Cinnamon Toasted (31 page)

I toyed with the shot glass. “Backing off isn’t an option. If I don’t give McBride a reason to stop him, he’s going to arrest Melly. You know how proud she is. That would be slow death.”

“So what do you propose to do?”

I dragged my hand through my
hair. “Wish I knew, but I’ll think of something.” Reba Mae took a mug from the cupboard, poured me coffee, then refilled her own mug before sitting across from me. “Anyone with eyes could see Judge Herman’s sweet on Melly. I don’t think he’d send her to jail.”

“If he refuses to sign a warrant, McBride will find a judge who will. Thanks to you, I narrowed the suspect list down to just Troy and
Rusty.”

“Shucks, ma’am, ’tweren’t nuthin’,” she said in an exaggerated Western accent, then turned serious. “Think Cheryl’s pool boy offed Chip for his insurance money?”

“It’s possible.” I sipped my coffee and found it hot and strong, just the way I liked it. “Money is a pretty strong motivator. Whether an accident or a homicide, Chip’s death qualifies as double indemnity. The insurer will pay
twice the amount of the policy’s face value.”

Reba Mae whistled. “Should bring ’em a bundle.”

“And if he didn’t kill Chip, there’s Rusty Tulley to consider.” I leaned back in my chair, my hands cradling the coffee mug. “Rusty blamed Chip for Trustychipdesign.com’s failure to thrive in today’s market. Only this afternoon, I saw eyedrops in the courier bag Rusty uses for his laptop—the same brand
McBride found at Melly’s. I’m pretty sure Troy uses eyedrops, too.”

“There’s gotta be a way.” Reba Mae tugged on a flashy earring that hung nearly to her shoulder. “Remember how detectives in old black-and-white movies like Charlie Chan—or on TV shows like
Columbo
—always used to do? They’d gather all the suspects in the same room and force the guilty one to confess. I loved when that happened.”

“Me, too,” I murmured. “Too bad life can’t imitate art.”

C
HAPTER
33

“I
S THIS YOURS
?” Melly asked when she came downstairs into Spice It Up! the next day.

I stopped inventorying stock to inspect a small shiny object Melly held in her palm. A button? Dark, flat, and round, it looked vaguely familiar. “Where did you find it?”

“In the washing machine,” Melly explained. “It was caught in the lint filter.”

Taking the button from her, I examined it
more closely. I was about to return it when I remembered where I’d last seen it. “It looks like the one I found at your house the day I went to collect some of your clothing. I assumed it belonged to you. I slipped it into my pocket and forgot about it until now. It must’ve fallen out when I did laundry.”

“Mercy!” Melly clucked her tongue. “Well, it’s not mine. I never laid eyes on it before.”

“Hmm.” I rolled it between my fingertips. “I could’ve sworn the button was from one of your cardigans.”

“Dear, do I strike you as the sort who wouldn’t replace a loose button?” Melly asked indignantly. “As a young girl, I learned to sew on buttons and darn socks along with my ABC’s. I never could understand why boys weren’t taught the same skills.”

Inventory forgotten, I only half listened to
Melly. Where had I seen a loose button recently? The answer came to me in a rush. Just yesterday I’d noticed a button dangling by a thread on Rusty Tulley’s polo shirt. Most polo shirts, I knew, sported similar-type buttons. Polo shirts, I’d observed, were also a staple in Troy Farnsworth’s wardrobe. Had either Rusty or Troy lost a button while at Melly’s? What business would they have had there?
Unless it was Chip they’d come to see, not Melly …

I tried to discount the notion. True, Rusty was in Melly’s living room when he’d come in search of his partner, but he’d been nowhere near where I found the mystery button. He claimed he’d been in his room the entire evening Chip was murdered. But was he? And what about Troy? If he was with Cheryl as she’d implied, why wasn’t their rental car
anywhere in sight? Curious and curiouser.

McBride professed he wasn’t a believer in coincidence. If I happened upon a shirt minus an identical button, it would throw suspicion in another direction and away from Melly. McBride would have to investigate. Attempt to poke holes in weak alibis. Problem was, Troy and Rusty would soon be leaving Brandywine Creek. I needed to act—and act quickly.

