Rosemary and Crime (17 page)

C
HAPTER
19

N
EEDING TIME TO
think, I leisurely strolled down Main Street toward Spice It Up! I’d just added Pete, my favorite butcher, to my list of possible murder suspects. A short but growing list. By their own admission, Mario owed both Pete Barker and Danny Boyd money.

Follow the money.

Was that advice I’d read in a detective novel? Or heard in a movie? If I’d known I’d be involved in a real-life murder mystery, I would’ve paid closer attention. Taken notes.

With doom and gloom uppermost in my mind, I nearly bumped into Ned Feeney coming out of Gray’s Hardware. “Hey, Miz Piper,” he greeted me with his familiar loopy grin and tipped the bill of his ever-present ball cap.

“Hey there, Ned.” I tried to skirt around him, but he blocked my path.

“Heard you got a new man in your life. Whole town’s talkin’.”

Shoving a stray curl behind one ear, I mentally counted to ten. “What ‘new’ man?” I hoped my voice sounded calmer than I felt.

“Why, that nice Dr. Winters, the vet out on Old County Road.”

“We had dinner is all. We both happen to like Mexican food.”

“Becca Dapkins told Bitsy Johnson-Jones she saw you two canoodling at North of the Border the other night.” He shifted the brown paper sack he carried from one hand to the other. “Bitsy told Jolene when she brought her a tray of deviled eggs. You know, don’t you, Jolene had a nasty fall?”

I only had time for a nod before Ned’s mouth started running again. “Everyone knows Jolene, bless her heart, is such a klutz. She’ll be laid up for months. Anyways, Jolene told Lottie Smith about your new beau when Lottie dropped off a coconut cake. Lottie told Pinky Alexander, and well, I don’t need to tell you the rest.”

I hitched the strap of my purse higher. “Dr. Winters offered advice on raising a puppy.”

“Becca said you two make a right cute couple.”

I felt compelled to make a last-ditch effort to keep my private life private. “We aren’t a ‘couple,’ and we weren’t ‘canoodling.’”

I supposed I should be grateful my love life—or lack thereof—was a topic of conversation rather than my being a murder suspect. Call me crazy, but I preferred my life
not
be the hot topic of anyone’s conversation but my own.

“Right,” Ned said, giving me a broad wink. “Well, I’d best skedaddle. Mr. Strickland will be worryin’ what’s keepin’ me.”

I shook my head as I watched his retreating back. As long as Ned Feeney resided in Brandywine County,
The Statesman
would never need a gossip columnist. With him efficiently sowing rumors and spreading tales, any news would be old hat long before the ink dried.

Minutes later, I shoved open the door of Spice It Up! and discovered Marcy wasn’t alone. Unfortunately, her visitor wasn’t a customer, but her fiancé, Danny Boyd, who occupied the space near the counter. Not that I have anything against fiancés, but a cash-paying customer would have been nice.

“Hey, Miz Prescott,” Danny hailed me. “Hope you don’t mind me hanging around to keep Marcy company. She gets bored with no one to talk to.”

“Of course not.” For a split second, I envied Marcy. I wished I had a Danny to call whenever the hours dragged past.

“Here, that looks heavy. Let me help you.” Danny rushed over to take the plastic grocery bag containing the baby back ribs I’d purchased.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Where do you want this?”

“You can set it on the counter in the rear.” Reluctantly, I conceded that beneath the scruffy goatee and John Lennon eyeglasses Danny Boyd held a certain appeal. Not my type—not that I have a type—but he seemed thoughtful, considerate, and when it came to Marcy, utterly devoted.

“Looks like you’ve been to Meat on Main. This stuff weighs a ton. You planning a party?”

“If you are,” Marcy interjected eagerly, “Danny does catering. In spite of Mr. Barrone firin’ him, he’s a fantastic cook.”

“I wasn’t fired,” Danny corrected. “I quit.”

“That’s what I meant.” Marcy reached for her purse, then straightened. “I almost forgot, this came while you were out.”

I took a heavy cream-colored envelope from her. My name, along with the name of my shop, were written across it in elegant calligraphy.

“Mrs. Cloune delivered it personally. She said I was to give it to you the minute you returned. Said to tell you ‘no excuses.’”

I ran my thumbnail under the flap, pulled out the enclosed invitation, and scanned the contents. Diane and Dwayne Cloune requested the pleasure of my company at a reception welcoming Wyatt McBride to Brandywine Creek. All business owners and prominent citizens were cordially invited.

“Anything wrong, Piper?” Marcy’s small face pinched with worry.

