Rosemary and Crime (23 page)

“How about a glass of wine?” he asked.

“Sounds great.”

I followed him into a dining nook complete with candles, an opened bottle of wine, and soft music—jazz, not country-western. Doug might have shared notes on how to stage a seduction with Vicki Lamont. With the exception of Victoria’s Secret for dessert. Maybe the thoughts I’d had postdivorce of becoming a nun were a bit premature. I had to admit, it felt good spending time with a man who found you attractive. One who seemed sincerely interested in what you had to say. Not to mention a man who cooked you dinner. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

“No trouble at all. I like to cook, but it’s more fun to cook for two. An appreciative audience is a crucial ingredient, especially when trying a new recipe. That’s where you come in.”

I sniffed the air. “Dinner smells wonderful.”

“Finding the right combination of fresh spices is key.” He opened the oven and poked the chicken with a fork.

“If it tastes even half as good as it smells, I want the recipe. I’ve learned cooking attracts customers. Aromas waft out, customers drift in.”

“Sounds like a solid business practice. I chilled a nice pinot grigio. Why don’t you pour us a glass while I plate the salad.”

I did as requested and, when he was finished with the salad, handed him a glass, then took a sip of my own. “Mmm.” I smiled my approval. “Cold and crisp, light and fruity. The perfect pairing.”

He shot me a boyish grin. “Hoped you’d like it.”

“What else can I do to help?”

“Nothing. Let’s enjoy the salad while the rice steams.”

Like the wine, the salad was perfect. Thinly sliced cucumber and red onion in a refreshing, tangy dressing perfectly seasoned with dill. “You missed your calling, Doug. You should be the one opening a new restaurant, not Tony Deltorro.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.” Doug laughed, obviously pleased at the compliment. “Cooking should be fun,” he said as he collected the empty salad plates. “I think I’d find it more stressful than enjoyable if I had to do it for a living.”

“Mario Barrone didn’t seem to be find cooking fun,” I commented, watching Doug arrange the tandoori chicken on a bed of long-grain basmati rice.

He garnished a platter with slices of tomato and lemon. “I didn’t know Mario well, but I got the impression he was an intense sort of guy.”

“I guess you’d say his was an artistic temperament. Difficult to please, impatient, volatile. Ambitious.”

“I gather Barrone didn’t endear himself to a lot of people.”

“In addition to his personality flaws, Mario owed some people money and refused to pay. Who knows”—I shrugged—“there could be more I don’t know about.”

“Any truth to the rumors that he was quite the ladies’ man?”

“I have to admit I never understood Mario’s appeal.” I helped myself to a dinner roll. “Granted, the man was attractive enough—if you favor the Rudolph Valentino or Latin-lover type. I don’t. Mario was much too arrogant, too into himself.”

Doug set the platter in the center of the table and motioned for me to help myself. I selected a piece of chicken and a healthy portion of rice. Doug watched anxiously as I cut off a small bite and tasted it. Instantly, my taste buds were assaulted with the rich infusion of spices. Ginger, mace, and cardamom among others. “Umm,” I said, sighing with pleasure. “Delicious. Incredible.”

Happy his experiment was deemed a success, Doug relaxed. Over a plate filled with chicken and rice, he resumed the conversation where we’d left off. “I overheard the two women who came out of your shop yesterday mention Mario. I got the impression they’d both known him rather intimately at one time or another.”

“One of the pair, Diane Cloune, Councilman Cloune’s wife, ended the affair with Mario some time ago.”

Doug sipped his wine. “What about the other woman?”

“Vicki Lamont.” I speared another bite-size piece of chicken. Just as I’d anticipated, Doug proved an excellent cook. A culinary wizard. A vague idea began to crystallize. If—and that’s a pretty big if—I managed to keep Spice It Up! afloat, maybe I could persuade Doug to do a cooking demo. The tandoori chicken and pungent garam masala were a great example of Indian cuisine.

“How does Vicki figure into all this?” Doug asked, pulling me back to the present.

“Ah, yes, Vicki,” I said. For Doug’s benefit, I rehashed info I’d recently discussed with Reba Mae. “Vicki’s affair with Mario was fairly recent. She was serious enough about him to leave her husband. Their relationship nearly destroyed her marriage. From what I can gather, she was quite upset when Mario broke it off. Now she’s trying to worm her way back into her estranged husband’s good graces.”

