Rosemary and Crime (33 page)

My jaw dropped. Changes? On my computer? Why couldn’t I just let her rearrange spices?

C
HAPTER
35

C
ASEY TRANSFORMED FROM
dog into a furry brown bouncing ball once he recognized the visitor. Laughing, Doug ruffled the pup’s ears. “He’s a smart little bugger. Knows which side his doggy snacks are buttered on.”

I couldn’t help but smile at their antics. “In doggy parlance, they must be the equivalent of flowers and candy.”

“Speaking of flowers and candy”—Doug straightened and held out a neatly wrapped package—“I brought you something, too.”

“You shouldn’t have.” I resorted to a time-honored cliché but, secretly, I was pleased as Punch.

“Go ahead,” he urged. “Open it.”

Inside was a cookbook. Not just any cookbook, but one devoted specifically to Indian cuisine. Delighted with my unexpected gift, I flipped through the pages. Recipe after recipe featured a smorgasbord of spices. Turmeric, coriander, ginger, cumin. I couldn’t wait to experiment.

“I love it. Thank you.” I hugged him. To those who live in the South, hugging comes more naturally than a handshake. Doug hugged back, and I had to admit I liked being held in his embrace. Liked the citrusy smell of his aftershave. Liked the solid feel of his body against mine. Before I got to liking things overly much, I gently disengaged myself. I hoped the heightened color in my cheeks wouldn’t betray my thoughts. After securing Casey in my upstairs apartment, I grabbed a light sweater. Doug was patiently waiting when I returned. “Let’s go,” I said. “Don’t want to be late.”

We drove to a neighboring town close to the freeway, which boasted a Walmart, a Lowe’s, and a cineplex, along with a plethora of chain restaurants. Doug chose a popular casual dining spot known for its burgers and pulled pork. The place was crowded and noisy, and I was grateful I didn’t see anyone I knew. I didn’t want to be the subject of more gossip. My private life was already the small-town equivalent of the Kardashians.

After the burgers and fries, I compromised. Instead of a chick flick, I chose one that offered a little of everything—action, adventure, humor, and romance. Even so, I had difficulty concentrating on the screen. My mind wandered hither, thither, and yon. I looked forward to the day I’d be able to enjoy a simple burger and a movie without all the distractions.

On the drive home, Doug valiantly tried to regale me with anecdotes from his practice. I proved a terrible audience. Eventually he, too, lapsed into silence for the remainder of the trip.

Someone had set me up to take the fall for a crime I didn’t commit. Whoever it was didn’t like me nosing around. Wanted me neutralized. They’d even planted the incriminating evidence so I’d take the rap.

I brought myself up short.
Listen to yourself!

I sounded like a screenwriter for a B movie. Perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing, I rationalized. I’d have lots of time to pen screenplays from a prison cell. Only instead of a box number I’d have a serial number. Did Hollywood accept mail from prisoners? I supposed I could use an alias and have Reba Mae forward my masterpieces. If my screenwriting gig failed to materialize, I could try my hand at a reality series. I already had the title:
Incarcerated Innocents.
I had to stop obsessing over this. It was driving me cuckoo.

“Planet Earth to Planet Piper,” Doug interrupted my reverie. “You’re home.”

With a jerk, I brought myself back to the present. I looked around, surprised to find us parked outside Spice It Up! “I’m sorry,” I apologized. “I’ve been lousy company tonight.”

“I rather doubt you could ever be ‘lousy’ at anything.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said with a wry smile. “But I can’t help worrying that if McBride doesn’t find the Barrone killer soon, I’m going to jail.”

“Don’t forget me: Mr. Alibi.”

“A prosecutor could argue that I had enough time to kill Mario, then drive to the animal clinic.”

“Circumstantial.”

“Not only are my fingerprints on the murder weapon, but the killer planted a bloody T-shirt in a cupboard in my storeroom where the police were sure to find it. The DNA matches Mario’s. Would a jury consider that ‘circumstantial’?”

Doug let out a low whistle. “You need a good defense attorney.”

I almost smiled—almost. I’d heard that advice so many times, I could put the words to music.

“Let me ask around,” Doug offered. “See if I can come up with any names.”

I reached for the door handle, but Doug was out of the SUV and around my side in a flash. “Call me old-fashioned,” he said, “but a gentleman always sees a lady to the door.”

