Cinnamon Toasted (15 page)

McBride’s Ford pickup was parked next to the house. I pulled
up behind it, got out, and went up the walk. McBride—or someone—had done extensive yard work since my last visit. The hydrangeas and viburnum had been trimmed, the holly tamed. I also noticed another difference: A refrigerator stood on the porch in a spot previously occupied by an aluminum lawn chair. I felt like I’d wandered into an episode of
The Beverly Hillbillies
—minus the Beverly Hills.
My knock was answered almost immediately.

“Come in.” McBride stepped aside and motioned for me to enter. He’d taken time to exchange his uniform for jeans and a sweatshirt. “You’re just in time for supper.”

I found myself in the midst of a work in progress. A kitchen that had formerly been on my right now lay gutted and bare. A wooden plank resting across two sawhorses held a toaster, salt-
and pepper shakers, and McBride’s George Foreman grill. The outdated red and black linoleum in the kitchen, along with threadbare carpeting in the rest of the house, had been ripped out and replaced with a plywood subfloor.

“Cozy,” I commented.

“The lady’s being facetious,” McBride said with a smile. “Eventually, I’ll have hardwood floors throughout.”

I gestured to a large sheet of plastic
taped over a gaping hole. “Don’t tell me,” I drawled. “You lost your temper and put your fist through the wall.”

“Funny,” he said. “I’m having a French door put in, which will lead onto a deck.” He led the way to a drop-leaf table covered with chipped and yellowed paint with an unopened pizza box as its centerpiece. “Like anchovies?”

“Anchovies?” I blinked at the sudden change of topic. “No,
not really.”

“Good, neither do I.” He flashed a grin that showed off the dimple in his cheek that I found so appealing. “Have a seat.”

I sat. “I came here to talk, not interrupt your dinner.”

“Heard women are good at multitasking. Now’s your chance to prove it.” He sorted through a cardboard box that held an assortment of kitchen items and produced two paper plates. “I even have china.”

“That
isn’t china,” I said, laughing in spite of myself. “It’s Chinet.”

“China or Chinet, they both hold food. What would you like to drink? I don’t have Diet Coke, so it’s either beer or water.”

“Water works for me.” I served up the pizza while he went out to the porch and returned with beverages—bottled water for me, a can of Bud Light for him.

I bit into my slice, savoring tomato sauce richly
flavored with basil, oregano, thyme, marjoram, and garlic. The recipe was local chef Tony Deltorro’s carefully guarded secret. “No one makes better pizza than the Pizza Palace.”

“I’ve heard folks rave about Chicago-style deep dish.” McBride tore off several sheets from a roll of paper towels and handed me one to use as a napkin.

“Never been to Chicago, but I don’t know how it could top this.”
I scooped up a mushroom that had managed to escape from the gooey mozzarella. “What’s your trick for getting pizza home while it’s still hot?”

“I keep one of those hot-and-cold insulated bags in my truck. It also keeps ice cream from melting between the Piggly Wiggly and here.”

I looked at him skeptically as I helped myself to a second slice. McBride was fit and trim. He didn’t carry an extra
pound. I wished I knew his magic formula. “I’d never have taken you for an ice cream–loving kind of guy.”

McBride took a swig of beer. “Strawberry’s my favorite. What’s yours?”

“Blue Bell’s butter pecan,” I answered, naming not only the flavor but also the brand. “In my humble opinion, they make the best. I think it’s all the pecans they add.” I took a sip of my water. “Gee, McBride, this conversation’s
turning personal. What next, favorite TV shows?”

He took another slice of pizza—it might have been his third, but who was counting? “Okay, I’ll play along. You go first.”

“I’m a big
CSI
fan, and, of course, I love the Food Network.”

“Figures.”

I ignored his sarcasm. “Now your turn.”

He studied the label on the beer can before confessing, “I like
Dancing with the Stars.
”

I couldn’t have been
more surprised. Leaning back in my chair, I decided to test him. “Humor me, McBride. If you like
Dancing with the Stars
so much, which winners were your favorites?”

“Hines Ward, for one.”

“Hmm.” I nodded. “Wasn’t he a professional football player?”

“Fourteen years with the Pittsburgh Steelers, voted MVP of the Super Bowl. Also played for the University of Georgia. And”—he grinned as he snatched
the last slice of pizza—“Hines won perfect scores for both the Argentine tango and the quickstep.”

