Cinnamon Toasted (23 page)

“I’ll have my receptionist bill you. Oops!” Doug smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Forgot I don’t have a receptionist.”

“I’ll
spread the word you’re looking to hire,” McBride said. “The grapevine works better than an ad in
The Statesman.
”

“Nice kitty,” I said, reaching out to pet the cat now purring contentedly in the crook of McBride’s arm. Fraidy hissed, and I quickly withdrew my hand.

McBride smiled smugly.

I frowned. “Animals usually like me.”

“Felines can be selective about whom they like—and whom they don’t,”
Doug said in an attempt to soften the rejection.

I watched McBride coax his cat into the pet carrier. He was zippering the carrier shut when I remembered Melly’s request. She’d skin me alive if I forgot to ask him when I had the opportunity. “Melly wants to know when she can return home.”

McBride straightened. “Tell her anytime she wants. I’ll have one of my men take down the crime scene tape.”

“That ought to please Melly,” Doug commented as McBride left the clinic. He took off his glasses and polished the lenses on the sleeve of his lab coat. “I’ll admit I was surprised to see you. For a minute, I thought Casey might be having a problem.”

“It was too late to call when I got home last night, so I thought I’d pay you a visit instead.” I was careful to leave out the part about Lindsey
almost forgetting to give me the message—again. “You won’t believe the day I’ve had.”

He gathered me in for a much-needed hug. “Poor baby, tell me all about it.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, inhaling a faint antiseptic smell along with the woodsy aroma of his aftershave. Doug felt solid, safe, dependable. I hugged him in return, grateful at having such a wonderful man in my life.

Leaning
back slightly, I smiled up at him. “Where to begin…”

I fully expected Doug to cry “too much information” partway through my narrative. Typical Doug, he listened attentively while I recounted finding Ned Feeney bleeding on my kitchen floor. I ended by telling him about the Red Hatters who came to browse but stayed to shop.

Doug tunneled his fingers through his hair. “The reason I called was to
explain why I haven’t mentioned the football game tomorrow night. Josh, a colleague from vet school, wants to get together for dinner. Since we live a distance apart, it works best if we meet halfway. I hope you’re not angry.”

“Why would I be angry?” I asked. “Is this the colleague you left Casey with when your father had his heart attack?”

“One and the same.”

“Well, by all means, give him
our best.”

Doug lowered his mouth to mine, his kiss slow and sweet. I felt my mind empty, my bones turn to jelly.

It wasn’t till minutes later when brain cells started to fire again that I remembered the dual purpose of my visit. I retrieved the paper bag from the table where I’d left it and handed it to him. “This is for you.”

“A present?” The brown eyes behind his rimless glasses gleamed
with anticipation.

“Gingersnaps for your sauerbraten.”

After peeking at the bag’s contents, he scowled at me. “What in the blazes?”

Curious, I peeked, too—and couldn’t believe my eyes. Melly had substituted a store-bought brand in place of her award-worthy gingersnaps. I managed a sickly smile. “Well, that confirms what Reba Mae and I smelled burning.”

“Don’t worry.” Doug shrugged it off.
“Melly has a lot to deal with these days. I’m sure no one will be able to tell the difference.”

Truth of the matter, I was more worried than ever. Not about store-bought versus home-baked cookies, but about Melly’s state of mind. I kept thinking about that on the drive home. Melly’s concern was justified. If the matter of Chip’s death wasn’t resolved soon, she could be charged with homicide.
First, second, or third degree all resulted in jail time.

I tapped my fingertips against the steering wheel. Things hadn’t been good to begin with—such as Chip dying long before it was reported—and they kept getting worse. McBride said the only fingerprints on the Visine belonged to Melly. What I didn’t understand was why there were no prints on the door handles. That struck me as odd. Very odd.
Since Melly lived alone, her fingerprints should have been everywhere.

Suddenly I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the damp, overcast weather. Some person—Chip’s killer—had methodically erased evidence he left in Melly’s kitchen. He, or she, had entered the house uninvited while Melly was upstairs. He then shoved a drugged, disoriented Chip Balboa down a flight of stairs to his death.
What if Melly had returned downstairs in time to witness that shameful act? Would she have been the killer’s next victim? If a stranger had entered undetected once before, could they, would they, try again?

