Authors: Gail Oust
“Are you attempting to bribe an officer of the law?”
“Mmm,” I said, pretending to ponder the matter. “I prefer
to think of it as barter rather than bribery.”
“I’ll take the matter under advisement,” he countered.
“Fair enough.” I motioned toward the large selection of shiny kitchen appliances. “I’m talking a trade. My priceless expertise in exchange for answers to a few simple questions.”
“Questions such as?”
“The toxicology report, for starters.”
A dark brow rose sharply. “Some starter. You know
I can’t divulge privileged information in—”
“—an active investigation,” I said, completing his sentence. “Pity to invest all that hard-earned money in appliances, only to realize later you made poor decisions.” I put on a sad face and made to move my buggy around him.
“Wait up.” He placed a hand on the buggy to waylay my progress.
I noticed Band-Aids on two of the knuckles. Poor guy. He was
more adept with a handgun than with a hammer. I quashed the spurt of sympathy and pressed my advantage. “Ticktock.”
He raked his fingers through his hair. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said at last. “For every appliance you help me select, I’ll answer one question—provided I’m not jeopardizing the case. I can’t very well hold Beau Tucker to one standard and me to another. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I
grinned. “Now, let’s get down to business, shall we?”
A half hour later, I steered my buggy through the checkout line while McBride talked with a salesman and jotted down model numbers. After debating the merits of various refrigerators, he’d decided on side-by-side with an ice and water dispenser on the door. He said he wanted one that dispensed beer and acted disappointed when informed that
wasn’t an option. He also purchased a stainless steel range with a self-cleaning oven, since he didn’t strike me as the type who’d don a pair of rubber gloves and wield a can of Easy-Off.
McBride suggested coffee, so we convened at a nearby restaurant, part of a popular chain. “Had dinner yet?” he asked as I slid into a booth.
I thought of Doug. For a nanosecond, I wondered if I was being disloyal.
Then, just as quickly, I dismissed the notion. My meetings with McBride were strictly business. Nothing personal. Though I was tempted to tell him I wasn’t hungry, my stomach rumbled and gave me away. A waitress brought us coffee—decaf for me, heavy duty for McBride. He ordered a rib eye steak, medium rare, and fries; I ordered a Cobb salad.
“So,” he said after the waitress disappeared with our
orders. “Two appliances—two questions.”
The first was easy. “What was in the toxicology report that made you get a search warrant?”
Leaning back, he rested an arm along the top of the booth. “The lab found an ingredient in Chip Balboa’s stomach contents that raised suspicion.”
“An ingredient? What ingredient? Is that why you left with Melly’s eyedrops in an evidence bag? Are you saying Chip
was poisoned?”
“Whoa!” He raised a hand. “You had one question left, not four.”
“You’ll also need a washing machine and a dryer. Did you know front-loading washing machines are energy efficient?”
“Good try, but I’m already energy efficient. Final question.”
I was framing what to ask next when I happened to see the hostess lead a couple past our table. My eyes widened in surprise when I recognized
the pair. “What do you suppose Cheryl Balboa and her boy toy are doing here?”
“Having dinner, same as us?” He smirked. “Consider your final question asked and answered.”
“B-but, that’s not fair. That wasn’t the one I wanted to ask.” Darn McBride, anyway! The man was as slippery as an eel. He had managed to answer my questions without giving away any information of importance.
His smirk widened
into a grin. “Life isn’t fair, sweetheart. Thought you’d learned that by now.”
I felt blood rush to my cheeks. I stifled an urge to kick him in the shins, but fear of being charged with assaulting a police officer made me behave. “Just wait until you need advice on cabinets, countertops, and flooring.” My salvo succeeded in erasing the smugness from his handsome face.
The waitress returned with
our orders and refilled our coffee cups. Still fuming, I drizzled dressing over my salad, then speared a tomato wedge. McBride sliced into his rib eye. “So that’s the guy Reba Mae wants to hire for a pool boy?”
I mixed the contents of my salad with a fork. “Have you ever heard of double indemnity?”
“Sure. Classic film noir,” he said, dipping a french fry into a puddle of ketchup. “Barbara Stanwyck
and Fred MacMurray. Filmed back in the ’40s. One of my all-time favorites.”
