Cinnamon Toasted (8 page)

Just then, the buzzer on Precious’s desk sounded. She pressed the intercom button, and we heard McBride order me into his office. As I got to my
feet, Precious lowered her voice. “Between you, me, and the fence post, the man’s grumpier than a bear with a sore paw.”

“Thanks for the warning,” I said. Tossing aside the magazine, I started down the hallway leading to his office. I knew the way by heart. It wasn’t this gal’s first rodeo.

“Remember,” Melly called after me, “stall him till CJ gets here.”

Sure thing. Piece of cake. How does
one stall a bear with a sore paw? The door to McBride’s den—oops, I meant office—was ajar. “Come in,” he growled before I had a chance to knock.

I found McBride seated behind a scratched and scarred oak desk piled high with file folders. A desktop computer that looked old enough to collect Social Security was turned on, the monitor facing away from me. The walls had been painted pale butterscotch
yellow, which was a marked improvement since my last visit. Diplomas and certificates in walnut frames hung next to a large map of Brandywine County.

“Have a seat.” He indicated the chair across from him. “I had Dorinda type up everything you told me this morning.” He reached into a manila folder, and withdrew a sheet of paper, then slid it across the desk. “Read it over carefully and make any
additions or corrections. Precious can retype it and have you sign.”

“All right.” I did as he directed. The statement was brief and to the point but accurate. Unable to find fault with any of the details, I signed my name at the bottom.

“That’s it?” he said. “You didn’t find anything to quibble over? That’s not like you.”

“I’ve mended my evil ways.” I slid the form back to him. “Besides, there
wasn’t anything to quibble about: Melly called me. I went to her house. Found Chip Balboa, felt for a pulse, then called nine-one-one.”

He drummed his fingers on the statement I’d just signed. “Tell me, Piper, off the record, did you notice anything unusual about the scene?”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. I’d like to blame my sudden uneasiness on the cheap chrome and faux leather chair
I was sitting in, but I knew better. It wasn’t the chair; it was McBride’s cold blue stare that made me squirm. “Unusual how?”

He leaned forward, his cop mask securely in place. “You’ve discovered more dead bodies than archeologists in Pompeii. Did anything strike you as odd?”

What was McBride getting at? I inspected my nails to buy some time. I wasn’t quite sure what to say—or what not to say.
I didn’t want to make things more difficult for Melly than they were already.

“Well?”

“Chip’s skin felt cold and stiff,” I admitted cautiously. “I suspected the accident happened hours prior to Melly’s call. But that’s hardly front-page news. The coroner confirmed that himself this morning.”

“Sure you’re not holding back?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“I’d hate to think you’re withholding information
from the authorities—the authorities in this case being me. If so, you’d be guilty of obstruction of justice.”

I surged to my feet, angrier than I’d been in ages. I felt a hot rush of blood heat my cheeks. “Now, just a frickin’ minute, Mr. Law and Order. I told you exactly what happened. You can take it or leave it.”

McBride was studying me like I was a crawfish in Biology 101. “I realize Melly
Prescott is … was … your mother-in-law, and you might harbor a certain loyalty, but we’re talking a man’s death. I’m just trying to get my facts straight.”

“Chip Balboa’s death was an accident, a tragic accident.” I started for the door, then stopped and turned. “Stop trying to make it into something it’s not.”

His expression stony, McBride slipped my signed statement back into a folder. “For
the time being, we’re calling Chip Balboa’s death ‘suspicious.’”

“We? Who’s ‘we’?”

“The medical examiner and Georgia Bureau of Investigation, that’s who.”

Stunned, I digested this in silence. What could possibly make them think Chip’s accident wasn’t a simple fall down a flight of stairs but a possible homicide instead?

“Sorry to lay this on you, Piper, but things aren’t always what they seem.”

I left McBride’s office with his words ringing in my ears.

C
HAPTER
9

“H
OW WAS
M
ELLY
when she got back to your place last night?” Reba Mae bit into her Italian sub with gusto.

“Hard to tell.” I unwrapped my sandwich and popped the tab on my Diet Coke. Reba Mae and I were enjoying lunch on a park bench in the town square. Actually, the impromptu picnic had been Melly’s idea. Watching the shop for an hour or so, she said, would help take her mind off
her troubles. And if she needed anything, I’d be close by.

“What did CJ have to say?”

