Cinnamon Toasted (17 page)

Ignoring me, McBride went directly to Melly and handed her a folded document. “This is a warrant signed by Judge Herman to search
the premises at 239 Jefferson Street.”

Melly’s mouth opened and closed in astonishment.

I snatched the paper from her and scanned the contents. Anger and frustration sizzled in my blood as I returned the document to her. “Unbelievable!” I fumed. “Why the search warrant? What do you expect to find in Melly’s home besides an AARP card?”

“New evidence has come to light,” he said, still not looking
at me. “We initially treated Balboa’s death as accidental and didn’t do an extensive search. Now, because of the report from the GBI, we have probable cause.”

Before I could question him further, Lindsey burst into the shop. And she wasn’t alone. The young man with her was tall with short, wavy brown hair and hazel green eyes. If there were a shred of doubt in my mind as to his identity, it would
have been dispelled by the name embroidered on his varsity jacket—
SEAN ROGERS
. I groaned silently. What a time she’d picked to introduce her family to her homecoming date.

Lindsey skidded to halt when she spotted McBride. Her gaze traveled back and forth between me and her grandmother. Sean hung back, uncertain. “What’s wrong?” Lindsey asked.

“Chief McBride dropped by to present your meemaw
with a search warrant,” I told her. No point in sugar-coating the facts, I thought glumly. News like this spreads faster than kudzu.

“What for?” Lindsey cried. “What did she do?”

“I didn’t do a thing,” Melly replied, indignant. “The man is trying to justify his salary by harassing a law-abiding senior citizen.”

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have smiled at hearing Melly play the senior
citizen card. She did that only on rare occasions and only when it worked to her advantage. These, however, weren’t “ordinary” circumstances.

Lindsey unfastened Casey’s leash, and the little mutt trotted over to sit at McBride’s feet, expecting his usual scratch behind the ears. Not even the hopeful gleam in the pup’s dark eyes softened McBride’s demeanor.

I cleared my throat. “The warrant specifies
chemical substances. Precisely what type of substances are you looking for, McBride? Illegal drugs?”

Melly gasped at the implication. “That’s preposterous! The only drug I take is for high blood pressure.”

Which was probably about to shoot through the roof, I thought. “When is this warrant going to be executed?”

“My men are standing by, awaiting the word.” With that, McBride turned and left
the shop with the silent Officer Moyer close behind.

I dived into my pocket for my cell phone. “I’ll call CJ,” I told Melly. “I’ll ask him to meet us at your place.”

Melly reached for her purse. “Tell him to get a move on.”

We formed a caravan of sorts. McBride and Moyer in their squad car led the parade. Melly accompanied me in my Beetle, and Lindsey and Sean brought up the rear in his beat-up
Impala. Much to Sean Rogers’s credit, the kid didn’t bolt and run at the first sign of trouble. Or maybe he just wanted a front-row seat at what would turn out to be a circus.

Soon, drawn like fleas to a hound, a crowd began to gather on porches and sidewalks near Melly’s house. Gerilee Barker chanced to be taking Bruno, her black Lab, for a stroll. Thompson Gray’s mother, Mavis, muttered something
about returning a book she’d borrowed. Jolene Tucker, no doubt alerted about the festivities by her husband, Beau, didn’t bother with pretense. In her haste, she hadn’t paused long enough to take the rollers from her hair. Everyone, it seemed, wanted to be an eyewitness to the most exciting event since the Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival.

CJ’s sleek Lexus screeched to a halt behind one of
the police cars at the curb. He leaped out and jogged to where I stood with Melly. Lindsey and Sean remained at a short distance apart from the others. “What in Sam Hill’s goin’ on?” he thundered.

“Apparently, McBride and his troops are looking for a chemical substance of some sort,” I explained.

“Does the fool think Momma’s runnin’ a meth lab in her cellar?”

“CJ, really!” Melly darted a look
around. “What will the neighbors think at hearing that kind of talk?”

CJ draped an arm across his mother’s slim shoulders. “Momma, you should be back at Piper’s restin’. Watchin’ all this can’t be good for a body.”

“Nonsense.” Melly drew her sweater tighter. “I’m not going to sit by while a bunch of men ransack my home.”

“Daddy,” Lindsey wailed. “Can’t you do something?”

“Wish I could, baby.”

“Isn’t Judge Herman an old friend of the family?” I asked. “He and your mother were bridge partners not long ago.”

