Kill 'Em with Cayenne (23 page)

I took that as my cue to exit. “Thanks for the tea and cookies,” I said, getting to my feet. “I'll let you get back to your solitaire.”

“That can wait till later.” Melly reached for the remote control. “Now it's time for
Vanished,
my favorite show on the True Crime channel. It was Becca's favorite, too. Probably the only thing we had in common. Neither of us ever missed an episode. I DVR mine and often watch them over again.”

”
Vanished
…?” I paused, one hand on the doorknob. “Melly, you're always able to surprise me. I'd never take you for a fan of crime shows.”

“You can't tell a book by its cover.” She laughed.

“What's the show about?”

“It's about people who've simply vanished without a trace. Some nights it's about wives or husbands who wandered off for a quart of milk, never to be seen again. Other times it's about famous people who've disappeared. “

“People like Amelia Earhart,” I offered. “Or Jimmy Hoffa.”

“Precisely.” Melly aimed the remote at the television and clicked a button. “Care to stay and watch?”

“I'll take a rain check.”

By the time the door shut behind me and Casey, Melly was already engrossed in her show. Flat-screen television. Fancy computer. DVR and crime shows. Guess you can't judge a book by its cover—at least not this particular cover encased in twin sets and pearls.

 

C
HAPTER
24

A
TELLTALE SQUEAK
on the fourth stair from the bottom woke me up. “Lindsey…?” I called out, more asleep than awake. I'd been determined to read for a while after returning from Melly's, but my eyelids wouldn't cooperate. I'd finally surrendered and switched off the light.

“It's me, Mom. Go back to sleep.”

Hearing Lindsey's voice, Casey hopped off the bed and padded toward the door. “Deserter,” I muttered, flipping over on my side.

The red numerals of the alarm clock informed me Lindsey was an hour past curfew. I was about to issue a reprimand when I remembered she'd been at Doug's preparing for the barbecue festival, which was only days away. I'd cut her some slack this time, but … Yawning, I drifted back to sleep.

The next time I woke, sun slanted through the bedroom window. I peeked in on Lindsey, but she was sound asleep, with Casey snoring softly at the foot of her bed. Deciding to forego jogging in favor of baking—no sense overdoing a good thing—I took out the carton of blueberries I'd bought at the Piggly Wiggly. I toyed with the idea of pie, but muffins called my name.

I poured batter into muffin tins, then sprinkled on a topping rich in sugar and cinnamon with a hint of nutmeg. For a while now I'd been experimenting with various types of cinnamon. This morning I used a blend made from a variety of extrasweet cinnamon from China and cassia from northern Vietnam. Cassia and cinnamon are often used interchangeably, I'm aware, although, in the United States cassia is often preferred due to its more pronounced flavor and aroma.

While the muffins baked, I showered and dressed for the day in a white scooped-neck T-shirt and navy capris embroidered with tiny red ladybugs. Returning to the kitchen, I brewed a pot of Kona coffee that I'd been hording. Even in my sleep, my mind had replayed details surrounding Becca's death until it drove me bonkers. The unanswered questions were worse than the elusive seven-letter word in Sunday's crossword. I kept wondering if McBride was any closer to solving the case.

Or closer to reading Maybelle the Miranda rights.

When it came to motive, means, and opportunity, Maybelle scored high on two out of three counts. Would that be enough for an arrest warrant? If she couldn't convince McBride of her innocence, would she fare any better in front of a jury? The thought was troublesome, to say the least.

The scent of spicy muffins and freshly brewed coffee spread through the kitchen. I reached for a mug and was about to pour myself the first cup of the day, then hesitated. McBride loved coffee. Loved it even more than I did. And I owed him a cup after drinking his the other day.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I filled a thermos with robust Kona coffee and a wicker basket with muffins. I hoped McBride wouldn't think baked goods and coffee constituted a bribe. I viewed them more as incentives to tell me what he knew. I'd act as a sounding board. Or if he wanted, I'd listen while he ranted and raved. Vented his frustrations and uncertainties. Then I'd offer sage advice and leave knowing I'd performed my civic duty. I'd also leave better informed who topped his persons-of-interest hit parade. Maybe then I could quit worrying and wondering.

