Rosemary and Crime (6 page)

“Wait and see. I bet this place will be standin’ room only now that news is out about you findin’ Barrone in a puddle of blood.”

“I think I’m going to hyperventilate.” I held my hand to my chest.

“Just breathe into a paper bag, and you’ll be fine. Gotta check on my perm, hon, but I’ll drop by first chance I get.” A quick hug and she was gone.

Ned Feeney arrived next with a hearse-load of folding chairs. “Where do you want me to put ’em, Miz Piper?”

I gave Ned instructions, then moved out of his way.

“Brought extra just in case,” he huffed as he deposited another load. “S’pect you might have quite a crowd seein’ as how you found a dead man and all. Must’ve been quite a sight. Is it true blood was splattered from kingdom come and back?”

Though I tried not to stereotype people, Ned Feeney always put me in mind of Gomer Pyle, ably played by Jim Nabors on the old
Andy Griffith Show.
Maybe it was the perpetual ball cap and scuffed sneakers. Or the prominent Adam’s apple. But more likely it was Ned’s goofy smile that struck a chord. Don’t remember if Gomer cared for gossip or not, but Ned Feeney loved it even more than he loved fried catfish.

“Mr. Strickland said seein’ Barrone layin’ in all that blood was quite a sight. And Mr. Strickland’s used to seein’ dead bodies, as he’s the coroner an’ all.”

I refrained from comment, and instead donned a sunny yellow bib apron with
SPICE IT UP!
written in black letters and a bright red chili pepper embroidered underneath. I returned to the table I’d set up for the demo at the rear of the shop and nervously reviewed the recipe.

Ned didn’t seem to notice my silence. “Mr. Strickland told me soon as I’m done deliverin’ chairs, I was s’posed to drive the corpse down to Decatur.”

“Mmm.” I chopped a sprig of rosemary and dropped it into a prep dish.

“That’s GBI headquarters, you know,” he added importantly. “That’s the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”

I paused in separating cloves of garlic. “What else did Mr. Strickland tell you?” Apparently curiosity tended to be contagious.

Gomer—I mean Ned—wiped his brow. “Tried my best but Mr. S was pretty tight-lipped about the case. One thing for sure though,” he said, heading for the hearse parked at the curb. “He said it was a homicide. Chief McBride swears he’ll find the killer.”

No sooner had Ned departed when my former mother-in-law, resplendent in her signature pearls, a peach cashmere twin set, and a tailored skirt, arrived with Lindsey in tow. I often envied Melly Prescott. She was the rare sort whose clothes resisted wrinkles, her perfectly coiffed hair could weather a hurricane, and her nails were never in dire need of a manicure. I’d seen her address the Brandywine Creek Garden Club with the finesse of a skilled orator. And her tomato aspic was the odds-on favorite at every funeral. Funerals, along with weddings and christenings, happened to be major social gatherings here in the South. Some folks regard getting out the fine china and polishing the silver to be grief therapy. Melly was a fine woman, bless her heart—to quote a Southernism—but she could be intimidating.

“Good morning, Melly.”

“Mornin’, Piper.” Melly gave me a dry peck on the cheek in case others might be around to speculate on how well the two of us were getting along since the divorce.

“Hey, Lindsey.” I turned to my daughter and gave her a hug, which she returned in her typical lukewarm fashion.

“Meemaw worried people might talk if we didn’t come today,” Lindsey said as she pulled away.

The fact that Lindsey was here at all attested to Melly’s power of persuasion. I knew from experience how hard it was to rouse a teenage girl from bed before noon on a Saturday. “Well,” I said brightly, “whatever the reason I’m glad you’re here to show your support.”

“So, this is what all the fuss is about,” Melly said, parroting her son’s comment of the previous day. She pivoted slowly, taking in the shelves of carefully selected spices from the far corners of the globe. “Anise…?” she said, wrinkling her aristocratic nose. “Who uses anise?”

I bridled at her tone. “Anise happens to be used in baking cakes, breads, and cookies. Next time I make Italian biscotti, I’ll be sure to bring you some. You’ll love the sweet licorice taste.”

“Hmph,” she sniffed, moving on to another display. “And what is this? Surely, dear, you can’t expect anyone in their right mind to spend so much money for such a teensy amount?”

“Saffron happens to be the most expensive spice there is.” I gently took the jar from her hand and replaced it on the shelf. “Fortunately a little goes a long way.”

