Rosemary and Crime (22 page)

“’Fraid not. Whoever planted the evidence must’ve worn gloves.”

“Great,” I muttered as I continued to pet Casey. Icy water kept spurting into my imaginary leaky craft. “Surely your men could see the lock had been tampered with?”

“Good point.” McBride ran a hand over his thick dark hair. “Any prosecutor worth his salt might claim you did it yourself.”

“But why would I jimmy a lock on my own door, plant a bloodstained item that was certain to incriminate me, then call the police to report a burglary? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“An even better point,” he agreed. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense. My theory is that the killer planted the bloody garment in your shop. If you hadn’t dialed nine-one-one when you did, I’m equally certain an anonymous caller would have phoned in a ‘tip.’ Told us right where to look. You’re being set up, Piper.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Find the killer, McBride,” I said. “Find the danged killer and let me get on with my life.”

*   *   *

The hour was late—and except for Reba Mae and me—not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse. Conditions were perfect for the plan I was about to set in motion.

Reba Me darted a nervous look over her shoulder, then followed me down the dark alley. “Tell me again what we’re doin’ here?”

“We’ve discussed this a gazillion times,” I reminded her. “We’re going to check out the scene of the crime. See what we can find.”

“Why?”

“Why?” I repeated, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. “Because someone is making me the fall guy, and I’m really, really pissed. McBride doesn’t seem to be making any headway solving Mario’s murder—and neither do we. All we’ve done so far is put together a list of possible suspects. It’s time to start eliminating a few. Besides, aren’t you more than a little curious who really killed Mario?”

“Course I am,” she replied heatedly. “Just wish we could do it without all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.”

Since technically Trattoria Milano was still an official crime scene, we agreed it best to keep our mission on the down low. I’d finagled a key from Shirley Randolph at Creekside Realty on the pretext of having a rich friend who might counter Tony’s offer for the place. Dollar signs had replaced any misgivings the realtor might’ve had. She handed over the key along with a warning not to get caught. With that in mind, we’d decided to walk rather than advertise our presence with a VW that resembled a scoop of lime sherbet. We’d also dressed for the occasion in all black.

Reba Mae clutched my sleeve. “I think I saw somethin’ move.”

We paused, our senses on high alert. A crescent moon played hide-and-seek behind a cloud bank, swathing the alley in shadows. Trash cans hunkered down behind various business establishments like a bevy of Jacob Marley’s ghosts. Bottles, cans, and Styrofoam containers littered the cracked pavement. Just then a trash can toppled over, its lid clattering noisily to the ground, and we nearly jumped out of our skin. With a blood-curdling howl, a cat leaped from behind one of the cans, streaked down the alley, and disappeared between two buildings.

“See,” I said in a shaky voice. “Nothing to be afraid of.”

“Speak for yourself, sugar.” Reba Mae reluctantly released her death grip on my arm. “Meemaw used to say a black cat crossin’ your path at night was bad luck.”

“That’s just superstition,” I said, refusing to acknowledge my own fright. “Anyway, the cat wasn’t black. It was a tabby.”

“Looked black to me.”

I knew nothing would convince her otherwise so I hastened my step, anxious to take a quick look around and return home. Several yards down, I spotted the rear entrance to Trattoria Milano.

“Careful,” I cautioned as I climbed the crumbling concrete steps and inserted the key. The lock snicked open. Ducking under the yellow crime scene tape, I stepped inside, with Reba Mae stuck to me like bubblegum. “Reba Mae Johnson,” I scolded. “What’s gotten into you tonight? I never figured you for a wuss.”

She shrugged. “Midnight, dark alley, black cat … dead people. Take your pick.”

I dug a slender flashlight out of the black patent tote bag I’d brought along and turned it on. The service area was just as I remembered. Pantry shelves stocked with industrial-size cans on one side, a jumbo freezer on the other.

“Why go all CSI?” Reba Mae whined. “Turn on the damn lights.”

“I don’t want to get caught snooping. Even with the key, it would be tricky to explain what we’re doing here in the dead of night. It wouldn’t take a genius long to find out there’s no rich friend interested in this place.”

“Do you honestly think we might stumble across somethin’ the police overlooked?”

