Cinnamon Toasted (6 page)

“Don’t you call me an ‘old lady,’” Melly snapped. “Must I
remind you, son, age is a number, not a state of mind.”

I silently cheered her on. Evidently, CJ had forgotten that with many women—and his mother in particular—age was a sensitive subject.

“I believe you wanted to know, Chief, why I called Piper and not the police.” Melly took a moment to collect her thoughts before answering. “I admit I panicked. I had no idea why a man would be lying on my
basement floor. Or even who he was. Piper’s levelheaded in an emergency. Who better to call?”

McBride continued his questioning. “Mrs. Prescott, when did you last see Chip Balboa?”

“Let me think.” Melly’s brow knit in concentration. “It must have been around nine or so last night.”

“You certain about the time?”

“Listen here, McBride,” CJ interrupted. “I don’t like the direction these questions
are headin’.”

“It’s all right, son. The man’s just doing his job.” Melly stopped fiddling with her pearls and smoothed her skirt. “Yes, Chief McBride, I remember the time quite well.”

“And why is that?” McBride asked.

The room grew so still, you could’ve heard a pin drop. All eyes were fixed on Melly.

“Chip complained of a headache, so I went upstairs to fetch him Tylenol. When I happened
to glance at the clock on the nightstand, I realized it was time for
Vanished,
my favorite TV show, to start. Even though I set my DVR to record, I thought, what’s the harm in watching for a minute or two while I freshen my lipstick? By the time I returned to the kitchen, Chip was gone. I assumed he grew tired of waiting and left. I cleaned up, then went upstairs to finish watching my program.”

“There, McBride.” CJ smirked. “Satisfied?”

McBride ignored him. “Describe how you happened to find Mr. Balboa this morning.”

“It was breakfast time.” Melly clenched her hands together to keep them from trembling. “I like strawberry preserves on my toast, but I remembered I’d used the last of it yesterday. I knew I had another jar or two in the fruit cellar. I opened the basement door, switched
on the light, and that’s when I noticed something—or someone—at the bottom of the steps. I had no idea what to do, so that’s when I decided to call Piper. If I hadn’t needed preserves, it could have been days before poor Chip’s body was discovered.”

“That all?”

“Maybelle Humphries gave me the preserves. Shame she’s still off gallivanting with that Texan she met up with at the barbecue festival.
Maybelle’s preserves were the best, don’t you agree, Piper?” Melly looked to me for confirmation.

“Absolutely,” I concurred. “Maybelle’s preserves won first place at the county fair more times than I can count.” Melly’s mind seemed to be veering off topic again. She was obviously more comfortable talking about cinnamon toast and strawberry preserves than about a corpse in the cellar. Can’t say
I blamed her.

McBride flipped through his notes. “According to the coroner, body temperature and lividity indicate the victim’s been dead for nearly twelve hours.”

“Twelve hours!” I gasped.

“Twelve hours?” CJ echoed. “John Strickland may be one hell of an undertaker, but that doesn’t make the ol’ boy a whiz-bang coroner.”

I quickly did the math. That meant Chip had suffered his fatal fall
at tea-and-toast time, not at the strawberry-preserve hour when Melly had reported the incident. That confirmed my earlier suspicion that Chip’s death had occurred long before Melly’s frantic phone call.

Melly appeared genuinely perplexed. “B-but that’s impossible! He was fine last I saw him.”

“Body’s in full rigor,” McBride stated matter-of-factly.

Who were we mere mortals to dispute forensic
science? I tugged my lower lip between my teeth. This didn’t bode well for Melly. Surely she was telling the truth about the events, but convincing McBride of that fact was a whole other matter.

“What are you inferrin’, McBride?” CJ asked, sounding belligerent.

McBride zapped CJ with a look from his laser blue eyes. “Seems strange your mother’s visitor suffered a fatal fall down the basement
stairs without her knowing anything about it until the next day.”

Melly opened her mouth to protest, but CJ cut her off. “Momma, I’m warnin’ you, don’t say a word. Not a single word, and that’s on the advice of legal counsel”—he thumped his chest for emphasis—“and that would be me.”

My stomach clenched at hearing this. If CJ intended to act as Melly’s lawyer, she was in even greater trouble
than I’d first imagined. She’d have a better chance of him winning her case if she’d tripped over her bedroom slippers and stubbed her toe.

