Rosemary and Crime (9 page)

“If there’s something you’re holding back, now might be a good time to come clean.”

“What about the puppy I told you about?”

“Gone, just like the vet. Vanished without a trace.”

“I
told
you the truth about what happened. Are you insinuating I’m a liar? How dare you?” I asked, not caring if I sounded like an outraged virgin in some paperback novel.

He shrugged but didn’t reply.

“You’re wasting valuable time checking out my perfectly good alibi when you should be hunting down Mario’s killer.” I turned and poured a generous portion of peppercorns into a second spice mill. “If it’s obvious to Reba Mae and me what happened, surely a big-city cop like you shouldn’t have a problem figuring it out.”

He moved close enough for me to smell the piney tang of his aftershave. “I’d like to hear this theory you and your girlfriend cooked up.”

I huffed out a breath, and added a few whole cloves to the mix I was preparing. “Reba Mae and I think Mario Barrone was killed during a botched robbery. That the killer was some druggie. A stranger passing through town who needed money for a quick score. Mario grabbed a knife to defend himself, and, well, you know the rest.”

“Mmm, interesting,” he murmured. “Except for two things.”

My head jerked around. He had my full attention. “What two things?”

“No money was missing. The night’s cash was still there, ready to be deposited at the bank.”

“Maybe the thief got scared and ran off without it,” I offered. “What’s the second reason?”

“There were no defensive wounds found on the body. From everything I learned about the man, Barrone wasn’t the type to give up without a struggle.”

Hmm. So much for the botched-robbery theory—and back to square one, which left me top billing on McBride’s parade of suspects. I decided to try a different tack. “I was depending on Barrone’s cooking demo to attract a slew of potential customers. Why would I kill the guy?”

“That’s what I intend to find out,” he said, giving me a hard look. Then he turned and left the shop.

Without thinking, I added more black peppercorns to the spice concoction and switched on the grinder. As it began to hum, I told myself that McBride had been bluffing. Trying to get me to confess to a crime I didn’t commit. It would behoove him as the brand-new chief of police to solve this case ASAP and get on with the business of writing out parking tickets.

I pondered my dilemma. Purely because of circumstance, I was the prime suspect in a murder case. Now my life, my reputation, as well as my livelihood were at stake. Knowing this frightened me, but as I thought about the unfairness of the situation, fright gradually turned into outrage. I didn’t kill Mario, but whoever did was walking around footloose and fancy-free while I squirmed like a bug under a microscope. Flicking off the grinder, I placed both hands on my hips and scowled. Seems I had a choice to make. I could either sit meek as a mouse—or I could take matters into my own hands and do a little investigating on my own.

The little Ziploc bags piled in front of me would have to wait until later to be filled with jerk rub. Right now a more urgent matter needed my attention.

Jumping into my car, I headed out of town. Before I knew it, I was on Old County Road and turning down the drive leading to Pets ’R People. I braked in front of the clinic. The place had a deserted air about it. On my last visit here, in spite of my panic, I’d noticed an SUV parked to one side of the drive. There was no sign of it now. I got out of my VW and approached the office warily. Doug had a thriving veterinary practice. He couldn’t simply “vanish without a trace” like McBride had intimated.

But according to the note taped to the door—“Out of town. Family emergency”—that’s exactly what he’d done. And along with him, my alibi had vanished as well.

C
HAPTER
10

N
OTHING LIKE A
good funeral to bring out the Who’s Who of Brandywine Creek society, I mused the following Wednesday. The last notes of “Amazing Grace” had scarcely faded at First Baptist Church before folks hopped into their cars and headed for the VFW Hall. The Thursday night Bingo ladies had volunteered to oversee the event. Even before the last folding chair had been unfolded, the finest in Southern cuisine had begun arriving in covered dishes. The crowd represented an eclectic blend that included the butcher, the baker, and the undertaker. Die and they will come, to paraphrase a movie tag line. No one, it seemed, wanted to pass up a free lunch.

“The joint’s jumping,” Dottie Hemmings commented to no one in particular as she made a beeline for the buffet table.

“The VFW hasn’t seen this much activity since the Brandywine Creek Twirlers placed third in the state semi-finals,” Reba Mae commented as, smiling and nodding, we wended our way through the crowd.

“People still talk about how Shelly Anne Bixby dropped her flaming baton and caught the high school gym on fire.”

“Lucky her dad’s a volunteer firefighter and was standing by with the hook and ladder,” Reba Mae said as we skirted a trio hell-bent on beating a path to the dessert table. “Any word yet when the vet’s going to return?”