I turned to thank him for a pleasant evening when he caught me off guard and pressed his lips to mine. A zing of pleasure surged through me. Much to my surprise, I found myself kissing him back—and with enthusiasm. It had been a long time since I’d been kissed by a man who wasn’t my husband, but kissing, I discovered, was like riding a bike. Once you learned how, you didn’t forget. And Doug happened to be an excellent kisser.

Headlight beams swept over us, then moved on. We broke apart like guilty teenagers caught necking in Lovers’ Lane. The headlights belonged to a police cruiser, and while I couldn’t be certain, the driver looked a lot like Wyatt McBride. Paranoia at its finest. Was the man checking up on me? Making sure his prime suspect didn’t flee for parts unknown under the guise of night?

“Ah … um,” I stammered. “I’d ask you up for coffee, but it’s been a long day. Another time?”

“Sure thing.” Doug, the perennial gentleman, didn’t pressure me for more. “I’ll let you know if I get any leads on a criminal defense lawyer.”

“Preferably one who works cheap,” I added. Unlocking the front door, I slipped inside and watched Doug’s taillights disappear from sight.

The streetlamps in the square provided sufficient illumination so I didn’t bother switching on the track lighting. I roamed the aisles, running my hand over smoothly sanded shelves, tracing various containers with my fingertips. Here and there, I opened a bottle or jar and inhaled the earthy scent of nutmeg, the peppery scent of cloves, or the pungent smell of ginger. Spice It Up! had been my dream. My hope. But, my future? I wish I knew. My life seemed to be spiraling out of control.

Without conscious intent, I unscrewed the lid on a jar of juniper berries. Their characteristic ginlike aroma acted like a whiff of smelling salts. I was transported back to the morning I’d found Mario, lying in a pool of blood, on the Tratory’s floor. Unless his killer was found soon, I wouldn’t be around to see my children graduate, start a career, marry, or have children of their own. My imaginary grandkids would call Amber their grandma.

I stiffened my spine.
Not if I can help it, they won’t!

I screwed the lid back on the juniper berries. Enough with the self-pity! Time to be proactive. Memory
was
a funny thing. Frowning, I tried to recall Reba Mae’s comment from the other day. She’d mentioned something about the Clounes owning multiple vehicles. That sometimes Dwayne parked them in the car lot in the hope of enticing a buyer. What if the car we’d searched for was absent the afternoon Reba Mae and I perused the pre-owned autos? Wouldn’t it be mind-boggling if it was there now, right this very minute?

I stuffed my keys in my pocket and was out the door before logic had a chance to spoil my half-baked plan.

I jogged the short distance to Cloune Motors. It was after eleven, late by Brandywine Creek’s standards. The streets were virtually deserted. Storefront windows stared back at me like sightless eyes. Both the Pizza Palace and North of the Border had closed hours ago. A light drizzle started to fall as Cloune Motors came into view.

Glancing upward, I saw dark clouds scud across an even darker sky. I hadn’t taken the weather into account. The stupidity of my rash decision struck me. I was on a fool’s errand and would likely get drenched in the process. No self-respecting Girl Scout would have rushed off without an umbrella, a flashlight, or a BFF. Too late—and too stubborn—to turn back, I hugged my sweater more tightly around my shoulders and slowed my pace. With any luck, I’d be home before the drizzle turned into a downpour.

I swept my gaze over the car lot. I had the place to myself. Vehicles were arranged in neat rows, newer models in front, older ones behind. The wind kicked up just then, making the red, white, and blue pennants overhead snap, crackle, and pop like a bowl of breakfast cereal. Lightning flickered. Thunder rumbled in the near-distance. If I intended to carry out my inspection, I had best do it quickly.

Systematically, I wove through an assortment of cars and SUVs. I didn’t waste time on the light-colored ones, but concentrated instead on those in deeper hues. I ran my hand along the edges of each bumper, hoping to feel a small scrap of cloth that matched my trench coat.

A sudden, loud crack of thunder made me jump. Laughing nervously, I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror of Jeep. Pale face, wide eyes. I’d be a shoo-in for a victim in one of those Friday the 13th films
. Don’t be such a wuss, Piper,
I chastised myself.
Toughen up.

