Rosemary and Crime (7 page)

“Now,” I continued, “scrape the browned bits from the bottom of the pan with a wooden spoon and cook for another ten minutes for medium rare.
Bon appétit!
”

Sweeping my gaze over the audience, I had the distinct satisfaction of knowing I’d wiped the boredom from Lindsey’s pretty face. Amid all the mashing, splashing, slashing, and plopping, it had disappeared, leaving her staring at me wide-eyed.

Then, to my dismay, I looked toward the front of the shop and saw McBride approach. Not caring who watched, I took another swallow of wine.

I attempted to avoid him by doing an end run toward the register near the front of the store, but Melly intercepted me. “You need to work on your presentation, dear. I suggest you consider a course in public speaking.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed McBride elbowing his way toward me. The crowd parted in his wake like he was Moses and they were the Red Sea. “We need to talk,” he said without preamble.

“Now?” I squeaked.

Melly’s eyes slid from me to the sheriff. “You go ahead, dear. Lindsey and I will man the register. I expect sales to be quite brisk.”

Why, now of all times, did my ex-mother-in-law pick this moment to be helpful? Conscious of dozens of pairs of eyes boring into my back, I trailed after McBride out the store.

“You need to come down to the station to make a formal statement,” he said the minute we hit the sidewalk.

I gestured behind me. “Can it wait? I have a shop full of customers.”

“Looks like we found the murder weapon.”

My heart about came to a screeching halt at hearing this. “Oh,” I said, trying to sound noncommittal.

“My men found a knife. We think someone tried to hide it under the refrigerator.”

Why couldn’t Mario simply have hit his head and died of a fractured skull? Then I brought myself up short. I was a terrible person. Here I was blaming Mario for his own untimely death.

“Are you sure you told me everything that happened this morning?”

“Everything…?”

“The coroner gives cause of death as a stabbing. You’ll need to be fingerprinted.”

“Fingerprinted…?” I seemed incapable of sentences consisting of more than one word.

“Just routine.” McBride drilled me with laser-blue eyes. “We need to rule you out as a possible suspect.”

He paused to let this sink in. At what point was I was supposed to ask for a lawyer? Were we there yet?

“Mom?” Lindsey stuck her head out the door. “Meemaw said some lady wants to know the difference between cinnamon from Vietnam and cinnamon from Ceylon.”

“Be right there, sweetie.” I gave her a weak smile. When she disappeared back inside, I turned to McBride. “Listen, every cent I own has gone into making Spice It Up! a success. I can’t just walk off and leave it in the hands of someone who doesn’t know diddly squat about spices. I promise, I’ll come to the station as soon as the shop closes at five.”

His gaze shifted from me to the store crowded with people. “All right,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly.

I was too relieved to wonder whether he responded to the desperation in my voice or merely decided I wasn’t a flight risk. Either way, I was itching to ring up sales.

“Not so fast,” he ordered as I turned to go.

I watched wordlessly as he reached out to me with his index finger.

“Missed a spot,” he said, dabbing my cheek. “Thought it might be a speck of that juniper concoction, but, nope, it’s a freckle.” He started toward the patrol car parked at the curb. “Five o’clock. Don’t be late. I don’t take murder investigations lightly.”

I doubted the man ever took anything lightly,
I thought as I watched him drive away.

C
HAPTER
8

T
HE DAY PASSED
in a flurry of activity punctuated by the sweet chime of the cash register. At closing time, I decided to forego tallying the day’s receipts till later and trudged the short distance to the police station.

“Hey, hon.”

A dark-skinned woman, her elaborate braids tied back with a red ribbon, looked up from a computer screen and greeted me with a friendly smile. Her black polo shirt bearing the Brandywine Police Department logo had either been purchased a size too small or laundered in the wrong wash cycle to house her ample frame.

“You must be Miz Prescott. Chief said you’d be by. I’m Precious Blessing.”

“Nice to meet you, Precious. Just call me Piper.”

“Heard all about your cookin’ show. Dorinda said it was a hoot. Sorry I missed it.”

Great.
I suppose I should be happy if it didn’t go viral on YouTube. “Chief McBride wanted me to come down to make a formal statement about … you know.”

