A Rip Roaring Good Time (26 page)

At the time, I was humiliated, but at least comforted and warmed by the acronym for "lots of love". But later I'd find out from Mattie that "LOL" was also an acronym for "laughing out loud" and the warmth cooled quickly.

As I closed the cover on the iPad, not having the stomach to check out any of the other dozen or so listings under my name, the phone rang. I'd carried the portable receiver out to the back porch and quickly answered it so the noise wouldn't wake my husband.

Wendy was breathless, as if she'd just sprinted up all one hundred and four flights of stairs at the new Freedom Tower in New York. She told me she had actually just run to her office from the basement storeroom where all the autopsy reports from 1991 to the present were stored in file cabinets. I could sense she was anxious to inform me about what she'd discovered.

"Guess what? Tori's autopsy report states she died of cyanide poisoning!" Wendy exclaimed.

"Oh, goodness," I replied. "What are the odds of a coincidence on that scale? Could the same person who killed Trotter with cyanide have killed Tori Piney back in 2005?"

"I suppose so, even though the report indicates there was no sign of foul play."

"Are the cause of death conclusions correct one-hundred-percent of the time?" I asked.

"No, of course not. But I'd say the vast majority are correct. And there's always the possibility it really is just an incredible coincidence."

"It's also possible there's some other connection we're overlooking," I added. "Can you think of any conceivable reason I could use to go back to the Piney home?"

"Not that I can think of offhand. You mean something sneaky and conniving?"

"Um, yes, I guess so."

"Then you need to speak to Mom. Coming up with a sneaky and conniving ploy is definitely in her wheelhouse." Wendy laughed before hanging up the phone.

* * *

Not even an hour later, Lexie and I were standing on the Pineys' front porch. She was holding a family heirloom that had been passed down through her family and which would one day belong to Wendy. It was an Anchor Hocking cobalt blue serving bowl her great-grandmother had purchased in 1905, the very year the dishware company was established. Lexie had inherited it when her mother passed away several years ago. She told me her beloved bowl was a very close match to the platter I'd returned to Georgia a couple of days ago. I had to admit it looked very similar to me too.

As we approached the Pineys' front door, Peanut began growling, snarling, and gnashing his teeth inside the house. Lexie turned to walk back to the car as I had the first time I experienced the same frightening situation. "I don't believe I want any part of whatever is behind that door," she said. "The scary woman I shared a cell with would be less terrifying than a protective guard dog that might maul me to death."

I assured her Peanut was not nearly as menacing as he'd have you think. "I hate to use a cliché, but 'his bark is worse than his bite.'"

When the door opened, Georgia's daughter was standing in front of us still wearing P.J.s as if she'd just gotten out of bed. Her baby doll pajamas, with depictions of yellow rubber duckies embroidered onto light blue cotton material, were adorable. I considered asking her where she'd gotten them but decided against it. For one thing, I didn't want to deviate from the task at hand, but also, the detailed and tedious stitching on the P.J.s didn't look cheap. The nightshirt I was currently wearing to bed was plenty comfortable enough anyway. Even with the frayed hem at the bottom of my Dallas Cowboys nightshirt, I figured I could get at least another three or four years out of it.

Lori stared silently at us for several long uncomfortable moments before asking, "Yes?"

"How are you doing, sweetie?" Lexie asked.

"Fine."

"It's nice to see you again, Lori. I just love the duckies," I added.

"Thanks!" She replied, looking down at her pajamas as if having to remind herself what she was wearing.

"Is your momma home?" Lexie asked.

Without responding, Lori turned away from the door and screamed, "Mother! It's for you!"

After telling us her mother would be with us soon, Lori shut the door in our faces. It was at least five minutes before Georgia came to the door. We'd about decided to ring the doorbell again. She appeared surprised to see us and made no comment about the fact Lexie was standing on her doorstep instead of still languishing in a jail cell. She'd probably been glued to the television, waiting for updates about the murder case. She smiled politely, with just a touch of compassion, and said, "Greetings, ladies. What brings you two by this afternoon?"

