Curried Away Read online

  “Ghee is clarified butter. A good alternative to cooking oil,” Doug explained as he measured the clear yellow substance. “It’s used extensively in Indian and Middle Eastern cuisine.”

  “How do you make it?” Junior Blessing wanted to know.

  “Make it?” Dottie sounded horrified at the prospect.

  “It’s not difficult, but it does take time,” Doug said, addressing Junior. “Slowly melt one pound of butter over medium-low heat, being careful it doesn’t sizzle or brown. Then increase the heat and bring the butter to a boil. Stir gently when the surface is covered with foam. Once this happens, lower the heat and let simmer for forty-five minutes or so, then strain through several layers of cheesecloth.”

  “Seems like a lot of work,” Gerilee commented.

  “Can’t I just buy it?” Vicki whined.

  “It’s readily available in many grocery stores. Also check online,” I advised. “Last time I looked both Walmart and Amazon stocked it.”

  “Amazon has everything,” Precious chimed. “My brother Levi was lookin’ all over for shoe goo to fix his gym shoes, and, whaddaya know, he found it on Amazon.”

  Doug valiantly tried to get his demo away from shoe goo and back on track. “Add two medium onions, four cloves of garlic, and ginger, all of which have been chopped. While these cook slowly, I’ll tell you how I make my own special blend of curry powder.”

  Channeling Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune—minus the gown and heels—I held up each spice as Doug named it. Coriander, cumin, cardamom, fennel, black peppercorns, cloves, and mustard seed. Ka-ching! I could hear the ring of my antique cash register as customers rushed to stock their pantries.

  “Can’t we just buy it?” Vicki asked a second time.

  I hurried to fill the void. “Of course you can, but let your taste buds be the judge. For those of you reluctant to experiment, or pressed for time, I sell a variety of curry powders: hot, sweet, spicy, and no salt.”

  Suddenly Dottie canted her head to one side. “Is that a siren?”

  “Hush, Dottie, you’re imagining things,” Gerilee scolded.

  “Don’t shush me!” Dottie snapped. “I know a siren when I hear one.”

  As if to prove her point, two squad cars, flashing red and blue light bars and blaring sirens, screamed past Spice It Up! down Main Street. Casey’s incessant barking came from the apartment above. A beeper sounded from somewhere in the audience. Junior Blessing jumped up and ran for the door.

  “My brother’s a volunteer firefighter,” Precious announced proudly.

  Dottie was the first to race to the window. The rest of the women flocked close behind. Doug and I exchanged worried glances, then joined them to see what all the fuss was about. The town’s newly purchased hook and ladder rattled down the street followed by an orange and white EMS ambulance. Police cars, fire truck, and ambulance all came to a screeching halt in front of the opera house.

  “Mercy!” Melly pressed her hand to her twinset-clad chest. “What do you suppose is going on?”

  “Think the opera house is on fire?” Bunny asked.

  Vicki peered over Bunny’s shoulder for a better look. “Don’t see any smoke.”

  Precious dug into the nether regions of her roomy handbag. “Somethin’s up. Dorinda’s mannin’ the desk at the police station. She’ll tell me what’s goin’ on.”

  “Don’t bother,” I said as a white van joined the vehicles already gathered. “The coroner just arrived.”

  CHAPTER 4

  LADIES, START YOUR ENGINES. The cooking demonstration was history; the race was on. Manners were discarded as normally gracious and polite women shoved and jostled one another out the door.

  I looked at Doug. He looked at me and then threw up his hands in surrender. Thoughts of chicken simmering in a savory coconut sauce evaporated. Spurred by the need to know, we hastened after our audience. As I stepped onto the sidewalk, I glimpsed Dottie Hemmings actually running in the direction of the opera house. Let me say, it wasn’t pretty what with all the jiggling and bouncing. But I had to hand it to her. What the woman lacked in athleticism she more than made up for with determination.

  Businesses had come to a virtual standstill. Customers and shopkeepers alike had left the stores unattended to gawk and gossip. I noticed Gerilee hustling across the street to converse with her husband, Pete, the proprietor of Meat on Main. Bunny Bowtin was in an animated conversation with Realtor Shirley Randolph. Bitsy Johnson-Jones, the clerk at Proctor’s Cleaners, exchanged comments with Amber Leigh Ames. I scarcely recognized Bitsy since she’d had her tummy stapled and lost a ton of weight. Amber I’d recognize blindfolded. In less charitable moments, I refer to the former beauty queen as Miss Home Wrecker. Amber and my ex, CJ, were planning a destination wedding in the Dominican Republic over the Christmas holidays.

