Cinnamon Toasted (22 page)

“Yes,” I said. “I’m Piper Prescott. Where are you ladies from?”

“My name’s Joan, by the way,” she said, introducing herself. “We’re from a small town you’ve
probably never heard of in South Carolina.”

“We’re making a day of it,” said a woman with a marked New York accent. “Our husbands are on their own for dinner tonight.”

Curious, I said, “Brandywine Creek is off the beaten path. How did you ladies hear about our little town?”

“Maureen—she’s our ‘queen’—read an article about it in a magazine,” Fran explained. “She arranged a fabulous lunch for
us at Antonio’s.”

“And before lunch, we toured the opera house,” offered a petite brunette, the most fashionably attired of the group. She turned to Joan. “What was the woman’s name who showed us around?”

Joan shook her head in annoyance. “Oh, heavens, I don’t remember. I hate that I can’t recall names like I used to.”

Fran laughed. “That’s one of the advantages of living in a retirement community.
None of us remember names.”

The women all chuckled.

“I think it was Sandy,” the petite brunette replied.

“Leave it to Janet to come up with the name,” Joan grumbled good-naturedly.

“That must’ve been Sandy Granger,” I said. “I’m sure she mentioned the opera house is over one hundred years old. Did she tell you about the resident ghost? There’s even a chair reserved for it on the third-floor
balcony.”

Through an open doorway, the New Yorker spotted Casey lying in the storeroom at the foot of the stairs. Apparently he, too, had been avoiding Melly. “What a cute dog!” she exclaimed. “Is he a cairn terrier like Toto in
The Wizard of Oz
?”

“Rosemarie’s secretary of our local humane society,” Maureen explained.

“I’m afraid not,” I said. “Casey’s from a long distinguished line of mutts.”

The women spread out in all directions. I was happy to see most of them took one of the small wicker baskets near the register.

“Hi, I’m Jan.” A tall woman with short, light brown hair and a red visor approached me. Earrings with tiny red hats swung from her earlobes. “I’m chairing a golf outing at the club. I asked the food service to do a German theme. I showed the chef a recipe that calls
for juniper berries, but he told me the Food Lion doesn’t carry them, and he doesn’t have time to drive to Augusta or Atlanta. I don’t suppose…?”

“Right this way,” I said, leading her to a shelf where most of my ethnic spices were displayed.

“What about kala jeera?” asked Fran. “My husband, Mike, likes Indian cuisine.”

Happy to oblige her as well, I plucked a jar from the shelf. I watched Fran
lift the lid. An exotic, flowery scent wafted out. “Kala jeera is also called black cumin. Use these fairly soon because they lose their flavor rapidly.”

Maureen glanced around, then asked in a raised voice, “Has anyone seen Carol? What about Ann and Claudell?”

“Carol spotted a garden shop around the corner.” Rosemarie examined the label on a jar of pink peppercorns from the French island of
Réunion. “I think Ann went with her. Ann and John are replacing some shrubs. Who better than a master gardener to tag along with?”

Maureen still looked worried. “Where’s Claudell?”

“She ducked into the antiques store,” Jan supplied.

Joan laughed. “Ever since we lost Fran at an outlet mall, Maureen started taking a head count.”

Their shopping finished, the Red Hatters formed a queue at the
counter. I had to admit, Fran knew her way around a kitchen. In addition to kala jeera, she purchased mahlab used in Greek dishes and galangal, a frequent ingredient in Thai cooking. The attractive brunette, whom I heard referred to as Janet, turned out to be a baker.

“My husband’s favorite pie is apple,” Janet confessed, handing me her Visa.

“Then you’ll love this combination I created from
cinnamons of Indonesia and Ceylon, freshly grated nutmeg, and cloves from Madagascar,” I told her while waiting for her receipt to print.

“Is it true allspice really isn’t a blend of spices?” This question came from Jan, the golfer.

“Contrary to popular belief, allspice is a berry grown in the Caribbean and not a blend,” I said, feeling as proud as if I’d answered the question on Final Jeopardy!

Joan lowered her voice and leaned forward. “Maybe you can tell us if the restaurant where we had lunch today, Antonio’s, is the same one where a chef was found stabbed to death a few months ago.”

I glanced up and realized I had a rapt audience. “Ah, yes,” I murmured. “It is.” Wouldn’t these nice ladies be shocked to learn I not only discovered the body, but for a while was also the number one
suspect in Chef Mario Barrone’s murder.

