Cinnamon Toasted (20 page)

But sleep wasn’t an item on my agenda. I felt as though I could samba all night. I’d asked the waitress for decaf at the restaurant, but wondered if she’d given me high-test instead. I tried flipping through channels
on the small television on the dresser, but nothing held my interest. Next, I picked up the crime novel on my bedside stand but couldn’t seem to concentrate. My thoughts tumbled like socks in a clothes dryer. I’d been mistaken to focus all my attention on Cheryl Balboa. Since she had a solid alibi, I was obviously overlooking something. Or someone. Who other than Cheryl might want Chip dead?
Where was Troy while Cheryl ate pizza? And what about Rusty “Trusty” Tulley?

I knew as well as I knew my own name that Melly had nothing to do with Chip’s death. I was equally certain that if the real killer wasn’t found, Melly would be upgraded from “person of interest” to “suspect.” It was only a matter of time—and time was running out. Cheryl and her boyfriend weren’t going to stick around
Brandywine Creek forever. Rusty would either fly back to California or complete the road trip he’d started with Chip.

I tapped my fingers on my closed laptop. Thinking. Thinking. Thinking. I thought back to the remembrance Rusty had hosted in Chip’s honor. What was it Felicity had mentioned? Something about a quarrel between the partners? What had they argued about? How much had Felicity overheard?
I decided to pay the woman a visit the following day. Nothing like a face-to-face discussion.

Even if I did learn why the men had disagreed, it still wouldn’t explain why a small bottle of eyedrops was significant. Plenty of people used eyedrops. Thousands, maybe millions. I’d seen an identical bottle on the dresser in Cheryl and Troy’s motel room. Time to do a little sleuthing. I might not have
been a whiz like Melly when it came to computers, but Google and I were BFFs. Smiling to myself, I powered up the laptop.

I typed in the name of a popular brand of eyedrops, the kind Melly kept in a small basket on her kitchen table. From that point on, the rest was simply following a trail of bread crumbs. I clicked on the eyedrops’ ingredients. A chemical by the name of tetrahydrolozine was
listed as the “active” ingredient. Curious, I Googled “tetrahydrolozine.” In seconds, the search engine showed more than one hundred thousand hits.

A frisson of excitement raced through me as I read the symptoms of tetrahydrolozine poisoning. Rapid heartbeat, difficulty breathing, blurred vision, nausea, nervousness, headache, irritability, and changes in blood pressure. Coma and even death could
result when swallowed.

I leaned against the headboard as I digested this information. I’d be willing to bet that tetrahydrolozine was what the medical examiner found in Chip Balboa’s stomach contents. Did McBride think Melly put eyedrops into Chip’s drink—and when he started to feel ill and his vision blurred—gave him a hard shove down a flight of stairs?

Just then, Lindsey poked her head in
the door, a towel wrapped turban-style around her newly washed hair. “G’night, Mom.”

My girl, fresh from her shower, smelled of soap and lemon-scented shampoo. She half turned to leave when I stopped her. “Not so fast, young lady. There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

She came into my room and perched on the edge of the bed, absently stroking Casey’s shaggy head. “What’s up?”

“Dr.
Winters dropped by the shop this afternoon,” I said, closing the lid of the laptop.

Lindsey avoided looking at me by pretending an interest in a group of framed family photos that hung on the wall. But I recognized guilt when I stared it in the face. Lindsey seemed to forget I’d once been a teenager, too, trying to hide certain … shortcomings and transgressions from my parents.

“Doug was acting
very strangely, standoffish. At first, I thought he was angry with me.” I waited a heartbeat for Lindsey to say something, but when she didn’t speak, I continued. “Turns out, he wasn’t angry at all, but hurt. Seems he’d phoned a number of times, but couldn’t understand why I never returned his calls.”

Lindsey remained quiet.

“He said that each time, he’d left a message with you and asked that
I return his call.”

“Guess I forgot,” Lindsey said, sounding defensive. “You know how busy senior year can be. Between cheer practice and getting ready for homecoming and pep week, there’s never time.”

Granted, there was a grain of truth in Lindsey’s words, but it was what she didn’t say that bothered me. “That’s what I told Doug.”

“If that isn’t enough, there’s always a quiz to study for or
an essay to write. I hardly have a minute to myself,” Lindsey whined. She stood and picked up Casey, who lathered her chin with kisses. “Are you finished?”