“Interesting.… What does one do with saffron?”

“It’s wonderful in paella.”

“Paella? Another of those fancy, foreign dishes you seem to favor. What’s wrong with plain-old meat and potatoes? That was good enough for my husband. Good enough for my son. Plenty good enough for the rest of us, too.”

“Why don’t you and Lindsey find yourselves a seat?” I suggested.

C
HAPTER
7

S
TANDING ROOM ONLY.

Reba Mae’s prediction proved true. A steady stream of people poured into Spice It Up!, filling chairs and jamming the aisles. Among the crowd, I spotted Gina and Tony Deltorro, owners of the Pizza Palace. Behind them were Diane Cloune, wife of the local councilman Dwayne Cloune, and Dottie Hemmings, the mayor’s wife. Dottie waggled her fingers at me. Diane gave me a brittle smile. I wished it was my newly opened spice shop that captured their interest, but I knew better. It was the prospect of pure, unadulterated gossip that drew them like honeybees to buttercups. A dead chef trumps a grand opening any day.

I took my place behind the demo table and looked out over an expectant audience. They stared back. I felt like an exhibit in a freak show. My gaze chanced on Melly, who pointedly tapped her watch with a fingernail, signaling it was time for me to get this show on the road. Bored already, Lindsey stifled a yawn behind a French-manicured hand.

“Good morning!” I cleared my throat. “Welcome to Spice It Up!”

The shop was so still you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. From the fluttering in my stomach, it felt like I swallowed a hummingbird along with my morning’s yogurt. People had come to gawk, to ask questions. I crossed my fingers they wouldn’t leave without purchasing bags and bottles of my precious spices. I desperately wanted—needed—to hear my cash register jingle.

“All righty then,” I said with false heartiness. “Let’s get started, shall we? Today I’m going to demonstrate how to prepare one of Trattoria Milano’s specialties, Roast Lamb with Rosemary and Juniper. Naturally the first thing you’ll need is lamb.” I surreptitiously wiped damp palms on the sides of my apron. “After all, you can’t expect to serve roast lamb with rosemary and juniper without the lamb, right?”

No one laughed at my feeble attempt at humor. No one even cracked a smile.

I soldiered on. “Ask the butcher for a leg of lamb that weighs approximately three pounds. Like this lovely choice cut.” I held up the meat for a little show-and-tell. “Then ask him to butterfly it for you.”

“Must take a pretty sharp knife to slice through a piece of meat that size,” a woman in the second row commented loudly.

Ignoring the outburst, I continued with my presentation. “Pete at Meat on Main will be happy to accommodate you, but I’m sure the manager of the meat department at the Piggly Wiggly will be equally agreeable.” I had no idea if this was true or not, but at this point in my fledgling career I didn’t want to risk alienating the chamber of commerce. Best to give them equal billing.

“Next, add four cloves of chopped garlic, a sprig of finely chopped rosemary, and Chef Barrone’s secret ingredient—juniper berries. Six ought to do it.” I dumped the contents of three small prep dishes into a marble mortar. “For those of you unfamiliar with this particular spice, juniper berries are the ripe, dried cones from the juniper evergreen shrub that grows throughout the northern hemisphere. If any of you are married to hunters, juniper helps tame the gamey character of venison.”

“Told Harvey, my husband, the mayor, next time he brings home a deer, I’m going to Mother’s. He can cook the dang thing himself,” Dottie Hemmings declared.

The audience tittered at hearing this. To the best of my recollection, Dottie rarely mentioned her husband’s name without reminding everyone within earshot that he was the mayor of our fair town. I waited until quiet prevailed, then continued. “Juniper berries have a pleasant woody odor and when crushed smell unmistakably like…”

“… gin,” a member of the audience offered.

“Is it true the Tratory reeked of booze when you found Mario?”

“Heard Barrone was in a pool of blood the size of Lake Lanier,” another volunteered.

Pretending deafness, I grabbed the pestle. “Pound the garlic, rosemary, and juniper berries into a smooth paste.”

“Someone said he was shot,” a man in the back piped up.

“I heard he was stabbed to death.”

Stabbed?
Did the woman on the far end of the first row say
stabbed
? I’d conveniently—too conveniently—forgotten about finding a knife in the weeds outside the Tratory’s back door. I must’ve dropped it when I spied Mario on the floor. To make matters worse, Dr. Doug, the vet, said the mutt I’d found the night before had sustained a
knife
wound.