“Not a peep.”

“What do you s’pose ‘family emergency’ means?”

I shrugged, hoping to convey the impression that my lack of an alibi wasn’t a cause for concern. Truth was, it was keeping me awake at night. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What do you think happened to that dog you found?”

“I don’t know what to think.” I sighed. “I’ve been driving out to the clinic every day after closing in the hope of finding Doug home—not to mention filling up his answering machine with messages.”

Reba Mae shot me a look of sympathy, then tugged the sleeve of my black wraparound dress. “C’mon, there’s Uncle Joe. Wouldn’t seem right if I didn’t say hey.”

“Hullo, darlin’.” Joe gave Reba Mae the best squeeze his pot belly would allow, then turned to me. “Hullo, Piper.”

“Chief.” His greeting seemed less effusive than usual, but maybe all this finding a dead body stuff was making me paranoid.

“Not chief of police anymore. Handed in the title when I handed in my badge,” he said, smoothing his wildly patterned tie. “There’s a new kid on the block now.”

“Uncle Joe, your replacement has got me worried.” Reba Mae rested her hand on his arm and all but batted her eyelashes. “Surely the man can’t think for a second that Piper had anythin’ to do with Mario Barrone dyin’?”

“Sorry, Reba Mae. The man’s gotta go where the evidence leads. That’s how big-city detectives like McBride are trained these days. And speak of the devil, there he is now.”

Reba Mae and I turned in unison. There he was, all right. Wyatt McBride in the flesh, standing alone just inside the entrance. He’d traded in his uniform for a navy blazer, khaki pants, pale blue dress shirt, and tie. And looked better than a man had a right to look to a divorced woman who’d sworn off men for life.

“Ooowee!” Reba Mae fanned herself with her free hand. “Think I’m having a hot flash.”

“Too much information for an old codger like me,” Joe chuckled. “Now if you two ladies will kindly excuse me, I’m going to avail myself of some of these fine vittles. Maybe a nice thick slice of that honey-glazed ham to go along with some of Miss Melly’s tomato aspic. Might even sample one or two of Cousin Bitsy’s deviled eggs.”

As he strolled off, I saw McBride step in my direction. “Reba Mae, I need to visit the little girls’ room,” I improvised. “Catch up with you later.”

I darted off in the general direction of the restroom, leaving my friend to fend for herself. No better than she deserved for having a hot flash—or lust flash—over my sworn nemesis.

Preoccupied with making my getaway, I narrowly avoided crashing into Diane Cloune, the councilman’s wife, and her pal Vicki Lamont. Thankfully the pair was too immersed in their discussion to notice. Diane patted Vicki’s shoulder in a consoling manner. Next I saw her hand Vicki a fistful of tissues. Sniffing back tears, Vicki dabbed her eyes, careful not to smudge her mascara. At least one person was genuinely upset at Mario’s passing, I thought to myself as I continued my retreat.

I didn’t get far before being waylaid by Dottie Hemmings, who stood talking with Ned Feeney. “Hey there, Piper,” Dottie said, beaming. “Nice service, wasn’t it?”

“The Eternal Rest gives the best.” Ned was quoting his employer’s motto. Funeral or not, he wore his signature ball cap.

“However”—Dottie wagged her head sorrowfully—“as I said to my husband, the mayor, it’s hard to get teary-eyed an’ all staring at an urn. I may be old-fashioned, but I’ll take a casket any day. What about you, Piper? Cremation or casket?”

“Er…” The question stopped me cold. “I confess, I really haven’t given the matter much thought.”

“You shouldn’t put these things off, dear, regardless how unpleasant. Just think, Mario could have ended six feet under instead of sitting on a pedestal.”

“Barrone’s was the fanciest urn we stock at Eternal Rest. Cost a pretty penny.” Ned tugged his hairy earlobe. “Yes sirree bob, a pretty penny.”

Dottie nodded knowingly. “Mario must have kept his insurance premiums up to date. I hope you have life insurance, Piper. One minute you’re fixing meat loaf, the next”—she snapped her fingers—“someone sticks a knife in your gullet.”

A surreptitious glance over my shoulder showed McBride making progress in my direction. I heaved a sigh of relief when I saw Dottie’s husband, Harvey, corner him. Harvey Hemmings could filibuster with the best of them. Some believe that’s why he runs unopposed year after year. It’s easier to vote for him than to listen to him rattle on about why you should.

