Cinnamon Toasted (13 page)

I nodded. “Melly’s
been asking when she can return home.”

“Not until I get the toxicology back.”

“You think Balboa had drugs in his system that contributed to his fall?”

“We’re exploring all avenues.” McBride picked up a pair of lavender panties and hurriedly shoved them in my direction. I felt my cheeks warm. I snatched the panties, and I stuffed them into the tote bag. Who would have guessed my former mother-in-law
favored lacy and frilly when it came to lingerie? Next time her birthday came around, I’d surprise her with a gift card from Victoria’s Secret.

I surveyed the staircase. Satisfied I’d retrieved the last of Melly’s scattered belongings, I straightened. Standing as I was on a step above McBride, I was able to almost look him in the eye. “How would drugs explain the hand-sized bruise between Chip’s
shoulder blades?”

McBride’s jaw clenched. His blue eyes narrowed, icy cold. “Who told you that?”

I smoothed imaginary wrinkles from a pair of navy permanent press slacks. I was a terrible liar, and I hated to rat out Beau Tucker. My face grew warmer, the curse of being a redhead. “I … ah…”

McBride shook his head in disgust. “As if I didn’t know—Sergeant Blabbermouth.”

I’d overstayed my welcome.
Shifting the bundle of clothing I held, I decided a dignified retreat was in order. McBride watched me go. At the front door, I turned for a final parting shot. “Surely you can’t believe Melly had anything to do with Chip’s fall?”

For a fraction of a second, I thought I detected a flicker of regret. “Sorry, Piper. I know you’re fond of your mother-in-law, but the evidence will speak for itself.”

I hurried out the door and toward my car, feeling as though I’d been kicked in the solar plexus. McBride seemed fixated on Melly’s culpability in Chip’s death. I needed to prove him wrong …

 … before it was too late.

I drove around aimlessly for a while. Lindsey had called earlier to ask permission to have dinner at a friend’s house, promising to be home no later than eight o’clock to finish
a report for Language Arts. And even though Melly had probably returned from brunch by this time, I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her just yet. Reaching over, I scratched Casey behind his ear.

“I need to find out what really happened, Casey.” The little dog thumped his tail to show he listened attentively.

Before I realized where I was going, I cruised past the Beaver Dam Motel—minus the
BEAVER
. I noticed a maid’s cleaning trolley parked outside the door to Cheryl and her guy’s love nest. There was no sign of Cheryl’s rental car. I wondered where she and her “friend” were off to this sunny October afternoon.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I executed a U-turn, pulled into the lot, and got out of the car to investigate. An ancient Hoover propped open the door to Cheryl’s
room. “Excuse me,” I called out, poking my head inside.

The maid, an overweight girl in her late teens with a bad case acne and bleached blond hair scraped back in a ponytail, peered out from the bathroom she’d been scrubbing. Thankfully, she was someone I didn’t know and who didn’t know me. “Guests s’posed to check in at the front office.”

“Ah, I’m not a guest.” I tried to portray a friendly
stranger while my mind scrambled to come up with a plausible excuse for my visit. “I … ah … I’m expecting company from out of town, and since I don’t have an extra bedroom, I was wondering—”

“Feel free to look,” the maid said. “But if I had company, I wouldn’t put them up in this dump.”

“Thanks,” I told her. I’d hoped the girl would resume her cleaning, but instead she stood sentinel in the
bathroom doorway, arms folded across her chest. I don’t claim to have ESP, but I knew from her watchful expression she didn’t trust me not to filch the occupants’ possessions.

My gaze swept over the room. King-size bed with rumpled sheets. Tan slacks draped over the back of a chair. A smattering of coins on a faux walnut dresser. Designer-brand perfume bottles. Jars of expensive skin-care products.
Supplies belonging to a contact lens wearer, which included a travel-size container of wetting solution, a bottle of Visine, and a blue plastic lens case. Nothing that flashed “clue” in bright neon letters.

Disappointed, I murmured my thanks to the maid and turned to leave.

“No skin off my nose,” the girl called after me, “but if I was you, I’d put my company up in one of them newer motels off
the interstate.”

As I headed toward home, I couldn’t escape a ballooning sense of urgency to uncover the truth. I’m no expert, but it seemed to me that
if
Chip’s death had been deliberate, not accidental, it had possibly been a crime of passion. A crime of opportunity. Rage, resentment, or greed could’ve precipitated the act.

