Rosemary and Crime (35 page)

I took another bracing swallow of “good and strong,” then opened the office door. McBride stood as I entered. “You okay?”

“As well as can be expected after narrowly escaping my own suicide.” I ran a hand over my hair in a vain attempt to smooth the tangled mess. “I must look a wreck.”

“Considering all you’ve been through, you look terrific.”

“Um … thanks.” I summoned a weak smile. The compliment threw me off balance. The guy must be partial to dark circles, freckles, and frizz.

“Take a seat,” he said. “How’s the mutt?”

“Casey’s going to be all right,” I explained, sinking into the visitor’s chair. “Doug suspects he sustained a mild concussion when he hit the wall. He wanted to keep him overnight for observation.”

“Sorry for insisting you come in tonight, but it’s standard operating procedure. I overheard pretty much all of Cloune’s confession, but still need to hear your version.”

I wanted to ask how he happened to be in the neighborhood in time to rescue a damsel in distress. But my question could wait until later. Right now I was beyond tired. I was exhausted. All I wanted to do was go home, crawl into bed, and sink into oblivion.

He clicked on a recorder. I took another sip of coffee, drew a deep breath, then went through the events that led me here. When I was done, McBride offered to have Precious drive me home.

“I’ll be fine. I have my car, and it’s only a couple blocks.” I rose and walked to the door where I hesitated, one hand on the knob. “McBride…” He stopped reading my statement and looked up. “Thanks for saving my life.”

He smiled then, a genuine smile that made that cute dimple in his cheek wink in and out. “My pleasure.”

Weighted down with fatigue, I plodded down the hallway and nearly plowed into my ex. “CJ,” I gasped. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

CJ grinned broadly, making his professionally whitened choppers gleam in the overhead fluorescents. “Dwayne called and asked me to represent him.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. “And you agreed, knowing he tried to kill me—the mother of your children?”

“Now, Scooter, no need to get riled. It’s business, pure and simple.”

“What happened to chasing ambulances?” I asked. “You have no experience as a criminal attorney.”

“I’ll take in a seminar or two to bring me up to speed.” Setting his briefcase aside, he sketched that framing gesture I’d seen him make before. It made me want to slap him. “Picture this, darlin’:
PROMINENT ATTORNEY CHANDLER JAMESON PRESCOTT III DEFENDS SENATORIAL CANDIDATE.
Just imagine all the cases this will bring in.”

Imagine.
I shook my head and left. I’d heard enough.

*   *   *

I racked up record sales the following Monday. A steady stream of customers poured into my shop the entire day. Seems I’d gone from being the prime suspect in a murder case to the local heroine. Everyone who entered professed to have never doubted my innocence. Not for a split second did anyone think me capable of murder. I smiled to myself each time I rang up a sale.

Reba Mae ducked in, but when she saw how busy I was, left after giving me a thumbs-up. I’d filled her in on all the juicy details yesterday over brunch and celebratory Mimosas.

Bob Sawyer, reporter and photographer for
The Statesman,
had dropped in, too. My interview and picture would run in the next edition. He’d also interviewed McBride, who graciously credited my tenacity for bringing Mario’s killer to light. I, in turn, generously praised McBride’s timely arrival for saving my life. I refused to dwell on how differently things might’ve turned out if he hadn’t burst in like Eliot Ness hell-bent on capturing Al Capone. Bob left, but not before promising to feature Spice It Up! in an upcoming article about the Brandywine Creek Barbecue Festival.

Best of all, Doug had personally delivered Casey who, in spite of his harrowing experience, seemed his frisky self. Presently, however, he was content to lie under the counter and gnaw a chunk of rawhide nearly as big as he was.

“Hey, Mama.” Beaming, Lindsey charged through the front door, brandishing a sheet of notebook paper.

I paused in tallying the day’s receipts to smile back at her. “What’s that you’re holding, sweetie?”

“An A-plus, that’s what I’m holding.” With a flourish, Lindsey placed the paper down in front of me. “Mrs. Walker had us write an essay on the career of our dreams.”

“Sounds like a great topic,” I said, reaching for the paper. “What did you write about?”

Lindsey studied the floor as if embarrassed. For a long moment, I thought she was going to keep her dreams to herself, but then she met my gaze, her steel-blue eyes shining with excitement. “I plan to be a doctor. Not like Chad,” she hastened to explain, seeing my surprise. “I want to be a veterinarian like Dr. Winters.”

“I hardly know what to say,” I murmured.

“You know that I’ve always loved animals,” she rushed on. “I want to learn how to keep them healthy. How to treat them when they’re sick or hurt. Do you suppose Dr. Winters would let me help at Pets ’R People once school’s out? That is, when you don’t need me to wait on customers and all.”

“We can ask Doug—Dr. Winters—if he could use an assistant. Melly volunteered to help here whenever I need her. I’m sure something can be arranged … provided you don’t neglect summer school.”

Lindsey nodded her vigorous assent. “Since I’m going to college, I’ll need math. Is it okay if I take Casey to the park?”

At the mention of “park,” Casey stopped chewing and thumped his tail to signal his willingness.

Humming to myself, I watched my girl and my pup race off. I realized Lindsey was young, impressionable, and would probably change career choices at least a half dozen times before settling on one. Yet, I couldn’t help but rejoice that she had a goal. Particularly one that required an education—not a tiara. CJ might not feel overjoyed at the prospect of two children in medical school, but the prospect gave me added incentive to make Spice It Up! an unqualified success.

I was almost finished restocking shelves when McBride strolled in. My pulse did a funny little samba at the sight of him. Now that I no longer feared imminent arrest, I reacted the same way Reba Mae swore every woman with a drop of estrogen did at the sight of him. Doing my utmost to ignore my hormonal surge, I continued shelving stock and waited for him to state his business.