“He dropped her off, but didn’t come in. When I asked Melly how her meeting went with McBride, she refused to talk about it and went straight to bed. She didn’t even want dinner.”

“I’m worried about her.”

“Me, too.” It was comforting to know that worry had company. That’s the beauty of having a BFF.

“Mmm,
Pizza Palace subs are the best.” Reba Mae broke off a piece of her roll and tossed it to a gray squirrel rummaging through fallen leaves for acorns.

“Agree,” I said. “I love the combination of capicola, mortadella, Genoa, and provolone, but Tony’s special dressing is what sets them apart.”

“I’d ask him for the recipe, but I know better.”

“I’ve been experimenting with a mix of my own—basil,
thyme, oregano, garlic, a dash of salt and pepper, olive oil, balsamic vinegar. Next time, I’m going to add a tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Sounds like a winner.” Reba Mae wiped her fingers on a napkin. “You never said how your session with McBride went. You holdin’ out on me?”

I took a bite of my sandwich, washed it down with a swig of Coke. “Pretty straightforward. Not much to tell.”

“Did he ever
get hold of Chip’s ex-wife—whatshername? How’d she take the news?”

“Name’s Cheryl. If he did, he didn’t mention it.”

“Sounds like McBride. The man can be as closemouthed as a clam.”

“Unlike his right-hand man, Sergeant Blabbermouth,” I said. “McBride did say something that gave me pause.”

By her raised brow, I knew I had Reba Mae’s undivided attention. “Out with it, honeybun,” she ordered.
“It’s not nice to leave a friend danglin’ by a thread.”

I brushed crumbs from my capris. “Just as I was about to leave his office, he said, ‘Things aren’t always what they seem.’ What do you suppose he meant?”

“McBride’s a sneaky buzzard. I don’t think he’d leak a secret if you threatened him with Chinese water torture.”

“When I arrived at his office, he was talking to someone at the Georgia
Bureau of Investigation. I can’t help but think McBride was trying to tell me something, you know, without coming right out and saying it. Does that make any sense?”

Reba Mae shrugged. “The whole thing’s a mystery, if you ask me. It’s all folks talk about. Jolene Tucker let it be known around town that Chip had been dead for twelve hours before Melly phoned the police. No one can figure out why
she waited so dang long.”

“According to Melly, she dialed me the instant she saw a man on her basement floor.”

“You think she’s tellin’ the truth or fibbin’?”

I stared at my friend, surprised at her question. “Of course she’s telling the truth,” I said. “She’s Melly.”

Reba Mae balled up her sandwich wrapper and stuffed it into the bag it had come in. “No need to get your panties in a twist,
girlfriend. I’m just askin’ is all.”

I idly watched a redbird land in a nearby holly bush and peck at the berries. “Melly told me Chip complained of a headache. She went upstairs to get him Tylenol but realized it was time for her favorite show. She turned on the TV to watch for a couple minutes and probably lost track of the time. When she went downstairs, Chip was gone. She assumed he got tired
of waiting and left. She tidied the kitchen, then went upstairs to finish watching her program.”

“I guess it makes sense. Still…”

“Still?”

“If a man fell down your stairs, don’t you think you would have heard something and gone to see what it was?”

It was a question I’d asked myself a dozen times. “I admit it’s been awhile since I’ve been in Melly’s bedroom, but to the best of my knowledge,
her room is in the front of the house. The kitchen’s at the back. Who knows, maybe Melly is a little hard of hearing. That happens as people age.”

“Melly would sooner bite off her tongue than admit she’s gettin’ old.” Climbing to her feet, Reba Mae smoothed wrinkles from her swingy patterned skirt. “Well, I’ll be glad when this whole thing blows over. Then I can focus on rehearsals for
Steel
Magnolias
and decide what I’m bringin’ to Oktoberfest.”

There it was again, Oktoberfest. I was beginning to feel paranoid. Was I the only one in the entire town who hadn’t been invited to the Grangers’ party? With each passing day, I was becoming more and more convinced that the snub was intentional. By withholding an invitation, Sandy was letting me know in no uncertain terms that she didn’t
like little ol’ me criticizing her lifestyle. Never again would I question the couple’s propensity for travel.

Reba Mae glanced at her watch. “Uh-oh. Gotta run. My cut and color is due any minute. You comin’?”