“Not quite. Is there anything else you might’ve forgotten to tell me?” I asked, giving Lindsey an opportunity to explain why she’d told Doug that her father and I had been spending time together.

Lindsey studied the ceiling. “Um … now that
you mention it, Doc called tonight while you were out. I told him you were at Lowe’s.”

“Did he leave a message?”

“He wanted you to call him back if it wasn’t too late. Is that all?” she asked plaintively. “I have to get up early and still need to dry my hair.”

Oh, to have so many pressing demands on my time.
“G’night, Linds.” I sighed. “In the future when someone calls, write it down on the
notepad next to the phone.”

“Whatever.” In her haste to leave, she’d shed the damp towel that had been wrapped around her wet hair.

I climbed out of bed, picked it off the floor, and folded it. I’d been under the impression Lindsey liked Doug. She had been on his pit crew during the annual Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival last July. She occasionally worked at his animal clinic. Now she habitually
“forgot” to relay his messages. What was that about? And then there was all the talk about divorced couples remarrying each other. Even with CJ’s impending marriage to Amber, did Lindsey still harbor hope for the two of us reuniting like in some made-for-television movie?

The clock on the nightstand told me it was too late to return Doug’s call. I resolved to phone him first thing in the morning.
Yawning, I returned the towel to the bathroom towel rack. Lindsey wasn’t the only one with a busy day ahead. A visit to the Turner-Driscoll House was in order. I planned to pump Felicity for information on Rusty and Chip’s argument.

And I planned to be an uninvited guest at CJ and Amber’s little dinner party. I was curious to learn more about Troy, Reba Mae’s fantasy pool boy. What sort of man
was he? Did he possess a volatile temper? Or was he the type easily manipulated by others? And last but by no means least, did he stand to benefit from Chip Balboa’s death? Tomorrow promised to prove interesting.

C
HAPTER
22

“I
CAN’T TELL
you how sorry I am,” Melly said for the zillionth time.

“It was an accident, Melly,” I replied for the zillionth time. “Accidents happen.”

I finished my morning coffee, rinsed my cup, and put it in the dishwasher. I was feeling virtuous after having gotten up early for my run. I’d half-expected to find CJ on my doorstep, but there’d been no sign of him. I couldn’t
wondering if he’d given up on being in tip-top shape or if he was delaying further exertion until his consultation with a personal trainer.

Melly brushed crumbs from her English muffin off her navy slacks. “Well, I insist on paying Ned for the installation.”

No sooner had she spoken than a knock on the rear door signaled Ned’s arrival. I hurried downstairs and let him in. He’d arrived promptly
at nine o’clock, as promised.

“Hey, Miz Piper.” He doffed his ever-present ball cap with its Georgia bulldog logo and gave me a loopy grin that never failed to put me in mind of the Gomer Pyle character ably played by Jim Nabors. “Heard you needed an expert.”

“Come in,” I said, stepping aside. I’d briefly considered doing the installation myself rather than trust Ned Feeney. I didn’t share Melly’s
conviction that he was the right man for the job, but since she was holding the purse strings …

Ned followed me up the stairs. “I told Miz Melly that I’d be more ’n’ happy to fix you up. Told ’er I wouldn’t charge y’all an arm and a leg, either.”

“We appreciate that, Ned,” I said, entering the kitchen.

“Morning, Ned.” Melly greeted him. “Care for a cup of coffee? Piper always likes those fancy
kinds. Today she made us Blue Mountain coffee all the way from Jamaica.”

She referred to an extravagance of mine. Kona from Hawaii. Blue Mountain from Jamaica. I usually hoarded them for special occasions—or when my sprits needed a boost. Once, feeling generous, I’d brought a thermos of freshly brewed Kona coffee and blueberry muffins to McBride. Of course, I’d hoped for something in exchange,
in the form of information. Typical McBride, he was stingy as usual.

“No thanks, ma’am,” Ned said. “Filled up on coffee at the Gas and Go. One more punch on my Coffee Club Lover’s card, and I get a free twelve-ounce cup of their house blend.”

Call me a snob, but anyone who prefers Gas and Go coffee—which tastes like varnish—over beans grown in Jamaica is unworthy of my precious cache.

Ned jiggled
the tool belt sagging from his scrawny waist. Pliers, screwdriver, and wrench clanked together. “Brought my tools. Never know what you might need. Be prepared’s my motto.”