“I remember reading about it in the newspaper,” Janet said.

“There was another murder here, too, wasn’t there?” Joan persisted.

Fran fished a couple of bills from a tote bag shaped like a large red hat. “I saw it on television. A show on the Cooking Network called
Some Like It Hot
ran the story. If I remember correctly, a woman was bludgeoned with a brisket.”

“When my husband heard we were coming to Brandywine Creek, he wanted me to stay home. He said this town was dangerous,” Rosemarie said. “I had to promise we’d stick together.”

Maureen brought out an iPhone. “Piper, would you please take our picture?”

As the Red Hatters formed a tight cluster in front of a Hoosier cabinet filled with baking spices, my thoughts weren’t on snapping a photo. I felt
sick with dismay to hear Brandywine Creek was earning a reputation for murder and mayhem. Once word of Chip Balboa’s death spread, the news would keep potential customers away in droves—or bring them here in tour buses.

C
HAPTER
24

S
PICE
I
T
U
P
! seemed unusually quiet without the laughter and chatter of the Red Hatters. And I still hadn’t called Doug. I hesitated phoning him in the middle of the day. I didn’t want to interrupt him in the midst of a crucial nip-and-tuck procedure. Doug, I knew, planned to hire a full-time receptionist but so far hadn’t found the right person.

I slowly walked up and down the
aisles, stopping here and there to straighten or rearrange. With no customers to distract me, I felt restless, edgy. It was a relief hearing Melly’s light footsteps on the stairs. I turned to find her standing tentatively on the threshold between the storeroom and shop, a paper sack in her hand.

“I assume you’ll be seeing Doug sometime between now and the Oktoberfest,” she said. “When you do,
would you kindly give these to him?”

“Be happy to,” I said, taking the bag. “Matter of fact, if you don’t mind watching the shop, I’ll run this over right now. If he’s busy, I’ll just leave them at the desk.”

“Don’t mind a bit. I’m trying to stay busy, keep my mind off things.”

The thought of vanishing from my shop for an hour or so filled me with guilty pleasure. I deliberately shelved any
lingering qualms I had about leaving Melly in charge. Suddenly, I was a kid about to play hooky. After reaching for my purse under the counter, I retrieved my compact, snapped it open, and applied fresh lipstick. “I shouldn’t be too long.”

“No need to rush,” Melly replied as she donned a Spice It Up! apron. “While you were busy waiting on customers, I took the liberty of starting a pot roast
for dinner tonight.”

“Pot roast?” I stared at her, my mind blank.

“You’re forgetting that Lindsey invited Sean Rogers for dinner. A person can’t go wrong with old-fashioned meat and potatoes.”

“Right, right,” I muttered. Though I had met Sean only once, I already liked him. A search warrant and subsequent trip to the police station had been a baptism of fire for the young quarterback. Certainly
less than ideal conditions under which to meet your homecoming date’s family. Instead of bolting, he’d stuck by Lindsey’s side throughout the ordeal. He’d earned his pot roast. “Melly, do you suppose you’ll have time to make biscuits? Mine are never as good as yours.”

Melly smiled the first genuine smile I’d seen in days. “Piper, dear, Southern girls are born knowing how to make light and fluffy
biscuits.”

“So”—I returned the smile—“the secret’s finally out. It’s all in the DNA.”

On impulse, I tucked a small jar of kala jeera into my handbag, a peace offering of sorts. Doug would be pleased to have the key ingredient for an exotic Indian dish he’d talked about making. If it turned out as tasty as predicted, I intended to corral him into doing a cooking demonstration sometime soon.

Ignoring the reproach in Casey’s dark doggy eyes at being left behind, I hurried to my car. I waved to Pete Barker, who was sweeping the walk in front of Meat on Main, then continued down Old County Road toward Pets ’R People. Not even the overcast sky could dampen my spirits. Cattle grazed in a farmer’s field. The oaks and sweet gums were a blaze of gold. The scene was peaceful, bucolic. I could
almost—almost—forget my troubles.

All too soon I reached my destination, a rambling ranch-style house with white vinyl siding and glossy black shutters. One end of the building served as Doug’s living quarters; the other, an animal clinic. The first thing I noticed was the police cruiser in the drive. Worried, I snatched Melly’s bag of cookies and my handbag, jumped out of my Beetle, and dashed
inside.

