Cinnamon Toasted (21 page)

I’d probably be hyper for the rest of the day, considering all the caffeine I’d consumed, but I’d take my chances. “Felicity,” I said, breaking off a small piece of cinnamon roll, “you mentioned something at Chip’s remembrance
that started me thinking. You told me the two partners argued the night of the accident.”

“Goodness, I’d nearly forgotten.” Felicity spread a cloth napkin embroidered with violets across her lap. “I happened to be delivering fresh linens to one of my guest rooms when I overheard raised voices.”

I sampled my coffee and wasn’t surprised to find it as delicious as advertised. “Did you hear what
the men were arguing about?”

Her mouth turned down in distaste. “I don’t like to be a teller of tales.”

“Normally, I wouldn’t ask it of you.” I crossed my fingers under the table, where she couldn’t see. “Problem is, I’m worried sick about Melly. I thought if I knew more about Chip and Rusty’s relationship, it might shed some light on what happened later. Often even the smallest detail can turn
out to be significant.”

Felicity regarded me in silence for a long moment, then nodded slowly, her decision made. “Since you put it in that light,” she said. “Their disagreement had to do with business. Rusty seemed angry that Trustychipdesign was losing market share. He blamed Chip for its recent poor performance. Rusty accused Chip of allowing his personal life to interfere with work.”

I popped
the last morsel of the roll into my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Do you recall anything else?”

“How shall I phrase this?” Felicity watched a Carolina wren flit through the boughs of a Japanese maple. “Rusty … suggested … Chip might consider stepping down, resigning.”

I leaned back in my chair. That didn’t seem like a simple disagreement.

“It’s not as harsh as it sounds,” Felicity said as
though reading my mind. “I’m certain Rusty regretted the words he said in the heat of the moment. He was genuinely distraught after hearing his friend had passed. I’m convinced the lovely remembrance service he initiated was his way of making amends.”

I finished the last of my coffee and neatly refolded my linen napkin. “One more thing, Felicity. Do you know where Rusty was the night Chip was
killed?”

“Why, he was right here. He spent the entire evening in his room. I assumed he was working.”

“Did you actually see him?”

Felicity pondered the question. “Well, I can’t say that I did. He kept the door of his room closed, but his light was on, so I presumed he was there. I was arranging flowers in the entrance hall. I certainly would have seen him come down the stairs.”

Rusty’s alibi
seemed a slam dunk. I’d reached a dead end. Nothing against Rusty personally, but after hearing about his argument with Chip, I’d hoped it would take the investigation in another direction.

“Thanks for the coffee and cinnamon roll,” I said. As I rose to my feet, another thought struck me. “Felicity, is there another set of stairs, by any chance?”

“You’re forgetting this house was built before
the war.” Felicity chuckled.

I’d lived south of the Mason–Dixon Line long enough to know she referred to
the
war—the War Between the States, as Southerners call it. They’re quick to point out there was nothing “civil” about the conflict.

“Most of these homes,” Felicity continued, “have a servants’ stairs tucked away. The Turner-Driscoll House is no exception.”

My mind churned with possibilities.
In this day and age, a servants’ staircase would nicely serve a teenager trying to sneak out after curfew. Or a guest trying to leave unnoticed. “Is it still in use?”

“My darlin’ girl,” she drawled, “everything here gets used. Waste not, want not.”

I wanted to question her further, but my cell phone jingled. It was Melly. “Come home right this instant. It’s an emergency.”

“Melly!” I shouted
into the phone. But too late, she’d already hung up. “Sorry, Felicity, gotta run.”

I drove the short distance home in a panic. My panic ratcheted up a notch at the sight of an ambulance, lights flashing, outside Spice It Up! I parked haphazardly at the curb. A cluster of people was starting to gather on the sidewalk. I caught a fleeting glimpse of Thompson Gray from Gray’s Hardware; Bitsy Johnson-Jones,
the clerk at Proctor’s Cleaners; and Shirley Randolph, a real estate agent at Creekside Realty. Shirley put out a hand to waylay me, but I shook it off. Had something happened to Melly? A heart attack? A fall? Should I notify CJ? I flew up the stairs, the blood roaring in my ears.

I came to a screeching halt at the sight of two burly EMTs kneeling on the kitchen floor, tending to Ned Feeney.
Melly hovered near the doorway, wringing her hands. From what I could see, she appeared upset but not injured. Ned, on the other hand, was another story. Casey was content to watch the proceedings from the relative shelter of the living room doorway.