“You don’t suppose…” Doug stared at me over the rim of his wineglass.

I stared back. “… that the killer could be a woman?”

Doug shook his head, his brown eyes serious. “I’m thinking more along the lines of a jealous—or estranged—husband.”

A jealous husband? Duh! Why hadn’t that occurred to me before? Goes to show I was a rookie in the private detective department. This meant I needed to add Dwayne Cloune and Kenny Lamont—as well as a good share of the husbands in Brandywine Creek—to my growing list of subjects. And this could possibly explain the man-size shoe print found at the scene. I set my fork down, no longer hungry.

Over coffee and dessert, we lapsed into small talk. I discovered Doug and I shared a lot of the same likes and dislikes. What’s more, Doug was a good listener, a trait many women find sexy, me included. He seemed genuinely interested in hearing about my children, was sympathetic to my divorce woes, and understanding when I expressed concerns about my fledgling business. Since he owned a small business of his own, he could identify with the demands and uncertainties.

At the end of a pleasant evening, after helping me on with my coat, Doug gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek. I must admit that deep down, I felt a trifle disappointed, then gave myself a mental shake. No need to rush things, Piper. You have plenty of time to get to know each other.

*   *   *

The rain beat harder on the roof of the VW as I turned onto the county road and aimed for home. The wipers kicked up a notch to match the rain’s pounding tempo. My thoughts roamed as I tuned out the voice of a late-night DJ offering advice and playing song requests. By the time I got home, Casey would be practically dancing a jig, ready to be let out for his nighttime ablutions. I made a mental note to grab an umbrella before snapping on his leash.

I cruised to a stop in my usual spot behind Spice It Up! Except for a darkened car halfway down the block, the street was deserted. No surprise there. Frowning, I peered across the bleak, rainy expanse that separated me from my shop and upstairs apartment. As usual, I’d forgotten to leave the back light on. Did I dare, just this once, defy the ban on overnight parking along Main Street? After weighing the matter, I decided against it. To borrow a word from Lindsey’s lexicon, Lady Luck had “unfriended” me. With my spate of bad karma, the VW would be towed to an impound yard.

Put on your big-girl panties, I berated myself, and deal with it. You won’t melt. The worst that can happen is that you’ll get a little wet. Pulling the hood of my trench over my head, I stepped into the rain. I was about to make a mad dash across the vacant lot when I spotted the plastic container of leftovers Doug had insisted I take.

Bright lights flared behind me, blinding me in their glare. Not again, I thought irritably. I don’t care if Wyatt McBride is the chief of police, I’m going to charge him with harassment. But before I do, he’s going to get a piece of my mind. He’ll have a firsthand demonstration of redheads and their legendary tempers. I slammed the Beetle’s door shut and waited, my purse in one hand, tandoori chicken in the other.

With a throaty growl, the car’s engine sprang to life and leaped forward. I stood my ground, an angry diatribe forming in my head. I’d let McBride know in no uncertain terms that I didn’t appreciate him following me. But instead of the vehicle slowing as it approached, it accelerated.

And pointed straight at me.

Instinct took over. Fueled by sheer terror, I dove across the hood of my car in a move that would have made a Hollywood stunt double turn green with jealousy. I heard a whoosh of air as the car passed mere inches away. Smelled the exhaust. Twisting my head around, I saw it disappear around a corner, tires squealing.

I slowly picked myself off the ground, biting back a groan. My shoulder pained where it had hit the hood of the VW; my knee stung from landing on the hard-packed soil. What the heck had just happened? Had someone tried to kill me? I couldn’t seem to wrap my mind around the possibility. Dazed, I glanced around. My acrobatics had catapulted me into the vacant lot. The container of tandoori chicken had vanished. After retrieving my purse from where it had landed in a clump of weeds, I hobbled through a lot littered with soda cans and beer bottles.

I locked the door behind me even before flicking on the lights. Casey greeted me with a frenzy of excited barks. “Hey, boy,” I said in a voice that didn’t sound quite like my own. I absently brushed at grass and mud stains. My favorite coat looked as if it had been through a war. My slacks, I noted, were beyond repair, ripped at the knee and bloody from my tumble.

Someone had deliberately tried to run me down.

