Rosemary and Crime (20 page)

C
HAPTER
22

A
T FIRST, IT
sounded like distant thunder. A summer storm that had yet to materialize. Then, suddenly, what I’d mistakenly labeled “thunder” exploded into a frenzy of barking. Startled from a sound sleep, I sat bolt upright in bed. My heart hammered against my ribs as though trying to escape.

Instead of being in his usual spot curled at the foot of the bed, Casey stood by the door leading from the apartment to the shop downstairs, barking for all he was worth.

“Hush!” I scolded, my mind still sluggish with sleep.

The dog responded with another series of barks. Even in the dark, I could see that his entire body was so tense it fairly vibrated. My instinct was to burrow deeper into the covers, block out the racket, pretend this wasn’t happening.

“Stop,” I pleaded. “Lay down!”

Rather than cease and desist, Casey pawed and scratched at the door. “Okay, okay,” I muttered. I darted a look at the bedside clock. The luminous dial read 2:15
A.M.
Was this the pup’s way of telling his owner he needed to relieve himself? Maybe Reba Mae wasn’t the only one afflicted with a weak bladder.

As I started to fling aside the covers, I heard a loud crash from downstairs, followed by what sounded like footsteps beating a hasty retreat.

Then silence. Absolute, utter silence.

The quiet was short-lived, broken by another spate of barking. Then in the distance, I heard a car start and drive away.

A shiver raced through me. Someone had just broken into my shop.

I needed to call 911. Frantic, I looked around the bedroom. Where was my stupid phone? I groped along the nightstand and dresser, in the process sending a paperback novel thudding to the floor, nearly knocking over a lamp. It wasn’t there.
Penny-wise and dollar foolish,
my grandmother whispered from her grave. To save money, my only landline was in the shop below. I used my cell phone for all personal calls. Problem was, I was forever forgetting where I’d put it. Pushing back my unruly mop of curls, I tried to think. Tried to concentrate. To form a plan.

Phone, phone, phone. Where did I leave the dang thing?

Then it dawned on me. I’d used the cell phone the night before to call Chad at UNC and managed to snag him on his way to the library. I’d probably left it sitting next to the register. Unless I wanted to cower in my bedroom until dawn, I had little choice but to retrieve it. The sounds of running feet and a car driving off had signaled that my unauthorized guest had fled. That and the fact Casey’s frenzied barks had subsided into a steady, low growl.

“All right, boy,” I told him. “Let’s get some help.”

I padded downstairs, the worn wood steps cool under my bare feet. Casey scampered ahead, alternately barking and growling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the small dog sounded ferocious. As I neared the landing, a chilly draft of air caused my arms to pebble with goose bumps. Careful to avoid the creaky fourth step from the bottom, I crept down the remaining stairs.

The rear door stood ajar. I pushed it shut, but the latch refused to catch. I felt for the switch plate on the wall, and instantly the shop was flooded with light. A box of glass containers had been overturned, the small bottles scattered across the storeroom floor. Casey rubbed against my leg and gave a tail wag as if to let me know he was on the job.

“Brave boy,” I praised. “My protector.”

Spying my phone, I snatched it off the counter. My fingers trembled as I dialed 911. “This is Piper Prescott,” I blurted the instant my call was answered. “Someone just broke into my shop, Spice It Up!, and tried to rob me.”

“Be right there,” a gruff male voice replied.

My legs felt rubbery so I perched on a stool and waited, Casey at my feet. I rubbed my arms to fend off a chill. A chill that had little to do with the cold air seeping through a door that refused to close. After what seemed like hours, but in reality was less than ten minutes, I saw red and blue lights strobe as a patrol car screeched to a stop in front of my shop.

Hurrying over, I threw open the door. Wyatt McBride stood there, his holster unsnapped, his right hand on the butt of his gun. Even in my flummoxed condition, I noted he hadn’t taken the time to don his uniform. Instead, he wore his shiny gold badge clipped to the waistband of faded jeans that fit like a glove and a navy T-shirt under an aged hoodie bearing the
MIAMI-DADE PD
logo. With his dark hair all tousled and a five o’clock shadow, he looked sexy as hell. I quickly banished any prurient thoughts.

“You okay?”

I nodded.

“Step aside while I look around.”

