Cinnamon Toasted (3 page)

“I’ll check my appointment book the minute I get back to the Klassy Kut.”

“I’ll go with you.” Melly hooked her arm through Reba Mae’s and steered her toward the door. “Soon as I get home, I’m going to bake a fresh batch of gingersnaps. Nothing
says welcome like homemade cookies.”

The instant the door swung shut behind them, CJ turned to me. “Thanks to you,” he growled, “Momma’s talkin’ about tradin’ in the family home for a condo on the beach.”

I tuned him out and proceeded to stack the teacups.

“What next?” he ranted. “A villa in Tuscany? Momma’s led a sheltered life. When Daddy was alive, he treated her like a queen. She never
had to lift a finger. Never had to balance a checkbook or pump her own gas.”

I stopped what I was doing and tried to reason with him. “Your mother is an intelligent, self-sufficient woman, CJ. I’m sure her talent with computers came as a shock, but chill. Relax and let her enjoy her time in the limelight.”

“Easy for you to say.” He glared at me. “The way I see it, this whole thing is gonna be
nothin’ but trouble. I’m warnin’ you, Piper, quit interferin’ in Momma’s life.”

C
HAPTER
3

M
E, INTERFERE
? I fumed as I watched CJ stalk out of my shop. How dare he accuse me of interfering in his mother’s life? I’d never dream of doing such a thing. And if the thought ever did occur to me, Melly would squash it like a June bug.

Melly Prescott had a mind of her own. And an opinion on most every subject. Times too numerous to mention, she’d made her opinion of me quite
clear. Seems I never measured up to her image of the wife she’d envisioned for her precious son. Not only did he marry a Yankee, but also one who hailed from—of all places—Detroit. Then, to add insult to injury, it snowed on our wedding day. Anyone familiar with Michigan knows an early snowfall in late October isn’t impossible. Snow, however, was a foreign concept to a Southern belle born and bred
in the Peach State. As God is my witness, she declared to everyone within earshot, I’ll never again step foot north of the Mason–Dixon Line. Her theatrics would have made
Gone with the Wind
star Vivien Leigh green with envy.

I carried the teacups to a sink at the rear of the shop, near the storeroom where I’d installed a small kitchen with the intention of hosting occasional cooking demos. My
first attempt, however, had been a disaster of tsunami proportions. Maybe the time had come for me to get back on the horse that threw me. I made a mental note to ask Dr. Doug Winters, one of the best cooks in a town full of good cooks, in to show off his culinary skills. Doug wasn’t only a great cook and a terrific veterinarian but he was also a wonderful human being, too. He and I had been seen
together so often, people were starting to think of us as a couple. Truth be told, even I’d begun to think of us that way. Doug was sweet, affectionate, easy to be with, and I was seriously “in like” with him. For the time being, however, we had an unspoken agreement to take things slow.

I turned on the tap and added a generous squirt of detergent. I was up to my elbows in soapy water when the
front door opened. I could’ve kicked myself for not locking up behind CJ when I’d had the chance. Thinking to see a last-minute shopper, I forced a welcoming smile.

Wyatt McBride—make that Chief of Police Wyatt McBride—sauntered toward me as if he had all the time in the world and nothing better to do. He looked his usual tall, dark, and dangerous self in a starched navy blue uniform and a big,
bad gun strapped to his waist. Actually, he’d look tall, dark, and dangerous regardless of what he was wearing—or wasn’t. Not that I have firsthand knowledge of the latter, because I didn’t. Blame it on women’s intuition.

“I’m surprised to find your shop still open after your usual closing time,” he said. A hint of Georgia lingered in his smooth baritone.

I rinsed suds from the cups and set
them in a rack to drain. “Are you here in an official capacity, McBride? Or are you in the market for spice other than salt and pepper, your old standbys?”

“Nothing wrong with good old salt and pepper.”

“Boring.” I reached for a dish towel to dry my hands. “Food tastes better if you spice it up a bit.”

He hooked his thumbs in his belt and grinned. The dimple in his right cheek made a brief
appearance. “Would you believe my visit is part of a community outreach program? Sort of a ‘make nice with the local business owners’ project of mine?”

“Nice try, but no.” I hung the towel on a hook to dry.

Something in my tone caused my faithful mutt to wake from his nap. I swear Casey slept as much as a newborn. The pup yawned broadly, then padded over to the lawman to sit at his feet. Casey’s
tail swished back and forth like a metronome in a pathetic bid for attention.