McBride tucked his thumbs in his belt, a gesture I now recognized as characteristic. “Thought you might like to know that Dwayne Cloune’s been arraigned. Judge denied him bond.”

“Good!” I plunked a jar of spice on a shelf with more force than necessary.

“Ambition got the better of him, that’s for sure,” McBride said agreeably.

I made room on the shelf for the last of the jars. “So it
was
a crime of passion.”

“A jury might be lenient except for his plans to kill you. You were too much of a wild card. Cloune wouldn’t let anything—or anyone—interfere with his chance for election. To his way of thinking, once you were arrested—or dead—things would settle down. Case closed. He’d be home free.”

“Has he confessed?”

“On the advice of his attorney—none other than your ex—he pled innocent, but the evidence works against him.”

“Evidence?” I brushed a lock of hair away from my face with the back of my hand. “What evidence?”

“I’d be willing to bet a month’s salary that the mystery print we found on the blade of the murder weapon will match Cloune’s. We ran it through AFIS, but it wasn’t in the system—until now. Should be the clincher.”

“Mystery print…?”

He shrugged off my question. “It’s not unusual to withhold a piece of key information during the initial stage of a murder investigation.”

“One other thing, McBride.” I cocked my head to one side and studied him. “How
did
you happen to rescue me in just the nick of time?”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on you,” he confessed. “After years on the job, a cop learns to rely on his instincts. Part of our credo is to protect—and I admit that I was worried about you. Figured whoever tried to kill you once might try again. When I saw a big black car with a clown logo on the trunk parked behind your shop, I became suspicious. Decided to check it out. That’s when I found your back door ajar. Instinct—and the sound of a gunshot—told me you were in trouble. I went inside and waited long enough to hear Cloune admit he killed Cousin Mario.”

“And to think—that he nearly got away with it,” I said.

“Diane Cloune seems more upset about losing the rock from her earring than the fact her husband is facing twenty to life behind bars. Don’t suppose you know anything about a lost diamond?”

A guilty flush stained my cheeks. “I’ll see that it’s returned.”

“Clever of Cloune to have you first write a suicide note along with an admission of guilt.”

I looked at him sharply. I knew him well enough by now to know when he was holding back. “Out with it, McBride.”

The corners of his mouth twitched to hide a smile. “Unfortunately for Cloune, he wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought. Your ‘suicide’ note gave my men a good laugh.”

I had to grin at hearing this. “If Dwayne had taken the time to read it, he’d have been furious. But on the bright side, he’d have had a terrific recipe for roast lamb with rosemary and juniper.”

McBride unhooked his thumbs from his belt and, reaching out, rearranged the spices on the shelf behind me. I turned to inspect his changes. Ceylon, China, and Indonesia? I stared at him, alarmed. He’d just arranged the cinnamon in alphabetical order of the countries they originated from.

“What?” he asked, finding me staring.

“Please, tell me you’re not obsessive-compulsive.”

“Ex-military.” He grinned sheepishly, showing off that danged dimple.

“One last thing, McBride.” I folded my arms across my chest. “Did you honestly believe I killed Mario?”

He shrugged. “Didn’t take me long to figure out you weren’t the perp.”

“But how?”

“Your mutt, for starters. No animal that’d been mistreated would leap into the arms of its abuser. Besides, I’ve been in law enforcement long enough to know a setup when I see one. And the bloody T-shirt in your cupboard was a plant if there ever was one.”

I nodded slowly, digesting everything he’d told me. “That’s it?”

He frowned, looking a little annoyed by my persistence, but then his brow cleared. “Any good defense attorney would have latched onto the fact that the angle of entry of the stab wound indicated it came from someone much taller than you. When I asked him, Doug Winters was quite specific about the type of shoes you wore the night of the murder. Tennis shoes. I checked yours out myself, but they bore no traces of blood. Add that to the fact, you’re a terrible liar. Your skin tone gives you away every time you come close to telling a lie.”

“The curse of being a redhead.” I laughed. “Guess that about wraps things up.”

“Guess so.”

I watched him leave with mixed emotions. While greatly relieved to have the ordeal behind me, I felt oddly sad to see him walk out of my life. His presence in it had added a bit of spice, a little sizzle, some zing.

“Thanks again, McBride,” I called out.

He paused and shot me a killer smile over his shoulder. “See you around. And, Piper, just for the record, I do have a first name. It’s Wyatt. Feel free to use it.”

Hmmm …

A
LSO BY
G
AIL
O
UST

Whack ’n’ Roll

’Til Dice Do Us Part

Shake, Murder, and Roll

A
BOUT THE
A
UTHOR

The author of the Bunco Babes mystery series, GAIL OUST is often accused of flunking retirement. Hearing the words “maybe it’s a dead body” while golfing fired her imagination for writing a cozy. Ever since then, she has spent more time on a computer than at a golf course. She lives with her husband in McCormick, South Carolina. Visit her online at
www.gailoust.com
.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

A THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.

An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.

ROSEMARY AND CRIME.
Copyright © 2013 by Gail Oust. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com

www.stmartins.com

Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein

Cover illustration by Matthew Holmes

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Oust, Gail, 1943–

    Rosemary and crime / Gail Oust. — 1st ed.

            p. cm.

    ISBN 978-1-250-01104-6 (hardcover)

    ISBN 978-1-4668-3428-6 (e-book)

  1.  Businesswomen—Fiction.   2.  Cooks—Crimes against—Fiction.   3.  Georgia—Fiction.   I.  Title.