Ready to give up the fool’s errand and strike out for home before the storm broke in earnest, I started down the last row of cars. My pulse quickened at the sight of a Lincoln Town Car that hadn’t been there before. It was big, black, and near as I could tell, similar to the mystery car I hunted. What’s more, it looked like the one I’d seen Diane drive. I approached cautiously, then crouched down to examine the bumper.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I swallowed a lump of disappointment the size of a baseball. The grille of the Lincoln seemed to mock me with its chrome gap-toothed grin. I gave the car one final glance—and that’s when I spotted it. A bit of beige cloth wedged near the bottom of the grille’s wide-spaced chrome teeth.

I sucked in a breath. Stunned, my mind leaped to the obvious.
Diane killed Mario.
Leaning forward to examine the scrap closer, I was nearly nose to metal when I felt something cold and hard jab me between the shoulder blades. The barrel of a gun? I froze.

“Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Dwayne Cloune sneered. “You’re one nosy broad, Piper Prescott. Now what do you suppose I do with you?”

“I know how this must look, Dwayne, but, honest, I’m not here to steal anything,” I said, trying to bluff my way out. “Couldn’t sleep so thought I’d take another look around. Inventory in a used-car lot changes all the time, right?”

“Pre-owned, you idiot, not used.”

I inched away. “Maybe CJ should just bite the bullet and buy Chad a new car.”

“Shut up with your nonsense,” Dwayne snapped. “I saw CJ at a fund-raiser and mentioned you’d stopped by. He had no idea what I was talking about. Said this was the first he’d heard about Chad needing a car.”

“Look, Dwayne, I’m really sorry to be prowling around after business hours.”

“I’ve half a mind to call the police and report a burglar,” he mused aloud.

I didn’t need him phoning the police. If anyone called the police it should be me, me, me. I’d love to hear Councilman Cloune’s explanation of how a piece from my raincoat was embedded in the grille of his wife’s Lincoln Town Car.

“On second thought, get to your feet. Keep your hands in the air where I can see them.”

I sensed Dwayne would go to any length to protect Diane. I made a last-ditch attempt to worm my way out of a sticky situation. “I promise if you let me go, I won’t say a word about any of this. As a matter of fact, I’ll even return her diamond.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dwayne snarled. “What diamond?”

“The one I found at the Tratory. I believe it belongs to your wife.” I was shaking all over, but I forged ahead with a scenario that was playing through my mind like the reel of a movie. “Diane went to the Tratory to look for the diamond that had fallen out of an earring. You followed. A fight broke out. Mario was killed. Self-defense, right? Now,” I said, clearing my throat, “I really need to hurry home and let my dog out before the storm breaks.”

“You’re crazier than a bedbug if you think Diane had anything to do with Mario’s death.” He gave me an angry shove toward the street. “If it wasn’t for that damn dog, this wouldn’t be happening. Stupid mutt wouldn’t stop yapping at me when I ran out of the Tratory that night.”

I pivoted slowly. Surprise and dismay warred inside me. After discovering the torn cloth in a car Diane Cloune frequently drove, I’d assumed she was responsible for Mario’s death.

But I was mistaken.

Dwayne, not Diane, had killed Mario.

My mouth felt bone dry. Rain, which was now falling steadily, ran down my face and dripped off my chin. My clothes felt damp. I shivered as much with fear as with cold.

“The damn dog wouldn’t stop barking,” Dwayne said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I realized I still had the knife in my hand so I tried to silence it once and for all. Thought I’d killed it, so I wiped off my prints. That was when the dumb animal let out a howl that could be heard clear to the next county. I dropped the knife and ran.”

I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue. “So you stabbed Mario,” I said needlessly.

He laughed, but there was no humor in the sound. “I’ve heard the first time, killing’s the hardest. This time should be a walk in the park.”

C
HAPTER
36

“
A
RE YOU GOING
to shoot me?”

“Get in.” Dwayne ignored my question and motioned with the gun toward the Lincoln. “Not there,” he corrected, as I started toward the passenger door. “The other side. You’re driving.”

I tried to recall all the do’s and don’ts I’d ever heard about stranger danger. Only Dwayne wasn’t a stranger. Strange, yes, but a stranger, no. My odds of survival, I dimly recalled, were greater if I didn’t get in the car. Once inside, they decreased dramatically. Still, Dwayne had a gun. A big, nasty-looking gun. Did that even the odds?

Out of the corner of my eye, I thought I saw his gun hand waver. That was the only encouragement I needed. I decided to take my chances. Ducking down, I crouched low and ran. I heard Dwayne swear and take off in pursuit. The Brandywine Police Department was only a couple blocks away. If only …