McBride was relentless in his quest for information. “Mrs. Prescott, tell me everything you can remember about the last time you saw Mr. Balboa. You mentioned he complained of a headache?”

“How many times do I have to go over this?”

“Let’s run through it
one more time, step by step.”

“But I’ve already told you everything that happened.”

“Really, McBride, is it necessary to badger my mother-in-law?” I protested.

“Ex-mother-in-law,” CJ and Melly both corrected automatically.

McBride, after some consideration, relented. I was pleased to see that he wasn’t completely hard-hearted. “All right,” he agreed, albeit reluctantly. “Let’s continue this
line of questioning later. I’ll need a full statement from both of you ladies.”

Happy at the temporary reprieve, I heaved a sigh of relief. “Fine by me, but it’ll have to wait till after business hours. I have a shop to run.”

He nodded. “CJ, you might want to take your mother someplace quiet where she can get a little rest while we process the scene.”

“Sure, good idea.” CJ rubbed his jaw and,
frowning, turned to his mother. “Wish I could take you home with me, Momma, but I’m afraid the painter’s there. Amber complained the rooms were too vanilla for her taste. Said she wanted colors that ‘popped.’ Whatever the hell that means.”

“Melly’s welcome at my place. She can use Lindsey’s room for a few days.”

“Where’s Lindsey gonna sleep?”

“She’ll have to make do with the sofa bed, like
Chad does on semester breaks.” Our son, Chad, was in premed at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. On his infrequent visits home, he preferred to stay at my small but cozy apartment rather than his father’s spacious new golf course home. Although Chad hadn’t come right out and said so, I didn’t think he was enthralled with CJ’s future bride, Miss Amber Leigh Ames, any more than I was.
I privately referred to the home wrecker and former beauty queen as Miss Peach Pit.

McBride replaced his notebook in his uniform pocket. “Sorry to interrupt housekeeping details, but I don’t suppose either of you could tell me where I might find Mr. Balboa’s business partner. I’ll need to notify the next of kin.”

I pointed behind him toward the front door. “Turn around,” I said. “He’s right
behind you.”

C
HAPTER
7

R
USTY
T
ULLEY,
his hand poised to knock, stood on the front porch. Spotting me through the screen, he gave me an uncertain smile. “Sorry, looks like this is bad timing, but I just need a minute.”

I opened the door for him and stepped aside but avoided eye contact. CJ and Melly, I noticed, took the same cowardly route. CJ stared at the polished toe of his shoe. Melly twisted the gold
wedding band she wore on her right hand around and around. None of us, it seemed, wanted to be the bearer of bad news. None of us wanted to tell Rusty his friend and business partner was dead.

“Why are police cars out front?” When no answer was forthcoming, Rusty turned to the man with a badge. “What’s up?”

McBride wordlessly took Rusty Tulley’s measure from the top of his two-toned head to
the turned-up collar of his polo shirt down to the bare feet stuffed into pricey loafers.

Rusty shifted under McBride’s scrutiny. “Um … look, I can come back later if this is inconvenient.”

His appraisal completed, McBride introduced himself and asked, “And you are?”

“Rusty Tulley.” Rusty stuck out his hand for a handshake, then apparently had second thoughts and slipped it into his pocket
instead. “I thought I’d find my partner, Chip Balboa, here, but I see I was mistaken.”

I fixed my gaze on an African violet plant on an end table by the window. The plant seemed to be thriving under Melly’s care. Too bad the same couldn’t be said for Chip.

“Is there a problem of some sort? Care to clue me in?” Rusty’s expression seemed more puzzled than worried. “Curious” might have been an
even better word choice.

“I’m sorry to inform you,” McBride said. “Mr. Balboa took an unfortunate fall down a flight of stairs.”

“Chip’s always been something of a klutz. I assume he’s already been transported to the local hospital?”

CJ cleared his throat. Melly smothered a sob. I wished I were in the Caribbean, shopping for nutmeg or cloves.

“You’re starting to worry me.” The look on Rusty’s
face changed from puzzled to concerned. He shoveled his fingers through his hair. Every strand fell perfectly back into place. “How seriously was he hurt? Which way to the hospital? I want to see him.”

Impatient, he half turned toward the door when McBride detained him with a shake of his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. Mr. Balboa is dead. He suffered a broken neck in the fall. I’m sorry
for your loss.”