I scrawled a note for Lindsey, telling her to take Casey out “to do his thing,” then hurried off with the basket in the crook of my arm. I was Little Red Riding Hood on her way to Grandma's house. I fervently hoped I'd meet up with the friendly woodsman in the guise of a handsome cop and not the big bad wolf.

As I hurried toward the police department, my gaze strayed to the opposite side of the street. I couldn't help but notice that yellow crime scene tape no longer festooned the azalea bushes in the square. Vendors were starting to set up colorful booths as if nothing bad had happened. Life went on. Business as usual.

I was happy to spot McBride's F-150 pickup parked in its designated space. I was also happy to note that there was no white Cadillac Escalade anywhere in sight. It would've been just my luck to have Miss Barbie-Q-Perfect arrive with a batch of homemade croissants.

As I pushed open the door of the police station, Precious Blessing glanced up from her computer and smiled. “Hey there, Piper.”

“Hey yourself.” I returned the smile. “Didn't expect to find you on duty. I thought you worked afternoons.”

“Dorinda asked me to switch hours with her. Company's comin' from Alabama to see the new baby, and she wanted to help Lorrinda get ready. With the little one wakin' every two hours for a feedin, Lorrinda's feelin' sleep deprived.”

“Lorrinda's lucky to have her mother live close enough to help out. “

“You can say that again, girlfriend. What you got in that there basket?” Reaching over the counter, Precious peeked under a corner of the cloth covering my basket. “Those blueberry muffins? Blueberries my favorite.”

Taking the none-too-subtle hint, I presented her with a muffin. “I saw the chief's truck out front. Suppose he'd mind an interruption?”

“Not if the interruption comes bearin' gifts. Give him a minute or two before you bust in on him. He's finishin' a call with the GBI.”

“So, Precious, how are things going?”

Precious beamed, her dark face glowing. “Goin' good, real good. The new man in my life likes a woman with a little meat on her bones. Says he doesn't go in for those anorexic types.”

“Glad to hear it. Bring him around sometime soon. I'd like to meet him.”

“Might do just that,” she said, taking a bite of muffin. “He's gonna be helpin' my brother Bubba with his barbecue. Bubba's callin' his outfit
Bub-Ba-Cue
. Catchy, ain't it? My brother Zeke will be at the festival, too.”

“Does he cook?”

“Heck, no,” she chortled. “Zeke can't fry taters without burnin' 'em. But there's hardly an instrument he can't master. He plays in a blues band. They're performin' downtown Friday night. You oughta stop by. You're in for a treat.”

“I'll do that,” I told her. “I promised Doug I'd meet him for the shag contest on Saturday. It'll be fun to see his moves on the dance floor.”

“Since Jolene Tucker's still recoverin' from a broke ankle, others should have a chance at winnin' this year. Her and Butch used to party down in Myrtle Beach. They learned the shag from pros.”

“Word's out this year's crowd will be bigger than ever.”

“Damn straight.” Precious nodded, causing the colorful beads woven into her braids to clack together. “Nothin' like a killin' to get folks' attention. Bubba's all fired up waitin' for the festival to start. He's braggin his ribs are so tasty it'll make your momma cry.”

All this talk of food reminded me I hadn't eaten yet. “I hope your brother will be giving out samples.”

Another nod, another clank of beads. “He's plannin' enough ‘samples' to feed a battalion. Claims word of mouth is the best advertisement.”

“Let him know I got in a fresh shipment of chili peppers.”

“I'll be sure to tell 'im.” Precious glanced at the switchboard and gave me a thumbs-up. “Chief's done with his call. Get outta here with those freakin' good muffins while there's still some left.”

When I cracked the door and poked my head into his office, I found McBride poring over pages in a folder. I held out my basket of goodies. “Busy?”

He smiled, one of those rare genuine smiles that showed off his dimple. It might reflect poorly on my character, but I'm a sucker for dimples. “If this is a bribe, I have to warn you there might be consequences.”

“I'll take my chances.” Entering the office, I placed the basket on an uncluttered corner of his desk. I took out plates, napkins, coffee mugs, a thermos, and a larger plate of muffins. Not even Melly could fault my presentation.

“What's the occasion?” he asked, a bemused expression on his face.

“Rumor around the department has it you like your java good and strong. I thought you might enjoy Kona coffee along with some blueberry muffins.”