But if Melly wasn’t responsible, then who? Who would be brazen enough
to kill a person in another person’s home—especially when the homeowner could reappear at any given moment? It angered me to think whoever that person might be, he—or she—was content to sit back and let Melly shoulder the blame.

A sudden thought occurred to me. Sitting up straighter, I slapped the steering wheel. Casey cocked one ear as if to ask why the excitement. I rubbed his head. “It’s okay,
boy. I just had a brilliant idea and got a little carried away.”

No one knew Chip better than his partner, Rusty Tulley. The two had been friends since college. Maybe Rusty could shed some light on the sort of man his partner was. And whom Chip might’ve angered. I was also curious to learn if Rusty knew Cheryl’s male companion.

With that in mind, I headed for the historic district.

I parked
at the curb in front of the Turner-Driscoll House and walked up the curving drive. Casey trotted alongside as if he owned the place. The Turner-Driscoll House, the bed-and-breakfast where Rusty was staying, never failed to remind me of Scarlett O’Hara’s beloved Tara in
Gone with the Wind.
I spotted Rusty slumped in one of the white rocking chairs, his smartphone and an untouched drink sitting
on a wicker table beside him. I wondered why he was still in town, but assumed McBride had ordered everyone to stay put until the case was resolved. Rusty raised his head when he heard me call his name. I sat next to him; Casey curled at my feet. “I thought I’d drop by. See how you were doing.”

“Not good,” he admitted glumly. “Still can’t believe Chip’s dead.”

I felt sympathy for Rusty. Unlike
Cheryl’s theatrical performance, his grief seemed genuine. The guy looked in need of a hug. “Losing a close friend must be difficult.”

Rusty plowed his fingers through his longish hair. “Yeah, we’ve been buddies since sophomore year at Southern Cal.”

Nudging the porch floor with the toe of my shoe, I set the rocker in motion. “College? Is that where Chip met Cheryl?”

“They might’ve been in
a couple classes together early on but didn’t really start dating until they hooked up at an alumni party. Cheryl was more interested in performing arts.”

I stole a page from McBride’s book and kept quiet. When it came to the school of pregnant pauses, the lawman was a graduate student.

Rusty hunched forward, hands between his knees, eyes downcast. “I told Chip right from the start, Cheryl was
nothing but trouble. But Chip refused to listen. He couldn’t believe his luck—that a woman with her looks would be interested in a nerd like him.”

“He sounds like a man in love.”

“Ha, he was a fool!” Rusty snorted. “Cheryl wouldn’t have given him the time of day if Trustychipdesign hadn’t already made its first million.”

“I only met him once, but Chip seemed like an easygoing sort of guy.”

“He was, and except for Cheryl, he was no pushover. Besides owning half interest in Trustychipdesign, Chip was also our company’s CFO. Losing him is a blow in more ways than one.”

I recalled Melly complaining that the two men were reneging on their original offer to purchase her software. “Being chief financial officer of a successful company must mean having to make some hard decisions. Did Chip
have any enemies that you’re aware of?”

Rusty slanted me a look. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing,” I said hastily. I wasn’t ready to stick my foot into the homicide versus accident quagmire. I’d leave that for McBride. “I suppose with Chip dead, you’ll have to share control of the business with his wife.”

Rusty’s expression darkened. “You mean ex-wife, don’t you?”

I hesitated a moment,
then took the plunge. “Cheryl and Chip were still married at the time of his death.”

“What?” He stood so abruptly, his chair violently rocked to and fro.

I stood, too. Casey immediately jumped to his feet, not sure why everyone was standing but ready to leap into the fray nevertheless. “I don’t know what happened,” I said, “only that, apparently, their divorce papers were never signed.”

Rusty’s
face reddened with anger, his hands bunched into fists. “Why, that … greedy … money-hungry…”

Rusty never got a chance to finish his sentence because Cheryl Balboa picked that moment to cruise up the winding drive in her rented BMW and announce she was checking into Felicity Driscoll’s bed-and-breakfast.

C
HAPTER
15

“T
HEN WHAT HAPPENED
?
”
Reba Mae prompted the following afternoon. I’d been regaling her at my store counter.

“Rusty was furious, that’s what happened! And who could blame him?” Melly asked as she walked into Spice It Up! carrying a tray with a pitcher of sweet tea and a plate of gingersnaps. “The two were supposed to be best friends, yet Chip failed to disclose that he and his wife
were still married.”