I let out a sigh. “No, I think I’ll enjoy the sunshine a bit longer.”

“Okay, see you later.” She gathered our trash and hurried off. I noticed she took the empty soda cans with her. Reba
Mae never missed a chance to recycle.

The October sun was high in a cloudless sky, the humidity low. There was little traffic to disturb the quiet. Birds chirped; squirrels scampered. It should have been peaceful sitting here … but it wasn’t. Surely McBride didn’t think Chip’s death was anything other than a tragic fall? If so, did he seriously suspect Melly of…? My mind shied away from “murder.”
It scared me to think people already doubted her version of what had happened.

Rather than sit and ponder what was going on in that mind of his, I decided to go straight to the source. No time like the present. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hightailed it over to the police station.

Dorinda scowled at seeing me. “Can I help you?”

“I need a few minutes of the chief’s time.” I tried
to disarm her with a smile, but it didn’t work.

“He’s busy.” Dorinda went back to pecking at the keyboard.

“No problem. I’ll wait.” Not about to be dismissed so easily, I took a seat on the same wood bench I’d occupied yesterday, a bench worn smooth by the backsides of anxious relatives and friends of those accused of crimes, big or small.

“Suit yourself.” Dorinda didn’t look up.

Picking up
the same dog-eared copy of
Car and Driver
I’d flipped through yesterday, I studied Dorinda, who was doing an excellent job of ignoring me. She was a tall, broad-shouldered woman in her fifties with a no-nonsense demeanor. Silver strands crept through medium-brown hair. Her eyes, small, dark, and as bright as a sparrow’s, didn’t miss a trick.

She must have sensed me watching her, because she glanced
my way. “Chief’s with someone. Shouldn’t be long.”

I nodded and went back to my magazine browsing. I couldn’t help wondering if McBride’s visitor happened to be the driver of the snazzy black BMW angled across not one but two parking spaces marked
RESERVED.

I’d no sooner scanned an ad for a pricey Range Rover when I heard a loud wail come from the direction of McBride’s office. This was followed
by a series of harsh guttural sobs.

“The Widow Balboa,” Dorinda said.

“Widow? I thought Chip was divorced.”

“So did the chief.”

More wailing and sobbing followed. Nothing—not rain, sleet, or hail, nothing—was going to make me budge from my ringside seat. I had to see for myself a woman capable of such gut-wrenching sounds.

Fortunately, I didn’t have a long wait before a door opened and I
heard McBride say, “I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Balboa. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to stick around for a few days until matters are resolved.”

I eavesdropped so blatantly, my ears twitched like antennas. Even Dorinda stopped typing and cocked her head to listen.

“Very well, since you insist,” Cheryl Balboa sniffled. “When will my husband’s body be released?”

“Soon, I expect. The ME should
release it by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Not until then? Tomorrow’s Saturday,” the widow whined. “That means I probably won’t be able to have my husband cremated until Monday.”

“Cremation isn’t my department,” McBride said. “You might want to stop at the Eternal Rest Funeral Home and talk with John Strickland, the undertaker. John also happens to be county coroner.”

“Fine, I’ll do that,” Cheryl
replied. “I’m eager to have things settled and return to California. I plan to call my attorney this afternoon and apprise him of the situation. I’ll want to set up an appointment as soon as I get back. Seeing how Chip and I were still married, I’m the sole beneficiary of his estate. There’s a great deal of business to attend to.”

I heard the click of high heels on tile. Pretending interest in
a Porsche ad—it could have been an ad for Cheerios, for all I cared—I peeked over the top of the magazine for my first glimpse of the widow. Cheryl Balboa paused not more than three feet in front of me. I watched her toss a wadded-up tissue in the general direction of a corner trash can, then extract an iPhone from a Kate Spade handbag.

She was pretty in a mannequin sort of way. Thin almost to
the point of emaciation, she wore a short skirt showing a mile of slender, tanned leg. I estimated her salon cut with its highlights and lowlights cost more than Reba Mae earned in an entire day.

“Hey, babe,” Cheryl said into the phone as she walked toward the exit. “You hungry?”

I stared after her, thinking I was missing something. Then it hit me: There wasn’t a single drop of moisture on her
cheeks, no reddened eyes, no runny mascara. In spite of all the wailing and carrying on, her makeup remained flawless. So much for her grieving widow act.