“My instincts warn me to beware of pretty redheads bringing fancy coffee and baked goods to an overworked, underpaid civil servant.”

I felt my face grow pink and my pulse quicken. I told myself his compliment didn't effect me in the least.
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
“One muffin or two?”

He flashed that darn dimple again. “One—for starters.”

I centered a muffin on a small tangerine-colored Fiestaware plate. Next, I poured steaming Kona coffee into a mug the color of lemongrass. I repeated the process for myself, then sat down in the chair across from hm. I raised my mug in a toast. “Cheers!”

“Cheers!” he toasted back. He let out a sigh of appreciation when he tasted the rich brew, another when he bit into a muffin. “So,” he said at last. “What's the occasion?”

“Would you believe I'm here to make amends for drinking your coffee the day Casey found Becca's body?”

“It's a little late for ‘amends.' What's the real reason you're here?”

I fluttered my lashes, vamping it up. “Can't put anything over on you, can I?”

“Not for lack of trying on your part.” He helped himself to another muffin. “I suppose you'd like to ask if we found the culprit who helped himself to your petty cash.”

“When you do, kindly inform him it cost me a new lock.”

“I'll do just that.” He washed down a bite of muffin with a swig of coffee.

“I heard there was a second burglary.”

He stared at me over the rim of his coffee mug, his blue eyes cool, his expression unreadable, and waited for me to continue. I recognized his give-her-enough-rope-to-hang-herself tactics.

Clearing my throat, I elaborated, “Maybelle Humphries had her wallet stolen while at work when her back was turned. Ned Feeney told me all about it when he came to replace my lock.”

“We're checking into it. Miss Humphries admitted she never kept more than twenty dollars in her purse. From the way she was carrying on, I suspect there was more to the story than she was telling. I don't suppose you know why she was so upset.”

I studied the half-eaten muffin on my plate. Apparently Maybelle hadn't come clean, admitted to McBride she lied, and told him her alibi had disappeared along with her twenty bucks. What kind of friend would I be if I ratted her out? What kind of law-abiding citizen would I be if I didn't? A conundrum of the worst kind.

“Somehow I can't rid myself of the notion that you're on the receiving end of information I'm not privy to,” McBride said, his voice calm and deliberate.

My gaze flew to his face. It had been a mistake thinking I could ferret information from a grand master of ferreting. The all-around champ of prying information from hapless miscreants. I started gathering the Fiestaware and loading it into the basket. “Hope you enjoyed breakfast, but I have to go. It's nearly time to open my shop.”

He zapped me with a look from his laser blues. “I'm planning to question Miss Humphries later today. I also intend to speak with Buzz Oliver again. See if he can shed any light on the situation. Like I always say, memory's a funny thing.”

I wedged the empty thermos into the basket. “I only came this morning out of curiosity. I keep wondering if you're any closer to finding Becca's killer,” I said, trying for casual. “Are you?”

“This is an active investigation. I'm not at liberty to discuss details.”

“What do I look like? A reporter from the
National Enquirer
?” His pat answer annoyed me. “If you recall, I happen to have a vested interest since I … er, my dog found the body.”

“Thanks for the coffee and muffins.” McBride picked up the file folder he'd been perusing before I entered.

Case dismissed.

 

C
HAPTER
25

M
Y IMPROMPTU MEETING
with Wyatt McBride had proven counterproductive. I returned home to find Lindsey behind the counter wearing a crisp apron and a sunny smile. Her long blond hair fell to her shoulders in loose curls befitting a shampoo commercial. Her makeup was prom perfect.

“Don't you look nice,” I commented. “Beauty pageant material. Ready to be crowned Miss Spice It Up!?”

“Mo-om.” She rolled her eyes.

I headed for the kitchenette at the rear to wash the Fiestaware. When designing Spice It Up!, I planned to host occasional cooking demonstrations. My first had been a disaster, pure and simple. I wasn't quite ready to climb back on the horse that threw me, but every now and then I'm tempted. I'm thinking of persuading Doug to demo his Chicken Tandoori, which incidentally calls for saffron. I stock top-grade Spanish coupé-quality saffron, the priciest of the priciest. “Why the outrageous cost?” people often ask. Saffron comes from the stigma of the crocus, which makes harvesting labor-intensive. It takes a plot of land the size of a football field to grow enough flowers to produce a single pound.