Cinnamon Toasted (29 page)

“We’ll be back in a jiffy. I’ll drive.”

I gave Doug a lame excuse about a raging headache and needing to rest a bit and told him not to worry. Luckily, Doug, the darling of pet owners, was surrounded by a host of adoring fans. Before he could question me further, he was commandeered by Ruby Phillips, who clutched his arm and started chattering about Mugsy, her Pekingese.

My bright green
VW stood out like a beacon amid the ocean of dark sedans and SUVs. Fortunately, Joey Tucker had left the keys inside.

“Why the cloak-and-dagger?” Reba Mae protested as we left the Oktoberfest behind.

“We need to check the Beaver Dam Motel for rear exits. If they have them, Cheryl could easily have sneaked out a back door and pushed Chip down the stairs while Danny Boyd was out front, providing
her alibi. All we need to do is take a quick look, then back to the dessert table.”

“If it’s so freakin’ simple, why do you need me ridin’ shotgun?”

“Because,” I sighed, “it’s safer this way. Don’t forget there’s a killer on the prowl.”

Less than ten minutes later, we pulled into the motel’s parking lot. I noticed a total of four cars parked in front of various rooms. I switched off the engine,
turned off the headlights, and climbed out of the car. “Let’s circle the building.”

Reba Mae followed close on my heels. “Don’t suppose you thought to bring a flashlight.”

Leave it to my friend to find the glaring flaw in my plan. “There’s enough moonlight. We’ll be okay without one.”

In the flickering of the motel’s neon sign, Reba Mae’s expression looked dubious. “If you say so.”

I hurried
down the side of the building, rounded the corner, then came to an abrupt stop. Reba Mae plowed into me. Knee-high weeds choked the narrow strip of property that bordered the rear of the motel and tapered into a dense woods.

“Eww!” Reba Mae gasped. “Think there are snakes back here? I hate snakes.”

“Remember the old saying, black on yellow kill a fellow, and you’ll be fine.” Using my outstretched
hand to guide me along the worn brick wall, I waded through the tall grass.

Reba Mae inched behind me. “It’s too dark to see colors on a snake. What if I get bit?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll rush you to the ER.”

“Thanks,” she grumbled. “I’ll do the same for you.”

I stopped and swept my gaze across the back of the motel. Not a single rear exit in any of the guest rooms. So much for my theory. I was
about to admit defeat when a thought occurred to me. Although they didn’t have a door, each room had a window—probably a bathroom window—that faced the woods. Ones that to my mind looked large enough for a person to wriggle through.

“Reba Mae”—I turned with a grin—“you and I are about to embark on a scientific experiment.”

“I hate when you use that tone of voice. It usually spells nothin’ but
trouble.”

“Follow me,” I said.

I entered the motel office while Reba Mae elected to wait outside. “I’d like a room,” I announced.

The desk clerk, a stoop-shouldered man with frayed gray strands of hair valiantly trying to camouflage a bald spot, barely glanced up. In a bored voice, he stated the price and slid an old-fashioned plastic key ring across the counter.

I marched down the concrete
walkway to room 127, two doors away from the one Cheryl and Troy had occupied, threw open the door, and switched on the light.

Reba Mae wrinkled her nose in disgust. “What a dump!”

I couldn’t disagree. The room exuded a musty odor not even disinfectant sprays could dispel. The furnishings consisted of faux walnut bed and dresser, dingy shag carpeting soiled in places, and faded gold-colored
spread and drapes. “No wonder Cheryl bailed in favor of the Turner-Driscoll House.”

“Can we go now?” Reba Mae asked plaintively.

“Five minutes, tops. Soon as you climb out the bathroom window.”

“Me? Why can’t you be the one doin’ the climbin’?”

“Because I’m smaller than Cheryl, but you’re about the same size. If you can fit through, so could she. You don’t want Melly arrested while Cheryl
gets off scot-free, do you?” I added when she looked about to refuse.

“Orange is the new black, you know,” she informed me.

The bathroom possessed the essentials: commode, sink, and a chipped porcelain tub. Just as I thought, the window was located over the tub, covered by a thin curtain on a metal rod.

“If this isn’t the dumbest idea ever.” Reba Mae wagged her head but gamely stepped into
the tub and shoved the curtain aside. “There’s a screen. What do I do now?”

“Slide those two little doohickeys out of the way, and the screen should pop out.”