My
mind working feverishly, I tapped a fingernail against the button. “Melly,” I said at last, “I have an idea.…”

*   *   *

It had taken every ounce of salesmanship I possessed to convince first Melly, then Reba Mae, to agree to my plan. The three of us were about to descend en masse upon the Turner-Driscoll House. I knew from a comment Dottie Hemmings had made that Troy had moved into the bed-and-breakfast
and shared a room with Cheryl Balboa. Dottie had expressed her disapproval to anyone within earshot. Tulip Jackson, I knew, was staying there as well.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” Melly nervously fingered the strap of her Vera Bradley tote bag.

“You’ll do fine.” I kept my eyes on the road. “All you have to do is distract Felicity and her guests long enough for Reba Mae and me to take a look
around upstairs. Nothing to it.”

She nodded solemnly. “I brought wine—two bottles—and cheese straws. Everyone loves my cheese straws.”

“Just remember that you’re there to wish them safe travels. Tell them you feel responsible for them coming to Brandywine Creek. If not for you, Chip might still be alive. Play on their sympathy so they’ll sit in the front parlor and have a glass or two of that
nice California wine.”

“Think this is gonna take long?” Reba Mae piped up from the backseat. “I got lines to memorize.”

I parked a discreet distance down the block. Reba Mae had lost her zest for sleuthing after Saturday night. McBride had scared her witless with talk of charges such as disturbing the peace and disorderly conduct. As for me—I didn’t scare that easily. “Once look is all,” I said.
“Not long.”

We climbed out of the car and walked up the street. Reba Mae and I had dressed for the occasion in what I considered stealth mode chic—black turtlenecks, black jeans, and sneakers. Melly—surprise, surprise—wore a teal blue twinset and tailored slacks. When we reached the house, Melly squared her shoulders and purposefully marched up the drive. Reba Mae and I scooted around the back
and ducked into the shrubbery to await our cue.

When the doorbell chimed, I counted to ten, then signaled Reba Mae to follow. We sprinted across the terrace and through the French doors into the kitchen. I dashed up the servants’ stairs, which were located just left of the pantry. Reba Mae followed so closely, I could practically feel her breath on my neck.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

I paused to get my bearings. If memories from a previous scouting expedition were correct, there were four large rooms, two on either side of a wide center hallway. Each of them bore a brass plate engraved with the name of a general from the Civil War era. Too bad I didn’t know who resided where.

“Start with the two guest rooms at the back,” I whispered. “I’ll check the ones up front.”

“Nuh-uh,”
Reba Mae grunted. “I’m stickin’ to you like a burr on a jackrabbit.”

“Fine.” It was easier—and faster—to agree than to argue. When I turned the knob of the first room, I found my assumption that the door would be unlocked was correct. I hoped my luck would hold with the rest of the rooms as well. No reason for Felicity’s current guests to worry about theft of their property with everyone downstairs
in plain sight of one another. I slipped inside a room bearing the name of Brigadier General Henry L. Benning. In the narrow beam of a penlight that I’d remembered to bring, the room appeared uninhabited. “Let’s move on.”

The room across the hall proved just the opposite. Garments, both men’s and women’s, were strewn over a padded brocade bench at the foot of the bed. At the bottom of the heap,
I spotted the black leather mini Tulip had worn to the Oktoberfest and so knew this was the room she shared with Rusty.

Reba Mae stood in the center of the room and clicked on a small flashlight I’d insisted she bring also. I didn’t want to chance Felicity or one of her guests looking upstairs and spotting a lamp shining under a bedroom door. “Where’s the dang closet?” she asked.

“There isn’t
one. Houses way back then didn’t have closets.”

“Who’d be crazy enough to build a house without closets?”

“Guess people didn’t have so much stuff,” I said, heading for the armoire. “Check the chest of drawers. I’ll look in here.”

“Hey,” she said seconds later, holding up a pair of scanty panties. “These oughta be X-rated.”

I flipped through a neat stack of men’s shirts, mostly polo, a handful
of oxford cloth. “We’re not here to look at ladies’ undies.”

“Wow! Get a load of this.” A frilly lace teddy danced from her fingertips. “If I ever get me a boyfriend, I’m gonna find out where she shops.”

I gritted my teeth. “Buttons, Reba Mae. Buttons.”

Since our search didn’t yield any results, I quietly closed the door behind us. A runner down the center of the hallway muffled the sound of
our footsteps. From below, I heard Melly launch into the topic of cheese straws.

“Cheese straws are like deviled eggs,” she announced. “Every Southern cook swears hers are the best.”

I hoped the Californians would be duly interested in learning Melly always added garlic powder and a dash of cayenne to hers while Felicity preferred a dash of black Tellicherry pepper.