“Yeah, the whole town’s talkin’ about how that stuck-up cook who called hisself a chef died all at once.”

“Right,” I said.

“Who would’ve thought the chief would land a murder case right off? Best of my recollection, Brandywine Creek ain’t had a killin’ in years. Not since that country singer down at High Cotton got hisself shot by a jealous husband.”

“Guess that was before my time.”

“I’ll let the chief know you’re here.”

While Precious called to inform her boss of my arrival, I took a quick look around, more depressed than impressed by the décor. Worn wooden benches huddled against scuffed beige walls. A giant wall calendar courtesy of the local lumberyard comprised the lone artwork. Functional and drab has never been a favorite of mine, not even in the early days of my marriage to CJ when functional and drab were all we could afford.

“Best not to keep the chief waiting,” Precious said, rising from her chair. “C’mon. I’ll show you the way.”

Precious waddled down a short hallway, with me lagging behind. She paused outside a door, which still bore the faint imprint of the former chief’s name, and stepped aside. “Don’t let ’im scare you none. Some folks growl worse ’n they bite.”

I managed a sickly smile. “Thanks.”

Feeling a bit like Little Red Riding Hood, I mentally braced myself to meet the Big Bad Wolf or, in this case, the Big Bad Policeman. I gave myself a pep talk. There was no need to be nervous. After all, I had nothing to hide. Why, then, was I a wreck about this whole statement thing? Only the thought of meeting Reba Mae afterward for nachos and a margarita kept me from bolting. When Reba Mae heard about my command performance to appear before McBride, she made me promise to stop by—no matter the hour. Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I shoved open the door.

McBride glanced up from a sheaf of papers on his desk. “It’s about time.”

“Chief…?” Precious poked her head in the door. “Can I get you and your guest something to drink? Coffee, sweet tea? A soda?”

“Mrs. Prescott
isn’t
a guest, Miss Blessing. She’s here for questioning. Please see that we’re not disturbed.”

“Yes, boss.” Precious gave me an impudent wink as she quietly closed the door, leaving me alone with Big Bad McBride.

“Have a seat,” McBride ordered, pulling a yellow legal pad from a drawer. “How did your first day go—after the cooking demonstration, that is?”

I lowered myself into the chair opposite a battered desk that didn’t look like it would fetch twenty bucks at a garage sale and eyed him suspiciously. Was he genuinely interested in my day? Or was this some sort of ruse designed to put a “suspect” at ease? “I haven’t totaled up the receipts yet,” I returned cautiously, “but Melly seemed pleased.”

He fixed me with his cool blues. “Melly? She the woman who offered to help out behind the counter?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Melly Prescott, CJ’s mother.”

“Ah,” he said in a this-explained-it tone of voice. “Thought she looked familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her. The two of you still close after the divorce?”

“We’ve never been what you might call ‘close.’”

“Not even while you and CJ were married?”

“Melly … tolerated me. I always had the impression she thought CJ could do better than marrying a girl whose daddy worked on the line in an automotive plant in Detroit.”

What I didn’t understand, though, was Melly’s unexpected willingness to help at Spice It Up! today. That had come as a shocker. Pleasant, but a shock nonetheless. Granted, the woman knew next to nothing about spices, but what she lacked in knowledge she made up for with enthusiasm. Time and again, I’d heard her convince customers they ought to try this or try that. Who would have thought the heart of a saleswoman beat beneath the twin sets and pearls?

And best of all, she’d gotten Lindsey involved.

McBride picked up a ballpoint and clicked it, a signal the chitchat over. “How long have you known Barrone?”

I shifted my weight, cleared my throat, and wished I were somewhere else. Turks and Caicos or Grand Cayman would be nice. I always wanted to learn how to scuba dive.

McBride waited for my answer, infinitely patient, infinitely watchful.

“I’ve known Mario ever since he first opened Trattoria Milano,” I finally said. “Even though CJ prefers prime rib, we occasionally dined at the Tratory when he entertained clients. Mario happened to be quite particular about the ingredients that went into his signature dishes. When he learned I was opening a spice shop, he made it a point to check it out long before I was scheduled to open. On a whim, I approached him about doing a cooking demo, and he agreed. Claimed this particular recipe would soon be published in a well-known food magazine so he didn’t see the harm in revealing his secrets to the folks in an obscure little town in Georgia.”

