Cinnamon Toasted (30 page)

But I knew whose job it was.

Since I was more than halfway there, I decided to take a chance and see if McBride also had the day off and might be home. Minutes later I pulled into his drive. I immediately spotted his pickup, but there was no sign of the man himself. My knock at the door went
unanswered. I sat on the porch steps prepared to wait him out while Casey romped through grass in need of mowing. Resting my elbows behind me on the top step, I closed my eyes and tipped my head back to feel the warm kiss of the sun on my face. Birdsong filled the air, interspersed with a rustling sound as Casey scampered through a carpet of oak leaves. I felt a heavy lethargy starting to overtake
me when the spell was broken by Casey’s excited barks.

My eyes popped open to see McBride emerge from the woods that surrounded his property. He held a fishing rod but nary a fish. In a denim shirt that flapped open over a grungy T-shirt and faded jeans, he could have posed for an ad in
Outdoor Life
.
Sign me up, sister, for a five-year subscription.

“Looks like you scared the fish, McBride.”

“Saves me the trouble of throwing them back.” He climbed the steps and propped the pole in a corner of the porch. “What’s the occasion?”

“What makes you think there’s an occasion? Maybe I just wanted to see how the handyman special was coming along.”

“Work’s at a temporary standstill.” He shoved a shock of black hair from his forehead. He was wearing it a bit longer than the military-style cut
he’d favored when he first came to town. “Clay tells me I need to make some hard decisions right quick if I want to have a kitchen before cold weather sets in.”

“What seems to be the holdup?”

“In a nutshell?” he asked with a rueful grin. “Blame it on a pretty redhead who keeps finding dead bodies, and a grumpy old mayor demanding the poor, befuddled police chief find the culprit.”

“Ohh…”

He seemed to find my woefully inadequate response amusing. “I know you don’t care for beer, but if I look real hard, I might find a Diet Coke hiding at the back of the fridge.”

“Sure,” I said. “Sounds good.”

He left only to return minutes later with a diet soda in one hand, a beer in the other. Sinking down next to me on the porch step, he took a long pull from a frosty, long-necked bottle.

I pulled the tab on my Diet Coke and drank. “You don’t look like the type to keep diet soda on hand. So what’s the deal? Afraid of losing your figure?”

“One can’t be too careful.” He took another swallow of beer, then slanted me a look. “Okay, now tell me what you’re doing on my doorstep.”

I looked out across the yard to a stand of sweet gums that were turning bright gold. Shadows were starting
to lengthen as dusk crept in. “I want to use you as my sounding board.”

“Use away.”

“I’m afraid you’re about to charge Melly with the murder of Chip Balboa. True or false?”

“True.” Casey bounded up the steps, and McBride absently scratched the sweet spot behind the pup’s ears. “Someone’s responsible for Chip Balboa’s death. The man deserves justice. Gotta go where the trail leads.”

“But what
if you’re following the wrong trail?”

“What other trail is there?”

“Are you aware Rusty and Chip argued the night Chip died? Do you know that their software company is in jeopardy? Rusty blamed Chip for the trouble. He even asked for Chip’s resignation.”

McBride zapped me with a look from his cool blues. “How do you know all this?”

I resisted the urge to squirm and took a swallow of diet soda
instead. “Felicity let it slip about the argument. I had Melly research Trustychipdesign.com. She confirmed the company is losing market share. Rusty didn’t deny it when I asked him. And he doesn’t have an alibi for the night Chip died. He insists he was alone in his room the entire time but can’t prove it. But that’s not the best part—”

“I’m afraid to ask.” McBride’s grip on the beer bottle
tightened.

I tucked a curl behind one ear. “Rusty uses the same brand eyedrops you confiscated from Melly’s house. I saw them when they fell out of the courier bag where he keeps his laptop. Rusty was furious when I asked about them. He ordered me to leave.”

“That all?” he asked, his voice taut.

“Don’t you see how simple it would’ve been for Rusty to sneak down the servants’ stairs, kill Chip,
and return without Felicity knowing? A perfect slam dunk.”

“Here all this time, I thought you were dead set on Cheryl Balboa and Troy Farnsworth being the perps.”

“I eliminated Cheryl, but Troy’s still a possibility,” I said in defense of my original theory. “I’m pretty sure he uses eyedrops, too.”

