Cinnamon Toasted (28 page)

I sipped my Riesling. “Don’t forget the mystery of the lost Confederate gold.”

“What lost Confederate gold?” Doug asked, his interest piqued.

“Oh, that.” Craig laughed. “The
last recorded location of gold belonging to the Confederate army is supposedly buried somewhere in the vicinity. Legend has it that it was hidden to await the day the South will rise again.”

“Others believe soldiers hid it to keep the Union forces from gaining possession,” Sandy explained. “People have been searching for it for years, but without success.”

“Ha!” Craig laughed again. “Personally,
I think it’s a hoax, but you can’t convince people.”

“How much money are we talking about?” Doug asked.

“In today’s dollars, it would be worth a small fortune. We’re talking at least a million bucks.”

Doug let out a low whistle. “No wonder people keep looking.”

Sandy waved at someone behind us. “Speaking of gold.”

Curious, I cast a look over my shoulder as Cheryl and Troy, wineglasses in
hand, wandered in our direction. Bronzed tans, sun-streaked hair, the two Californians did indeed appear golden.

“An amazing couple,” Craig commented, sipping his beer. “Sophisticated, poised, well traveled.”

Sandy motioned them over. “Amber introduced us. She thought we might want to get in on the ground floor in a chain of cutting-edge fitness clubs her friend Troy is opening.”

“Cheryl!”
Sandy greeted the woman effusively. The women exchanged air kisses while Craig slapped Troy’s back. “Have you met Piper and her friend Dr. Doug Winters?”

Cheryl’s eyes shot angry sparks at me. “You!”

Wary of getting singed, I took an involuntary step backwards.

“Don’t pull that wide-eyed innocent act on me.” She aimed a fingernail shellacked bloodred at my chest. “You’re the reason I was dragged
down to the police station and questioned like a common criminal. You’re the reason why my phone records were subpoenaed.”

Sandy turned on me. “Piper!” she scolded. “What were you thinking? Isn’t it bad enough Cheryl just lost her husband without you causing her more heartache?”

Unfortunately, Zeke Blessing and his blues/oompah band picked that precise moment to take a break. I cast a furtive
glance around to find everyone avidly eavesdropping. Matt Wainwright, CJ’s law partner, and his wife, Mary Beth, had ceased conversing with Dennis and Bunny Bowtin. If Dottie Hemmings gawked any harder, she’d be in a neck brace. My cheeks burned with embarrassment.

“C’mon,” Doug urged quietly.

“I detest Riesling,” I heard Cheryl say as Doug led me away. “Is this the only white wine you’re serving?”

“I have a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in my wine cellar that you might find more to your liking,” Craig said smoothly.

Sandy looped her arm through Cheryl’s. “Did you know Chardonnay originated in the Burgundy region of France?”

“Well, that was fun—not,” I said once we were out of earshot.

Sweeping my gaze over the knots of people conversing, I observed Thompson Gray having an earnest discussion
with Rusty Tulley. Thompson seemed intense while Rusty, on the other hand, appeared angry. As I watched, Rusty stalked off, leaving Thompson standing alone, nursing a beer.

“Wonder what that was all about?” Doug muttered.

“One way to find out.” I nudged Doug in Thompson’s direction. “Hey, Thompson, everything okay?”

A myriad of emotions flickered across his bland features. Irritation. Anger.
Impatience. “Tulley refused some friendly advice from a lowly hardware store owner.”

“Don’t let him ruin your evening,” Doug counseled.

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I just hate to see stupid decisions ruin an otherwise fine company.” Thompson ran a hand over thinning mouse-brown hair. “Think I’ll get another beer and not let it get to me.”

Sipping my wine, I scanned the crowd. Rusty Tulley,
Cheryl Balboa. Troy Farnsworth. They were all gathered here tonight. Any one of the three could be responsible for Chip’s death. But which one? Too many suspects. Too little time.

Doug held up his empty wineglass. “Thompson isn’t the only one who could use a refill. How about you?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Rusty disappear into the house through a side door and decided to follow him.
Time for us to get better acquainted. “I need to use the little girls’ room,” I improvised. “I’ll meet you at the beer tent.”

Doug nodded. “Fine, but if you’re not back soon, I’m coming to look for you.”

As luck would have it, there was no sign of Rusty when I stepped inside the house. There were plenty of women, however, all of them lined up outside the powder room. “There’s another bathroom
off a guest room down the hall,” Gerilee Barker whispered as she passed me.