This finally seeped through the murky haze of denial. Although running on three cylinders instead of the usual four, my brain started to function again. I knew one thing with absolute certainty. I was making someone nervous. Very nervous. I had Mario’s killer worried. Who was it? Pete? Tony? Danny? An ex-lover? A jealous husband? The possibilities made my head spin.

Sensing something was wrong, Casey whined and pranced at my feet. Picking him up, I nuzzled the furry little body, seeking comfort from an armload of puppy love. In return, Casey lathered my face with moist, raspy kisses.

Now that my initial shock was wearing off, I set Casey on the floor, located my cell phone in the jumble in my purse, dialed 911, and sat down to wait.

I nervously chewed a fingernail as the minutes ticked past. “Get a manicure” was another item I’d yet to cross off my to-do list. I wasn’t eager for still another confrontation with McBride. Confrontations seemed to be what our meetings always turned into. Would I be subjected to another lecture? Regarded with skepticism? Viewed as a hysterical woman?

Red and blue lights flashing, a police cruiser braked to a stop outside my front door. When its dome light clicked on, I saw my fears were unfounded. As I hurried to unlock the door, I could see it wasn’t McBride who’d responded to my call, but Beau Tucker. Relief warred with disappointment.

Disappointment won.

C
HAPTER
26

“
O
H MY GOD!”
With a dramatic gesture, Reba Mae pressed her hand to heart. “Sugar, that’s simply awful! Are you okay?”

I gave her an award-worthy imitation of a brave smile. “I’m fine except for a few bumps and bruises, but I had to pull the plug on a perfectly good pair of slacks. My favorite coat is a disaster. I bundled it up and dropped it at the dry cleaners. The clerk said it needed CPR.”

“A damn shame.” Reba Mae wagged her head sympathetically. She’d stopped by Spice It Up! following a long day of teasing and lacquering. “I always loved that coat. I still remember the day you brought it home.”

“Me, too. Not every day Dillard’s has a sale like that one.”

Together, we contemplated the sad fate of my designer trench coat. Finally I tried to shake myself free of the funk I’d fallen into. “We need to shift into happy mode. This is Lindsey’s big night. Prom night.”

“So, what did the police do after you called ’em?” Reba Mae asked, obviously not ready to abandon my near-death experience. “Are they lookin’ for the driver?”

“Beau asked a lot of questions. Made out a report.”

“What did you tell ’im?”

“Not much to tell,” I confessed. “It was pitch-black outside, raining cats and dogs. I’d just missed meeting my Maker by mere inches. If I’d known some psycho was going to mow me down, I would’ve had my camera phone primed and ready.”

“What did Beau put in his report then?”

I grimaced. “It was pretty much a blank page. I didn’t see the driver. Didn’t get a license plate number.”

Reba Mae cocked her head to one side. “What kind of car was it?”

“Big.”

“Uh-huh.” She nodded. “That’s good. Color?”

I winced. “Dark.”

“Big and dark narrows it down some.”

“Right,” I muttered. “I’ve just eliminated all the light-colored small cars in town.”

“Don’t beat yourself up, hon. You gotta start somewhere.”

I suppose she had a point, though it didn’t make me feel any better. Reba Mae, bless her heart, was only following the BFF code of ethics and supporting a friend who was down and out.

“Do you really think the driver meant to kill you?”

I picked a stapler off the counter and played with it. “No doubt about it. Whoever it was knew exactly where I park each night and was waiting for me.”

“That’s some scary stuff.” Reba Mae shook her head, sending earrings the size of tangerines dancing. “Any idea who the diamond you found belongs to?”

“Hmm.” I pretended to poinder the question. “Who sports diamonds
and
who might’ve had a reason to visit the kitchen of a certain deceased chef?”

Reba Mae’s eyes widened at the implication. “Diane Cloune is never without diamond studs in her ears.”

“And I noticed Vicki Lamont wasn’t wearing her wedding or engagement ring when I rang up her sale the other day.”

“Coincidence?”

“Maybe,” I murmured, glancing at my watch. “Wonder what’s keeping Lindsey? She should’ve been here by now.”

Reba Mae straightened and snapped her fingers. “Duh! Lindsey is due here any minute. Where’s my head? I ran off this mornin’ without my camera.”

I set the stapler down and dug through my apron pocket for my cell and handed it to her. “See if one of your boys is home and can run it over.”

Reba Mae did just that, then returned the phone. “Work finished early at the construction site where Clay’s working. He said he’d bring it over.”