Cinnamon Toasted (11 page)

“Sorry,” I mumbled. “What was I thinking?”

Dottie plucked two jars of cloves from a shelf, dropped them into the basket. “Did you hear Fred Higgins has shingles? Irma’s been nagging him to get the vaccine—but did he listen? No, he’s stubborn as a
mule.”

“Ginger happens to be one of the most widely used spices,” I said, in hope of diverting her from tales of misery and suffering. “I have a collection of recipes you might be tempted to try if you ever decide to experiment.”

“Nice of you to offer, Piper, but if I want homemade goodies, I’ll wait for the next funeral. In my opinion, the Methodist women are the best bakers in town. Harvey
and I always take a sample or two home with us.”

Dottie and her hubby were notorious for asking the kitchen crew for to-go boxes, then filling them with choice tidbits from the dessert table. Since Harvey was “Hizzoner the mayor,” folks tended to look the other way.

“Can’t tell you how disappointed I was when I found out Chip Balboa was gonna be cremated. Here I was hoping the Thursday Night
Bingo Ladies would step up to give the man a decent send-off. Show him some old-fashioned Southern hospitality.”

I moved toward the cash register with Dottie trailing. “It’s my understanding Chip lived in California. Whatever made you think his service would be held in Brandywine Creek?”

“Ned Feeney was at the Eternal Rest when the deceased’s widow came to call on John Strickland. She demanded
her husband be cremated the instant his body’s released. When John questioned her, she said since her husband had no family to speak of, she saw no reason to dawdle.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” I said, unloading the bags, jars, and rhizomes onto the counter.

“Mr. Balboa’s widow complained about the high cost of transporting a corpse. Said the price was astronomical, and the money would be
better spent elsewhere.” Dottie fished a credit card out of her purse. “Don’t understand why all the rush.”

Frankly, I didn’t, either. My first impression might’ve been wrong, but Cheryl didn’t strike me as a grieving widow. She seemed more interested in meeting someone for lunch than in mourning her dearly departed. Added to that, Rusty Tulley, trusted friend and business partner, had been under
the impression that the couple was divorced. However, as I’d learned at the police station, the couple was still married. Had they reconciled? Or had one or the other delayed signing the final papers?

“Now, take me, for instance”—Dottie patted her lacquered blond beehive—“when I pass, I’ve given my husband the mayor strict orders that I expect standing room only at First Baptist. Have you given
any thought to arrangements?”

My mind went blank. “Arrangements?”

“Don’t leave the important decisions to others,” Dottie counseled. “There are dozens of things to consider—casket, favorite hymns, type of flowers. Don’t forget to put in writing what clothes you want to be wearin’. You’ll be wantin’ to look your best when folks come to pay their final respects.”

This conversation was creeping
me out, so I abruptly changed the topic. “You never mentioned what you were going to do with the ginger.”

“Spiders,” Dottie replied succinctly.

“Spiders?”

“Noreen McCarthy, a friend in Florida, uses ginger to rid her house of the pesky little buggers. Noreen said she hasn’t needed an exterminator in years. Saves her a bundle.”

“Interesting,” I replied for lack of a better word.

“I’m going
to make little sachets, fill them with ginger, and place them in strategic spots all around the house. Thought I’d add some cloves and nutmeg for good measure. Noreen swears by this method. It’s so much better than those noxious sprays most folks use. Heavens, it can’t be good to breathe those fumes. My niece’s second cousin twice removed met a very untimely end, and all because of a spray can.”

I handed her a receipt along with her purchase. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Toodle-oo,” she sang out as she departed with a merry wave.

“I thought I heard Dottie Hemmings’s voice.”

I turned to find Melly coming down the stairs. Casey’s tail thumped in greeting, but when no doggie treat was forthcoming, he resumed his snoozing.

“Thanks to Dottie, I have to order more ginger. The woman’s on spider
patrol.” As Melly neared, I noticed she looked wan. Her blue-gray eyes were shadowed with worry and fatigue. “You don’t look as though you slept well.”

She gave me a weary smile. “I tossed and turned half the night. I’ll be glad when I can sleep in my own bed again.”

“McBride should finish his investigation soon, and things can return to normal.”

“Normal?” Melly shuddered. “I keep thinking
of that poor man lying in my basement the whole time I was sound asleep. I hope he didn’t suffer in the fall.”

