Kill 'Em with Cayenne (26 page)

“Doug's specialty is pork butt,” I explained. “He's positive his pulled pork will be a winner.”

“Tomorrow night, we're not only mixing the rub, but we're rubbing it in. That chunk of meat will be so well massaged, it'll think it's at a day spa.” Lindsey tapped out a quick response to her texting buddy. “Meantime, I gotta throw some stuff into my backpack and get over to Daddy's.”

“Not so fast, young lady. Doug mentioned you left his place around ten. Please explain how you managed to come in after curfew.”

“Sorry, Mom.” Lindsey slid her phone into her shorts pocket. “I gave a friend a ride home. We got to talking, and I lost track of the time.”

“Well,” I said, deciding to cut her some slack, “don't let it happen again.”

“Well, that's that,” Melly said a short time later as Lindsey raced off, slamming the door behind her.

“What did you think of the taping?” I asked, curious to hear Melly's unvarnished reaction.

“I must confess, dear, I found the entire process … fascinating.” She fiddled with her pearls, her expression thoughtful. “But I have to be honest, I don't care for Miss Barbie Too-Big-for-Her-Britches. Mark my words, her show's never going to be a success unless she learns how to focus on barbecue, not gossip.”

“Amen.” I pulled my apron over my head, not caring if it messed Reba Mae's artistry. “I'd hoped being interviewed for
Some Like It Hot
would be good for Spice It Up! That folks visiting Brandywine Creek for the barbecue festival or a play at the opera house might drop in. Instead everyone will think we're murder central.”

Melly tucked the container that had held the gingersnaps into her carryall. “If you want my opinion, Barbie Quinlan, née Bunker, has an axe to grind. That's the only reason she returned to Brandywine Creek. For goodness' sake, even Yankees have barbecue festivals. Ask yourself why did she choose this particular one?”

“Barbie grew up here. It's not unusual for people to get nostalgic for their hometown.” I couldn't believe my ears. Here I was actually defending the woman.

“Do you ever get nostalgic for Detroit?” Melly fired back.

“Detroit isn't such a bad place. It's home to the Red Wings and Tigers. Furthermore, how many big cities are there where you can look across the river and see Canada?” There I was doing it again, champion of the underdog. At this rate, I'd be telling folks Jack the Ripper was just a poor misunderstood serial killer.

“Needless to say, a visit to Detroit isn't on my bucket list.” Melly smoothed the collar of the silk blouse that brought out the blue of her eyes. “Barbara Bunker grew up on the wrong side of the tracks. A lazy no-'count father, a barfly for a mother. The girl's clothes were the thrift store variety. To make matters worse, she was bookish and sorely in need of braces. Kids picked on her mercilessly. You know how cruel children can be.”

I paused in the act of folding my apron. “Are you saying Barbie was a victim of school bullying?”

“More than a victim, I'd say. The girl practically had a bull's-eye painted on her back. Then she hit puberty, and suddenly things changed. Boys overlooked the fact her teeth needed straightening and her clothes weren't stylish. They were more interested in other … attributes.”

I stashed my apron, then rested a hip against the counter. “No wonder Barbie doesn't have many fond memories of home. What else do you remember about her?”

Fine lines formed between Melly's brows as she concentrated. “I remember once during bridge, the women were gossiping about a certain faculty member who took her under his wing. Tried to guide her, offer counseling. He was investigating possible scholarships. Like I said, the girl was bright.”

“I didn't see Barbie's graduation picture in Butch's yearbook.”

“That's because she dropped out of school senior year.”

Curiouser and curiouser.
“Do you know the reason why?”

Melly clucked her tongue. “Pity she didn't finish, but I believe the rumors were just too much for her.”

“Rumors…?”

“Vicious ones,” Melly said on a sigh. “Promiscuity. Possible pregnancy. The type intended to ruin a girl's reputation.”

I winced. Even though Barbie and I weren't destined to become BFFs, I felt sorry for anyone subjected to that sort of cruelty. “Do you have any idea who was responsible for the rumors?”

