Rosemary and Crime (2 page)

My tongue seemed glued to the roof of my mouth. Irritation does that to me sometimes.

Luckily, Reba Mae doesn’t suffer the same affliction. “As I see it,” she said with a smirk, “her only ‘losin’ proposition’ was marryin’ you.”

With the aid of three-inch platform sandals, Reba Mae stood eye level with CJ. As I watched, CJ’s attention drifted downward like I knew it would. Drawn like a magnet to Reba Mae’s impressive cleavage. The man always did have a weakness for large breasts. Still does if his twenty-four-year-old girlfriend is any indication. Pity I didn’t have any of consequence.

“Hrmph!” Reba Mae cleared her throat.

Caught staring, CJ’s gaze flew upward. He nodded. “Hullo, Reba Mae.”

The chill in CJ’s voice could have frozen pond water. But then he and Reba Mae never had hit it off. Once upon a time when CJ was starting his law practice and money was tight, we’d been next-door neighbors to the Johnsons. Our kids were just babies then. Reba Mae and I bonded over Pampers and
General Hospital.
Even though we’d long since moved to a bigger house in a neighborhood better suited to CJ’s burgeoning success, Reba Mae and I had remained close. Some years back, Butch, Reba Mae’s husband, drowned while bass fishing. A lot of folks claimed it was too much beer and too little bass that did him in. But no matter, dead is dead. When Reba Mae found herself up to her ears in credit-card debt and no means of support, I loaned her money for beauty school. CJ still believes I used the money for a tummy tuck. Goes to show the state of our marriage.

“What do you want, CJ?” I asked, finally finding my voice.

“Lindsey’s gettin’ her nails done,” he drawled. “She’ll be along in a minute or two. There’s somethin’ she wants to tell you.”

It had been nearly a week since I’d seen my daughter, Lindsey Nicole—her doing, not mine. Even though CJ and I had joint custody, Lindsey seemed to spend so much time at her dad’s sprawling new house that she might as well be living there. It had broken my heart to see her pack her bag. Deep down, I prayed she’d reconsider and start spending more time with me. Her room upstairs was kept ready and waiting.

Our daughter’s always been a daddy’s girl and had taken our divorce pretty hard. I really resented the fact that CJ could give her things I couldn’t. Things like pricey iPhones, iPods, and an iPad with more apps than one could use in a lifetime. To seal the deal, he’d thrown in a sporty red Mustang convertible for her sixteenth birthday. How’s that for alienating a daughter’s affection? Any jury in the land would convict the bastard.

Our son, Chad, on the other hand, was too preoccupied getting into med school to care where he brought his dirty laundry. A junior at University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill over three hundred miles away, he didn’t get home much these days.

“Haven’t seen you around in a while, CJ,” Reba Mae said, to fill the silence that stretched like Silly Putty. I noted a steely glint in her eyes that boded trouble. I didn’t have long to wait. “Looks like you’re gettin’ a little thick around the middle. You been drinkin’ too much of that Wild Turkey you’re so fond of? Likker’s loaded with calories, you know.”

“None of your damn business, Reba Mae,” CJ fired back.

“And what’s with the hair?” When Reba was on a roll, there was no stopping her. Reaching out, she flicked a strand of CJ’s perfect cut and blow dry. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were usin’ Clairol’s Medium Golden Blond to hide that gray of yours.”

“Don’t you have a beauty parlor to run?” CJ snarled. “Mama’s over there right now waitin’ on you.”

Reba Mae’s eyes flew to her wristwatch. “Son of a gun! Nearly forgot Miss Melly’s two o’clock. I’d best skedaddle before the old gal gets up a head of steam. Sorry, hon,” she said, shooting me an apologetic look over her shoulder on her way out the door. “Gotta run, or I’ll have hell to pay.”

In her haste to exit, Reba Mae almost collided with Lindsey, who happened to be too preoccupied admiring her French manicure to pay much attention to where she was going. As I saw Lindsey’s youthful figure backlit by the April sunshine, a realization nearly knocked me senseless. My sweet child, my sweet precious child, was teetering on the brink of womanhood. I desperately wanted to witness the transition from a ringside seat—not from afar. I vowed to try harder to mend fences, to build bridges between us.

Lindsey’s gaze darted from her nails to Reba Mae’s bright magenta hair. “Nice color, Miz Johnson. How do you suppose I’d look with my hair that shade?”

“Darlin’, your mother would skin me alive if I dyed those pretty blond locks of yours this particular shade of auburn.” With a sympathetic backward glance, Reba Mae hurried off.