“You probably read all that in
Sports Illustrated.
If you’re such a huge fan, who else?”

“Emmitt Smith.”

“Another football player?”

“Dallas Cowboys most of his career. A great running back.” He took a long swallow of his beer. “I’ve got two left feet when it comes to dancing. Never did learn
the shag. I turned green with envy, watching Doug and Reba Mae take home the trophy at the barbecue festival for their fancy footwork.”

I felt a stab of guilt at the mention of Doug’s name. I was enjoying Wyatt McBride’s company far too much. Doug Winters was the one I should have been with sharing likes and dislikes with, not McBride. My loyalty rightfully belonged to Doug, a mild-mannered veterinarian.
Not a hunky policeman who looked better than he ought to in faded jeans and scruffy sweatshirt.

“Dessert?” Unmindful of my inner turmoil, McBride rummaged through the cardboard box and unearthed a half-eaten bag of Oreos.

“Sure.” Pizza
and
cookies? My metabolism couldn’t compete with his. I made a mental note to resume jogging, a habit I’d fallen out of since Melly’s grisly discovery.

McBride
wolfed down a couple of Oreos, then leaned back, arms folded across his chest. “Now, what brought you out here in the first place?”

I felt a frisson of anticipation, now that the “reveal” was at hand. “You can cross Melly off your persons of interest list.”

“That so?”

I nodded so vigorously, my curls bounced. “You need to check out Cheryl Balboa. She should be your number one suspect.”

“Exactly
why do I ‘need’ to do this?”

“Motive, means, and opportunity,” I replied succinctly. “Cheryl has all three. With Chip dead, Cheryl is entitled to inherit everything—house, cars, cash, and half of Trustychipdesign.”

“Aren’t you overlooking one important fact? Cheryl Balboa was in California the night her husband was killed.”

“That’s where you’re wrong.” I paused for dramatic effect, then played
my trump card. “Cheryl was right here in Brandywine Creek the entire time.”

McBride lifted one dark brow, the one bisected with a small scar, ever so slightly. “And you came by this information how?”

“Because Bugs-B-Gone offered a twenty-five-dollar coupon to customers who signed a year-long contract. Termites, spiders, ants. They promised to spray every other month, whether you need it or not.”

“You lost me.” He tapped the empty beer can on the tabletop. “What do bugs have to do with any of this?”

“Nothing, but Buzz Oliver does,” I said. “If you recall, Buzz is the senior tech at Bugs-B-Gone. Buzz came by Spice It Up! this afternoon to perform routine pest control. While he was there, he let it slip that Cheryl and her boyfriend checked into the Beaver Dam Motel late Wednesday afternoon.”

“Is he sure about the date?”

“Not just sure, he’s positive. Cheryl was the reason he was late for bowling. His team had to forfeit points.”

I could almost see the cogs in McBride’s brain start to grind.

“Chip’s body wasn’t found until Thursday morning,” I reminded him needlessly. “Both the coroner and ME concluded he died Wednesday evening. You’ve been under the impression Cheryl was two thousand
miles away when you called to inform her that Chip was dead, but she was right here in Brandywine Creek the whole time.”

He leaned forward, hands loosely cupped around the empty beer can, his expression thoughtful. “When I phoned Cheryl Balboa, she told me she’d be here as soon as she could make travel arrangements.”

“Some travel arrangements,” I scoffed. “All the way from the Beaver Dam Motel
to the police department, where she auditioned for the role of grieving widow.”

“You referred to Cheryl Balboa’s ‘boyfriend.’ Tell me what you know about him.”

“The guy looks like he was born with a surfboard tucked under his arm. He’s the Ken doll to her Barbie. You know the type—tall, bronzed, and built. Lots of sun-streaked blond hair. Reba Mae wants to hire him for a pool boy.”

He seemed
puzzled. “Reba Mae doesn’t have a pool.”

“Point made.”

“How long have you been aware of Cheryl’s friend?”

I shifted my weight. Had the chair suddenly gotten harder? “We—Reba Mae and I—saw them canoodling in a back booth at North of the Border on Saturday night. So we tailed them to the Beaver Dam.”

“Tailed them?” McBride pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger. “Please
don’t tell me you women are playing detective again. How many times do I have to warn you to stay away from trouble?”

I raised my chin defiantly, but the action was wasted on him. “We saw them embrace, then go into a motel room together.”

