Rosemary and Crime (3 page)

Thanks to a flattering article in
Georgia Life,
Brandywine Creek was becoming quite the tourist destination. Folks were drawn to its antique shops and quaint town square. Now that the Opera House had undergone a complete renovation and was celebrating its hundredth anniversary, even more people were discovering the village’s charms. I hoped to cash in by enticing tourists and locals alike to throw away old bottles of spices, and even older tins, in exchange for fresh and aromatic varieties from my store.

Heaving a weary sigh, I decided Spice It Up! was as ready as I could make it before flipping the sign in the window to
OPEN
tomorrow morning. Switching off lights as I went, I passed through the storage room at the back and was about to ascend the steps when I heard an eerie, bone-chilling sound that made the fine hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

I froze. Listened.

I tried to convince myself that my ears were playing tricks on me. Then it came again. A high-pitched keening that sent my heart knocking against my rib cage.

I stood there wallowing in indecision … and fear. It was late. The town had long since rolled up its streets. And I was alone. I no longer had an overweight husband or a brawny son to call upon to kill spiders or to check out things that went bump in the night. The only thing separating me from imminent danger was a flimsy wood door with an even flimsier lock. I gnawed my lower lip, debating my next move. What if someone was injured? Needed my help? And I ignored them. How would I be able to look at myself in the mirror?

Cracking open the door, I cautiously peeked out. With the moon tucked behind a cloud bank, the night was dark as pitch. I added “buy flashlight” to my lengthening to-do list right below “manicure.”

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard the sound again. It was different this time—more whimper, less keening. More animal than human. Gradually my eyes grew accustomed to the dark.

Spice It Up! backs up to a vacant lot, which separates it from the street beyond. At first, I failed to see anything out of the ordinary. Then I spotted a slight movement in the weeds off to my right. My feet inched forward of their own volition. As I drew nearer, I made out what at first appeared to be a bundle of rags tossed haphazardly into long tufts of grass poking through the hard-packed earth. Then I saw a tail wave.

On closer inspection, the “rags” transformed into a small dog, a mutt of indeterminate breed, not much larger than a puppy. The animal looked at me with pleading in its liquid brown eyes. A look that melted my heart.

“What’s the matter, girl?” I murmured, reaching out to stroke the matted fur. My fingers came away sticky with blood.

The little dog answered with another weak flop of its tail. It seemed to be having difficulty breathing. I knew I had to act.

And act quickly.

“Be right back, puppy dog.” I raced back inside, ran upstairs, and grabbed a bath towel along with my purse. Outdoors again, I gently wrapped the dog in the towel and scooped it up. Minutes later I was headed away from town in my VW Beetle, with the injured animal next to me on the passenger seat.

Though I didn’t own a pet—CJ claimed he had allergies—I knew where the animal clinic was located. I’d even met the vet a time or two, a nice gentleman by the name of Doug Winters. Cooking happens to be Dr. Doug’s hobby. Curiosity had prompted the doc to check out Spice It Up! even before I finished stocking the shelves. He’d gone away pleased as punch with “coupe” grade Spanish saffron, the highest quality of saffron on the planet, for the paella he planned. Considering saffron is the costliest of all spices, I hoped paella would become a mainstay in his diet.

Several miles out of town, the VW’s headlights illuminated a sign:
PETS ’R PEOPLE, DOUGLAS WINTERS, DVM.
I hung a right into the long drive leading to a rambling ranch–style building with white siding and black shutters that served both as a home and an animal clinic. I saw the flicker from a TV screen in a window at the far end. A signpost with an arrow and
OFFICE
printed in block letters directed pet owners to an entrance reserved for clients.

“Hang in there, puppy dog,” I crooned as I pulled to a stop. My words of encouragement were greeted by a tail wag even more pathetic than the previous one. Being careful not to jostle the poor little creature, I picked her up and hurried down the walk, hoping I wasn’t too late.

I jabbed the doorbell repeatedly. “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” I muttered under my breath like a mantra.

After what seemed like an hour, but in all likelihood was only a minute or two, a porch light came on and the clinic’s door swung open. Kind brown eyes peered out of a boyishly attractive face. A pair of wire-rimmed glasses had been shoved atop a mop of prematurely gray hair. Dressed casually in jeans and a rugby shirt, the vet took in the situation at a glance.

