Cinnamon Toasted (25 page)

I made a concerted effort to corral my wayward thoughts—at least temporarily. “What was Clay doing in apple country?”

“The owner of the construction company he works for wanted Clay to do some repairs on a cabin of his.” Reba Mae’s mouth turned up in a cat-with-a-canary grin. “Clay’s seriously thinkin’ of quittin’ construction and gettin’
a degree in criminal justice.”

I stopped walking and stared at her. “You’re kidding?”

“Nope.” Reba Mae’s grin grew wider. “My boy’s finally got his head on straight. And I have Wyatt McBride to thank.”

“What does he have to do with any of this?” I asked as we resumed walking toward the stands. The crowd had thinned considerably, I noticed, since the game started.

“Clay’s come down with a huge
case of hero worship. In his eyes, McBride can do no wrong. He’s hoping to get hired on the police force soon as he turns twenty-one. Course, he might end up like your Lindsey and change careers every other month.”

I took a bite of my hot dog while I processed Reba Mae’s news. True, Lindsey kept switching career choices, but lots of young people did. Now, at seventeen, she was filling out college
applications with no particular goal in mind. Lindsey happened to be one of the youngest in her class. At times, I wished I’d held her back a year, but she’d pleaded and begged to start school with her friends. Hindsight is 20/20. Clichés are clichés for a reason.

We’d reached the bleachers. Reba Mae scanned the packed seats for a place for us to sit. “I think what put Clay over the top was seein’
a photo of McBride in an old
People
magazine. Wyatt was escortin’ a starlet to a movie premiere at South Beach.”

“Jennifer Jade.”

We whipped around at the sound of McBride’s baritone directly behind us.

“The starlet’s name was Jennifer Jade,” McBride said. He was in starched and pressed navy blues, obviously working, and looked formidable. “Ms. Jade was being stalked by some nut case. My lieutenant
assigned me as her bodyguard.”

Reba Mae wanted details. “Jennifer Jade—that her real name?”

“As real as the rest of her.” McBride smiled and sauntered off.

Reba Mae caught the eye of Joe Johnson, former police chief and her uncle by marriage.

He motioned for us to join him, then wiggled his girth to make room beside him on the bleacher. “That your baby girl out there, jumpin’ around?” he asked,
pointing a chubby finger at Lindsey.

“That’s her, all right, prettiest girl on the squad.”

He chuckled, then returned his attention to the game.

The teams were evenly matched. For a time, the score teetered back and forth. However, when halftime rolled around, the Brandywine Bearcats were down by a field goal.

Reba Mae rose and stretched. “Don’t know about you, honeybun, but I’m exhausted
from all the cheerin’ and such. I need me some deep-fried Oreos.”

“I’ll go with you,” I volunteered, “but slap my hand if I try to grab one.”

“Deal.”

Outside the football field, people milled about or chatted in small groups. I trailed after Reba Mae, who had her heart set on cholesterol and calories. Suddenly, I gave her a nudge. “Look,” I said. “Do you see who I see?”

Coming toward us, larger
than life, were CJ and Amber, along with Cheryl Balboa and Troy Farnsworth. “Hey, Scooter,” CJ said, greeting me like we were best buddies. “Didn’t know you were a big football fan.”

“I’m just one big surprise after another.” I tried to sound mysterious, but there wasn’t much mystery left after living with the same man for more than two decades.

Amber flipped long brown locks over her shoulder.
“Reba Mae, is it true what I’m hearin’? You really gonna make your stage debut?”

“Rehearsals start next week.”

Amber treated us to a dazzling display of teeth too white—and in my humble opinion, too big. As the ex-wife, I felt obligated to find fault with the “other woman.” “Reba Mae’s going to have a starring role. She’s in every scene.”

“Pity my friend Cheryl”—she indicated Cheryl Balboa
with a nod—“won’t be here. She majored in Performin’ Arts at Southern Cal. She could teach y’all a thing or two.”

“That so?” I filed this away in my bank of useless information. I’d witnessed Cheryl’s theatrics from a front-row seat in McBride’s office not long ago. If that had been an indication of her acting ability, she must have finished at the bottom of her class.

Reba Mae batted her lashes
at Troy Farnsworth, her fantasy pool boy. “A small-town football game must seem pretty dull compared with an excitin’ life in L.A.”

He lifted one shoulder and let it fall in a lazy shrug. “One has to make do. Not many choices here on a Friday night.”