  “I got here early this morning to review my new listings,” I overheard Shirley tell Bunny. “I happened to look over and saw Ned Feeney walk up the steps of the opera house. Sandy mentioned that she’d hired him as custodian.”

  “Y’all know how accident-prone he is,” Bunny said.

  “Except for Ned, the opera house should’ve been empty,” Shirley commented. “No one else would have had business there this time of day.

  “Ned…?” I gasped, unaware I’d spoken his name out loud

  I felt Doug give my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Had disaster befallen Ned Feeney, the hapless, but likeable, handyman on his first day as custodian? Dread propelled my feet farther down the walk toward a knot of bystanders on the corner across from the opera house. Emergency vehicles were scattered at the curb like a small boy’s Matchbox cars.

  Reba Mae, out of breath and wearing the smock she used when coloring hair, ran up and joined Doug and me. “What do you s’pose happened?”

  I glanced around. The firefighters congregated in front of their truck and didn’t seem in a hurry to don their gear or attach hoses to hydrants. The EMTs stood near the ambulance, its rear door wide open, talking among themselves. “I have no idea,” I answered, puzzled at their lack of activity.

  Vicki sauntered over to join our group of spectators. “I heard Pete tell Gerilee that McBride jumped from his cruiser the instant it came to a rolling stop.”

  “Shirley at Creekside Realty claimed McBride had his gun drawn,” Dale Simons, local pawnbroker and owner of Dale’s Swap and Shop, volunteered in his raspy smoker’s voice. “Said she saw it plain as day.”

  “Gun?” Dottie squawked from nearby. “Who has a gun? Should we take cover?”

  If I hadn’t been so worried about Ned, I’d have rolled my eyes. I swear, the woman had ears like a bat. Comments started coming from all over, including left field. Everyone, it seemed, was suddenly eager to voice an opinion.

  “Think McBride should call out the SWAT team?”

  “Does Brandywine Creek even have a SWAT team?”

  “I heard it was a hostage situation?”

  Hostage situation? Now I did roll my eyes. Who in their right mind would hold Ned Feeney hostage? Hadn’t anyone been paying attention when I announced the coroner’s van had arrived?

  “Maybe Precious was able to find out something,” Doug offered, sounding like the voice of reason in a world gone weird.

  Half turning, I saw Precious drop her cell phone into her purse as she approached. “Out with it, girlfriend,” I ordered. “Tell us what you found out from Dorinda.”

  Precious’s round, dark face creased in a pout. “All Dorinda would say is that a body was found. That woman can be tight-lipped as a clam when it comes to givin’ out information even to me, a coworker. Imagine!”

  Dottie’s eyes widened in alarm. “A body?”

  “Male or female?” I asked.

  Precious shrugged, the effort straining the buttons on the knit shirt stretched across her generous bosom. “Dorinda didn’t say.”

  “Didn’t or wouldn’t?”

  “Knowin’ Dorinda, my bet’s on ‘wouldn’t.’ Ask me,
I think she’s goin’ through the changes. Mean as a snake at times. I try to stay clear.”

  Doug stuck his hands in his pant pockets and surveyed the crowd. “Uh-oh,” he murmured. “Brace yourself, Piper. CJ has you in his sights.”

  Doug, bless his heart, had my back. He knew I was often ambivalent when it came to CJ Prescott, my ex-husband. We’d—make that I’d—come a long way, baby, from the early, bitter days of our divorce. We’d established a relationship of sorts that was mostly civil, but I was far from perfect, and sometime I forgot the “civil” part.

  “Hiya, Scooter. What’s cookin’?” CJ nearly blinded me with flash of teeth whiter than God ever intended. Any brighter, I’d need Ray-Bans.

  I cringed at hearing the irritating-as-fingernails-on-a-chalkboard nickname. “Hey, CJ,” I said, forcing a smile.

  “Might’ve known I’d find you in the thick of things.” CJ adjusted the French cuffs peeking from the sleeves of his navy blue blazer. I immediately recognized the monogrammed gold cuff links I’d given him for his fortieth birthday.