I glanced up to find both Danny and Marcy watching me, concerned. I never had what CJ called a “poker” face. When I was happy, it showed. And vice versa. This happened to be one of those vice versa times.

“I’m invited to a party the Clounes are hosting for the new chief of police.”

Marcy beamed. “Danny’s been asked to do the catering. Isn’t that great?”

“Great,” I echoed. What were the odds against contracting hoof-and-mouth disease before the fateful day? I wondered.

“Mr. Cloune asked Mr. Deltorro to cater, but Tony told him he was too busy what with getting his new restaurant ready to open.” Marcy gave Danny’s arm an affectionate squeeze. “Mr. Deltorro recommended Danny.”

“No biggie. Just heavy hors d’oeuvres.” Danny smiled as if to say “Shucks, ma’am, ’t weren’t nuthin’.”

I tapped the invitation thoughtfully against the palm of my hand. “Since it’s in the afternoon, Marcy, I could use your help in the shop for an hour or two that day.”

“Sure thing, Piper. Danny and I can use some extra money. Danny lost not only his job at the Tratory but also his medical benefits.”

One look at Danny’s face told me all I needed to know.

“That…” Danny’s cheeks flushed as struggled for control. “Barrone had a mean streak a mile wide. Ask me, he was a sorry excuse for a human being. Good riddance, I say.”

For long minutes after Danny left the shop, his arm protectively wrapped around Marcy’s waist, I stared at the closed door. Finally, a tail-wagging and wiggly Casey woke from his nap and let me know in doggy terms he needed to go outside. Snapping on his leash, I waited while he did his business in the vacant lot where I’d once found him. My thoughts weren’t on the pup, however, but remained on Danny Boyd. It was obvious to me that Danny was furious with Mario. The poor guy lost not only his livelihood but his medical benefits about the same time Marcy found out she was expecting. Talk about lost and found. I could hardly blame the young man for feeling resentful. But was his resentment strong enough to build into a killing rage?

*   *   *

“Sure I can’t coax you into a few highlights?” Reba Mae wheedled. “A couple streaks of lavender would look great against your red.”

“No thanks,” I said. “When it comes to hair color, I’m a monochromatic kind of gal.”

The last of the Klassy Kut’s patrons, cut, curled, and sprayed, had departed for the day, leaving just the two of us alone. I snuggled deeper into one of Reba Mae’s cushy styling chairs. She sat in the other, studying her reflection in the mirror.

“I’m ready for a change,” she said, tugging at a lock of spiky magenta. “Somethin’ edgier, more hip.”

“If you looked any edgier, you’d frighten small children in the Piggly Wiggly.”

“I’m thinkin’ blue. What about azure?”

“We talking sky or hair color?”

Reba Mae’s adventures in Crayola Land never ceased to alarm and amaze me. My BFF was a brave and fearless traveler in hues I’d never dare venture. I preferred my God-given head of curly red. No artfully applied highlights of lavender, magenta, or azure would make me look or feel “hip.” Foolish, yes; hip, no. However, Reba Mae, bless her heart, could carry off the look with aplomb.

Fumbling through a drawer, she pulled out a swatch of synthetic hair the same blue as cotton candy hawked at the county fair. “What do you think?”

I tipped my head to one side, then the other, and finally shook my head. “Not unless you’re trying for carnival punk.”

“’Fraid you’d say that.” She tossed the color sample back in the drawer. “Lindsey brought a couple of her friends by the other day. Some girls think it would be cool to have streaks in their hair match the color of their prom dresses.”

I held my hand against my heart. “Please don’t tell me Lindsey wants colored streaks in her hair. If so, just take me out and shoot me.”

“No,” Reba Mae laughed. “Actually Lindsey seems content her hair is natural blond. She said Amber told her that pageants frown on wild variations. They think it shows lack of character.”

“Well, for once, I’m grateful for Amber’s influence, but”—I aimed a finger at her—“if you breathe a word of that to anyone, I’ll have to kill you.”

Reba Mae made a twisty motion in front of her mouth with thumb and forefinger. “My lips are sealed.” She pantomimed throwing away a key. “By the way, how did your mother-daughter shopping trip go?”

“Great. We happened across an adorable pale pink dress in a bridal boutique that’s suitable for prom. Lindsey looks like an angel in it and,” I added, “it’s much more age-appropriate.”

“Can’t wait to see her in it.”

Glancing down, I spied a square cream-colored envelope peeking out from beneath a month-old issue of
People.
“Looks like you got an invite, too. You going?”