“It’s one of my favorites, too,” I admitted. “But I wasn’t referring to the movie. I was referring to the real deal—an insurance clause. Those things still exist, you know.”
“Where are you going with this?” McBride stabbed a piece of steak.
“In a double indemnity policy, the insurance company agrees to pay the face
value several times over if the death is accidental. This includes murder, unless, of course, the beneficiary is the guilty party. Have you ever stopped to consider the possibility that Cheryl—or a hired hit man—might have killed Chip for the money? If Chip’s death was ruled an accident, collecting the insurance money would be a snap.”
McBride continued to eat his dinner, his movements precise
and methodical. “Where did you learn all this stuff?”
I dug into my salad. “I might not be as savvy as Melly when it comes to computers, but I can navigate my way around the Internet.”
“So according to this theory of yours, Cheryl followed Chip to Brandywine Creek, Georgia, where she slipped her husband—let’s call it a mystery substance—then shoved him down a flight of stairs. Or”—he looked
over his shoulder where Cheryl and Troy were seated—“had her friend do the job for her?”
“I’m just saying, is all,” I said, borrowing a page from Reba Mae’s phrase book. Maybe it did sound a little far-fetched when spoken out loud, but I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel.
“You want dessert?”
“Ah, no thanks.” I realized McBride had cleaned his plate while my salad was still half-finished. “But
go ahead if you want.”
He signaled the waitress and asked for the check. “You’re doing it again, Piper. How many times do I have to warn you not to stick your cute freckled nose where it doesn’t belong?”
It was hard to appear offended when someone was giving you a backhanded compliment, but I tried. “Did you even attempt to get a court order for Cheryl’s phone records?”
“Judge Herman signed
the order yesterday. I expect to get the printout from the phone company tomorrow latest.” He sipped his coffee. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, Piper, but there’s a glitch in your theory.”
I sat straighter and leaned forward. “Glitch?”
“Seems your prime suspect has an alibi.”
“Alibi?” Hearing that word certainly took the starch out of my petticoat. “Who? What?”
McBride seemed amused that
my speech had been reduced to monosyllables. “When I questioned Cheryl Balboa more specifically on her whereabouts the night her husband was killed, she admitted she was in Brandywine Creek the entire time. She went on to elaborate that she’d placed an order at the Pizza Palace around the time the murder took place. Danny Boyd confirmed he made the delivery himself.”
“How long does it take to
eat pizza?” I flung up my hands, not ready to concede defeat “Maybe Cheryl left right afterwards.”
“I checked with Danny. Seems he ran over some metal debris in the Beaver Dam’s parking lot and blew a tire. He had to wait over an hour before a buddy showed up with a spare. He swears that if Cheryl had left her room, he would’ve seen her.”
Disheartened, I slumped back against the booth. I’d been
so sure Cheryl was the culprit. Now I’d have to widen my net of suspects if I hoped to find the guilty party and clear Melly.
“If it makes you feel any better, I still intend to look at the widow’s phone records.”
McBride withdrew bills from his wallet and placed them on the table next to the check. When I attempted to pay my share, he shook his head and pushed the money back toward me.
“Mark
my words, Wyatt McBride,” I warned as I climbed to my feet. “Someday this situation will be reversed. You’ll have questions, and I’ll be the one with the answers.”
W
HEN
I
RETURNED FROM
L
OWE’S
, I found Lindsey doing her homework at the kitchen table. Casey lay at her feet, his head resting on his paws. At seeing me, he flopped his tail once or twice in a lazy welcome.
“Hey, Mom,” Lindsey greeted me. When she saw that I was struggling with a large box, she jumped up to help carry it. “This thing must weigh a ton.”
“Close to it,” I said, out
of breath after lugging my spiffy new garbage disposal up a steep flight of stairs.
“I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home, so I took Casey out to do his thing.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” I puffed as we set the box on the floor, where it would be out of the way.
I heard the sound of a television in the living room. I glimpsed Melly in an armchair reading
The Statesman,
Brandywine Creek’s weekly newspaper.
Upon seeing me, she clicked the remote and came into the kitchen. “I hope you didn’t buy the cheapest model Lowe’s carries. You should know by now that you only get what you pay for.”
“This particular one was middle of the line. It’s supposed to be perfect for small households.”