Was Melly safe?

C
HAPTER
25

C
LOSING TIME HAD COME AND GONE.
I’d heaved a sigh of relief when I returned home from Pets ’R People to find everything in order. The mouthwatering aroma of roasting meat drifted from my upstairs apartment. Casey greeted me with an effusive display of affection, dancing about until his toenails clicked on the tile floor like castanets.

Melly stood at the stove, dressed in a flowered
skirt and peach-colored twinset suitable for a high tea. Except for the fact she viciously jabbed a helpless roast with a two-pronged fork, she presented the picture of genteel womanhood.

“I hope Doug isn’t upset with me,” she said as she replaced the lid on the pot. “I know it was cowardly not to deliver the cookies personally, but I was just too … embarrassed.”

I got out the makings for a
salad. “Doug assured me that the sauce for his sauerbraten won’t suffer any permanent damage as a result. The other spices—juniper berries, cloves, and bay leaves—will compensate.”

“It’s the cardamom that makes my cookies stand out.” Melly wiped her hands on a dish towel. “Chip told me my gingersnaps were the best he’d ever tasted. Imagine, he even asked for the recipe.”

“Aren’t Lindsey and
Sean here yet?” I said, veering the talk in a safer direction.

“Lindsey called to say the pep rally ran late. They should be on their way.”

Melly took dinnerware from the cupboard and set the table using my best place mats and napkins. In another life, I’d entertained guests in a large formal dining room resplendent with wainscoting and a chandelier. Now, whether for guests or family, meals
were served at the kitchen table. And I had to admit, I didn’t mind a simpler lifestyle. Less is more I’d learned.

“I ran into McBride while at Pets ’R People.” I sliced tomato and red onion and added them to the greens.

“Lord have mercy!” Melly opened the oven door a crack, then satisfied her biscuits were browning nicely, closed it again. “What business did that man have with a veterinarian?”

“Seems McBride adopted a cat.” I added a sprinkling of blue cheese to the salad. “Or more accurately, the cat adopted him.”

“A cat!” Melly shook her head in disbelief. “Strange choice for that man. I can picture him owning a dog—a Rottweiler, maybe a Doberman—but not a cat. It just doesn’t fit his image.”

“Apparently, the animal showed up on his doorstep half-starved, so he started feeding it.
Next thing you know, it’s taken up permanent residence. I must say the cat doesn’t have a very friendly disposition.”

“No wonder man and cat are soul mates.” Melly took several bottles of salad dressing from the refrigerator and set them on the table. “I don’t suppose you remembered to ask him when I’m allowed back in my own home?”

“As a matter of fact, he’s having one of his men remove the
crime scene tape today. You have the green light to return whenever you wish, but…”

Melly pursed her lips. “But?”

The salad finished, I picked up the dish towel, twisted it in my hands. “I wish you’d reconsider and stay with us awhile longer. At least until Chip’s murderer is found.”

Melly let out an un-Melly-like snort. “At the pace this investigation is progressing, it could take forever.”

“I worry about you all alone in that big house,” I persisted.

“You’ve been reading too many mystery novels,” she said, pooh-poohing my concern. “Why, I’ve lived in that house over forty years and never locked the back door. Half the folks in town do the same.”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that whoever came into your house unannounced could do it again?”

“You worry too much, dear.” She checked
the biscuits and, deciding they met her high standards, removed the pan from the oven. “If it makes you feel better, I’ll have Thompson check the locks on all the doors and windows.”

“Promise me you’ll keep them locked in the future—front
and
back.”

At that moment, a door slammed and Lindsey and Sean charged up the stairs. I heard Lindsey laugh at something Sean had said, and then the teens
burst into the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” Lindsey greeted me. “Hey, Meemaw.”

“Hey, you two.” In the nick of time, I caught myself from telling them to wash up before dinner, as I used to do when my children were small. Lindsey would have died of embarrassment if I’d said that to her in front of her new boyfriend.

“Hey, Miz Prescott, Miz Prescott.” Sean dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Unlike the confident athlete on the gridiron, he looking shy and self-conscious at finding himself surrounded by three generation of Prescott women. “Whatever you’re cooking sure smells good.”

“Meemaw makes the best biscuits ever,” Lindsey bragged. “Bet you can’t eat just one.”