Lexie held out the bowl and said, "I found this bowl in my pantry and thought it probably belonged to you. It looked very much like the platter that Rapella returned a couple of days ago."

Georgia reached out to grasp the bowl. I was waiting for her to examine it and make some sort of comment about how it was similar but didn't actually match her platter, or that she hadn't even taken the bowl to the party she'd been hired to cater. Instead she said, "Yes, thank you. I must have forgotten I'd taken it over there. Thanks for bringing it by."

I glanced at Lexie, who was standing next to me with her mouth open. After thanking us, Georgia began to close the door to dismiss us. I put my hand out to block the door and said, "Are you certain that's your bowl, Georgia? I told Lexie earlier I was quite sure it wasn't an exact match to your platter. If I remember right, yours had a smooth lip where this one's clearly ridged."

"No, I'm sure this one belongs to me."

Lexie was still standing next to me as if she had no clue what to say or do. She had that same "deer in the headlights" kind of expression on her face that she'd had the night of Trotter's death. I wasn't ready to give up so I said, "This bowl is an Anchor Hocking piece. That's quite an impressive line of dishware, isn't it? Are your bowl and platter Anchor Hocking products too?"

"I'm not positive, but they must be because they look alike for sure."

"Would you mind getting the platter so we can make absolutely sure it's an Anchor Hocking?"

I didn't expect Georgia's reply. She said, "No, I'm quite certain it's mine. No need to go get it just to verify it's an exact match to my bowl here. I really appreciate you two making sure it was returned to me. This blue bowl has a great deal of sentimental value to me. Thanks again."

I was hoping it didn't have a "great deal" of sentimental value to Lexie, because I wasn't sure how'd we demand it back from Georgia now that's she'd adamantly insisted it belonged to her. I looked over at Lexie, who shrugged her shoulders and said, "Uh, well, you're welcome, Georgia."

"Have a nice day, ladies," the caterer remarked.

With that, Georgia began to close the door again and out of desperation, I stuck my right foot between the door and the frame, and said, "Oh dear! I'm in dire need of a restroom all of a sudden. I suffer from spastic colon, and for the last several days I've been so backed up I was beginning to think I was never going to poop again. I'm sure you know how your bowels get all out of whack when you're on vacation. This morning I was plugged up like a cork in a wine bottle. So, you see, I took a couple of stool softeners and now I think they might have worked even better than I'd anticipated."

"Um, well—"

"Hurry, dear, before I make a very unpleasant mess on your porch."

With that vision now in her mind, Georgia swung the door open wide and pointed down a hallway. "It's the second door on the left, Mrs. Ripple."

"Call me Rapella, please," I mumbled as I hurried down the hall. I told Lexie she might as well wait inside while I used the restroom, because it was apt to take me a while. I considered asking for a magazine, but decided that might be over-playing the part. Georgia had little choice but to invite Lexie into her kitchen and offer her a chair at the table.

I'd done all I could do to get us inside the house so we could chat up its owner and see if she had any interesting details to relate. But, with me stuck in the john, it was up to Lexie now to probe for any possible motive Georgia Piney might have had to kill Trotter Hayes, a man she'd told me the last time I visited her "deserved to have his throat slit if anyone did."

I was followed down the hallway by Peanut. I had to push him away with my foot to keep him from joining me in the head. When I stepped into the tiny bathroom, I realized there wouldn't have been room for both of as anyway. After I closed the door, the massive dog whined for a short spell and then plunked down against the other side of the door. Every twenty seconds or so Peanut whimpered to remind me he was still patiently waiting to have his head caressed.

The first order of business was to use the facilities. I wasn't kidding when I told Georgia I needed to use the restroom. I'd been regretting my last three cups of coffee ever since I'd left the inn with Lexie. My short-lived vow to restrict caffeine was only a faint memory now, and I was already anticipating withdrawal symptoms when Rip and I headed north.

