Rosemary and Crime (24 page)

I motioned toward the Nikon half-hidden behind a stack of catalogs. “Mine’s ready to point and shoot. I promised Mom and Dad that I’d e-mail them photos.”

“Life in Florida agreein’ with ’em?”

“What’s not to love in a mobile home park for ‘fun-loving seniors’?” I untied my apron and slipped it over my head. “I call often, but it’s hard to catch them home. If they’re not out line dancing, Mom’s at Zumba or Dad’s learning to fly-fish. They spend their spare time picking oranges and lemons off trees in their backyard.”

I glanced up as a long white limo slinked to a stop curbside.

“Woo-hoo,” Reba Mae chortled, catching sight of it. “Girlfriend, that’s what I call arrivin’ in style.”

I hurried to the door in time to see Lindsey step out, looking every bit the modern-day fairy-tale princess in her short and flirty dress of sapphire blue. Short, flirty, and sapphire blue? I expected pretty in pink. Shock, anger, and dismay played tug-of-war with my emotions. Instead of the blush-colored floaty tulle dress I thought we’d both fallen in love with at a boutique, Lindsey had opted for the strapless number Amber selected. I felt mad as a hornet, yet knew I had a choice to make. Either I could make a scene and ruin Lindsey’s big night, or I could postpone our heart-to-heart until another time. My decision made, I put on my game face.

“Like how I did her hair?” Reba Mae asked, matching her stride to mine. “By the way, I voted for loose ringlets, but was overruled. Amber Leigh insisted on a more sophisticated updo. Said it would give the girl a pageant look.”

“You done good, Reba Mae,” I told her as I threw open the door.

Lindsey flashed an apologetic smile, but avoided making eye contact with me. “Sorry we’re late. Meemaw was at Daddy’s so picture taking took longer than I planned.”

Jason Wainwright, Lindsey’s date and current boyfriend, climbed out the opposite side of the limo. Jason, a tall, gangly youth, his sandy brown hair gelled and artfully mussed, looked uncomfortable in a black tux and a cummerbund that matched the blue of Lindsey’s dress. A sparkly stud gleamed in an earlobe, but he’d removed the earring from his brow for the occasion. “Hey, Miz Prescott,” he said. “Hey, Miz Johnson.”

Lindsey pirouetted in front of me. “How do I look, Mom?”

Sixteen going on twenty-five.
I blinked back moisture. “You look beautiful, sweetie. Like a princess.”

She grinned. “Daddy said the exact same thing.”

In spite of our differences, I guess CJ and I still shared a few things in common.

“Amber did my makeup,” Lindsey continued. “She said this was how she wore it when she won her crown.”

Amber, eh?
That explained the smoky eyes, the glossy lips. Explained why my baby girl looked ready to go clubbing and not have to show ID. “Nice.” I tried to keep the sarcasm under control. I didn’t want to let my animosity toward Miss Peach Pit dampen Lindsey’s pleasure.

“You said you wanted to take pictures. Do you have your camera ready? We still have to swing by and pick up Taylor and Brad. Mr. Wainwright made reservations for us to have dinner first at the country club.”

“Well, let’s get this party started,” Reba Mae said, taking charge.

Using my Nikon, Reba Mae no sooner finished taking a variety of shots—me and Lindsey, then Lindsey and Jason—when Clay arrived with the camera she’d forgotten in her rush that morning.

Reba Mae snatched the camera from her son. “Call that timin’ or what?”

“Hey, y’all,” Clay said, encompassing us all with a grin that never failed to remind me of his mother’s. His faded jeans and equally faded red UGA T-shirt were a sharp contrast to Jason’s and Lindsey’s formal attire. His hair, damp from a recent shower, was mussed but, unlike Jason’s, was gel free. “Sorry it took so long but that big ol’ limo out front is hoggin’ all the best parking spaces.”

Reba Mae gave his arm a playful swat. “Hush, now.”

I knew that beneath all the teasing, Clay harbored a soft spot for his best friend’s baby sister. He’d been her champion since grade school when Joey Tucker, Beau and Jolene’s youngest, had swiped her favorite Barbie. Clay had gotten it back for her and given Joey a bloody nose in the process.

We went through the picture-taking routine all over again. I thought we were finished when Reba Mae said, “One more shot. I want a picture of Lindsey and Clay together.”

“No problem.” Clay agreeably took his place next to Lindsey while the rest of us moved out of camera range.

“Closer, you two,” Reba Mae instructed, peering into the viewfinder.