McBride peeled the label from his beer bottle with a thumbnail. “I ran a background check on
Troy Farnsworth and got a hit. Farnsworth was arrested for bilking an older woman out of her life savings, but the charges were dropped.”

I nodded thoughtfully. “I can see that happening. Troy’s good looking, probably a smooth talker, when the mood strikes, who could ingratiate his way into a woman’s bank account.”

“How many times do I have to remind you this is a murder investigation, not a
frivolous party game?” McBride’s tone was even harsher than last night, his eyes colder. “The stakes here are life and death. Killing comes easier the second time around. If you get too close for comfort, you could be next. Stop meddling!”

I rose to my feet, chilled by his words, and left without so much as a backward glance. I knew McBride meant well, but I couldn’t stand idle while someone
I cared for was about to be sent to prison.

It wasn’t until I was almost home that I recalled my conversation with Danny Boyd at Friday night’s football game. Danny had denied seeing a BMW in the motel’s lot the night Chip died. Where had Troy been? Was it far-fetched to think a man who had possibly cheated a gullible woman out of her savings would be averse to shoving a man down a flight of
basement stairs? Rusty Tulley. Troy Farnsworth. Both men stood to profit from Chip’s death—and both used eyedrops.

Let the next elimination round begin.

C
HAPTER
32

W
HEN
I
RETURNED
from McBride’s place, I found a note from Melly anchored to the kitchen table with a pepper mill. Apparently, Mavis Gray had invited her for a light supper and then to play bridge. Ever so thoughtful, she instructed me not to wait up. It wasn’t exactly like she was a teenager with a curfew. Next, she’d want me to “friend” her on Facebook. A glance at the clock told
me Lindsey wasn’t due home for another hour.

Adrenaline still fizzed through my veins. Even though it was dark outside, it wasn’t late. There was still time for a quick jog. I changed out of my jeans and into an old pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, and my sporty running shoes. After chasing squirrels all around McBride’s yard, Casey didn’t seem eager to join me, so I let him snooze.

After a brisk
walk to warm up my muscles, I broke into a slow, steady gait. I opted in favor of a residential route and turned down Jefferson Street. Fall wreaths adorned the front doors of many homes that I jogged past. Cheery yellow and orange mums had replaced plantings of petunias and impatiens. Soon lawns would begin to sprout Halloween decorations.

My feet seemed to slow of their own volition as I neared
Melly’s home, which I had come to view as the “scene of the crime.” I stopped and studied the house. Déjà vu all over again. Nothing had changed from several nights ago, when I’d discovered Melly unconscious in her living room.
I’m not a believer in coincidence.
McBride’s mantra came back to haunt me. For once, we were in total agreement. The blown fuses, faulty heating system, and cut phone line
had been intentional, not coincidental. A deliberate attempt on Melly’s life.

I gnawed my lower lip in indecision. A survey of the street assured me the neighbors were hunkered down in front of their television sets for the evening. Before I could talk myself out of it, I hurried around to the back of the house. I tried the rear door but found it locked. I fervently wished I had the key ring
with me that held Melly’s house key. Not wanting to jingle while I jogged, I’d opted to carry only the key for the rear door of Spice It Up!

Not ready to concede defeat, I struggled to recall where Melly kept a spare key hidden. A flower pot? A ceramic frog? A plastic rock manufactured to look real? Then the answer came to me. I lifted a small panel on a decorative birdhouse next to the walkway
and—presto!—felt the cool metal.

I let myself into the kitchen and flicked on the light, grateful someone—McBride, perhaps?—had thought to replace the fuse. Everything looked neat and tidy. Blue and white place mats rested on a pine table. Except for a glass canister set and a stoneware crock filled with kitchen utensils, the counters were clutter-free. The
ticktock
of a distant clock sounded
overly loud in the otherwise still house.

The closed basement door called my name. Nothing I hated more than movies where a girl without a lick of common sense and too stupid to live creeps down creaking stairs while the audience screams a warning. And here I was, a grown woman too stupid to live.

Movies were movies, I reminded myself. This was Melly’s home—not a soundstage. There were no evil
monsters—or serial killers—about to hack me into tiny pieces with an ax. Five minutes. In and out. That’s all it would take. One fast look, then I was out of there.