CJ frowned. “I gave Cot a call on the way over. He claimed his hands were tied. Told me to assure Momma this is nothin’ personal.”

I could make out men’s figures moving back and forth inside the house. “What do you suppose they’re looking for?”

“Damned if I know.” CJ tunneled his
fingers through his salon-styled hair. “Chemical substances could be anythin’ from cough syrup to furniture polish.”

“I’m scared, CJ,” I confessed in a low voice. “I don’t like the direction this is all heading.”

“I’m scared, too, darlin’.” CJ slipped his free arm around my waist and pulled me closer.

Leaning against him, I rubbed my cheek against his starched shirt and inhaled the familiar
scent of his cologne. He felt strong, solid. Comforting. For a moment, it seemed almost like old times.

The search of Melly’s house turned out to be mercifully brief. I straightened and drew away from CJ as McBride bounded down the steps, an evidence bag clutched in one hand. Lindsey and Sean moved closer until the five of us resembled refugees huddled against a storm.

McBride went directly
to Melly and held up an official-looking bag containing a small plastic bottle. “This yours?”

“Yes, of course it’s mine,” she snapped. “Whom else would it belong to?”

“What did you find, McBride?” CJ, his shoulders braced, stood as tall as his five-foot-ten-inch frame allowed. “As her attorney, I have a right to know what you consider evidence.”

“Check your law books, CJ,” McBride said. “You’re
jumping the gun. Far as I know, evidence isn’t shared until the discovery phase of a trial, and we’re not there … yet.”

Clearly upset, Melly wrung her hands. “I don’t understand why I’m being treated like a common criminal. All this fuss because of a little disagreement about the low offer Trustychipdesign wanted to pay me. Why, any red-blooded person would’ve been insulted. Naturally, I was
angry and upset. Who wouldn’t be?”

“Momma”—CJ held up his hand—“on the advice of your son—and your attorney—
don’t
say another word.”

Hearing CJ volunteer to represent his mother made me shudder. While he fancied himself Perry Mason, he lacked Perry’s finesse in front of a jury. His specialty was trip-and-falls that were settled out of court. Heaven forbid if Melly needed a criminal defense lawyer
and chose him.

CJ motioned toward the evidence bag. “What’s this all about, McBride?”

A tick would have merited more attention. “Mrs. Prescott,” McBride addressed Melly, “you need to come down to the department for fingerprinting.”

Melly’s eyes widened with shock. “Whatever for? I’m no felon.”

“Just routine,” McBride informed her, his tone neutral. “We need to exclude your prints in case more
than one set are present on the container.”

“Don’t you worry none, Momma,” CJ said, then turned to McBride. “I’m comin’ along.”

McBride headed for his patrol car. “Suit yourself.”

“We’ll all go,” I said with finality. “Times like this, families need to stick together.”

“We’re coming, too, Meemaw,” Lindsey called out. I noticed she and Sean were holding hands.

“Remember, Chief McBride said
this is only routine.”

Melly shook her head. “All this bother over a little bottle of eyedrops. I swear, I don’t know what this world’s coming to.”

“Eyedrops?” CJ’s voice rose. “Is that what McBride took as evidence? You sure ’bout that?”

“Son, I saw the container plain as day.” She took my arm as we turned to leave. “I often suffer from eyestrain after staring at a computer monitor hours on
end. I keep eyedrops on my kitchen table along with a few pens and pencils in a sweetgrass basket I bought years ago at the City Market in Charleston. You know … the kind of basket the Gullah ladies make.”

CJ stood planted on the walk and scratched his head. “Don’t see how eyedrops could get you into a heap of trouble. McBride’s had it in for me ever since our scuffle in high school. Might be
this is his way of gettin’ back at me.”

I steered Melly through the looky lous, toward my car. “This isn’t about you, CJ,” I reminded him over my shoulder. “It’s about your mother.”

And a bottle of eyedrops—not to mention Chip Balboa’s dead body.

C
HAPTER
19

W
HY ARE GOOD HABITS
so difficult to acquire and so easy to lose? The morning after Melly’s fingerprinting, it was time to get back in the saddle, so to speak. That is if sneakers, hoodie, and ball cap could be equated with a saddle. I needed to resume my jogging routine, which had been disrupted ever since Melly had found a body in her basement.

Casey watched me tie the laces of
my sneakers, his tail thumping rhythmically on the floor. His button-bright eyes gleamed with anticipation. He was telling me in doggy terms he’d also missed our morning runs.