The reception area was deserted with one notable exception: Wyatt McBride. He lounged in a visitor’s chair, idly thumbing through an issue of
Modern Cat
.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded, hands on hips. “Shouldn’t you be hiding behind a billboard, waiting to give speeding tickets to unsuspecting motorists?”

He flashed me a lazy smile that hinted of dimple. “Good afternoon to you,
too.”

I tucked a rebellious curl behind one ear. “Seriously, don’t you have a murderer to catch? According to Klassy Kut gossip, Mayor Hemmings and the city council are breathing down your neck.”

“That so?” He resumed his reading.

“And if that isn’t enough, a group of nice Red Hat ladies informed me Brandywine Creek is on the road to wrack and ruin. It’s time for you to put on your cape and
save the town from destruction.”

He flipped a page. “No can do. My cape’s at the dry cleaners’, and I have to pick up my cat.”

I slumped into the seat next to him. “Guess we all have our priorities.”

“Fraidy’s here for her well-cat visit. I dropped her off on my way to work this morning.”

The notion of McBride as a cat lover was taking some adjustment. I set the bag of cookies on an end table
and picked up a magazine called—of all things—
Bark
.
Modern Cat
and now
Bark
? Who knew? I browsed through ads and advice columns before stealing a sidelong glance at McBride. “Don’t suppose there are any new developments in the case that you’d care to share?”

“New developments? Can’t say for sure, but I might could be bribed. For instance,” he said, his expression sly, “how do you feel about countertops?”

“Well, let me think.” I pretended to ponder the matter. “Countertops are a handy place to make sandwiches. They’re useful when cooking—but, oops, I forgot—you prefer takeout. You’re probably the only person I know who could get along
without
countertops.”

He closed
Modern Cat.
“You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“Nope.” I hid my satisfaction behind a glossy ad for puppy chow. “Any
advice comes with a price.”

He appeared to mull this over, then nodded. “All right,” he said, “but only on condition that you answer my question first. Laminate or tile?”

“Neither.” My prompt retort was met with a frown. “While laminates are budget friendly,” I explained, “they’re prone to scratches, burns, and in some cases, stains. With tile, you need to make sure the grout is well sealed.
Unsealed grout can result in staining, and any standing moisture can contribute to bacterial growth.”

“So what would an expert such as yourself recommend?”

Hmm. This conversation had taken a serious turn. “Depending on your taste and price range, I’d go with quartz, which is an engineered stone. Granite or one of the solid-surface brands would also be good choices. They’re durable and will be
in it for the long haul. Or, as you so inelegantly phrased it, until they carry you out feetfirst. Okay, McBride, your turn to talk.”

Just then, an angry feline yowled behind a closed door leading to the treatment rooms. McBride glanced over, looking as jittery as a dad-to-be in the maternity ward.

“Don’t worry,” I soothed. “Doug has a way with animals. Now give me an update before he appears
with Fraidy.”

McBride tossed his magazine aside and rose. “The only prints on the bottle of Visine belonged to Melly.”

Duh!
I surged to my feet, ready to do battle. The difference in our heights would have made this confrontation laughable to an outsider. David and Goliath. “That’s it? Of course the prints were hers. They were her eyedrops.”

“Since Miz Prescott’s were the only prints found,
we’re ruling out the possibility that someone else put the drops in Balboa’s drink.”

“Did you check for prints elsewhere? If a person came into Melly’s home while she was upstairs, they must’ve left prints behind.”

McBride’s jaw clenched, his blue eyes turned steely. “This isn’t Mayberry, and I’m not Barney Fife. Of course we checked. The knobs on the back door of the house and the door leading
to the basement had been wiped clean.”

“B-but…,” I sputtered.

Approaching footsteps from the clinic side brought our conversation to a halt. I was determined, however, to continue it another time.

Doug appeared, the cat in one arm, a pet carrier in the other. He looked startled at seeing me but grinned, then switched his attention to McBride. “Except for being a little malnourished, Fraidy’s
an otherwise healthy two-year-old female,” Doug announced.

Spying McBride, Fraidy sprang from Doug’s arm to McBride’s in one graceful leap. McBride caught her easily and stroked his pet’s sleek black fur. “Glad to hear that, Doc. How much do I owe you?”