Cinnamon Toasted by Gail Oust Page A

you were offgallivanting.”
    Picking up the box, I cleared a space on the counter, then set it down and read the label. “This is a shipment of spice from my supplier on the West Coast. Before you know it, people will start thinking of holiday goodies. I wanted to make sure I had an ample supply of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cloves.”
    “The delivery man insisted on a signature, but since you weren’t here, I signedfor you.” She whipped the yellow apron over her head. “I hope that was all right.”
    I slit open the box. “Thanks.”
    “Doug phoned.” Melly painstakingly folded the apron as if her life depended upon perfect creases. “He said he’d be here at six o’clock to pick you up.”
    I struggled to corral my thoughts, which flitted between a tumble down the stairs to baking Christmas stollen. Finally it dawnedon me what she meant. Football. Friday Night Lights. Football was a big deal in small towns across America. I’d promised Lindsey that Doug and I would be in the bleachers to cheer the new routines she’d been practicing all week.
    Melly stowed her apron under the counter. “Doug mentioned you were having a bite to eat at High Cotton before the game. I’ve never been there personally. I’ve heard theplace is rowdy.”
    “Maybe late at night, but not early on.” I unpacked a bundle of cinnamon sticks and couldn’t resist sniffing their sweet, spicy fragrance before setting them aside. “High Cotton is known for its great burgers and chili cheese fries.”
    Melly shuddered. “All those calories and cholesterol can’t be good for a person.”
    “Probably not,” I agreed. Melly, it seemed, was more willingto talk about the hazards of chili cheese fries than about what had transpired between her and Chip Balboa. However, I wasn’t about to abandon my inquisition so easily. “So,” I said, “did you and Chip argue when he came to visit?”
    Melly’s lips flattened. “Both those young men mistook me for a dotty old woman without a lick of sense. I wasn’t about to sign over my software modifications and loseall my equity. I told them straight-out I wasn’t interested. Chip thought he could soften me up, convince me to change my mind.”
    Mental alarm bells sounded. Some people might construe that as motive to give the cheap dot-com guy a shove or two. “Have you mentioned this to McBride?”
    “He didn’t ask, and I didn’t volunteer.” Her back ramrod stiff, Melly turned on her heel and marched off.
    Perplexed,I stared after her. Melly had a delicate build. It was hard to imagine her strong enough to push a seemingly healthy, mildly overweight thirty-something down a flight of stairs. And heartless enough to let him lie there until the following morning. No, I told myself: That wasn’t the Melly Prescott I knew.
    I’ve found nothing soothes me like performing some mundane task. After taking out a featherduster, I methodically ran it over shelves lined with spices from the four corners of the earth. Those spices had become my extended family, my friends. I knew their countries of origin, how they were harvested, and how they were used. Studying about them had been a virtual tour of places I’d never heard of, could barely pronounce, and definitely couldn’t spell.
    Casey trailed after me as I systematicallyworked my way around the shop. He eventually tired of my slow progress and settled down in a patch of sunlight streaming through the front window.
    I’d progressed to a display of various salts and peppercorns when the shop door opened. I recognized the newcomer instantly as none other than Sandy Granger, Brandywine Creek’s hostess with the mostess. I wedged the duster between jars of sea saltfrom the Mediterranean and peppercorns from Borneo. “Hey, Sandy,” I greeted. “What can I do for you?”
    “I’ve been meaning to stop by ever since Craig and I returned from our trip around the world.”
    “I heard you were home.” And planning a huge party to which I haven’t