“If you’ll both excuse me, I want to have a word with the Deltorros,” I said, slipping away from Dottie and Ned. I didn’t especially wish to speak with the owners of the Pizza Palace, but the couple was strategically the farthest away from where Hizzoner had corralled McBride.

“Hey, you two,” I said by way of greeting.

“Hey, yourself,” Gina, the more outgoing of the pair, said with a smile. In spite of the fact that Gina Deltorro’s once voluptuous figure had fallen prey to a diet of pizza, pasta, and Italian subs, she remained strikingly pretty with her dark eyes and jet-black hair.

Tony merely grunted, his attention elsewhere. His eyes kept sweeping the crowd as if searching for someone. Though dark and slick and Italian, Tony Deltorro didn’t possess Mario Barrone’s matinee-idol looks. Still, the pizza man cooked up a mean marinara with just the right blend of herbs and spices. His calzones weren’t too shabby, either. I made a mental note to drop off a sample of freshly ground cumin seeds.

“Must’ve been awful,” Gina continued, “what with finding Mario’s body and all.” She scooped a forkful of chocolate chess pie, a classic Southern sweet, into her mouth. “If it’d been me, I would’ve screamed bloody murder.”

Mention of the deceased snagged Tony’s wandering attention. “Bloody murder is precisely what Piper stumbled upon,” he replied with thinly veiled sarcasm. “I doubt Barrone will be missed.”

I sneaked another look in McBride’s direction, and he caught me peeking. I quickly turned back to Tony. “Why do you say that?” I asked, feigning interest.

“Barrone suffered delusions of grandeur. The fool thought his food was better than everybody else’s. It was just a matter of time before he fell flat on his face.”

“Hush, honey,” Gina murmured, “it’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead.”

Tony brushed aside his wife’s admonishment with a wave of his hand. “The man was a pompous ass. All he ever did was crow about opening a four-star restaurant in Atlanta or Charlotte. The competition there would eat him alive. He’d have been bankrupt within a month.”

Tell me how you really feel?
I wanted to say, but didn’t. Instead, I asked, “If you didn’t like him, why come to his funeral?”

“Tony and Mario go way back,” Gina explained. “They had big plans once…”

“Gina, did I ever tell you that you talk too much?” Taking his wife by the arm, Tony steered her away.

Hmm.

“Piper Prescott,” Reba Mae scolded. “Shame on you for abandonin’ me.” She handed me a cup of fruit punch. “Take a gander over there, will you?”

Turning, I observed Dwayne Cloune, local entrepreneur and city councilman, approach an elderly gentleman ensconced in the only chair in the room that didn’t fold like a pretzel. A much-used walker was parked at his side. With his high forehead, sharp nose, and narrow face, Dwayne always put me in mind of a fox, clever and cunning.

“Is that old coot who I think it is?” Reba Mae whispered.

“Yep.” I nodded. “Brig Abernathy making one of his rare appearances.”

The man’s age could have been anywhere between eighty and a hundred. He was thin to the point of emaciation, with sharp cheekbones and a bold nose. Snowy wisps of hair protruded from a shiny scalp speckled with liver spots.

“Haven’t seen Brig in years. Thought he must’ve died, and I missed the party.”

I took a sip of punch. “He’s become something of a recluse of late. Poor health, rarely ventures out. CJ used to do some legal work for him; still might for all I know.”

“Rumor’s flyin’ around that Dwayne intends to make a run for the state legislature. He’s startin’ to accumulate funds. I’m not sure, but I think the pair are distant relatives. Brig’s related to more folks in town than Uncle Joe. The Abernathys can trace their roots back to the beginning of time. Do you think Dwayne is hittin’ him up for a campaign contribution?”

“Fat chance of that happening,” I said with a laugh. “From CJ’s comments, the old guy is loaded, but a real Scrooge when it comes to parting with his money.”

“Well, whatever Dwayne is sellin’, it doesn’t look like Brig is buyin’. Good thing he has better luck peddlin’ used cars.”

“Pre-owned,” I corrected absently, referring to Dwayne’s primary business, although I knew he also dabbled in real estate.

“Diane ought to enjoy life in Atlanta. The woman spends half her time there anyway. Gives me a headache, listenin’ to her go on about the shoppin’ in Buckhead, the plays at the Fox, all the trendy restaurants.” Reba Mae pointed to a young couple seated at a nearby table. “Well now, isn’t that just the sweetest thing,” she cooed.