Coincidence? I felt the blood drain from my face. Personally, I’ve never been a great believer in coincidence.

“Hey, Piper, you okay?” Gina Deltorro asked, frowning.

I mustered a smile. “Fine, thanks.”

My mind on guns and knives and blood, I pounded the garlic, rosemary, and juniper into mush. I realized I was being overzealous when bits of the concoction flew out of the mortar. As casually as I could, I wiped a gob of goo from my cheek and whisked flecks off my apron to a chorus of snickers.

Darting a glance in Lindsey’s direction, I tried to catch her eye, but her attention was fixed on a nonexistent spot on the heart pine floor.

“Yes, well,” I said, regrouping. “Season the lamb with salt and pepper. I carry a great Kosher salt. If you only purchase one type of salt, you might consider making that your mainstay.” I sprinkled on a generous amount, then reached for the pepper mill and ground away. “There’s nothing to compare with fresh ground pepper. It’s a spice that adds great flavor to almost every dish. Spice It Up! sells not only black Tellicherry peppercorns from India, but sophisticated white peppercorns from Borneo, and pink peppercorns from the French island of Reunion.”

Just then a door opened and a latecomer slipped inside. None other than Chief Wyatt McBride in the flesh. I groaned inwardly at the sight. I doubted he’d come hoping to find a new recipe for lamb. His presence made me even more nervous.

“Hey, Piper,” Dottie prompted. “What’re we supposed to do next?”

I took a calming breath, which did little good, then searched my work area for a utensil of some sort. It occurred to me then that I’d forgotten spoons or spatulas. They were nowhere to be found, which left me little choice but to improvise. “Hands were made before spoons and forks, as Granddad once told me. Take about half the paste,” I instructed. Using my fingers, I scooped up a portion and flung it on the meat. “Smear it around.”

I heard my former mother-in-law gasp at my technique.

“Now roll the lamb into a compact roast.” Juniper paste oozed out of each end as I worked. In the dim recesses of my mind, I wondered if Mario had encountered this problem as well. I daintily ran my index finger down one edge and flicked the excess paste toward the mortar. It missed by a country mile, landing instead on the large bosom of Bertha Fox in the front row. This time the snickers turned into outright laughter.

“S-sorry,” I apologized, my cheeks flaming. I plastered on a smile so wide it made my face ache.

Melly, tight-lipped with disapproval, leaned over and handed Bertha a handkerchief with which to wipe her blouse. Lindsey, I noted, slouched further down in her seat.

“Almost finished,” I announced cheerily, picking up a ball of string I’d scrounged from my junk drawer. “Now tie the damn … I meant
dang
 … lamb with string or twine to hold it together while it cooks.”

To be honest, I’d never been especially creative when it comes to wrapping packages. This time proved no exception. It was like wrestling a greased pig at the county fair. Slick with juniper paste and the meat’s inherent fat, the leg of lamb shot out of my hands, skidded off the worktable, and landed on the floor with a
plop.

I was so mortified, I’d like to have died right then and there. Knowing my face matched the color of my hair, I picked the roast off the floor and brushed it off as best I could and proceeded to hog-tie the blasted thing. “That ought to do it,” I muttered, and was surprised to hear a smattering of applause.

“Piper, dear, what about the rest of the juniper paste?” Melly prompted.

I stared at her blankly for a moment.
The rest of the juniper paste? What “rest”?

“What do you do with the other half, dear?” Melly persisted. “Surely it shouldn’t go to waste.”

“Right,” I muttered, absently shoving back a rebellious curl. This had to be the worst cooking demonstration in the history of cooking. Bad enough to find a dead body, now I had to pretend to know what I was doing. “Okay,” I said, reaching for a paring knife. “Make a series of slits.”

I vented my frustration on the miserable hunk of mutton with more vigor than probably necessary. After forcing what was left of the juniper paste inside the slits, I sprinkled on enough salt to make a cardiologist cringe, and dropped the sorry mess into a roasting pan. Praise the Lord. I was in the homestretch.

“Pop this baby into a four-hundred-fifty-degree oven. Roast for thirty minutes, then add a cup of dry red wine.”

Blame it on a combination of nerves and oratory, but my throat suddenly felt parched. Reaching for the wine I’d poured earlier for this part of the demo, I took a big glug of Cabernet Sauvignon. Straight from the measuring cup.