“Follow me,” he ordered. He led me down a short hallway, flicking on lights as he went. Turning into the second room on the left, he motioned toward an exam table.

“Piper, isn’t it? From the spice shop?”

I nodded, carefully lowering the small bundle of canine onto the cold stainless steel.

“Your dog?” He jammed on his eyeglasses, then tugged on a pair of latex gloves.

“No.” I swallowed hard. “Just tell me she’s going to be all right?”

Doug gently unwrapped the bath towel I’d swaddled her in. Next he reached for his stethoscope and proceeded to press its bell against the blood-matted fur as the dog struggled to catch its breath. He scowled at me from across the table. “Care to explain what happened?”

“I heard sounds like someone or something moaning coming from the vacant lot behind my shop. When I went to investigate, I found this poor thing lying in the weeds. Why?” My worry ratcheted up a notch. Or three. “What’s wrong with her?”

“Him,” Doug corrected absently as he began assembling instruments and supplies. “The laceration in his side looks like a knife wound. Probably punctured a lung.”

“Stabbed?” I recoiled in horror. “He’s been stabbed…?”

“You’re not the squeamish sort, are you?”

Doug stared at me over his rimless eyeglasses and challenged me not to turn tail and run. I drew a shaky breath, then let it out. “What do you want me to do?”

While Doug cleansed the wound and inserted a slender tube into the dog’s chest cavity, I did what I could to soothe the animal. I stroked, I petted, I prayed, all the while talking nonsense in the singsong voice I’d once used to calm fretful infants.

At long last, the pup’s breathing less labored, Doug assured me there was nothing more to be done. I left him in the vet’s very capable hands.

*   *   *

When I awoke the next morning, kettle drums beat an exuberant tattoo against my skull. My eyes felt gritty. Lack of sleep? Stress? A combination of the two? Not exactly how I envisioned feeling at the kickoff of my new career. There was still a dozen things I needed to do before Spice It Up! officially opened for business at ten o’clock. But one thing took precedence. I had to find out how the dog had fared since I’d left him at the vet’s in the wee hours of the morning. I reached for the phone and dialed.

Doug had promised to do what he could to locate the dog’s owner, but warned me it was probably a stray. If the owner couldn’t be found I’d promised to pay for the dog’s care. A dog may be man’s best friend, but time had come for man—or in this case, woman—to step up and be dog’s best friend. Doug had taken pity on a penniless divorcee, however, and said he’d barter his services in exchange for saffron and other spices.

The phone at Pets ’R People went unanswered, but I realized it was early yet. Doug was probably either busy tending the injured mutt—or still fast asleep. I’d try again later. One thing for certain, I couldn’t keep referring to the dog as “dog.” He needed a proper name, even if it might only be temporary until someone claimed him. I’d ask Lindsey to put on her thinking cap and come up with something suitable for a scruffy, but adorable, pup.

After swallowing a couple Tylenol, I stood under the needle-sharp spray of the shower until I felt human again. I quickly dressed in a pair of slim black chinos, a crisp white cotton blouse with three-quarter sleeves, and my favorite citron green sling-back sandals. For good measure, I added a chunky necklace to my ensemble. Makeup was minimal since I no longer felt compelled to hide the smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose. A little eye shadow, mascara, and a swipe of lip gloss, and I was good to go. A final glance in the mirror told me I looked okay for an impoverished woman in her mid-forties.

Breakfast consisted of a cup of tea and yogurt, to which I added my personal blend of trail mix—bits of crystallized ginger being my secret ingredient—then sprinkled on Ceylon cinnamon for extra oomph. When finished, I decided to make Mario Barrone my first order of business. I’d dropped off my entire stock of juniper berries at the trattoria last night. I figured this way Mario could pick and choose the ones he wanted, but I needed the remainder for any customers who might want to recreate his magic with a leg of lamb. Mario had already started prepping the lamb and had indicated that he planned to refrigerate it overnight. He’d also mentioned he was an early riser. Besides retrieving what was left of the juniper, we needed to review the timetable one more time. I didn’t want any last-minute glitches in front of an audience and members of the press.