I cleared a space, and Melly set the tray on the counter. Melly took a seat on one of the stools. I took the other while Reba Mae rested one hip against the counter. We were enjoying a midafternoon lull. Reba Mae had had a last-minute cancellation and dropped by for a visit. Melly had volunteered to go upstairs to my apartment for refreshments. In this case, refreshments
translated into the cookies she’d spent most of the morning baking.

“What did you do?” Reba Mae helped herself to a cookie. “Try to calm ’im down or enjoy the ringside seat?”

I poured the tea into glasses. “Rusty looked ready to pitch a fit. Fortunately, Felicity’s timing was impeccable. Her arrival helped avoid a showdown. The display of Southern charm she turned on would have made Paula Deen
envious.”

Reba Mae took a sip of tea, a bite of cookie. A strange expression came over her face as she chewed.

“Wish you could’ve seen Rusty glare at Cheryl. If looks could kill, she would have keeled over right then and there.” I sampled a gingersnap, curious to learn what had caused Reba Mae’s pained look. It immediately became apparent that Melly’s cookies weren’t up to her usual high standards.
They were bland rather than spicy. Something was obviously missing. Ginger? Coriander? Ginger
and
coriander?

Reba Mae pointed to the plate of gingersnaps. “Melly, I hate to be the one to—”

I cut her off. “Reba Mae hates to be the one to tell you, it’s supposed to rain tomorrow.”

“Ohh,” Melly said, confused at the abrupt change of topic. “Well, I suppose we could always use a good rain.”

Judging
from the look Reba Mae shot me, Melly wasn’t the only one confused. When Melly wasn’t looking, I held my finger to my lips and signaled Reba Mae not to mention the flavorless gingersnaps. Melly had enough troubles as it was.

“Did Cheryl mention why she bailed out of the no-tell motel?” Reba Mae slipped her half-eaten cookie into the wastebasket.

I discreetly did the same. “I heard tell they
have a cockroach problem.”

Melly sipped her sweet tea. “I heard bedbugs.”

“Cockroaches, bedbugs, whatever. Cheryl refused to spend another night in a rinky-dink hotel if she didn’t have to. I heard her complain that seeing an exterminator’s truck there made her itch.”

Reba Mae scratched her arm. “Can’t say I blame her. Hate creepy crawlies. That’s why I signed a contract with Bugs-B-Gone.”

“Here, I thought it was the twenty-five-dollar discount coupon.”

“That too.”

I pushed my sweet tea aside untasted. “Once she stormed inside, Rusty intimated Cheryl wasn’t the type to stay in a fleabag. She’d become accustomed to luxury. According to him, she expected Chip to become the next Bill Gates.”

“What happened to the hot guy Cheryl was with at North of the Border?” Reba Mae idly toyed
with her chandelier-style earring. “Did he check into the Turner-Driscoll House with her?”

“Nope,” I said. “She was alone.”

“Goodness gracious!” Melly pressed a delicate hand to her chest. “Chip’s wife has a new man in her life? Already?”

Reba Mae smiled thinly. “From the way they were carryin’ on when we saw ’em at North of the Border, I suspect they’ve been friends with benefits for some
time.”

“Tsk, tsk.” Melly clucked her tongue. “I wonder if Chip suspected his wife of being unfaithful?”

The front door of the shop burst open. “Yoo-hoo!” a familiar voice sang.

The three of us quit gossiping as Dottie Hemmings, clad in a royal blue pantsuit and frilly blouse, sailed into the shop. Her blond bouffant beehive was lacquered to withstand gale force winds.

“Hey, Dottie,” I said.
“What can I help you with?”

Dottie ignored my question and reached for a cookie. “Oh, lucky me. Just in time for a tea party.”

I nudged my tea in her direction. “Here, have mine. I haven’t touched it yet.” Truth was, I really didn’t care for sweet tea. My Yankee taste buds rebelled at the syrupy sweet drink so many loved here in the Deep South. Melly always kept a pitcher on hand when she was
at home, and I wanted her to feel at ease while at my place.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Dottie took a big bite from her cookie and grimaced. “Melly Prescott, what have you gone and done to these? They taste terrible.”

Melly looked stricken. “Why, Dottie, I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s the same recipe I’ve been using for years. I’ve made these gingersnaps so often, I know the recipe
by heart.”