“It’s a beautiful day outside. Why not take a little walk? Some fresh air will do you a world of good.”

“Maybe I’ll do that,” she said, brightening. “I think I’ll stop by Gray’s Hardware and surprise Thompson with a visit. We always seem to find some computer-related topic to discuss.
One nerd to another, as Thompson is fond of saying.”

Melly had no sooner left than the phone rang. It was Doug calling to break our date for that evening. Seems he had a sick dog with anxious owners who needed his attention. Apologizing profusely, he promised to make it up to me, then disconnected.

Restless, I rapped my fingertips on the counter. Saturday night stretched ahead of me like a long
and winding country road. But I had more on my mind than a broken date. A nasty thought worked its way into my mind. I knew Melly hadn’t killed Chip—but that meant someone else had. Did Cheryl Balboa have reason to want her husband dead? I needed a sounding board. So I did what came naturally. I dialed my BFF.

*   *   *

Reba Mae slipped into the booth across from me at North of the Border. Nacho,
one of the owners, dropped by our table with a basket of warm tortilla chips and spicy salsa, and then left and returned minutes later with our drinks. After an eventful week, Reba Mae and I were both ready for a little R & R, which translated into margaritas and girl talk. For a short while, I allowed myself to set my worries aside and relax.

“I thought you might bring Melly along,” Reba Mae
said after taking a sip from a frosted glass rimmed with salt.

“I invited her, but she had a better offer. Thompson Gray’s mother’s bridge group had a last-minute cancellation, and she asked Melly to fill in. Melly was hesitant at first, but I convinced her it would help take her mind off things.”

Reba Mae dipped a chip into the salsa. “Never could get the hang of bridge.”

I picked up a menu.
“Me neither. I’m still hunting for a game I’m good at.”

“Well, besides bridge, you can rule out golf and tennis.”

I grimaced at the reminder. When I was a country club wife back in the day, I tried tennis. My backhand was nonexistent. My forehand wasn’t much to brag about, either. Golf wasn’t much better. Seems I had no muscle memory whatsoever when it came to sports. Nacho returned to our table,
order pad in hand. I ordered my favorite chicken chimichanga while Reba Mae was more in the mood for quesadillas. “How’s my favorite premed student doing in Chapel Hill?” Reba Mae asked as the owner scurried off.

I warmed to the mention of my son. “Chad’s more determined than ever to keep up his grade point average so he can get into one of his top picks for medical school.”

“Wish my Clay was
as motivated as your Chad.” Reba Mae twirled the stem of her margarita glass, her expression wistful. “Caleb is happy as a clam when he’s tinkerin’ under the hood of a car, but Clay seems to be driftin’. He’s taken a class here or there at the community college and works construction pretty steady, but has no clear plans for the future.”

“It takes some kids longer than others to figure out what
they want to do with their lives. Take Lindsey, for example. In the last couple months, she’s wanted to be a veterinarian, a videographer, and lately she’s talking about going to New York to study fashion. Who knows what next week will bring?”

Reba Mae grinned. “Maybe she’ll decide to be a brain surgeon.”

I took a swallow of my margarita, enjoying its sweet-tart taste, and let my gaze roam the
colorful surroundings. Since it was Saturday night, most of the tables and booths were occupied. Red, green, and yellow sombreros, along with posters of Mayan ruins, sunny beaches, and quaint adobe churches, hung on the bright orange walls. The photos reminded me of vacations in Mexico with CJ. Reminded me of the good times. During the last year or so, I’d let the bitterness of our divorce overshadow
happier memories. I was proud to say I was overcoming that tendency.

“Earth to Piper.” Reba Mae snapped her fingers in front of my face. “I almost forgot to tell you, McBride asked Clay’s help with some renovations he’s doin’.”

“Hmm.” As I dipped a chip into salsa generously seasoned with cilantro, I noticed a woman seated at the rear of the restaurant. After straightening in my seat, I leaned
forward for a better look.

“What’s up, honeybun?” Reba Mae turned, curious to find out what had captured my attention.

“See the blonde in the back booth? That’s Cheryl Balboa. Chip’s widow.”

“Who’s the guy she’s with?”

Now, I have to admit, it’s difficult to recognize someone by the back of their head, but Brandywine Creek is a small town, and I knew many of its residents by sight if not by
name. The sun-bleached mop of hair and bronzed nape didn’t ring a bell. “Don’t have a clue.”