McBride squatted on his haunches and scratched the sweet spot behind Casey’s ears. The small dog practically writhed in ecstasy. “How you doing, boy?”

Judging from Casey’s unabashed behavior, I concluded my pet was doing quite well indeed. I’d lecture him later on the pitfalls of being too “easy.” A more discerning
animal would have held out for a doggy treat before surrendering in a undignified display of adoration.

“So how’s business?” McBride asked as he got to his feet.

“Why the sudden interest?” I swept past him, headed for the front of the shop.

McBride joined me as I started tidying up. Grabbing the champagne bottle, I debated whether to save what was left or dump the contents. McBride raised a
brow. “Since when have you started drinking in the middle of the day? Experts say drinking alone is a bad habit.”

“I wasn’t drinking alone.” I dropped the bottle in the waste basket with a resounding thud. “I had company.”

He waited for me to continue.

“
Plenty
of company.” I huffed out a breath. “Reba Mae and Melly were here. We were celebrating.”

“Celebrating?” A corner of his mouth twitched
in another smile. “I’m having a hard time picturing prim and proper Melly Prescott sipping champagne in the middle of the afternoon—and out of a teacup, no less.”

“Well, I’m fresh out of champagne flutes.” I hoisted the trash bag from the basket, tied it shut, and set it by the back door as a reminder to put it in the Dumpster later. Then I returned to the front of the shop where McBride waited.
“Reba Mae won a role in a play the opera house is putting on this season.”

“Don’t tell me—Melly Prescott is also a budding thespian, and there was a part for an older woman who is never without her pearls.”

The thought of Melly onstage in her signature pearls and twinsets made me laugh. “No,” I said. “Melly isn’t destined to be an actress, but she’s about to come into a nice sum of money.”

“How’s that? She win the Georgia lottery?”

“No lottery ticket needed in Melly’s case. Seems she has a God-given knack with computers. She redesigned a software program. Some company’s convinced it’ll be their next big moneymaker.”

McBride shook his head, bemused. “Never would have guessed she’d be the type to even own a computer.”

“Goes to show, you can’t judge a book by its cover.” I opened
the cash register to tally the day’s sales. “Not only is Melly a computer whiz, she can also program a DVR, converse on Facebook, has more apps on her smartphone than Lindsey, and—” I paused for dramatic effect. “—she can text with her thumbs.”

“Both thumbs, eh?” McBride said, sounding suitably impressed. “Gotta admire someone with that kind of skill set.”

I glanced up from my neat piles of
fives, tens, and twenties. “You’re not the type for idle chatter, McBride. Now that we’ve exhausted the subject of drinking in the middle of the day, why not tell me what’s on your mind?”

An uncertain expression crossed his too-handsome-for-his-own-good face. “I … ah … need a favor.”

Apparently, asking favors didn’t come easily for the man, so I stopped counting cash and waited for him to continue.
“Go ahead, ask away.”

He dug into his back pocket and brought out a wrinkled page torn from a glossy magazine. “Here,” he said, handing it to me. “I wanted you to look at this and give me your honest opinion.”

“Sure.” Curious, I placed it on the counter and smoothed out the wrinkles. It was a photo of a kitchen, complete with stainless steel appliances, gleaming hardwood floors, granite countertops,
and ceramic backsplash.

“So, what do you think?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “Like it?”

“What’s not to like? It’s every cook’s dream kitchen.” I returned the page. “I take it you’re planning on doing some renovating.”

He carefully tucked it into his pocket. “You mentioned awhile back that kitchens are a good place to start. My Realtor agreed. Thing is—when it comes to renovating,
I don’t know the first thing about it.”

I tried to hide a smirk, though don’t think I succeeded. “If memory serves, McBride, you’ve admitted to owning a hammer. You even confessed you are that rare breed of man who occasionally reads directions.”

“Are you suggesting I buy more tools? Do the job myself?”

“Heavens no!” I exclaimed, horrified by the notion. “From the little I’ve seen, you don’t
have a domestic bone in your body. Since you seem to want my opinion, I suggest you hire a good contractor.”

Relief washed across his features. “Any recommendations?”

I went back to sorting bills. “Well, Reba Mae’s son Clay works for various contractors in the area. He might be a good one to talk to. Might even be able to do some of the work himself. Pick up a little extra cash on the side.”