Melly shrugged, her expression troubled. “I can't say for certain—and I hate to speak ill of the dead—but I'd be willing to bet my entire Social Security check that Becca Dapkins was behind them.”

“Becca?” I asked, astonished at the notion. “Why would Becca do such a thing?”

“Back in the day, Becca worked in the school office. Remember the faculty member I just mentioned? The one who took Barbie under his wing?”

“Yes,” I replied. I had a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach where this conversation was leading.

“His name was Arthur Dapkins. Arthur was the assistant principal at the time.”

“Becca's ex?”

“One and the same.” Melly retrieved her pocketbook from a drawer where she'd stashed it. “Becca had her sights set on Art and, in my opinion, felt threatened by his attention to Barbara. She waged an all-out campaign to win him over. It was pathetic really, the lengths she went to. New hairdo, lots of makeup, short skirts. The whole kit and caboodle. The woman couldn't have been more obvious if she'd tried. The two married a year later, then Art took a position elsewhere, and the couple moved on.”

Long after Melly left, I sat thinking over everything she'd just told me. I'd finally connected the dots between Becca and Barbie. Becca must have seethed watching the good-looking assistant principal, a man with a promising future, one she had designs on, show interest in a stunning younger woman. If Becca had generated the rumors and innuendos as Melly suspected, then I could understand why Barbie hated her. The sixty-four-thousand-dollar question was: Did Barbie hate Becca enough to kill her? There was only one way to get to the bottom of this: go directly to the source.

Six o'clock had come and gone. It was way past my normal closing time when I flipped the sign in the window from
OPEN
to
CLOSED
. I opted to take Casey along for my little outing. He must have like the idea, too, since he hopped in the car the instant I opened the door. I rehearsed in my mind what I wanted to say to Barbie as I headed toward the historic district. I needed to use finesse rather than come right out and ask,
Did you bean Becca over the head?

The Turner-Driscoll House was a pristine two-story square structure. Heavy white columns supported a broad porch. Multiple chimneys covered in English ivy flanked the sides. Built by a businessman prior to the War Between the States—or the late unpleasantness, as I'd heard it called—the house had been in Felicity's husband's family for generations. Though it had languished from neglect under various tenants, since Felicity had taken over the reins it had been restored to its former glory. I parked my VW behind Barbie's Escalade in a side drive under an oak probably almost as old as the house itself.

Leaving the car window open a crack, I instructed Casey to behave himself in my absence, then marched up the front walk and rang the bell.

Felicity greeted her unexpected guest—
moi
—with a gracious smile. “Piper! What a lovely surprise.”

“Hey, Felicity,” I said. “I know that the dinner Wally invited me to isn't until tomorrow night, but I'd like to have a word or two with Barbie if she's available.”

“Of course.” Felicity held the door wider. “Is she expecting you?”

“No.” I peeked over her shoulder into the spacious rooms that opened off a wide entrance hall. Gleaming mahogany antique furniture, rich brocade draperies, Aubusson carpets. The rooms were every bit as elegant as I'd heard. “I have a couple questions I'd like to ask Barbie. It shouldn't take long.”

“You'll find her in the front parlor.” She stepped aside to allow me to enter. “Barbie mentioned reviewing her notes.”

I followed Felicity across a broad marble foyer in a black and white checkerboard design. To my right, a curving staircase wound its way to the second floor. A console table held a stunning arrangement of deep-blue hydrangeas. I caught a glimpse of myself in an ornate gilded mirror. I scarcely recognized the woman with the soft, orderly curls and flattering makeup staring back at me.
Darn!
I looked good if I did say so myself. Maybe I should let “Aunt” Reba Mae get her hands on me more often.

My footsteps echoed on the marble tile. Felicity's, on the other hand, were noiseless in her sensible rubber-soled Keds. She knocked softly on the doorframe. “Barbie, you have a visitor.”

Barbie, wearing tortoiseshell reading glasses, sat on a crushed-velvet settee, a clipboard in one hand. She looked up and frowned when she saw me. “If you're here to talk about the taping, you need to reread the fine print on the waiver you signed. It's legally binding.”

“No,” I said, taking offense at her defense. “There's another matter I'd like to discuss.”