I reversed direction, hoping I’d find Rusty. Opening a closed door at the end of a long hallway, I found myself in a pink and purple room suitable for a Disney princess. Probably in readiness for a visit from the Grangers’ young granddaughters. I heard the sound of voices approaching and ducked into the adjoining bathroom,
but kept the door open a crack.

“You have some nerve parading around on the arm of Surfer Boy,” I heard Rusty complain.

“Jealous?”

I recognized the woman’s voice—Cheryl Balboa.

“Jealous?” Rusty retorted. “I’ve moved on.”

“So I’ve heard,” Cheryl sneered. “Tell me, Rusty, as one ex-lover to another, you must be overjoyed Chip’s dead. You’ve wanted him to step down from Trustychipdesign for
months.”

Rusty and Cheryl? Ex-lovers?

“Don’t act so righteous, darling,” Rusty continued. “I’m not the only one who stood to benefit from Chip’s death.”

Suddenly, the bedroom door crashed open. I caught a glimpse of a glamorous young woman with inky-black hair and milk-white skin. “So there you are!” the newcomer screeched.

“Tulip!” Rusty gasped. “What are you doing here? How did you find
me?”

“I might’ve known I’d find you two scheming.” Tulip Whatshername gave Rusty an unladylike shove, causing him to step backwards. “I thought with that idiot partner of yours out of the picture, you’d forget about his wife and focus on me.”

Uh-oh. It seemed like the list of people who wanted Chip dead was growing, not shrinking. I’d thought it before; I thought it again. Too many suspects,
too little time.

C
HAPTER
30

“R
ED, WHITE, OR
BEER
?”
Ned Feeney asked from behind the bar. Except for a neat gauze bandage visible below the visor of his ball cap, he looked as fit as ever after his confrontation with a garbage disposal.

“White,” I answered.

Doug, who had been waiting patiently, gave me a quizzical look. “What took so long? I was beginning to worry.”

“A long line for the ladies’ room.” I
took a gulp of wine from the glass Ned had handed me. I’d made my escape from the Grangers’ guest bedroom the instant the trio left. Cheryl had stalked off after accusing Rusty of being a player. Tulip had twined herself around the guy like kudzu around a tree limb and reminded him of how good they were together. Fortunately, Vicki Lamont wandered into the guest room just then in search of a restroom
and broke up the fond reunion. I mumbled some inane comment to Vicki as I scurried behind the pair to rejoin the party.

“Sure you’re all right?” Doug asked.

“Just peachy.” I summoned a smile for his benefit while my mind struggled to process the information I’d stumbled upon. Rusty and Cheryl had been lovers. That had come as a shocker. Did that give Rusty even more reason to want Chip out of
the picture? And who was this Tulip person? According to the snippet of conversation I’d overheard, she assumed that with Chip dead, Rusty would lavish more attention on her.

Taking advantage of a momentary lull, Ned shoved up the bill of his cap. “Whole town’s talkin’ about how you and Miz Melly nearly bought the farm. I think that house of hers must be jinxed. First that computer fellow falls
down the stairs and breaks his fool neck. Now this. Maybe she needs to call one of those extortionist guys.”

Doug swallowed a chuckle. “I think you mean exorcist, not extortionist.”

Ned shrugged. “Whatever. Her place has some bad juju. While you’re at it, Miz Piper, you might want to ask the exhibitionist to do one of those powwows in your kitchen. That garbage disposal of yours durn near killed
me.”

“I’ll take that under advisement,” I told him.

“Say,” Doug said, motioning toward where Melly stood conversing with a distinguished-looking gentleman. “Who’s the old codger in the seersucker suit?”

“Judge Cottrell Herman—Cot to his cronies. He’s been on the bench for as long as I can remember.” Though we’d never been formally introduced, the man in question was a familiar figure in and
around Brandywine Creek. He was far from handsome, craggy features forming an arresting combination with deep-set dark eyes and a hawklike nose above a bristly mustache. “Recently he’s been Melly’s bridge partner.”

“From the way he’s hanging on Melly’s every word, my guess is he’s interested in more than bridge.”

Craig Granger reappeared on the terrace and announced dinner would be served. Guests
formed a queue that snaked along the patio, ending at the food tent. Tables groaned beneath the weight of every German specialty imaginable. Sauerkraut, German potato salad, potato dumplings, spatzle, red cabbage, schnitzel, along with pork in Madeira sauce and a vast assortment of sausages and breads.