I stood as still as a cigar-store Indian and let him do his thing. I was not one to argue with a man and his gun.

He spent a good deal of time in the storeroom—peering into closets, checking out cupboards, inspecting first the back door, then the alley itself—before returning. “No sign of the intruder,” he stated. “Care to describe what happened?”

“Why do you always show up?” I asked irritably. “Aren’t there others on the force?” I slowly walked toward him, Casey close at my side. I kept my arms wrapped around myself, conscious I wore only a thin oversized sleep shirt. I’d been too rattled to run upstairs for a robe. And too afraid the robber might return if I didn’t keep watch.

“We’re short staffed at the moment,” he explained with marked patience. “Beau’s at a seminar in Charlotte. Gary’s in the ER while the doc tries to decide if it’s appendicitis or a kidney stone. I offered to take call on the night shift. Now”—he produced a small notebook—“it’s your turn to do the explaining.”

“Fine.” I drew a breath to steady myself. “I … ah … Casey … my dog, woke me up with his barking. At first I thought he needed to go out and … you know … relieve himself, but then I heard a loud crash. A minute later, I heard what sounded like footsteps. Next, I heard a car start and drive off.”

“And then what did you do?”

“I ran downstairs. The rear door was ajar. I tried to shut it, but it wouldn’t close. When I turned on the lights, I could tell someone had been here. That’s when I phoned nine-one-one.”

“What took you so long to call for assistance? Most people reach for the phone the second they hear a strange noise.”

“Oh, that.” I made a small shrug, embarrassed at my stupidity. “I couldn’t remember where I left my cell phone. Finally, I realized I must’ve left it in the shop after calling my son last night.”

“How many kids do you have?” McBride asked, his pen poised over his pad.

“Two.” I rubbed my arms. Strange to be talking about my children at a time like this, but thoughts of them helped calm me. Maybe someone with McBride’s training could see I was in dire need of calming. “Lindsey’s in high school. My son, Chad, attends the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill. He’s in premed.”

“Sounds like you’re proud of them.”

“Aren’t most parents proud of their offspring?”

“No, not always.”

I hoped he’d elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead he shrugged out of his hoodie and draped it over my shoulders. “Here,” he said. “You’re shivering.”

“Thanks.” I drew it closer. It felt deliciously warm and smelled vaguely of pine.

“I’ll have one of my men dust for prints first thing in the morning. Looks like someone jimmied the lock. You’ll need to call a locksmith and have it replaced.”

“Fine.” Great, another expense. Just what I didn’t need.

“I want to show you something.” McBride disappeared into the storeroom only to reappear a moment later holding an item in his gloved hand. A hand that wasn’t gloved previously. “This yours?”

I stared at the wrinkled piece of fabric he held up for my inspection. “No, I never saw it before.”

“You sure?”

“Positive,” I replied, with a vigorous nod. “I never wear purple. Ask anyone. It’s not my color.”

He frowned, obviously puzzled. “What does whether it’s your ‘color’ or not have to do with anything?”

“Purple makes my complexion look sallow,” I explained. “It’s not a good choice for redheads.”

“Of course,” he muttered. “I’m fresh out of evidence bags. Don’t suppose you have a Ziploc I can put this in?”

“Evidence?” I peered at the cloth he held. It was not only wrinkled, but stained and stiff. “What sort of evidence?”

“A bag, please.”

I rooted through a drawer and came up with the requested Ziploc, then watched McBride carefully lower it inside and seal it shut. Now that I’d had a closer look at the article of interest, it appeared to be a T-shirt. A nondescript purple T-shirt. But the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was, what was it doing in my shop?

“I’m going to send this to the GBI crime lab for analysis,” he stated in a matter-of-fact tone. “If my hunch is right, the bloodstains will match those of Mario Barrone.”

Suddenly, I felt nauseous. “Certainly, you don’t think…?”

“That, in spite of the shirt not being your ‘color,’ it really belongs to you?” The corners of his mouth curved upward in a hint of a smile. “No, I believe you.”

“Why?” The word hung between us as if suspended by an invisible cord. I simply couldn’t comprehend why this hardheaded cop would take my word for even the time of day. I didn’t understand the man at all.

“Remember Judge Herman signing a search warrant for your place?”

