Rosemary and Crime (29 page)

“Just peachy keen,” I said morosely. “One tough cookie is exactly what I don’t need to complicate my life.”

Reba Mae topped off our glasses. “What you need, sugar, is to ditch CJ and get yourself a real lawyer.”

“CJ
is
a real lawyer,” I reminded her.

She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “I mean one who does more than sue companies because someone stubbed their big toe and doesn’t want to work anymore.”

“The problem is, Reba Mae, I don’t know any lawyers except CJ and his partner Matt Wainwright. Maybe I should check the Yellow Pages.”

“Before you do that, let me ask around the Klassy Kut—discreetly,” she added, seeing objections starting to form. “One of my clients might know a good criminal defense attorney.”

I rubbed my temples, which had started to throb again. Too much wine? Or too much Wyatt McBride. “Let’s change the subject, shall we?”

“And I have the perfect change of subject,” Reba Mae announced, turning to open the refrigerator. “Ta-da!”

My mouth watered at the sight of the picture-perfect, suitable-for-framing chocolate pie she held. “Maybelle Humphries?”

“Who else?” Reba Mae grinned, cutting us each a generous wedge. “It was her way of thanking me for a favor. I had to hide it from the boys, or there wouldn’t be a crumb left.”

I waited while Reba Mae worked her way through her slice—and half of mine—before tackling the subject of discovering Pete’s shoe size. “So,” I concluded, “I’m fresh out of brilliant ideas and need some input.”

Reba Mae pointed her fork at me. “You’re forgettin’, hon, we’re both moms. Footprints, handprints, we’re experts in the ‘prints’ department. Just think how many times we mopped muddy footprints off nice clean floors or wiped sticky fingerprints off nice clean windows.”

I dragged the tines of my fork through what was left of my pie. “Nothing like Georgia red clay to make a mess on shiny linoleum.”

“So all we gotta do is get us some dirt and make sure Pete steps in it.”

“And how do you propose we do that? Pete spends his days in a butcher shop, not on a playground.”

“How about plaster of paris?” Reba Mae suggested. “Remember those handprints the kids made in kindergarten for Mother’s Day?”

I smiled, thinking how proud first Chad, then Lindsey, had been of their art projects. “I still have mine.”

“Me, too,” Reba Mae confessed with a sappy grin.

“What about wet cement?” I asked.

“Nah.” Reba Mae shook her head. “The city council would have a conniption if we took it upon ourselves to redo the sidewalks.”

I mulled over the problem. “We don’t need a permanent foot impression. All I want is one good footprint so I can measure it for size and look at the tread.”

Reba Mae snatched another bite of my pie. “Maybelle makes the best chocolate pie ever. She said it was Buzz Oliver’s favorite.”

“Here,” I said, “help yourself. I’m not hungry.” I was about to shove my unfinished piece toward her when I noticed the tracks her fork had made. The dark chocolate contrasted nicely against her white dinnerware. Duh! I wanted to smack my forehead. The solution to our problem was literally under our noses.

“What, what?” Reba Mae frowned. “Did I miss somethin’?”

“What if we make up a cover story of some sort. For example, knowing Buzz’s fondness for chocolate pie and being neighborly, you’re about to deliver a big fat slice when you accidentally trip in front of Meat on Main and drop it just as Pete comes out? Poor guy. He’d have to step in it and get it all over his shoes on the way to his car.”

“Hmm.” Reba Mae gave me a sly smile. “Let’s discuss this further over another teensy sliver of pie.”

“Let’s,” I agreed. Suddenly my appetitie returned and along with it a craving for chocolate.

*   *   *

The colorful bundle of polyester and teased hair entering Spice It Up! late the following afternoon morphed into Dottie Hemmings who was accompanied by Maybelle Humphries. The woman’s rail-thin figure belied her reputation as a fine cook. Her salt-and-pepper bob framed a face more plain than pretty. I placed her age somewhere from early to mid fifties.

“Hey there, Piper,” Dottie sang out. “I brought you a customer.”

Maybelle smiled. “I heard business has been slow for you, but things should pick up soon.”

“I certainly hope you’re right, Maybelle. How can I help you?”

“The posters just arrived at the chamber of commerce office for the Barbecue Festival next month. I thought I’d swing by and pick up some spices for the sauce I’m plannin’ to enter.”

“Maybelle’s determined to win the blue ribbon this year,” Dottie confided. “Y’all know she’s the best cook hereabouts.”

