Cinnamon Toasted (16 page)

“I want to meet this young man you talk so much about. Why not invite him for dinner soon?” I said, taking the receipts up again and tucking them
into an envelope.

“I will, promise.” Casey licked Lindsey’s chin with his wet, raspy tongue, making her giggle. “And we need to shop for a dress. Something amazing. There’s a good chance Sean will be voted homecoming king.”

I put the envelope in a drawer of the cash register. “Does that mean you might be elected queen?”

Lindsey set Casey on the floor. “Oh, Mom, there are a lot of girls prettier
than me who’ll get votes.”

Still, I could read my daughter’s mind. I knew she knew that she was in the running for that coveted honor. “Let’s set time aside soon to go to the mall. I heard there’s a new Italian restaurant nearby we might like to try.”

“Sure, sounds like fun.” Lindsey found Casey a doggy treat from a jar under the counter and handed it to him. “Okay if Amber comes along? She
knows the managers of all the boutiques from her pageant days.”

Two’s company; three’s a crowd. That might be a cliché, but in this case, no truer words were ever spoken. I forced a smile again even though I feared my face would crack. “No problem.”

“Great. I’ll text her.”

A glance at my watch told me I’d better hurry if I didn’t want to be late for Chip Balboa’s remembrance. I intended to
keep a close eye on the Widow Balboa. Could she—would she—shed a tear for her dearly departed? Or merely display the cool detachment of an about-to-be ex-wife who’s already moved on? Better yet, maybe I’d detect a flicker of guilt for having hastened her husband’s untimely demise. “Are you sure, Lindsey, that you can manage the shop by yourself?”

“It’s never very busy this time of day.” She went
over to her backpack and leaned down to pull out a three-ring notebook covered in hearts and flowers. “This will give me time to study for the history quiz tomorrow.”

“Great.” I fished my compact out of my purse and inspected my makeup a final time. I hoped the heavier-than-usual coat of mascara would draw attention to my eyes and away from the blasted freckles peeking through the light foundation
I’d applied earlier. I wasn’t sure what the appropriate attire was for this afternoon’s final tribute, so I’d chosen every woman’s go-to—the little black dress. Equally suitable for cocktail parties or funerals. “See you later,” I said as I went out the door.

*   *   *

Cars filled the drive of the Turner-Driscoll House, so I parked at the curb and walked up the circular drive as quickly as my
slim skirt and three-inch heels allowed. I spotted Cheryl’s rental parked in front of Reba Mae’s Buick. Reba Mae, bless her heart, had squeezed Melly in for a wash and set, then volunteered to give her a ride over. The dark Cadillac belonged to Dottie Hemmings. I wasn’t sure who owned the Toyota Corolla.

Felicity greeted me at the door, her somber expression befitting the occasion. “Everyone
is congregating in the entrance hall. The remembrance will begin in just a few minutes in the front parlor.”

Felicity effortlessly oozed charm and chic. Her silver hair was worn in a short, no-nonsense style. Smile lines bracketed lively brown eyes. She’d been married to a prominent Birmingham physician. After his death, she’d moved to Brandywine Creek determined to restore a house that had been
in her husband’s family for decades. She was a people person, loved to entertain, so operating a bed-and-breakfast proved a perfect fit.

The entrance hall, which ran the length of the house, was large enough to accommodate a marching band. I stood for a moment to get my bearings. Guests formed small clusters on the black and white marble checkerboard floor. A staircase with a mahogany banister
gracefully curved to bedrooms on the second level. An ornate gilded mirror hung above an antique console decorated with a gorgeous centerpiece of white hothouse roses and rosemary. Unable to resist, I leaned forward for a whiff of the peppery-pine fragrance.

“Rosemary is for remembrance,” Felicity said from over my shoulder. “I thought it would add a nice touch.”

“I’m sure Rusty appreciates
the gesture.”

“He’s been struggling to deal with the loss of his friend. The two had a terrible row the night of Chip’s unfortunate accident. I think this is Rusty’s way of making amends for the harsh words.” Felicity nodded toward the doorway of the parlor. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on the refreshments.”

Before I had a chance to fully process what Felicity had just told me,
Reba Mae separated herself from a group that included Melly, Dottie, and Thompson Gray. “Hey, honeybun,” she said. “I been waitin’ on you. You’re not usually late. Thought you might’ve had a change of heart and decided not to come.”