Ned sat upright, legs splayed, a dazed expression on his face, eyes unfocused. One of the EMTs pressed a blood-soaked bandage against a gash on
Ned’s forehead. The other waved two fingers in front of Ned’s face. “How many fingers do you see?” he ordered.

Ned blinked. “Four?”

“Mr. Feeney … Ned…,” the EMT said, “we’re going to take you to the emergency room. Let the doctor check you out. You probably have a concussion.”

“Okeydokey.” Ned gave the men a slack-jawed grin. “Didn’t see that one comin’. That durn garbage disposal has it in
for me. Nowhere near as easy as it looks on YouTube.”

I turned to Melly. “What happened?”

“Ned was on his back under the sink. I don’t think he realized how heavy, or how slippery, the old disposal would be once he removed the last bolt. It fell and struck him on the head. I heard the
thunk
clear from the living room.” She wagged her head sorrowfully. “I found Ned knocked out colder than a cucumber.”

First, sewage spilled all over the floor when Ned started to disconnect the plumbing. Next, the disposal had fallen on the poor guy’s head instead of into his hands. Both accidents, I knew, could have been avoided with a little planning.

“Too bad that YouTube video didn’t come with a warning to ‘Be Prepared,’” I commented to Melly as the EMTs hoisted Ned onto a gurney.

C
HAPTER
23

F
ROM THE WAY
Melly fingered her pearls—which I was beginning to regard as worry beads—I could see she was still upset by Ned’s unfortunate accident. “I’m afraid I’m not very good in an emergency,” she fretted. “I just fall to pieces.”

My kitchen resembled the aftermath of a tornado. Tools and bloody bandages, along with various and sundry parts of my new garbage disposal, littered
the floor. Ignoring the mess, I took a box of tea bags and a pretty mug from the cupboard. “Nothing like a cup of chamomile tea to settle the nerves,” I said, putting the kettle on to boil.

Melly sank onto the nearest chair. “I’ll be more myself once I’m home again.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay with Lindsey and me as long as you like.”

“No offense, dear”—Melly smiled wanly—“but nothing
compares to being in your own home, surrounded by your own things.”

While waiting for the water to boil, I straightened the kitchen. “I’ll ask McBride how much longer he thinks that might be.”

“I’d be forever grateful if you did. The less I have to speak to that odious man, the better.”

I prepared Melly’s tea, set it before her, and watched as she took a cautious sip. She seemed calmer now,
more in control. I cleared my throat, then said, “Melly, there is a favor I’d like in return.”

Melly wrapped her hands around the mug, savoring its warmth. “Certainly, dear. All you have to do is ask.”

“I’d like you to put your computer skills to the test. Find out everything you can about Trustychipdesign’s financial situation. Dig deep.”

She raised a brow askance. “Their finances were in
excellent condition when I researched them last spring.”

I picked a bloody piece of gauze up by its corner and dropped it into the wastebasket, then scrubbed my hands. “Things may have changed in the interim. Nothing ever stays the same.”

“I’ll start on it as soon as I clean up this disaster area. Online research will keep my mind occupied. All I seem to do these days is worry that I’ll be arrested
for a crime I didn’t commit.” Tears pooled in her eyes, and she dabbed at them with a tissue from a box on the kitchen table. “I don’t want my grandchildren to see their meemaw behind bars.”

I went over to put an arm around her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Melly. We’ll get this figured out. It just takes time.”

Ten minutes later, I went downstairs to open Spice It Up! I admitted privately that I
wasn’t feeling nearly so optimistic as I tried to make it sound. Time was proving to be Melly’s enemy, not her friend.

*   *   *

People drifted in and out all morning to inquire about Ned’s accident. Reba Mae’s appearance following the noontime rush was a welcome diversion.

“Stopped by the Pizza Palace for calzones,” she announced, brandishing a paper sack. “Hope you’re hungry.” Not waiting
for my response, she handed me one.

“Not hungry, starved.” I produced a couple cans of Diet Coke from the fridge in the back.

Reba Mae unwrapped a calzone, and instantly the shop was filled with the delicious aromas of tangy marinara sauce and spicy pepperoni. “The Klassy Kut’s buzzin’ about how Melly beaned Ned on the noggin.”