Feeling marginally better after my pep talk, I flipped the switch at the top of the stairs. Light, anemic and jaundiced, illuminated a steep flight of steps. Melly apparently was a stickler for conserving energy by using low-wattage
bulbs. I held on to the wooden handrail as I made my cautious descent. The thought of Melly navigating these steps carrying a heavy laundry basket was frightening. Images of an elderly woman calling for help after a fall flashed through my brain. I needed to speak to CJ about buying her one of those medical alert devices for seniors advertised on television. I don’t know if Melly would appreciate
having one foisted on her, but it sure would make me feel better.

Even with the dim light, I could make out a discolored area on the cement floor a short distance from the base of the stairs. A bloodstain. Even if Chip hadn’t broken his neck in the fall, he would likely have succumbed from the impact of his skull colliding with concrete. McBride had mentioned a splinter in Chip’s hand, made during
one last, futile attempt to stem the momentum. I lightly ran my fingers along the edge of the handrail and felt the roughness of exposed wood.

I shivered. Would Melly ever be able to live comfortably in this house again after all that had happened here? A man died in her basement. She had almost died.

I needed to complete my inspection and get the heck out of Dodge. This dark basement, this
empty house, were creeping me out. My eyes gradually acclimated to the pale light. Gray cinder block walls, utility-grade metal shelving loaded with plastic storage bins, washer, and dryer. A half dozen small windows spaced high up probably allowed only obstructed light even in midsummer, due to a profusion of plantings around the house’s foundation. An ancient furnace squatted in the center. Huge
pipes stretched upward into the exposed floor joists like giant tentacles.

I had turned to leave when something caught my eye on the floor near the furnace. I ventured closer and discovered a laundry basket half-filled with articles of clothing. I picked up one of the items and examined it. A man’s long-sleeved cotton dress shirt. I frowned. How strange. Melly had been a widow for more than twenty
years. Why would she keep a man’s shirt? As I was about to drop it into the laundry basket, I froze.

Directly overhead came the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Did whoever was upstairs know I was here? He or she must. I’d left the kitchen light on, a dead giveaway. I swallowed a nervous giggle at my choice of words.

But why didn’t the person call out a greeting? Why remain silent? Unless, of
course, the goal was to terrorize me. If so, it was working.

Taking deep yoga breaths to steady my nerves, I searched for something to use as a weapon. A jug of bleach, a box of detergent? All those would achieve was clean clothes. Finally I spied a broom leaning in a corner. Not much, but it would have to do. Just as I reached for it, I saw a disembodied hand at the top of the stairs switch
off the light.

My scream echoed off the cinder block walls. The next sound I heard was that of a door closing. I waited for what seemed a small eternity, but I knew, could sense, I was once more alone in Melly’s house. With my heart knocking against my ribs like a woodpecker on steroids, I crept back up the stairs.

My unidentified visitor must’ve been as energy conscious as Melly, because he—or
she—also turned off the overhead light fixture in the kitchen. Swallowing my fear, I proceeded across the room and turned it on. The room appeared the same as before—with one notable exception.

A bottle of Visine sat in the precise center of a blue and white place mat.

*   *   *

“Are you sure it wasn’t there before?”

“Positive.”

Reba Mae poured me a shot of Jack Daniel’s. “Here, this will
take the edge off.”

“Thanks.” I downed the whiskey in one gulp and welcomed its burn. I’m not one for hard liquor—margaritas being the exception—but at this point, I would have drunk turpentine if it would stop the shakes.

“So what did you do then?” Reba Mae asked.

“I did what any sane person would do and got out of there as fast as I could.” After my adventure at Melly’s, I found Reba Mae’s
familiar kitchen comforting. The script for
Steel Magnolias
was spread open on the table next to a half-empty mug of coffee. I noticed her lines were highlighted in yellow.

Reba Mae’s pretty brown eyes mirrored her concern. “Want me to call Wyatt?”

“And listen to another sermon?” I asked. “Nothing McBride can do anyway. Someone was just trying to give me a scare.”

“Or send a message,” Reba
Mae said, nodding solemnly. “I saw this movie once where the bad guy didn’t want to hurt anyone, just wanted to scare the person snoopin’ around.”