  “Aren’t you too busy with a trip and fall than to spend time rubbernecking like the rest of us?” I inquired sweetly. If sarcasm was a sin, I’d repent later.

  “Nah,” he said with a shake of his head. Sunlight glinted off hair as blond as a model’s on a box of Clairol. On more than one occasion, Reba Mae and I had questioned whether Clairol was precisely where that shade originated. “For a handsome amount, my client agreed to settle out of court for his pain and sufferin’.”

  “Nice,” I said for lack of a better response.

  “Don’t know about y’all,” Precious spoke up, “but I’m tired of waitin’ and wonderin’. I’m ready for some action.” She turned to me. “You game?”

  “Always,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  That was the only encouragement Precious needed. “Cut me a path,” she bellowed. “Law enforcement comin’ through.”

  Before Doug or CJ divined my intent, I was right on her heels as she cut a swath through the looky lous. Technically, I’m not certain if Precious’s job as afternoon dispatcher and girl Friday at the Brandywine Creek Police Department qualified her as law enforcement. But no one stopped us. Apparently no one wanted to tackle a plus-size woman hell-bent on bulldozing her way through a crowd. Seeing Precious Blessing in motion recalled Charlton Heston, aka Moses in The Ten Commandments, parting the Red Sea. Cecil B. DeMille could have learned from her. The trick was in the attitude: Move it or lose it.

  I couldn’t help but observe that while the firefighters and EMTs milled about aimlessly, police officers were conspicuously absent. The thought no sooner crossed my mind when Sergeant Beau Tucker emerged from an adjacent side street, buttoning his uniform on the run.

  “Beau’s coverin’ the midnight shift. Probably just rolled outa bed,” Precious explained, before yelling, “Hey, Beau! What’s the lowdown?”

  He poked the last button through its hole. “Aw, shucks, Precious. You know I can’t comment without the chief’s okay. McBride would skin me alive.”

  “C’mon,” Precious wheedled.

  “Want me to land in a heap of trouble? Chief assigned me crowd control,” he said, giving me the stink eye. Obviously he hadn’t forgiven me for his once being on probation for leaking details of a case. “Sorry, Piper, no civilians allowed. You’ll have to stay on the other side of the street.”

  I felt like stomping my foot like a two-year-old. “What’s the big deal, Beau? We both know the news will be all over town before noon.”

  His chubby face took on a mulish expression. “Chief McBride gave me strict orders not to talk with anyone—especially you. I’d hate to place you under arrest for interfering with an investigation.”

  Arrest? “Fine!” I snapped. I didn’t need a Jumbotron to get the message. I knew when to walk away, when to run. In this instance, I compromised and jogged. My cheeks burned like fire, the curse of being a redhead. Feeling as though half the town had witnessed my comeuppance, I lowered my head and beat a hasty retreat to rejoin Doug and Reba Mae. CJ, thankfully, had wandered off to chew the fat with some of his cronies.

  “Hey, honeybun, any news?” Reba Mae asked.

  “No,” I admitted, “but I can’t help wonder. Ned Feeney was going to the opera house after dropping off folding chairs at my place. Shirley saw him go in, but, to my knowledge, no one has seen him since.”

  “I’m sure your worry is for nothing,” Doug tried to assure me. “Wait and see; Ned will turn up any minute and be just fine.”

  Reba Mae shook her head in agreement, the movement making her chandelier-style earrings sway. “Doug’s right, you know. No one would want to harm Ned. Why, he never did nothin’ to nobody.”

  “You’re probably right.” I rubbed my arms to ward off the November chill. “But if Ned’s fine, why did McBride enter the opera house with his gun drawn? Why did he call the coroner?”

  We fell silent. Waiting. Watching. Meanwhile, Beau popped the trunk of a patrol car and removed a spool of yellow crime-scene tape. My stomach churned as I watched him wind it around the shrubs and trees in front of the three-story brick edifice. The Brandywine Creek Opera House was now designated an official crime scene.

  Suddenly a radio inside one of the emergency vehicles crackled to life. At a command from a garbled voice, the EMTs sprang into action. One of them toted an orange box large enough to hold tackle for a bass-fishing tournament, while the second trotted alongside him. I watched, scarcely daring to breathe as the pair disappeared into the building.