“Interesting.” Climbing to his feet, he discarded the pizza box and paper plates in the nearby trash can.

“Interesting? Is that all you’re going to say?”
I huffed out an impatient breath. “Aren’t you going to bring Cheryl in for questioning? Subpoena her? Grill her? Find out why she lied about being in Brandywine Creek? See if she has an alibi? Ask her the last time she talked to Chip? The last time she saw him?”

One side of McBride’s mouth quirked in obvious amusement. “I’m looking for someone to replace Sergeant Blabbermouth. Care to fill out
an application?”

My mouth dropped open. “You’ve fired Beau?”

“I put him on probation. The man needs to learn the meaning of privileged information in an ongoing investigation. And to keep his mouth shut.”

“Don’t blame Beau.” I tugged my lower lip between my teeth. “It’s my fault. I cornered him at the football game and forced him to tell me everything he knew.”

McBride’s beer can clanged as
he dropped it into a plastic bin labeled
RECYCLE
. “Did you use thumbscrews? Or did you resort to water boarding?”

“Beau was caught between a rock and a hard place. It was either answer my question or the cheese on his nachos would congeal.”

“Tough choice.”

I rose from my chair and neatly pushed it against the table. “You still haven’t told me what you’re going to do about Cheryl. Why not get
a copy of her cell phone records like they do on TV? They should be undisputed proof to show where she was when you called to tell her about Chip.”

“Since you seem to know so much, you ought to know I can’t do that without a court order.”

“So,” I challenged, “what are you waiting for?”

A loud meow sounded before he could reply. My head jerked around at the cry. I watched a cat slink out a door
that I assumed belonged to a bedroom. The feline looked dressed for the opera, its fur like a black tux with a snowy-white shirt front. Its eyes glowed like twin emeralds. Half of one ear was conspicuously absent, ruining the cat’s haughty pose.

“A cat? You have a cat?” I asked in amazement.

“She’s a feral cat. At least part feral. She sort of adopted me. Kept coming up to the porch, looked
half-starved, so I started feeding her. When the temperature dropped a couple weeks ago, I finally let her inside. Now she doesn’t want to leave the house.”

I stooped down. “Here, kitty, kitty,” I crooned.

The cat responded with another plaintive meow, turned tail, and retreated back into the bedroom.

“Well, I guess she told me in no uncertain terms,” I said, both irritated and amused at the
animal’s behavior. “Does your pet have a name?”

“Fraidy.”

I rolled my eyes. “As in ‘fraidy cat’?”

“The name suits her. Fraidy doesn’t trust people,” he admitted. “I keep her in the bedroom when workmen are around.”

Would wonders never cease? Not only did the man love watching
Dancing with the Stars,
but he’d befriended a homeless feline, too. What else was hidden beneath the tough-guy exterior?

“G’night, Wyatt,” I said.

“G’night, Piper.”

I left him standing in the center of his self-proclaimed work in progress. It wasn’t until I was almost home that I realized I’d called him by his given name.

C
HAPTER
17

L
INDSEY PRACTICALLY FLOATED
through the front door of my shop. “Sean asked me to homecoming.”

I stopped sorting credit card receipts at the counter. “That’s wonderful, sweetie.”

“I worried he was going to ask Brittany Hughes, but he was waiting by my locker after French class.” She plunked her backpack on the floor, grabbed me around the waist, and twirled me in a circle. “Can
you believe it? Sean Rogers asked
me
to homecoming.”

Casey, who had been indulging in his favorite pastime—napping—woke up and wanted to be part of the celebration. Barking excitedly, he wagged his tail back and forth and pranced about.

“You’ll really like him, Mom,” Lindsey said, releasing me and scooping up Casey.

I gazed into my daughter’s flushed face, her sparkling eyes, and felt my breath
catch. Before I knew it, she’d be off to college. The years had flown. One minute it’s diapers and teething; the next, they’re finishing high school and choosing a career. I cleared my throat. “I think Sean Rogers is one smart guy for picking you.”

She stroked Casey’s shaggy brown fur until the pup almost purred like a kitten. “Sean’s cool. He listens, he really listens when I talk.”

I smiled
once more. I knew exactly what she meant. Doug Winters did that very same thing whenever we talked. My smile dimmed when it dawned on me I hadn’t heard from him recently. That wasn’t like Doug. Was something wrong? I made a mental note to find out.