The front door opened to admit a latecomer. McBride stood for a moment, his cool blue eyes surveying the assembled guests.

“Whoo-ee!” Reba Mae fanned herself. “That
man sure cleans up well.”

“Mmm.” I tried to keep my tone neutral, although I secretly agreed he looked handsome in dark blazer, pale blue shirt, and gray pants.

“By the way,” I said, hoping to sound offhand, “I drove out to his place last night. We shared a pizza.”

Reba Mae waggled her eyebrows suggestively. “Anythin’ else you care to share?”

I leaned closer and spoke softly, “Cheryl Balboa
wasn’t in California the night her husband died. She was here the entire time.”

Reba Mae’s eyes widened. “You’re kiddin’, right?”

“I think she might’ve had something to do with Chip’s death.”

The babble of voices in the entrance hall faded into silence. I glanced around to find the cause. Everyone’s eyes were trained on the staircase. Cheryl Balboa, stunningly dressed from head to toe in black,
befitting a recent widow, her blond hair swept into a fashionable chignon, slowly descended the stairs. I had to give the woman points. She knew how to make an entrance.

“I saw an actress with that hairdo on
The Young and the Restless.
Been wantin’ to try it ever since,” Reba Mae said, referring to the off-center knot at Cheryl’s nape.

“Nice,” I murmured. Out of the corner of my eye, I studied
Rusty’s expression. His face looked pinched as he observed Cheryl’s slow descent. I wondered where Cheryl had stashed her boyfriend. Had she sent him packing? Or was he still holed up at the Beaver Dam Motel while she called on her limited acting skills to portray a grieving widow?

Felicity rang a little silver bell to get people’s attention. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we adjourn to the parlor,
where Rusty will share memories of his dear friend, Chip Balboa.”

With Felicity leading the way, we filed after her. The parlor still retained its formality from when the house was first built. Brocade draperies, velvet settees, Aubusson carpet, and precious antiques all contributed to the ambience. Late afternoon sunlight filtered into the room through double-hung floor-to-ceiling windows along
two walls. A mahogany sideboard held a series of photographs chronicling Rusty and Chip’s friendship through the years.

Rusty stood next to the fireplace. Cheryl, I noted, preferred to stand apart from the others. “First of all,” Rusty began, “I want to thank you all for coming this afternoon to honor a man you didn’t know. I hope when you leave today, you’ll feel acquainted with a man I regarded
as a brother.”

A strangled sound that might have been a sob—or a laugh—came from the widow.

Rusty pretended he hadn’t heard anything and continued. Hands stuffed in his pants pockets, he spoke about meeting Chip in college, sharing a dorm room, and about their decision to form Trustychipdesign.com.

“Tell us about the road trip you and Chip were on,” Melly encouraged when he seemed to falter.

Rusty’s smile was tinged with sadness, but he readily complied. He held up a photo showing the two of them with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background. “We started our odyssey in San Francisco, then moved on to the Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, New Orleans, and Birmingham before traveling to Atlanta and eventually Brandywine Creek.”

Cheryl cleared her throat loudly. “I didn’t come prepared for this
little show-and-tell, but I do happen to have our wedding picture with me.” She drew out a framed photograph that had been hidden behind Rusty’s display. Her face screwed up until she looked like she was going to burst into tears.

“There, there, dear.” Dottie reached out and patted her arm. “You’re among friends.”

At the sight of Dottie’s plump hand on her forearm, Cheryl sniffed her unshed
tears into submission. “I want everyone to know our wedding day was the happiest day of our lives. True, our marriage had hit bumps in the road, like many marriages often do, but Chip and I loved each other in spite of our … differences.”

I swore she was about to say “divorce” but changed it into “differences” at the last second.

Cheryl dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “Chip phoned, and after
a long talk, we agreed to work on our problems. We planned to reconcile.”

Rusty snorted at hearing this, and Cheryl returned a look as lethal as a poisoned dagger. “My husband and I loved each other—deeply,” she concluded, her lower lip quivering.

“You poor thing.” Dottie enfolded her in a bear hug. Cheryl’s arms flailed as she tried to wriggle free, but Dottie only clung tighter.

I placed
a hand over my mouth to stifle a giggle. Shame on me. I didn’t dare glance at Reba Mae for fear we’d both break down and laugh. Once the giggling started, stopping wasn’t easy.