“If you say so…” Melly eyed the box skeptically. “Remember, I insist on paying for the disposal, along with the cost
of installation. It’s the least I can do, seeing as how this is entirely my fault.”
“Melly, we’ve been over this a dozen times. Accidents happen. That’s why they’re called ‘accidents.’”
“Even so, I should have had enough sense to switch off the disposal immediately instead of standing there like a ninny. I just froze.”
“It’s okay, Meemaw,” Lindsey said. “The stupid garbage disposal probably
needed to be replaced anyway.”
“Sweet of you to say that, dear, but I feel bad nevertheless.” Melly smiled fondly at her granddaughter, then turned to me. “I’ve already talked to Ned Feeney. He’s coming over bright and early tomorrow morning to replace the damaged one.”
I had doubts about Ned Feeney’s plumbing expertise but kept silent. Dottie Hemmings had once confided she’d hired Ned to unstop
a stopped-up sink. In the process, Ned had accidentally dropped his wristwatch down the drain, and a real plumber had to be called to retrieve it. Ned was the local jack-of-all-trades and master of gossip and innuendo, in addition to working for John Strickland at the Eternal Rest Funeral Home.
“Besides, I feel sorry for the man. The funeral business has been slow lately, so I’m certain Ned will
appreciate a chance to earn a little extra money.” Melly sat down across from Lindsey and began work on the newspaper’s crossword puzzle.
“Daddy used to do all the home repairs.” Lindsey snapped her history text shut. “Did you know only six percent of divorced couples remarry each other?”
Melly glanced up, pencil poised in midair, crossword forgotten. The two of us exchanged puzzled looks. After
reaching into a cabinet above the sink, I took down a glass. “Where did you hear that?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Sean.”
I turned on the tap, filled my glass, took a sip. “What else did Sean have to say?”
Lindsey aligned pages of notes. “He read that of the divorced couples who reunite, seventy-two percent stay married.”
I leaned my hip against the sink and watched Lindsey stuff textbook,
notes, pens, and highlighters into her backpack. The whole time, I kept wondering what scene was playing out in her pretty little head. “Hmm…,” I murmured. “Interesting statistic.”
“Does Sean wish his parents would remarry?” Melly asked.
Lindsey shrugged. “It’s too late for them.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, dear,” Melly murmured.
“Sean told me his father was the one who wanted the divorce. Later,
he realized it was a mistake, but by then, it was too late. His mom had already met someone else and wanted to move on. She remarried, and his stepdad made it clear he doesn’t want a teenager around 24/7.” Lindsey zipped her backpack closed and set it next to the door, where she could easily grab it the next morning on her way to school. “I’m going to shower and get ready for bed.”
“Shower” and
“bed” were buzzwords telling Melly and me it was time to clear out so Lindsey could have the living room/temporary bedroom to herself. Melly stood, the newspaper tucked under her arm. “By any chance, Piper, have you spoken to Chief McBride recently? I’d like to know when that horrid man will allow me to return home.”
I placed my glass in the dishwasher. For some reason I didn’t care to explore,
I felt oddly reluctant to tell her we’d had dinner together. I wanted to kick myself for not asking McBride Melly’s question when I’d had the chance. Shame on me. I’d been too preoccupied helping him choose kitchen appliances. And by the couple in a back booth. Seems it didn’t take much to distract me these days.
“I don’t expect it’ll be much longer,” I finally said.
“Hmph!” she snorted. “When
you do see him, be sure to let him know that my granddaughter wants her bedroom back. Tell him she’s threatening to move in with her father if she has to continue sleeping on the sofa.”
Ouch! Melly’s comment hit home. Lucky for me, CJ’s house-painting seemed to be taking forever, or Lindsey might make good her threat. Truth was, my apartment
was
feeling a bit cramped these days, with three women
sharing one bathroom. I thought this might be a good time for a change of subject. “Melly, I said, “are you certain it was Visine that McBride had in the evidence bag?”
“Of course I’m certain,” she snapped. “There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”
I let that remark slide as she marched off toward Lindsey’s room.
I made up the sofa bed for Lindsey and plumped the pillows so all would be in
readiness for her after her shower. Then I picked up my laptop from an end table and went into my room. Casey trotted after me, jumped on the foot of the bed, and made himself at home.