Embarrassed, Maybelle rested her hand on Dottie’s shoulder. “Stop it, Dottie. All that flattery’s goin’ to make me blush.”

A little blush, I thought, might not be a bad idea in Maybelle’s case. Add a swipe of eye shadow and a dab of lipstick and Buzz Oliver might forego Becca and her creamed soup.

“You’ll find a good selection of spices in the special barbecue display I set up.” A display I’d reassembled after Melly’s well-intentioned effort to rectify my deplorable lack of organization.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a look around.” Maybelle headed off in the direction I’d indicated.

Dottie glanced over her shoulder to make sure her friend was out of earshot. “Maybelle’s determined to win Buzz’s affection from Becca if it’s the last thing she does.”

“That sounds ominous,” I said.

“Maybelle’s a gentle soul. She won’t even step on a spider.” Dottie laughed merrily, then turned serious. “Speaking of killing, Brenda Nash’s nephew Billy Wade got into a bar fight a few years back and the other guy ended up dying. His lawyer got him off on voluntary homicide. Judge sentenced him to twenty years.”

Now that
was
ominous. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Never hurts to know these things. Billy Wade didn’t mean to kill nobody when the fight broke out. Things just got out of hand is all.” Dottie reached into her purse and slipped me a scrap of paper. “Here, take this.”

I stared at the small square of paper she’d pressed into my palm. “What is it?”

“The name and number of Billy Wade’s lawyer.” She hazarded another look in Maybelle’s direction to make sure her friend was otherwise occupied. “I heard you might be in the market for a criminal lawyer—and this one works cheap.”

I thanked her and tucked the information into my apron pocket. Apparently word had spread faster than kudzu that I needed a good, but cheap, defense lawyer. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

“This ought to get me started.” Maybelle dumped an armload of bottles and jars down on the counter. “I’m in the process of replacing my grocery-store spices with newer, fresher ones from Spice It Up! How can you tell if a spice is still good or not?”

“When in doubt, smell it,” I instructed. “If it smells spicy and strong, use it. If not, throw it out and buy new. I like to replace mine before the flavor components dissipate.”

“Good to know,”Maybelle said, sounding pleased at the information.

The minute the pair left, I ran to the front window. From there I could see across the square to Meat on Main. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, eager to put the chocolate pie caper into action. Fortunately, most of the stores and businesses were already closed for the day, leaving the stage to us. At precisely six
P.M.
, Pete, a creature of habit, came out of his shop and turned to lock the door.

I pressed
SPEED DIAL
. “Showtime,” I said the instant Reba Mae answered.

I couldn’t resist a grin at the sight of my friend sashaying around the corner in a pair of strappy gladiator sandals with four-inch heels while balancing a plate in one hand. She wore a snug-fitting scooped-neck top—I’d lay odds on a push-up bra underneath—that made the most of “the girls,” as she referred to her DDs. I saw Pete turn at hearing her approach. From that point on, our plan took wing.

Pete’s feet moved forward, but his eyes stayed fixed on Reba Mae’s natural assets as he walked smack-dab into her. The pie flew out of her hand and gooey dark chocolate splattered all over the sidewalk. Luckily, Reba Mae managed to jump back to avoid the worst of the spatters.

Grabbing a roll of paper towels, I sprinted over to assist in the cleanup.

“S-so sorry, Reba Mae,” Pete stammered, his face beet red. “Don’t know what came over me. Shoulda been watching where I was going. Instead, I walked straight into you.”

“No harm done, hon.” Reba Mae patted his arm, consolingly. “Accidents happen.”

I took up a post on one side of Pete, Reba Mae the other, thus effectively boxing him. Unless he shoved us aside, he’d have to step through the goo to reach his Buick parked at the curb. “Best you get home quick as you can, Pete. Your wife will want to pretreat those pants before stains set in. And don’t you worry none. We’ll have this mess cleaned up in no time.”

Uncertain, Pete glanced from me to Reba Mae, then down at the blotches on his light-colored khakis.

“Go on, Pete.” I waved the paper towels. “We’ve got it covered.”

The moment Pete’s car was out of sight, I looked around to make sure no one was watching, then bending down, pulled out a tape measure and quickly placed it over a perfect chocolate-pie shoe print.

“Well…?” Reba Mae peeked over my shoulder. “What do you think?”