“All righty, boy,” I whispered, reaching for his leash. I quietly closed the kitchen door behind us, not wanting to wake Melly. Lindsey had already left for school. Together Casey and I ran down the stairs as noiselessly
as possible and slipped out the rear door into the vacant lot behind my shop.

“Hey, Scooter. Care for company?”

I nearly jumped out of my skin at the sound of CJ’s voice. My hand flew to my chest, where I could feel my heart thudding against my rib cage. Casey, bless his furry little soul, growled low in his throat, read to serve and protect.

“Chandler Jameson Prescott!” I nearly shouted. “Don’t
you dare sneak up on me that way ever again!”

Now that my heart rate had returned to near normal, I noticed he’d dressed for the occasion in a navy blue tracksuit that looked more suitable for sipping wine in front of a roaring fire at a ski resort than for zipping down side streets of small-town USA.

Casey sniffed CJ’s thick-soled, name-brand, and obviously expensive running shoes and began
to lift a hind leg.

“Don’t even think about it, you mangy mutt,” CJ snarled.

“Don’t you insult my dog!” I shot back. Casey, unused to being reprimanded so harshly, backed off and relieved himself in a clump of weeds.

Resting my palms against the rough brick of the building, I performed a few simple, gentle stretches to limber up muscles in my calves and thighs. “Okay, CJ, why are you masquerading
as an athlete?”

“What’s wrong with what I’ve got on?” CJ asked, instantly on the defensive. “Accordin’ to Amber, this is Nordstrom’s finest in men’s sportswear.”

I pointed at his red, white, and blue striped headband. It looked like something the front man in a rock group might wear. “The headband Amber’s idea, too?”

CJ mimicked my warm-up routine. “Amber thinks I need to work out. Wants me
in tip-top shape for the nuptials. Lindsey mentioned you’d started joggin’. Thought you might give me a few pointers.”

“It’s best to start at a brisk walk,” I said, my warm-ups over. “Try to keep up.” I headed for the street, Casey at my side.

CJ matched his stride to mine. “No problem. You’re forgettin’ I used to play sports. Football, baseball, tennis.”

“From the paunch you’re developing,
I’d say the only exercise you get these days is punching the buttons of the remote control.”

“Amber’s turnin’ into a regular slave driver. She’s after me to skip the prime rib and order salad. I didn’t spend years eatin’ tuna casserole and meat loaf so I can deny myself a good piece of meat now I can afford it.”

“Poor baby,” I said, picking up the pace.

CJ, not about to be outdone, followed
my example. “Amber’s talkin’ about me signin’ up for a Pilates class at the club. She’s thinkin’ about hirin’ a personal trainer.”

Why, oh why, had I fallen for CJ’s sob story during our divorce? He’d convinced me that we were strapped for cash with Chad’s plans for medical school and Lindsey’s upcoming college expenses. Like an idiot, I’d believed him. I took him at his word and agreed to a
cash settlement. All of which I’d invested in Spice It Up! Owning a business of my own had been a long-held dream. Now, while I struggled to make ends meet, CJ lived in relative luxury. But to quote a cliché, money can’t buy happiness True happiness, I’d learned, came from within. I felt good about the woman I’d become, confident and proud of my accomplishments.

I broke into a jog. “A personal
trainer, eh? Must be nice.”

CJ gamely kept up with me. “Amber met this guy by the name of Troy at the drivin’ range the other day. He claimed to be a personal trainer visitin’ here from California with a friend. Amber invited him over for dinner and drinks tomorrow night—and a free consultation.”

Alarm bells sounded in my head. A visitor from California? Were Troy-at-the-driving-range and Cheryl
Balboa’s surfer dude one and the same? McBride wasn’t the only one who didn’t believe in coincidence. I hadn’t figured out the particulars, but I planned to be an uninvited guest for CJ’s “free consultation.”

“Can you slow down a bit?” CJ whined. “I’m not trainin’ for a marathon.”

“Fine.” I obliged. “Now, are you ready to tell me the real reason you showed up at my back door this morning?”

“I’m worried about Momma,” he confessed. “How was she after you got ’er home last night?”

“Frankly, I’ve never seen her more upset,” I admitted. “She kept complaining about the fingerprinting ink. Must’ve washed her hands a dozen times. Made me think of Lady Macbeth: ‘Out, damned spot.’”

“Didn’t know you knew any, ah, ah,” he panted, “Shakespeare.”