Rosemary and Crime by Gail Oust Read Free Book Online Page A

compared with the Abernathy family, who arrived with the Mayflower, the Johnsons were the new kids on the block. “Well, McBride’s a total opposite of Joe—a real hard-ass. Mark my words, he’ll antagonize people in droves. Before long, the mayor will be clamoring for his resignation.”
    “Mmm, I take it you don’t like the guy.”
    “Subject closed, okay?”
    Reba Mae smiled, but thankfully let the matter drop. “So,” she said, waving a hand toward the table at the rear, “who’s gonna give the cookin’ demo with Mario dead?”
    “You’re looking at her.” My stomach lurched at the thought. I wondered for a second whether I might be coming down with the same flu bug that had laid Marcy low.
    “Wait and see. I bet this place will be standin’ room only now that news is out about you findin’ Barrone in a puddle of blood.”
    “I think I’m going to hyperventilate.” I held my hand to my chest.
    “Just breathe into a paper bag, and you’ll be fine. Gotta check on my perm, hon, but I’ll drop by first chance I get.” A quick hug and she was gone.
    Ned Feeney arrived next with a hearse-load of folding chairs. “Where do you want me to put ’em, Miz Piper?”
    I gave Ned instructions, then moved out of his way.
    “Brought extra just in case,” he huffed as he deposited another load. “S’pect you might have quite a crowd seein’ as how you found a dead man and all. Must’ve been quite a sight. Is it true blood was splattered from kingdom come and back?”
    Though I tried not to stereotype people, Ned Feeney always put me in mind of Gomer Pyle, ably played by Jim Nabors on the old Andy Griffith Show. Maybe it was the perpetual ball cap and scuffed sneakers. Or the prominent Adam’s apple. But more likely it was Ned’s goofy smile that struck a chord. Don’t remember if Gomer cared for gossip or not, but Ned Feeney loved it even more than he loved fried catfish.
    “Mr. Strickland said seein’ Barrone layin’ in all that blood was quite a sight. And Mr. Strickland’s used to seein’ dead bodies, as he’s the coroner an’ all.”
    I refrained from comment, and instead donned a sunny yellow bib apron with SPICE IT UP! written in black letters and a bright red chili pepper embroidered underneath. I returned to the table I’d set up for the demo at the rear of the shop and nervously reviewed the recipe.
    Ned didn’t seem to notice my silence. “Mr. Strickland told me soon as I’m done deliverin’ chairs, I was s’posed to drive the corpse down to Decatur.”
    “Mmm.” I chopped a sprig of rosemary and dropped it into a prep dish.
    “That’s GBI headquarters, you know,” he added importantly. “That’s the Georgia Bureau of Investigation.”
    I paused in separating cloves of garlic. “What else did Mr. Strickland tell you?” Apparently curiosity tended to be contagious.
    Gomer—I mean Ned—wiped his brow. “Tried my best but Mr. S was pretty tight-lipped about the case. One thing for sure though,” he said, heading for the hearse parked at the curb. “He said it was a homicide. Chief McBride swears he’ll find the killer.”
    No sooner had Ned departed when my former mother-in-law, resplendent in her signature pearls, a peach cashmere twin set, and a tailored skirt, arrived with Lindsey in tow. I often envied Melly Prescott. She was the rare sort whose clothes resisted wrinkles, her perfectly coiffed hair could weather a hurricane, and her nails were never in dire need of a manicure. I’d seen her address the Brandywine Creek Garden Club with the finesse of a skilled orator. And her tomato aspic was the odds-on favorite at every funeral. Funerals, along with weddings and christenings, happened to be major social gatherings here in the South. Some folks regard getting out the fine china and polishing the silver to be grief therapy. Melly was a fine woman, bless her heart—to quote a Southernism—but she could be intimidating.
    “Good morning, Melly.”
    “Mornin’,