Suddenly, a heart pine floorboard
groaned under our weight. My pulse hammered in my ears. I stood stock-still, waiting. I felt Reba Mae’s nails dig into my forearm. Her face told me she was ready to bolt.

“What was that noise?” Cheryl demanded.

Felicity laughed softly. “Nothing to worry about, dear. This is an old house.”

Melly hurriedly inquired about the difference between Napa Valley wines versus those from Sonoma. When
the conversation resumed, I drew in a shaky breath. At my signal, Reba Mae followed me into the Brigadier William T. Wofford room. This room was also occupied. A silk negligee was draped across a chaise. Judging from the array of face creams and cosmetics on a dressing table, I surmised the suite belonged to Cheryl and Troy.

Reba Mae picked up a hefty-looking blue glass jar and studied the label.
“Sheesh! No wonder the woman has a flawless complexion. She must spend a bundle on skin-care products. Even if I charged folks double, I couldn’t afford expensive creams like this. My motto is: If Walmart or Walgreens don’t carry it, I don’t buy it.”

“Let’s get to work,” I reminded her. “Start with the half-packed suitcase on the bed. I’ll check the dresser.”

Guilt gnawed at my conscience as
I sorted through one drawer after another. I felt like a voyeur. I reminded myself I was doing this for Melly’s sake. My motives were pure. Noble. Even so, I didn’t feel good about what we were doing.

I sighed. One last drawer. I tugged at the two brass handles, but nothing happened. The drawer was obviously stuck. Stuck just like the darn window at the motel had been. “Reba Mae, give me a hand.”

On the count of three, the drawer burst free and fell to the floor with a resounding crash. Articles of clothing became airborne.

“Shoot,” Reba Mae moaned. “Shoot, shoot, shoot.”

I grabbed her arm. “C’mon, run.”

We sprinted the length of the hall and clattered down the servants’ stairs. My chest felt as though there were a tight band around it. We paused to catch our breath on the bottom step.
Above us, I heard the buzz of angry voices.

Reba Mae peered over my shoulder. “Wyatt’s gonna skin us alive,” she whined. “We’re toast. He’ll throw us in the pokey, sure as I’m standin’ here.”

I eyed the short distance separating us from the French doors and relative safety. “Let’s make a run for it,” I whispered.

Felicity rounded the corner of the pantry. “Not so fast. I’m sure there’s a reasonable
explanation for your antics. I’d like to hear it.”

A moment later, Cheryl, Troy, Rusty, and Tulip trooped down the stairs behind us, effectively hemming us in. I glimpsed Melly standing behind Felicity and wringing her hands.

“Well?” Felicity raised a brow. “What do you have to say for yourselves?”

Before I could answer, Cheryl pushed past us and aimed a finger at my chest. If it had been a
gun, she would have pulled the trigger. “Why were you stealing my things?”

I moistened my dry lips with the tip of my tongue. “We’re not here to rob you. We’re looking for a shirt with a missing button.”

Reba Mae nodded vigorously. “We want to return it.”

“Who
are
these women, Rusty?” Tulip asked plaintively.

“Lunatics, that’s who,” he snarled.

Reba Mae turned to the young woman and stuck
out her hand. “Reba Mae Johnson, pleased to make your acquaintance. I’m a big fan of your father. I have all his CDs.”

I gave her the stink-eye. Next she’d be bragging how she used to be president of the Jax Jackson Fan Club.

Troy’s face registered his bewilderment. “All this commotion because of a button?”

Angling my body to better see his expression, I pulled the object in question from my
pocket. “We believe this belongs to Chip’s killer. It was found at the crime scene.”

Troy shrugged. “Never saw it before.”

“Me neither,” Rusty said, although he barely looked at it.

Irate and impatient, Felicity tapped her foot on the floor. “I need a better explanation, unless you want me to press charges for breaking and entering.”

At hearing this, Reba Mae’s eyes grew as large as saucers.
I sucked in a deep breath and forged ahead. In for a penny, in for a pound, as Granny used to say.

“Either Troy or Rusty could be Chip’s killer.” I held up a hand to forestall denials. “Troy, you need financial backing for your health clubs. As Chip’s widow, Cheryl would be better than a platinum credit card.”

Cheryl grunted. “Troy didn’t need money
that
desperately. I have a trust fund.”

Rusty’s dark brown eyes glittered with anger. “All the times we were in bed together, you never mentioned a trust fund.”