“I, for one, can’t wait to leave this town and never look back,” Cheryl said petulantly.

“What’s stoppin’ y’all?” Reba Mae asked, though her attention
was still fixed on Troy.

Cheryl’s mouth tightened. “For starters, your chief of police is a control freak. He’s gotten the notion into his head that I had something to do with my husband’s death.”

CJ stuck out his chest. “I went with her when McBride called her in for questioning. Never a bad idea to have an attorney present.”

“Isn’t that conflict of interest?” I fumed. “What kind of son are
you, CJ? You should be jumping up and down with joy that McBride’s looking for suspects other than your mother.”

He had the grace to look shamefaced. “Business is business,” he muttered. “Nothin’ personal.”

“McBride subpoenaed Cheryl’s phone records. The audacity,” Amber said indignantly.

“He insinuated I was a liar,” Cheryl said. “That I had something to hide.”

“Don’t give him no never mind,
darlin’,” CJ counseled. “McBride’s a small-town boy playactin’ a big-city cop.”

Cheryl looped her arms through Troy’s. “It’s not my fault he assumed I was in California when he called to tell me Chip had died.”

“Hmm.” I struck a thoughtful pose. “Think that might be because you told him you had to book a flight?”

Amber prodded the foursome toward the bleachers. “Y’all, halftime’s nearly over.
Let’s get back to our seats.”

I scanned the crowd for sight of McBride’s navy blue uniform, but if he still circulated among the crowd, he was impossible to detect. I wanted to tell him about Troy Farnsworth’s grandiose plan for a chain of fitness clubs—financed by Chip Balboa’s estate. I also wanted to let him know what Melly’s research had turned up.

“C’mon, hon,” Reba Mae said. “I’ve lost
my cravin’ for Oreos. Let’s watch us some football.”

I couldn’t really get my head back into the game. Judging from the way Reba Mae kept hopping up and down and hollering, she didn’t share my problem. According to the brightly illuminated scoreboard, it was near the end of the third quarter. The game was tied and the Brandywine Bearcats had the ball. Sean Rogers, as quarterback, called the next
play. Before he could find an open receiver, he was taken down hard by a player twice his size.

And he didn’t get up.

The refs blew their whistles, halting play. The coach ran over and conferred with the referees. The rowdy crowd of fans grew eerily silent as EMTs trotted onto the field. Sean was lifted onto a gurney. As he was carried off the field, he raised a hand toward the spectators. The
gesture was met with deafening applause. Through a haze of tears, I watched Lindsey chase after the gurney.

C
HAPTER
27

A
FTER
S
EAN WAS INJURED,
I completely lost interest in the game and decided to leave early. Fortunately, since Reba Mae and I had driven to the high school separately, this didn’t present a problem. I might not have been in the mood for football and crowds, but I wasn’t quite ready to pay a late-night visit to the Beaver Dam Motel just yet. Lindsey had phoned to let me know she was
accompanying Sean to the hospital. She’d gone on to add that she’d probably be home late, since the doctors were talking X-rays and CT scans.

The streets were nearly deserted. People were either at the game or snug in front of their televisions. Temperatures dipped into the fifties. I was glad I’d worn my Brandywine Bearcats sweatshirt to ward off the chill.

Rather than drive around aimlessly,
I decided to check on Melly. This would be her first night back in her own home. I didn’t really expect I’d be able to convince her to return to my place, but …

After turning down Jefferson Street, I rolled to a stop in front of her house. Even though Melly was a night owl, not a single light burned. Strange, I thought. Her Ford Taurus was in its usual spot in the drive, so I assumed she was
home. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel while I examined my options. I could drive on, pretend I was never there. I could phone and risk her wrath at waking her. Or I could march up the front steps, pound on the door, and insist she tell me what was going on.

Frustrated, I stared at the house. Still dark; still no signs of life. Tired of waffling in indecision, I got out of my car and
ran up the steps. I rang the bell, and then when no one answered, knocked on the door. Feeling like a nosy Nellie, I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered through a narrow gap in the living room drapes.