Doug balanced a bratwurst on a mound of red cabbage. “I only wish I had a plate big enough
to match my appetite.”

We found an unoccupied table on the lawn somewhat apart from the main flow and sat down. “Want company?” Reba Mae asked as she approached.

I looked up and smiled. “Hey, there. Where’ve you been hiding?” My friend had dressed for the occasion in a dark green skirt gathered at the waist and an embroidered peasant blouse, a costume equally suitable for an Oktoberfest or a
Mexican fiesta.

Reba Mae set her plate down and scooted into the seat next to me. “While you’ve been sippin’ wine, I’ve been gettin’ the straight skinny on that party crasher over yonder.”

I turned my head to look. “Her name is Tulip. She’s a friend of Rusty Tulley’s.”

“From the way she’s all over him, I gather she’s a friend with benefits.” Reba Mae buttered a slice of pumpernickel. “Her full
name is Tulip Jackson.”

“Should that ring a bell?”

Reba Mae rolled her eyes at my apparent ignorance. “Tulip is the wild child of the family. Spoiled rotten since birth. Her father is Jax Jackson.”

“Jax?” Doug stopped cutting a knockwurst mid-slice. “
The
Jax Jackson?”

Even I, who seldom ventured onto the information superhighway, knew Jax Jackson was a former rock star turned music producer.
He was reputed to be one of the most influential—and wealthiest—moguls in Hollywood. I studied the young woman more closely. Lots of smoky eye makeup, lots of bright red lipstick, black leather micromini, and five-inch stilettos, the woman certainly knew how to maximize her assets.

Reba Mae sampled Doug’s sauerbraten. “Tulip happens to be the youngest of Jax’s three daughters. His other girls
are Daisy and Marigold.”

Now it was my turn to roll my eyes. “How do you know all this?”

“Hmph!” she sniffed. “I read
Entertainment Weekly
.
People. Us Weekly.
I like to keep up on what’s goin’ on in the world.”

Conversation eventually veered away from Tulip and reverted to talk of food and Brandywine Creek’s hopes for a football championship. No sooner had the plates been cleared than Zeke
Blessing, his round face split in a wide grin, announced, “Time for y’all to kick up your heels. Do a little dancin’. Work off that fine dinner.”

At the fast-paced notes of “The Clarinet Polka,” Reba Mae jumped to her feet and grabbed Doug by the hand. “Don’t mind if I borrow your date, do you, Piper? I want to see if the man can polka as well as he can shag.”

Doug half rose, obviously up for
the challenge. “Sure you don’t mind, Piper?”

“Have at it,” I told him, and sat back to enjoy the show. Seconds later, Doug and Reba Mae joined the dancers bouncing about as Zeke put them through their paces.

“Mind if I join you?”

I looked up to find McBride standing beside me. “No, of course not.”

McBride lowered himself into the chair Reba Mae had vacated. Dressed head to foot in black, he
could have passed for the leading man in a James Bond movie. I began to notice small details: the tiny scar that bisected one brow, the electric blue of his eyes, the small nick on his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving.

Clearing my throat, I tried to steer my thoughts to more pressing matters—such as finding Chip’s killer before Melly landed behind bars. I leaned closer. “You won’t believe what
I just learned.” I hurried on, not waiting for an answer. “Cheryl Balboa and Rusty Tulley were lovers.”

“That so?”

I stared at him, disappointed by his lack of response. As usual, his expression was schooled, making it impossible to know what was going on inside that head of his. It would be easier figuring out why Mona Lisa smiled. “Is that all you’re going to say?”

McBride kept his gaze fastened
on the dance floor. “I came to the same conclusion after reviewing Mrs. Balboa’s phone records. The number of calls between her and Tulley raised a red flag. There were far too many for a casual acquaintance.”

Before I could conjure a suitable reply, McBride’s cell phone shrilled. After listening intently, he climbed to his feet. “Sorry, duty calls.”

McBride wasn’t the only one to whom duty
called. Time had come for me to get busy as well. With everyone in town here at the party, it was now or never to check out the Beaver Dam Motel.

*   *   *

“Psst,” I buzzed in Reba Mae’s ear the first chance I got.

“What’s up, honeybun?”

“We need to take a little ride and check something out.”

“Jeez Louise, can’t it wait?” she whined. “I been eyein’ that Black Forest torte ever since I got
here.”