“How could I forget?” I retorted, making no effort to hide my resentment. “I hated it. My home, my place of business, were violated. The thought of strangers pawing through my personal possessions still makes me cringe.”

“Well, after Sergeant Tucker finished, I took a second look myself. Trust me, if you’d hidden it there—or anywhere else, for that matter—we’d have found it. I’d bet my last dollar this evidence”—he held up the bag for emphasis—“has been planted. Best be on your guard, Piper; someone’s trying to frame you for Barrone’s murder. Whoever the killer is, he’ll go to any length to draw suspicion away from himself. Even if it means pointing the finger at an innocent person.”

Casey, whom I’d nearly forgotten, whined and huddled closer to me. Bending down, I picked him up and cuddled him. “Seems like my detective work is starting to show results.”

“This isn’t a game you’re playing.”

He stepped closer, successfully breaching my personal space. My instinct was to step back, but I held my ground. His lake blue eyes glittered with anger and an emotion I couldn’t decipher. He looked dangerous. Dangerous and … attractive? A wicked combination. I felt nerves flutter in the pit of my stomach.

“Promise,” he said, his voice low, his face grim, “that you’ll keep your phone close at hand. Next time—God forbid there is a next time—call nine-one-one if you even
think
someone might be downstairs.”

I swallowed audibly. “Promise.”

“As long as you’re being agreeable, one other thing,” he said, peeling off his latex gloves and executing a perfect hook shot into a nearby wastebasket. “Never confront a would-be burglar dressed in a flimsy nightshirt. It’s asking for trouble. A simple robbery could turn into a far more serious offense. I wouldn’t want to see you hurt.”

I hugged Casey tighter. “I didn’t think…”

“Enough said.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the stairs. “Just to be on the safe side, it might be wise to spend what’s left of the night at your friend Reba Mae’s. I’ll call and let her know what’s going on while you pack a few things, then I’ll follow you over.”

I wanted to argue with him. Assert my independence. Tell him, in no uncertain terms, he had no right to boss me around. But a quick glance at his unyielding expression, and I held my tongue. In this instance, silence, not discretion, was the better part of valor.

C
HAPTER
23

A
LL DAY LONG,
the spicy-sweet tang of slow roasting baby back ribs drew people into Spice It Up! like ants to a Fourth of July picnic. I was experiencing the best sales since my grand opening. The hours I’d spent experimenting with various spices had paid off. I’d concocted the perfect combination of paprika, nutmeg, peppercorns, and my secret ingredient, a hint of ginger, for a fantastic rub. Now, I knew some folks preferred their ribs with a dry rub Memphis style. Others insisted the best way to go is heavy on the sauce à la St. Louis or Kansas City. Some started dry and ended with ’em dripping. I intended to appeal to both camps. For my next project, I was going to put together a sauce that—to borrow a Southernism—would make your tongue slap your brains out.

Just as I was mentally giving myself a pat on the back, Diane Cloune entered the shop accompanied by Vicki Lamont. “Oh, yum, ribs.”

Vicki greeted me with a smile. “Hey, Piper.”

“Hey, you two,” I greeted back. The pair could have been mistaken for sisters. Pretty, pampered, look-alikes with perfect features and long, dark hair. They were dressed for a day on the links in coordinating skorts and shirts.

“Diane and I played nine, then had lunch at the club,” Vicki volunteered. “She chipped in on number six. It was awesome.”

Diane smiled, but it was more of a smirk. “You remember number six, don’t you, Piper? Isn’t that where CJ once shot a hole in one?”

I feigned amnesia. “I can’t recall, sorry.”

Diane yawned and changed the subject. “Dwayne loves barbecue, but eating it can be such a mess. Our housekeeper has a terrible time getting sauce stains out of his custom-made shirts.”

“Wish I had a husband to complain about,” Vicki said. “Kenny’s still staying at his friend’s cabin.”

Information overload. I had too many problems of my own to sympathize with a wife caught cheating. No wonder Kenny hightailed it to the woods to lick his wounds. As a matter of fact, problems or no problems, I couldn’t scrounge up one iota of sympathy for a philandering spouse. Chandler Jameson Prescott III, in particular.

Clearing my throat, I inquired, “Is there something in particular I can help you ladies with this afternoon?”

Diane waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. “Thanks, but we’re only killing time. We’ll let you know if we need anything.”