“Maybe he’s related to Chip?” Reba Mae suggested.

I frowned. “Somehow, I doubt it. According to the grapevine, Chip doesn’t have much family.”

Reba Mae helped herself to another tortilla chip. “His wife probably needed a shoulder to cry on. Might’ve brought a friend along from California for moral support.”

Before I had a chance to speculate further on Cheryl’s dinner companion, our meals arrived. I cut into my chimi, but without my usual gusto. All the while, my attention kept straying to the couple in the far corner.

Reba Mae added a dollop of sour cream to her quesadilla. “Have you decided what you’re taking to Oktoberfest?”

“I’m not sure,” I answered absently. I saw the mystery man reach across
the table and take Cheryl’s hand. Was that a simple act of comfort? I wondered. Or was there more to the gesture? Cheryl’s openly flirtatious manner confirmed the notion. Even from a distance, it was clear to me she’d already found a replacement for her pudgy, disheveled husband. I tried to tell myself I was being overly suspicious, even cynical. Yet I couldn’t help wondering—since they were
still legally wed—if Chip had been less eager than she to dissolve their marriage. Had he stalled signing the divorce decree? Could that have prompted a frustrated, impatient woman to give the poor guy an angry shove down a steep flight of stairs? Or perhaps Chip had a large life insurance policy with her the recipient? Money topped the motive list when it came to murder, so I’d heard on
48 Hours.
Or was it on
Dateline
?

“I’m thinkin’ of makin’ apple strudel,” Reba Mae said, unmindful of my mental meanderings.

I took a bite of my chimi. “Why do you think Cheryl is in such a hurry to have Chip cremated?”

Reba Mae shrugged. “She’s probably just anxious to get on home.”

“Maybe…” I told myself I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

“I ran into Doug at the Piggly Wiggly. He said he’s
going to try his hand with sauerbraten.” Reba Mae pushed her plate aside.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Cheryl Balboa laugh at something her companion said. In my humble opinion, she seemed too animated, too carefree for a woman who’d recently lost her husband. She acted as though she was on a date rather than in mourning.

We’d barely finished our dinners when Cheryl and her “friend” got
up to leave. Sun-streaked hair, Hollywood handsome, tall and tan, all the dude lacked was a surfboard. Although I tried not to stare, I noticed him casually drape an arm around Cheryl’s shoulders. To my mind, the gesture seemed more affectionate than consoling.

The instant the couple disappeared from sight, I jumped to my feet and tossed some bills on the table. “C’mon,” I said to a startled-looking
Reba Mae. “Let’s go on a little road trip.”

C
HAPTER
13

W
E HOPPED INTO
Reba Mae’s five-year-old Buick, parked at the curb in front of North of the Border. I pointed at a set of taillights moving down the street. “Follow that car.”

Reba Mae gave me a puzzled look, but didn’t question me. Shifting into gear, we headed down Washington Avenue, then turned onto Main Street in hot pursuit of a car that bore a striking resemblance to one I’d
seen outside the Brandywine Creek Police Department earlier that day.

“Keep a couple car lengths behind. I don’t want the occupants to get suspicious.”’

“Jeez Louise,” Reba Mae grumbled. “What do you think this is—an episode of
Hawaii Five-0
?”

“Good analogy. Pretend I’m Detective Steve McGarrett.”

Reba Mae pouted. “Guess that makes me Danno. Why can’t I be McGarrett?”

“Next time.” I peered
through the windshield, trying to make out the logo on the car’s trunk.

“Mind tellin’ me what’s goin’ on?”

“I’m pretty sure that’s the rental car Cheryl Balboa’s driving. I want to see where she and her friend are going.”

Keeping the sedan in sight wasn’t a problem, since traffic was a rare commodity in a town no bigger than a flyspeck on a map. The difficult part was remaining inconspicuous.
I was grateful for Reba Mae’s Buick. My gecko-green VW Beetle would’ve stood out like … a gecko-green VW Beetle.

The car ahead of us sped up as it left the business district behind. A mile farther down, the driver slowed and turned onto a county road that eventually led to the interstate. When the flash of brake lights revealed the distinctive BMW logo on the vehicle’s trunk, I knew my instincts
were spot-on. “It’s Cheryl Balboa, all right,” I said with satisfaction.

Reba Mae darted a look my way. “What next? A stakeout?”