I was tempted to remind Ned that his motto “Be Prepared” also belonged to the Boy Scouts of America. If memory served, it was also the title of a song from
The Lion King.
Given more time, I’d hum a few bars.

“Show me to it,”
Ned said, rubbing his palms together.

I motioned at the box on the kitchen floor. Ned read the description printed on the label, then nodded knowingly. “You picked a good one, Miz Piper. Stainless steel flange and all. This baby oughta last a long time, unless you go droppin’ spoons down the drain.”

Melly winced. I rushed to sidetrack yet another apology that had started to form. “I’ll leave
you to get started on the disposal, Ned. If you need anything, Melly will be close by.”

“Piece of cake. Nothin’ to it.” Ned hitched up his baggy jeans. “Could install this little number in my sleep.”

“Great,” I replied as I headed down to Spice It Up! “Nice to know I can leave the installation in your capable hands.”

Since I still had time before opening for business, I grabbed the feather
duster and started making the rounds. I’d barely had time to flick the duster over jars of cinnamon and cloves in the Hoosier cabinet when Melly hollered down for me. “Piper! Quick! Get up here!”

I dashed upstairs, taking the steps two at a time. Casey, instantly awake from one of his multitude of naps, bounded after me. I slid to a halt on the threshold of the kitchen. Casey, the victim of too
much momentum, sailed across the floor on a sea of water and sewage that spilled from a pipe below the sink.

Ned—half in, half out of the cabinet—pressed his hand against the pipe gushing waste, futilely attempting to staunch the tide. Melly watched the goings-on, horrified. I grabbed a mop bucket and, sidestepping the mess, shoved it under the leak to catch what hadn’t already drained out.

“Didn’t see that one comin’.” Ned eased out from beneath the counter and accepted the towel I handed him.

“Gracious!” Melly exclaimed.

“Not to fear, Miz Piper. I’ll have this mess cleaned up in a jiffy,” Ned assured me.

My cell phone buzzed just then. As luck would have it, Felicity Driscoll was calling to ask if I carried fenugreek. I assured her I not only stocked fenugreek seeds but would
also be more than happy to deliver them personally. I overruled her objections and said I’d run them right over.

“Melly,” I said, turning to my former mother-in-law. “I need to take Felicity something. I shouldn’t be long.”

She brightened. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ll mind your little shop if you’re not back by ten.”

Melly loved playing shopkeeper. If anything, she loved it a tad too much. Once,
when I’d been running errands, she took it upon herself to rearrange all my spices alphabetically. Another time, she’d made changes on my pricey point-of-sale software without asking. I shuddered to think what creative “improvements” she might make in my absence.

“Thanks,” I said. I snatched my purse and left.

Minutes later, Felicity, perfectly groomed, met me at her door. “So nice of you to
do this, Piper. I’m making curry tonight. The recipe calls for fenugreek seeds. Naturally, I thought of you.”

“The seeds need to be ground to release their flavor. They combine well with cardamom,” I said, handing her the small jar. “I planned to call you later today. There are some questions I’d like to ask. Do you have a couple minutes?”

“Your timing’s perfect. I was just about to sit down
for a cup of coffee.”

I followed her down the long marble entry hall to the kitchen. The kitchen, large enough to accommodate a small restaurant or café, was as modern as the rest of the house was antebellum. The appliances were high-end stainless steel; the countertops, pale quartz. White glass-fronted cabinets stretched to a high ceiling and were filled with neatly stacked china and crystal.
The most stunning feature, however, was the view. A bank of windows overlooked a meticulously landscaped yard and gardens with flowering shrubs. Because the weather had been unseasonably mild, many plants, such as clematis and knock-out roses, were reblooming. A gazebo stood in the center, the perfect site for a wedding.

“Have a seat.” Felicity gestured toward a table and six ladder-back chairs.
She poured dark, rich coffee into thick white mugs and set them on the distressed wooden table along with a plate of iced cinnamon rolls speckled with dried currants. “I made these for my guests, but they decided to sleep in.”

How could anyone in their right mind refuse homemade cinnamon rolls? It was downright uncivilized. I wouldn’t dream of insulting my hostess by declining her gracious offer,
so I took the only option open and helped myself.

“The coffee beans are from Ethiopia,” Felicity said, taking a seat that gave her an unrestricted view of the garden.