The Trattoria Milano was on a side street a block off the square. Knowing I’d find the front locked, I went down the alley leading to the rear of the restaurant. Trash cans flanked either side of the back entrance. Two steps with broken concrete led to the door. I was about to knock when I spotted the sun glinting off something metal in the weeds.

“What on earth?” I bent for a closer look, and was surprised to find a knife with a long, slender blade similar to those used for boning. Odd, I thought. Had rumors I’d heard about Mario been true? One tale that had spread like poison ivy through Reba Mae’s salon concerned Mario actually
throwing
a steak knife at his hapless sous chef. Hoping no one had gotten hurt, I picked up the knife and went up the steps.

“Mario…”

The rear door swung open even though I barely touched it. I passed through a service area that ran the width of the building. A fully stocked pantry occupied one side, a commercial freezer the other.

“Mario,” I called again. As I shoved aside the swinging door dividing the service area from the kitchen proper, I smelled alcohol. I sniffed. Then sniffed some more. The odor was distinctly woodsy, tangy, and unmistakably like juniper. Or … gin.

Dammit!

Gin? This early in the day?
I vowed if Mario was in no condition to demonstrate how to roast a leg of lamb to a shop full of women, he’d rue the day. “If you’re drunk…”

It was then I found Mario.

The man wasn’t dead drunk. He was just plain dead.

C
HAPTER
4

T
HE KNIFE I’D
found dropped from my nerveless fingers and skittered across the floor.

Mario lay sprawled on his side. Blood darker than a habanero chili pepper pooled around his body. I stared, transfixed by the sight. Then, I dragged my gaze to his face. His eyes were shut. His usually swarthy complexion was a sickly gray-white. Bile, hot and bitter, rose in my throat. I swallowed it down.

Gradually, I became more aware of my surroundings. Juniper berries had rolled off the counter and onto the floor, where they’d been crushed underfoot. Juniper berries, I’d learned, are responsible for giving gin its distinctive flavor. No wonder I’d assumed the poor man was a drunk. Shame on me. That should teach me not to rush to judgment.

Somewhere in the nether region of my brain, I knew I ought to do something. But what? Holler my fool head off? Throw up? Faint? Nothing in my relatively uncomplicated life had prepared me for discovering a dead body. Was there a certain protocol to follow?

Brrrrg!

The shrill sound of a phone ringing penetrated my shell shock. I pivoted slowly and spotted an old-fashioned wall phone hanging near the door I’d just entered. In a daze I moved to answer it, but the ringing ceased. The sudden silence seemed deafening.

I glanced over my shoulder at Mario—who I was rapidly coming to think of as the “corpse.” Should I feel for a pulse like how they did on TV cop shows? I recoiled inwardly at the notion of tiptoeing close enough to press my fingers against his neck. Even to a novice such as myself, the man was obviously a goner. Why risk ruining my favorite sandals traipsing through blood and gore? Though it might seem heartless to some, there are times a woman has to be practical, especially when it comes to an expensive pair of shoes. Funny, the thoughts that cross your mind in a crisis.

As the hours crept by—in reality it was only minutes, but it seemed much longer—the neurons in my brain began firing. Sucking in a deep, steadying breath, I forced myself to think. I couldn’t just stand here. I had to do something. Summon help. Report the crime.
Something.

I groped through the pockets of my slacks before remembering I’d left my cell phone at home on the charger. Reaching for the grubby wall phone, I punched in 911 with a trembling hand. After listening to my stammering explanation, the dispatcher instructed me to remain on the line until help arrived. Stretching the spiral cord to its limits, I edged my way out of the kitchen and into the service area to await the arrival of Brandywine Creek’s men in blue.

Seeing as how the police department was located on Lincoln Avenue, two blocks over, I didn’t have long to wait before the wail of sirens and the flash of red and blue lights disturbed the quiet April morning.

Beau Tucker was first on the scene. The policeman happened to be one of CJ’s poker buddies. Genial and good-natured, he shared my ex’s fondness for Wild Turkey and fat, smelly cigars. But the man’s usual jovial persona wasn’t evident now. His round, moon-shaped face was more serious than I’d ever seen it.

“Hey, Piper,” he greeted me. “What’s goin’ on? Dorinda said somethin’ about you findin’ a dead body.”