Rosemary and Crime by Gail Oust Read Free Book Online

I stood back to admire my handiwork, but had the nagging suspicion I was forgetting something. A pounding on the front door startled me out of my reverie. Hurrying over, I twisted open the lock and found Reba Mae grinning at me.
    “I’m between perms,” she announced. “Thought I’d drop by and see how you’re holdin’ up.”
    “If being a nervous wreck is holding up, then I’m holding up great.”
    Reba Mae pulled a tortoise shell case out of her teal blue smock. “Here, hon, let me fix you up. You’re looking a mite washed out.” She proceeded to dab blush on my cheeks, then stepped back to inspect the results. “There, that’s better. The Klassy Kut’s been buzzin’ worse than a hornet’s nest about Mario Barrone. I told the girls I’d run over and get the skinny firsthand.”
    “There’s not much to tell.” I took a feather duster from beneath the counter and started dusting shelves that didn’t need dusting. “I went over to the Tratory to get the rest of the juniper berries and found Mario on the floor. Called nine-one-one. That’s about it. Now you know as much as I do.”
    Reba Mae shook her head in frustration. “Must be more to it than that, girlfriend. What was it like, findin’ a dead body? Anythin’ like the movies?”
    “I didn’t stick around long enough to take in the details.”
    “Lotta blood and guts?”
    “No guts, lots of blood,” I retorted.
    “Who do you think did him in?”
    “I’ve no idea. Your guess is as good as mine.”
    Reba Mae folded her arms across her chest and cocked her head to one side. “Outside the fact folks liked his cookin’, no one has much good to say about him. Pinky Alexander thinks Mario most likely was shot by a jealous husband. Claims she got it from a reliable source that Mario’s had affairs with more ’n a half dozen women who frequent the Tratory.”
    “Pinky likes to exaggerate.”
    Satisfied the free-standing shelves were spick-and-span, I turned my attention to the Hoosier cabinet. Reba Mae trailed after me. “So was he … you know … shot?”
    “I didn’t examine the body for bullet holes,” I replied tartly.
    “More ’n likely he was shot. Did I ever mention most of my customers brag about havin’ concealed-weapons permits? You oughta hear ’em. They talk about handguns like brides talk about silver patterns. Glocks, Berettas, Rugers. One even admitted ownin’ an Uzi.”
    “The cause of death is up to the coroner to determine,” I told her, mimicking Wyatt McBride. “And that’s a direct quote from our brand-new chief of police.”
    “What’s McBride like?” Reba Mae asked with a sly smile. “Vicki Lamont claims he’s a hottie.”
    “More like a ‘coldie,’ if you want my opinion.” I returned the duster to its proper place and studied a clipboard with today’s agenda. A quick look told me Ned Feeney, The Eternal Rest’s number one gofer, was due to arrive momentarily with the chairs that I was borrowing from the funeral home. “Don’t think McBride would crack a smile if he won the Powerball in the Georgia lottery.”
    “Ruby Phillips heard he was a hotshot detective down in Miami. Got his name in the papers a lot. Swears she saw his picture in People once or twice with some celebrity at a premiere in South Beach.”
    “Doubt he’ll last long,” I said, shrugging off Ruby’s idle talk. “McBride’s manner strikes me as too heavy-handed. Abrasive, even arrogant. It’s only a matter of time before he has a run-in with the town council. Folks are used to our former chief’s laid-back ways.”
    “Yeah, Uncle Joe’s a good guy, all right. He went easy on my boys a couple times when they pulled a few pranks back in high school.”
    “Didn’t hurt any that Joe Johnson was Butch’s uncle.”
    “You know how it is in these small Southern towns.” Reba Mae shrugged. “The Johnsons are kin to half the folks in Brandywine County, the Abernathys the other half.”
    I nodded my agreement. When