Felicity's head swung back and forth, as she sensed the tension between me and Barbie. “Um”—she cleared her throat—“can I get you refreshments before I go? Sweet tea or lemonade?”

“No thank you,” I said. “I don't expect to stay long.”

“Well then, I'll leave you girls to talk.” She drew a pocket door closed as she left, giving us privacy.

Barbie regarded me wordlessly. Since she made no move to make room for me on the settee, I perched on a Queen Anne–style chair opposite her. It was every bit as uncomfortable as it looked.

Silence stretched between us like a rubber band ready to snap. I was beginning to have second thoughts about coming here. But my questions needed answers.

Barbie huffed out a breath. “Say what you came to say, and let me get back to work.”

My tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth. I regretted having refused Felicity's offer of a cold drink. In for a penny, in for a pound. Clasping my hands in my lap, I blurted, “Did you murder Becca Dapkins?”

 

C
HAPTER
28

B
ARBIE TOSSED HER
clipboard aside. “Are you out of your cotton-pickin' mind?”

I wasn't quite sure how to respond. Was that a rhetorical question? Even if I were out of my mind, I'd come too far to back down. “It's a simple question, Barbie. Did you kill Becca or didn't you?”

Bright splotches of pink dotted Barbie's cheekbones in clown-like fashion. “You have some nerve, barging in, questioning me.”

I might've lost my mind, but I hadn't lost my nerve. “There are dozens of barbecue festivals—hundreds maybe—all over the country. Big ones, fancy ones, in places like Charlotte, Nashville, and even New York City. Why Brandywine Creek?”

She flung both hands in the air. “Why not? I grew up here. Who's to say I wasn't overcome by a sudden urge to visit my hometown?”

“From all accounts, you weren't happy here.”

“Where did that come from?” she snapped. “You've been asking questions about me, haven't you? Snooping around behind my back.”

My cheeks grew warm. Considering the conversation I'd just had with Melly, I could hardly dispute the truth of Barbie's accusations. So instead of disputing, I did the next best thing. I ignored them. “Is it true you were subjected to school bullying?”

“I don't see where that's any concern of yours.” Barbie shoved her reading glasses to the top of her head.

“Kids can be cruel.”

“Yes, they can be, but I doubt you'd know about that.” She gave her hair an angry toss. “You were probably one of the popular girls. Not someone on the outside looking in because of you didn't have nice clothes, or lived in a trailer park, or your daddy drank himself stupid most every night.”

I sensed she didn't want my pity, but that's what I felt for the picture she painted. “In spite of your hardships, Barbie, you emerged a stronger person. You're a attractive, successful—a woman of means.”

“Don't try flattery. It won't work.” Barbie sat back, crossed her legs, folded her arms over her chest. “If you want more details about my high school days, ask your ex.”

“What does CJ have to do with any of this? You two weren't even in the same class.” Fact of the matter, other than his glory days on the softball team, CJ rarely talked about his teen years.

She smirked at my stunned reaction. “I take it CJ doesn't boast about his high school prowess. Did you know he was elected president of his class senior year? Voted most likely to succeed? Crowned prom king?”

I shrugged, tried to act nonchalant and pay no-nevermind to the vitriol. “High school days are a long way behind him. These days, CJ's more an in-the-present look-to-the-future kind of guy. Tell me about Art Dapkins,” I said, deliberately shifting the focus from CJ and back to the matter at hand—Becca.

Barbie's expression underwent a subtle change at the mention of his name, softened, became less hard-edged. “Mr. Dapkins was a nice man. As good as they come. He was the only one to give a damn about me. He kept encouraging me to apply for scholarships.”

“Why did you drop out of school without graduating?”

She stared into the near distance, her pale-aquamarine eyes cold as glass. For a moment I didn't think she was going to reply. “I stayed as long as I could,” she said softly.

What the heck did that mean?
“I'm not good at riddles.”

“Rumors started circulating.” Pursing her lips, she framed her words carefully. “Not only was my reputation at stake, but that of Mr. Dapkins as well. I thought the best thing to do was get out of town. I went to live with my grandmother in Tennessee.”