Clay did as requested, his hand resting lightly at my daughter’s waist. “You clean up well, Linds,” he teased. They stood smiling at each other as Reba Mae captured the moment.

Maybe it was only my imagination, but I thought my baby girl looked a tad flushed beneath the layer of expertly applied makeup.

Jason cleared his throat. “Ah, Lindsey, it’s getting late.”

“I made Daddy promise to call the club and let them know we might be running behind schedule. Even so, we’d better scoot.” Lindsey bestowed a bright smile on us, then grabbed Jason’s hand and dragged him toward the door. “Bye, y’all.”

They left amid a flurry of “good-byes” and “have funs.” Clay, Reba Mae, and I stood in the doorway as the limo drew away from the curb as smoothly as a cruise ship leaving port. My little shop grew strangely silent in its wake.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Reba Mae summed it up.

“They sure grow up fast, don’t they?” I sniffled. “I swear I don’t know where the time’s gone. One day you’re putting Band-Aids on scraped knees, the next you’re waving them off to the prom.”

Reba Mae draped her arm over my shoulder and squeezed.

“How long has Linds been seein’ Jason Wainwright?” Clay asked, snapping me out of my pity party.

I frowned, trying to recall how long they’d been dating. With Lindsey spending so much time at CJ’s, it was hard to stay on top of things like I knew I should. “Oh,” I said at last, “about six months I’d guess, more or less. Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “Nothing … just wondering.”

Reba Mae narrowed her eyes as she looked at her son. “Doesn’t sound like you care for Jason much.”

Clay shrugged again. “Don’t know the guy well enough to form an opinion, but…”

“But…?” I prompted. Little alarm bells started clanging inside my head. Surely in a town the size of Brandywine Creek, I’d have heard if Jason Wainwright had ever been in trouble. Besides, Jason’s daddy was CJ’s law partner. Back in the day, his mother, Mary Beth, and I had cochaired a number of charity auctions. Many an evening had been spent in the company of his parents.

“Out with it, son,” Reba Mae ordered. “Can’t start somethin’, then leave us hangin’.”

Clay glanced uneasily at his mother, then back to me. “It’s just that I’ve seen him hot-rodding around town in his daddy’s Porsche. A time or two, I spotted it parked around the corner from the liquor store. Got me wonderin’ is all.”

“That all?” Reba Mae made a dismissing motion. “Probably his daddy stockin’ up on Jim Beam.”

“Yeah, probably.”

But from Clay’s tone, I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Surely CJ would’ve put his foot down if he thought there was even a hint that his darling daughter was moving with the wrong crowd. Or would he? Was CJ too involved with his own love life to monitor a teenage girl’s activities? I vowed to make it a priority to find out.

“What are your plans for this evenin’?” Reba Mae asked Clay, unaware of my inner turmoil. “You and Caleb goin’ bowlin’?”

“Yes, ma’am. Our team’s tied for first place. Only one makeup game stands between us and a trophy.”

“I don’t recall you missin’ any games.”

“Couple weeks back, the boiler at the Super Bowl busted and flooded the place.”

I had started to collect my camera and cell phone, but for some odd reason, this snagged my attention. “Do you remember exactly what night the boiler broke?”

Clay scratched his head. “Yeah, I remember. It was the night all the ruckus started.”

“Ruckus? What ruckus?” Reba Mae asked, her voice unusually sharp.

“Gee, Ma, no need to get riled. That’s just how I refer to the night Mr. Barrone got killed. All of the bowling leagues were canceled that Friday until they got the place back up and running.”

A chill raced up my spine. A quick glance at Reba Mae’s face told me the same thoughts ran pell-mell through her head. Hadn’t Gerilee, Pete’s wife, claimed Pete bowled every single Friday? Every Friday, including the night Mario was killed? But how could he when the Super Bowl had been closed because of flooding? If Pete wasn’t there, where was he on the night in question? I was no hotshot detective, but it seemed to me that Pete Barker’s alibi was gone with the wind.

C
HAPTER
27

W
HY HAD PETE
lied about his whereabouts the night Mario was killed? Who had tried to run me down one dark and stormy night? What if Clay was right about Lindsey’s choice of a boyfriend? These worries spun around in my mind like a kaleidoscope. I glanced at the bedside clock for the umpteenth time. It was late. By now the prom was over, and Lindsey was snuggled into her bed at CJ’s. Tomorrow—today, I corrected—we’d have our long overdue mother-daughter chat. I’d been entirely too lax with her since the divorce. And that had to stop. In Lindsey’s eyes, CJ could do no wrong while I’d been cast as the villainess. In order not to alienate her further, I’d bent over backward not to be overly critical or too strict. But if her failing grades and inappropriate choice of clothing were any indication, my approach didn’t seem to be working. I needed to stop being such a pushover.

