.