It did, falling into the tub with a loud clatter. Reba Mae and I froze. Ears peeled, we strained to listen. I released a sigh of relief when I didn’t hear any sounds to indicate someone else had heard the crash and was coming to investigate.

“Okay,” I said in a stage whisper. “Let’s get this over and done with.”

Reba Mae muttered something unintelligible under her breath as she cranked open the window. A welcome blast of cool night air burst into the room. “Good thing I took gymnastics as a kid.”

I watched as she levered one foot sideways against the rim of the tub, braced both hands on the sill, and heaved herself up. In a flash,
she disappeared out the window—at least the top half of her body did. She wiggled her hips, once, twice, but nothing happened.

“Stop it, Reba Mae,” I scolded. “Quit clowning around.”

“I’m not cuttin’ up!” she yelled back. “I’m stuck!”

“Hush! Let me help.” I climbed into the tub, grasped her thighs, and shoved.

Nothing budged.

“So help me, Piper Prescott, if you don’t get me out of here this
instant, I’m gonna scream bloody murder.”

“Shh, Reba Mae! I’m coming outside to yank on your arms.”

I scrambled out of the tub, across the room, and out the door. A man’s face peered through a slit in the drapes of the adjoining room as I raced past. Reba Mae dangled half in, half out a partially open window from a room midway down the back of the motel. Now that I was outside, I could see the
problem. The window was the crank kind, the sort that opened from the bottom outward.

“Good news, Reba Mae,” I said to my red-faced BFF, who looked angry enough to spit nails. “It’s not you, it’s the window that’s stuck.”

Reba Mae pounded on the brick with both fists. “Get me out of here. Now!”

“Stay put,” I told her, as if she had a choice in the matter.

I ran back inside, placed a chair
in the bathtub and, standing on tiptoe, gave the window frame a solid whack with the palm of my hand. It might have been wishful thinking on my part, but I thought it budged just a fraction. Taking that as an omen, I whacked it again. The metal frame screeched in protest, but the window shifted slightly.

“Okay, hang in there. I’ll have you out in a jiff.”

I sprinted outside and around the building.
“Give me both of your hands. I’m going to count to three.”

Reba Mae complied. “I swear to God, Piper, if I live through this, I’m gonna be a new woman. I’m goin’ on a diet, quit colorin’ my hair, and givin’ up pizza.”

“Don’t go making promises you know you won’t keep.” I tightened my grip, planted one foot against the brick, and tugged as hard as I could. Reba Mae popped out like a shot from
a cannon. Her time in gymnastics stood her in good stead as she executed a neat tuck and roll. My tumble wasn’t nearly so graceful. I landed with a
plop
on my bottom, my skirt rucked up to my waist.

“Freeze!” a voice commanded.

I shielded my eyes from the blinding glare of a flashlight aimed in my face.

“What the—?”

Reba Mae was the first to recover her wits. “Hey, Wyatt, that you?”

“Might’ve
known.” McBride lowered the powerful Maglite in his hand and reholstered his weapon. “You two have some explaining to do.”

I shoved my skirt down and scrambled to my feet. Hovering behind McBride, I recognized the desk clerk as well as the occupant from the next room. Summoning a weak smile, I asked, “Suppose it’s too late for dessert?”

C
HAPTER
31

I
N A FRENZY
born of frustration, I cleaned and scrubbed until not even a marine drill sergeant could have found fault. The floor was spotless; the counters gleamed. My freshly laundered clothes smelled like a bouquet of spring flowers. And I’d consumed enough coffee to rival rush hour at Starbucks. I still smarted from the dressing-down McBride had given me the previous night. A
dressing-down so acerbic, not even a thick slice of Black Forest torte could sweeten it. Granted, in hindsight, having Reba Mae attempt to climb out a motel window to prove a point seemed rather … silly. Yet, at least in my mind, it had eliminated Cheryl Balboa for once and for all as a possible suspect. McBride’s lecture, on the other hand, had had the opposite effect he intended. It left me more
determined than ever to discover the truth. I needed to prove to him I wasn’t a complete moron.

I plunked myself on the sofa and grabbed a magazine. The apartment was much too quiet. Lindsey had deserted me in favor of hanging out with her friends. Melly had accepted CJ’s spur-of-the-moment invitation to brunch at a new restaurant in Augusta. I flipped through the glossy ads without really seeing
them. I sensed a trap about to spring shut on Melly’s freedom. I could almost hear the hinges squeak.