I didn’t see any cause for alarm. But I felt it. Danger. Every instinct screamed a warning. The feeling was as real and as creepy as finding a long-legged spider crawling up my leg. I hadn’t
lost sight of the fact that there was a killer on the loose. One who might be hidden in plain sight—or lurking in the shadows. I cast a nervous glance over my shoulder, half-braced to have an assailant burst from the shrubbery, and felt absurdly relieved when that didn’t happen. I returned to the door, twisted the knob, and found it locked. Just then, I remembered a key Melly had given me years
ago to use in case of an emergency. Did this qualify? Guess that depended on how one defined emergency. I dug my keys out of the pocket of my jeans. A sliver of moon shed only a feeble light as it ducked behind clouds. I fumbled, trying to find the right key—then fumbled again, trying to fit it into the lock. After a couple of unsuccessful attempts, I heard the tumblers click and felt the door give
way.

“Melly,” I called as I stepped inside. “It’s me, Piper.”

I’d feel like an intruder if she suddenly appeared and demanded to know why I was prowling around her house in the dark. Shadows cloaked the house in gloom, making the familiar seem unfamiliar. I gnawed my lower lip, wishing I were elsewhere—anywhere but here—knowing I couldn’t leave until I knew Melly was safe.

“Melly,” I called
again, louder this time. A quick look around, top to bottom, I decided, then vanish. My look-see would be much easier if I could shed a little light on the subject. I groped for a wall switch, found one, and flicked it.

Nothing happened.

I tried again. Still the same results. Melly’s house was old. Fuses probably blew all the time. No big deal. I wished I carried a flashlight. A small, powerful
one like the techs did on
CSI.
I vowed to heed Ned Feeney’s motto in the future and “be prepared.”

Feeling distinctly uneasy, I rested my hand on the newel post of the staircase. “Melly!” I shouted. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.” She had been so eager to return home, to sleep in her own bed. Could she be upstairs, sound asleep in spite of the racket I was making?

The grandfather clock
on the landing bonged the hour of ten. The deep resonant tones aggravated a dull throbbing in my head. I rubbed my temples and tried to formulate a game plan. A bead of perspiration trickled down my spine. The house was warm, much too warm. Stifling. Melly must have the thermostat set at eighty-five degrees. It didn’t help any that I wore a heavy sweatshirt.

I yawned, starting to feel drowsy.
I needed to conduct my search and get out of Dodge. With both arms extended, I navigated around the living room furniture. I narrowly avoided tripping over an ottoman. My shin connected with a corner of the coffee table.

“Damn!” I cursed out loud.

I heard a soft thud when I knocked a knickknack off an end table and onto the carpet. I’d pick it up later, provided I didn’t step on it first. Feeling
a bit like Christopher Columbus upon reaching dry land, I arrived at the window at the far end of the room and flung open the drapes and sheers. Voilà! Meager light filtered in.

I stood still for a moment to get my bearings. My head felt as though tom toms beat against the skull. I had Tylenol in my purse, but I’d left my purse under the seat of my car. As I started to traverse the room, a wave
of dizziness washed over me, causing me to lose my balance and fall across the sofa.

And find Melly.

“Oh my God, Melly,” I stammered, scrambling to my feet. “I’m so sorry. I hope I didn’t hurt you. I didn’t see you lying there.”

Melly didn’t move. Didn’t say a word.

I was relieved to discover her body felt warm to the touch. I sent up a prayer of thanks when I detected the shallow rise and
fall of her chest. A heart attack? Stroke? Had the stress of finding a corpse in the cellar finally been too much?

I needed to call for help, but my cell phone was in the car, along with the Tylenol. I knew Melly had a phone mounted on the wall in her kitchen, near the pantry. “Hang on, Melly,” I pleaded.

Hugging the wall to steady myself, I worked my way down the hallway toward the kitchen.
I snatched the receiver from the cradle and held it to my ear. No dial tone. I tapped the plunger impatiently. “C’mon, c’mon.”

Still no sound. The line was dead. Thermostat set to tropical. House darker than Hades. Now no phone. Overkill, I thought. The “kill” part of the word clanged repeatedly through my throbbing brain. Someone was trying to kill Melly.

I turned and half ran, half staggered
back the way I’d come. The combination of heat and headache was making me nauseated. “Don’t worry, Melly. I’m going to call for help.”

I shoved open the front door and practically tumbled onto the porch. Bending forward, hands on my knees, I took in great gulps of cool night air to clear my head. That revived me enough to clumsily sprint to my car. I feverishly retrieved my purse and dug through
its contents. Impatient when I couldn’t find my cell, I dumped everything on the seat. Finally, phone in hand, I punched in 911.