Felicity clapped her hands, much like Mother Superior back at St. Agnes Grade School. “If y’all will follow me, refreshments are waiting in the dining room.”

Everyone trailed out except for Reba Mae and me, who lingered
to examine the photographs. I picked up a candid shot of the partners high-fiving with a Trustychipdesign logo in the background. “They look so happy in this one. I wonder what they argued about the night Chip died. I’m going to have to ask Felicity if she knew.”

Reba Mae didn’t answer. Instead she was staring intently at Chip and Cheryl’s wedding picture. “Take a gander,” she said. “I swear
it’s been Photoshopped. Looks like the groom was cut out of the photo, then put back in. What do you think?”

I examined the photo, too. “You might be right. Chip’s face is identical to the one in the Trustychipdesign snapshot. Right down to the smudge on one lens of his eyeglasses.”

“Well, don’t that beat all?” Reba Mae murmured. “Why do you suppose she’d go to all the trouble?”

I thought of
Cheryl Balboa’s theatrics and histrionics and knew the answer. “Because she wants people to think they were a loving couple. And to point suspicion away from her.”

“It’s most always the wife or the husband, isn’t it?” Reba Mae linked her arm in mine. “Let’s go eat.”

Halfway across the entrance hall, we paused. Red and blue lights strobed through the sidelights of the front door. Seconds later,
someone jabbed the doorbell three times in quick succession. Felicity hurried to answer. I noticed the others guests, including McBride, had migrated into the entrance hall to find out why the commotion.

Sergeant Beau Tucker stood on the doorstep, puffed with self-importance. He adjusted his utility belt with one hand while his other hand clutched a document of some sort. “I have something for
the chief that can’t wait.”

McBride shouldered his way between Dottie and Thompson Gray, who gawked unashamedly. “What is it, Sergeant?”

Beau Tucker shoved the sheet of paper at him. “Thought you’d want to see this ASAP.”

Seeing McBride’s expression upon scanning the document, I felt a sinking sensation in the pit of my stomach. “What is it?” I asked.

“Toxicology report,” he replied.

C
HAPTER
18

“I
T WAS NICE
of Thompson to go to Chip’s remembrance, wasn’t it?” Melly asked.

Melly and I had just returned to Spice It Up! from the Turner-Driscoll House. The clock on the wall told me it was almost time to lock up for the day. Upon seeing us, Lindsey had been more than happy to take a break from her schoolwork and take Casey for a romp in the park.

“Thompson has always struck
me as the thoughtful type,” I said as I opened the drawer of my antique cash register and began to count the day’s receipts.

Melly watched, her fingers toying with her strand of pearls. “Thompson met Chip only the one time when I’d introduced him as president of our local computer club. He’s such a lovely man. You can see that in the way he treats his mother. Shame he never married. He would
have been a good catch for some lucky woman.”

I half listened as Melly droned on. Instead of concentrating on the cash I was counting, my mind roamed. I kept wondering about the significance of the toxicology report. McBride indicated it was important for reasons he didn’t care to divulge. Beau Tucker’s attitude when he’d arrived at the bed-and-breakfast reinforced the notion of its importance.

Seeing how the amount never tallied, I finally gave up counting bills and switched tasks. As I slipped quarters into coin rollers, I made a mental note to ask McBride if he’d made any progress in obtaining Cheryl Balboa’s phone records. The woman certainly would reap enormous financial rewards as Chip’s widow rather than as a divorcée. If McBride could prove she’d trailed her husband across the
country and was in Brandywine Creek the night of Chip’s fatal fall, well, that would certainly move her up a notch on his persons of interest list.

“I don’t understand why Chief McBride was at the remembrance.” Melly shot me a disapproving look when she saw me slip a nickel in with the quarters. “Doesn’t that man ever smile?”

I started separating dimes from pennies. “I suppose McBride was there
to observe. That’s part of his job description, his training.”

Melly pursed her lips. “Well, if you want my opinion, it seems disrespectful. Let the dead rest in peace, I always say.”

I snatched a penny in time to keep it from rolling off the counter, then looked up as the door opened, expecting to see Lindsey and Casey. Instead McBride strode into Spice It Up!, trailed by Officer Gary Moyer.
My stomach lurched at the sight of McBride—and this time it had nothing to do with him being tall, dark, and hunky. McBride, I noted, had changed out of civvies and back into uniform. The expression on his face spelled trouble. “Well, speak of the devil…,” I muttered.