“Hey, Mom,” Lindsey mumbled.

“Hey, sweetie,” I said, mustering a smile. I reached out and tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. She might be nearly grown, but she’s still my baby.

Lindsey gave a jar of pink peppercorns imported from Madagascar her undivided attention. “Your place looks … nice.”

Nice?
Her faint praise filled me with disappointment. I wanted to hear it looked fabulous. Awesome. Amazing. Guess for now, though, I’d have to settle for a lukewarm “nice.”

“Judgin’ from the bare brick walls and old floorboards, you musta done yer own decoratin’.”

CJ’s snide tone set my teeth on edge. “I think the brick walls lend the shop a certain ambience. And those ‘old floorboards,’ for your information, happen to be heart pine.”

“You always did have a fondness for old things. But time’s awastin’.” CJ nodded at Lindsey. “Baby, kindly explain to your mama why you won’t be workin’ in her little shop once school lets out.”

Lindsey scuffed the toe of her ballet flat against the heart pine floor. Her blue-gray eyes, the same hue as her father’s, looked rebellious. My daughter favored the Prescott side of the family, not mine. I’m petite, five foot two when I stand tall, with naturally curly red hair and eyes green as a tomcat’s. Lindsey, on the other hand, has long, blond hair that falls to her shoulder blades. As for height, well, she’s been gloating ever since she towered over me in middle school.

“I, ah, I’m failing math.”

“You’re what…? Since when?” I shook my head in disbelief. Lindsey’s never pulled the same kind of grades as her brother, but overall managed to maintain a B average. “Each time I asked about your classes, you told me things were fine.”

“Everything was … except math.”

I huffed out a breath. Counted to ten. Tapped my toes. “I don’t remember receiving any progress reports to that effect.”

Lindsey fiddled with her charm bracelet. “I asked the school to send them to Daddy.”

She’d spoken so softly I had to strain to hear her. But when their full impact hit, I aimed an accusatory stare at CJ. “Why didn’t you tell me she was failing math? And furthermore, why didn’t you do something about it? Hire a tutor, check her homework, take away privileges, ground her?
Something.
”

“It’s no big deal, Mom,” Lindsey muttered. “I’m going to summer school.”

“Summer school, eh?” Narrowing my eyes, I gave Lindsey my best mom-means-business look. “Well, young lady, I intend to make it my personal mission to see that you pass at the top of your class. You can do your homework right here in the shop between customers.”

“Mom…,” she wailed.

“That was the other thing we wanted to talk to you about.” CJ rocked back on his polished loafers. “Lindsey and I agreed that she needs to focus on her studies.”

As I glanced from father to daughter, I had the unmistakable feeling I was being outmaneuvered. “Exactly what does that mean?”

CJ made use of the smarmy smile that showed off the caps on his teeth to perfection. “Surely, you can’t expect to keep Lindsey busy twenty-four-seven. A girl needs to be able to relax, go out with her friends. Have a little fun now and then. After all, you’re only young once.”

Only young once? Unless, that is, you were CJ Prescott III.
The man seemed to be going through his second childhood. Or was this phase called a midlife crisis? Amend that, I thought, to middle-age crazy.

What had I ever seen in the man?
I asked myself, and not for the first time. Young and dumb, as the saying goes, I’d fallen head over heels for a handsome face and breezy Southern charm. We’d met one hot June afternoon when we were both counselors at a church camp in the wilds of Upper Michigan. Before summer ended, I was ready to follow CJ to the ends of the earth—in his case, law school at University of Georgia, this Yankee’s first time south of the Mason-Dixon Line. My folks were furious I’d dropped out of college. But I thought I had all the answers. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have hightailed it for the Canadian border.

I dragged my thoughts back to the problem at hand. “You’ll have plenty of time to socialize, Lindsey, but once school lets out next month I expect you to help in the shop at least two afternoons a week and half a day on Saturday. I know Meemaw will back me up on this.”

Meemaw, Southern-speak for Grandmother, was none other than CJ’s mom. Not even CJ, a fully grown man, ever argued with his mama and won—at least not to my recollection. I knew for a fact Miss Melly blamed both of us for spoiling Lindsey rotten, and she’d gladly side with me in this instance.

“Whatever,” Lindsey capitulated in her best bored-teen tone of voice.

She’d used that same tone with me plenty. It might not be very charitable on my part, but I was glad CJ was getting his share of Miss Teenage Attitude.

“Let’s consider this matter settled, shall we,” CJ said, assuming we’d exhausted the subjects of math and summer school. Little did he know that I planned to take this matter up with him next time we were alone. Right now, Lindsey didn’t need to witness her parents arguing.