I finally gave up trying to sleep. Slipping on a robe, I wandered over to the small desk in a corner of the bedroom and opened my laptop. Now was as good a time as any to download the prom pictures into the computer. I cringed, thinking about my parents’ reaction to Lindsey’s prom dress. My dad would have a cow seeing his granddaughter’s skimpy attire. I quickly scanned through the photos, then sat up straighter. Along with the prom pics were those of the shoe prints I’d taken at the Tratory.

Why hadn’t I done this sooner? Oh, yes, I recalled. Having narrowly missed being turned into road kill had temporarily affected my memory. I clicked on
ZOOM
and studied the zigzag pattern on the sole of the shoe. I was no shoe expert, but there were probably hundreds, thousands even, of shoes bearing this same design. Nevertheless, I hit the
PRINT
button. There was also a second set of shoe prints leading away from the body. A woman’s? Mine? I printed a copy of them, too.

How did one go about matching a pair of shoes with its owner? I wondered. Curious, I clicked on a popular shopping Web site, selected men’s shoes, and chose a pair at random. Presto! A size chart appeared, which converted the measurements I’d taken at the Tratory into shoe sizes.

The murderer wore a perfect size ten.

I glanced up as headlight beams cut a swath across the wall. I heard an engine stop, followed by the sound of a car door opening and closing and the low rumble of voices. Instantly alert, Casey popped his head up, ears cocked. He barked even before the knocking sounded on the door to my shop below.

I jumped to my feet and raced downstairs. Casey brought up the rear. My heart hammered in my chest. I could hardly breathe. It has been my observation that good news rarely arrives after midnight. A parent’s worst fear flashed through my brain. What if there’d been an accident? What if, right this very minute, Lindsey was injured, lying on a gurney in the emergency room? The knocking changed to pounding. Even in my current state of heightened anxiety, I made note of the subtle but distinct difference. “All right, already. I’m coming, I’m coming.” I flipped on light switches as I went.

My jaw dropped when I recognized the two figures standing on my doorstep—none other than Wyatt McBride and my daughter, Lindsey Nicole. A Lindsey who, to borrow my father’s phrase, looked rode hard and put away wet.

I flung open the door. “What happened? Is she hurt?”

McBride brushed past me while keeping a firm grip on Lindsey. “Your daughter needed a ride home.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Lindsey mumbled, her blue-gray eyes bleary and unfocused. “I’m sorta sick.”

The flu? Food poisoning?
She’d been perfectly fine earlier.

Lindsey pressed her hand against her mouth. “I’m gonna puke.”

I darted for the wastebasket and made it back just in the nick of time. Lindsey sank to her knees on my heart pine floor and embraced the trash basket like a long-lost friend. I held long tendrils of hair away from her face as she vomited; I sent up a prayer of thanksgiving for plastic liners.

“Sorry.” Lindsey climbed unsteadily to her feet.

I quickly shoved a handful of tissues at her. My girl still looked green around the gills. “What about Jason and the other kids? Are they sick, too?” When Lindsey failed to answer, I turned to McBride for an explanation.

“You could say there’s been an outbreak of epidemic proportions among certain prom-goers.” McBride gestured at Lindsey. “Best get her to bed. She’ll have one hell of a hangover come morning.”

“She’s
drunk
?”

I stared at my daughter in disbelief. Of course she was. I’d been an idiot not to see she was inebriated when it was as plain as the nose on my face. Her dress was rumpled, her makeup smudged, and her fancy updo had turned into a down-do. And she was barefoot! God only knew what happened to her shoes.

“Lindsey Nicole Prescott, what were you thinking?” I wanted to shake her silly. Here she was, only sixteen, and drunker than a skunk. Lord, where did I go wrong?

“Mo-om, don’t yell. You’re making me dizzy.” As if to prove her point, she swayed on her feet. She might’ve fallen if I hadn’t caught her around the middle.

“Time for bed, young lady. We’ll talk in the morning.” I put my arm more securely around her waist and headed for the stairs.

We must have looked an odd couple with Lindsey towering over me and me valiantly trying to support her weight. Tight-lipped with disapproval, McBride watched our slow progress.