  Five minutes later, the pair emerged escorting a dazed-looking Ned Feeney. One of the men urged Ned down on the back bumper of the ambulance; the other slipped an oxygen mask over Ned’s pale, drawn face.

  I felt more confused than ever. There was still the matter of the coroner being called to the scene. Added to that, the police showed no signs of leaving. If Ned wasn’t the victim, who was?

  As though sensing my gaze on him, Ned looked across the street and saw me. He lowered the oxygen mask, then waved. “Hey, Miz Piper,” he called. “Guess you’re not the only person who finds dead people.”

  Some claim to fame. I tried to smile but couldn’t. “Finder of dead people” was a title I’d gladly relinquish. “You okay, Ned?” I called back.

  “Good as can be after finding poor Miz Granger deader ’n a doornail. I think the opera house ghost done her in.”

  CHAPTER 5

  “SANDY? DEAD?”

  “Good gracious!” Dottie exclaimed, stunned by the news.

  I, too, was having trouble wrapping my brain around the fact. Only yesterday, Sandy’d been in my shop. She’d been chatting with Vicki about bread pudding. Bread pudding! Certainly there couldn’t be a more benign topic? She’d planned to come to Doug’s cooking demo. In all the commotion, I’d failed to register her absence.

  Doug frowned and dug his hands even deeper into his pockets. “Wonder what happened?”

  I looked for Precious, hoping she’d gotten the inside scoop and could shed some light on the subject. Precious, however, was nowhere around. I assumed her services had been required elsewhere.

  Dale Simons scratched his shiny bald head. “Must’ve been an accident.”

  Dottie was quick to jump on the “accident” bandwagon. “Sandy might’ve fallen down the stairs like that poor fella did in Melly’s basement a while back.”

  The fella Dottie referred to hadn’t suffered a simple fall, I wanted to remind her. He’d had help. Instead, I held my tongue. No sense dredging up the recent past with its painful reminder of Melly’s close call with a prison jumpsuit. But what had happened to Sandy?

  Questions circled in my brain like turkey buzzards on the hunt for roadkill. Sandy’s sudden death didn’t make sense. She was relatively young to die from natural causes. Not impossible, but improbable. As far as I knew, she was in excellent health. I’d heard her boast about perfect blood pressure and low cholesterol. In addition, she led an active lifestyl
e, keeping physically fit with aerobic classes three times a week and golf on weekends.

  Stranger still, I mused, was Ned’s comment that the opera house ghost was responsible for her demise. The legend of the opera house ghost was a poorly kept secret in and around Brandywine Creek. The most popular theory involved a lowly mill worker who had an ill-fated romance with an actress. The man habitually sat in the third-floor balcony and watched his love from afar. When he finally summoned the courage to profess his feelings, he was cruelly rejected. Despondent, he committed suicide. To this day, a lone chair is reserved in his memory on the third-floor balcony. Playgoers and cast members throughout the ensuing decades have reported unexplained sounds such as humming, applause, or that of someone pacing. Luckily, I had no firsthand knowledge.

  Reba Mae tugged on my shirtsleeve. “The police have been in there an awful long time. Think they suspect foul play?”

  “Hush, Reba Mae!” I darted a look around to make sure no one overheard her remark. “That’s how rumors get started. No sense rushing to conclusions.”

  “S’pose she was killed,” Reba Mae persisted. “Think her husband Craig might’ve done it? On TV, it’s always the spouse.”

  “You watch way too much TV,” I said.

  “Hmph!” Reba Mae sniffed. “Everyone oughta have a hobby. TV’s mine.”

  “Craig always struck me as a model husband,” stated Dottie, who’d been uncharacteristically quiet.

  Reba Mae wasn’t easily detoured. “What if he’s hidin’ a deep, dark secret? What if inside he’s a simmerin’ cauldron of rage just fixin’ to bubble over?”

  “How do you come up with these things?” I stared at my friend in amazement. “Ever think of switching careers to writing crime novels?”

  Reba Mae shrugged. “Can’t help it if I’m gifted with a fertile imagination. One of these days, I just might try my hand at crime writin’. Make myself a pile of money while I’m at it. How hard can it be?”

  “Probably a lot harder than it looks.”

  Doug, who had been exchanging comments with Dale Simons, turned toward us. “Madison mentioned Sandy’s been under a lot of stress lately with not only directing, but producing, the play. Stress can cause a lot of nasty side effects.”