CJ pointed to the kitchen area I’d had installed at the rear of the shop. “Whatcha gonna do back there? Give cookin’ lessons?”

“Chef Mario Barrone from the Trattoria Milano’s agreed to demonstrate the use of juniper berries,” I said stiffly.

“What the Sam Hill are juniper berries?”

“Juniper happens to be often overlooked when it comes to spices, but it’s quite popular in northern European and particularly in Scandinavian cuisine.”

“I thought Barrone was Italian.”

“He is.” I absently rubbed my hands on my faded jeans and noticed my nails were chipped and ragged. I mentally added a manicure to my to-do list. “Mario’s making one of his specialties. A roast leg of lamb with juniper berries and rosemary, that’s to die for.”

“If you say so.” CJ shrugged, straining the shoulder seams of his designer suit. “Give me a rare prime rib any day over some fancy shit concocted by a hotshot who claims to be a chef. I heard Barrone used to flip burgers at McDonald’s.”

“Whatever the rumor, Mario’s a true culinary artist.”

“If the man’s so all-fired good, what’s he doin’ in a place like Brandywine Creek? Why isn’t he in Atlanta or Charlotte?”

I’d asked myself the same question numerous times. Mario’s credentials might not be as top-notch as Le Cordon Bleu, but his ambitions were. He’d just finished creating a new menu, copies of which would be distributed at Spice It Up! I had a sneaky hunch, however, he wanted more than to merely attract new customers. Mario had higher aspirations. He wanted to be “discovered” and to hit the big time.

“Daddy…,” Lindsey whined. “I’m bored. Can we go now?”

“Sure thing, baby.”

I watched, feeling resentful as CJ patted Lindsey’s hand, and caught a glimpse of the gold Rolex on his wrist. A Rolex I’d given him for our twentieth anniversary. In return, I’d gotten a card from the dollar store. Should’ve been a clue the romance was over.

CJ gave me the patented grin identical to ones on billboards up and down the Interstate. “Got new clients comin’. Husband had a trip ’n fall in one of them big-box stores. Told ’em I could practically guarantee he and the missus a hundred thou for their pain and sufferin’.”

I was trailing CJ and Lindsey toward the door when CJ halted so abruptly I nearly stepped on his heels.

“Sumbitch!” he swore under his breath.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Lindsey asked.

“It’s him. Wyatt McBride, in the flesh.” CJ pointed to a Ford Crown Vic emblazoned with the Brandywine Creek Police Department emblem, which was slowly circling the town square. “Guess rumors were true after all. Behold, Wyatt McBride, Brandywine’s new chief of police. Seems the mayor didn’t take my advice to heart and hired the sumbitch anyways.”

“I take it you don’t care for the man.”

CJ’s eyes narrowed as he followed the cruiser’s progress. “McBride was always too big for his britches, even back in high school. We hated each other’s guts then, still do. I’d watch out for him, Scooter darlin’. He’d like nothin’ better than to hassle anyone with the name of Prescott.”

“But…”

He cut me off as if he read my mind. “Won’t matter we’re no longer married. He gives you any trouble, you hear, give me a call. You know my number.”

Swell. Just peachy keen, I thought. Like I don’t have enough to worry about. “Bye, sweetie,” I said glumly, giving Lindsey a quick hug.

I waited on the sidewalk as CJ climbed into his Lexus. Lindsey slid into the passenger seat and buckled up. She gave me a little wave as the car drew away from the curb.

I watched them go with mixed feelings.

C
HAPTER
3

F
OR DINNER THAT
evening, I didn’t even bother going upstairs to my apartment. Instead, I nuked the last of the goulash Reba Mae had sent over earlier that week in the tiny microwave at the rear of my shop. Closing my eyes for a moment, I savored the lingering hint of sweet Hungarian-style paprika she’d used for seasoning. Maybe one day, I could convince Reba Mae to share her recipe in front of an audience. It might take a bit of arm twisting, though. Some folks are funny about parting with family secrets.

Bone-tired, I glanced around Spice It Up! one last time before heading to my apartment. Tempting selections of spices from around the world—tamarind from Madagascar, sumac from Sicily, galangal from Indonesia, to name a few—were artfully displayed on free-standing cabinets I’d commissioned from a local carpenter. I’d stripped layers of paint off a Hoosier cabinet I’d found at a flea market down to the original oak. It now housed jars filled with the spices commonly used in baking: ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and, of course, vanilla beans.