“Sounds perfect.” He smiled again, showing off that danged dimple. “I’ll swing by and have a chat with him.”

I followed him as he turned to leave. This time I intended to turn the
OPEN
sign to
CLOSED.
I could use a power nap before Lindsey returned from cheerleading practice. The champagne I’d consumed was making me drowsy.

McBride stopped in the doorway. “I’m considering your advice to knock
out the back wall and have a deck built. I might even do something wild and crazy such as invest in a gas grill and retire my George Foreman.”

“Now you’re talking.” I stifled a yawn as he walked away.

The midafternoon drinking must have slowed my reflexes because before I could twist the lock, Thompson Gray’s face appeared on the opposite side of the glass door.

“Thompson,” I said, stepping
back and allowing him entry. “I was just about to close up shop.”

Tall, lanky, and with a prominent Adam’s apple, Thompson never failed to remind me of Anthony Perkins, the actor who played Norman Bates in
Psycho,
my all-time-favorite scary movie. Like the character in the movie, Thompson lived with his widowed mother and ran the family business. Thankfully, hardware—not motels. Also unlike the
movie, Thompson’s mother was alive and well.

“Glad I caught you.” He ran a hand over thinning mouse-brown hair. “Mother’s making apple cobbler for dessert. She told me not to come home unless I brought some of your special cinnamon with me. Ever since trying it, she refuses to use anything else. Claims even everyday recipes taste better with spices from your store.”

“Well, that’s music to my
ears.”

Casey glanced up, but seeing it wasn’t one of his favorite patrons, put his head on his paws and regarded us through heavy-lidded eyes.

Mrs. Gray, I knew, favored the Vietnamese variety for its rich, sweet flavor. Her cinnamon rolls were a surefire hit at every bake sale. “This one’s on me,” I told him when he started to go for his wallet. “I wish everyone would follow your mother’s example
instead of using spices that have stood on a pantry shelf for years.”

“Thanks, Piper. That’s mighty nice of you.” Taking the sack I handed him, he sniffed the air. “It sure smells good in here. A little bit like being inside a bakery.”

I glanced at my watch, hoping he’d take the hint. No such luck.

“Your mother-in-law dropped by earlier. She was with Reba Mae.”

“Melly’s my ex-mother-in-law,
seeing as how CJ and I are divorced,” I reminded him.

“Right, right,” he said. “Melly said she’s making a grand announcement at computer club tonight. Refused to give me any details. I don’t suppose you’d like to give me a heads-up what’s so all-fired important?”

“Sorry, Thompson, I promised Melly. Mum’s the word.”

“Guess I’ll just have to wait along with the rest of the members.” He gave me
a halfhearted wave as he left.

“Guess so,” I muttered, locking the door behind him. I wouldn’t spoil Melly’s time in the limelight for all the spice in Grenada.

C
HAPTER
4

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING,
customers drifted in and out. Everyone was talking about the Oktoberfest bash Sandy Granger and her husband, Craig, were throwing. A pair of Brandywine Creek movers and shakers, the Grangers loved big splashy affairs—Mardi Gras parties, Fourth of July celebrations, and pig roasts on the final day of the Masters Golf Tournament. This year, in a nod to their
busy travel schedule, they planned to host an Oktoberfest that promised to be an all-out, no-holds-barred event. Sandy, an attractive woman in her mid-fifties with a stylish chin-length bob, had told Reba Mae that after the party, she intended to give her undivided attention to her directorial debut in
Steel Magnolias.

It seemed most of the town had been invited, but thus far, I hadn’t received
an invitation. I suspected Sandy was still miffed by a comment I’d once made. No sooner had the couple returned from their condo in Grand Cayman than Sandy told me about a trip around the world they were about to embark upon. “Don’t you two ever stay home?” I’d blurted, part admiration, part envy. I hadn’t meant that as an insult. Maybe my lack of an invite was payback time.

Oktoberfest guests
were asked to bring a German dish of some sort. Foods like sauerkraut, goulash, schnitzel, and strudel were hot topics among my clientele. Dottie Hemmings, the mayor’s wife, quizzed me about German desserts. Gerilee Barker asked my advice on German potato salad. “Add a teaspoon of celery seed,” I’d told her, “but not too much. It has a strong flavor.”