“Won’t know until we try.” I swept the beam side to side as we passed through the swinging door that separated the service area from the kitchen proper. I wasn’t sure I’d know a clue unless it had a flashing neon sign with a red arrow pointing to it. But I wasn’t about to let inexperience stand in the way of progress.

“Umm, ah…” Reba Mae hemmed and hawed “… where exactly did you find Mario?”

I traced a path with the flashlight to an area near a counter. “Over there.”

Transfixed, Reba Mae stared at the darkened floorboards. “Is that a…?”

“Bloodstain.” I suppressed a shiver. Mario’s name might not have been on my Christmas card list, but the poor guy deserved better than to die like a stuck pig. He deserved … justice.

Reba Mae rubbed her arms as though chilled. “This place gives me the willies. Let’s do what we came here for and blow this pop stand.”

“Gotcha.” I stooped for a closer look, hoping to see something I might’ve missed. I recalled seeing Mario sprawled on his side. And a puddle of blood. I hadn’t stayed around long enough to take in any details.

“This kitchen feels haunted.” Reba Mae took up a post near the door, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. “You believe in ghosts, Piper?”

I heaved a sigh. “No.”

“I didn’t used to,” Reba Mae confessed, “until Butch took me to Savannah. Went on one of those ghost tours. I came away a believer. Did you know Savannah’s considered America’s most haunted city?”

“If I did, the fact slipped my mind,” I muttered. Just then, my heart started to pound. “Look, Reba Mae.” I pointed to a series of dark splotches leading away from where I found the body.

She edged closer and peered over my shoulder. “I’m lookin’, I’m lookin’.”

“Do you see what I see?”

“All I see is a floor that needs a good scrubbin’.”

“That’s not dirt. Those are footprints.”

I scrounged through my tote bag for supplies. Pulling out a digital camera, I snapped pictures from various angles like I’d seen done countless times on TV. Later, I’d download them into my computer and zoom in for a closer look. Next, I took out a small tape measure, a holdover from my knitting days, and measured from toe to heel and jotted the figures in a spiral notebook. That was when I noticed a second set of prints, smaller ones, probably mine.

“I heard a noise,” Reba Mae said in a hushed tone.

“Don’t be such a worrywart. Old buildings are full of creaks and groans.” I stowed my stuff back into my tote. “Give me another minute to look around, then we’ll go.”

I knelt down and shone my light under the cabinets. When that failed to turn up anything more significant than dust, I ran my hand as far as it would go under the refrigerator. As every housewife knows, the floor beneath the fridge is a target-rich environment for everything from lost hair barrettes to Matchbox cars.

“Piper,” Reba Mae whispered. “I swear I heard a footstep.”

“Well then, that rules out a ghost,” I replied absently as my fingers closed around a small round object. A pebble? A pea? A juniper berry?

Then I heard it, too. A muffled footstep. Like someone trying hard to be quiet—but not quite succeeding.

Scarcely daring to breathe, I straightened, clicked off the flashlight, and listened intently. Had the killer returned to the scene of the crime? Wasn’t that their modus operandi? Or was that an urban myth? Maybe owning a handgun wasn’t so crazy after all. I frantically searched for a weapon of some sort. Half-turning, I felt along the countertops. Almost of their own volition, my fingers curled around the rim of a pan. I snatched it up. With both hands around the handle, I assumed a softball stance, feet spread, bat at the ready.

Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights flashed on.

“Freeze!”

Squinting against the harsh glare, I saw a gun barrel pointed at my midsection. A lump of fear lodged in my throat. My gaze slowly traveled from the gun to the man who held it.

Wyatt McBride, his expression grim, stood in the doorway separating the kitchen from the service area. “Might’ve known,” he muttered. “Drop your weapon.”

I did as he said and a sauté pan fell to the floor, the noise like a gunshot.

McBride slid his pistol into a leather holster at the small of his back. “You alone, or did you bring your sidekick?”

Reba Mae, hands in the air, rose from a crouched position behind a prep table. “We under arrest?”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growled.

Reba Mae and I exchanged uneasy glances, but wisely remained silent.

“S’pose I could charge you with interfering with an investigation,” he said, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. “Or maybe breaking and entering?”

I wasn’t about to let him intimidate me further. “Nice try, McBride, but you can’t make a case for breaking and entering when I have a key.” Bending down, I retrieved the sauté pan, and placed it on the nearby gas range. I used the opportunity to slip the small object I’d found into my pocket, and then pulled out the key and dangled it in front of him. From his frown, I could see he didn’t appreciate my showmanship.