I popped the tab on my soda. “Melly
didn’
t hit Ned. When all the
facts come to light, Ned will be the one to blame for the accident. I suspect the old disposal was heavier than he anticipated. It probably slipped from his hands and knocked him silly.”

“I didn’t really believe what the ladies were sayin’.” She took a bite of calzone and washed it down with soda. “I heard the hospital’s keepin’ him overnight for observation. He keeps mumblin’ about a stainless
steel flange. Not makin’ a lick of sense.”

“Does he ever?” I was instantly ashamed of myself. Even though Ned was one sandwich shy of a picnic, he had a heart of gold. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“S’all right.” Reba Mae plucked a piece of pepperoni from her sandwich and chewed. “I can’t face tomorrow night starin’ at the tube. Want to be my date for the football game? Unless you and
Dr. Doug have plans.”

“Sure. I’ll go with you.” I wiped my greasy fingers on a paper napkin. “Funny, but Doug hasn’t mentioned the game.”

“You two have a fight?”

“Not that I know of.” It had become a habit of Doug’s and mine to attend the Brandywine Creek Bearcats’ home games together. Doug was convinced that it was a good policy for local business owners to be visible in the community. Talk
of Doug only served to remind me I’d forgotten to return his call. I stifled a groan and promised myself I’d phone right after lunch.

“How’s Melly holdin’ up these days?” Reba Mae asked.

“Umm … she’s doing okay, considering the circumstances. Right now, she’s baking a batch of gingersnaps for Doug’s sauerbraten.”

Reba Mae swung her leg, causing her black suede clog with its three-inch cork
sole to dangle from her foot. “Dottie Hemmings came in for a color and cut. She says her husband, Hizzoner the mayor, is pressurin’ McBride to make an arrest. The mayor claims an unsolved murder is a black mark on the town in general—and McBride in particular.”

“Hizzoner the mayor happens to be an old windbag.”

“Maybe so”—Reba Mae shrugged—“but McBride still has to answer to him and the city
council if he wants to keep his job.”

For reasons I didn’t wish to explore, I disliked the thought of McBride moving elsewhere. “I ran into McBride at Lowe’s last night. Helped him choose a couple appliances.”

“Clay wishes McBride would make up his mind on cabinets and countertops. The man might know his way around a Smith and Wesson, but he doesn’t know diddly-squat about renovations.”

“I
don’t suppose McBride has much time to be worrying about fixing up a kitchen with a homicide to solve.” I balled up my sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the trash. “I’m going to crash CJ and Amber’s dinner party later tonight. Care to join me? I want to get better acquainted with the lovebirds. Cheryl might have an alibi, but I’m not one hundred percent certain about the boyfriend. He could have a
motive to want Chip dead.” And after my conversation with Felicity, I was beginning to suspect Rusty might as well.

“Wish I could, honeybun, but I’ve got lines to memorize.” She patted her recently dyed blond hair. “Truvy Jones is a central character in
Steel Magnolias.
She’s in every scene. I need to be prepared.”

I cringed. Seems “be prepared” was the slogan of the day.

Reba Mae wrinkled
her nose. “What’s that I smell?”

Now I smelled it, too. The scorched odor of burned baked goods. This was followed by the sound of metal clattering on floor tiles. Reba Mae and I looked at each other. “Melly’s gingersnaps,” we said in unison.

“I’ve got highlights waitin’ on me,” she said, moving toward the door. “If I were you, hon, I’d stay clear of upstairs and let Melly simmer down.”

I took
Reba Mae’s advice. Discretion is the better part of valor, as a wise man once said. I was reaching for my cell phone to call Doug when a group of women garbed in red hats and purple outfits descended on Spice It Up!

“Fran,” called a pretty woman with reddish-blond hair peeking out from a red hat trimmed with purple feathers. “Wait till you see this place. It’s right up your alley. Fran’s a gourmet
cook,” she explained.

A gray-haired woman with warm brown eyes laughed off the compliment. “Maureen’s being kind. I just like to cook, is all. Try different things.”

“It’s true,” Maureen insisted. “Fran even makes pasta from scratch.”

I suffered an acute case of hair envy at the sight of Maureen’s stylish and well-behaved reddish hair. My salesmanship, however, eventually overrode my spate
of hair envy. “Feel free to browse,” I told the Red Hat ladies. “I’ll be happy to answer any questions you might have.”

“What a cute place,” commented a tall, athletic woman with short auburn hair graying at the temples. “Are you the owner?”