Tossing the magazine aside, I snatched the television remote and idly scrolled through the channels. Time had come to move on to the next person of interest on my checklist. Rusty Tulley’s name was on the top. Rusty wanted Chip out of the picture for reasons both personal and professional. I
wasn’t nearly so satisfied as McBride was with Rusty’s alibi. The men had argued. Rusty wanted Chip to resign. And killing him would be a resignation of the permanent variety. Supposedly, Rusty had been alone in his room. But when it came to alibis, home alone was a tough one to prove.

I clicked off the remote. “C’mon, Casey. Let’s go for a ride.”

Once again, I found Rusty Tulley comfortably
sprawled in a rocker on Felicity’s front porch. A squishy tobacco-brown leather courier bag rested on the floor at his feet. At my approach, he looked up from his laptop. “If you’re here for Felicity, she just left for the country club. A friend of hers is playing in a tennis tournament.”

“That’s all right,” I said, taking a seat in the adjacent rocker. Casey sat, too, rested his head on his
paws, and looked out toward the street. “You’re really the one I wanted to talk to.”

“About what?”

I peered over my shoulder. “Where’s your friend? Tulip, right?”

“Napping. She complained she had jet lag.”

A gentle push of my toe started the chair rocking. “Planning on heading out soon?”

Rusty flipped his laptop closed. “Another day or two. I’m thinking of attending a trade show in Orlando,
then flying back to L.A. Why the interest?”

“I was just curious as to why you were still in Brandywine Creek now that Chip is … no longer with us.”

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “I thought you knew. Chief McBride ‘requested’ some of us to stick around until he has a suspect in custody. Meanwhile, I discovered that without all the distractions of L.A., I can get a lot more work
accomplished.”

I gazed out over the manicured yard with its meticulously groomed shrubs. A bright green gecko darted across the walk and disappeared under a loropetalum bush. I rocked back and forth. “Certain people might leap to the conclusion you had a lot to gain from the death of your partner.”

Rusty’s affable pose vanished in the blink of an eye. “What are you hinting at?”

Casey’s ears
pricked up at Rusty’s sharp tone. Reaching down, I stroked my pet’s head to reassure him. “You and Chip had a bitter disagreement the night he died. From all accounts, Trustychipdesign was floundering. In your opinion, Chip was too preoccupied with marital woes to give the company the attention it deserved. To make matters worse, he messed up the deal with Melly by reneging on the initial offer.”

As Rusty lunged to his feet, I noted the top button of his polo shirt dangled by a thread, but didn’t think this was the time to mention it. In his haste to stuff the laptop into his courier bag, the contents of one of its pockets spilled. Highlighter, Montblanc pen, iPhone charger—and a small bottle of Visine.

“Eyedrops,” I gasped. “You use eyedrops?”

“What of it? Lots of people do.” He stuffed
the items back into the bag and closed the flap.

“Did you know eyedrops contain a chemical called tetrahydrolozine?” I asked, my heart beginning to beat faster. I was suddenly aware that except for my mutt-of-dubious-breeds, no one else was around. The street was as quiet as a church on Monday morning. A wiser person would’ve turned tail and run. Instead, I soldiered on. “Tetrahydrolozine can
cause symptoms such as blurred vision, headaches, and dizziness. It can kill.”

“I don’t ingest the damn things,” he snapped. “I have allergies.”

I rose to my feet and edged toward the steps. “The lab found tetrahydrolozine in Chip’s stomach contents.”

“You need to go. Now!”

Casey growled deep in his throat.

“C’mon, Casey.” I tapped my thigh, a signal for him to follow. “We know when we’re
not wanted.”

I felt proud of myself for sedately driving away when I wanted to burn rubber. My encounter with Rusty Tulley had revealed a nasty temper beneath the charm. Had Chip’s behavior provoked Rusty until he lashed out? The men had known each other since college; they knew which buttons to push. It wasn’t inconceivable to think Rusty had killed Chip.

On autopilot, I cruised out of town
and turned onto Route 78. I needed a sounding board. Doug immediately came to mind. He was a terrific listener. He had a way about him that made you feel every word you spoke was important. He’d listen to me politely, but I already knew what he’d say: Step away from the crime. Then he’d lecture me on the dangers involved. Problem was, I wasn’t in any mood for another lecture. Doug would conclude
by reminding me that finding Chip’s killer wasn’t my job. And he was 100 percent correct; it wasn’t.