“Of course.” Reba Mae’s eyes met mine in the mirror. “And you are, too.”

“But—”

“No ifs, ands, buts, or maybes. You’re goin’.”

I’d looked forward to Mario’s funeral with greater anticipation than a party welcoming McBride.

As close friends sometimes do, Reba Mae read my mind. “If you don’t show, sugar, people will talk. You’re not only goin’ to show up, but you’ll act like you’re havin’ yourself a gay ol’ time.”

“Fine.” I made a face at my own reflection. “And if I manage to pull that off, I’ll audition for a role in the next production at the Opera House.”

“Wear somethin’ hot that makes a statement. Like that sassy red number of yours.”

“Great,” I grumbled. “I can masquerade as the scarlet woman.”

She ignored me. “Be sure to wear those killer heels you bought at Neiman Marcus before CJ shredded your charge card. They make your legs look a mile long.”

“If McBride doesn’t zero in on the real killer soon, I could be wearing one of those awful prison jumpsuits. You know orange clashes with my hair.”

“Don’t be so down in the dumps, hon. He’ll find the guy.”

I fiddled with a teasing comb left lying next to a curling iron. “Easy for you to say. You’re not number one on McBride’s personal hit parade.”

“Call me a romantic, but my gut feelin’ is your bein’ number one on his hit parade has nothin’ to do with Mario gettin’ hisself killed. I saw the way Mr. Wyatt McBride, chief of police, looked at you when he didn’t think you were lookin’ back.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. “You’re not a romantic, girlfriend, you’re delusional. Certifiably stark, raving bonkers. McBride’d like nothing better than to slap on the handcuffs.”

Reba Mae smiled a sly, knowing smile. “Now that’s what I call bein’ on the same page.”

“Enough about McBride.” Suddenly restless, I got up from the chair and started prowling the confines of the beauty salon. “I stumbled across another name to add to the list of suspects this afternoon.”

“Who?” Reba Mae spun around. “Bet it’s a woman. Mario had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man. First Diane Cloune, then Vicki Lamont … and it didn’t bother him none they were married.”

I stopped pacing to give Reba Mae a long, hard look. “You don’t really think a woman stabbed Mario?”

“I’m not sayin’ it was a woman. Just that it
could’ve
been a woman.” Reba Mae replaced the cap on a can of hairspray. “Rumors in the salon were thicker ’n molasses for a while. I knew Diane and Mario had had a fling, but assumed it ended ages ago. Vicki, however, was another matter.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “I gather their affair was hot and heavy.”

“Yeah.” Reba Mae nodded knowingly. “One of my clients heard her describe Mario as her ‘soul mate.’”

“Makes her sound like a teenager.”

“Makes her sound like a woman in love.”

“And women in love do crazy things when it comes to keeping their man.”

Reba Mae nodded in agreement. “Stabbin’s too messy for most women. Besides, it’s a surefire way to ruin perfectly good clothes. Last I heard, Mario had a new woman in his life.”

I was curious. “By any chance, did this ‘new’ woman in Mario’s life have a name?”

“Nope.” Reba Mae toed off her shoes and wiggled her feet. “He kept whoever it was under wraps. Probably the best-kept secret in Brandywine Creek since Buzz Oliver started seein’ Becca Dapkins behind Maybelle Humphries’s back.”

That brought a smile. “Didn’t take Maybelle long to figure out Buzz developed a fondness for recipes featuring cream of mushroom soup.” I remembered the incident well. Maybelle had made the connection at the Methodist church supper. She’d picked up a coconut cream pie and hit Buzz smack-dab in the face with it. The woman had quite an arm on her.

“So who is this possible suspect you’re referrin’ to? Anyone I know?”

“Pete.”

“Pete who?”

I threw up my hands, exasperated. It wasn’t as if Brandywine Creek was filled to overflowing with men named Pete. “Pete Barker. The butcher at Meat on Main.”

“Why would Pete want to murder Mario?”

“Because Mario special-ordered some pricey beef, then refused to pay. Each time Pete tried to collect, Mario’d stonewall him. Claimed Pete sold him an inferior cut and tried to pass it off as Kobe-style.”

“Why didn’t he just sue him? Ever see Judge Judy in action? She would have made mincemeat out of Mario.”

I shrugged. “Maybe Judge Judy makes Pete nervous.”

Reba Mae nodded knowingly. “She has that effect on people.”

“Who is more skilled with a knife than a butcher?” I challenged.

Reba Mae scrunched a brow. “A surgeon?”