Rusty’s knees buckled, and he sank into a nearby armchair. Beneath the California tan, his complexion turned pasty. “No, I don’t believe it. This must be some mistake. A joke of some sort.”

“Let me get you some water,” I offered. Not waiting for a reply, I raced to the kitchen, took a glass from the cupboard, and twisted the tap. I wished I had something fancier to give him.
Evian or Perrier. Rusty was sophisticated, a possible metrosexual, probably accustomed to costly bottled brands, not the kitchen-sink variety. Funny, the inconsequential thoughts that can run through your mind during periods of stress.

I hurried back. Everyone was still locked in the same pose as when I’d left them. The only amendment to the tableau was that McBride had retrieved his pen and
notebook from his shirt pocket.

“Here you go,” I said, handing the water to a stunned-looking Rusty.

“Thanks,” he mumbled before downing half the contents.

I wasn’t exactly sure why people worked up a thirst at hearing bad news. I made a mental note to ask Doug Winters. Even though Doug was a vet and not a people doctor, his medical knowledge wasn’t limited to animals alone.

“When did you
last see Mr. Balboa?” McBride asked.

“Last night.”

“Do you recall the time?”

Rusty stared into his half-empty glass as if he might find answers floating in the water. “Must’ve been eight thirty or so, give or take. We had dinner together at the Mexican place, then I needed to catch up on some work on the computer. We agreed we’d meet for breakfast to talk over strategy. When he didn’t show,
I went to his room and was surprised to find his room was unlocked and his bed hadn’t been slept in.”

“What made you come to Mrs. Prescott’s in search of your friend?” McBride asked.

“Chip wanted to visit Melly one more time before we headed out. If he had plans for the remainder of the evening, I thought he might’ve mentioned them to her.” Rusty raised his eyes to search Melly’s. “What happened?”

She lifted her hands, then let them drop. “I don’t know.”

“Just for the record,” CJ snarled, “my mother had nothin’ to do with your friend’s death.”

“Just for the record,” McBride replied, his tone even, “no one implied that she did.”

“This morning I went to get a jar of strawberry preserves from the basement and found Chip. He was lying at the bottom of the steps.”

Rusty’s grip tightened
on the glass he held. “Oh my God, you don’t suppose he—?”

McBride cut him off. “Can you tell me who I might contact for next of kin?”

Rusty nodded and swallowed. “Chip really didn’t have any family to speak of. Cheryl, his ex-wife, would know whom to call. I think I still have her number somewhere.”

While Rusty fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone, the coroner, John Strickland, made a loud
hrmph
noise from the doorway. McBride glanced his way, and John beckoned him over. The four of us watched the men confer, but they kept their voices low, and we weren’t able to overhear their conversation.

After a minute or two, McBride returned. “You’re all free to leave for the moment, but, Mr. Tulley, I’d like you to stick around town another day or two until this is all sorted out.” He turned
to address Melly and me. “I’m going to need an official statement from both of you ladies later today.”

“If you think you’re going to browbeat Momma without an attorney present, McBride,” CJ growled with lawyerly fervor, “then think again.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes at his theatrics. “C’mon, Melly,” I said, pulling her to her feet. “After the doctor checks you over, I’ll make you a nice
cup of chamomile tea and tuck you in for a nap.”

*   *   *

Although it was only midafternoon, it felt like I’d already put in full day’s work. I’d just finished the last of my yogurt—a late lunch—when I heard the front door open. I looked up and saw Reba Mae enter the shop.

“I ran all the way over,” Reba Mae explained, sounding out of breath after her mad dash from the Klassy Kut. “Tried to
come sooner, but I was booked solid all morning with back-to-back perms. Then, wouldn’t you know, Mary Lou Lambert messed up another do-it-yourself dye job. This time, her hair turned pea soup green. I swear a woman who never reads directions is a freak of nature.”

I dumped my yogurt carton into the trash. “One in every crowd.”

Reba Mae headed for the fridge at the back of the shop and helped
herself to a Diet Coke. “Mary Lou came in cryin’, wantin’ me to turn her hair back to its original color. Said she’s done experimentin’. Problem was, it’d been so long, she didn’t remember what her natural color used to be.”

I eyed Reba Mae’s jet black locks. “Sounds like someone else I know who shall remain anonymous,” I commented dryly. She was letting it grow out from the short, sleek Vampira
style she’d worn the last couple months. Knowing my friend, she was itching to dip into her Crayola box for a color change.