“Supper’s ready to put on the table,” Melly said. “You youngsters go wash up.”

I bit my lip to keep from smiling.
Lindsey’s face, I’d noticed, had turned petal pink as the teens headed for the bathroom sink. I thought I heard her giggle, and then the sound of water running.

“What would you like to drink with your meal?” I asked when they returned with clean hands.

“Milk, if you please, ma’am,” Sean said, his good manners showing.

“Now,” I said as we filled our plates with potatoes, carrots, and pot roast
so tender, it fell off the bone, “your grandmother and I would like to hear all about homecoming and spirit week.”

“Homecoming’s still two weeks away. We play at home tomorrow and have an away game next week.” Sean dived into his food with the gusto of a teenage boy who hasn’t eaten for a week.

Lindsey speared a carrot. “The committee is planning an awesome spirit week, a different theme each
day. Camo day, pajama day, hippie day.”

“There’s a bonfire in the school parking lot Thursday before the game—public invited,” Sean said, slathering butter on a biscuit. “Even my dad’s going to be there.”

“What about your mother, Sean?” Melly asked. “Does she ever come to watch you play?”

Sean concentrated on slicing a piece of meat. Lindsey shifted restlessly in her seat. “No, not since the
divorce,” he mumbled.

Melly clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Sean shoved bits of roasted potato around his plate with his fork. “My parents’ divorce was partly my fault.”

My heart ached for him. No longer a boy, not quite a man, he looked so terribly young, so vulnerable. So sad. “Sean, what could you have possibly done that would’ve made a difference?”

“I could’ve tried harder
to keep ’em together.” Self-condemnation was present in every word.

Lindsey squeezed his hand. “You know you tried.”

Sean’s jaw set stubbornly. “I was too busy with sports. I should’ve seen what was happening and done something to stop it. Now my dad’s miserable and my mom’s married to some jerk.”

“They’re adults, Sean,” I reminded him gently. “They’re accountable for their own actions—their
own mistakes.”

“I suppose, still…”

Melly took this as a signal to start clearing the dishes. “Dessert, anyone?”

*   *   *

After changing into cream-colored slacks with an earth-tone sweater, and adding a chunky gold necklace, I left Melly to supervise the teens while I morphed from mom into party crasher. I intended to find out shortly if I should upgrade Troy’s status from boyfriend to person
of interest. With a game tomorrow, Sean wouldn’t stay late, I knew. He’d thanked me profusely for the invitation to dinner. My first impression had been confirmed: Sean Rogers
was
a nice kid. This time Lindsey had picked a winner.

CJ’s palatial home with its three-car garage overlooked a golf course. It was lit up like a Christmas tree when I arrived. I parked in the circular drive behind Cheryl
Balboa’s rented BMW, marched up the walk, and rang the bell.

Surprise registered on CJ’s face as he opened the door. He held a heavy cut-glass tumbler filled with what I assumed was fine Kentucky bourbon. “Hiya, Scooter.”

Not giving him a chance to protest, I brushed past him into the living room. I found Amber curled in a chair large enough for a mother and her quadruplets. Cheryl and the surfer
dude, wineglasses in hand, cuddled on the far end of an Italian leather sectional the size of the Vatican. “Hey, y’all,” I said cheerily.

Amber looked stunned by my intrusion. Then irritated. “Piper, what are you doin’ here? Can’t you see we have guests?”

“Don’t mind li’l ol’ me.” I plopped myself down on a curvy leather and chrome job that looked European in design. When the time came, I hoped
I’d be able to extricate myself without the assistance of a crane. “Thought I’d pop in and see the redecorating you’ve done.”

With the ease of a well-greased politician, CJ stepped forward to make the introductions. The sun-streaked, tan Adonis now officially had a name, Troy Farnsworth. A moniker like that would look good on a marquee. Cynical me wondered if it was given to him at birth or something
he’d invented.

“Have we met?” Cheryl frowned—or would have, had her face not been Botoxed. “I can’t place you, but you look familiar.”

“I was at the remembrance Rusty Tulley hosted for your late husband. You were probably too grief stricken to notice who was there and who wasn’t.” I was being facetious about the “grief stricken,” but Cheryl didn’t seem to notice.