I had to waste as much time in the john as I could to give Lexie ample time to grill Georgia. It's not normally in my nature to be nosy, but then I'm not normally trying to prove a friend of mine is not guilty of murder, either. So I opened the medicine cabinet door and sifted through its contents. On the bottom shelf there was a bottle of Xanax prescribed to Georgia by a Dr. Melbourne. It was the same medication Rip had been prescribed by the police force's physician to treat his anxiety when he was involved in a particularly disturbing case involving a serial pedophile. The case took all his time and attention the last year of his career in law enforcement and played a major role in his decision to put in for early retirement.

I was tempted to filch one of the pills. I was feeling a little anxious myself. Compared to the priceless antique bowl Georgia stole from Lexie, one little pill would hardly even register on the theft scale. But even if I'd been seriously considering pinching the pill, my sense of propriety would have never allowed it. I had no desire to lower myself to that level despite the low bar I'd set for myself regarding my involvement in this current situation.

Behind the Xanax bottle I found a prescription bottle of Wellbutrin, which I would later Google and discover was prescribed as a mood enhancer, and also sometimes for help with smoking cessation. I was relatively sure Georgia wasn't a smoker, so I assumed she suffered from depression.

Behind it was another bottle of the exact same medication. First I thought it was the remaining pills of the previous refill. Then, just as I was placing it back on the glass shelf inside the cabinet, I noticed this bottle wasn't prescribed for Georgia, but rather for her daughter. Apparently, Lori suffered from the same troublesome issue as her mother. The penny-pincher in me was hoping they were on some kind of family discount plan.

Two other medicine bottles on the top shelf belonged to Georgia. One was for cholesterol control and the other for lowering blood pressure, neither of which would seem out of the ordinary for a woman Georgia's age. Although not the same brands, Rip regularly took medications for the exact same health issues.

Under the sink, I discovered a large box of Depends. That indicated a bladder-control problem, but I couldn't see how incontinence could play a part in the man's death. I guess everything is within the realm of possibility. But if there was a connection there, I'd be dying to know what it was.

Having securitized everything in the bathroom, I still felt it was too soon to rejoin the ladies in the kitchen. I took a metal file out of my bag and smoothed some ragged edges on both my right thumbnail and the fingernail on my left pinky. Finally, I sprayed the tiny bathroom with a can of Jasmine air freshener I'd found under the sink. It wasn't to cover up a stench resulting from an angry colon, but rather to mask the fact that there
was no
stench.

As I walked down the carpeted hallway, I heard Lexie saying, "I'm so sorry to hear about Peter's brain cancer and am horrified by how you were treated by, um, let's see, my mind's gone blank—where did you say your husband worked?"

I stopped to give Georgia time to respond. I heard her say, "I didn't say, but he worked for a company that manufactures fertilizer. My goodness, your friend must really be having a time with that diarrhea."

"Yes, it sure seems that way," Lexie replied.

I didn't think I could stall any longer so I entered the kitchen and said, "Yes, I must certainly was, Georgia. But I think I'm good to go now. And don't worry, honey, I sprayed your powder room with the freshener before I came out."

"That's a good thing, I imagine," Georgia said as she walked to the door. It was clear she wanted us out of her house before another round of watery bowel movements hit me.

* * *

"I'm glad you were on your toes," Lexie told me on the drive back to the inn. "I was in too much shock to come up with a diversion. I was astonished at how stupidly I'd let Georgia so craftily pilfer my great-grandmother's antique bowl right in front of my face. At least I was able to get a little information out of her. Thank goodness, you were at the top of your game. That spur-of-the-moment inspiration you had made you truly a woman after my own heart."

"I'm sure we can recover that bowl. Good grief! It's a family heirloom! We can't let her get by with pretending it belonged to her." I was determined to come up with a workable strategy to reclaim it, knowing the valuable bowl meant a lot to my friend.