“I think we can scratch Pete off our list. No way he’s a size ten.”

*   *   *

Though the sidewalk cleanup was finished hours ago, I still had work to do. I sat in my shop poring over numbers generated by my accounting program. The results were dismal. If business didn’t pick up soon, I’d be forced to make some hard decisions. The notion of closing Spice It Up! for good and admitting defeat was a depressing one.

My gloomy thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. I hurried to answer and found Wyatt McBride on my doorstep.

“Saw your light was on so thought I’d stop by rather than call in the morning,” he said by way of an explanation as he stepped inside. “My dispatcher said you phoned earlier, but I was in meetings all day.”

I had debated with myself all morning if I should call him or not. My nerves had gotten the better of me yesterday when I was called in for questioning. I’d forgotten to mention seeing Diane Cloune drive off in a car similar to the one that had nearly run me down. Forgotten to mention that the vehicle in question bore a clown logo on its trunk.

“Dorinda told me you needed to speak with me and it was important,” McBride said.

“I did, and it is,” I replied slowly.

He arched a brow and regarded me quizzically. “Well…?”

I took a deep breath, then let it out in a rush. In for a penny; in for a pound. “The night you brought Lindsey home you told me small details can come back when you least expect them.”

“True.”

“You also said memory is a funny thing.”

He waited quietly for me to continue.

I proceeded to fill him in on the history of my coat leading up to my claiming it at the dry cleaners. Finally, I paused to draw a breath. “TMI?”

“Excuse me…?”

“Too much information,” I explained. “It’s one of Lindsey’s expressions.”

“I’ll file away the info about Dillard’s for later,” he said. “Let me get this clear, you called to tell me you remembered that your trench coat, an expensive coat that you found on sale, was at the dry cleaners?”

“No!” I cried. “That’s only the reason I happened to be outside Yesteryear Antiques to see Diane Cloune drive away in a Lincoln. A big black Lincoln,” I added for good measure.

“So Diane drives a Lincoln. A lot of people do.”

“Are you being deliberately obtuse?” I was prattling on like the village idiot. No wonder the poor man seemed confused. I needed to calm myself. I took a deep, yoga breath, inhaling and letting air fill my abdomen, then my chest. Then I exhaled, chest, then abdomen—smooth and effortless, slow and easy just like I’d been taught.

McBride was looking at me worriedly. “You’re not hyperventilating, are you?”

I rolled my eyes. “No, I never hyperventilate. That’s a yoga exercise. It decreases toxicity in the body by increasing the exchange of carbon dioxide and oxygen. Yoga happens to have a calming effect.”

“Do I make you nervous?”

“Is that a cop question, or a personal question?”

His expression softened and for a fleeting moment he looked almost human before the professional mask slid back in place. “Let’s start over. You were outside the antique store when you saw Diane drive off in a Lincoln. Why is that important?”

I tucked a stray curl behind my ear. “That was when I saw the clown logo on the trunk. The same logo Cloune Motors uses. You know,
DON’T CLOWN AROUND. VISIT CLOUNE MOTORS
. The car that narrowly missed sending me to a viewing room at The Eternal Rest was big, dark, and”—I paused for effect—“had a clown logo on its trunk.”

“Are you saying you think Diane Cloune tried to kill you?”

“Yes … no … I don’t know. “My gaze swept over the shop not really registering the shelves of spices, the bare brick walls, the heart pine floor. “I realize it’s not much to go on,” I admitted reluctantly.

“Think about it, Piper. Half the cars in town sport that same stupid smiley-faced clown.”

I felt so frustrated I wanted to stomp my foot like a two-year-old. I didn’t want a reminder of how many cars were sold by Cloune Motors. I wanted an “atta girl.” A pat on the back. Or, at the very least, a “this narrows it down.”

“You’re right.” I sighed. “It’s not like I remembered the make and model, or caught a glimpse of the license plate.”

“Don’t be so discouraged. Something will break in the case.”

I desperately hoped he was right—and break sooner rather than later. This whole thing was taking a toll on my nerves. “Have you checked out alibis of the people I told you about?”

“Working on it, but you can scratch Pete Barker’s name off the list.”

“Why?” My eyes widened in surprise at hearing this. How could the man possibly know the results of our privately conducted chocolate-pie test?

“Seems as though Pete’s been taking dance lessons on Friday nights. He wants to surprise Gerilee when they go on a Caribbean cruise for their anniversary.”