“Can you name anyone who might harbor a grudge against Barrone? Might want to harm him?”

“I don’t know much about Mario’s personal life,” I confessed, “but he did have a temper and antagonized a lot of people. According to rumors Reba Mae overheard in the Klassy Kut, he also had a reputation as a ladies’ man.”

“Reba Mae have a last name?”

“Johnson. She’s the widow of Butch Johnson, who died some years back.”

The cop mask slipped a little. “Butch is dead?”

“Drowned while bass fishing.”

“Sorry to hear that,” he said, and for a moment looked almost human. “I remember him from junior varsity. Nice guy.”

“Yes, he was,” I agreed. “Everyone liked Butch.” I exhaled a slow breath. So far, so good. At this rate, I’d be out of here in no time flat.

“Let’s back up a ways, shall we?” he drawled, bursting my little bubble of optimism. “Think back to when you arrived at the Tratory. Notice any suspicious cars on the street?”

I frowned. To me, cars are cars—four tires and a steering wheel. “I’m not sure exactly what a ‘suspicous’ car would look like.”

Judging from the scowl on his face, I don’t think he appreciated my inquiring mind. “See anyone loitering in the alley when you approached?” he asked.

This question just didn’t seem to make sense. “Why would a killer ‘loiter’ at the scene of the crime? Wouldn’t he want to get away as fast as possible instead of sticking around?”

“What about after you entered the restaurant,” he said, trying a different approach. “See anything unusual? Hear anything?”

“N-no,” I stammered as the ramifications of his questions hit me.
The killer might have still been there!
What if I’d surprised him? Caught him in the act? I could very well have been his next “vic.”

While McBride made a production of scribbling everything I’d said on his legal pad, I tried to distract myself by letting my gaze wander. His office, like the waiting area, was done in minimalist institution-on-a-budget style. No plants, no photos, no personal touches. Brown linoleum floor, beige walls pockmarked with holes where pictures used to hang. I noticed a cardboard box next to the desk piled high with what appeared to be framed diplomas and certificates, a reminder the guy was new in town and still settling in. Maybe I should cut him some slack. Or maybe he should cut me some. I was new to the murder business.

For the first time since meeting McBride, I wondered about his personal life. Things like, did he have a wife and kids tucked away? I sneaked a peek at his left hand, but didn’t spy a wedding band. But then again, not all married men wore rings. I’ve been wrong before, but he just didn’t strike me as the paternal type. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine this tough, no-nonsense cop coaching Little League. Or proudly photographing little girls in pink tutus.

On the other hand, I could imagine him escorting a starlet to a Miami premiere.

McBride looked up and found me assessing him. Caught in the act, I felt my cheeks pinken. Sitting up straighter, I folded my hands primly in my lap. “What else do you want to know?”

“Anything else that might prove helpful,” he clarified.

His expression didn’t betray his thoughts, but I had a sneaky feeling he knew more than he was letting on. I waged an inner debate. Should I mention finding a knife near the Tratory’s rear door? My conscience said yes, just do it, but I knew the admission would implicate me in a way I didn’t want to be implicated. I could guess how things would look—and how easily they could be misinterpreted.

“Do you know anything about the knife found at the scene?” McBride fired, exhibiting an uncanny ability to read my mind.

You have the right to remain silent.
I watched TV. I read mysteries. I’d heard that phrase dozens of times, maybe thousands. I had nothing to hide, done nothing wrong. But why then did I feel guilty? “The knife…?”

Reaching into a desk drawer, he pulled out a plastic evidence bag. “The coroner believes this knife will correspond with the weapon used to murder Mario Barrone. As soon as we’re finished here, I’m sending it to the Georgia Bureau of Investigation, Latent Print Section, for testing. Will your prints be a match?”

Anything you say can be used against you in a court of law.
Wasn’t that how it went? But it didn’t really matter what I said or didn’t say. The prints would be a match. It was time to come clean. Confess my innocence, proclaim I had nothing to hide. Surely, McBride couldn’t seriously think I had anything to do with Mario’s death. The very idea was just too … too … outrageous!