“The real estate people were under strict orders not to allow anyone access without my expressed permission. Did you ladies fail to see the crime scene tape stretched across the back door? What part of ‘do not cross’ don’t you understand?”

“It must have been the ‘not.’”

Reba Mae shot me a warning glance that clearly said
do not poke a bear with a stick.
“Since you’re not going to arrest us,” she said, “guess we’ll be on our way.”

I wasn’t as eager as she to leave, however. “Have you discovered who those shoeprints belong to?” I asked McBride.

“I’m not at liberty to discuss an active investigation.”

“Ah, c’mon, McBride, you can tell me,” I wheedled. “It’s not as though you’re selling government secrets to a foreign spy.”

He ignored my question in favor of one of his own. “Exactly what did you expect to find?”

“Piper thought she mighta dropped an earring when she found Mario. We wanted to take a look around. See if we could find it.”

Quick thinking, girlfriend.
I made a mental note to compliment her later.

“Ah,” he drawled. “So a lost earring’s an occasion for you two to get all dolled up in your cat-burglar finery?”

I felt my cheeks burn with irritation. “Maybe we’re making a fashion statement. It isn’t a crime to dress in black.”

He raised a brow, but stepped aside. “Luckily for you, Trattoria Milano is no longer off-limits. A fax just came through that GBI is done here. I thought I’d take down the crime scene tape before heading home. That’s when I noticed the door ajar and caught a glimpse of light.”

I breathed a quiet sigh of relief. “Since this is no longer off-limits and I have a key, you have no reason to detain us. Say good night to the nice policeman, Reba Mae.”

Reba Mae gave him a cheeky grin. “G’night, Wyatt.”

A corner of his mouth twitched upward. “G’night, Reba Mae.”

Once outside, it was all I could do not to pinch her. “Since when are you and that man on a first-name basis?”

Reba Mae shrugged. “He dropped by the shop the other day with an old picture he found of Butch in his football uniform. He thought the boys might like it.”

“Hmph.” McBride disguised as Mr. Nice Guy? It was hard to wrap my mind around the notion.

We’d already reached Spice It Up! before I remembered the small object I’d found beneath the fridge. I fished it out of my pocket and studied it under a nearby street light. It wasn’t a pebble after all. Neither was it a black-eyed pea or a juniper berry.

Reba Mae hovered alongside and together we examined the item I held in the palm of my hand. “What is it?” she asked. “A piece of glass?”

“There’s one surefire way to tell.” I swiped the object in question along the edge of the window and a faint scratch was instantly visible. “It’s not glass, Reba Mae. It’s a diamond.”

“Some rock,” she breathed. “Has to be at least a carat. Who do you suppose lost it?”

My eyes locked with hers. “Good question.”

C
HAPTER
25

I
T STARTED TO
drizzle as I was about to leave for dinner with Doug. I grabbed my trench coat from a hook near the back door and sprinted across the vacant lot toward my VW on the street behind my shop. A little inconvenient, but I didn’t want to break a city ordinance banning overnight parking on Main Street. The last thing I needed was parking tickets to tax my already overtaxed budget.

My wipers slapped to and fro at the moisture on the windshield. Tuning in to a country-western station, I sang along with a song about tequila making some woman’s clothes fall off. It brought to mind Reba Mae’s comments about my love life—or the lack thereof—so I switched stations. The only time my clothes fell off these days was before taking a shower. Sad, but true. The drizzle had turned into a light rain by the time I turned down the drive leading to Pets ’R People. Doug must have been watching for me because he stood in the opened doorway. I threw my trench over my head and made a mad dash for the house.

“I should have met you with an umbrella,” Doug said, taking my coat. “Never seem to have one handy.”

“Something else we have in common,” I laughed. “I doubt my umbrella knows what a raindrop feels like.”

While Doug stowed my coat in the guest closet, I indulged my curiosity. I’d been in the clinic portion of his home, of course, but never the living quarters. The foyer opened into a spacious living room decorated in I’m-a-bachelor style. Neutral beige walls and Berber carpet. Black leather sectional. Pricey stereo equipment. Flat-screened TV that took up most of one wall. Little artwork and no live plants completed the décor.