Cinnamon Toasted by Gail Oust

plopped down in the chair reserved for visitors.
    He closed the office door, thensat on the edge of his desk, his gaze never leaving my face. “Then what brings you here?”
    I tucked an errant curl behind one ear. “I keep thinking of what you said last night when I left your office. A cryptic remark about how things aren’t always what they appear. What exactly was that supposed to mean?”
    His expression impassive, he picked a pen off his blotter. “What do you think I meant?”
    If I wanted to play word games, I’d get an app for my phone. “I took your parting comment to mean that just because something looked like an accident, sounded like an accident, or smelled like an accident, didn’t necessarily mean it was an accident. Am I hot or cold?”
    He studied the logo on the pen for a protracted moment before zapping me with his laser blues. “As I told you last night, we’retreating Chip Balboa’s fall as suspicious.”
    “Suspicious,” I repeated. “Is that because the coroner ruled Chip died hours before Melly reported it?”
    “That and because of the ME’s preliminary report. Seems he found an unusual pattern of bruising. A pattern more consistent with a shove than a fall.”
    “A shove?”
    Call it denial if you will, but I had a hard time wrapping my mind around the notionthat Chip’s death was a homicide. I rubbed my arms against a sudden chill. If that were true, McBride would come gunning for the killer … and he had Melly lined up in his sights.

 
    C HAPTER 10
    M ELLY GAVE ME a wan smile. “Enjoy your lunch, dear?”
    My idyllic lunch with Reba Mae on a park bench seemed eons ago. In reality, it was less than an hour. I’d returned to Spice It Up! more confused—and more worried—than ever. “It’s a beautiful day to be outdoors,” I said as I slipped on my apron. “You should take a walk, get some fresh air.”
    “Maybe later.” Melly neatly restackeda pile of cooking magazines that I subscribed to in the hope inspiration would strike for new and novel uses for spices. “I looked across the way, but you weren’t there.” Melly made no effort to disguise the mild rebuke: Shame on me for not being in plain sight.
    “Since I haven’t jogged the last couple days, I decided I’d go for a little stroll, get some exercise.”
    I had no intention of informingMelly of my conversation with McBride. She’d learn soon enough that Chip’s death was deemed suspicious. That the ME’s findings were more consistent with a shove and not a fall.
    A shove not a fall?
    The words rattled around my brain like tiles in a bingo cage. What really happened the night Chip died? Was McBride the only person who was being closemouthed? Or did Melly know more than she was telling?What secrets hid beneath the sweaters and pearls? No time like the present to polish my Nancy Drew, girl detective, skills.
    I ran a hand over my unruly curls and opted for casual: “You never told me what brought Chip over to your house the other night.”
    “He wanted to talk.”
    “Talk?” I tipped my head to one side, imitating an attentive pose I’d seen actors do on soap operas. “About what?”
    “Business,”Melly snapped. “Software things that don’t concern you.”
    All righty, then. I guess she’d put me in my place. Time for another tactic. “You’re absolutely right, Melly. When it comes to computers and such, all I need is for them to work. You, on the other hand, are a natural.”
    “Hmph!”
    Flattery wasn’t helping me gain much ground, either. What would Nancy do? Or, for that matter, Jessica Fletcheror Miss Jane Marple? I opted for a direct approach. “You never said any more about Rusty and Chip’s proposal. Was the amount they offered satisfactory?”
    “No! Not even close to what they initially led me to believe. And before I forget”—she abruptly changed the subject and pointed to a cardboard box partially hidden at the base of the counter—“the FedEx driver dropped this off while